VOLUME THE THIRD.
PART II.
PREFACE.
Heavens! with what eagerness must thou be waiting for this prologue, courteous reader, whosoever thou art, gentle or simple, in hopes of finding it replete with resentment, reproaches, and revenge, against the author of the Second Don Quixote; him, I mean, who, it is reported, was engendered at Tordesillas, and brought forth in Tarragona. But, truly, I have no intention to give thee that satisfaction: for, although injuries may awaken indignation in vulgar breasts; mine, I hope, will always be an exception to that rule. Thou wouldst be glad, perhaps, to find me bellowing upon him the epithets of ass, blockhead, and insolent coxcomb; but such low revenge never once entered my imagination: his own conscience will sufficiently chastise him; let him therefore chew the cud of remorse, and digest it if he can. I own, I cannot help feeling the unjust reproach when he taxes me with lameness and old age, as if it had been in my power to retard the lapse of time; or that I had been maimed in some tavern-brawl, and not on the most glorious occasion that ever the past or present age beheld, or posterity can ever hope to see. If my wounds do not brighten in the eyes of every spectator, they are at least esteemed by those who know where they were acquired[127]; and who thinks that a soldier who falls in battle makes a much more noble appearance than he who saves himself by flight. This opinion is so rooted within my own breast, that, were such an impossibility proposed and effected, I would rather be lame as I am, with the share I had in that stupendous action, than sound of body, without the honour of having been there. The wounds that appear in a soldier’s countenance and bosom, are so many stars to guide the rest of mankind to the haven of honour, and the desire of honest praise; and it ought to be observed, that an author does not write with his grey hairs, but according to the dictates of his understanding, which is usually improved by years and experience. I perceive also, that he calls me envious; and, as if I were utterly ignorant, is at the pains to describe the nature of envy; though I protest of the two kinds, I only harbour that which is pure, virtuous, and noble. This being the case, as it undoubtedly is, I have not the least inclination to inveigh against any priest, especially one who bears the office of familiar to the holy inquisition; and if what he says be advanced in behalf of him whose cause he seems to espouse, he is altogether mistaken, in my opinion, of that person, whose genius I adore: I admire his works, together with his continual occupation in the practice of virtues; but I am actually obliged to this honourable author, for saying that my novels[128] are more satirical than exemplary, though he owns they are good of their kind; for, without being exemplary, they cannot possibly be good.
I suppose, gentle reader, thou art by this time of opinion, that I walk with great circumspection, and scrupulously confine myself within the bounds of modesty, conscious that it is inhuman to heap affliction on the afflicted; and that this gentleman’s must needs be very great, since he dares not appear in the open field, and in the face of Heaven, but conceals his name, and dissembles his country, as if he had been guilty of high treason: tell him, therefore, in my name, if ever thou shouldst chance to find him out, that I do not at all think myself injured by what he has done, for well do I know, what temptations the devil spreads before us; and that one of his most effectual snares, is to make a man believe that he has capacity to write a book, by which he shall obtain an equal share of money and reputation. In confirmation of what I say, I will beg the favour of you to tell him a short story.
There was in Seville, a certain madman seized with the most diverting whim that ever entered the brain of a lunatick. He used to walk with a hollow cane, pointed at one end; and whenever he met with a dog in the street, or in any other place, he clapped his foot on one of the creature’s hind-legs, pulled up the other with his hand, and applying, as well as he could, the pipe to his posteriors, instantly blew him up as round as a ball. This operation being performed, he clapped him twice on the belly, and dismissed the patient, saying, very gravely, to the mob that never failed to gather round him, ‘Gentlemen, I suppose, now, you think it is an easy matter to blow up a dog!’ In like manner, I say, ‘I suppose your worship thinks it an easy matter to write a book.’ If this story should not be to his liking, be so good, friendly reader, as to tell this other, which also relates to a dog and a madman.
There was another ideot in Cordova, who had a trick of carrying upon his head a piece of marble, or heavy stone; and, as often as he perceived any dog off his guard, he would approach him slily, and let it fall plump upon his head. This was no joke to the poor dog, who used to run barking and howling the length of three whole streets, before he ventured to look behind. But, among others, he one day happened to discharge his burden on a cap-maker’s favourite dog; down went the stone upon his head, and the injured beast set up the howl: the master seeing what passed, was filled with indignation, snatched up his measure, and sallying out upon the lunatick, did not leave a whole bone in his skin; saying, at every blow he bestowed, ‘Dog! rascal! use my spaniel in this manner! Did not you see, barbarous villain, that my dog was a spaniel!’ Thus repeating the word spaniel a great many times, he beat the aggressor into jelly.
The madman being documented, sneaked off, and kept his chamber a whole month; at the end of which, he returned to his former pastime, with a greater stone than ever, and coming up to a dog that lay asleep, considered him with great attention, but was afraid of discharging the stone, saying, ‘’Ware spaniel!’ In short, all the dogs he afterwards met with, whether curs or mastiffs, were in his opinion spaniels; so that he never ventured to repeat his experiment.——Now this may be the fate of our historian, who will not chuse to open the flood-gates of his wit again, in composing books, which, if bad, are harder than stone.
