Thus the squire, though awake, was more extravagant than Don Quixote in his dream; such an impression had his master’s promises made upon his imagination. The phlegmatick temper of the squire, together with the mischievous disposition of the knight, well-nigh distracted the landlord, who swore, that they should not now, as formerly, go away without paying; and that all the privilege of their errantry should not exempt them from paying both reckonings to the last farthing, for the damage they had done, even to the bits of leather for patching the wine-skins that were cut. The curate, by this time, had got hold of the hands of Don Quixote, who, believing he had now finished the adventure, and was in presence of the Princess Micomicona, fell upon his knees before the priest, saying, ‘Renowned princess, your highness may henceforth live secure of what that misbegotten wretch can do; and I, from this day forward, am acquitted of my promise, which is now, by the assistance of Heaven above, and the favour of her for whom I live and breathe, happily and fully performed.’—‘Did not I tell you so?’ cried Sancho, hearing these words. ‘You see I am not drunk, and may take notice that my master hath put the giant in pickle: the holidays will certainly come round, and the earldom fit me to a hair.’
Who could refrain from laughing at the follies of the master and man? they occasioned abundance of mirth to every one present, except the landlord, who cursed himself to the devil. At length the barber, curate, and Cardenio, with no small difficulty, put the knight to bed again, where he fell fast asleep in an instant, like one who had been excessively fatigued; they left him to his repose, and went out to console Sancho for his disappointment in losing the giant’s head; but they found it a harder task to pacify the innkeeper, who was driven almost to despair, by the sudden death of his wine-bags; besides, the landlady began to cry, in a whimpering tone, ‘In an unlucky minute and evil hour did this knight-errant enter my doors! for I am sure, I never beheld him without paying dearly for the sight! The last time he was here, he refused to defray a whole night’s expence of supper, lodging, straw, and barley, for himself and his squire, his horse and his ass; saying that he was a knight-errant, forsooth: (God send him and all other knights-errant upon errands that will tend to their sorrow!) and therefore, was not obliged to pay for any thing, because it was not ordained in the registers of chivalry; then, this gentleman coming after him t’other day, borrowed my tail, and though I have got it again, it is a good penny the worse for the wearing, the hair being plucked off in such a manner as makes it unfit for my husband’s purpose; and to finish and conclude the whole, my bags are broke, and my wine spilt; (would I could see his heart’s blood in the same condition!) but he must not think to get off so easily, for by the bones of my father, and my mother’s soul! they shall pay for every thing upon the nail; or, may I never be called by my own name again, or believed to be my father’s own child!’
These, and other expressions of the same kind, were uttered, with great bitterness, by the landlady; and her faithful servant Maritornes joined in the exclamation; while the daughter held her peace, and, from time to time, smiled at their indignation, which at last was appeased by the curate, who promised to give them satisfaction, to the best of his power, for the loss they had sustained in bags and wine, and, in particular, for the damage done to the tail, which they valued so highly; and Dorothea comforted Sancho, by telling him, that as soon as ever it should appear that his master had actually cut off the giant’s head, and she should find herself in quiet possession of her kingdom, she would bestow upon him the best earldom in her gift. The squire was consoled by this promise, and assured the princess, that he was certain he had seen the giant’s head, by the same token that he had a huge beard that flowed down to his middle; and that the whole was now vanished, because every thing in that house was performed by inchantment, as he had found by woeful experience, the last time he had lodged in that apartment. Dorothea said she was of the same opinion, desiring he would give himself no uneasiness, for every thing would be for the best, and succeed to his heart’s content. The quiet of the house being thus re-established, the curate wanted to read the remaining part of the novel, which he perceived already drew near a close; and Cardenio, Dorothea, and the rest, intreating him to finish the story, he, with a view of pleasing them as well as himself, proceeded in these words.
‘Anselmo being now satisfied of his wife’s virtue, enjoyed himself without the least disturbance or care; while Camilla, in order to disguise her real sentiments, affected always to frown upon Lothario, who, as a farther sanction to this stratagem, desired Anselmo to excuse him from coming to his house, since it was plain that Camilla was disgusted at his presence: but the infatuated Anselmo would by no means comply with this request; so that this unhappy husband was, in a thousand shapes, the author of his own dishonour, while, in his own opinion, he was laying up a store of happiness and reputation.
‘About this time Leonela’s desire of gratifying her own loose wishes, carried her to such a pitch of imprudence, that she gave her wantonness the rein without the least caution; conscious that her mistress would conceal her conduct, and even advise her how to carry on the intrigue without the least danger of being detected. At length, however, Anselmo, one night heard somebody walking in her apartment, and endeavouring to get in and see who it was, found the door shut against him. This circumstance increased his desire, he made a violent effort, and the door flew open, upon which he entered, and seeing a man leap out of the window into the street, ran hastily to lay hold or get sight of him; but he was disappointed in both by Leonela, who hanging upon her master, cried, “Hold, dear Sir! be not surprized, nor seek to pursue the person who is fled; he was here on my account, and is as good as my wedded husband.”
‘Anselmo would give no credit to her words, but, blinded with passion, drew his poignard to stab Leonela, whom he commanded to reveal the truth on pain of immediate death. She, terrified by his threats, answered, without knowing what she said, “Spare my life, good Sir, and I will disclose things of greater importance than you imagine.”—“Speak, then,” cried Anselmo, “or thou shalt instantly die.”—“At present,” replied Leonela, “I am in such perturbation, that I cannot possibly make a distinct confession; delay your vengeance till to-morrow morning, and then you shall hear something that will strike you with astonishment: meanwhile, be assured, that he who leaped out of the window, is a young man of this city, who has given me a promise of marriage.”
‘Anselmo being somewhat pacified by this declaration, resolved to grant the respite she demanded; though he never dreamed of hearing any thing to the prejudice of Camilla, of whose virtue he was satisfied and secure; he therefore quitted the room, in which however he locked up Leonela, telling her she must continue in that place, until she should have made this promised discovery; then going to Camilla, informed her of every thing that had passed, together with the promise her maid had made of discovering things of great importance. It is almost needless to say that Camilla was disturbed at this information: the terror that took possession of her was such, that believing, with good reason too, Leonela would actually disclose to Anselmo every circumstance of her infidelity, she had not resolution enough to wait the issue of her suspicion; but that very night, while her husband was asleep, collected the best of her jewels, with some money, and getting out of the house, without being perceived, fled to Lothario, and recounted what had happened, at the same time beseeching him to put her in a place of safety, or accompany her to some retreat, where they should be secure from the search of Anselmo.
‘Such was the confusion of Lothario, at the news of this unexpected event, that he could not answer one syllable, nor for some time resolve upon what was to be done. At length he proposed to carry Camilla to a monastery, the abbess of which was his first cousin; and his mistress consenting to the proposal, he conducted her thither with all the dispatch which the nature of the case required, and leaving her to the care of his relation, quitted the city that very night, without imparting the cause of his absence to any living soul.
‘Next morning, soon as it was day, Anselmo, without perceiving that Camilla was gone, so eagerly did he long to hear this confession of her maid, arose and went directly to the room in which he had confined her; but he no sooner opened the door, and entered the apartment, than he perceived the sheets of the bed tied together, hanging out of the window; a manifest proof that Leonela had lowered herself down into the street, by means of that contrivance: he then returned, with a good deal of chagrin, to communicate his disappointment to Camilla, whom when he could not find, he was seized with the utmost consternation, especially as none of the servants could give the least account of her departure; but chancing, in the course of his enquiry, to find the coffers open, and the best part of her jewels carried off, he began to comprehend his disgrace; and concluded that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune.
