‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, you need not throw away your time unprofitably, in advising me to refrain from an imitation at once so admirable, rare, and happy: mad I am, and mad I shall be until thou returnest with the answer of a letter which I propose to send by thee to my Lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as I am entitled to by my love and fidelity, my distraction and penance will end; but, should it be otherwise, I shall run mad in earnest, and consequently be insensible of my misfortune: wherefore, let her answer be as it may, it will extricate me from the doubts and affliction in which thou leaved me; because, if it be favourable, I shall enjoy it in my right senses; and if it be unfavourable, my frenzy will not feel it.
‘But tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken care of Mambrino’s helmet, which I saw thee take up, after that ungrateful vagabond endeavoured in vain to break it in pieces; a circumstance that proves the excellency of its temper?’ To this exclamation, Sancho replied, ‘’Fore God! Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I cannot suffer, nor bear with patience, some things which your worship says; for they make me imagine, that all you have mentioned about chivalry, and acquiring kingdoms and empires, and giving away islands, with other favours and presents, according to the practice of knights-errant, is nothing but puffs of falshood, and the mere effect of piction or fiction, or what do you call it: for who that hears your worship call a barber’s bason the helmet of Mambrino, and sees you continue in that error so many days, but will believe, that he who affirms such nonsense must be very much crazed in his understanding? The bason, which is all bruised and battered, I have put up in my bag, in order to be mended at home, and used for the service of my own beard, if ever, by the grace of God, I come to see my wife and family.’—‘Hark ye, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘by the same oath you swore, I swear again, that thou hast the most slender understanding that any squire in this world does or ever did possess! Is it possible, that after all thy travelling in my company, thou art not convinced that every thing belonging to knights-errant, appears chimera, folly, and distraction, being metamorphosed into the reverse of what it is, by the power of a tribe of inchanters who attend us, changing, converting, and restoring each particular, according to their pleasure, and the inclination they have to favour or annoy us: for which reason, what seems a barber’s bason to thee, I can easily discern to be the helmet of Mambrino, and perhaps to a third, it will assume a quite different appearance; and I cannot but admire the providence of the sage who is my friend, in making that which is really and truly Mambrino’s helmet, appear a bason to the rest of mankind, because it is of such inestimable value, that if it was known, the whole world would combine to ravish it from me; but as it appears to them no more than a barber’s bason, they never attempt to obtain it. This was plainly the case with the villain, who, having endeavoured to break it in pieces, left it on the ground, when he went off; whereas, had he known what it was, in good faith he would not have quitted it so easily. Keep it therefore with care, my friend, for at present there is no occasion for it; on the contrary, I shall strip off all my armour, and remain naked as I was born, in case I be inclined to imitate the penance of Roldan, rather than that of Amadis.’
Conversing in this manner, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain that stood alone, as if it had been cut out from the rest that surrounded it. A gentle rill murmured by the skirts of it, winding along a meadow, so green and fertile, that it ravished the spectator’s eye; while a number of forest trees that grew around, together with some delicious herbs and flowers, conspired to make the place inchanting. This was the scene in which the knight of the rueful countenance chose to do penance; and therefore he no sooner perceived it, than he began to exclaim aloud, as if he had actually lost his senses, ‘This is the spot, ye heavens! which I chuse and appoint my residence, while I bewail that misfortune to which you yourselves have reduced me. This is the place where the tears from these eyes will increase the waters of that little brook; and where my profound and uninterrupted sighs will incessantly move the leaves of these mountain-oaks, in witness and testimony of the pangs which my tormented heart endures. O ye rural deities, whosoever ye are, who take up your mansion in this uninhabited place, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom a tedious absence and imaginary doubts have brought to lament among these craggy hills, and bemoan the cruel disposition of that ungrateful fair, who is the end and perfection of all human beauty? O ye nymphs and dryads, who were wont to inhabit the hills and groves, (so may no nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom you are beloved, though loved in vain, disturb your sweet repose) help me to bewail my mishap: or at least disdain not to hear my moan!—O Dulcinea del Toboso! light of my darkness! glory of my affliction! north-star of my inclinations! and planet of my fortune! as Heaven shall pour upon you the blessings which you ask; consider the place and condition to which your absence hath exiled me, and put such a period to my woe, as my fidelity shall seem to deserve! O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to bear me company in this retreat, convince me, by the gentle waving of your boughs, that my presence gives you no disgust.—And thou, my squire, the agreeable companion of my good and evil fortune, faithfully retain in thy remembrance what thou shalt see me do, that thou mayest recount and rehearse every circumstance to the lovely cause of all my distraction!’ So saying, he alighted; and, taking off the bridle and saddle from Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks, pronouncing these words: ‘He who is a slave himself, bestows freedom upon thee, O steed, as excellent in thy qualities as unlucky in thy fate! go wheresoever thou wilt; thou bearest engraven on thy forehead, that thou wast never equalled in swiftness, either by Astolpho’s Hypogriff, or the renowned Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear.’
