By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
[An enchanter has revenged himself upon some ladies by putting heavy beards upon their faces. Don Quixote has been persuaded that the beards will vanish if he will take a journey of three thousand leagues on a wooden horse.]
"Blind thy eyes, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and get up. Sure he that sends so far for us can have no design to deceive us! since it would never be to his credit to delude those that rely on his word; and, though the success should be contrary to our desires, still, it is not in the power of malice to eclipse the glory of so brave an attempt."—"To horse, then, sir," cried Sancho. "The beards and tears of these poor gentlewomen are sticking in my heart. And I shall not eat a bit to do me good till I see them as smooth as before. Mount, then, I say, and blindfold yourself first; for, if I must ride behind, it is a plain case you must get up before me."—"That is right," said Don Quixote; and, with that, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he gave it to the Disconsolate Lady to hoodwink him. She did so; but presently after, uncovering himself, "If I remember right," said he, "we read in Virgil of the Trojan Palladium, that wooden horse which the Greeks offered the goddess Pallas, full of armed knights who afterwards proved the total ruin of Troy. It were prudent, therefore, before we get up, to see what Clavileño has within him."—"You need not," said the Disconsolate Lady; "I dare engage that Malambruno would not countenance any base or treacherous practice. Mount, Don Quixote, without fear; whatever accident befalls you, I dare answer for." Upon this, Don Quixote mounted, without any reply, imagining that anything said concerning his security would be a reflection on his valor. He then began to try the pin, which was easily turned; and as he sat, with his long legs stretched at length without stirrups, he looked like one of those antique figures in a Roman triumph, painted or woven in Flemish arras.
Sancho, very leisurely and unwillingly, was made to climb up; and, fixing himself as well as he could on the crupper, felt it somewhat hard and uneasy. With that, looking on the duke, "Good my lord," quoth he, "will you lend me something to clap under me; some pillow from the page's bed, or the duchess's cushion of state, or anything; for this horse's crupper seems rather marble than wood."—"It is needless," said Trifaldi; "for Clavileño will bear no kind of furniture upon him; so that, for your greater ease, you had best sit sideways, like a woman." Sancho did so; and after he had taken his leave they bound a cloth over his eyes; but presently after, uncovering them, with a pitiful look on the spectators, he prayed them with tears in his eyes to help him in this peril with two Paternosters and two Ave Marias, as they would expect the like charity themselves in such a condition!—"What! you rascal," said Don Quixote, "do you think yourself at the gallows, and at the point of death, that you hold forth in such a piteous strain? Dastardly wretch without a soul, dost thou not know that the fair Magalona once sat in thy place, and alighted from thence, not into the grave, but into the throne of France, if there is truth in history? And do not I sit by thee, that I may vie with the valorous Peter, and press the seat that was once pressed by him? Come, blindfold thyself, poor spiritless animal, and let me not hear thee betray the least symptom of fear, at least not in my presence."—"Well," quoth Sancho, "let them bind me; but, if you will not let one say his prayers nor be prayed for, it is no marvel one should fear that we may have a legion of imps about us to deal with us, as at Peralvillo."
Now, both being hoodwinked, and Don Quixote perceiving everything ready, be began to turn the pin; and no sooner had he set his hand to it than the waitingwomen and all the company set up their throats, calling out, "Speed you well, valorous knight; Heaven be your guide, undaunted squire! Now, now, you fly aloft, cutting the air more swiftly than an arrow, while the gazing world wonders at your course! Sit fast, courageous Sancho! you do not sit steady; have a care of falling; for your fall would be greater than the aspiring youth's that sought to guide the chariot of the sun-god, his father." All this Sancho heard, and, girting his arms fast about his master, "Sir," quoth he, "why do they say we are so high, since we can hear their voices? Truly I hear them so plainly that one would think they were talking close by us."—"Never mind that," answered Don Quixote; "for in these extraordinary kinds of flight you can hear and see what you wish a thousand leagues off. But do not hold me so hard, for you will make me tumble off. I know not what makes thee tremble so, for I dare swear I never rode easier in all my life; our horse goes as if he did not move at all. Take courage, then; for the affair is in a good way, and we have the wind astern."—"I think so, too," quoth Sancho; "for I feel the wind puff as briskly here as if a thousand pairs of bellows were blowing on me at my back." Sancho was not in the wrong; for two or three pairs of bellows were indeed giving air; so well had the plot of this adventure been laid by the duke, the duchess, and their steward, that nothing was wanting to perfect it.