Tell him, likewise, that I value not his threats a farthing, when he says that his performance will deprive me of bread; but answer him with a quotation from the famous interlude of the Perendenga: ‘To four and twenty, live, my lord, and Christ be with us all.’ Long live the great Count de Lemos, whose well-known Christian generosity supports me against all the strokes of adverse fortune; and long life to the transcendent charity of the most illustrious archbishop of Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; if there was not one printing-press in the whole world, or if more books were published against me than there are letters in the couplets of Mingo Rebulgo; these two princes, unsolicited by any adulation or other kind of praise on my part, but purely out of their own benevolence, have been pleased to honour me with their countenance and favour, in which I think myself infinitely more happy and rich, than if I had been conducted to the highest pinnacle of fortune, in the ordinary way. Honour may be enjoyed by a poor, but never by a vicious man; nobility may be clouded by indigence, but never altogether obscured; for virtue, shining by its own internal light, even through the inconveniencies and crannies of poverty, will recommend itself to the esteem of high and princely minds, and of consequence obtain their favour and protection. Thou needest say no more to him; nor will I give thee any farther trouble, except to observe, that thou art to consider this second part of Don Quixote as a work of the same artificer, and composed of the same materials with the first, in which I present the knight at full length; and, in short, exhibit him dead and buried; that no man, for the future, may presume to raise fresh evidence against him; those already examined being sufficient for the purpose. The more so, as a man of honour has already given an account of his ingenious follies, without any intention to resume the subject; for there may be too much even of a good thing; and the scarcity of those things which are in themselves indifferent, often brings them into some degree of estimation. I had almost forgot to tell thee, that thou mayest expect the Persiles, which I am now finishing, together with the second part of Galatea.
APPROBATION.
By order of Signior Doctor Gutierrez de Cetina, vicar-general of the city of Madrid, where his majesty keeps his court, I have perused the second part of the sage knight, Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra; in which I can find nothing unworthy of a zealous Christian, or deviating from that respect which is justly due to good example and moral virtue. On the contrary, the performance contains much erudition and profitable amusement; not only in the well-supported sequel of his design, to extirpate those vain and lying books of chivalry, which had already too far spread their infection; but also in the purity of his Castilian language, unadulterated with insipid affectation, which every man of sense abhors; and in his manner of correcting the vicious, who generally feel the point of his satire. Yet he so wisely observes the laws of Christian rebuke, that the patient labouring under the infirmity which he intends to cure, may, in such sweet and palatable medicine, even without his own knowledge, or the least hindrance and loathing, swallow down an effectual detestation for vice; so that he will find himself at once delighted and reformed, in consequence of an art which is known to few. There are many authors, who not knowing how to blend and mix instruction with delight, have seen all their tedious labours miscarry; because, not being able to imitate Diogenes, as a learned philosopher, they have presumed licentiously, not to say obscurely, to mimick him as a cynic, giving ear to slander, and inventing things that never happened, by which means they enlarge the vicious capacity of those whom their harsh reproofs stigmatize; and, perhaps, strike out new paths of lewdness hitherto unknown; so that instead of reformers, they become teachers and abettors of vice. In this manner they grow hateful to men of sense, and lose all their credit, if they had any, with the people, who refuse to encourage their writings; while the vicious are rather hardened than amended by their rash and imprudent corruption; for the knife and caustick are not proper for all kinds of tumours, some of which are more successfully treated by soft and gentle remedies, by the application of which, the experienced and learned physician often attains his end of discussing them; a period much more eligible than that which is obtained by the barbarity of steel.
The writings of Miguel de Cervantes have met with a very different reception, not only from our nation, but likewise from strangers; who, as if he was something miraculous, are inflamed with the desire of seeing the author of those books which have met with such general applause, on account of the decency and decorum, as well as the agreeable sweetness of his stile, in Spain, France, Italy, Germany, and Flanders. This I can with great truth affirm, that on the twentieth and fifth day of February, in this year of God, one thousand six hundred and fifteen, I attended my master, his grace Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas, cardinal archbishop of Toledo, when he returned the visit of the French ambassador, who came to treat about a double match betwixt the princes and princesses of France and Spain; and several gentlemen of that country, belonging to the embassy, who were equally sensible and well-bred, as well as lovers of the Belles Lettres, in their conversation with me and the other chaplains of the cardinal, desired to know what books of genius were in highest esteem among us; I chanced to mention this performance, which was then under my examination: but no sooner did they hear the name of Miguel de Cervantes, than they began to expatiate upon the high esteem in which France and the neighbouring kingdoms held his productions; namely, the Galatea, which one of them could almost repeat, with the novels, and the first part of Don Quixote. Such were the commendations they bestowed upon them, that I offered to introduce them to the author, whom they honoured with a thousand demonstrations of regard. They were curious to know his age, profession, quality, and fortune; and when I found myself obliged to tell them he was a soldier and a gentleman, oppressed with poverty and old age; one of them replied in these very words: ‘What! does not Spain load such a man with riches, and maintain him out of the publick treasury?’——Another of those gentlemen, hearing this observation, interposed, saying, with great vivacity, ‘If necessity compels him to write, God grant that he may never enjoy affluence; but, in being poor, enrich the world with his works.’