Sancho, hearing this apostrophe, ‘My blessing,’ cried he, ‘be upon him whose industry now saves us the trouble of taking the halter from the head of Dapple[79], who, in good faith, should not want slaps on the buttocks, nor abundance of fine things said in his praise; but, if he was here, I would not consent to his being turned loose, there being no reason for so doing; for he was never acquainted with love and despair, no more than I, who was his master, while it pleased God I should be so: and truly, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if this departure of mine, and distraction of your worship, are really to take place, you had better saddle Rozinante again, to supply the want of Dapple; by which means a great deal of time will be saved in my going and coming; whereas, if I make the journey on foot, I know not when it will be performed; for, in short, I am a very sorry walker.’—‘I say, be it so, then, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘I approve of thy proposal; and assure thee, that thou shalt set out in three days, during which I would have thee take notice of what I shall do for her sake, that thou mayest be able to give her a full account of my behaviour.’—‘What more can I see,’ said Sancho, ‘than I have seen already?’—‘You are pretty perfect in your story,’ answered the knight; ‘but, as yet, I have not torn my cloaths, scattered my armour, and dashed my head against the rocks, nor performed many other things of this sort, which thou wilt behold with admiration.’—‘For the love of God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘take care how you dash your head against the rocks; for you may chance to meet with such a one as will, at the first push, put the finishing stroke to this whole scheme of penance; and I should think, that as knocks of the head are absolutely necessary to compleat the work, your worship might content yourself, seeing the whole affair is a sham, a counterfeit, and a joke; I say, your worship might content yourself with ramming your skull against water, or some soft thing, like a cotton bag; and leave it to my care to tell my lady, that your worship went to loggerheads with the point of a rock a thousand times harder than adamant.’—‘Friend Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘I am obliged to thee, for thy kind intention; but, thou must know, that what I do is not a sham, but a very serious matter; for, to behave otherwise, were to transgress the orders of chivalry, which forbid us to lye, under pain of being degraded; and you know, that to substitute one thing instead of another, is downright telling a lye: wherefore, my knocks on the head must be real, hard, and effectual, and not sophisticated or imaginary; and it will be necessary to leave me some lint for my wounds, since it was the will of fate that we should lose the balsam.’
‘It was a much greater misfortune,’ said the squire, ‘to lose the ass, and with him the lint and all; but I beseech your worship, not to talk of that accursed drench, the sole mention of which not only turns my stomach, but even my very soul; and I beseech you, moreover, to suppose we have passed those three days, which you have appointed for shewing me your mad pranks; for I take them all for granted, and will tell wonders of them to my lady. Write the letter, therefore, and dispatch me forthwith: because I am impatient till I return and deliver your worship from that purgatory in which I leave you.’—‘Purgatory! call you it, Sancho?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘it rather deserves the name of hell, or something worse, if worse can be.’—‘I have heard,’ said the squire, ‘that from hell there is no retention.’—‘I know not,’ replied the knight, ‘what you mean by retention.’—‘Retention,’ answered Sancho, ‘signifies, that whosoever goeth to hell, neither will nor can come back again. The contrary of which shall happen to your worship, or my feet will misgive me, provided I carry spurs to quicken Rozinante: and set me once face to face before my Lady Dulcinea, at Toboso, I will tell her such stories of the folly and madness, for they are both the same thing, which your worship has committed, and will then be committing, that though I should find her harder than a cork-tree, I will make her as pliant as a glove; and, with her sweet and honied answer, return through the air, like a witch, and deliver your worship from this purgatory, that appears like hell, though it be not really so, because there are some hopes of getting out of it; whereas those who are actually in hell can have no such expectation; and I dare say, your worship will not advance any thing to the contrary.’
‘That is all very true,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ‘but how shall we make shift to write this letter?’—‘Aye, and the bill for the colts?’ added Sancho. ‘That shall be inserted in the letter,’ answered his master; ‘and I think, as there is no paper to be had in this place, the best thing we can do, will be to write in the manner of the ancients, on the leaf of a tree, or on waxen tables; though, I believe, those will be as difficult to be found as the paper. But, now I remember what will do well, and excellently well, for our purpose: I will write it in the pocket-book which belonged to Cardenio, and thou shalt take care to have it fairly transcribed in the first place where thou canst find a school-master or a parish-clerk to copy it. But, by no means employ a scrivener, who way write it in such an unintelligible court-hand, that Satan himself could not understand it.’—‘But what is to be done about the signing of it?’ said Sancho. ‘Love-letters are never signed,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘True,’ resumed the squire; ‘but all bills must be subscribed: and if this of yours were to be copied, they would say the subscription was counterfeit, and I might go whistle for my colts.’—‘The bill shall be subscribed with my own hand in the pocket-book; which my niece shall no sooner see, than she will comply with the order, without any farther objection: and with regard to the letter, instead of my subscription, thou shalt cause to be inserted, “Yours, till death; the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” And though it be written by another hand, it is of small importance, because, now I remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor ever set eyes on any writing or letter of mine: for our mutual love has been altogether platonick, without extending farther than a modest glance; and even that so seldom, that I can safely swear, in twelve years, during which I have loved her more than the light of these eyes, which will one day be closed in dust, I have not seen her more than four times, and even in these four times, perhaps, she hath not perceived me looking at her more than once. Such is the restraint and reserve in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales, have brought her up!’