‘Dispirited with this reflection, he did not stay to dress, but went in a most disconsolate situation, to give an account of his mishap to his friend Lothario; and when he understood from his servants, that their master had gone out in the night, and carried all his ready money along with him, he had well-nigh lost his senses. To crown his misery, he returned to his own house, which was deserted by all his servants, and found himself the most solitary being in nature; he knew not what to think, say, or do, and his judgment began to be impaired; for, upon recollection, he perceived that he was in an instant deprived of wife, friend, and servants, renounced by Heaven, and, what he felt more deeply than any other part of his disaster, destitute of honour, by the misconduct of Camilla, from which he dated his utter destruction. At length, after a long internal struggle, he resolved to go to the country-house of his friend, where he had been, when he furnished the opportunity of planning his own ruin. Accordingly, having locked his door, he mounted his horse, and almost fainting under the burden of his woes, set out for that place; but scarce had he travelled one half of the way, when harrassed by his shocking reflections, he was obliged to alight and tie his horse to a tree, at the root of which he threw himself down, giving vent to the most lamentable sighs that ever were heaved: there he remained till the twilight; about which time, perceiving a man coming on horseback from the city, after salutation, he asked what news were stirring at Florence. “The strangest,” replied the citizen, “that have been heard these many days; it is publickly reported, that Lothario, the intimate friend of Anselmo the rich, who lived at St. John’s, hath this last night carried off the wife of his friend, who is also missing. This discovery was made to the governor by Camilla’s maid, who was detected in letting herself down by a sheet, from one of the windows of Anselmo’s house. In short, I do not know the particulars exactly; but the whole city is astonished at this event, which they could never have expected from the intimacy of the two gentlemen, who were so strictly united in the bands of amity, as to acquire the title of the Two Friends.”—“Do you know what road Lothario and Camilla have taken?” said Anselmo. “That is not yet discovered,” replied the traveller; “though the governor hath used great diligence in the enquiry.” Anselmo wished him a good evening; and the citizen having returned the compliment, proceeded on his journey.
‘These unhappy news reduced this ill-fated husband to the verge of death as well as distraction. He mounted, however, as well as he could, and arrived at the house of his friend, who had not as yet heard of his misfortune; but seeing him so exhausted, ghastly, and pale, imagined he had met with some grievous disaster. Anselmo begged to be put to bed immediately, and furnished with pen, ink, and paper: thus provided, he was left alone, and the chamber locked at his own desire; then the remembrance of his misfortune began to be so heavy upon his soul, that he plainly perceived his end approaching, and being desirous of declaring the cause of his strange and sudden death, he took up the pen; but, before he could execute his design, his breath failed him, and he expired, a victim to that sorrow which was occasioned by his own impertinent curiosity. His friend finding it grow late, and that Anselmo had not called, went into his chamber, to enquire about his health; there he found him lying upon his face, one half of his body in bed, and the other on the table, with a pen in his hand, and a written paper lying open before him.
‘The gentleman having spoke to him without receiving any answer, took him by the hand, and feeling him cold and stiff, concluded he was dead. Surprized and concerned to the last degree, he called up his family to be witnesses of this melancholy event, and knowing the paper to be Anselmo’s own hand-writing, read the contents, in these words: “I am deprived of life by my own impertinent curiosity. If the news of my death reach Camilla’s ears, let her know that I forgive her infidelity; for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor I under any necessity of expecting them at her hands: since, therefore, I have been the contriver of my own dishonour, there is no reason that——” So far he had written, but life had forsaken him, before he could finish the sentence. Next day his friend sent an account of his death to his parents, who were already informed of his mischance, as also of the convent to which Camilla had retreated; and where she now lay at the point of accompanying her spouse in his last indispensible journey; not so much on account of Anselmo’s death, as in consequence of the information she received concerning her absent lover; it was said, that though she was now a widow, she would neither quit the convent nor take the veil; but, in a little time the news arrived of Lothario’s being killed in a battle which was fought between the renowned Captain Gonçalo Fernandes de Cordova, and Monsieur De Lautrec, in the kingdom of Naples, whither this too-late repenting friend had made his retreat. This event was no sooner known, than Camilla professed herself a nun, and in a few days yielded up her life a prey to grief and melancholy. Such was the untimely end to which they were all brought from a beginning of whim and indiscretion.’
‘This novel,’ said the curate, ‘is not amiss; but I cannot think the story is true; and if it be feigned, the author has erred in point of invention; for it cannot be supposed that any husband would be so mad as to try this dangerous experiment of Anselmo: had it been related of a gallant and his mistress, it might have passed; but with regard to a husband and his wife, it is altogether improbable; however, the manner of narrating it is not disagreeable.’
At that instant the landlord, standing at the inn-door, exclaimed, ‘There is a noble company: odd! if they halt here, we shall sing for joy.’—‘What company?’ said Cardenio. ‘Four men,’ replied the inn-keeper, ‘who ride with short stirrups, each of them equipped with lance, target, and mask, with a lady on a side-saddle, dressed in white and veiled, and two attendants on foot.’ When the priest asked if they were near, he answered, ‘So near, that they are already at the gate.’
Dorothea hearing this information, put on her veil, and Cardenio withdrew into Don Quixote’s apartment. Immediately the whole company announced by the landlord, entered the inn-yard; and the four horsemen, who were persons of genteel mien and carriage, instantly alighting, went to help the lady from her horse, when one of them taking her in his arms, placed her in a chair that stood by the door of the room in which Cardenio had concealed himself. All this time neither she nor they took off their masks, nor uttered one syllable; but when she was seated, she heaved a profound sigh, and let her arms fall down on each side, like a person fainting with weakness. While the footman led the horses into the stable, the curate being curious to know who those persons were, so remarkable in their silence and dress, went up and put the question to one of the lacquies, who answered, ‘Truly, Signior, we are as ignorant in that particular as you are; though they seem to be people of condition, especially he who took the lady in his arms, because all the rest behave to him with great respect, following his directions in every thing with the utmost punctuality.’—‘And, pray, who may the lady be?’ said the priest. ‘We know as little of her as of the man,’ replied the lacquey; ‘for during the journey I have never once beheld her face; I have often heard her sigh bitterly, and utter piercing groans, in every one of which she seemed to yield her very soul; but it is not to be wondered at that we should know so little of their affairs, my companion and I having attended them two days only; for, meeting us on the road, they intreated and persuaded us to accompany them as far as Andalusia, promising to pay us handsomely for our trouble.’—‘Have you never heard one of them named?’ resumed the curate. ‘Never once,’ answered the young man; ‘they travel with surprizing silence; nothing is heard but the sobs and sighs of the poor lady, which move us to compassion; we firmly believe that she is forced upon this journey, and gather from her dress that she is a nun; or, which is more probable, going to take the veil; and finding herself very little inclined to that way of life, is melancholy at the prospect.’
The curate said, nothing was more probable; and leaving the lacquey, returned to Dorothea, who by this time, out of natural sympathy with the affliction of the masked lady, had approached and accosted her in these words: ‘What is the matter with you, dear Madam? If you labour under any indisposition which the practice and experience of women can relieve, my assistance is heartily at your service.’ To this kind offer no reply was made by the sorrowful lady, who, notwithstanding the other’s repeated intreaties, would not open her mouth; until the person who by the lacquey’s information was chief of the company, addressing himself to Dorothea, said, ‘Do not fatigue yourself, Madam, in making proffers of service to that woman, who cannot be grateful for any favour she receives; nor importune her for any reply, unless you desire to hear some falshoods proceed from her lips.’—‘My lips,’ said the hitherto silent lady, ‘were never profaned with falshood; on the contrary, my present misfortune is owing to my sincerity and my abhorrence of lyes. Of this assertion you yourself are too sensible; since your own perfidy and falshood are the effects of my constancy and truth.’