I believe this will be thought rather too much for a certificate; and some will say, that I have even encroached upon the bounds of flattery; but the truth of my allegation disproves that suspicion, and acquits me of the charge; besides, in this age, adulation is bestowed upon none but those who are in a capacity of greasing the fist of the flatterer; who, though he praises in fulsome fiction, experts to be rewarded in substantial truth.
Madrid, Feb. 27, 1615. The Licentiate Marques Torres.
THE ORDINARY LICENCE.
By order and command of the lords of council, I have caused to be examined, the book specified in this petition: which book contains nothing to the prejudice of religion or morals; but, on the contrary, is fraught with much lawful amusement, blended with moral philosophy; wherefore it may be allowed to be printed.
Madrid, Nov. 5, 1615. Doctor Gutierrez de Cetina.
APPROBATION.
By order and command of the lords of council, I have perused the second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by Miguel de Cervantes; a book that contains nothing to the prejudice of our holy catholick faith, or sound morals; on the contrary, much honest recreation, and agreeable amusement, such as the ancients judged not only allowable, but convenient for the commonwealth: even the severe Lacedemonians erected a statue to the goddess of laughter; and the Thessalians instituted festivals to the same power, according to Pausanias, quoted by Vossius, lib. ii. De signis eccles. cap. 10. for exhilarating the melancholy, and raising the dejected spirits; as observed by Tully in his first book, De Legibus; and by the poet, who says, ‘Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis.’ Which maxim hath been the guide of this author, who has mingled fiction with truth, delight with instruction, and morals with pleasantry; disguising the hook of reproof with the bait of sprightly entertainment, and fulfilling the sequel of his well-executed scheme, to depreciate and expel the books of chivalry, from the mischievous contagion of which he hath purged these kingdoms, with admirable diligence and dexterity. In short, it is a work worthy of that great genius, which is the honour and ornament of our nation, and the envy and admiration of strangers. This is my opinion, with submission, &c.
Madrid, March 17, 1615. Joseph de Valdivielso.
BOOK I.
CHAP. I.
OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CURATE AND BARBER,
WITH REGARD TO DON QUIXOTE’S INFIRMITY.
Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the second part of this history, containing the third sally of Don Quixote, relates that the curate and barber forbore to visit him for a whole month, that they might not revive and recal to his imagination the remembrance of things past; but, during all that time, they frequently went to see the housekeeper and niece, on whom they laid strong injunctions to cherish the knight with great care and tenderness, and treat him with such comfortable food as should be most agreeable to his stomach and brain, in which they reasonably supposed that his whole disorder lay. The ladies assured them it was their chief study, which they would prosecute with all imaginable care and satisfaction; for they began to perceive that their master, at certain intervals, gave tokens of being in his right wits. This information afforded great pleasure to the two friends, who now concluded they had acted wisely in bringing him home on the inchanted waggon, as hath been recounted in the last chapter of the first part of this sublime and punctual history; and determined to pay him a visit, that they might be convinced of his amendment, which they deemed almost impossible; though they agreed to avoid, with great care, the subject of chivalry, that they might run no risk of ripping up the wound so lately closed.
In short, they entered his chamber, and found him sitting upon his bed, in a waistcoat of green baize, and a red Toledan night-cap, so meagre, shrunk, and withered, that he looked like an Egyptian mummy; he received them very courteously, and when they enquired into the state of his health, spoke of his indisposition and himself with great judgment and elocution. The conversation happening to turn on what is called reasons of state, and modes of administration, they amended certain abuses, and condemned others, reforming one custom, and banishing another; as if each of the three had been a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or regenerated Solon; and in such a manner did they furbish up the common-wealth, that one would have imagined they had committed it to a forge, and brought out another quite different from that which they put in. Don Quixote spoke on every subject that was handled, with such discretion, as actually convinced the two examiners, that he was quite sound, and had recovered the right exercise of his judgment; while the niece and housekeeper, who were present all the time, thought they could never be thankful enough to God, when they heard their master talk so sensibly. But the curate altering his first resolution, which was to avoid the subject of chivalry, now determined to make an experiment, by which he should be thoroughly satisfied, whether the knight’s cure was real or imaginary; with this view, he from one thing to another came to mention some news from court; and among other pieces of intelligence, said he was certainly informed that the Turk had taken the sea, with a powerful armament, though his design was not known, nor could it be guessed where the expected storm would burst; but that these preparations, which keep us almost constantly in arms, had alarmed all Christendom; and that his majesty had ordered the coasts of Naples and Sicily, with the island of Malta, to be provided against all attempts. To this intimation Don Quixote replied, ‘His majesty has acted like a most prudent warrior, in providing for the safety of his dominions, that the enemy may not find them unprepared; but, if he would take my advice, I would furnish him with an expedient, which I believe our sovereign at present little thinks of.’
