Plate IX: Don Quixote Displays the Bason.
‘Good God!’ cried the barber, with amazement, ‘is it possible that so many honourable persons should pronounce this bason to be a helmet! an assertion sufficient to astonish a whole university, let it be never so learned. Well, if that bason be an helmet, I suppose the pannel must be a horses trappings too, as this gentleman says.’—‘To me it seems a pannel,’ replied the knight; ‘but, as I have already observed, I will not pretend to decide whether it be the pannel of an ass, or the furniture of a steed.’—‘Don Quixote has no more to do but speak his opinion,’ said the curate; ‘for in affairs of chivalry, all these gentlemen, myself, and even the ladies, yield to his superior understanding.’—‘By Heaven! gentlemen,’ cried the knight, ‘so many strange accidents have happened to me, twice that I have lodged in this castle, that I will not venture positively to affirm the truth of any thing that may be asked relating to it; for I imagine that every thing in this place is conducted by the power of inchantment. The first time I passed the night in this place, I was harrassed extremely by an inchanted Moor that resides in the castle, while Sancho was almost as roughly handled by some of his attendants; and this very night I was suspended by one arm for the space of two hours, without knowing how or wherefore I incurred that misfortune. For me, therefore, to give my opinion in a case of such perplexity, would be a rash decision: with regard to the helmet, which they say is a bason, I have already expressed my sentiments; but dare not give a definitive sentence by declaring whether that be a pannel or a horse’s furniture. That I leave to the judgment of the good company, who not being knights, as I am, perhaps are not subjected to the inchantments of this place; but, enjoying their faculties clear and undisturbed, can judge of these things as they really and truly are, not as they appear to my imagination.’—‘Doubtless,’ replied Don Fernando, ‘Signior Don Quixote manifests his own prudence, in observing that to us belongs the determination of this affair, which, that it may be the better founded, I will in private take the opinions of this good company one by one, and then openly declare the full result of my enquiry.’
To those who are acquainted with the knight’s humour, this proposal afforded matter of infinite diversion; but the rest being ignorant of the joke, looked upon it as a piece of downright madness: this was particularly the opinion of the domesticks belonging to Don Lewis, which was even espoused by himself and three travellers just arrived, who seemed to be troopers of the holy brotherhood, as indeed they were; but he that almost ran distracted was the barber, whose bason was, even in his own sight, transformed into Mambrino’s helmet, while he expected every moment that his pannel would be certainly declared the rich trappings and furniture of a horse. Every body laughed to see Don Fernando going about with great gravity collecting opinions in whispers, that each might privately declare whether that jewel, about which there had been such obstinate disputes, was the pannel of an ass, or the furniture of a steed. Having received the answers of all those who knew Don Quixote, he pronounced aloud, ‘Truly, honest friend, I am quite tired with asking so many opinions: for every one to whom I put the question, affirms it is downright distraction to call this a pannel, which is certainly the furniture of a horse, and that too of an excellent breed. Therefore, you must e’en have patience: for in spite of you, and the testimony of your ass to boot, an horse’s furniture it must remain, as you have failed so egregiously in the proof of what you alledge.’—‘May I never taste the joys of heaven!’ cried the transported barber, ‘if you are not all deceived; and so may my soul appear before God, as this appears to me, a mere pannel, and not the furniture of an horse! but thus might overcomes[112]——I say no more, neither am I drunk, being fresh and fasting from every thing but sin.’
The company laughed as heartily at the simplicity of the barber as the extravagance of the knight, who upon this decision, said, ‘Nothing now remains, but that every one should take his own again; and may St. Peter bless what God bestows[113].’ One of the four servants belonging to Don Lewis now interposed, saying, ‘If this be not a premeditated joke, I cannot persuade myself that people of sound understanding, such as all this company are or seem to be, should venture to say and affirm that this is no bason, nor that a pannel; yet seeing this is both said and affirmed, I conceive there must be some mystery in thus insisting upon a thing so contrary to truth and experience; for, by God!’ (an oath he swore with great emphasis) ‘all the people on earth shall never make me believe that this is not a barber’s bason, or that not the pannel of an he-ass.’—‘Why not of a she-ass?’ said the curate. ‘That distinction makes no difference,’ said the servant; ‘nor has it any concern with the dispute, which is occasioned by your saying that it is not a pannel at all.’
At the same time, one of the troopers who had entered and been witness to the quarrel and question, could no longer contain his choler and displeasure at what he heard; and therefore said, in a furious tone, ‘If that is not a pannel, my father never begat me; and he that says, or shall say the contrary, must be drunk.’—‘You lye, like an infamous scoundrel!’ replied Don Quixote; who lifting up his lance, which he still kept in his hand, aimed such a stroke at the troopers skull, that if he had not been very expeditious in shifting it, he would have been stretched at full length upon the ground, on which the weapon was shivered to pieces: the rest of the troop, seeing their companion so roughly handled, raised their voices, crying for help to the holy brotherhood; the innkeeper being of that fraternity, ran in for his tipstaff and sword, and espoused the cause of his brethren; the domesticks surrounded Don Lewis, that he might not escape in the scuffle; the barber seeing the house turned topsy-turvey, laid hold again of the pannel, which was at the same time seized by Sancho; Don Quixote attacked the troopers sword-in-hand; Don Lewis called to his servants to leave him, and go to the assistance of Cardenio and Don Fernando, who had ranged themselves on the side of Don Quixote; the curate exhorted, the landlady screamed, the daughter wept, Maritornes blubbered, Dorothea was confounded, Lucinda perplexed, and Donna Clara fainted away. The barber pummelled Sancho, who returned the compliment; one of the servants presuming to seize Don Lewis by the arm, that he might not run away, the young gentleman gave him such a slap in the face as bathed all his teeth in blood; the judge exerted himself in his defence. Don Fernando having brought one of the troopers to the ground, kicked his whole carcase to his heart’s content; the landlord raised his voice again, roaring for help to the holy brotherhood; so that the whole inn was a scene of lamentation, cries, shrieks, confusion, dread, dismay, disaster, back-strokes, cudgelling, kicks, cuffs, and effusion of blood. In the midst of this labyrinth, chaos, and composition of mischief, Don Quixote’s imagination suggested that he was all of a sudden involved in the confusion of Agramonte’s camp, and therefore pronounced with a voice that made the whole inn resound, ‘Let every man forbear, put up his sword, be quiet and listen, unless he be weary of his life.’
On hearing this exclamation, all the combatants paused, while he proceeded thus: ‘Did not I tell you, gentlemen, that this castle was inchanted, and doubtless inhabited by a whole legion of devils? as a proof of which, you may now perceive with your own eyes how the discord and mutiny in Agramonte’s camp is translated hither: behold, in one place, we fight for a sword; in another, for a horse; in a third, for an eagle; and in a fourth, for a helmet; in short, we are all by the ears together, for we know not what.—Advance, therefore, my lord judge, and Mr. Curate, and in the persons of Agramonte and King Sobrino, re-establish peace among us; for, by Almighty God! it were wicked and absurd, that persons of our importance should be slain in such a frivolous cause.’