These words were distinctly overheard by Cardenio, who was only separated from them by the door of Don Quixote’s chamber; and they no sooner reached his ear, than he cried aloud, ‘Good Heaven, what do I hear! What voice is that which struck my sense!’ The lady being exceedingly surprized at that exclamation, turned about her head, and not seeing the person that pronounced it, started up, and ran towards the apartment from whence it seemed to come; but was prevented by her conductor, who would not suffer her to move one step farther. In the disorder occasioned by her struggle, her mask dropped off, and discovered a countenance of incomparable and amazing beauty, even though disguised with paleness and horror; for her eyes rolled about to every corner which her sight could reach, with such eagerness and wildness, that she looked like a woman possessed.
Dorothea, and all present, were infinitely concerned at these symptoms, the meaning of which they could not understand; meanwhile, the cavalier was so busied in holding her fast by the shoulders, that he could not attend to his mask, which also fell to the ground: and Dorothea lifting up her eyes towards him, as he held the lady in his arms, perceived that this cavalier was no other than her own husband, Don Fernando. No sooner did she recognize his features, than fetching a long and melancholy sigh from the very bottom of her soul, she fell backward in a swoon; and if the barber had not been at hand to support her, would have certainly come to the ground. The curate ran instantly to take off her veil, that he might sprinkle water on her face, which was immediately known by Don Fernando, who held the other lady in his arms, and was thunderstruck at the sight: he would not, however, quit Lucinda, who struggled to get loose; she and Cardenio having by this time recognized each other by their mutual exclamations. He had also overheard the groan uttered by Dorothea when she fainted; and believing that it proceeded from Lucinda, rushed out of his apartment in a fright, when the first object he beheld was Don Fernando clasping her in his arms. This nobleman knew him immediately; and all three (namely, Lucinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea) were struck dumb with astonishment, and seemed insensible of what had happened, gazing in silence at one another.
Dorothea directed her eager view to Don Fernando, who stared at Cardenio, whose eyes were fixed upon Lucinda, who looked wishfully at him; but the first that broke silence, was this last, who addressed herself in these words to Don Fernando: ‘Suffer me, Signior, in regard to your own character, since you are deaf to every other consideration, to cleave to that wall of which I am the ivy, to avail myself of that prop from which you could not disengage me, with all your importunities, promises, and threats. Behold how Heaven, by unusual and mysterious means, hath brought me to my true and lawful husband; and since you know, by dear-bought experience, that nothing but death can expel his image from my breast, let this plain demonstration, since all other attempts are vain, convert your love into rage, your friendship into hate, and instantly deprive me of life, which I shall yield with pleasure in the presence of my legal lord, who will then perhaps be convinced of the fidelity I preserved to the last moment of my existence.’
In the mean time, Dorothea being recovered from her swoon, had listened to Lucinda’s declaration, by which she discovered her situation and name; but perceiving that Don Fernando neither quitted his hold, nor answered one word to her solicitation, she exerted her whole strength in falling down on her knees before him, and having shed a large quantity of tears from her beautiful eyes, accosted him in these words: ‘My dear lord! if your eyes were not dazzled and obscured by the rays of that sun which you hold eclipsed within your arms, you would perceive that she who thus kneels before you, is the unhappy (so long as you are pleased she should be so) and forlorn Dorothea—I am that humble country maiden whom your generosity or passion vouchsafed to raise to the honour of calling you her own. I am she who, confined within the bounds of modesty, lived a contented life, until moved by your importunities, and seemingly upright addresses, she opened the gates of her reserve, and surrendered to you the keys of her freedom. An offering but ill requited, as plainly appears by that hard fate, in consequence of which I am found in this place, and also find you in your present situation. Nevertheless, I would not have you imagine that I came hither, induced by any dishonourable motives; but that the sorrow conceived at seeing myself forsaken and forgotten by you, was the sole cause of my retreat. You desired I should be your own; and that desire you accomplished so effectually, that although your inclinations may be changed, it is impossible you should cease to be mine. Consider, my lord, that my unparalleled affection may counterbalance the beauty and birth of her for whom I am abandoned; you cannot be the fair Lucinda’s husband, because you are already mine; nor she become your wife, while she appertains to Cardenio; and it will be a much easier task, if you reflect upon it impartially, to recal your love for her who adores you, than to gain the affection of one by whom you are abhorred. You solicited my unsuspecting heart, you importuned my integrity, you was not ignorant of my lowly station, and know in what manner I yielded to your will; so that you have no subterfuge, nor the least room to say you was deceived. If this be the case, as doubtless it is, and you be a Christian as well as a gentleman, why do you, by such evasions, delay to make the end as happy as the beginning of my fortune? If you will not receive me as what I really am, your lawful wife, at least admit me into the number of your slaves; for, in whatever shape I belong to you, I shall account myself fortunate and blessed; do not, therefore, by renouncing me entirely, give scandal an opportunity of impeaching my honour. Make not my parents miserable in their old age; their faithful services to your father merit a more kind return! if you think your blood will be debased in mixing with mine, consider, that almost all the great families on earth have undergone the same intercourse, and that the woman’s quality in no manner affects illustrious descents: besides, true nobility consists in virtue; and in that shall I have the advantage over you, if you deny and oppose the justice of my claim. In fine, the last argument I shall use is this, whether you are pleased or displeased with your destiny, I am your lawful wife: witness your own words, which neither are nor ought to be false; if you value yourself on that for which you undervalue me; witness your handwriting, and Heaven above, to the testimony of which you appealed for the performance of your promise; and if all these should fail, your conscience will never cease whispering to you, amidst your pleasures, in vindication of this truth, which will disturb your most exalted enjoyments.’
This supplication, enforced with other arguments, was pronounced so feelingly by the afflicted and weeping Dorothea, that tears of sympathy were shed by all present, the companions of Don Fernando not excepted; he himself listened without answering one word, until she had made an end of her address, and began to utter such woeful sighs and groans, as were almost sufficient to melt an heart of brass. Lucinda stood gazing upon her with equal compassion for her sorrow, and admiration of her beauty and good sense; nay, she would have gone and offered her all the consolation in her power, had she not still been kept fast locked in the arms of Don Fernando; who, full of confusion and surprize, after having for a good while fixed his eyes upon Dorothea, with great attention, opened his arms, and leaving Lucinda at liberty, said, ‘You have conquered, beauteous Dorothea: the victory is yours; for so many truths conjoined are surely irresistible.’
Lucinda was so faint and weak, that when Don Fernando quitted her, she would have fallen to the ground, had it not been for Cardenio, who had placed himself behind her ravisher, that he might not be known[95]; but now, laying aside all fear, and resolving to adventure every thing, he sprung to the assistance of Lucinda, and catching her in his arms, ‘If,’ said he, ‘it be the will and pleasure of pitying Heaven, that you should find repose, my faithful, constant, and charming Lucinda! I think you can enjoy it no where so securely, as in these arms, which now receive, and formerly encircled you, when fortune was pleased that I should call you mine.’
At these words, she gazed upon him with great eagerness; she had before began to recognize his voice, and now, recollecting his features, like a person deprived of judgment, who disregards all decency and form, she threw her arms about his neck, and joining her lips to his, ‘Yes, my dear Cardenio,’ said she, ‘you are the real lord of this your slave, in spite of adverse fate, and all those threats, though greater than they are, that persecute my life, which now depends on yours alone.’