‘Ah, ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘is the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, whose other name is Aldonza Lorenza, the same with the Lady Dulcinea?’—‘Yes,’ answered the knight; ‘and she deserves to be lady of the whole universe.’—‘I know her perfectly well,’ said Sancho; ‘and this will venture to say in her behalf, that she will pitch the bar as well as e’er a lusty young fellow in the village. Bless the sender! she is a strapper, tall, and hale wind and limb; and can lift out of the mire any squire or knight errant, who shall chuse her for his sweetheart. Ah! the whore’s chick! what a pair of lungs and voice has she got! I heard her one day halloo from the belfray to some young fellows of her acquaintance, who were at work in a corn-field of her father’s; and, though it was at the distance of half a league, they heard her as plain as if they had been right under the steeple; and what is better still, she is not at all coy, but behaves herself civilly; and jokes and romps, and plays the rogue with any body. Now, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say that your worship not only has cause to run mad for her, but even to despair and hang yourself, and I am sure nobody that heard it, but would say you had done extremely well; even though the devil should run away with you; and truly, I wish I were now upon my way, merely to see her; for I have not beheld her these many days: and, surely, she must be greatly altered; for the sun and weather does very much damage to the face of a woman who is always at work in the field. To tell you the truth, Sir Don Quixote, I have hitherto lived in great ignorance with respect to my Lady Dulcinea, whom I verily believed to be some princess, that your worship was in love with; or a person of such rank as to deserve the rich presents you sent to her; namely, the Biscayan and galley-slaves, with many others whom you conquered in the course of your numberless victories, both before and since I have been your squire, But, when one considers the affair, what benefits can my Lady Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean, my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, reap from your worship’s sending, or having sent those whom you overcome in battle, to fall upon their knees before her? especially as they might chance to come at a time when she is busy, carding flax and threshing corn; in which case, they would be ashamed to see her, and she laugh and be out of humour at their arrival.’—‘I have frequently observed before now, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that thou art an everlasting babbler; and, though of a shallow understanding, thy bluntness borders often on severity; but, to convince thee of thy own ignorance and my discretion, thou shalt give ear to a short story which I will relate.
‘Know, then, that once upon a time a certain handsome widow, young, free, wealthy, and, above all, good-humoured, fell in love with a thick, squat, brawny, lay-brother, belonging to a neighbouring convent; the superior of which being informed of the affair, said to the widow, one day, by way of brotherly reproof, “I am amazed, Madam, and not without cause, that a lady of your rank, beauty, and fortune, should bestow your affection upon such a low, simple, clownish fellow; when there are so many masters, graduates, and divines, in the convent, among whom your ladyship may chuse, as one picks pears, saying, ‘This I like, that I loath.’” The lady answered, with great freedom and vivacity, “Signior, you are very much deceived, and very old-fashioned in your opinion, if you think I have made a bad choice in that fellow who seems so simple: for, in that particular which I admire, he is as much of a philosopher, nay, more than Aristotle himself.” In like manner, Sancho, Dulcinea del Toboso is as proper for my occasions as the highest princess upon earth. All the poets, who have celebrated ladies, under names which they invented at pleasure, had not really such mistresses as they describe. Dost thou imagine, that all the Amaryllis’s, Silvia’s, Phillis’s, Diana’s, Galatea’s, Alida’s, and other names so often met with in romances, poems, barbers shops, and on the stage, actually belonging to ladies of flesh and blood, who were adored by those who sing, and have sung their praises? No, surely; but, on the contrary, are, for the most part, feigned and adopted as the subjects of verse, that the poets may be thought men of amorous and gallant dispositions. Wherefore, let it suffice, that I imagine and believe the worthy Aldonza Lorenzo to be beautiful and modest: and, as to her pedigree, it is a matter of small importance; there is no necessity for taking information on that head, as if she were to be invested with some order of knighthood; and I take it for granted, that she is the noblest princess in the universe; for, thou must know, Sancho, if it be a thing of which thou art ignorant, that the two qualities, which, above all others, inspire love, are beauty and reputation: and these two is Dulcinea in consummate possession of; for in beauty she excels all women, and is equalled by very few in point of reputation. And, to conclude, I imagine that all I have said is true, without exaggeration or diminution. I paint her in my fancy according to my wish, as well in beauty as in rank; unexcelled by Helen, unrivalled by Lucretia, or any other heroine of ages past, whether Grecian, Roman, or Barbarian; and let people say what they will, if I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the most rigid of those who are proper judges of the case.’—‘I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘that your worship is very much in the right, and I am no better than an ass: but I know not why I should mention the word ass; for one ought not to talk of halters in the house of a man who was hanged. But give me the letter, and farewel till I return.’