The troopers, who did not understand the knight’s stile, and found themselves very severely treated by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their companions, would not be pacified; but it was otherwise with the barber, who, in the scuffle, had lost both his pannel and beard: Sancho, who, like a faithful servant, minded the least hint of his master, willingly obeyed, and the servants of Don Lewis were fain to be quiet, seeing how little they had got by concerning themselves in the fray; the innkeeper alone insisted upon their chastising the insolence of that madman, who was every moment throwing the whole house into confusion; at length the disturbance was appeased, the pannel remained as an horse’s furniture till the day of judgment, the bason as an helmet, and the inn as a castle, in Don Quixote’s imagination.
Every thing being thus amicably composed by the persuasion of the judge and priest, the servants of Don Lewis began again to press him with great obstinacy to set out with them for his father’s house immediately; and while he expostulated with them, the judge consulted with Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate, about what he should do on this occasion; imparting to them the declaration Don Lewis had made; at last it was agreed that Don Fernando should tell the servants who he was, and express a desire that Don Lewis should accompany him to Andalousia, where his brother the marquis should entertain him according to his rank and merit; for he well knew the young gentleman was fixed in the determination of being cut to pieces rather than return to his father at that time. The domesticks being informed of Don Fernando’s quality, and understanding the resolution of Don Lewis, determined amongst themselves that three of them should return and give the father an account of what had happened, while the fourth should attend the young gentleman, until they should either come back for him, or know his father’s pleasure.
In this manner was that accumulation of quarrels appeased by the authority of Agramonte and prudence of King Sobrino; but the enemy of concord and rival of peace being thus foiled and disappointed, and seeing how little fruit he had reaped from the labyrinth of confusion in which he had involved them, determined to try his hand once more, and revive discord and disturbance anew; and these were the means he practised for this purpose: the troopers, apprized of the quality of those with whom they had been engaged, were fain to be quiet and retreat from the fray, concluding that whatever might happen they would have the worst of the battle; but one of them who had been pummelled and kicked by Don Fernando, recollected that among other warrants for apprehending delinquents, he had one against Don Quixote, issued by the holy brotherhood, on account of his having set the galley-slaves at liberty, as Sancho had very justly feared: this coming into his head, he was resolved to assure himself whether or not the knight’s person agreed with the description, and pulling out of his bosom a bundle of parchment, he soon found what he sought, and beginning to spell with great deliberation (for he was by no means an expert reader) between every word he fixed his eyes upon the knight, whose physiognomy he compared with the marks specified in the warrant, and discovered beyond all doubt that he was the very person described; no sooner was he thus convinced, than putting up the parchment, and holding the warrant in his left-hand, he with his right seized Don Quixote so fast by the collar that he could scarce fetch his breath, roaring aloud, ‘Help, in the name of the holy brotherhood; and that you may see my demand is just, read that warrant for apprehending this highwayman.’
The curate, upon perusing the warrant, found what the trooper said was true, and that the description exactly agreed with the person of Don Quixote, who seeing himself so unworthily treated by such a ragamuffin, was incensed to the highest degree, so that every bone in his body trembled with rage; and he made shift to fasten on the trooper’s throat with both hands so violently, that if his companions had not come to his assistance, he would have quitted his life before the knight had quitted his hold. The innkeeper being obliged to succour his brethren, ran immediately to their assistance; his wife seeing her husband re-engaged in the quarrel, exalted her voice anew; Maritornes and the daughter squalled in concert, imploring heaven and the bye-standers for help: Sancho perceiving what passed, ‘By the Lord!’ cried he, ‘what my master says about the inchantments of this castle is certainly true; for it is impossible to live an hour in quiet within its walls.’
Don Fernando parted the knight and trooper, to their mutual satisfaction; unlocking their hands, which were fast clinched in the doublet-collar of the one, and the wind-pipe of the other, but for all that they did not cease demanding their prisoner, and the assistance of the company, in binding and delivering him to their charge, agreeable to the service of the king, and the order of the holy brotherhood, in whose behalf they repeated their demand of favour and assistance, to secure that felon, robber, and thief. Don Quixote smiled at hearing these epithets, and with much composure replied, ‘Come hither, ye vile and base-born race! do you call it the province of an highwayman to loose the chains of the captive, and set the prisoner free! to succour the miserable, raise the fallen, and relieve the distressed? Ah! infamous crew! whose low and grovelling understanding renders you unworthy that Heaven should reveal to you the worth that is contained in knight-errantry, or make you sensible of your sin and ignorance, in neglecting to revere the very shadow, much more the substance of any knight. Come hither, ye rogues in a troop, and not troopers; ye robbers licensed by the holy brotherhood; and tell me what ignorant wretch he was, who signed a warrant of caption against such a knight as me? Who did not know that we are exempted from all judicial authority, and that a knight’s own sword is his law, he being privileged by his valour, and restricted only by his will and pleasure? Who was the blockhead, I say, who does not know, that no gentleman’s charter contains so many rights and indulgences as adhere to a knight-errant, the very day on which he is dubbed, and devotes himself to the painful exercise of arms? What knight-errant ever paid tax, toll, custom, duty, or excise? What taylor ever brought in a bill for making his cloaths? What governor ever made him pay for lodging in his castle? What king did ever neglect to seat him at his own table? What damsel ever resisted his charms, or refused to submit herself entirely to his pleasure and will? And, in fine, what knight-errant ever was, is, or will be, whose single valour is not sufficient to annihilate four hundred troopers, should they presume to oppose him?’
While Don Quixote harangued in this manner, the curate was employed in persuading the troopers, that he was a man disordered in his judgment, as they might perceive both by his words and actions, and therefore they ought not to proceed any farther in the affair; for even if they should apprehend him, he would soon be dismissed as a person non compos. To this observation the man who had the warrant replied, that it was not his business to judge of Don Quixote’s madness, but to obey the orders of his superiors; and that if he was apprehended once, they might discharge him three hundred times over, if they would. ‘For all that,’ said the priest, ‘you must not carry him off at present, nor do I believe he will suffer himself to be so treated.’
In short, the curate talked so effectually, and the knight himself acted such extravagancies, that the troopers must have been more mad than he, if they had not plainly perceived his defect; therefore they thought proper to be satisfied, and even performed the office of mediators betwixt the barber and Sancho Panza, who still maintained the fray with great animosity; for the troopers, as limbs of justice, brought the cause to an arbitration, and decided it in such a manner as left both parties if not fully satisfied, at least in some sort content with the determination, which was, that the pannels should be exchanged, but the girths and halters remain as they were. With regard to Mambrino’s helmet, the curate, unperceived by Don Quixote, took the barber aside, and paid him eight rials for the bason, taking a receipt in full, that cleared the knight from any suspicion of fraud from thence forward, for ever, Amen.
These two quarrels, which were of the greatest importance of any that happened, being luckily composed, it remained that three of the servants belonging to Don Lewis should return, and the fourth accompany his master to the place whither Don Fernando intended to conduct him; and as good luck and favourable fortune had already began to quell the spirit of discord, and smooth all difficulties, in behalf of the lovers and heroes of the inn, they were resolved to proceed in such a laudable work, and bring every thing to a happy conclusion; for the domesticks were satisfied with what Don Lewis proposed; a circumstance that gave such pleasure to Donna Clara, that every body who beheld her face might have discerned the joy of her soul. Zorayda, though she did not well understand the incidents she had seen, was sorrowful and gay, by turns, according as she perceived the company affected, particularly her Spaniard, upon whom her eyes and heart were always fixed. The innkeeper, who took particular notice of the full satisfaction which the barber had received from the curate, demanded payment of Don Quixote, of the reckoning, as well as for the damage he had done to the bags, and the loss of his wine; swearing that neither Rozinante nor Sancho’s ass should stir from the stable, until he should be satisfied to the last farthing[114]. The curate pacified the landlord, and Don Fernando paid the bill, although the judge very frankly offered to take that upon himself. In this manner universal concord was restored; so that the inn no longer represented the disorder in Agramonte’s camp, but rather the peace and quiet that reigned in the time of Octavius Cæsar; and this blessing was generally ascribed to the laudable intention and great eloquence of the priest, together with the incomparable generosity of Don Fernando.