Don Quixote at last feeling the wind, "Sure," said he, "we must be risen to the second region of the air, where are engendered the hail and snow; thunder, lightning, and thunderbolts are produced in the third region; so that, if we mount at this rate, we shall be in the region of fire presently; and I do not know how to manage this pin, so as to avoid being scorched." At the same time some flax, easy to light and to quench at a distance, was clapped to the end of a long stick, and made their faces hot; and the heat affecting Sancho, he cried, "May I be hanged, if we be not come to this fire region or very near it; for the half of my beard is singed already. I have a mind to peep out and see whereabouts we are."—"By no means," answered Don Quixote, "but remember the true story of Doctor Torralva, whom the devil carried to Rome hoodwinked, and, bestriding a reed, in twelve hours' time setting him down in the tower of Nona, in one of the streets of that city. There he saw the dreadful tumult, assault, and death of Bourdon; and, the next morning, he found himself back in Madrid, where he related the story. Who said, as he went through the air, the devil bade him open his eyes, which he did, and then found himself as it seemed so near the moon that he could touch him with his finger; but durst not look towards the earth, lest his brains should turn. So, Sancho, we need not unveil our eyes, but trust to him that has charge of us, and fear nothing, for perhaps we only mount high, to come straight down upon the kingdom of Candaya, as a hawk or falcon falls upon a heron, to seize it more strongly from a height; for, though it appears to us not half an hour since we left the garden, we have, nevertheless, traveled over a vast tract."—"I know nothing of the matter," replied Sancho; "but of this I am very certain, that, if the Lady Magallanes, or Magalona, could sit this wooden crupper, she cannot have had very tender flesh."
This dialogue of the valiant pair was very pleasant all this while to the duke and duchess, and the rest of the company; and now, at last, resolving to put an end to this extraordinary and well-contrived adventure, they set fire with some tow to Clavileño's tail; and, the horse being stuffed full of fireworks, burst presently into pieces, with a mighty noise, throwing Don Quixote and Sancho to the ground half scorched. By this time the Disconsolate Lady and bearded regiment vanished out of the garden, and all the rest, as if in a trance, lay flat upon the ground. Don Quixote and Sancho, sorely bruised, got up, amazed to find themselves in the same garden whence they took horse, and to see such a number of people lie on the ground. But their wonder was increased by the appearance of a large lance stuck in the ground, and a scroll of white parchment fastened to it by two green silken strings, with the following inscription upon it, in golden characters:—
"The renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha achieved the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Disconsolate Lady, and her companions, by solely attempting it. Malambruno is fully contented and satisfied. The waiting gentlewomen have lost their beards. King Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia have resumed their pristine shapes; and, when the squire's scourging shall be finished, the white dove shall escape the pernicious hawks that pursue her, and be lulled in the arms of her beloved. This is ordained by the Sage Merlin, proto-enchanter of enchanters."
Don Quixote, having read this document, clearly understood it to refer to Dulcinea's disenchantment, and rendered thanks to Heaven that he had achieved so great a feat with so little danger, and brought back to their former bloom the faces of the venerable waiting-women, who had now disappeared; and approaching the duke and duchess, who had not yet come to themselves, he took the duke by the hand: "Courage, courage, noble sir," cried he, "there is no danger; the adventure is finished without damage, as you may read it registered in that record."
The duke, as if he had been waked out of a sound sleep, recovered himself by degrees, as did the duchess and the rest of the company, who were lying prostrate in the garden, all of them acting the surprise and fear so naturally that the jest might have been believed earnest. The duke with half-closed eyes read the scroll; then, embracing Don Quixote, extolled him as the bravest knight the earth had ever possessed. As for Sancho, he was looking up and down for the Disconsolate Lady, to see what sort of a face she had got, without her beard. But he was informed that as Clavileño came down flaming in the air, the whole squadron of women with Trifaldi vanished immediately, but all of them shaved and without a hair upon their faces.
The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared in his long voyage? "Why, truly, madam," answered he, "when, as my master told me, we were flying through the region of fire, I wished to uncover my eyes a little, but my master would not suffer me to do so; yet, as I have a spice of curiosity still hankering after what is forbidden me, I shoved my handkerchief a little above my nose and looked down, and, as it seemed, spied the earth no bigger than a mustard seed; and the men walking to and fro upon it not much larger than hazelnuts; by which you may see how high we had got!"—"Have a care what you say, my friend," said the duchess; "for if the men were bigger than hazelnuts, and the earth no bigger than a mustard seed, one man must cover the whole earth."—"Like enough," answered Sancho; "but for all that, do you see, I saw it with a kind of a side look upon one part of it."—"Look you, Sancho," replied the duchess, "nothing can be wholly seen by a partial view of it."—"Well, well, madam," quoth Sancho, "I do not understand your views; I only know that as we flew by enchantment, so, by enchantment, I might see the whole earth, and all the men, which way soever I looked. If you do not believe this, you will not believe me either when I tell you that when I looked between my brows, I saw myself so near heaven, that between me and it there was not a span and a half. And, forsooth, it is a huge place! and we happened to travel that road where the seven she-goats are; and, faith and troth, I had such a mind to play with them (having been once a goatherd myself) that I should have burst, had I not done it. What do I do then but slip down very soberly from Clavileño without telling a soul, and played and leaped about for three-quarters of an hour, with the pretty nanny-goats, who are like so many marigolds or gilly-flowers; and Clavileño stirred not one step all the while."—"And while Sancho employed himself with the goats," asked the duke, "how was Don Quixote employed?"—"Truly," answered the knight, "I am sensible all things were altered from their natural course; therefore, what Sancho says seems no marvel to me. But, for my own part, I saw nothing either above or below, neither heaven nor earth, sea nor shore. I perceived, indeed, we passed through the region of the air, and even touched that of fire, but that we went beyond it is incredible; for, the fiery region lying between the sphere of the moon and the upper region of the air, it was impossible for us to reach that heaven where are the seven goats, as Sancho says, without being consumed; and, therefore, since we were not singed, Sancho either lies or dreams."—"I neither lie nor dream," replied Sancho; "do but ask me the marks of these goats, and by them you will see whether I speak truth or no."—"Prithee tell them, Sancho," said the duchess. "There were two of them green," answered Sancho, "two carnation, two blue, and one party-colored."—"That is a new kind of goats," said the duke. "We have none of those colors in our region of the earth."— "Sure, sir," replied Sancho, "you will make some sort of difference between heavenly she-goats and the goats of this world?"—"But, Sancho," said the duke, "among these she-goats did you ever see a he-goat." "Not one, sir," answered Sancho; "and I have been told that none has ever passed beyond the horns of the moon."