An unexpected sight was this to Don Fernando, and all the bye-standers, who were not a little surprized at what they saw. While Dorothea observing her husband change colour, and signify an inclination of being revenged upon Cardenio, by laying his hand upon his sword, ran, with incredible agility, and clasping his knees, which she kissed, held him so firmly embraced, that he could not move, saying, while the tears trickled from her eyes, ‘What means my only refuge to do on this unexpected occasion? Your own wife is now kneeling before you, and she whom you desire to wed is in the arms of her lawful husband; consider whether it be just or possible for you to undo that which Heaven hath done; why should you seek to unite yourself with one, who disdaining all opposition and inconvenience, and confirmed in her own constancy and truth, even before your eyes, lets fall from hers a shower of tenderness into the bosom of her lawful spouse? For the sake of God and of yourself, I entreat and beseech you, that this remarkable recognition may not only fail to increase your indignation, but even diminish it in such a manner, that these two lovers may, without any impediment from you, enjoy each other as long as Heaven will permit them to live. In this self-denial you will manifest the generosity of your noble and illustrious soul, and convince the world, that you are governed more by reason than by appetite.’
While Dorothea pronounced these words, Cardenio, though he held Lucinda in his arms, kept his eyes still fixed upon Don Fernando, with full resolution, if he attempted any thing to his prejudice, to defend himself as well as he could, against his adversary and all his adherents, although it should cost him his life; but this young nobleman’s friends, together with the curate and barber, not forgetting honest Sancho Panza, who were present at the whole affair, interposed, and making a circle about him, begged earnestly that he would be pleased to consider the tears of Dorothea; and if what she alledged was true, as they firmly believed it was, no longer suffer her to be defrauded of her just and reasonable hope. They desired him to observe, that in all appearance it was not by accident, but the immediate direction of Providence, that they had all met together so unexpectedly in this place; and the curate intreated him to reflect, that death alone could divide Lucinda from Cardenio; that though they might be parted by the edge of the sword, they would look, upon death as the greatest blessing that could befal them, and that, in a case of this kind, which admitted of no other remedy, it would be his wisest course to constrain and conquer his own passion, and demonstrate the generosity of his heart, by permitting, of his own free-will, these two lovers to enjoy that state of happiness which heaven had ordained for their lot; that he should contemplate Dorothea’s beauty, which, far from being excelled, was equalled in few or none; and to her beauty, add the consideration of her humility and excessive love; above all, take notice, that if he valued himself upon being a gentleman and a Christian, he could do no less than perform the promise he had given, and in so doing, act in conformity to the will of God, and satisfy the discreet part of mankind, who are very sensible that it is the prerogative of beauty, even in a low estate, when accompanied with virtue, to be lifted up to the highest rank, without any disparagement to the person who thus raises it to an equality with himself; and since the irresistible force of inclination must prevail, provided there be nothing criminal in the means, he is not to be blamed who acts according to its dictates.
To these arguments were added so many of the same sort, that the valiant heart of Don Fernando, nourished by illustrious blood, relented, and he was overcome by the force of that truth, which, however inclined, he could not deny. The signal of his surrender, and yielding to this reasonable and just proposal, was his stooping down and embracing Dorothea: to whom he said, ‘Rise, Madam; it is not just that she who reigns in my soul, should lie prostrate at my feet. If hitherto I have given small proof of what I now profess, perhaps my omission hath been owing to the appointment of Heaven, that by giving you an opportunity of manifesting the sincerity of your love, I might know how to esteem you according to your deserts. I beg, therefore, you will not upbraid me with my misconduct and unkind neglect; since the same force and occasion that attached me to you, was the cause of my endeavour to disengage myself. That you may be convinced of the truth, behold and contemplate the eyes of the now contented Lucinda, in which you will find an excuse for all my errors; and, since she hath found and attained her heart’s desire, and my utmost wish is fulfilled in thus retrieving you, may she live in peace and quiet, for many happy years, with her Cardenio, and may Heaven grant the same felicity to me with Dorothea!’
So saying, he embraced her again, pressing his lips to her’s with such tenderness, that it required his greatest efforts to forbear giving, with his tears, indubitable signs of his affection and remorse. But those endeavours did not succeed with Lucinda, Cardenio, and every other person present, who began to weep so plentifully, either at their own happiness, or the satisfaction of their friends, that one would have thought some grievous misfortune had happened to the whole company. Even Sancho blubbered, though he afterwards owned, that his sorrow proceeded from seeing that Dorothea was not, as he imagined, the Queen of Micomicon, from whom he expelled such favours.
This universal admiration and thaw having lasted some time, Cardenio and Lucinda fell upon their knees before Don Fernando, whom they thanked for his generosity in such polite terms, that he scarce knew what answer to make, but raised and embraced them both with demonstrations of uncommon courtesy and affection. Then asking Dorothea how she had come to that place, so distant from her own home, she with great elegance and brevity repeated what she had before recounted to Cardenio; and her husband and his company were so pleased with her narration, that they wished it could have been spun out to a much greater length; so gracefully did she relate her own misfortunes.
Her talk being finished, Don Fernando informed them of what had happened to him in the city, after he found, in Lucinda’s bosom, the paper in which she declared herself Cardenio’s wife. Seeing that she could not possibly be his, he said, he was determined to put her to death, and would actually have executed his purpose, had not her parents interposed. He then quitted the house, full of shame and resentment, resolving to revenge himself with the first opportunity; and next day understood that she was gone off, without any body’s knowing whither she had directed her flight. At length, however, in a few months, he got notice that she was in a certain monastery, where she intended to spend her whole life, if she could not enjoy it in the company of Cardenio. He no sooner received this intimation, than chusing these three gentlemen for his companions, he went straight to the place of her residence; but without speaking to her, or making himself known, lest the monastery should be more strictly guarded on his account. He waited, therefore, until one day he found the porter’s lodge open; when leaving two of his friends to secure the door, he entered the monastery with the other, in quest of Lucinda, whom he found in the cloisters, talking with a nun; and snatching her off, without giving her a moment’s time for recollection, carried her instantly to a place where they provided themselves with necessaries for their journey. This exploit they were enabled to perform with safety, because the monastery stood in the middle of a field, at a good distance from any village or town. He said, Lucinda no sooner perceived herself in his power, than she fainted away; and when she recovered the use of her senses, did nothing but weep and sigh, without speaking one word: so that, accompanied with silence and tears, they had arrived at that inn, which he looked upon as the heavenly goal where all earthly misfortunes are happily terminated.
Sancho heard every thing that passed with no small anxiety of mind, seeing the hopes of his preferment vanish into smoke, the beautiful Princess Micomicona transformed into Dorothea, the giant into Don Fernando, and his master in a sound sleep, little dreaming of what had happened. Dorothea could not persuade herself, that all her good fortune was not a dream; Cardenio entertained the same opinion, which was also embraced by Lucinda; while Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for its favour, in extricating him from that labyrinth of perplexity, in which he was at the point of losing his reputation and soul. In fine, every person present was well satisfied, and rejoiced at the happy issue of such intricate and desperate affairs. The curate represented every thing in the right point of view, with great discretion, and congratulated the parties concerned on the felicity they had acquired; but she whose joy was most vociferous was the landlady, who loudly exulted in the promise of Cardenio and the curate, who had undertaken to pay her with interest, for the damage she had sustained on Don Quixote’s account. Sancho alone, as we have already observed, was afflicted, unfortunate, and sad, and going to his master who was just awake, said, with a lamentable tone, ‘Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, your worship may now sleep as long as you please, without giving yourself the trouble of slaying the giant, or restoring the princess to her throne; that whole affair is already brought to a conclusion.’