Don Quixote now finding himself freed and disentangled from so many broils in which both he and his squire had been involved, thought it high time to proceed on his journey, in order to finish that great adventure to which he had been summoned and chosen: he therefore, with determined purpose, went and fell upon his knees before Dorothea, who refusing to hear him in that posture, he rose in obedience to her will, and expressed himself in this manner: ‘It is a common proverb, beauteous princess, that diligence is the mother of success; and in many important causes, experience hath shewn that the assiduity of the solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit to a very fortunate issue. But the truth of this maxim is no where more evinced than in war, where activity and dispatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory before he has time to put himself in a posture of defence. This I observe, most high and excellent princess, because, in my opinion, our stay in this castle is unprofitable and prejudicial, as we may one day perceive, when it is too late; for who knows but by means of secret and artful spies, your enemy, the giant, may get notice that I am coming to destroy him; and taking the opportunity of our delay, fortify himself in some impregnable castle, against which all my diligence, and the strength of my indefatigable arm, will not avail. Wherefore, most noble princess, let us, as I have already observed, prevent his designs by our activity, and set out immediately, in the name of good fortune, which your highness shall not long sigh for, after I shall have come within sight of your adversary.’
Here the knight left off speaking, and with great composure expected the answer of the beautiful infanta; who, with a most princely air, and in a stile perfectly well-suited to his address, replied in this manner: ‘I thank you, Sir Knight, for the desire you express to assist me in my necessity, like a true knight, whose duty and province it is, to succour the fatherless and distressed; and Heaven grant that your desire and my expectation may be fulfilled, that you may see there are grateful women upon earth. With regard to my departure, let it be as speedy as you please: my will is altogether included in yours; dispose of me, therefore, according to your own pleasure; for she who hath once invested you with the charge and defence of her person, and solely depends upon your valour, for being re-established on her throne, would act preposterously, in seeking to contradict what your prudence shall ordain.’—‘In the name of God, then,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘since a princess humbles herself thus before me, I will not let slip the opportunity of raising her up, and placing her upon the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart immediately; for the desire of seeing you restored, the length of the journey, and the common reflection, that “delays are dangerous,” act as spurs upon my resolution; and since Heaven hath not created, nor hell ever seen an object that could strike me with terror and consternation—go, Sancho, saddle Rozinante, prepare the queen’s palfrey, and get ready your own ass, while we take leave of the constable and these noble personages, and set forward on our journey, without loss of time.’
Here Sancho, who was present all the time, shook his head, saying, ‘Ah, master, master! there are more tricks in town than you dream of; with submission to the honourable lappets be it spoken.’—‘What tricks can there be either in town or city, that can redound to my discredit, rascal?’ cried the knight. ‘Nay, if your worship be in a passion,’ replied the squire, ‘I will keep my tongue within my teeth, and not mention a syllable of what, as a trusty squire and faithful servant, I am bound to reveal to my master.’—‘Say what thou wouldst,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘so thy words have no tendency to make me afraid; for in being susceptible of fear, thou shewest the baseness of thy own character, as I, in being proof against all sorts of terror, preserve the dignity of mine.’—‘As I am a sinner to God,’ cried Sancho, ‘that is not the case; but this I know for truth and positive certainty, that this lady, who calls herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more a queen than my mother; for if she were what she pretends to be, she would not be nuzzling into a corner with one of this company, at every snatch of an opportunity.’
Dorothea’s face was overspread with a blush, at these words of Sancho; for, sooth to say, her husband Don Fernando had several times, as he thought unperceived, made free with her lips, as earnest of that reward his affection deserved; and in so doing, she was observed by Sancho, who thought that such condescension in her looked more like the behaviour of a courtezan than that of such a mighty princess; so that she neither could nor would answer one word to this charge, but suffered him to proceed in these words: ‘This, dear master, I make bold to mention; because, if after we have travelled the Lord knows how far, and passed many weary days and bitter nights, he that is taking his recreation in this inn should gather the fruit of all our labour; we need not be in such a perilous hurry to saddle Rozinante, prepare the palfrey, and get ready the ass; but had better remain in peace where we are; and, as the saying is, “While we enjoy our meal, let every harlot mind her spinning-wheel.”’
Gracious Heaven! what a torrent of indignation entered the breast of Don Quixote, when he heard these indecent expressions of his squire: such, I say, was the rage that took possession of his faculties, that with a faltering voice and stammering tongue, while his eyes flashed lightning, he exclaimed, ‘O villainous, inconsiderate, indecent and ignorant peasant! thou foul-mouthed, unmannerly, insolent, and malicious slanderer! darest thou utter such language against these honourable ladies in my presence? darest thou entertain such disgraceful and audacious ideas in thy confused imagination? Get out of my sight, monster of nature, depository of lyes, cupboard of deceit, granary of knavery, inventor of mischief, publisher of folly, and foe to that respect which is due to royalty; go, nor presume to see my face again, on pain of my highest displeasure!’ so saying, he pulled up his eye-brows, distended his cheeks, looked round him, and with his right-foot stamped violently upon the floor, in consequence of the wrath that preyed upon his intrails.
Sancho was so shrunk and terrified at these words and furious gestures, that he would have been glad, if the earth had opened that instant under his feet and swallowed him up; and not knowing what else to do, he sneaked off from the presence of his incensed master: but the discreet Dorothea, who was so well acquainted with Don Quixote’s humour, in order to appease his indignation, accosted him thus; ‘Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, let not your wrath be kindled by the nonsense which your good squire hath uttered, for, perhaps, he might have had some sort of reason for what he said; and as from his good understanding and Christian conscience, he cannot be suspected of a design to bear false witness against any person whatever, it is to be supposed, and indeed I firmly believe, that every thing in this castle, as you, Sir Knight, have observed, being conducted by means of inchantment, Sancho, through that diabolical medium, must have seen what he affirms, so much to the prejudice of my honour and reputation.’—‘I swear by Almighty God!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘that your highness hath hit upon the true cause! and the eyes of that poor sinner, Sancho, have been fascinated by some delusive vision, of what could not possibly be real; for, unless he had been misled by inchantment, such is the innocence and simplicity of that miserable wretch, that I know he neither could nor would invent a slander against any living soul.’—‘That certainly is, and shall be the case,’ said Don Fernando; ‘for which reason, Signior Don Quixote ought to pardon and restore him to the bosom of his favour, Sicut erat in principio, before those illusions impaired his understanding.’
The knight promised to forgive him accordingly; upon which the curate went in quest of Sancho, who came in with great humility, and falling on his knees, begged leave to kiss his master’s hand; this favour was granted by Don Quixote, who also gave him his benediction, saying, ‘Thou wilt now, son Sancho, be convinced of the truth of what I have so often told thee, that all things in this castle are performed by the power of inchantment.’—‘I believe so too,’ replied the squire, ‘except in the affair of the blanketting, which really happened in the ordinary course of things.’—‘Thou must not imagine any such thing,’ answered the knight; ‘for had that been the case, I should have revenged thy cause at the time, and even now would do thee justice; but neither at that time nor now, could I, or can I find any persons to chastise as the cause of thy disaster.’