They did not think fit to ask Sancho more about his voyage; for they judged he would ramble all over the heavens, and tell them news of whatever was doing there, though he had not stirred out of the garden.
Thus ended, in short, the adventure of the Disconsolate Lady, which afforded sport to the duke and duchess, not only for the present, but for the rest of their lives; and to Sancho matter of talk for ages, should he live so long.
"Sancho," said Don Quixote, whispering him in the ear, "if thou wouldst have us believe what thou hast seen in heaven, I desire thee to believe what I saw in Montesinos's cave. I say no more."
By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
[Don Quixote believes that his Dulcinea may be freed from enchantment by Sancho Panza's inflicting upon himself of his own will "three thousand three hundred and odd lashes." Sancho has stopped at the fifth, and now the knight bribes him to continue.]
"For my part," said Don Quixote, "hadst thou demanded a fee for disenchanting Dulcinea, I can tell thee that I would have given it thee already. But I know not if a gratuity would accord with the cure; and I would not have the reward hinder the medicine. For all that, it seems to me that nothing will be lost by putting it to a trial. Look you, Sancho, to what you want, and scourge yourself at once, then pay yourself ready money with your own hand, since you keep my money." Sancho, opening his eyes and ears a span wide at this offer, gave consent in his heart to scourge himself with a good will. "Ay, sir, now you say well," quoth he to his master. "I am willing to dispose of myself to do you a pleasure in what may consist with my advantage, for my love for my children and wife makes me seem selfish. Tell me how much you will give me for each lash I give myself?"—"Were your payment, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to be answerable to the greatness and quality of this cure, the wealth of Venice and the mines of Potosi would be small payment for thee. But see what you have of mine, and set the price on each stripe."—"The lashes," quoth Sancho, "are three thousand three hundred and odd, of which I have given myself five; the rest are to come. Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the three thousand three hundred, which at a quartillo apiece—and I will not take less if all the world bid me—they make three thousand three hundred quartillos, of which three thousand make fifteen hundred half-reals, which amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred remaining make an hundred and fifty half-reals, and three-score and fifteen reals; put that with the seven hundred and fifty, and it comes altogether to eight hundred and twenty-five reals. This I will deduct from what I hold of yours, and will return home rich and well pleased, though well whipped. But one must not think to catch trout—I say no more."—"O blessed Sancho! O amiable Sancho!" cried Don Quixote. "How shall Dulcinea and I be bound to serve thee all the days that Heaven shall give us of life! If she recover from her lost state (and it is not possible that she fail to do so), her misfortune will turn to her felicity, and my defeat to the happiest triumph. And hark ye, Sancho! when wilt thou enter upon thy discipline? For if thou hastenest it, I will add further a hundred reals more."—"When?" answered Sancho; "this very night without fail. Do you but order it that we lie in the fields under the open sky, and I will open my flesh."
Night arrived, awaited by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety; and he fancied Phœbus had broken his chariot wheels, which made the day of so unusual a length,—as is always the case with lovers, who never make allowance for the reckoning of their desires. At last they entered amongst some pleasant trees that stood a little out of the road, where, leaving empty the saddle and pannel of Rozinante and Dapple, they stretched themselves upon the green grass, and supped from Sancho's wallet.