The curate no sooner heard these words, than he said within himself, ‘Lord have mercy upon thee, poor Don Quixote! if I am not mistaken, thou art just going to cast thyself headlong from the highest pinnacle of madness, into the profound abyss of thy folly.’ But the barber, who immediately adopted the same suspicion, asked the knight what that expedient was, which he thought should be put in practice by way of prevention; observing, that it was, perhaps, such a scheme as deserved to be inserted in the list of those impertinent advices usually offered to crowned heads. ‘Mine, Mr. Shaver,’ said Don Quixote, ‘will be pertinent, not impertinent.’—‘I don’t say otherwise,’ replied the barber; ‘I only made that observation, because experience hath shewn that all, or the greatest part of those projects which have been offered to his majesty, are either impossible, extravagant, or prejudicial to the state.’—‘My scheme,’ answered the knight, ‘is neither impossible nor extravagant; but, on the contrary, the most easy, just, brief, and expeditious, that ever projector conceived.’—‘Methinks your worship is very slow in delivering it, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the priest. ‘I should not chuse,’ answered the knight, ‘to have what I say here carried by to-morrow morning, to the ears of the lords of the council; by which means, another may reap the credit and reward of my labour.’—‘For my own part,’ cried the barber, ‘I here give my word, before God! never to disclose what your worship shall impart, either to king or knave, or any mortal man; an oath I learned in the romance of the Curate, who, in the preface, gives the king notice of the robber that stole his hundred ducats, and ambling mule.’—‘I am not acquainted with the story,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the oath is a good oath, because I am convinced that Mr. Nicholas is an honest man.’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied the curate, ‘I will be bound for him, and undertake, that with regard to this affair, he shall speak no more than if he was actually dumb, on pain of whatever penalty you shall think proper to inflict.’—‘And who will be security for you, Mr. Curate?’ said the knight. ‘My profession,’ answered the priest, ‘by which I am bound to keep secrets.’—‘Body of me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘his majesty has nothing to do, but to issue a proclamation, commanding all the knights-errant in Spain to assemble at his court, by such a day; and although not more than half a dozen should come, among these one may be found, who is alone sufficient to overthrow the whole Turkish power. Pray, gentlemen, give attention, and take me along with you; is it such a new thing, for a single knight to cut in pieces a whole army of two hundred thousand men, as if they had but one common throat, or were made of ginger-bread? How many histories are there, think you, filled with such marvellous exploits? Unfortunate it is for me, (I will not say, for any other) that the renowned Don Belianis is not now alive, or some knight of the innumerable race of Amadis de Gaul; for if any one of them was now living, to confront the Turks, in good sooth, I should not chuse to farm their conquests; but God will provide for his own people, and produce some champion, who, if not equal in valour to former knights-errant, at least will be inferior to none of them in point of courage[129]; Heaven knows my meaning; I will say no more.’—‘Lack-a-day!’ cried the niece, when she heard this insinuation, ‘I’ll be hanged, if my uncle is not resolved to turn knight errant again.’—‘A knight-errant,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will live and die; and the Turks may make their descents or ascents, when they will, with all the power they are masters of. I say again, Heaven knows my meaning.’ Here the barber interposing, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I beg you will give me leave to tell a short story of what happened at Seville; it comes so pat to the purpose, that I have a strong inclination to relate it.’ Don Quixote and the curate granted his request, and the rest yielded him attention, when he began in these words.
‘There was in the mad-house at Seville, a certain lunatick, whom his relations had sent thither on account of the defect in his judgment; he had taken his degrees in the canon law, at Ossuna; and many were of opinion, that if he had acquired them at Salamanca, he would not have been a bit the wiser; this graduate, having been confined some years, took it in his head, that he was quite well, and restored to his right wits; and in this imagination, wrote to the archbishop, earnestly entreating him, with many sensible arguments, to give order that he should be extricated from the misery in which he lived; since, through the mercy of God, he had recovered his lost judgment, though his relations kept him still in confinement, that they might enjoy his estate, and, in despite of truth, were resolved that he should be mad to the day of his death. The archbishop, persuaded by the many sensible and pathetick letters he received, ordered one of his chaplains to go to the rector of the mad-house, and enquire into the truth of what the licentiate alledged, and even to talk with himself, that, if he should find him quite recovered, he might bring him away, and set him at liberty. The chaplain obeyed the command of his grace, and the rector assured him that the man was still mad; for although he would very often talk like a person of excellent understanding, at the long run he commonly broke out into folly and nonsense, as