The company being desirous of knowing the affair of the blanket, the landlord gave a very minute detail of Sancho’s capering, to the no small diversion of all present, except the squire himself, who would have been very much out of countenance, had not the knight assured him anew, that the whole was effected by inchantment; though the folly of Sancho never rose to such a pitch, but that he firmly believed, without the least mixture of doubt or delusion, that his blanketting had been performed by persons of flesh and blood, and not by phantoms or imaginary beings, according to the opinion and affirmation of his master.
Two days had this illustrious company already passed at the inn, from whence thinking it now high time to depart, they concerted matters in such a manner, as that, without putting Dorothea and Don Fernando to the trouble of returning with Don Quixote to the place of his habitation, in order to carry on the scheme concerning the restoration of Queen Micomicona, the curate and barber were enabled to execute their design of carrying him to his own house, where endeavours might be used for the cure of his disorder. In consequence of this plan, they agreed with the master of an ox waggon, who chanced to pass that way, for transporting the knight in the following manner; having made a sort of wooden cage, capacious enough to hold Don Quixote at his ease, Don Fernando, with his companions, the servants of Don Lewis, together with the troopers and innkeeper, by order and direction of the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in one shape, some in another, so as to appear, in Don Quixote’s eyes, quite different from the people he had seen in the castle. Thus equipped, they entered, with all imaginable silence, into the chamber where he lay asleep and fatigued with the toil he had undergone in the skirmishes already described; and laying fast hold on him, while he securely enjoyed his ease, without dreaming of such an accident, tied both his hands and feet so effectually, that when he waked, in surprize, he could neither move, nor do any other thing but testify his wonder and perplexity at the sight of such strange faces. He then had recourse to what his distempered imagination continually suggested, and concluded that all these figures were phantoms of that inchanted castle; and that he himself was, without all question, under the power of incantation, seeing he could not even stir in his own defence; and this conceit was exactly foreseen by the curate, who was author of the whole contrivance. The only person of the whole company who remained unaltered, both in figure and intellect, was Sancho; who, though his lack of understanding fell very little short of his master’s infirmity, was not so mad but that he knew every one of the apparitions, though he durst not open his mouth, until he should see the meaning of this assault and capture of the knight, who likewise expected, in silence, the issue of his own misfortune.
Having brought the cage into his apartment, they inclosed him in it, and fixed the bars so fast, that it was impossible to pull them asunder; then taking it on their shoulders, in carrying it out, they were saluted by as dreadful a voice as could be assumed by the barber (I do not mean the owner of the pannel) who pronounced these words; ‘O Knight of the Rueful Countenance! afflict not thyself on account of thy present confinement, which is necessary towards the more speedy accomplishment of that great adventure in which thy valour hath engaged thee; and which will be atchieved when the furious Manchegan lion is coupled with the white Tobosian dove, their lofty necks being humbled to the soft matrimonial yoke: from which unheard-of conjunction, the world shall be blessed with courageous whelps, who will imitate the tearing talons of their valiant sire; and this will happen, ere the pursuer of the fugitive nymph shall have twice performed his visit through the resplendent constellations, in his natural and rapid course.—And O! thou the most noble and obedient squire that ever wore sword in belt, beard on chin, or smell in nostril, be not dismayed nor discontented at seeing the flower of knight-errantry thus carried off before thine eyes; for, if it please the Creator of this world, soon shalt thou be so exalted and sublimed, as that thou wilt not even know thyself; neither shalt thou be defrauded of the fruit of those promises which thy worthy lord has made in thy behalf; and I assure thee, in the name of the sage Fibberiana[115], that thy salary shall be faithfully paid, as in effect thou wilt see; follow, therefore, the footsteps of the valiant and inchanted knight; for it is necessary that you should proceed together to the end of your career; and as I am not permitted to declare myself more explicitly, I bid you heartily farewel, and will return I well know whither.’ Towards the end of this prophecy, he raised his voice to the highest pitch, and then sunk it gradually to such a faint and distant tone, that even those who were privy to the joke, were tempted to believe what they had heard.
Don Quixote remained very much comforted by this prophecy, the meaning of which he no sooner heard than comprehended; interpreting the whole into a promise, that he should one day see himself joined in the just and holy hands of matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose fortunate womb would proceed those whelps (meaning his sons) which would perpetuate the glory of La Mancha. In this persuasion, therefore, and firm belief, he raised his voice, and heaving a profound sigh, replied, ‘O thou! whosoever thou art, whose prognostication sounds so favourably in mine ears, I beg thou wilt, in my name beseech the sage inchanter who takes charge of my affairs, that he will not leave me to perish in the confinement which I now suffer, until I shall have seen the accomplishment of those joyful and incomparable promises which thou hast uttered in my behalf. So shall I glory in the hardships of this prison, and bear with pleasure these chains with which my limbs are fettered; and instead of comparing the boards on which I lie, to the rough, uncomfortable field of battle, consider them as the soothing down of the most happy and luxurious marriage-bed. With respect to the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I confide in his virtue and affection, which will not allow him to forsake me either in prosperity or adversity; for should his evil fortune, or my unhappy fate, hinder me from bestowing upon him the island, or some equivalent, according to my promise; at least, he shall not lose his wages, specified and bequeathed to him in my will, that is already made; a recompence which, though proportioned to my own slender ability, comes far short of his great and faithful services.’
Here the squire bowed in the most respectful manner, and kissed both his hands, as he could not make his compliments to one of them apart, they being fast bound together. Then the apparitions taking the cage upon their shoulders, carried it to the waggon, in which it was immediately fixed.
Don Quixote seeing himself thus encaged, and placed upon a cart, could not help saying, ‘Many very grave histories have I read, concerning knights-errant; but never did I read, see, or hear, that inchanted knights were transported in this manner, at such a pace as these lazy, slow-footed animals, seem to promise; for they used always to be carried through the air with surprizing swiftness, wrapped up in some dark and dusky cloud, or in a fiery chariot, or mounted on a hypogriff, or some such creature; so that, before God! I am utterly confounded at my own fate, in being thus transported on a waggon drawn by oxen. But, perhaps, the chivalry and inchantments of this age follow a different path from that which was pursued of old; and as I am a new knight on the face of the earth, and the first who revived the long-forgotten order of errantry, perhaps they might have also newly invented other kinds of incantation, and other methods of conveying those whom they inchant.—What is thy opinion of the matter, son Sancho?’—‘I know not what my opinion is,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am not so well read in the scriptures of errantry as your worship; but, for all that, I will venture to affirm, aye and swear to it, that these apparitions who stroll about us, are not altogether catholick.’—‘Catholick! my stars[116]!’ answered the knight, ‘how can they be catholick, when they are all devils, who have assumed fantastical shapes, and come hither on purpose to perform this deed, and leave me in my present situation? But that thou mayest be convinced of the truth of what I alledge[117], endeavour to touch and feel them, and thou wilt perceive that they have no other bodies but forms of condensed air consisting of nothing but mere semblance.’—‘’Fore God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘I have made that trial already, and that same devil who goes about so busy, is well provided with good substantial flesh, and has another property widely different from what is reported of evil spirits, all of whom, they say, stink of brimstone and other bad smells; whereas, he is so well scented with amber, that you may perceive it at the distance of half a league.’ Sancho made this remark on Don Fernando, who being a man of fashion, probably wore scented linen. ‘Marvel not at that circumstance, friend Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘for thou must know that devils are a set of very sagacious beings; and although they bring smells along with them, they themselves being spirits, can produce no smell; or if any odour proceeds from them, it cannot be agreeable, but rather stinking and unwholesome, because they carry their hell about them wheresoever they are, and their torments admit of no kind of alleviation; now, sweet smells being agreeable and delicious, cannot possibly proceed from beings which are productive of nought but evil; therefore, if in thy opinion that devil smells of amber, either thy senses are perverted, or he wants to impose upon thy understanding, by making thee believe that he is not an inhabitant of hell.’