He, having made himself a heavy and flexible whip of Dapple's headstall and reins, retired about twenty paces from his master, amidst some beeches. Don Quixote, observing him go with readiness and resolution, said, "Have a care, friend; do not hack thyself to pieces. Give one stripe time to await another. Thou shouldst not so hurry in the race that thy breath fails in the midst; go more gently to work, soft and fair goes furthest; I mean, do not give it thyself so sharply that strength fails thee before the desired number is reached. And that you lose not for a card more or less, I will stand at a distance and keep count on my beads of the strokes thou givest thyself. Heaven favor thee as thy good intention deserves."—"Pledges do not hurt a good payer," said Sancho, "I mean to give it to myself in such a way that it hurts without killing me, for in this must lie the essence of this miracle." With that he stripped himself from the waist upwards, and seizing the lash began to lay on; while Don Quixote began to tell the strokes. But by the time Sancho had applied seven or eight lashes, he felt that the jest was a heavy one, and its price very cheap. Whereupon, after a short pause, he told his master that he had been deceived; for such lashes as these were each worth being paid for with a half-real, not a quartillo. "Go on, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "take courage, I will double the pay."—"God save us, let it rain stripes in that case," quoth Sancho. But the cunning knave left off laying on his back, and fell upon the trees, with groans every now and then, that one would have thought at each one of them he had been giving up the ghost. Don Quixote, who was tender-hearted, fearing he might make an end of his life, and that, by Sancho's imprudence, his wishes should not be attained, said, "On thy life, my friend, let this business rest at this point. This seems to be a very sharp sort of physic, and it will be well to take it at intervals. Rome was not built in a day. If I have not told wrong, thou hast given thyself above a thousand stripes; that is enough for the present; for, to use a homely phrase, 'the ass will carry his load, but not more than his load.'"—"No, no," quoth Sancho, "it shall never be said of me, 'When money's paid the arms are stayed.' Stand off a little, and let me lay on another thousand lashes or so, and then with another bout like this we shall have done with this job, and have something over."—"Since thou art so well in the humor," said Don Quixote, "I will withdraw, and Heaven strengthen and reward thee." Sancho fell to work so freshly that he soon fetched the bark off a number of trees; such was the severity with which he thrashed them! At length, raising his voice, and giving an outrageous blow to one of the beeches: "There!" cried he, "die thou shalt, Samson, and all that are about thee!" At the sound of this dismal cry, and the blow of the dreadful stroke, Don Quixote presently ran up, and laying hold on the twisted halter which served Sancho for a thong, "Fate forbid," cried he, "friend Sancho, that thou shouldst for my pleasure lose thy life, which has to serve for the maintenance of thy wife and children! Let Dulcinea stay for a better opportunity. I will contain myself within the limits of the hope that is nigh, and will wait till thou recoverest new strength, that the business may be accomplished to everybody's satisfaction."—"Well, sir," replied Sancho, "if it be your pleasure it should be so, so let it be, and welcome; and do so much as throw your cloak over my shoulders; for I am all in a sweat, and I have no mind to catch cold, for that is the danger that new disciplinants run." This Don Quixote did, and leaving himself unclad, covered up Sancho, who fell fast asleep till the sun waked him. Then they continued on their journey, which they brought to an end for that day at a village three leagues off. They alighted at an inn, for it was allowed by Don Quixote to be such, and not a castle, with deep ditch, towers, portcullises, and drawbridge; for since his defeat he spoke with more sense on all matters. He was lodged in a ground room, in which some old painted serge hangings, such as are often seen in villages, served for stamped leathers. On one of these was painted in a most vile style the rape of Helen, when the audacious guest stole her away from her husband, Menelaus; and on another was the story of Dido and Æneas,—the lady upon a lofty turret, as if making signs with half a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was flying from her across the sea in a frigate or brigantine. It was indicated in the two stories that Helen went with no very ill will, for she was smiling artfully and roguishly, but the fair Dido seemed to be shedding tears as large as walnuts from her eyes. Seeing which Don Quixote said, "These two ladies were unfortunate in not having been born in this age; and, above all, unfortunate am I for not having been born in theirs! For had I met those gentlemen, Troy would not have been burned, nor Carthage destroyed; for, by the death of Paris alone, all these miseries had been prevented."—"I will lay you a wager," quoth Sancho, "that before long there will not be a tavern, a victualing house, an inn, or a barber's shop but will have the story of our deeds painted along it. But I could wish that it may be done by the hands of a better painter than he that drew these."—"Thou art in the right, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for this artist is like Orbaneja, a painter who was in Ubeda, who, being asked what he was painting, made answer, 'Whatever it shall turn out;' and if he chanced to draw a cock, he under-wrote, 'This is a cock,' lest any should take it for a fox. Of the same sort, it seems to me, Sancho, must be the painter or the writer (for it is all one) who produced the story of this new Don Quixote that has lately come out, for he painted or wrote 'whatever should turn out.' Or he must be like a poet called Mauleon, who went about Madrid some years ago, and would give answers extempore to any questions, and when somebody asked what was the meaning of 'Deum de Deo,' answered, 'Done as one can do.'
"But setting this aside, tell me, Sancho, if you think of taking another turn to-night? and would you rather do it under a roof or in the open air?"—"Why, truly, sir," quoth Sancho, "as to what I think of giving myself, it may be done as well at home as in the fields, but withal I could like it to be among trees; for methinks they keep me company, and help me marvelously to bear my sufferings."
By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Finally, surrounded by boys, and attended by the curate and the bachelor, they entered the village, and got to Don Quixote's house, where they found at the door his housekeeper and his niece, that had already got the news of their arrival. Neither more nor less had been told to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, who, with her hair about her ears, and half dressed, dragging by the hand her daughter Sanchica, came running to see her husband. But when she found that he was not so well dressed as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him, "What is the meaning of this, husband? You look as though you had come on foot, and tired off your legs! Why, you come more like a groveler than a governor!"—"Peace, Teresa," answered Sancho; "many a time when there are hooks, there are no flitches. Let us go home, and then I will tell thee wonders. I have taken care of the main chance. Money I have, which is the chief thing, earned by my own industry without wronging anybody."—"Hast thou got money, my good husband?" said Teresa. "Be it gained here or there, or however you like to gain it, you will have made no new sort of profit in the world." Sanchica, hugging her father, asked him if he had brought her anything, for she had been longing for him as for rain in May. Thus holding him by the girdle on one side, and his wife taking him by the hand, and his daughter leading Dapple, away they went to his house, leaving Don Quixote in his, under the care of his niece and housekeeper, in company with the curate and bachelor.