‘I really believe what you say,’ answered the knight, ‘for I have been engaged with the giant, in the most obstinate and outrageous combat that I believe I shall ever fight in all the days of my life; with one back-stroke, slam went his head to the ground, and discharged such a quantity of blood, that it ran like rills of water along the field.’—‘Or rather like red wine, your worship should say,’ replied the squire; ‘for I must inform you, if you do not already know it, that the dead giant is no other than a wine bag, and the blood, eighteen gallons of good red wine, which was contained in its belly: the head you cut off is the whore my mother, and the whole affair is gone to the devil.’—‘What does the lunatick mean?’ said Don Quixote; ‘are you in your right senses, Sancho?’—‘Rise, Sir,’ resumed the squire, ‘and see what a fine piece of work you have made, and what a score you have run. You shall behold the queen converted into a private lady, called Dorothea, with many other strange events, at which, if you take them right, you will be hugely, astonished.’—‘I shall not wonder at any thing of that kind,’ replied his master; ‘for thou may’st remember, the last time we were in this house, I told thee that every incident which happened was conducted and brought about by inchantment, so that we need not be surprized if the same power should prevail at present.’—‘I should be of your worship’s opinion,’ answered Sancho, ‘if my blanketting had been of the same stamp; but that was not the case, for it was really and truly a substantial tossing. This very innkeeper whom we saw to-day, held a corner of the blanket, and canted me into the air with great strength and nimbleness, passing a thousand waggish jokes, and laughing at me all the while; from whence I concluded, simple and sinner as I am, that as I knew their persons, there was no inchantment in the case, but abundance of bruising and bad fortune.’—‘Well, heaven will make thee amends,’ said the knight; ‘meanwhile reach me my clothes; for I want to go forth and examine those events and transformations which thou hast mentioned.’
While Sancho was helping him to dress, the curate gave Don Fernando and his company an account of Don Quixote’s madness, and the artifice they had used to disengage him from the poor rock to which he imagined himself exiled by the disdain of his mistress. He also recounted all those adventures that Sancho had imparted to him, at which they were not a little surprized, and laughed immoderately; agreeing in opinion with every body who knew the knight, that it was the strangest extravagance that ever entered a disturbed imagination. The priest moreover observed, that since the good fortune of Dorothea obstructed the progress of their design, there was a necessity for inventing another plan that should bring him home to his own house. Cardenio proposed that they should prosecute the scheme they had already begun; and Lucinda would act and represent the part of Dorothea. ‘No,’ said Don Fernando, ‘that must not be: Dorothea shall still proceed with her own invention; for, as it cannot be far from hence to the habitation of that honest gentleman, I shall be glad to contribute towards his cure.’ And when he understood that they would arrive in two days at his house; ‘Were it farther off,’ said he, ‘I should go with pleasure to assist in such a laudable design.’
At that instant Don Quixote came forth, armed at all points, with Mambrino’s helmet, battered as it was, upon his head, his shield braced upon his arm, and his pole or lance in his hand. Don Fernando and his companions were amazed at this strange apparition, when they beheld such a rueful length of face, so withered and tawney, together with his ill-sorted armour, and the solemnity of his gait. They gazed upon him in silent expectation of what he would say; while he, with infinite gravity of aspect, fixing his eyes upon Dorothea, accosted her in these words; ‘Fair lady, I am informed by this my squire, that your greatness is annihilated, and your quality undone, by being changed from your former rank of queen and sovereign princess, into the condition of a private damsel. If this hath been done by the necromancy of the king your father, who is perhaps afraid that I should not be able to give you the assistance required, I say he neither knows, nor ever did know, the half of that art which he professeth, and that he is but little conversant in the history of chivalry; for had he read and perused it with such leisure and attention as I have bestowed upon that subject, he would have found, that on every occasion, knights of much less reputation than I possess, have atchieved much more difficult enterprizes than this, it being a matter of small moment to kill a pitiful giant, let him be as arrogant as he will; for not many hours ago, I saw myself engaged with one,—but I chuse to be silent rather than have my veracity called in question, though time, that unmasks all things, will shew when we least expect it—’
‘That you was engaged with wine-bags, and not with a giant!’ cried the innkeeper; who was silenced by Don Fernando, and forbid to interrupt the knight’s discourse in any shape whatever. So that Don Quixote proceeded, saying, ‘In fine, if the father of your disinterested highness hath performed this metamorphosis on your person, for the causes I have mentioned, I hope you will give no credit to such considerations; for there is no danger upon earth through which my sword will not open a way, and by laying the head of your adversary in the dust in a few days, invest yours with that crown to which you have an undoubted right.’
Here Don Quixote left off speaking, in expectation of a reply from the princess, who knowing it was Don Fernando’s pleasure that she should continue the deceit, until the knight could be brought back to his own house, answered with equal gravity and grace, ‘Whosoever hath told you, most valiant Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that I am changed and transformed from what I was, has not adhered to the truth in his information: indeed I am somewhat changed by certain fortunate events which have happened even beyond my own expectation; but; nevertheless, I have not ceased to be what I was, nor altered that resolution which I have always maintained, of taking the advantage of your valiant and invincible arm. Wherefore, dear Sir, be so good as to do justice to the honour of the father who begat me, and look upon him as a man of sagacity and foresight; since, by the science he possessed, he found such an easy and effectual path to the cure of my misfortune; for I firmly believe, that were it not for you, I should not now be so happy as I am, as the greatest part of these gentlemen can truly witness. Nothing then remains, but that we set out to-morrow, because we could not propose to travel far to-day; and as for the success on which my hopes are built, I leave it entirely to God, and the worth of your heroick breast.’
Don Quixote hearing these words, turned to Sancho in the most violent indignation, saying, ‘I protest, sirrah! you are the most malicious little slanderer in Spain. Say, you rascal—you vagabond—did not you tell me just now, that the princess was transformed into a private gentlewoman called Dorothea; and that the head, which I know I cut from the giant’s shoulders, was the whore your mother; with many more foolish particulars, which threw me into the greatest confusion that I ever felt since I was born? By Heaven!’ (here he turned up his eyes and bit his lips) ‘I have a strong inclination to commit such slaughter upon thee, as will be an instructive warning[96] to all the lying squires who shall henceforth attend knights-errant, in the course of their adventures.’
‘Pray be pacified, good your worship!’ cried Sancho: ‘I may possibly be deceived in what concerns the change of my Lady Princess Micomicona; but as to the giant’s head being a wine-bag, and the blood no other than good red wine, I am not mistaken, as I shall answer to God; for the skins that were slashed are still to be seen by your worship’s bed-side, and the whole room is flooded with the wine. But the proof of the pudding is in the eating of it[97]; you will be convinced when Mr. What-d’ye call him our landlord here makes out a bill of the damage he has suffered. As to the rest, I am rejoiced from my soul, to find that the queen’s majesty is the same as usual, because it concerns me, as well as any other neighbour’s child.’—‘I tell thee, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that thou art distracted; forgive me, that is enough.’—‘Enough in all conscience,’ said Don Fernando; ‘there is nothing more to be said on this subject. I think the princess judges very prudently in deferring her journey till to-morrow, because the day is already far advanced; let us therefore spend this night in agreeable conversation, and at the approach of day, we will in a body attend the gallant Don Quixote, that we may be witnesses of the unheard-of exploits which he will doubtless perform in the course of this vast enterprize he hath undertaken.’—‘It is my duty and resolution to serve and attend you,’ answered the knight; ‘and I have the most grateful sense of your favour and good opinion, which I shall endeavour to justify, though it should cost me my life, or even more—if more I can pay.’
Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Fernando and Don Quixote; but they were interrupted by the arrival of a traveller, who, by his garb, seemed to be a Christian slave lately escaped from Barbary; for he was clad in a coat of blue cloth, wanting a collar, with short skirts and half-sleeves; his breeches and cap were of the same stuff; and he wore date-coloured buskins, with a Moorish scymitar flung in a shoulder-belt across his breast. He was followed by a woman dressed in the Moorish habit, mounted upon an ass, with a veil over her face, a brocaded bonnet on her head, and a mantle that flowed from her shoulders to her heels. The man was robust, and well-proportioned, seemingly turned of forty, with a brownish complexion, large whiskers, and a well-furnished beard; in short, his mean was so genteel, that if he had been properly dressed, they would have taken him for a man of birth and quality.