absurd as the first part of his discourse was rational and discreet; however, he himself might make the experiment, by conversing with the licentiate. The chaplain accordingly went to his apartment, and talked with him a whole hour and more, during which time the lunatick did not utter one vague or incoherent sentence; but, on the contrary, spoke so judiciously, that the chaplain could not help believing him quite sound of intellect; among other things, he told him the rector was his enemy, and pronounced him still distracted, though with lucid intervals, that he might not lose the presents which he received from his relations; so that the greatest cause of his misfortune was no other than his own affluent estate, which to enjoy, his adversaries craftily pretended to doubt of the mercy which the Lord had vouchsafed him, in re-converting him from a beast into a man; in short, he talked so effectually as to render the rector suspected, to prove his relations covetous and unnatural, and himself so discreet, that the chaplain determined to carry him forthwith to the archbishop, that his grace might be personally satisfied of the truth. With this laudable intention, he desired the rector to order the licentiate to be dressed with the cloaths in which he entered the house: the rector again advised him to consider what he was about; for the licentiate was, without all question, still distracted. But these cautions and counsels had no effect in dissuading the chaplain from carrying him off, and the rector seeing the archbishop’s order, was obliged to obey; so that the licentiate received his own cloaths, which were decent and new. Seeing himself thus diverted of the badge of his disorder, and habited again like a person of sound intellects, he besought the chaplain, that he would be so charitable as to allow him to go and take leave of his companions in affliction; the other granted his request, and said he would accompany him, in order to see the patients; upon which they went up stairs, followed by several persons who chanced to be then present. The licentiate, going to the gate of a cell, in which there was a furious madman, though at that time he was calm and quiet, said to him, “Brother, have you any commands for me? I am going to my own house, for God of his infinite goodness and mercy, without any desert of mine, hath been pleased to restore unto me the use of my reason, and I am now perfectly recovered; so that there is nothing impossible to the power of the Almighty; put, therefore, your hope and trust in him, who, as he hath restored me to my former state, will grant the same indulgence to you, if you confide in his protection. I will take care to send you some cordial food, and be sure, at all events, to eat it; for, you must know, I conclude from experience, that all our disorder proceeds from an empty stomach, and the brain’s being filled with wind. Take heart, brother, take heart; for despondence under misfortune consumes the constitution, and hastens the stroke of death.” This discourse being overheard by another lunatick, who was confined in a cell opposite to that of the furious patient, he started up stark naked from an old mat on which he lay, and roared aloud, “Who is that going away so sober and so sound?” The licentiate replied, “’Tis I, brother, who am going home, being under no necessity of tarrying longer in this place; thanks be to Heaven for the signal favour I have received!”—“Take care what you say, Mr. Licentiate, and let not the devil deceive you,” answered the madman: “halt a little, stay where you are, and spare yourself the trouble of being brought back.”—“I know that I am perfectly recovered,” said the licentiate, “and shall, have no farther occasion to visit the Stations[130].”—“You recovered!” cried the other, “good! we shall see—adieu—but, I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that, for the transgression this day committed in Seville, by discharging you from the house, as a person of sound judgment, I will take such vengeance as shall be a monument of wrath for ever and ever, amen. Do’st thou not know, pitiful licentiate, that all this is in my power, being, as I have already observed, Jove the thunderer, who wield the flaming bolts, with which I use to threaten, and can destroy the universe? But with one evil only will I chastise this ignorant people; I will not suffer one drop of rain to fall upon the city, nor its confines, nor indeed in any part of this district, for the space of three whole years, reckoning from the day and minute in which this dreadful menace is made. Thou free! thou sound! thou recovered! and I mad! I distracted and confined! I will sooner hang myself than rain one spoonful.” The by-standers were very attentive to the vociferous exclamations of this madman, when our licentiate turning to the chaplain, and taking him by the hand, said, “Dear Sir, give yourself no uneasiness or concern about what he says; for if he who is Jupiter, witholds refreshing showers from the earth, I who am Neptune, the father and god of waters, will rain as often as I please, should there be occasion for it, in consequence of the privilege I possess.” To this promise the chaplain replied, “Nevertheless, Signior Neptune, it will not be politick to incense Signior Jupiter; therefore, your worship will be so good as to stay where you are, till some other day, when we may have more leisure and convenience to remove you.” The rector and the rest of the company could not help laughing, the chaplain was out of countenance, the licentiate was stripped, and sent back to his cell; and so ends my story.’