Don Fernando and Cardenio overhearing this dialogue between the master and the squire, were afraid of Sancho’s stumbling upon the discovery of their whole plot, in which he seemed already to have made great progress, therefore determined to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside, ordered him to saddle Rozinante, and put the pannel on Sancho’s ass. This talk he performed with great dispatch, while the curate agreed to give the troopers so much a day for attending Don Quixote to the town where he lived. Cardenio having fastened the target to one side of the pummel of Rozinante’s saddle, and the bason to the other, made signs for Sancho to mount his ass, and lead his master’s steed by the bridle, and then stationed two of the troopers with their carbines on each side of the waggon. But before it began to move, the landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, came out to take leave of Don Quixote, feigning themselves extremely affected with his misfortune; upon which he said to them, ‘Weep not, worthy ladies; all these disasters are incident to those who chuse my profession; and if I were not subject to such calamities, I should not deem myself a renowned knight-errant; for these things never happen to knights of little fame and reputation, who are never regarded, scarce even remembered on the face of the earth. It is quite otherwise with the valiant, whose virtue and valour are envied by many princes and rivals, who endeavour by the most perfidious means to destroy them; but, nevertheless, virtue is so powerful, that of herself she will, in spite of all the necromancy possessed by the first inventor, Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every severe trial, and shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the heavens. Pardon me, beauteous ladies, if I have given you any disgust, through neglect or omission; for willingly and knowingly I never offended a living soul; and pray to God to deliver me from this prison, in which I am confined by some malicious inchanter; for, if I regain my liberty, the favours I have received from your courtesy in this castle, shall never escape my remembrance, but always be acknowledged with gratitude, service, and respect.’
While the knight made these professions to the ladies of the castle, the curate and barber took their leave of Don Fernando and his companions, the captain and his brother, and all the happy ladies, especially Dorothea and Lucinda; they embraced each other, and agreed to maintain a correspondence by letters; Don Fernando giving the curate a direction by which he might write to him an account of the knight’s future behaviour and fate, than which, he protested, nothing could yield him more pleasure; and promising, for his own part, to inform the priest of every thing which he thought would conduce to his satisfaction, relating to his own marriage, the baptism of Zorayda, the success of Don Lewis, and the return of Lucinda to her father’s house; the priest having assured him that he would obey his commands with the utmost punctuality, they embraced again, and repeated their mutual proffers of service. The innkeeper coming to the curate, put into his hand a bundle of papers which he said he had found in the lining of the portmanteau, along with the novel of the Impertinent Curiosity; and since the owner had not returned that way, he desired the priest to accept of them, for as he himself could not read, he had no occasion for such useless furniture: the curate thanked him for his present, which he immediately opened, and found written in the title-page, ‘Rinconete and Cortadilla, a novel[118];’ from hence he concluded, that since the Impertinent Curiosity was an entertaining story, this might also have some merit, as being probably a work of the same author; and on this supposition put it carefully up, intending to peruse it with the first convenient opportunity; then he and his friend the barber mounting their beasts, with their faces still disguised, that they might not be known by Don Quixote, jogged on behind the waggon. And the order of their march was this: first of all proceeded the cart, conducted by the driver, and guarded on each side by the troopers with their carbines, as we have already observed; then followed Sancho Panza upon his ass, leading Rozinante by the bridle; and in the rear of all came the curate and the barber, masked, and mounted on their trusty mules, with a grave and solemn air, marching no faster than the slow pace of the oxen would allow; while the knight sat within his cage, his hands fettered, and his legs outstretched, leaning against the bars, with such silence and resignation, that he looked more like a statue of stone than a man of flesh and blood. In this slow and silent manner had they travelled about a couple of leagues, when they arrived in a valley, which the waggoner thinking a convenient spot for his purpose, proposed to the curate that they should halt to refresh themselves, and let the oxen feed; but the barber was of opinion that they should proceed a little farther, to the other side of a rising ground, which appeared at a small distance, where he knew there was another valley better stored with grass, and much more agreeable than this in which the waggoner proposed to halt. The advice of Mr. Nicholas was approved, and they jogged on accordingly.
About this time the curate chancing to look back, perceived behind them six or seven men well mounted, who soon overtook them, as they did not travel at the phlegmatick pace of the oxen, but like people who rode on ecclesiastick mules, and were desirous of spending the heat of the day at an inn that appeared within less than a league of the waggon. These expeditious strangers coming up with our slow travellers, saluted them courteously; and one among them, who was actually a canon of Toledo, and master of those who accompanied him, observing the regular procession of the waggon, troopers, Sancho, Rozinante, the curate, and barber, and in particular Don Quixote encaged and secured as he was, could not help asking why and whither they were conveying that man in such a manner? though he had already conjectured, from the badges of the troopers, that he must be some atrocious robber or delinquent, the punishment of whom belonged to the holy brotherhood. One of the troopers to whom the question was put, answered, ‘Signior, the gentleman himself will tell you the meaning of his travelling in this manner; for our parts we know nothing at all of the matter.’ The knight, overhearing what passed, said to the strangers, ‘Gentlemen, if you are skilled and conversant in matters of knight-errantry, I will communicate my misfortune; otherwise there is no reason why I should fatigue myself with the relation.’
By this time the curate and barber, having perceived the travellers in conversation with the knight, came up in order to prevent their plot from being discovered, just as the canon had begun to answer Don Quixote in these words: ‘Truly, brother, I am better acquainted with books of chivalry than with the Summaries of Villalpando; so that if there be nothing else requisite, you may freely impart to me as much as you please.’—‘A God’s name, then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case, ‘you must know, Signior cavalier, that I am inchanted in this cage, through the envy and fraud of mischievous necromancers; for virtue is always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved by the righteous. A knight-errant I am, though none of those whose names Fame never enrolled in her eternal records; but of that number, whom maugre, and in despite of Envy herself, and all the magi whom Persia ever produced, with the brachmans of India, and gymnosophists of Ethiopia, will leave their names engraved on the temple of immortality, as examples and patterns to succeeding ages, by which all knights errant may see what steps they must follow, if they wish to attain the height and honourable summit of arms.’
Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Signior Don Quixote speaks no more than the truth: he is inchanted in that waggon, not on account of his own crimes or misdemeanors, but through the malice of those who are disgusted at virtue, and offended at valour. This, Signior, is the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, whose name perhaps you have heard, and whose valiant exploits and mighty atchievements will be engraved on durable brass, and carved in eternal marble, in spite of the unwearied efforts of malice to cancel, and of envy to obscure them.’