Soon as he entered the gate, he called for a private apartment, and seemed very much concerned, when he understood that all the rooms of the inn were engaged; however, he went to the lady in Moorish dress, and lifted her off in his arms. Upon which Lucinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, flocked around her; their curiosity being excited by the novelty of the garb, which none of them had ever seen before; and Dorothea, who was always good-humoured, mannerly, and discreet, concluding that both she and her conductor were chagrined at their want of a chamber, spoke to her thus: ‘Be not uneasy, Madam, at your want of accommodation here; it is the inconvenience of almost all inns; but if you will be pleased to partake with us, (pointing to Lucinda) perhaps you will find that in the course of your journey you have been fain to put up with harder fare.’ The veiled lady made no answer; but only rising from her seat, signified her thanks by crossing her hands upon her bosom, bending her body, and bowing her head; so that from her silence they conjectured that she must be a native Moor, and that she could not speak any Christian language.
Her attendant, who had hitherto been employed in something else, perceiving that the company had made a circle about his companion, who could make no replies to their interrogations, said to them, ‘Ladies, this young woman understands little or no Spanish, and speaks no language but that of her own country; so that she is incapable of answering any questions you may have asked.’—‘We have asked no questions,’ said Lucinda, ‘but only made her an offer of our company for this night, with a share of our lodging, and what accommodation is to be had: and this we tender with that hearty good-will which obliges us to serve all strangers, especially those of our own sex who stand in need of our assistance.’—‘Dear Madam,’ replied the conductor, ‘in her name, and in my own, I return you a thousand thanks, and highly esteem your proffered favour, which on this occasion, and from such persons as your appearance proclaims you to be, must certainly be very kind and condescending.’—‘Signior,’ said Dorothea, ‘is this lady Christian or Moor? By her silence and her dress, we are induced to believe she is not what we could wish her to be.’—‘In her body and dress,’ replied the stranger, ‘she is a Moor, but altogether a Christian in her soul; for she longs ardently to be a professed convert to our faith.’—‘Then she is not baptized?’ resumed Lucinda. ‘She has had no opportunity,’ said the captive, ‘since she quitted Algiers, which is her native country; and hitherto hath never been in such imminent danger of her life, as to make it necessary before she is instructed in all the ceremonies enjoined by our holy mother church; but, if it please Heaven, she shall be baptized very soon, with decency suitable to the quality of her person, which is greater than either her dress or mine seems to declare.’
This intimation raised the curiosity of all the spectators, to know who this Moor and captive were; but nobody chose to ask the question at that time, which seemed more proper for reposing themselves than relating the history of their lives. Dorothea taking her by the hand, seated the stranger close by her side, and entreated her to take off the veil; she looked at her conductor, as if she wanted to know what the lady desired, and he told her in Arabick, that they entreated her to be uncovered; at the same time, advising her to comply with their request. She accordingly unveiled herself, and discovered a face so amiable, that Dorothea thought her handsomer than Lucinda, who, in her turn, gave her the preference to Dorothea; and all present concluded, that if any creature upon earth could vie with them in beauty, it was this Moorish lady, who, in the opinion of some of the company, excelled them both in certain particulars. As beauty, therefore, has the privilege and energy to conciliate minds and attract affections, every body present was seized with an inclination to serve and cherish the charming Moor. Don Fernando asked her name of the captive, who answered, ‘Lela Zorayda.’ This she no sooner heard, than understanding the question which had been put to the Christian, she pronounced with great eagerness and sweetness of concern, ‘No, no Zorayda; Maria, Maria!’ signifying that her name was Maria, and not Zorayda: these words, with the affecting manner in which they were expressed, brought tears from the eyes of some of the hearers, especially the women, who are naturally tender and compassionate. Lucinda embraced her affectionately, saying, ‘Yes, yes, Maria, Maria.’ And to this the Moor replied, ‘Yes, yes, Maria; Zorayda, ‘macange;’ which, in the Arabick, signifies ‘No.’
Meanwhile it grew late, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Fernando’s attendants, prepared with great diligence and care, as good a repast as he could possibly provide; so that when supper-time arrived, they sat down all together at a long hall-table, for there was neither a round nor square one in the house. They forced the head and principal seat, in spite of all his excuses on Don Quixote, who desired that the Princess Micomicona might sit by the side of her protector; next to her, Lucinda and Zorayda placed themselves, being fronted by Fernando and Cardenio, at whose left-hand sat the captive and the other gentlemen, while the curate and the barber took their station close to the ladies. In this manner they supped with vast satisfaction, which was still increased, when Don Quixote leaving off eating, and inspired by the same spirit that moved him to harangue among the goat-herds, began the following dissertation: ‘Verily, gentlemen, if it be duly considered, great and unexpected events are seen by those who profess the order of knight-errantry. What inhabitant of this earth, if he should now enter the gates of this castle, and behold us seated in this manner, could conceive or credit that we are what we are? Who could imagine, that this lady on my right-hand is the great queen whom we all know her to be; and that I am the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, so celebrated by the voice of fame? Now there is no manner of doubt, that this exercise and art exceeds all others hitherto invented by man, and that it ought to be more esteemed, because it is more exposed to danger. Away with those who give letters the preference over arms! I affirm, that such people, whosoever they are, know not what they say; for the sole reason to which they adhere, in this decision, is, that the labour of the body is exceeded by that of the mind; and that the profession of arms is altogether as corporeal as the exercise and office of a common day-labourer, that requires nothing more than bodily strength; as if that which is called soldiership by us who profess it, did not include acts of valour which none but persons of uncommon genius could execute; or, as if the toil of a warrior who has the charge of an army, or commands in a town that is besieged, doth not affect the mind as well as the body. Is it to be supposed, that by mere corporeal strength he can penetrate and discover the intention of the enemy? To anticipate designs, baffle stratagems, surmount difficulties, and prevent the mischief that is to be dreaded, are all efforts of the understanding, in which the body hath no share; if the profession of arms, therefore, requires genius, as well as that of letters, let us see which of the two requires most mental toil: and this question may be determined by considering the end and aim of each; for that occupation deserves the highest esteem, which hath the noblest purpose in view, the end and scope of letters. I speak not here of that divine learning, whose aim is to raise and conduct the soul to Heaven; to an end so infinite, no intention whatever can be compared. I speak of human learning, the ultimate end of which is to regulate distributive justice, render to every one his due, and to understand and to protect the equitable laws: an aim certainly generous and highly commendable! yet not so deserving of the most sublime praise as the profession of arms, the object and the end of which is peace, the greatest good that mortals can enjoy; for the first blessed news which this world and mankind heard, were those pronounced by the angels, on that night which was our day, when they sung in the air, “Glory be to God on high; and on earth, peace and good will towards men!” and the salutation, which the best Master, either in heaven or upon earth, taught his adherents and favourites; which was to say when they entered any house, “Peace be to this house!” Nay, he himself at different times, said, “My peace I give unto you! My peace I leave with you! Peace be among you!” A jewel and legacy well worthy of him who left it! a jewel, without which there can be no felicity, either on earth or in heaven! This peace is the genuine aim of war; for arms and war are the same; and this being taken for granted, the end of war is nobler than that of learning; wherefore let us next consider the bodily toil sustained by each, that we may see on which side the balance lies in that particular.’
In this sensible manner did Don Quixote continue his discourse, from which nobody that heard him could distinguish that he was mad; on the contrary, his audience confiding chiefly of gentlemen, to which title the profession of arms is annexed, they listened with great pleasure, while he proceeded thus.