Don Quixote pulled out the memorandum-book, and, stepping aside, with great composure, began to write the letter; which, when he had finished, he called to Sancho, saying he wanted to read it to him, that he might retain it in his memory, in case he should lose it by the way; for every thing was to be feared from his evil fortune. ‘Your worship,’ answered Sancho, ‘may write it down two or three times in the book, and I will take special care to convey it safely; but it is folly to suppose that I can retain it in my memory, which is so bad, that I have many a time forgot my own name; but, notwithstanding, pray, Sir, read it to me; I shall be hugely rejoiced to hear it; for it must certainly be curiously penned.’—‘Listen then, and I will read it,’ said Don Quixote; who began as follows.
Don Quixote’s Letter to Dulcinea del Toboso.
‘SOVEREIGN AND SUBLIME PRINCESS,
‘He who is wounded by the edge of absence, and whose heart is stuck full of the darts of affliction, most divine Dulcinea del Toboso! wishes thee that health which he is not doomed to enjoy. If I am scorned by thy beauty, if thy virtue affords me no relief, if thy disdain compleats my misfortune; albeit, I am inured to suffering, I can ill support the misery I bear; which hath not only been excessive, but also of long duration. My trusty squire Sancho will give thee an ample relation, O ungrateful beauty and lovely foe! of the situation in which I remain on thy account: if it be thy will to succour me, I am thy slave: if not, use thy pleasure; for the end of my life will satisfy thy cruelty and my desire. Thine till death,
‘THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.’
‘By my father’s soul!’ cried Sancho, ‘this is the highest thing I ever heard. Odds-niggers! how your worship writes whatsoever you please, and how curiously you conclude, “The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.” I verily believe your worship is the devil himself, and knows every thing.’—‘All that knowledge,’ replied the knight, ‘is necessary for the employment I profess.’—‘Why, then,’ said the squire, ‘be so good as to write on the other leaf the order for the three colts, and be sure to subscribe distinctly, that when it is presented, your hand-writing may be known.’—‘With all my heart!’ said Don Quixote, who having written the order, read it aloud in these terms.
‘DEAR NIECE,
‘Please deliver to Sancho Panza, my squire, or order, at sight of this my first bill of colts, three of the five which I left at home in your custody; which three colts I order you to pay, in return for the like number received of him: and this bill, together with his receipt, shall be a sufficient acquittance to you.
‘Given in the heart of the brown mountain, the twentieth and second of August, this present year.’
Sancho liked the form, and desired his master to sign it. ‘There is no occasion for my signing it,’ said Don Quixote, ‘with any thing but my cypher, which is sufficient not only for three, but three hundred asses.’—‘As to that, I will take your worship’s word; and now give me leave to go and saddle Rozinante, which when I have done, and received your blessing, I intend forthwith to depart, without staying to see you play any foolish tricks, though I will affirm, I have beheld you perform so many, that she will desire to hear no more of the matter.’—‘At least, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have thee, because there is a necessity for it, stay and see me strip, and perform a dozen or two of mad pranks, which I can easily finish in half an hour; for, when thine eyes shall have been witnesses of some things I will act, thou mayest safely swear to what additions thou shalt make in thy report; and I assure thee, thou wilt not relate the half of what I intend to atchieve.’—‘For the love of God, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘let me not see your worship naked; for it will give me so much uneasiness, that I shall not be able to refrain from weeping; and my head aches already with the sorrow I felt last night about Dapple; so that I cannot bear to be set a mourning again; wherefore, if it be your worship’s pleasure that I should see some of your mad actions, pray dispatch them in your cloaths; and let them be such as will stand you in most stead: for my own part, I think there is no occasion for any such thing; and if you dispense with them, it will save time, and send me back the sooner with such news as your worship desires and deserves. For, if my Lady Dulcinea is not prepared to send a reasonable answer, I solemnly protest, I will extract a favourable reply out of her maw, by kicking and cussing. What! is it to be borne, that such a renowned knight-errant as your worship, should run mad without why or wherefore, on account of a —— I would not have her ladyship compel me to speak; or, egad, I shall blab things by the dozen, even though they should spoil the market. I am a rare fellow at that sport. I find she knows a little of my temper, otherwise i’faith! she would take care to give me no offence.’—‘In good faith, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou seemest to be as mad as myself.’—‘Not quite so mad,’ replied the squire, ‘but a little more cholerick; but enough of that. What eatables has your worship got to live upon till my return? will you go to the high-road, and rob the shepherds, like Cardenio?’—‘Let not that give thee any concern,’ answered the knight; ‘though I had store of provisions by me, I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits which this meadow and these trees afford; the perfection of my design consisting in abstaining from food, and in encountering other hardships.’—‘Your worship must know,’ said Sancho, ‘that I am afraid I shall not find my way back again to this concealed and unfrequented place, in which I leave your worship.’—‘Take good notice of the marks,’ answered the knight, ‘and I shall endeavour to remain always near this very spot: nay, I will take care to ascend the highest rocks hereabouts, that I may have a chance of descrying thee afar off, in thy return. But, the best scheme for preventing thy being bewildered, will be, to cut down some of the furze that grows here in great plenty, and drop bunches of it, at small distances on the way, until thou shalt reach the flat country: and they will serve as land-marks to guide thee hither on thy return, like the clue of Theseus, in the labyrinth of Crete.’