The canon hearing such a stile proceed not only from the prisoner’s mouth, but also from the lips of him who was free, had well-nigh crossed himself with astonishment, and could not conceive what had befallen him, while his whole company were seized with the same degree of amazement: but Sancho Panza, who was near enough to hear what passed, being willing to undeceive the strangers, said to them, ‘Gentlemen, whether what I am going to say be ill or well taken, I must tell you the case is this: my master Don Quixote is no more inchanted than the mother that bore me; he enjoys his right wits, eats, drinks, and does his occasions, like other men, and as he himself was wont to do before he was encaged; now, if this be the truth of the matter, how can any man persuade me that he is inchanted? since I have heard divers persons observe, that those who were inchanted neither eat, sleep, nor speak; whereas my master, if he is not hindered, will talk like thirty barristers.’ Then turning to the curate, he proceeded thus: ‘Ah, Mr. Curate, Mr. Curate! you think I don’t know you, and imagine that I cannot dive into the meaning of these new inchantments, but you are mistaken; I know you very well for all your masking, and can smell out your plots, disguise them as you will; in short, as the saying is, Just are virtue’s fears, when envy domineers, and Bounty will not stay, where niggards bear the sway. Damn the devil! if it had not been for your reverence, my master by this time would have been married to the Princess Micomicona, and I should have been an earl at least; for less I could not expect, either from the generosity of my Lord of the Rueful Countenance, or from the greatness of my own services: but now I see the truth of what is commonly said, That fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel; and that those who were yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day. It grieves me on account of my poor wife and children, who, instead of seeing their father come home in the post of governor or viceroy of some land or kingdom, as they had great reason to expect, will behold him returning in the station of a common groom: all this I have observed, Mr. Curate, for no other reason but to prevail upon your fathership to make a conscience of the ill-treatment my master receives at your hands, and consider that God may call you to account in the next world for this captivity of my Lord Don Quixote, and for all the succours and benefits that are prevented by his being thus confined.’
‘Snuff me these candles!’ cried the barber, hearing the squire’s declaration; ‘why, sure, Sancho, you belong to your master’s fraternity; by the Lord! I find you ought to keep him company in his cage, and undergo the same sort of inchantment, so much are you infected with the humour of his chivalry: in an unhappy moment were you got with child by his promises, and in an evil hour did that island you harp so much upon take possession of your skull.’—‘I am not with child by any person whatever,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor will I suffer any king in Christendom to beget a child upon my body; for though I be a poor man, I’m an old Christian, and owe no man a farthing: if I long for an island, others long for things that are worse, every one being the son of his own works; the lowest mortal may come to be pope, much more governor of an island, especially as my master may gain more than he knows well what to do with. Mr. Barber, you had better think before you speak: there is something else to do than shaving of beards, and one Pedro may differ from another[119]; this I say because we know one another, and you must not think to palm false dice upon me: with regard to the inchantment of my master, God knows the truth, and there let it lie; for, as the saying is, The more you stir it, the more it will—you know what.’ The barber durst not make any reply, lest Sancho’s simplicity should discover what he and the curate were so desirous of concealing; and the priest being under the same apprehension, desired the canon to ride on with him a little before the waggon, promising to disclose the mystery of the encaged knight, with other particulars that would yield him some diversion: the canon put on accordingly with his servants, listening attentively to every thing the curate was pleased to communicate concerning the rank, employment, madness, and manners, of Don Quixote; for he briefly recounted the cause and beginning of his disorder, with the whole progress of his adventures, until he was secured in the cage by their contrivance, that they might carry him home to his own house, and endeavour to find some cure for his distemper.
The canon and his servants were astonished anew at hearing the strange story of Don Quixote; which being finished, the Toledan replied, ‘Truly, Mr. Curate, I am firmly persuaded that those books of chivalry are very prejudicial in the commonwealth; for though I have been induced by a false taste and idle curiosity to read the beginning of almost every one that hath been printed, I never could prevail upon myself to read any one of them from the first to the last page; because, in my opinion, they are all of the same stamp, without any essential difference. And, indeed, that kind of composition seems to fall under that species of writing called the Milesian Fables, which are no other than extravagant tales calculated for mere amusement, without any tendency to instruction; on the contrary, the scope of your apologues is to convey instruction and delight together. Now, though the principal intention of those books is to delight and entertain the reader, I do not see how they can answer that end, being, as they are, stuffed with such improbable nonsense; for the pleasure that the soul conceives, is from the beauty and harmony of those things which are contemplated by the view, or suggested by the imagination; so that we can receive no pleasure from objects that are unnatural and deformed. And what beauty, symmetry, or proportion, can be observed in a book containing the history of a youth of seventeen, who with one back-stroke cuts through the middle a giant like a tower, with as much ease as if he had been made of paste; and in the description of a battle, after having observed that there are no less than a million of combatants on the side opposite to that which the hero of the piece espouses, we must, in despite of common-sense, believe, that such a knight obtained the victory by the single valour of his invincible arm. Then, how shall we account for the confidence with which some queen, empress, or orphan heiress, throws herself into the protection of an unknown knight-errant? What mind, if not wholly barbarous and uncultivated, can be pleased with an account of a huge tower full of knights sailing upon the sea like a ship before the wind; being overnight upon the coast of Lombardy, and next morning arrived in the dominions of Prester John in the Indies, or in some other country which Ptolemy never discovered, nor Marcus Polus ever saw? If to this observation it be answered, that the authors of those books do not pretend that the stories they contain are true, and therefore they are under no necessity of adhering to such niceties of composition; I reply, that fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth, and agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears, and the doubtful credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such fables ought to be suited to the understanding of those who read them, and written so as that by softening impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the mind in suspense, they may surprize, agreeably perplex, and entertain, creating equal admiration and delight; and these never can be excited by authors who forsake probability and imitation, in which the perfection of writing consists. I have never as yet seen in any book of chivalry an entire body of a fable, with all its members so proportioned, as that the middle corresponds with the beginning, and the end is suitable to both; on the contrary, one would think the author’s intention is commonly to form a chimera or monster, instead of a figure well proportioned in all its parts. Besides, their stile is usually harsh, their atchievements incredible, their amours lascivious, their courtesy impertinent, their battles tedious, their dialogue insipid, their voyages extravagant, and, in short, the whole void of all ingenuity of invention; so that they deserve to be banished as useless members from every Christian commonwealth.’
The curate, who had listened with great attention, hearing the canon talk so sensibly, looked upon him as a man of excellent understanding, and assented to every thing he said; observing, that, in consequence of his being of the same opinion, and of the grudge he bore to such books of chivalry, he had burned a great number of those that belonged to Don Quixote. He then gave him a detail of the scrutiny which had been made, distinguishing such as he spared from those that he condemned to the flames.