‘The hardships of a student, I say, are these; first of all, poverty, (not that all students are poor, but that we may suppose the worst that can happen) and when I have named his indigence, the whole of his misfortune is mentioned; for he that is poor can enjoy nothing that is good, but must endure necessity in all its forms; sometimes hunger, sometimes cold, sometimes nakedness, and often all three together. Nevertheless, his necessity is not so great, but that he eats, though perhaps later than usual, or though he may feed upon the leavings of the rich, or which is the greatest misery to which a scholar can be reduced, go a-sopping[98], as they term it; then they are always admitted to some charitable person’s fire-side or chimney-corner, where, if they cannot warm themselves effectually, they may at least defy the cold; and at night they sleep under cover. I need not descend to minute particulars; such as want of linen, scarcity of shoes, flimsy and thread-bare cloaths, nor the surfeits which they so eagerly incur, when their good fortune sets a plentiful table in their way. By this path, rough and difficult as I have already described it, after many tumblings, slidings, risings, and fallings, they at last attain to the wished degree, which being gained, we have seen many who have passed with a favourable gale of fortune, through these quicksands and straits of Scylla and Charybdis; I say, we have seen many such command and dictate to the world, from a chair of state; their hunger being changed into satiety, their cold into refreshment, their rags into gay apparel, and the matts on which they lay, to the richest damask and finest holland: a recompence which their merit most justly enjoys! but their labours, when fairly stated and compared, are infinitely short of the warrior’s, as I shall now clearly demonstrate.’
The knight proceeded thus: ‘Since we began with the student, representing his poverty in all its circumstances, let us see if the soldier be more wealthy: and we shall find that poverty itself is not poorer; for he is restricted to his miserable pay, which comes always late, if ever, or to what he can plunder by force with the imminent danger of his life and conscience; and frequently his nakedness is such, that his slashed buff doublet serves him instead of coat, shirt, and all other parts of apparel. In a winter campaign, while he remains in the open field, he has nothing to mitigate the severity of the cold, but his own breath, which, as it proceeds from an empty place, must, I believe, be cold, contrary to all the rules of nature: but stay till the approach of night, when it is to be hoped his bed will make amends for all these inconveniencies; and this, if it be not his own fault, will never offend in point of narrowness, for he may measure as many feet of ground as he thinks sufficient, and there tumble about at pleasure, without any danger of discomposing the sheets. Then, instead of the day and hour of receiving the degrees of his art, comes the day of battle, in which his head is adorned with the doctoral tossle, made in form of a pledgit, to stuff the wound made by some ball, which perhaps hath gone through his temples, or left him maimed of a leg or arm; and even if this should not happen, but merciful Heaven guard and preserve him safe and sound, he continues as poor as ever; he must risk himself in several more rencounters and battles, and be victorious in each, before his circumstances be bettered; but these miracles rarely happen. Tell me, gentlemen, have you considered what a small proportion those who make their fortunes by war bear to those who perish in the field? Doubtless, you must answer that there is no sort of comparison; that the slain are scarce to be numbered, while the living who are recompensed for their services, may be comprehended within three figures of arithmetick[99]. The case of the learned is quite the reverse[100]; for, one way or another, they are all provided: so that, though the toil of a soldier is greater, his reward is much less. To this observation, it may be replied, that it is far more easy to reward two thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers; for the first are recompensed with offices, which must of course be bestowed on people of their profession; whereas, the others can enjoy no reward, except a share of the property belonging to their master whom they serve: even this impossibility strengthens my asseveration.
‘But waving that consideration, which would lead us into a most intricate labyrinth, let us return to the pre-eminence which arms have over learning; a point hitherto undecided, of such force are the reasons alledged on both sides of the question; one of which, in favour of the last, is, that without letters, the profession of arms could not be supported, because there are laws to which war itself is subject; and all laws fall within the province of letters and learned men. To this observation, the partizans of the other opinion reply, that no laws could be maintained without arms, which preserve the constitution, defend kingdoms, guard cities, scour the highways, and clear the seas of piratical corsairs. In short, that without arms, all republicks, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, journies by land, and voyages by sea, would be exposed to the horror and confusion that attend unbridled war, while it continues in all its licentious privilege and force. It is a general and established maxim, that every thing ought to be esteemed in proportion to what it costs. Now, to become eminent in letters, costs the student much time, watching, hunger, nakedness, vertigoes, indigestion, and their consequences, which are in part mentioned above: but, to acquire in a regular manner the character of a good soldier, a man must undergo all these inconveniences in an incomparably greater degree; because he is every moment in danger of losing his life. What fear of indigence and poverty can seize and harrass the student’s apprehension, equal to that which must possess the soldier besieged in a fortress, who being placed centinel or guard in some ravelin or cavalier[101], perceives the enemy at work undermining the very spot whereon he stands, without daring to stir from his post, or avoid the danger by which he is so imminently threatened? All he can do, is to give notice of what passes to his captain, who must endeavour to baffle the foe by some countermine, while he remains upon the place in terror and expectation of being suddenly whirled aloft into the clouds without wings, and of falling thence headlong into the profound abyss: if this danger seems inconsiderable, let us see whether it be equalled or exceeded in the grappling of two gallies, by their prows, in the midst of the extended ocean; when they are locked and fastened into each other, and the soldier hath not an inch more than two feet of the beak to stand upon, while he sees himself threatened and opposed by as many ministers of death as there are cannon in the enemy’s vessel, and these within a spear’s length of his body; and is sensible, that if his feet should chance to slip, he would instantly visit the profound bosom of the sea; yet, nevertheless, with an intrepid heart, incited and transported by honour, he bears the brunt of their whole artillery, and endeavours by that narrow passage to board the adverse vessel; and, what is very much to be admired, is, that as soon as one falls, never to rise again till the general resurrection, another occupies his place; and should he also drop into the sea, which, like an enemy, gapes to devour him, another and another still succeeds, without the smallest intermission: an instance of gallantry and boldness the greatest to be found in all the extremities of war. Happy were the ages past, while strangers to those infernal instruments of artillery, the author of which is, I firmly believe, now in hell, enjoying the reward of his diabolical invention, that puts it in the power of an infamous coward to deprive the most valiant cavalier of life; for, often in the heat of that courage and resolution that fires and animates the gallant breast, there comes a random ball, how or from whence no man can tell, shot off, perhaps, by one that fled, and was afraid at the flash of his own accursed machine, and, in an instant, puts an end to the schemes and exigence of a man who deserved to live for ages. This very consideration makes me almost own, that I am sorry for having chosen this profession of a knight-errant in this detestable age; for, though no danger can daunt my resolution, it gives me some uneasiness to think that powder and shot may deprive me of the opportunity of making myself famous and renowned through the whole globe, for the valour of my arm, and the keenness of my sword: but, let the will of Heaven be fulfilled! if I accomplish my aim, I shall be more esteemed, because I have faced more danger than ever was incurred by the knights-errant in ages past.’
While the rest of the company were employed in eating, this long harangue was uttered by Don Quixote, who never thought of swallowing a morsel; though Sancho frequently put him in mind of eating his supper, observing, that he would afterwards have time enough to say what he pleased. The hearers were moved with fresh concern, at seeing a man, who in every other subject seemed to have a large share of sense and discernment, lose it so irrecoverably, whenever the discourse turned upon the cursed mischievous theme of chivalry. The curate observed, that there was a great deal of reason in what he had advanced in favour of arms; and that he himself, though a graduate, consequently a man of letters, was entirely of the knight’s opinion.