‘I will take your advice,’ said Sancho; who accordingly cutting a large bundle, begged his master’s blessing, and took his leave, not without many tears on both sides. Then mounting Rozinante, whom Don Quixote strongly recommended to his care, commanding him to pay as much regard to the steed as he would shew for his own person; he set out for the plain, scattering, by the way, the furze he had cut, according to the direction of his master. In this manner then, did he begin his journey, notwithstanding the incessant importunities of Don Quixote, who solicited him to stay and see some of his extravagancies: but, he had not travelled above an hundred yards, when he returned, saying, ‘I confess your worship was in the right, when you observed, that, in order to my swearing with a safe conscience that I have seen you perform mad pranks, it would be necessary for you to play some in my presence; although, in my opinion, I have seen a pretty good sample already in your staying here by yourself.’—‘Did not I tell thee so, Sancho?’ said Don Quixote: ‘wait a little, and I will finish them in a twinkling.’ So saying, he stripped off his breeches in a great hurry, leaving his posteriors covered by the tail of his shirt alone, and without farther ceremony, cut a couple of capers, and a like number of tumbles, with his head down and his heels up, disclosing particulars, which shocked the modesty of Sancho so much, that in order to avoid the sight of them a second time, he turned Rozinante, fully satisfied and pleased, that he might now honestly swear he had left his master distracted. We will therefore let him pursue his journey, till his return, which was more speedy than could be expected.
But, to return to the account of what the Knight of the Rueful Countenance executed when he found himself alone. The history relates, that, having performed the capers and the tumbles, naked, from the waist downward, and perceived that Sancho was gone, without waiting to see more of his extravagancies, he climbed to the top of a high rock, and there revolved what he had often reflected upon without coming to any conclusion; namely, whether it was better and more fit for his purpose, to imitate Orlando in his outrageous, or Amadis in his melancholy madness. ‘It is not to be wondered at,’ said he within himself, ‘if Orlando was such a stout and valiant knight as he is represented; for he was actually inchanted, and invulnerable by every weapon but the point of a pin, thrust into his foot, upon which he always wore a shoe with seven soles of iron: though that precaution did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpeio, who being informed of the contrivance, strangled him in his arms at the battle of Roncevalles: but the circumstance of his valour apart, let us consider that of his losing his senses, which actually happened, when he found the tokens in the fountain, and received the information of the shepherd, by which he learned that Angelica had slept more than two afternoons with Modero, the little Moor with curled locks, who was Agramante’s page; and, truly, if he was convinced in his own mind, that his mistress had misbehaved in that manner, it was no great feat to run mad upon the discovery. But why should I imitate him in his madness, when the occasion is not similar; for, my Dulcinea del Toboso, I dare swear, never in all the days of her life, beheld one Moor in his own likeness; and is this day as much a virgin as the mother that bore her; I should therefore do her a manifest injury, in imagining otherwise, and adopting that kind of madness which possessed Orlando Furioso. On the other hand, I am sensible that Amadis de Gaul, without losing his senses, or acting the madman, acquired as much, or more fame than he, in the character of a lover; for, according to the history, all that he did, when he found himself in disgrace with his mistress Oriana, who banished him from her presence during pleasure, was to retire, in company of a hermit, to the poor rock, where he contented himself with bemoaning his misfortune, until Heaven sent him succour, in the midst of his great necessity and affliction. If this circumstance, therefore, be true, as I know it is, why should I now take the trouble of stripping myself naked, or give umbrage to these trees, which have done me no harm! or what reason have I to defile the pure stream of these rivulets, which, when I want it, will yield me pleasant drink! Flourish, then, the memory of Amadis! and let him be imitated as much as possible, by Don Quixote de La Mancha, of whom may be said, that which is recorded of another[80], “If he did not atchieve great things, at least he died in attempting.” And, though I am not banished nor disdained by my Dulcinea, let it suffice, as I have already said, that I am absent from her. Come, then, let us begin: recur to my remembrance, ye feats of Amadis, and initiate me in the imitation of your fame. I know his chief exercise was prayer, and in that too will I follow his example.’ So saying, he composed a rosary of the large galls of a cork tree, which he strung together instead of beads; but, he found an unsurmountable difficulty in the want of an hermit to confess and console him: wherefore, he entertained himself in strolling about the meadow, writing and engraving verses on the barks of trees, and the smooth sand; all of them on the subject of his own melancholy, or in praise of his mistress Dulcinea; but, after he was found in this place, none, except the following, remained intelligible and entire.