That very moment Don Quixote, regardless of times and seasons, took the bachelor and the curate aside, and in few words gave them an account of his defeat and the obligation he lay under of not leaving his village for a year, which, like a knight-errant bound by the strictness and discipline of knight-errantry, he was resolved to observe to the letter without infringing it one jot. And that he intended to make himself a shepherd for that year, and entertain himself in the solitude of the fields, where he might give play to his amorous thoughts with a loose rein, and employ himself in that pastoral and virtuous exercise; and he begged them, if they had not much to do, and if business of greater importance were not an obstruction, that they would please to be his companions; for he would provide sheep and cattle enough to give them the name of shepherds; and that he would have them know that the chief part of the undertaking was done, for he had provided them all with names that would fit them exactly. The curate asked him to tell them. Don Quixote told him he would himself be called the shepherd Quixotiz, and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curiambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.
They were all struck with amazement at this new folly; but, in order that they might not have him leaving the village again on his chivalry, and hoping that within the year he might be cured, they came into his new design, and approved of his folly as if it were wise, offering their company in his employment. "And the more," said Samson Carrasco, "as everybody knows I am a most celebrated poet, and at every step I will compose verses pastoral, or courtly, or any that shall come more seasonably, so as to divert us in those groves where we shall range. But one thing, gentlemen, is most necessary, that each of us choose a name for the shepherdess he means to celebrate in his lays; and that we leave no tree, be it ever so hard, on which her name is not inscribed and cut, as is the use and custom of enamored shepherds."—"You are quite right," replied Don Quixote; "provided that I am free from seeking an imaginary shepherdess, since there is the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks, the ornament of these meads, the support of beauty, the cream of elegance, and, in short, the subject on which all praise may light, however hyperbolical it may be."—"That is true," said the curate; "but we shall seek out some shepherdesses of ordinary kind who, if they do not suit us squarely, will do so cornerwise." To which added Samson Carrasco, "And if they be wanting, we will give those very names we find in books, of which the world is full, such as Phyllises, Amaryllises, Dianas, Floridas, Galateas, Belisardas, which are to be disposed of in the markets, and can be purchased and kept as our own. If my mistress, or my shepherdess I should rather say, chance to be called Anne, I will celebrate her under the name of Anarda; if Francisca, I will call her Francenia; and if Lucy, Lucinda, and so forth. And Sancho Panza, if he has to enter into this fraternity, may celebrate his wife Teresa Panza by the name of Teresayna." Don Quixote laughed at the turn given to the name. And the curate greatly applauded his virtuous and honorable resolution, and repeated his offer of bearing him company all the time that his compulsory employments would allow him. With this they took their leave of him, and begged and counseled him to take thought about his health by enjoying whatever was good for him.
Fate willed that the niece and the housekeeper, according to custom, had been listening to the discourse of the three, and so, as they went away, both came in to Don Quixote; and the niece said, "What is here to do, uncle! Now when we thought you were come to stay at home, and live like a sober, honest gentleman in your house, are you hankering after new crotchets, and turning into a
'Gentle shepherd, coming hither,
Gentle shepherd, going hence?'
For by my troth, sir, the corn is now too old to make pipes of." To which the housekeeper added, "And will your worship be able to endure the summer noondays, and the winter's night frosts, and the howlings of the wolves? No, for certain, for this is the business and duty of strong men, cut out and bred for such work almost from their swaddling bands and long clothes. Ill for ill, it is even better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd. Look ye, sir, take my advice, which is not given on a full meal of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty years over my head. Stay at home, look after your property, go often to confession, do good to the poor; and on my soul be it if ill comes of it."—"Peace, daughters," answered Don Quixote to them; "I know well what it behooves me to do. Help me to bed, for it seems to me I am not very well; and be assured that whether I now be a knight-errant or an errant-shepherd, I shall never fail to provide whatever you shall need, as you shall see indeed." And the good women took him to bed, brought him something to eat, and tended him with all possible care.
As human things are not eternal, always tending downwards from their beginnings till they reach their final end, especially the lives of men, and as Don Quixote held no privilege from heaven to stay the course of his, so his end and finish arrived when he least expected it. For whether it was from the melancholy that his defeat caused, or whether it was by the disposition of heaven that so ordered it, a fever took possession of him that confined him to his bed for six days.
All that time his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, came often to see him, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred from his bedside.
They, conjecturing that the regret of his defeat, and his being disappointed of his desire for Dulcinea's liberty and disenchantment, kept him in this case, essayed to divert him in all possible ways. The bachelor begged him to pluck up a good heart, and rise, that he might begin his pastoral life, for which he had already written an eclogue, which would confound all those that Sannazaro had ever written, and that he had already bought, with his own money, two famous dogs to watch their flock, the one called Barcino, and the other Butron, that a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him. But this had no effect on Don Quixote's sadness. His friends called in the doctor, who, upon feeling his pulse, did not very well like it; and said that in any case he should provide for the safety of his soul, for that of his body was in danger. Don Quixote heard this with a calm mind, but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell a-weeping bitterly, as if they already saw him dead before them. The physician was of opinion that melancholy and vexation were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote desired them to leave him alone, for he would sleep a little; they did so, and he slept for more than six hours straight off, as they say, so that the housekeeper and the niece thought that he would never wake.