The traveller laughed heartily at this account of such an extraordinary trial, saying, that notwithstanding what he had advanced to the disadvantage of such books, there was one thing in them which he could not but approve; namely, the subject they presented for a good genius to display itself, opening a large and ample field in which the pen might at leisure expatiate in the description of shipwrecks, tempests, battles, and encounters; painting a valiant general with all his necessary accomplishments, sage, and penetrating into the enemy’s designs, eloquent and effectual either in persuading or dissuading his soldiers, ripe in council, prompt in execution, and equally brave in standing or in giving an assault. One while recounting a piteous tragical story, at another time describing a joyful and unexpected event; here, a most beautiful lady, endued with virtue, discretion, and reserve; there, a Christian knight, possessed of courtesy and valour; in the third place, an outrageous boasting barbarian; and in a fourth, a polite, considerate, gallant prince; not forgetting to describe the faith and loyalty of vassals, together with the grandeur and generosity of great men. The author may also shew himself an astrologer, geographer, musician, and well skilled in state-affairs; nay, if he be so minded, he will sometimes have an opportunity of manifesting his skill in necromancy and magick; he may represent the cunning of Ulysses, the piety of Æneas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the perfidy of Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the liberality of Alexander, the ability of Cæsar, the clemency and candour of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and finally, all those qualifications which constitute the perfection of an illustrious hero; sometimes uniting them in one, sometimes dividing them into several characters: and the whole being expressed in an agreeable stile and ingenious invention, that borders as near as possible upon the truth, will doubtless produce a web of such various and beautiful texture, as when finished, to display that perfection which will attain the chief end and scope of such writings; which, as I have already observed, is to convey instruction mingled with delight. Besides, the unlimited competition of such books gives the author opportunities of shewing his talents in epicks, lyricks, tragedy, and comedy, and all the different branches of the delicious and agreeable arts of poetry and rhetorick; for epicks may be written in prose as well as verse.
‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, ‘what you have observed, is extremely just, and therefore those authors deserve the greater reprehension, who have composed such books, without the least regard to good sense or the rules of art, by which they might have conducted their plans, and rendered themselves as famous in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are now in verse.’—‘I myself,’ replied the canon, ‘have been tempted to write a book of chivalry, observing all the maxims and precautions I have now laid down; nay, to tell you the truth, no less than a hundred sheets of it are already written; and, in order to try if my own opinion of it was well founded, I have communicated my performance to a great many people who are passionately fond of that kind of reading; not only men of learning and taste, but also ignorant persons, who chiefly delight in extravagant adventures; and I have been favoured with the agreeable approbation of them all: nevertheless, I have not proceeded on the work; because, I not only thought it foreign to my profession, but likewise concluded, that the world abounds much more with fools than people of sense; and though an author had better be applauded by the few that are wise, than laughed at by the many that are foolish, I was unwilling to expose myself to the uninformed judgment of the arrogant vulgar, whose province it principally is to read books of this kind. But what contributed most to my laying aside the pen, and indeed all thoughts of bringing the work to a conclusion, was a reflection I made upon the comedies of the present age. “If,” said I to myself, “our modern plays, not only those which are formed upon fiction, but likewise such as are founded on the truth of history, are all, or for the greatest part, universally known to be monstrous productions, without either head or tail, and yet received with pleasure by the multitude, who approve and esteem them as excellent performances, though they are far from deserving that title; and if the authors who compose, and the actors who represent them, affirm, that this and no other method is to be practised, because the multitude must be pleased; that those which bear the marks of contrivance, and produce a fable digested according to the rules of art, serve only for entertainment to four or five people of taste, who discern the beauties of the plan, which utterly escape all the rest of the audience; and that it is better for them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than starve upon reputation with the few.”—“At this rate,” said I, “if I should finish my book, after having scorched every hair in my whiskers, in poring over it, to preserve those rules and precepts already mentioned, I might fare at last, like the sagacious botcher, who sewed for nothing, and found his customers in thread[120].” I have sometimes endeavoured to persuade the players, that they were mistaken in their maxims; and that they would bring more company to their house, and acquire much more reputation, by representing regular comedies, than such absurd performances; but I always found them so obstinately bigotted to their own fancies, that no evidence or demonstration could alter their opinion in the least. I remember, I once said to one of these pragmatick fellows, “Don’t you recollect, that a few years ago, three tragedies were acted, composed by a celebrated poet of this kingdom; and that they raised admiration, pleasure, and surprize, in all who saw them exhibited, gentle as well as simple, ignorant as well as learned, and brought more money to the actors than thirty of the best that have since appeared?”—“Doubtless,” answered the player, “you mean Isabella, Phillis, and Alexandria.”—“The very same,” said I; “and pray take notice, whether or not they are composed according to rule, or failed to please every body, because they were regular? Wherefore, the fault does not lie in the multitude’s demanding absurdities, but in those who can represent nothing else; for there is nothing absurd in the play of Ingratitude Revenged, nor in Numantia, the Merchant Lover, the Favourable Female Foe, nor in some others which are composed by poets of genius, to their own reputation, and the advantage of those who represented them.” I made use of many more arguments, by which he seemed to be confuted, though not so much satisfied or convinced, as to retract his erroneous opinions.’
‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, interrupting him in this place, ‘the subject you have touched upon awakes in me an old grudge I have bore to our modern plays, even equal to that I entertain against books of chivalry. Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirrour of life, the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas, those that are represented in this age, are mirrours of absurdity, exemplars of folly, and pictures of lewdness; for sure nothing can be more absurd in a dramatick performance, than to see the person, who in the first scene of the first act, was produced a child in swaddling-cloaths, appear a full grown man with a beard, in the second; or to represent an old man active and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a footman eloquent, a page a counsellor, a king a porter, and a princess a scullion. Then what shall we say concerning their management of the time and place, in which the actions have or may be supposed to have happened? I have seen a comedy, the first act of which was laid in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third was finished in Africa; nay, had there been a fourth, the scene would have shifted to America; so that the fable would have travelled through all the four divisions of the globe. If imitation be the chief aim of comedy, how can any ordinary understanding be satisfied with seeing an action that passed in the time of King Pepin and Charlemagne, ascribed to the Emperor Heraclius, who being the principal personage, is represented, like Godfrey of Bulloign, carrying the cross into Jerusalem, and making himself master of the holy sepulchre; an infinite number of years having passed between the one and the other. Or, when a comedy is founded upon fiction, to see scraps of real history introduced, and facts misrepresented both with regard to persons and times; not with any ingenuity of contrivance, but with the most manifest and inexcusable errors and stupidity; and what is worst of all, there is a set of ignorant pretenders, who call this the perfection of writing; and that every attempt to succeed by a contrary method is no other than a wild-goose chace[121]. Again, if we consider those plays that are written on divine subjects, how many false miracles do they contain? how many apocryphal events misunderstood by the author, who frequently confounds the operations of one saint with those of another? Nay, in prophane subjects, they have the assurance to work miracles, for no other respect or consideration, but because they think such a miracle will make a very decent appearance in such a place; and, as they term it, attract the admiration of the vulgar, and bring them in crowds to the play: but all this redounds to the prejudice of truth, the contempt of history, and scandal of our Spanish wits; so that the authors of other nations, who punctually observe the unities of the drama, conclude that we are barbarous and ignorant, from our absurd and preposterous productions. Neither is it a sufficient excuse to say, that the intent of all well-governed commonwealths, in permitting publick plays to be acted, is to entertain the common people with some