‘And this is the story, Mr. Barber,’ said Don Quixote, ‘which came so pat to the purpose, that you could not help relating it? Ah, Mr. Shaver! Mr. Shaver! he must be blind indeed, that cannot see through the bottom of a sieve. Is it possible your worship does not know that comparisons in point of genius, virtue, beauty, and descent, are always odious and ill received? I, Mr. Barber, am not Neptune, god of waters; neither do I set up for being thought a wise man, knowing that I am not so: the sole end of my labours is to convince the world of its error, in not seeking to renew those most happy times when the order of knight-errantry exerted itself in full perfection; but this depraved age of ours is unworthy of tasting that felicity which was enjoyed by those ages, when knights-errant undertook the charge, and burdened their shoulders with the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the relief of wards and orphans, the chastisement of the proud, and the promotion of the humble. The greatest part of your modern knights rustle in damasks, brocades, and other rich and splendid attire, instead of rattling in coats of mail; no knight now sleeps in the open field, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, armed at all points cap-a-pee; no warrior, in this degenerate age, sits on horseback, and without disengaging his feet from the stirrups, but leaning upon his lance, endeavours to take as it were a snatch of sleep, after the example of former knights-errant; no champion, now-a-days, coming out of some dreary wood, immediately enters another rocky wilderness, through which he reaches the barren and deserted coast of the rough and stormy sea, where, finding in some creek, a crazy boat without oars, sails, mast, or tackle, he intrepidly throws himself into it, and launches out upon the implacable billows that whirl him aloft to heaven, and then sink him to the profound abyss, while his unshaken soul defies the storm; then, when he dreams of no such matter, he finds himself three thousand leagues and more from the place where he embarked, and leaping ashore on some remote and unknown country, achieves adventures worthy to be written, not on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over activity, idleness over toil, vice over virtue, arrogance over valour, and the theory over the practice of arms, which obtained and shone resplendent in those golden ages that produced knights-errant. Pray, tell me, who could be more honourable and valiant than the famous Amadis de Gaul? who more discreet than Palmerin of England? who more insinuating and pliant than Tirante the White? who more gallant than Lifuarte of Greece? who more hacked and hacking than Don Belianis? who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? or, who more daring than Felixmarte of Hircania? who more sincere than Esplandian? who more desperate than Cirongilio of Thrace? who more brave than Rodamont? who more prudent than King Sobrino? who more bold than Reynaldo? who more invincible than Roldan? and who more gallant and courteous than Rugero? from whom (according to Turpin, in his Cosmographia) the present Dukes of Ferrara are descended. All these, with many more which I could name, Mr. Curate, were knights-errant, and the very light and glory of chivalry; these, or such as these, are the champions proposed by my scheme, which, should it take place, would effectually serve his majesty’s purpose, spare an infinite expence, and the Turk would even tear his own beard in despair; in that case I would tarry where I am, since the chaplain would not think fit to enlarge me; and if Jupiter, as the barber said, would not rain, here am I ready to frustrate his intent; this I mention, that Mr. Bason, there, may know I understand his meaning.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Mr. Nicholas, ‘I meant no harm, so help me God! my intention was good, and therefore your worship ought not to be displeased.’—‘Whether I am displeased or not,’ replied the knight, ‘I myself know best.’
Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Though I have hitherto scarce opened my mouth, I cannot be easy under a scruple which tears and gnaws my conscience, and which arose from what Signior Don Quixote hath just now asserted.’—‘In greater matters, Mr. Curate may command me,’ answered the knight; ‘out with your scruple, then; for scruples of conscience are very uncomfortable companions.’—‘With your good permission,’ replied the priest, ‘this it is: I can by no means persuade myself that the whole tribe of knights-errant, whom your worship have named, were really and truly earthly persons of flesh and blood; on the contrary, I imagine all these things are fictions, fables, and lying dreams, recounted by men who are awake, or rather by those who are half asleep.’—‘That,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is another error incident to many people, who do not believe that any such knights ever existed; and I have, on divers and sundry occasions, endeavoured to dissipate that almost general mistake by the light of truth. Sometimes, indeed, I have not succeeded in my attempts; however, I have frequently gained my point, by supporting it on the shoulders of demonstration; and truly the case is so clear, that I could almost affirm I have with my own eyes beheld Amadis de Gaul, who was a tall man, of a fair complexion, well furnished with a black beard, his aspect something between mild and severe, concise of speech, slow to anger, and soon appeased. In the same manner, methinks, I could delineate and paint all the knights-errant that ever were recorded in history; for, according to the ideas formed by reading these histories, and by comparing their exploits and dispositions, sound philosophy may discover their lineaments, statures, and complexions.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘how large do you think the giant Morgante must have been?’—‘As to the affair of giants,’ answered the knight, ‘there are different opinions; some affirming, and others denying, the existence of any such beings: but the Holy Scriptures, which surely cannot fail one atom in point of truth, put that affair beyond all dispute, in relating the story of that Philistine Goliath, who was seven cubits and an half in height; a most amazing stature! Besides, in the island of Sicily, several thigh and shoulder-bones have been dug up, so large as to manifest, that the persons to whom they belonged must have been huge giants, as tall as high towers; and this can be proved by mathematical demonstration; but, nevertheless, I will not pretend to ascertain the size of Morgante; though I believe he was not very tall, because I find in the history which gives a particular account of his exploits, that he often slept under a roof: now, if there was any house capacious enough to receive him, his magnitude could not be very extraordinary.’—‘No, surely,’ said the curate: who, being diverted with his extravagant assertions, asked his opinion concerning the looks and persons of Reynaldo de Montalban, Don Orlando, and the rest of the Twelve Peers of France, who were all knights-errant. ‘With regard to Reynaldo,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I will venture to say, he was broad visaged, and of a ruddy complexion, with large rolling eyes, full of punctilio, excessively cholerick, and a friend to robbers and vagabonds. As for Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando, (for he is mentioned in history by all these names) it is my opinion, and I affirm, that he was of a middling stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat bandy-legged, of a dark complexion and carrotty beard, hairy all over, with a frowning aspect, sparing of speech, though very affable and well bred.’—‘If Roldan was not more comely than you have represented him,’ replied the curate, ‘I do not wonder that Angelica the Fair disdained and deserted him, for the gallantry, mirth, and pleasantry of the little smock-faced Moor, to whose embraces she yielded; and, surely, she was in the right, to prefer the smoothness of Medoro to the roughness of Roldan.’—‘That same Angelica, Mr. Curate,’ said the knight, ‘was an unsettled rambling young woman, that longed after novelties, and left the world as full of her impertinent actions as of the fame of her beauty. She undervalued a thousand noblemen, a thousand valiant and discreet admirers, and contented herself with a yellow haired page, who had neither fortune nor reputation, but that of being grateful to his friend. The renowned Ariosto, who sung the praises of her beauty, either not daring or not designing to rehearse what happened to her after her base intrigue, because he deemed it a theme not extremely honourable for his muse, dropped her at these lines:
‘And truly this was a sort of prophecy, for the poets are also called vates, which in Latin signifies diviners, and it was plainly verified in the event, an Andalusian bard having since that time sung in verse her tears and lamentation, as the most famous and sublime genius of Castile hath celebrated her beauty.’