At the end of that time he awaked, and, with a loud voice said, "Blessed be Almighty God, who hath done me so much good. His mercies are without end, nor are they shortened or hindered by the sins of men." The niece, hearkening very attentively to these words of her uncle, and finding more sense in them than there was wont to be in his talk, at least since he had fallen ill, asked him, "What is that you say, sir; has anything fresh happened? What mercies are these or what sins of men?"—"The mercies, niece," answered Don Quixote, "are those that heaven has this moment vouchsafed to me, which, as I said, my sins do not prevent. My judgment is now free and clear, and the murky clouds of ignorance removed, which my painful and continual reading of those detestable books of knight-errantry cast over me. Now I perceive their nonsense and deceit, and am only sorry the discovery happens so late, when I want time to make some amends by reading others that would enlighten my soul. I find, niece, that I am at the point of death; and I would meet it in such a manner as to show that my life has not been so evil as to leave me the character of a madman. Send, my dear, for my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will." But this trouble the niece was saved by the entrance of the three. Don Quixote had scarcely seen them when he said, "Largess, good gentlemen, for I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, the same whom my behavior gave the surname of Good. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul and all the endless crowd of his descendants; all the profane stories of knight-errantry are now hateful to me. I have a sense of my folly and the danger I have run by having read them; and now, through heaven's mercy and my own experience, I abhor them." When the three heard this, they concluded without doubt some new frenzy had possessed him, and Samson said to him, "Now, Signor Don Quixote, when we have just had news that the Lady Dulcinea is disenchanted, do you come out with this? and now we are upon the point of turning shepherds, to spend our lives singing like princes, do you wish to make yourself a hermit? Peace, on your life; come to yourself and leave idle tales."
"Those which hitherto have been true, to my prejudice," replied Don Quixote, "my death, with the assistance of heaven, shall turn to my advantage. I perceive, sirs, that I am dying with all speed. Put aside jests, and fetch me a confessor to confess me, and a scrivener to draw up my will, for in such straits as this a man must not play with his soul; and I beg that whilst Master Curate confesses me a scrivener may be fetched."
They stared at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words, and though in doubt they were inclined to believe him. And one of the signs by which they conjectured that he would die was his having changed so quickly from a madman to a sane person; for to the words already said he added many others so well spoken, so Christian, and so connected that they came, withal, to lose their doubts and to believe that he was sane. The curate made all the people leave the room, and stayed alone with him and confessed him. The bachelor went for the scrivener, and presently returned with him and with Sancho Panza, who, being informed by the bachelor in what state his master was, and finding the housekeeper and the niece in tears, began to make wry faces and fall a-crying. The confession was ended and the curate came out saying, "Certainly about to die and certainly in his senses is Alonso Quixano the Good; we had best go in, that he may make his will." These tidings were a terrible blow to the swollen eyes of the housekeeper, the niece, and Sancho Panza, his good squire, so that it made the tears burst out of their eyes, and a thousand profound sighs from their hearts; for indeed, as on some occasion has been observed, whilst Don Quixote was plain Alonso Quixano the Good, and whilst he was Don Quixote de la Mancha, he was ever of pleasant humor and agreeable behavior, and therefore he was beloved not only by his family, but by every one that knew him.
The scrivener, with the rest, went in, and after he had made the preamble of the will, and Don Quixote had disposed of his soul with all those Christian circumstances that are requisite, he came to the legacies, and said:—
"Item, it is my will that of certain moneys that Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire) holds, inasmuch as there have been between him and me certain accounts, both payments and receipts, there shall be no charge made, nor account demanded of him; but that if any shall remain over after he has paid himself what I owe him, the residue shall be his; it can be but small, and may it do him much good. And if, when I was mad, I was a party to making him governor of the island, I would now, in my right senses, give him the government of a kingdom, were it in my power, for the simplicity of his disposition and the fidelity of his character deserve it." And turning to Sancho he said, "Pardon me, my friend, that I have given thee occasion to appear mad like myself, making thee fall into the error in which I fell that there have been and are knights-errant in the world."—"Woe's me!" replied Sancho, all in tears, "do not die, dear master, but take my counsel, and live on a many years; the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without any more ado, without being killed by anybody or finished by any other hands but those of melancholy. See you do not be slothful, but get up from this bed, and let us be off to the fields in our shepherd's clothing, as we had agreed. Who knows but behind some bush we may find the Lady Donna Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine a sight as there is to be seen? If it is that you will die of vexation at being conquered, lay the blame upon me, and say that through my not girting Rozinante well, they overthrew him. Especially as you will have seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for one knight to overthrow another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror to-morrow."—"It is so," said Samson, "and honest Sancho is very much to the point in these matters."—"Soft and fair, gentlemen," said Don Quixote; "never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last: I was mad, and now I am in my senses; I was Don Quixote de la Mancha, and I am now (as I said before) Alonso Quixano the Good; may my repentance and my truth restore me to the same esteem you had for me before; and so let master scrivener go on.
"Item, I bequeath all my estate without reserve to Antonia Quixana, my niece here present, having first deducted from such of it as is best in condition what shall be necessary to discharge the bequests that I have made; and the first payment that she makes I desire to be that of the salary due to my housekeeper, for the time that she has served me, with twenty ducats more for a dress. I appoint Master Curate and Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, here present, to be my executors.