These verses, with the addition of del Toboso, to the name of Dulcinea, afforded infinite diversion to those who found them: for, they concluded Don Quixote had imagined, that, if he named her without this title, the stanza could not possibly be understood; and this was really the case, as he afterwards owned. Many other ditties did he compose; but, as we have already observed, none but these three stanzas could be decyphered and read. In this amusement, in sighing, invoking the fauns and sylvans of those woods, the nymphs of the brooks, with the damp and doleful echo to hear, console, and resound his complaints; and, in culling plants to sustain nature, he employed himself till the return of Sancho, who, had he stayed three weeks, instead of three days, the knight of the rueful countenance would have been so emaciated and disfigured, that he could not have been known by the mother who bore him.
However, it will not be amiss to leave him, engrossed by his sighs and poetry; in order to recount what happened to Sancho Panza, in the execution of his embassy. Having reached the highway, this trusty messenger took the road to Toboso, and next day arrived at the very inn where he had met with the disgraceful adventure of the blanketting. He no sooner perceived the unlucky house, than he fancied himself cutting capers in the air again; and was very lothe to enter, although it was then dinner time, and he was very much instigated by the desire of tasting something hot, as he had lived for a great many days past on cold victuals only. This inclination compelled him to ride close up to the inn, where, while he was sitting in suspence, and hesitating whether or not he should enter, two persons happened to come to the door, and knowing him immediately, the one said to the other, ‘Pray, Mr. Licentiate, is not that man on horseback our neighbour Sancho Panza; who, as the housekeeper told us, went out with our adventurer in quality of squire?’—‘The very same,’ answered the licentiate, ‘and that is the individual horse of our friend Don Quixote.’ And no wonder they should know him so easily; for they were no other than the curate and barber of the knight’s town, by whom the scrutiny and trial of his books were held. Having therefore recognized Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and being impatient to hear news of Don Quixote, they ran up to the squire, and the curate called him by name, saying, ‘Friend Sancho, where is your master?’ Sancho, who recollected them also, resolved to conceal the place and condition in which he had left his master; and therefore answered, that the knight was in a certain place, employed about a certain affair of the utmost importance, which he durst not disclose for the eyes that stood in his head. ‘That pretence will not do, Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘if you refuse to tell where he is, we shall imagine, as indeed we do, that you have robbed and murdered him, and taken possession of his horse; so that in good sooth, you must either produce him, or in this very spot, we will——’ ‘You have no occasion,’ cried Sancho, interrupting him, ‘to threaten people in this manner; I am not the man to rob and murder any person; every man must fall by his own fortune, or by the will of God that created him: my master is sound and safe, doing penance in the midst of that mountain, to his heart’s content.’ He then, without pausing, in a breath informed them of the condition in which he left him, recounted all the adventures which had happened to him, and told them of the letter he was carrying to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who was no other than Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter, with whom his master was up to his ears in love.
They were astonished at what the squire related, and though well acquainted with the particular species of Don Quixote’s madness, this instance afforded fresh admiration: they desired Sancho to shew them the letter for the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and he told them it was only a rough draught, written on the leaf of a pocket-book; and that his master had ordered him to get it transcribed on a sheet of paper, with the first convenient opportunity. The curate promised to transcribe it in a fair legible hand, and again desiring a sight of it, Sancho put his hand in his bosom, in search of the book, which, however, he could not find; and indeed, had he fumbled till this time, it would have been to no purpose; for he had left it with Don Quixote, who had forgot to give, as he to ask it of him, before he set out. Sancho missing his charge, grew pale as death, and searching again his whole body with great eagerness, could find nothing; upon which, without more ado, he laid hold of his beard with both hands, and plucked one half of it from his chin; then, with vast dispatch and precipitation, belaboured his face and nose in such a manner, as left the whole covered with blood. The curate and barber seeing him make so free with his own person, asked what had happened to him, that made him handle himself so roughly. ‘What has happened to me?’ cried the squire, ‘I have lost and let slip through my fingers in an instant, three ass colts, each of which was as tall as a tower.’—‘By what means?’ resumed the barber. ‘I have lost,’ answered Sancho, ‘the pocket-book, in which was written the letter for Dulcinea, together with an order, signed by my master’s own hand, desiring his niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five which he has at home.’ At the same time he told them how he had lost Dapple. The curate comforted him, by saying, that when he returned, his master would renew the order, and give him a bill upon paper, as the custom is, for those written in pocket-books are never accepted or paid.