honest recreation, in order to divert those bad humours which idleness usually engenders; and that, since this end is answered by any play whatever, either good or bad, there is no occasion to cramp and limit the authors or actors to the just laws of composition; the purpose of the legislature being, as I have said, accomplished without any such restriction. To this suggestion I answer, that the same end, without any sort of comparison, will be much better answered by good than bad comedies; for, after having seen an artful and well-digested play represented, the hearer will go away, delighted with the comic parts, instructed by the serious, and agreeably surprized with the incidents; collecting information from the dialogue, precaution from the deceits of the fable, experience from the examples exhibited, affection for virtue, and indignation for vice. All these sensations, I say, will a good comedy excite in the spectator’s mind, let it be never so stupid and uncultivated; for of all impossibilities, it is the most impossible, that a comedy, thus perfect in all its parts, should not yield more entertainment, satisfaction, and delight, than one that is defective in each particular, as the greatest part of our modern pieces are. Neither is this want of correctness always to be laid to the author’s charge; for there are some poets among us who are perfectly well acquainted with the rules of writing, and could easily avoid any such errors of composition; but as their pieces are made for sale, they say, and it is very true, that the players would not purchase them, if they were of any other stamp; so that the author is fain to accommodate himself to the demand of the actor who pays him for his work. The truth of this observation evidently appears in a great number of comedies which have been composed by a most happy genius of these kingdoms[122], with so much wit, pleasantry, elegance of versification, genteel dialogue, sententious gravity, and finally, with such elocution and sublimity of stile, that the whole world resounds with his fame; yet in suiting himself to the false taste of the actors, he hath not been able to bring them all to the requisite point of perfection. Others again are so inconsiderate in their productions, that after representation, the players have been frequently obliged to fly and abscond for fear of chastisement, on account of having exhibited something to the prejudice of royal heads, or dishonour of noble families; now all these inconveniences, with many more that I do not chuse to mention, might be prevented, if there was at court some person of taste and learning, appointed to examine every dramatick performance before its appearance on the stage; and this precaution should affect not only the plays composed in Madrid, but all pieces whatever to be represented within the monarchy of Spain; for, without the approbation of this licencer, signed and sealed, no magistrate should allow any production to be acted within the bounds of his jurisdiction. In consequence of this expedient the actors would take care to submit every play to the censure of the examiner, that they might afterwards represent them with safety; and the authors would employ more caution and study in their compositions, knowing that they must pass the rigorous examination of an intelligent judge; in this manner, good comedies would be produced, and the aim of such writings happily accomplished, to the entertainment of the people, and the credit of Spanish wits; while the actors would represent them with security and advantage, and the state be exempted from the trouble of chastising such delinquents. And if the same licencer, or any other person, were invested with the charge of examining books of chivalry, before they see the light, some performances of that sort would certainly appear in all the perfection you have described, enriching our language with the delightful and precious treasure of eloquence; while the old romances would be entirely eclipsed by the light of the new, that would furnish rational amusement, not only for the idle, but also for those who are most industrious; seeing it is impossible for the bow to continue always bent, or that feeble nature can subsist without some innocent recreation.’
Thus far had the canon and curate proceeded in their conversation, when the barber coming up to them, said to his townsman, ‘Mr. Licentiate, this is the place in which I proposed to halt, that the oxen might have fresh pasture in abundance.’ The curate approved of the hint, and communicated their intention to the canon, who resolved to stay with them, being invited by the situation of a delicious valley that presented itself to his view; that he might therefore enjoy the agreeable spot, together with the conversation of the curate, for whom he had already conceived an affection, and be more particularly informed of Don Quixote’s exploits, he ordered his domesticks to proceed to an inn, which was not far off, and bring from thence victuals sufficient for the whole company; for he was resolved to spend the afternoon where he was. One of the servants told him that the sumpter-mule, which by that time had reached the inn, carried provision enough, and that they should want nothing but barley for the beasts. ‘If that be the case,’ said the canon, ‘carry the rest to the inn, and bring the sumpter-mule hither.’
Meanwhile Sancho perceiving that he might now speak to his master, without being overheard by the curate and barber, of whom he was suspicious, approached the cage, and thus addressed himself to the knight: ‘Truly, Sir, in order to disburthen my conscience, I must tell you something concerning this same inchantment. These people, with masks on their faces, are no other than the curate and barber of our town, who, I verily believe, have contrived to carry you off in this manner, out of pure envy and spite, because your worship has got the heels of them in your famous atchievements: now, this being supposed, it follows as plain as the nose upon my face, that you are not inchanted, but rather fooled and bamboozled. As a proof of which, I desire to ask you one question, which if you answer, as I do believe you will, your worship may clap your ten fingers on the trick, and perceive that you are not inchanted, but that your whole brain is turned topsy-turvy.’—‘Ask what you will, son Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will freely answer, and satisfy your doubts to the best of my power; with regard to your saying, that those who attend us are our friends and townsmen, the curate and barber, so indeed they may appear to your eye; but that they are really and effectually so, you must by no means believe: on the contrary, you are to conclude, that if they resemble our friends, the inchanters, who can assume what form they please, have taken that appearance and resemblance, to mislead your credit, and bewilder your imagination in such a labyrinth of perplexity, that even the clue of Theseus would not extricate your thoughts. Besides, they may have done it with a view of confounding my judgment, that I might not be able to guess from what quarter my misfortune proceeds; for, if on the one hand you affirm that I am attended by the barber and curate of our town; and on the other hand, I find myself encaged; though I am sensible that nothing but supernatural force could suffice to confine me thus, what would you have me say or think, but that the manner of my inchantment exceeds every thing I have read in all the histories that treat of inchanted knights? Wherefore set your heart at rest, and take it for granted, that these are as far from being the persons you have mentioned, as I am from being a Turk. With respect to thy desire of asking me questions, I repeat my promise of answering, even if thy interrogation should last till to-morrow morning.’—‘God’s blessed mother!’ cried the squire, with great vociferation, ‘is it possible that your worship can be so thick-skulled and brainless, as not to perceive the truth of what I alledge, and see that this imprisonment and misfortune is more owing to malice than inchantment? But seeing it is so, I will venture to prove, beyond all contradiction, that you are no more inchanted than my ass. Tell me, therefore, as God shall deliver you from this mischance, and as you hope to see yourself in the arms of my Lady Dulcinea, when you least expect any such good luck—’ ‘Truce with thy conjuration,’ said the knight, ‘and ask what thou wilt, I have already promised to answer with the utmost punctuality.’—‘That is my request,’ answered Sancho, ‘and what I want to know is, that your worship will tell me, without eking or curtailing God’s precious truth, but in honest simplicity of heart as it ought to be, and always is told those who, like your worship, profess the occupation of arms, under the title of knight-errants—’ ‘I tell thee,’ cried the knight, interrupting him, ‘I will not in the least prevaricate. Dispatch then, Sancho, for truly I am quite tired with so many salvos, solicitations, and preambles.’—‘I make so bold,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am well aware of my master’s goodness and sincerity, which being as it were to the purpose, I ask (with reverence be it spoken) whether or not, since you have been confined, and as you suppose inchanted in this cage, your worship hath felt any motion or desire to undam either way, as the saying is?’—‘I do not know what you mean by undamming,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘you must be more explicit, Sancho, if you expect an answer to the purpose.’—‘Is it possible,’ said the squire, ‘that your worship should be ignorant of the meaning of the word undamming, which is the first thing the boys learn at school? Well, then, you must know, I wanted to ask if you never had any inclination to do that which nobody else can do for you?’—‘Now I understand thee, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘verily I have had divers calls of that nature, one of which is at present very importunate: pray fall upon some method to disembarrass me, for I believe all is not so sweet and clean as it ought to be.’