‘Pray tell me, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘among all those authors who have written in her praise, hath not some one or other composed a satire against my Lady Angelica?’—‘I firmly believe,’ replied the knight, ‘that if Sacripante or Roldan had been bards, they would have made the damsel smart severely, it being natural and peculiar to poets, who are disdained and rejected by their false mistresses, whether real or imaginary, to revenge themselves by satires and lampoons; a resentment altogether unworthy of generous breasts; but hitherto I have not met with any such defamatory verses against the Lady Angelica, though she made strange confusion in the world.’—‘That is a wonder, indeed!’ said the curate.—When hearing the housekeeper and niece, who had some time before quitted the company, bawling aloud in the yard, they ran out to see what was the occasion of such noise.
CHAP. II.
THE NOTABLE FRAY THAT HAPPENED
BETWEEN SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER—WITH OTHER DIVERTING INCIDENTS.
The history relates, that the noise which Don Quixote, the curate, and barber heard, was occasioned by the niece and housekeeper scolding at Sancho, who struggled to get in and see his master, while they defended the door. ‘What does the swag-bellied lurcher want in this house?’ said the housekeeper: ‘get you home, brother; it was you, and none but you, that turned my poor master’s brain, enticing him from his own home, to stroll about the highways.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied, ‘Housekeeper of Satan! ’tis my brain that’s turned; ’twas I that was enticed to stroll about the highways, and not thy master, for he carried me a rambling; so that you have reckoned without your host. ’Twas he that wheedled me from my own house, with the promise of an island, which I expect to this good hour.’—‘Devil choak thee with islands, thou cursed cormorant!’ cried the niece: ‘and pray what is an island; is it any thing to eat, thou gorbellied glutton, ha?’—‘No, not to eat, but to govern,’ answered Sancho, ‘and a fat government it is. Better than four cities, or the places of any four of the king’s alcades.’—‘Be that as it will,’ said the housekeeper, ‘thou shan’t set foot in this house, thou bag of mischief, and bundle of malice! go and look after thy own family, fatten thy hogs, and let us hear no more of these islands or oil-lands.’
The curate and barber were highly entertained with this dialogue; but Don Quixote fearing that Sancho would open his budget, and disburden himself of some mischievous load of folly, by blabbing things not much to his credit, called him in, bidding the women hold their tongues, and give him entrance. Sancho being accordingly admitted, the curate and barber took their leave of Don Quixote, whose recovery they despaired of, seeing him so unalterably fixed in his folly, and so wholly possessed with the frantick spirit of knight-errantry. ‘You shall see, neighbour,’ said the curate to the barber, ‘that when we least think of it, this poor gentleman will make another sally.’—‘That I make no doubt of,’ answered the barber, ‘but I don’t wonder so much at the madness of the knight, as at the simplicity of the squire, who believes so devoutly in this island, that I think all the invention of man could not extract it from his skull.’—‘God mend them!’ replied the curate: ‘meanwhile, let us keep a strict eye over their behaviour, and observe the operation of their joint extravagance; for the madness of the master seems to have been cast in the same mould with the foolishness of the man, and in my opinion, the one without the other would not be worth a farthing.’—‘True,’ said the barber; ‘and I should be glad to know what they are now talking of.’—‘I dare say,’ replied the curate, ‘the niece and house-keeper will give us a good account of their conversation; for they are none of those who can resist the opportunity of listening.’
In the mean time, Don Quixote having shut himself up in his apartment with Sancho, said, ‘It gives me much concern, Sancho, to hear thee say, as thou dost, that I enticed thee from thy cottage, when thou knowest that I, at the same time, quitted my own house; together we set out, lived and travelled together; sharing the same fortune and the same fate. If thou hast been once tossed in a blanket, I have been bruised an hundred times; and this is the only pre-eminence I enjoyed.’—‘And that’s but reasonable,’ replied Sancho, ‘according to your worship’s own remark, that misfortune belongs more to knights-errant than to their squires.’—‘There you are mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the Latin adage says, Quando caput dolet, &c.’—‘Nay,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I understand no lingo but my mother-tongue.’—‘The meaning,’ said the master, ‘is, When the head aches, all the members are affected. I, therefore, as thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, as my servant, are a part of me; so that whatever mischief has happened, or may happen to me, ought to extend to thee likewise, in the same manner as I bear a share in all thy sufferings.’—‘So it ought to be,’ said Sancho, ‘but when I, as a member, was tossed in a blanket, my head sat peaceably on the other side of the wall, and beheld me vaulting in the air, without feeling the least uneasiness; and since the members are obliged to ache with the head, I think it is but just that the head should ache with the members.’—‘How canst thou affirm, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I felt no pain while thou was tossed in the blanket? Say, or think so no more; for I was, at that time, more afflicted in mind than thou in body.