Supper being ended, and the table uncovered, while the landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, were busied in fitting up the garret of Don Quixote de La Mancha, in which it was determined the three ladies should pass the night by themselves; Don Fernando intreated the captive to recount the story of his life, which he imagined must be both uncommon and entertaining, from the specimen they had already seen, in his arriving thus equipped, in company with the fair Zorayda. To this request the stranger answered, that he would willingly obey his command, though he was afraid the company would not find the relation to their liking; but, nevertheless, rather than fail in point of obedience, he was ready to make it. The curate and whole company thanked him for his complaisance, and joined in the request; and he seeing himself besought by so many, said there was no occasion for entreaties, where they might so effectually command: ‘Lend me your attention, therefore, and you shall hear a true story, perhaps unequalled by those fictions which are usually adorned with all the curious and profound artifice of composition.’
At this preamble, all present adjusted and composed themselves; and he perceiving the general silence in which they waited for the performance of his promise, began in this manner, with a grave and agreeable voice.
‘In a certain place among the mountains of Leon, my family had its origin; more beholden to the liberality of nature than to the smiles of fortune: though, amidst the narrowness of circumstances, which prevails in that country, my father had the reputation of being rich, and really was so, had he possessed the art of preserving, as he practised the means of spending his estate. This liberal and profuse disposition was owing to his having been a soldier in his youth, the army being a school in which the miser becomes generous, and the benevolent man grows prodigal; for a covetous soldier is a monster which is rarely seen. My father exceeded the bounds of liberality, and bordered upon those of prodigality; a disposition of very little service to a married man who has children to succeed him in rank as well as name: and he had no less than three; all of them sons, already at an age to chuse for themselves. The old gentleman finding it impossible, as he said, to resist the bent of his inclination, was resolved to deprive himself of the means that induced and enabled him to spend so lavishly, by giving up his estate; as without money Alexander himself must have seemed frugal.
‘One day, therefore, calling us all three together into his chamber, he delivered himself in these or the like words: “Sons, to say I love you, is no more than to say and know you are my own children; though it would seem that I do not love you, by my squandering away the fortune which is your due. But that you may be henceforth convinced that I love you like a true parent, rather than seek your destruction like a step-father, I am resolved to execute a plan which I have formed a good while ago, and digested with the most mature deliberation. You are now of an age to chuse settlements for yourselves, or at least to pitch upon employments which, in your riper years, may conduce to your honour and advantage. My intention is to divide my estate into four equal parts, three of which you shall receive among you, in equal shares, without the least difference or distinction; and the fourth I will reserve for my own sustenance and support, while Heaven will be pleased to protract the days of my life. But after you have received your portions, I should be glad to find you inclined to follow the paths which I shall propose. We have a saying in Spain, which I believe is very true, as indeed all proverbs are, because they are short sentences dictated by long and sage experience; that which I mean, contains no more than these words: The church, the court, or the sea; as if it more fully expressed the following advice, ‘He that would make his fortune, ought either to dedicate his time to the church, go to sea as a merchant, or attach himself to the court,’ for it is commonly observed that, ‘The king’s crumb is worth the baron’s batch.’ This I mention, because I wish and desire that one of you would follow letters, another merchandize, and a third serve his sovereign in the field, since it is difficult to obtain an office at court: and although much wealth cannot be expected, there is a great deal of valour and reputation to be acquired in war. In eight days I will give each of you his share, in ready-money, without defrauding you of one farthing, as you will see by my distribution. Tell me, therefore, if you are willing to follow my advice in what I have proposed?” said my father, addressing himself to me as the eldest. After having dissuaded him from parting with his estate, and desired him to spend as much of it as he pleased, observing, that we were young men, and capable of making our own fortunes, I concluded with saying, I would obey his will, and for my own part, chuse to serve God and my king, in adhering to the exercise of arms. My second brother made the same offer, proposing to set sail for the Indies, and employ his stock of ready-money in traffick. The youngest, and I believe the wisest, said he would qualify himself for the church, by going and finishing his studies at Salamanca.
‘We having thus agreed in the choice of our different employments, our father embraced us all affectionately, and within the time he had proposed, performed his promise of giving us our portions, which to the best of my remembrance amounted to three thousand ducats each; for an uncle of ours paid ready-money for the whole estate, that it might not be alienated from the family. In one day, all three took leave of our worthy father; when I thinking it a piece of inhumanity to leave him so straitened in his old age, prevailed upon him to accept two thousand of the three I had received, as the remainder was sufficient to accommodate me with all the necessaries of a soldier. Each of my brothers, induced by my example, gave him back one-third of their shares; so that he remained possessed of four thousand ducats in cash, and the value of three thousand more in land, which he did not chuse to sell. At length, I say, we took leave of him, and that uncle whom I have mentioned, not without great concern and many tears on all sides; they charging us to seize every opportunity of making them acquainted with our adventures, either in prosperity or adversity. Having given this promise, and received their embraces and blessing, one took the road to Salamanca, another went to Seville, and I set out for Alicant, where I understood there was a ship taking in a lading of wool for Genoa. Two and twenty years are now elapsed since I left my father’s house; and during all that time, though I have written several letters, I never received the least information concerning him or my brothers. What hath happened to myself within that period, I will now briefly relate.
‘Embarking at Alicant, I had a favourable passage to Genoa, from whence I went to Milan, where I provided myself with arms and some gay military furniture. Then I departed for Piedmont, with a resolution of inlisting in the service; and being upon the road to Alexandria de la Paglia, was informed that the great duke of Alva was on his march into Flanders. Upon receiving this intimation, I changed my design, attended him to the Low Countries, served in all his campaigns, and was present at the death of the counts Egmont and Horn. There I obtained an ensign’s commission in the company of a famous captain of Guadalajara, whose name was Diego de Urbina: but after I had been some time in Flanders, the news arrived of the league between his Holiness Pope Pius the Fifth of happy memory, and the Spanish monarchy, against their common enemy the Turk, who about that time had, by means of his fleet, made a conquest of the famous island of Cyrus, which was under the dominion of the Venetians; a most lamentable and unfortunate loss. It was certainly known that the most serene Don John of Austria, natural brother to our good King Philip, was to be general of this league; and the vast preparations for this war were publickly reported. All these rumours raised and excited within me the desire and resolution of being present in a campaign of such expectation; and though I had strong hopes, and indeed certain promises, of being promoted to the rank of a captain as soon as a vacancy should happen, I chose to quit that prospect, and go, as I actually did, to Italy; and luckily for me, Don John of Austria was then at Genoa, just going to embark for Naples, in order to join the Venetian fleet, which he afterwards found at Messina. In short, I served in that most happy campaign, and was advanced to the rank of captain of foot, which honourable post I obtained more by good fortune than merit, and that day which was so fortunate for Christendom, on which the world was convinced of the error they had espoused in believing the Turks invincible by sea; on that day, I say, when the Ottoman pride and insolence were humbled and broke among so many happy Christians there present, (and sure those who fell were happier than the living victors!) I alone was unfortunate; for, instead of receiving a naval crown, which would have been my reward, had I lived in the Roman ages, on the night that succeeded that glorious day, I found myself a captive loaded with chains! And this was the cause of my misfortune: Uchali, King of Algiers, a bold and fortunate corsair, having attacked and mastered the capitan galley of Malta, in which there remained only three knights alive, and these desperately wounded; the vessel commanded by John Andrea Doria, in which my company was stationed, hastened to her relief, and I doing my duty on that occasion, leaped into the enemy’s ship, which disengaging herself immediately from our galley, that was grappled with her, my soldiers were prevented from following their officer, and I found myself alone among my foes, whom, by reason of their numbers, I could not resist; therefore was obliged to submit after having been almost covered over with wounds; and Uchali, as you have heard, gentlemen, having saved himself with his whole squadron, I remained his prisoner, the only sad person amidst the general joy, and captive among so many that were set free; for full fifteen thousand Christians who came into the action chained to the Turkish oars, that day recovered their long wished for liberty.