"Item, it is my will that if my niece Antonia Quixana be inclined to marry, she marry a man of whom she shall first have evidence that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and in case it shall appear that he does know, and nevertheless my niece shall wish to marry him and does so marry, she is to forfeit all that I have bequeathed to her, which my executors are empowered to dispose of in pious works, as they shall think proper.
"Item, I entreat the said gentlemen, my executors, that if by good fortune they come to know the author who is said to have composed a story which goes by the title of "The Second Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote de la Mancha," they most heartily beg his pardon from me, for being undesignedly the occasion of his writing so many and such great follies as he has written in it; for I quit this life with regret for having given him a motive for writing them."
Herewith finished the will, and, falling into a swoon, he lay at full length in the bed. They were all alarmed, and ran to his assistance; and for the space of three days that he lived after he had made his will he fainted continually.
The whole family was in confusion; and yet, for all that, the niece ate, the housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza cheered himself; for this matter of inheriting somewhat effaces or alleviates in the inheritor the thought of sorrow that it is natural for a dead man to leave behind.
In short, Don Quixote's last day came, after he had received all the sacraments, and, by many and weighty arguments, showed his abhorrence of the books of knight-errantry. The scrivener, who was by, said he had never read in any book of chivalry of any knight-errant who had ever died in his bed so quietly and like a good Christian as Don Quixote, who, amidst the compassion and tears of those who were by, gave up the ghost, or, to speak plainly, died; which, when the curate perceived, he desired the scrivener to give him a certificate, how Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote de la Mancha, had departed out of this present life, and died a natural death. This testimony he desired, to remove opportunity from any other author but Cid Hamet Benengeli to falsely resuscitate him, and write endless histories of his adventures.
This was the end of the INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA, whose native place Cid Hamet has not thought fit precisely to mention, with design that all the towns and villages in La Mancha should contend amongst themselves for the honor of adopting and keeping him as their own, as the seven cities of Greece did for Homer. We omit here the lamentations of Sancho, of Don Quixote's niece and the housekeeper, and the new epitaphs upon his tomb; but Samson Carrasco set this upon it:—
"A valiant gentleman lies here,
So brave that, to his latest breath,
Immortal glory was his care,
And made him triumph over death.
Of small account he held the world,
Whose fears its ridicule belied;
And if he like a madman lived,
At least he like a wise one died."
In one of the large and rich cities of China there once lived a tailor named Mustapha. He was so poor that by the hardest daily labor he could barely support himself and his family, which consisted only of his wife and a son.
This son, Aladdin, was a very careless, idle, and disobedient fellow. He would leave home early in the morning and play all day in the streets and public places. When he was old enough, his father tried to teach him the tailor's trade, but Mustapha no sooner turned his back than the boy was gone for the day. He was frequently punished, but in vain; and at last the father gave him up as a hopeless idler, and in a few months died of the grief Aladdin caused him.
The boy, now free from restraint, became worse than ever. Until he was fifteen, he spent all his time with idle companions, never thinking how useless a man this would make of him. Playing thus with his evil mates one day, a stranger passing by stood to observe him.
The stranger was a person known as the African magician. Only two days before, he had arrived from Africa, his native country; and, seeing in Aladdin's face something that showed the boy to be well fitted for his purposes, he had taken pains to learn all that he could find out about him.
"Child," he said to Aladdin, calling him aside, "was not your father called Mustapha the tailor?"
"Yes, sir," answered the boy; "but he has been dead a long time."
Then the African magician embraced Aladdin and kissed him, saying with tears in his eyes, "I am your uncle. I knew you at first sight; you are so like my dear brother." Then he gave the boy a handful of money, and said, "Give my love to your mother, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may see where my good brother lived and died."
"You have no uncle," said Aladdin's mother when she had heard his story. "Neither your father nor I ever had a brother."
Again the next day the magician found Aladdin playing in the streets, and embraced him as before, and put two pieces of gold into his hand, saying, "Carry this to your mother. Tell her I shall come to sup with you to-night; but show me first where you live."
This done, Aladdin ran home with the money, and all day his mother made ready to receive their guest. Just as they began to fear that he might not find the house, the African magician knocked at the door, and came in, bringing wine and fruits of every sort. After words of greeting to them both, he asked only to be placed where he might face the sofa on which Mustapha used to sit.
"My poor brother!" he exclaimed. "How unhappy am I, not to have come soon enough to give you one last embrace!"
Then he told Aladdin's mother how he had left their native land of China forty years ago, had traveled in many lands, and finally settled in Africa. The desire had seized him to see his brother and his home once more, and therefore he had come, alas! too late.
When the widow wept at the thought of her husband, the African magician turned to Aladdin and asked, "What business do you follow? Are you of any trade?"
The boy hung his head, and his mother added to his shame by saying, "Aladdin is an idle fellow. He would not learn his father's trade, and now will not heed me, but spends his time where you found him, in the streets. Unless you can persuade him to mend his ways, some day I must turn him out to shift for himself."
Again the widow wept, and the magician said,—
"This is not well, nephew. But there are many trades beside your father's. What say you to having a shop, which I will furnish for you with fine stuffs and linens? Tell me freely."
This seemed an easy life, and Aladdin, who hated work, jumped at the plan. "Well, then," said the magician, "come with me to-morrow, and, after clothing you handsomely, we will open the shop."