With this assurance Sancho consoled himself, observing, since that was the case, he should not give himself much uneasiness about the loss of the letter, which, as he retained it by heart, he could cause to be transcribed where and when he pleased. The barber desired him to repeat it, telling him they would transcribe it; upon which Sancho began to scratch his head, in order to recollect it, standing sometimes on one foot, sometimes on the other. One while he fixed his eyes upon the ground, then lifted them up to Heaven; at last, after a most tedious pause, during which he gnawed off the half of one of his nails, and kept his hearers in the most impatient suspence; ‘‘Fore God, Mr. Licentiate,’ said he, ‘I believe the devil has run away with every word that I remembered of this letter; though I am positive it began with subterrene and sublime princess!’—‘It could not be subterrene,’ said the barber, ‘but superterrene or sovereign.’—‘You are in the right,’ resumed Sancho; ‘then, if my memory does not fail me, it went on with the smitten, the sleepless, and the sore, kisses your hands, most ungrateful and unregarded beauty; and something or other of health and distemper which he wished her; running on at this rate, till he concluded with, “yours, till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.”’
The hearers were not a little diverted with this specimen of Sancho’s memory, which they applauded very much; desiring him to repeat the letter again, twice over, that they might retain it, until they could have an opportunity of transcribing it. He accordingly renewed his efforts, repeated it three times; and as often recited three thousand other absurdities. He likewise gave them an account of every thing which had befallen his master; but mentioned not a syllable of the blanketting that had happened to himself, in that very inn which he refused to enter; nay, he gave them to understand that his master, as soon as he could bring him a favourable dispatch from my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, would put himself in the way of becoming an emperor or monarch at least, according to the plan settled between them. This he represented as a very easy matter, considering the valour of his person, and strength of his arm; and told them, that this design would be no sooner accomplished, than the knight would bestow upon him in marriage, (for by that time, he must of necessity be a widower) one of the maids of honour to the empress; a fine young lady, and heiress of a vast and wealthy estate upon the main land, without any oilands or islands, which he did not much care for.
Sancho uttered this piece of wrong-headed information with such composure, wiping his nose from time to time, that his townsmen could not help admiring anew the madness of Don Quixote; which, like a whirlpool, had sucked in and swept along with it the understanding of this poor simpleton. They did not chuse to fatigue themselves with endeavours to convince him of his error; but, as they believed it was not prejudicial to his conscience, resolved, for their amusement, to encourage him in his folly; with this view they advised him to pray to God for long life and health to his master; and observed, that it was a thing both likely and feasible that he should, in process of time, become an emperor, at least an archbishop, or attain some station of equal dignity. To this encouragement Sancho replied, ‘Gentlemen, if fortune should bring matters about, so as that my master should incline to be an archbishop rather than an emperor, I should be glad to know what archbishops-errant bestow upon their squires?’ The curate told him, that they commonly gave him some simple benefice, curacy, or the office of sacristan, with a good yearly income, besides the fees of the altar, which are usually reckoned at as much more. ‘In order to fill an employment of that kind,’ answered Sancho, ‘the squire must be unmarried, and at least capable of assisting at mass; and if that be the case, what will become of me, who have not only the misfortune to be married, but am also ignorant of the first letter of the A, B, C; should my master take it in his head to be an archbishop, rather than an emperor, according to the custom of knights-errant?’—‘Don’t make yourself uneasy about that matter, friend Sancho,’ said the barber; ‘for we will intreat and advise your master, nay, even make it an affair of conscience, for him to become an emperor rather than archbishop, as a station more suited to his disposition, which is more war-like than studious.’—‘I was of the same opinion,’ resumed Sancho; ‘but now, I’ll venture to say, he has a capacity for every thing; and what I intend to do, is to beseech our Lord to direct his choice to that station which will be most for his own honour and my advantage.’—‘You speak like a sensible man,’ said the curate; ‘and in so doing will act the part of a good Christian; but, our present business is to think on some means of putting an end to this useless penance your master has imposed upon himself; and in the mean time go in to dinner.’ Sancho desired them to enter, saying he would wait for them at the door, and afterwards tell them why he did not go in, and wherefore it was not proper for him so to do; but begged they would be so good as to bring out something hot for himself, and some barley for Rozinante. They accordingly went in, and in a little time the barber brought him out a mess of hot victuals. After they had both maturely deliberated about the means of accomplishing their design, the curate fell upon a scheme, extremely well-adapted to the taste of the knight, as well as to their purpose. He proposed to clothe himself in the dress of a lady-errant, and that the barber should disguise himself as well as he could, in the likeness of a squire; which being done, they should go to the place where Don Quixote was, and the priest, on pretence of being a damsel in distress, should beg a boon, which he, as a valiant knight-errant, could not help granting. This boon should be a request, that he would accompany her to a certain place whither she would conduct him, there to redress an injury she had received from a discourteous knight; and the boon should be attended with an humble supplication, that he would not desire her to take off her mask, nor ask any question about her affairs, until he should have done her justice upon her adversary. And as he firmly believed that Don Quixote would comply with any request made in that stile, he hoped, by these means, to withdraw him from the mountain, and conduct him to his own habitation, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his strange disorder.