‘But let us wave this subject for the present, and time will, no doubt, offer an opportunity of considering it more maturely, and of setting every thing to rights: and tell me, friend Sancho, how I am spoke of in this place? What say the vulgar? What character do I bear among the gentry? and how am I treated by the knights? What is their opinion of my valour, exploits, and courteous behaviour? and how do they relish the design I have undertaken of raising and restoring to the world the long-forgotten order of knight-errantry? In short, Sancho, I desire that thou wilt inform me of every thing thou hast heard on this subject, without adding to the good, or subtracting from the evil; it being the duty of faithful servants to represent the truth to their masters in its own native form, neither exaggerated by adulation, nor diminished by any other vain respect: and let me tell thee, Sancho, if the naked truth was always conveyed to the ears of princes, undisguised by flattery, we should see better days, and other æras would deserve the name of the iron age more than the present, which would be justly looked upon as the age of gold. Remember this advice, Sancho, and inform me with honesty and discretion, of all that thou knowest in regard to what I have asked.’—‘That I will with all my heart, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘on condition that your worship won’t be offended with the truth, since you desire to see it in its nakedness, just as it came to my knowledge.’—‘I shall not be offended in the least,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘speak therefore freely, without going about the bush.’
‘Well, then,’ said the squire, ‘in the first place, you must know that the common people think your worship a stark-staring madman, and me a most notorious fool: the better sort say, that, scorning the rank of a private gentleman, you have put Don before your name, and dubbed yourself knight, with a small garden, a few acres of land, and a doublet clouted on both sides. The knights, forsooth, are affronted that your small gentry should pretend to vie with them, especially those needy squires who sole their own shoes, and darn their black hose with green silk.’—‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘cannot affect me; for I always wear good cloaths, and never appear patched. My doublet may, indeed, be torn, but then it is by my armour, not by time.’—‘Touching the valour, courtesy, adventures, and design of your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘there are different opinions. Some say, he is mad, but a diverting madman; others allow that he is valiant, but unlucky; a third set observe that he is courteous, but impertinent; and in this manner we are handled so severely, that neither your worship nor I have a whole bone left.’—‘You see, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that whenever virtue shines in an eminent degree, she always meets with persecution. Few or none of the celebrated heroes of antiquity could escape the calumnies of malice: Julius Cæsar, a most daring, wise, and valiant general, was accused of being ambitious, and not over-cleanly in his customs or apparel; Alexander, who by his atchievements acquired the name of Great, was said to be a drunkard; and Hercules, renowned for his labours, reported to have been lewd and effeminate; Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul, was grumbled at for being excessively quarrelsome; and Amadis himself ridiculed as an arrant whiner. Therefore, son Sancho, among so many aspersions thrown upon such great men, I may well overlook what is said against me; since it is no worse than what thou hast repeated.’—‘That’s the very thing, body of my father!’ replied Sancho. ‘What, is there any thing more!’ said his master. ‘More!’ cried the squire, ‘the tail is yet unfleaed. What you have heard is but cakes and gingerbread; but, if your worship would know all the backbitings we suffer, I will this moment bring hither one who can inform you of every circumstance, without losing a crumb; for, last night, the son of Bartholomew Carrasco arrived from Salamanca, where he has been at his studies, and got a batchelor’s degree; and when I went to welcome him home, he told me there was a printed book of your worship’s history, in which you go by the name of The Ingenious Squire Don Quixote de La Mancha; and that I am mentioned in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, as well as my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with other things that passed between you and me only; at hearing of which I crossed myself through fear, wondering how they should come to the knowledge of the historian.’—‘You may depend upon it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the author of our history must be some sage inchanter; for nothing is hid from writers of that class.’—‘How can he be a sage inchanter,’ said Sancho, ‘when batchelor Sampson Carrasco (for that’s the name of him who told me) says the author of our history is called Cid Hamet Bean-and-jelly?’—‘That name is Moorish,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Very like,’ said the squire; ‘for I have often heard, that the Moors are very fond of beans and jellies.’—‘Thou must certainly be mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in the surname of that Cid, which, in Arabick, signifies Signior.’—‘Very possible,’ answered the squire; ‘but if your worship desires to see the batchelor, I will bring him hither in a twinkling.’—‘Thou wilt oblige me very much, my friend,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for what thou hast told me has bred such doubts and suspense within me, that I cannot eat a morsel with any satisfaction, until I am informed of the whole affair.’—‘Then I’ll go seek him,’ replied Sancho: who, leaving his master, went in quest of the batchelor, with whom he returned in a little time, and a most pleasant dialogue ensued.