Soon after supper the stranger took his leave. On the next day he bought the boy his promised clothes, and entertained him with a company of merchants at his inn. When he brought Aladdin home to his mother at night, she called down many blessings on his head for all his kindness.
Early the next morning the magician came for Aladdin, saying they would spend that day in the country, and on the next would buy the shop. So away they walked through the gardens and palaces outside one of the gates of the city. Each palace seemed more beautiful than the last, and they had gone far before Aladdin thought the morning half gone. By the brink of a fountain they rested, and ate the cakes and fruit which the magician took from his girdle. At the same time he gave the boy good advice about the company he should keep. On they went again after their repast, still farther into the country, till they nearly reached the place, between two mountains, where the magician intended to do the work that had brought him from Africa to China.
"We will go no farther now," said he to Aladdin. "I will show you here some strange things. While I strike a light, gather me all the loose, dry sticks you can see, to kindle a fire with."
There was soon a great heap of them, and when they were in a blaze the magician threw in some incense, and spoke magical words which Aladdin did not understand.
This was scarcely done when the earth opened just before the magician, and they both saw a stone with a brass ring fixed in it. Aladdin was so frightened that he would have run away, but the magician seized him and gave him a box on the ear that knocked him down.
"What have I done, to be treated so?" cried Aladdin, trembling.
"I am your uncle," was the answer; "I stand in your father's place; make no replies. But, child," he added, softening, "do not be afraid. I shall ask nothing but that you obey me promptly, if you would have the good things I intend for you. Know, then, that under this stone there is a treasure that will make you richer than the greatest monarch on earth. No one but yourself may lift this stone or enter the cave; so you must do instantly whatever I command, for this is a matter of great importance to both of us."
"Well, uncle, what is to be done?" said Aladdin, losing his fear.
"Take hold of the ring and lift up that stone."
"Indeed, uncle, I am not strong enough; you must help me."
"No," said the magician; "if I help you we can do nothing. Lift it yourself, and it will come easily." Aladdin obeyed, raised the stone with ease, and laid it on one side.
When the stone was pulled up, there appeared a staircase about three or four feet deep, leading to a door. "Descend, my son," said the magician, "and open that door. It will lead you into a palace divided into three great halls. Before you enter the first, tuck up your robe with care. Pass through the three halls, but never touch the walls, even with your clothes. If you do you will die instantly. At the end of the third hall you will find a door opening into a garden planted with trees loaded with fine fruit. Walk directly across the garden to a terrace, where you will see a niche before you, and in the niche a lighted lamp. Take it down and put it out. Throw away the wick and pour out the liquor, which is not oil and will not hurt your clothes; then put the lamp into your waistband and bring it to me." The magician then took a ring from his finger and put it on Aladdin's, saying, "This is a talisman against all evil, so long as you obey me. Go, therefore, boldly, and we shall both be rich all our lives."
Aladdin descended, found all to be as the magician had said, and carefully obeyed his orders. When he had put the lamp into his waistband, he wondered at the beauty of the fruit in the garden, white, red, green, blue, purple, yellow, and of all other colors, and gathered some of every sort. The fruits were really precious jewels; but Aladdin, ignorant of their immense value, would have preferred figs, grapes, or pomegranates. Nevertheless, he filled two purses his uncle had given him, besides the skirts of his vest, and crammed his bosom as full as it would hold.
Then he returned with extreme care, and found the magician anxiously waiting.
"Pray, uncle," he said, "lend me your hand to help me out."
"Give me the lamp first," replied the magician. "It will be troublesome to you."
"Indeed, uncle, I cannot now, but I will as soon as I am up."
The magician was bent on taking it at once from his hand, but the boy was so laden with his fruit that he flatly refused to give it over before getting out of the cave. This drove the magician into such a passion that he threw more incense into the fire, spoke two magical words, and instantly the stone moved back into its place, with the earth above it, as it had been when they first reached the spot.
Aladdin now saw that he had been deceived by one who was not his uncle, but a cruel enemy. In truth, this man had learned from his magic books about the secret and value of the wonderful lamp, which would make him richer than any earthly ruler if he could but receive it freely given into his hands by another person. He had chosen Aladdin for this purpose, and when it failed he set out immediately on his return to Africa, but avoided the town, that none might ask him what had become of the boy.
Aladdin was indeed in a sorry plight. He called for his uncle, but in vain. The earth was closed above him, and the palace door at the foot of the steps. His cries and tears brought him no help. At last he said, "There is no strength or power but in the great and high God;" and in joining his hands to pray he rubbed the ring which the magician had put on his finger. Instantly a genie of frightful aspect appeared and said, "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee. I serve him who possesses the ring on thy finger,—I and the other slaves of that ring."
At another time Aladdin would have been frightened at the sight of such a figure; but his danger gave him courage to say, "Whoever thou art, deliver me from this place."
He had no sooner spoken these words than he found himself outside the cave, of which no sign was to be seen on the surface of the earth. He lost no time in making his way home, where he fainted from weakness, and afterwards told his mother of his strange adventure. They were both very bitter against the cruel magician, but this did not prevent Aladdin from sleeping soundly until late the next morning. As there was nothing for breakfast, he bethought him of selling the lamp in order to buy food. "Here it is," said his mother, "but it is very dirty. If I rub it clean I believe it will bring more."