This scheme of the curate was so well relished by the barber, that they began to put it in execution immediately; by borrowing of the landlady a petticoat and tucker, for which the priest lent a new cassock in pawn; while the barber made an artificial beard of the tail of a pied ox, in which the innkeeper used to stick his comb. When the hostess asked what occasion they had for these things, the curate gave her a brief account of Don Quixote’s madness, and explained the use to which they intended to put the disguise, in order to disengage him from the mountain where he then was. The innkeeper and his wife immediately discovered that this lunatick was no other than their quondam guest, who was author of the balsam, and master of the blanketted squire; and recounted to the curate every thing that had happened, not even forgetting the circumstance which Sancho was at such pains to conceal. In short, the landlady dressed up the curate in a most curious manner; she put upon him a cloth petticoat flounced and furbelowed, with a broad border of black velvet, and a close jerkin of green velvet, garnished with robings of white sattin, which, together with the petticoat, seemed to have been made in the reign of King Bamba[81]; he would not suffer himself to be coifed, but covered his head with a quilted linen night-cap, which he always carried about with him; and bound his forehead with a garter of black taffety, making a sort of mask with the other, which effectually concealed his countenance and beard. Over all, he slapped his beaver, which was so broad that it might have served for an umbrella; and, wrapping himself up in his cloak, mounted his mule, sitting sideways like a woman; while the barber bestrid his own beast, with his beard flowing down to his girdle, of a white and red colour, being made, as we have before observed, of a pied ox’s tail.
Thus equipped, they took leave of every body present, even the kind Maritornes, who promised, though a sinner, to mumble a whole rosary over in prayers to God, for the good success of that arduous and Christian design they had undertaken; but scarce had they sallied from the inn, when the curate began to think he was to blame for disguising himself; it being, in his opinion, indecent for a priest to appear in such a manner, how much soever depended upon their success. He therefore proposed that he should exchange characters with the barber, who might act the part of the damsel in distress, while he took that of the squire, which he thought did not so much profane the dignity of the cloth; and unless his neighbour would agree to this proposal, he assured him that he was resolved to go no farther, even if the devil himself should carry off Don Quixote. At that instant Sancho chanced to come up, and seeing them in such a garb, could not refrain from laughing; in short, the barber assented to every thing the other proposed; and the plan being thus altered, the curate began to instruct him touching his behaviour and speech to Don Quixote, in order to move and induce him to accompany them, and quit that place he had chosen for the scene of his vain and extravagant penance. The barber told him, that without his lessons, he knew very well how to demean himself in the character; and as he did not chuse to put on the dress till they should be near Don Quixote, he folded it up with great care; the priest adjusted his beard; and both together proceeded, on their journey, under the direction, of Sancho Panza, who by the way related to them what happened between his master and the madman whom they met with in the Brown Mountain; concealing, nevertheless, the circumstance of the portmanteau, and its contents; for, notwithstanding his simplicity, our youth was as covetous as wiser people.
Next day they came to the broom boughs, which Sancho had strewed, in order to ascertain the place where he had left his master: he no sooner, therefore, perceived his marks, than he told them, that was the entrance into the mountain; and desired them to put on their dresses, if they were necessary towards the deliverance of his master: for they had already assured him, that their travelling in such disguise was of the utmost importance, in disengaging the knight from that disagreeable course of life he had chosen: and they charged him not to tell his master that he knew who they were; and if he should ask, as doubtless he would, whether or not he had delivered the letter to Dulcinea, they advised him to answer in the affirmative, and tell him, that as she could not read it, she had sent her answer by word of mouth, commanding him, on pain of her displeasure, to appear in her presence with all convenient speed, on an affair of the utmost consequence to him: for, with this answer, and other speeches they intended to make, they did not at all doubt of reconciling him to a better way of life, and prevail upon him immediately to begin his career towards being an emperor or king; and as to the office of archbishop, Sancho had nothing to fear. The squire listened to these directions, which he carefully deposited in his memory, thanking them heartily for their intention to advise his master to accept of an emperor’s crown, rather than an archbishop’s mitre; as he was very sensible that emperors could do more for their squires than archbishops-errant. He also proposed to go before, in search of his master, and impart to him this answer of his lady, which, he assured them, would be sufficient to bring him out of the mountain, without their being put to any farther trouble. They approved of his opinion, and resolved to stay where they were until he should return with the news of his having found Don Quixote: accordingly, Sancho proceeded towards the heart of the mountain, leaving them in a spot watered by a small purling brook, and shaded in a most cool and agreeable manner by some rocks and trees that grew round it.
It being then the month of August, when the heat in those parts is excessive, and three in the afternoon, which is the hottest time of the day, they were the more charmed with the situation, which was so inviting, that they chose it for the place of their residence, until Sancho should return. While they lay at their ease, under the covert of this shade, their ears were saluted with the sound of a voice, which, though unaccompanied by any instrument, sung so sweet and melodiously, that they were struck with astonishment; little expecting to meet with such a delicious warbler in that unfrequented place; for though it is usually said, that the woods and mountains abound with shepherds, who sing most inchantingly, that report is rather the fiction of poets than the voice of truth: besides, the verses which they heard were not composed in the rustick phrase of clowns, but in a polite and courtly strain; as may be perceived by the song itself, which follows: