‘Ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘have I caught you at last? This is what I wanted to know with all my heart and soul: come on, Sir, there is no denying of what is commonly said, when any person is in the dumps, I know not what is the matter with such an one; he neither eats, drinks, nor sleeps, nor answers to the purpose, when he is spoke to; sure the man must be enchanted: from whence we are to conclude, that those who are inchanted neither eat, drink, sleep, nor do their natural occasions, as I have observed. But this is not the case with such as are disturbed with the inclination that your worship at present feels, drinking when they can get liquor, eating when they can lay hold on food, and giving plain answers to every question that is asked.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but I have already told thee, that there are different kinds of inchantment; and time may have so entirely altered the fashion, that those who are under the power of inchantment in this age, may, like me, retain the use of their faculties, though it was quite otherwise of old; so that there is no arguing or drawing consequences against the different practice of different times. I am sensible and certain of my being inchanted, and this is sufficient for the quiet of my conscience, which would give me great uneasiness if I had the least doubt about my fate, and allowed myself to be in this cage like an idle coward, deceitfully withholding my succour from a great number of the needy and oppressed, who at this very hour must be in the most absolute and extreme necessity, from the want of my aid and protection.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered the squire, ‘for your more abundant satisfaction, your worship, methinks, might try to escape from this prison; for my own part, I’ll be bound not only to give my assistance, but even to work your deliverance, and then you may endeavour to remount your trusty Rozinante, who trudges along as melancholy and sad as if he was inchanted also. This being performed, let us try our fate once more in quest of adventures; and if they do not turn out to our expectation, it will be time enough to return to the cage, in which I promise, on the faith of a true and loyal squire, to shut myself up with your worship, if perchance, through your ill fortune or my folly, this that I mention should not succeed.’—‘I am content to follow thy counsel, brother Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘and whenever thou shalt perceive a proper conjuncture for effecting my deliverance, I will implicitly obey thee in every thing, but thou wilt soon find thyself deceived in thy opinion of my mishap.’
This conversation between the knight-errant and the erring squire, lasted until they arrived at the place in which the curate, canon, and barber, who had already alighted, waited for them. The waggoner immediately unyoking his oxen, turned them loose in that verdant and delicious spot, the coolness of which was extremely inviting, not only to inchanted people like Don Quixote, but also to persons of intelligence and discretion like his squire, who besought the curate to let his master come out of the cage for a few minutes; because, without such permission, the prison would not be quite so clean as the decency of such a knight required. The curate, understanding what he meant, told him that he would willingly grant his request, were he not under some apprehension that his master, finding himself at liberty, would play one of his old pranks, and be gone where men should never see his face again. ‘I will be bound for his good behaviour,’ answered Sancho; ‘and I also,’ said the canon, ‘especially if he will promise, on the word of a knight, not to stir from our presence, until he shall have obtained our consent.’
‘I will,’ cried the knight (who overheard all that passed;) ‘the more so, as one, who, like me, is inchanted, cannot be at liberty to make use of his own person; for the inchanter can so utterly deprive him of all motion, that he shall not be able to stir from the place for three whole ages; and if he should make his escape, would whisk him back through the air in a twinkling.’ This being the case, he said they might very safely uncage him, especially as such indulgence would redound to the benefit of the whole company; for he protested that if they did not comply with his present necessities, he should be obliged to incommode their sense of smelling, unless they removed to a greater distance from the place of his confinement.
The canon, confiding in his word and honour, took him by the hands, tied as they were, and helped him to descend from his cage: then the knight, being infinitely rejoiced at his momentary deliverance, stretched every joint in his body, and going up to Rozinante, gave him a slap on the buttocks, saying, ‘I still hope in God and his blessed mother, thou flower and mirrour of steeds! that in a short time we shall both obtain our heart’s desire; thou prancing under the agreeable pressure of thy lord, and I mounted upon thy trusty back, exercising the employment for which Heaven sent me into the world.’ Having pronounced this apostrophe, he retired with Sancho to a remote place, from whence he returned much eased and comforted, and more desirous than ever of executing the project of his squire. The canon could not help gazing upon him, being struck with admiration at the strange unaccountable symptoms of his disorder; for in all his conversation and replies, he gave evident proofs of an excellent understanding, and never lost himself[123] except on the subject of chivalry, as we have formerly observed: he was therefore touched with compassion for his infirmity, and when the whole company were seated on the grass, waiting for the return of the sumpter-mule, addressed himself to the knight in this manner:
‘Is it possible, good Sir, that the idle and unlucky reading of books of chivalry can have so far impaired your judgment, as that you should now believe yourself inchanted, and give credit to other illusions of the same kind, which are as far from being true as truth is distant from falshood? Is it possible that the human understanding can suppose that ever this world produced that infinite number of Amadis’s, with the whole crowd of famous knights, so many emperors of Trebisond, Fleximarte’s of Hyrcania, palfreys, damsels, serpents, dragons, and giants; so many incredible adventures, inchantments of different kinds, battles, dreadful encounters, magnificence of apparel, enamoured princesses, squires created earls, witty dwarfs, billets, amorous expressions, valiant ladies, and finally, such extravagant events as are contained in books of knight-errantry? For my own part, when I read a performance of that sort, without reflecting that it is a legend of vanity and lyes, my imagination is a little amused; but as soon as I begin to consider it in the right point of view, I dash the volume against the wall, and would even commit it to the flames, (if I should chance to be near a fire) as a criminal richly deserving such punishment on account of its falshood and imposture, so contrary to nature, and bewildered from the track of common-sense, and as an inventor of new sects and preposterous ways of life, misleading and inducing the ignorant vulgar to believe the absurdities which it contains; nay, so presumptuous are such productions, as to disturb the minds of gentlemen of birth and education, as may be too plainly perceived by their effects upon you, Signior, whom they have reduced to such a pass as to make it necessary that you should be cooped up in a cage, and transported from place to place on a waggon, like a lion or tyger exhibited as a shew for money. Go to, Signior Don Quixote! have pity upon yourself, return into the bosom of discretion, and put those happy talents which Heaven hath been pleased to bestow upon you to a better use, employing your genius in other studies, which may redound to the increase of your honour, as well as to the good of your soul; or, if swayed by your natural inclination, you are still desirous of reading the histories of exploits and atchievements, you may have recourse to the book of Judges in the Holy Scripture, and there you will find real miracles of might, and actions equally valiant and true, Portugal produced a Viriatus, Rome a Cæsar, Carthage an Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a count Fernan Gonçales, Valencia a Cid, Andalousia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Paredes, Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vargas, Toledo a Garcilasso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon; the history of their valiant exploits will afford entertainment, instruction, surprize, and delight, to readers of the most sublime conception. Such study as this would be worthy of the good sense of Signior Don Quixote, who would thus become learned in history, enamoured of virtue, improved in worth, bettered in morals, brave without rashness, cautious without cowardice; while the whole would redound to the honour of God, his own particular emolument, and the renown of La Mancha, from whence I understand his family and origin is derived.’
Don Quixote listened with infinite attention to his harangue; and even after he perceived it was finished, looked stedfastly at the canon for some time, before he answered in these words: ‘Signior Hidalgo, if I am not mistaken, the scope of your discourse was to convince me that there never were knights-errant in this world; that all the books of chivalry are false, deceitful, unprofitable, nay mischievous, in a commonwealth; that I have been much to blame in reading, more so in believing, and most of all in imitating, the characters they describe, by following the most painful profession of knight-errantry; and, lastly, you deny that ever there was an Amadis, either of Gaul or Greece, or that any one of that vast number of knights recorded in those writings had any real existence.’—‘You have exactly summed up my allegations,’ said the canon. ‘You were likewise pleased to add,’ resumed the knight, ‘that such books had done me infinite prejudice, impaired my judgment, and reduced me to the necessity of being confined in a cage; and that I would do well to amend and alter my course of studies, and to use performances which contain more truth, instruction, and delight.’—‘That,’ said the canon, ‘was my precise meaning.’—‘Why, then,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘in my opinion the person impaired in his judgment, and inchanted, is no other than your worship, who have presumed to utter such blasphemies against an order so well received in the world, and established as truth, that he who like you denies it deserves the same punishment you inflicted upon those books that gave you disgust; for, to say that there never was such a person as Amadis, or any other of those adventurous knights with whom history abounds, is like an endeavour to persuade people that frost is not cold, that the sun yields no light, and the earth no sustenance. Will any earthly eloquence make a man believe, that the story of the infanta Floripes, and Guy of Burgundy, is false; or that of Fierabras, with the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the time of Charlemagne, and I vow to God is as true as that the sun shines at noon-day? If this be a lye, you may also affirm that there never was such an event as the Trojan war, nor such persons as Hector and Achilles, or the Twelve Peers of France, or Arthur King of England, who to this day survives in the likeness of a raven, and is every moment expected to reascend his throne. People may as well venture to say, that the history of Guarino Mesquino, and the suit of St. Grial, are pure fiction; and look upon the amours of Don Tristan and Queen Iseo, with those of Ginebra and Lancelot, as altogether apocryphal; though there are people who almost remember to have seen the Duenna Quintanona, who was the best wine-skinker in Great Britain: this is so true, that I myself have heard my grandmother by the father’s side often say, when she happened to see a Duenna with a reverend biggen[124], “Grandson, there is a person very like the Duenna Quintanona.” From whence I conclude, that she must either have known her personally, or at least seen some picture of that venerable matron. Then, who can deny the history of Peter of Provence and the fair Magalona, since, to this day, may be seen in the royal armoury the very peg that turned the wooden horse upon which the valiant Peter travelled through the air; by the same token, that it is something larger than the pole of a coach, and stands near the saddle of Babieca. Nay, at Roncevalles you may see Orlando’s horn, as big as a weaver’s beam. From all which circumstances we may justly infer, that the Twelve Peers, the Peters, the Cids, with all those who were called knights-errant, actually existed, according to the records of their fame; otherwise they may as well deny that the valiant Portuguese, Juan de Merlo, was a knight-errant; though it is well known, that he went to Burgundy and fought in the city of Ras, with the famous lord of Charne, called Monseigneur Pierre, and afterwards in the city of Basil, with Monseigneur Henrique de Remestan; gaining the victory in each of these combats, with abundance of honourable fame. Neither, I suppose, will they credit the defiance and adventures that were also atchieved in Burgundy, by those valiant Spaniards, Pedro Barba and Guttierre Quixada, (from whom I am lineally descended on the father’s side) who conquered the sons of the Count de St. Paul: nay, let them likewise refuse to own that Don Fernando de Guevara went in quest of adventures into Germany, where he fought with Messire George, a knight of the houshold to the Duke of Austria; and say that the justs and tournaments at Suero de Quinones, and the pass, were mere illusion, as well as the enterprizes of Monseigneur Lewis de Falses, against Don Gonçalo de Guzman, a Castilian knight, together with many other exploits performed by Christian warriors belonging to these and other foreign realms, so authentick and true, that (I repeat my asseveration) he who denies them is void of all reason and common sense.’
The canon was struck with admiration, when he heard Don Quixote utter such a medley of fiction and truth; and perceiving that he was intimately acquainted with every circumstance regarding and concerning the atchievements of knight-errantry, answered him in these words: ‘Signior Don Quixote, I cannot deny but what you have said is partly true, particularly that which regards the Spanish knights; I grant also that there was an order called the Twelve Peers of France, but cannot believe that they performed all those exploits recounted by archbishop Turpin; for the truth is, they were a set of knights chosen by the kings of France, under the title of the Twelve Peers, because they were all equal in point of virtue, rank, and valour; at least, if they were not, they ought to have been possessed of this parity of qualifications; for it was an association resembling the modern orders of St. Jago and Calatrava, which suppose, that every member is valiant, virtuous, and noble; and as we now say a knight of St. Juan or Alcantara, in those days they said a knight of the Twelve Peers; because those who professed that military order were equal in all respects, and twelve in number; that there were such persons as the Cid and Bernardo del Carpio, I make no question; but whether or not they performed all those exploits which are ascribed to them, is, I believe, extremely doubtful; with respect to the peg of Count Peter, which you say stands by the saddle of Babieca in the royal armoury, to my shame be it spoken, I am either so ignorant or short-sighted, that although I have seen the saddle, I could never observe the peg, large as you have been pleased to describe it.’—‘But there it certainly is,’ replied the knight; ‘and what makes it the more remarkable, it is said to be kept in a case of calves leather, that it may not rust.’—‘It may be so,’ said the canon; ‘but, by my holy orders! I do not remember to have seen any such thing; yet, granting it to be in that place, I am not therefore bound to believe the stories that are recounted of so many Amadis’s, and such a rabble of knights; nor is it reasonable, that a person of honour, like you, endowed with so many happy talents, should give credit to such extravagant rhodomontades as are related in the lying legends of knight-errantry.’
‘A good jest, truly,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that books printed with the licence of kings, and approbation of those who are appointed to examine them, read with universal delight, celebrated by great and small, rich and poor, knights and plebeians, the learned and illiterate; finally, by persons of all ranks and degrees whatever; should contain nothing but lyes; notwithstanding the appearance of truth which they maintain, in mentioning the father, mother, country, relations, condition, birth-place; and in giving an exact journal of the exploits peculiar to every individual knight; cease, therefore, good Sir, to vent such blasphemy, and believe that in this particular, I advise you to act according to the dictates of good sense: read them again, and you will see what pleasure you will reap for your pains; for what can be more entertaining than to see, as it were, before our eyes, a vast lake of boiling pitch, through which an infinite number of serpents, snakes, and alligators, with many other kinds of fierce and terrible creatures, are continually winding and writhing along; then to hear a most dismal voice that seems to issue from the middle of this pitchy pool, pronounce, “O knight, whosoever thou art, that now standest gazing at the dreadful lake, if thou wouldst enjoy the bliss that is concealed beneath these sable waves, display the valour of thy dauntless breast, and dart thyself amidst these black and burning billows; otherwise, thou art not worthy to behold the mighty wonders deposited and contained within the seven castles of the seven nymphs, that dwell below this sullen flood.” Scarce hath the sound of this dismal voice ceased to vibrate on his ear, when the knight, without the least hesitation, or reflecting upon the danger he incurs, nay, without putting off his heavy armour, but recommending himself to God and his mistress, plunges at once into the burning lake; and when he neither cares nor knows what will be his fate, finds himself in the midst of a delightful plain, by which the Elysian fields are infinitely excelled: there the heaven seems more transparent, and the sun shines with new lustre; the eye is entertained with an agreeable forest of tall and leafy trees, whose verdure delights the view; while the ear is regaled with the sweet and artless notes of an infinite number of little painted warblers that hop from bough to bough; here he perceives a brook, whose refreshing waters, clear as liquid chrystal, run murmuring on the yellow sand, and glistening pebbles, that emulate the purest pearls, and heaps of sifted gold.
‘In one place springs an artificial fountain adorned with variegated jasper and polished marble; in another rises a rustick grotto, in which the small shells of the mussel, and the white and yellow twisted domes of the snail, placed in beauteous disorder, and mixed with bits of shining chrystal and counterfeit emeralds, compose such an agreeable variety, that nature seems to be excelled by imitative art. In a third place, all of a sudden, appears a strong castle or magnificent palace, the walls of massy gold, the battlements of diamond, the gates of hyacinth, and, finally, the workmanship so admirable, as infinitely to excel the materials, which are no less than adamant, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, emeralds, and gold. Nay, after having thus feasted his eyes, there still remains for him to see a fair bevy of damsels coming out at the castle gate, dressed in such gay and splendid attire, that were I to describe it minutely, as it is represented in the history, I should never have done. Then she who appears the principal, takes by the hand the undaunted knight, who threw himself into the boiling-lake, and silently leading him into the rich castle or palace, strips him as naked as he was when his mother bore him, and bathes him in water of an agreeable temperature, then anoints his whole body with aromatick essences, and puts upon him a shirt of the finest lawn, all scented and perfumed; then comes another damsel, and throws over his shoulders a mantle, which, at least, is usually valued at the price of a whole city, or more. After all this ceremony, what a sight it is, when, as they relate, he is conducted into another hall, in which a table is furnished with such elegance as to excite his admiration and suspense! when they sprinkle upon his hands water distilled from amber and odoriferous flowers! when he is seated upon a chair of ivory, and attended by all those damsels, who serve him in amazing silence! when he is allured by such a variety of dishes, and so savourily cooked, that the appetite is confounded in its choice! Then to hear musick during his repast, without seeing the minstrel, or knowing from whence the sounds proceeds; and, after he has refreshed himself, and the table is uncovered, while he lolls at ease upon his chair, perhaps picking his teeth, according to custom, he is surprized with the sight of another young lady, much more beautiful than any of the former, who enters the hall, and sitting down by the knight, begins to tell him whose castle that is, and how she is inchanted within it, relating other circumstances which create wonder in him, and raise the admiration of those who read the story. I need not farther expatiate on this subject, since, from what hath been said, it plainly appears, that any part whatever of the history of any knight-errant whatever, must yield pleasure and surprize to any reader whatsoever. Believe me, therefore, good Sir, and as I have already hinted, take the trouble of reading those books, and you will see what effectual antidotes they are against melancholy, and how they improve the disposition, when it is bad. For my own part I can safely aver, that since I professed the order of knight errantry, I have been valiant, courteous, liberal, well-bred, generous, civil, daring, good-humoured, and a patient endurer of toils, captivities, and inchantment; and though I so lately found myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope, by the valour of this my arm, provided Heaven shall favour, and fortune cease to oppose me, in a few days to see myself sovereign of some kingdom, when I shall be enabled to demonstrate the gratitude and generosity which reside within my breast; for, truly, Signior, a poor man is incapable of exerting the virtue of liberality, let him possess it in never so eminent a degree; and that gratitude which is restrained to good-will alone, is like faith without works, no more than the ghost of virtue. Wherefore I wish fortune would speedily furnish me with an opportunity of making myself an emperor, that I may exercise the virtues of my heart, in bestowing benefits on my friends, especially on my poor squire Sancho Panza, one of the best men in the world, whom I intend to create an earl, in consequence of a promise which he obtained from me long ago, though I fear he wants capacity to manage his estate.’
These last words being overheard by Sancho, he said to his master, ‘Signior Don Quixote, I wish you would take the trouble to give me that same earldom, which is as firmly promised by your worship as expected by me, and I will undertake to find ability to manage it; or, if I should find myself at a loss, I have heard it often said, that there are certain persons who farm the estates of great noblemen at so much a year, and take charge of the whole, while the owner lolls at his ease, enjoying his income, without troubling his noddle about any other affairs. Now, I would live in the very same manner, minding the cares of this world as little as possible; but leaving off all sorts of business, enjoying my rents, like any duke, and let the world wag.’—‘Brother Sancho,’ said the canon, ‘that is to be understood only of the spending your income; but the lord of a great estate must have regard to the administration of justice, which requires ability, sound judgment, and principally an upright intention; for if this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and end will always be involved in error; and therefore Heaven usually assists the righteous intent of the simple, while it confounds the wicked aims of the cunning.’—‘I know nothing of these philosophies,’ answered the squire; ‘but this I know, that I wish to God I had this earldom, as soon as I should find understanding to manage it; for I have as big a soul as my neighbours, and as much body as he that has more; and would be as much a king in my own estate, as any he that wears a head: and so being, I would do what I pleased; and doing what I pleased, I should please myself; and pleasing myself, I should be satisfied; and in being satisfied, I should have nothing more to desire; and having nothing more to desire, there would be an end; so let the earldom come a God’s name! I wish we could see it, as one blind man said to another.’—‘These are no bad philosophies, as you call them, Sancho,’ said the canon; ‘but, for all that, there is much to be said on the subject of earldoms.’—‘I know not what more can be said,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for my own part, I do no more than follow the example transmitted to me by the great Amadis de Gaul, who created his squire earl of the Firm Island; and therefore I may, without scruple of conscience, bestow the same honour on Sancho Panza, who is one of the best squires that ever served knight-errant.’
The canon was amazed at the methodical madness of Don Quixote, manifested in his description of the Knight of the Lake; and in the impression which the false adventures of chivalry had made upon his imagination; neither was his wonder diminished, when he considered the folly of Sancho, who so ardently desired the possession of that island which his master had promised to give him, as the reward of his services.
By this time the canon’s servants had returned from the inn, with the sumpter-mule; and, instead of a table, spread a carpet on the green grass, under the shade of some trees, where the company seating themselves all round, went to dinner, that the waggoner might not lose the opportunity of such a convenient situation as we have already observed. While they thus enjoyed themselves, their ears were struck with a sudden noise, and the sound of a bell, issuing from the midst of some briars and thickets that surrounded the place where they sat; and immediately appeared a beautiful she-goat, her skin speckled with spots of white, black, and grey, followed by the goatherd; who, in his rustick dialect, called to her to stop and return to the fold. The fugitive goat trembling with affright, came towards the company, and there stopped, as if to implore their protection; while her keeper, seizing her by the horns, accosted her in these words, as if she had been possessed of sense and understanding; ‘Ah! you spotted wanton, what a rambler you have become of late; the wolves will feast upon you one day; what is the matter with you, my pretty child? Yet what else can it be but that you are a female, and consequently inconstant! a plague upon your disposition, and all those you resemble: return, return, my darling; and if you are not so happy, at least you will be more secure, in the fold among your companions! for if you, who ought to watch over and guide the rest, stray about in this imprudent manner, what must become of them?’
These words of the goatherd diverted those who heard them, especially the canon, who said to him, ‘I beseech you, brother, to pacify yourself, and be not in such a hurry to drive back your goat, which being a female, as you observe, will follow her natural disposition, in spite of all you can do to oppose it. Take this morsel, and assuage your choler with a cup of wine, and in the mean time the goat will repose herself.’
So saying, he presented to him, on the point of a fork, the hind-quarter of a cold rabbit, which was thankfully accepted by the goatherd; who having taken a long draught, and composed himself, said to the company, ‘Gentlemen, you must not take me for a simpleton, because I talk to this animal as if it were a rational creature; for really there is a mystery concealed beneath the words I have uttered. I am a peasant, ’tis true, yet not so rustick but that I know how to converse with men as well as beasts.’—‘I firmly believe what you say,’ replied the curate; ‘for I myself have experienced that the mountains produce learned men, and that philosophers are to be found within the shepherd’s cot.’—‘At least,’ resumed the goatherd, ‘the cottage may contain those who are warned by woeful experience; and to convince you feelingly that what I alledge is true, I, though undesired, and self-invited, saving the good pleasure of this good company, entreat a moment’s hearing, while I recount a true story, which will confirm what that gentleman,’ pointing to the curate, ‘and myself have observed.’
To this proposal Don Quixote replied, ‘As this affair seems to bear something of the shadow of an adventure, I for my part will gladly give you the hearing, brother, and so will all those gentlemen who are persons of taste, and lovers of curious novels, that surprize, delight, and entertain the sensible hearer, for I hope your story will certainly produce these agreeable effects: begin then, friend, we are all attention.’—‘By your leave,’ cried Sancho, ‘I will e’en betake myself with this piece of pasty to yonder brook, and lay in store for three days; for I have heard my master Don Quixote observe, that the squire of a knight-errant ought to eat as often and as much as he can; because they are frequently so bewildered in woods and forests, that it will take them six whole days to disengage themselves; and if a man’s belly or his bags be not well lined with provision, there he may stay, as he often does, till he withers into perfect mummy.’—‘You are in the right, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘go where you will, and eat as much as you please; for my own part, my grosser appetite is satisfied, and now I want refreshment for the mind, which I shall enjoy in listening to this honest countryman’s story.’—‘We shall all share in the repast,’ replied the canon, who intreated the peasant to perform his promise.
Then the goatherd gave the goat, which he held by the horns, two slaps on the buttocks, saying, ‘Lie down by my side, you speckled Nanny; we shall have time enough to return to the fold.’ The creature seemed to understand his meaning, for he was no sooner set than she lay down very quietly, and looking in his face, gave him to understand that she was attentive to what he was going to say; upon which he began his story in these words.
‘Three leagues from this valley stands a village, which though small, is one of the richest in all this country; and therein dwelt a farmer in great repute: and albeit respect follows worldly wealth, he was more beloved for his virtue than respected for his riches; but what he regarded as the best part of his good fortune, (as he himself was wont to say) was a daughter he had, of such exceeding beauty, rare discretion, modesty, and grace, that every one who saw and knew her, marvelled at the happy talents with which Heaven and nature had enriched her body and her soul. In the cradle she was handsome, and continually increased in beauty, till at the age of sixteen she was a most inchanting creature: the fame of her charms began to spread over all the neighbouring villages; but what need I say the neighbouring villages! it extended to distant cities, and even made its way into the king’s court, filling the ears of all sorts of people, who came from all parts to see her, as if she had been some great curiosity, or miracle-working image. Her father watched over her with great care, and she took great care of herself; for, truly, a maiden’s own prudent reserve is a better guard upon her conduct than all the bolts and spies, and padlocks upon earth. The father’s wealth, and the daughter’s beauty, moved a great many people, both of town and country, to demand her in marriage; but he, like one who has the disposal of a rich jewel, was perplexed in his mind, and could not determine in favour of any one of the infinite number that solicited his consent. Among the crowd of her suitors, I was one who conceived great and flattering hopes of success, because her father knew me to be his townsman, of an honest family, in the flower of my age, rich in wealth, and in point of understanding not very poor. She was also courted by another young man of our town, who was in every respect my equal; so that her father was perplexed, and wavered in his choice, because he thought his daughter would be well bestowed upon either of us; wherefore, in order to deliver himself from this suspence, he resolved to communicate our demands to Leandra, (for that is the name of this wealthy maiden, who hath made me miserable) and since we were equal in all qualifications, to refer the whole affair to the choice and decision of his beloved daughter. An example worthy to be followed by every father in the settlement of his children: not that I would have parents leave them to their own choice, in things that are manifestly wicked and base; but first propose a number of prudent schemes, out of which they may be allowed to fix upon that which is most to their liking. I know not to which of us Leandra gave the preference; this only I know, that her father put us off, on pretence of his daughter’s tender years, in general terms, which neither laid him under any obligation nor gave us any cause of complaint. I think proper to tell you, that I am called Eugenio, and my rival Anselmo, that you may be acquainted with the names of the persons principally concerned in this tragedy, which is still depending; though one may easily foresee, that it must have a melancholy end.
‘But, to return to my story: just about that time, there came to our town one Vincent de La Rosa, the son of a poor labouring man that lived in the village: this Vincent, who was just returned from being a soldier in Italy, and other foreign parts, had been carried away, when he was a boy about twelve years of age, by a captain that chanced to march through the town with his company; and now, after an absence of another dozen of years, he returned, in the garb of a soldier, pinked up in a thousand colours, and bedecked with a power of glass toys and slender-chains of steel. To-day he dressed himself out in one gay suit, to-morrow in another: but all his finery and gewgaws were of little weight or value. The labouring people, who are naturally malicious, nay, when idleness gives them opportunity, downright malice itself, observed and took an exact account of all his ornaments and fine apparel, and found that he had no more than three suits of different colours, with garters and hose; but he found means to disguise them by such inventions, that one who had not been at the pains to detect him, would have sworn that he had appeared in more than ten different dresses, and in upwards of twenty plumes of feathers; and you must not think it impertinent or foolish in me to give you this account of his cloaths, because they bear a considerable share in the story. He used to seat himself upon a stone, under a tall poplar that grew in our market-place, and there keep us all gaping around him at the exploits which he recounted; if you would take his word for it, there was not a country on the face of the earth, which he had not seen, nor a battle in which he had not served: he had killed a greater number of Moors than ever Tunis or Morocco produced; and, by his own account, fought more single combats than were ever maintained by Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia de Paredez, and a thousand more whom he named, gaining the victory in each, without losing one single drop of his blood; then he would shew the marks of wounds, which though not to be distinguished, he gave us to understand were the effects of musket-shot he had received in different actions and encounters; finally, with incredible arrogance, he used to thou his own equals, even those who knew his extraction, and say that his own arm was his father, his family the work of his own hands, and being a soldier, he owed nothing even to the king himself: with all his boasting, he knew something of musick, and could thrum upon the guittar so as that some people said he made it speak. But his talents did not end here; for he was also a piece of a poet, and wrote ballads a league and a half long, upon every silly trifle that happened in the village. Well, then, this soldier whom I have described, this Vincent de La Rosa, this braggadocio, this gallant, this musician, and poet, was often seen and observed by Leandra from the window of her apartment, that looked towards the market-place. She was captivated by the tinsel of his gaudy cloaths, and inchanted by his ballads; for he gave away twenty copies of each that he composed; the feats he related of himself, reached her ears: in short, (as the devil himself must certainly have ordained) she fell in love with him, even before he had the presumption to make any attempt upon her heart; and, as in the affairs of love every thing is easily accomplished by the man who is already in possession of the woman’s affection, Leandra and Vincent soon came to a right understanding; and before any one of her numerous admirers had the least inkling of her inclination, she had already gratified it, by leaving the house of her loving and indulgent father, (mother she had none) and running away with the soldier, who triumphed in that enterprise, and more effectually than in any one he had ever undertaken.
‘This event filled not only the whole village, but likewise all who heard of it, with admiration: I, for my part, was amazed, Anselmo astonished, the father overwhelmed with sorrow, and the relations with shame. Justice, however, being solicited, the troopers immediately took the road, examined every copse and thicket thereabouts, and after a search of three days, found the giddy Leandra in the cave of a mountain, naked to the smock, and stripped of a great quantity of money and precious jewels, which she had carried off when she made her escape. When she was brought back to the presence of her afflicted father, and questioned about her misfortune, she frankly owned that Vincent de La Rosa had imposed upon her; that under promise of marriage, he had persuaded her to forsake her father’s house, promising to conduct her to Naples, which he said, was the most beautiful and flourishing city in the whole world; that she inadvertently and fondly believed his false professions, and robbing her father, put herself under his protection that same night she was missed, when he carried her to a rocky mountain, and confined her in the cave where she was found: she likewise affirmed that the soldier, without making any attempt upon her virtue, had stripped her of all she had, and left her in that forlorn condition; a circumstance that surprized all who heard it, the soldier’s continence being so incredible; but she insisted upon it with such earnest asseverations, that the disconsolate father was in some sort comforted, making little account of the money he had lost, since his daughter was allowed to keep the jewel which when once lost there is no hope of retrieving.
‘The same day that Leandra appeared, her father removed her from our eyes, and shut her up in a monastery of a neighbouring town, hoping that time would efface some part of the bad opinion his daughter had incurred. The tender years of Leandra served as an excuse for her misconduct, especially with those who are not concerned in the affair; but those who know her discretion and good sense, do not ascribe her fault to ignorance, but to mere levity, and the natural disposition of women, which is always injudicious and imperfect. Leandra being thus secured, Anselmo’s eyes were blind to every thing that could yield him pleasure; and mine remained in darkness, without the least glimpse of light to direct them to any agreeable object: the absence of Leandra increased our affliction, and exhausted our patience; we cursed the soldier’s finery, and exclaimed against her father’s want of care. At length we agreed to quit the village, and repair to this valley, where he feeding a vast flock of sheep, which are his own property, and I tending a numerous fold of goats, which are also mine, we spend our lives under the cool shade of lofty trees, and give vent to our passion, either by singing, in concert, the praise or dispraise of the beautiful Leandra, or each by himself singing in the lonely grove, and ejaculating his complaint to Heaven. In imitation of us, many more of Leandra’s lovers have betaken themselves to these rugged mountains, and the exercise of the same employment; so that this spot seems to be transformed into a pastoral Arcadia, every field being crouded with shepherds and folds, and every corner resounding with the name of the fair Leandra. One curses and calls her fickle, inconstant, and immodest; a second condemns her credulity and lightness of behaviour; a third acquits and forgives her, while she is arraigned and reproached by a fourth; some celebrate her beauty; others find fault with her disposition: in short, she is censured and adored by them all; nay, to such a pitch hath their extravagance risen, that some of them complain of her disdain, though they never spoke to her; and others, in their lamentations, pretend to feel the rage of jealousy, which is a passion she never inspired; for, as I have already mentioned, her fault was known before her inclination was suspected: there is not the hollow of a rock, the margin of a rill, nor the shade of a tree, that is not occupied by some shepherd, recounting his misfortune to the winds; wherever an echo can be formed, it repeats the name of Leandra; the hills resound with Leandra; the rivulets murmur Leandra; in short, Leandra keeps us all inchanted and perplexed, hoping we know not how, and dreading we know not what. Among the wrong-headed society, he that shews the least, though he has the greatest share of judgment, is my rival Anselmo; who, notwithstanding all the cause he has to be dissatisfied, complains of absence only, turning his lamentation to the sound of the rebeck, which he touches with admirable skill, in verses that shew the excellence of his genius. I follow a more easy, and in my opinion, a wiser course, namely, to inveigh against the levity of the female sex; their fickleness, their double dealing, their rotten promises, their broken faith; and finally, their want of judgment in bestowing their affections. These, gentlemen, are my reasons for the discourse you heard me address to my goat, whom (because she is a female) I despise, although she be the best of the fold. This is the story I promised to recount, and if I have been prolix in the narration, I shall not be brief in what service you shall please to command. Hard by is my cottage, in which I have plenty of new milk, and most savoury cheese, with abundance of the fruit in season, no less agreeable to the taste than to the view.’
This story of the goatherd gave infinite pleasure to all that heard it, especially to the canon, who observed, with admiration, his manner of relating it, as distant from the rustick phrase of a peasant as near approaching to the polite stile of a courtier; and therefore he said, the curate had justly observed that the mountains sometimes produced learned men. Every body made proffers of service to Eugenio, but he that shewed himself most liberal in compliment was Don Quixote, who said to him, ‘Truly, brother goatherd, were it possible for me to undertake any new adventure, I would forthwith set forward in your behalf, and deliver Leandra from that monastery, in which she is, doubtless, detained against her will, in spite of the abbess and all that should oppose my design; and would put her into your hands to be treated according to your good will and pleasure, so far as is consistent with the laws of chivalry, by which all damsels are protected from wrongs: though I hope in God, that a malicious inchanter shall not so far prevail, but that he may be excelled in power, by another of a more righteous disposition; and then you may depend upon my favour and assistance, according to the duty of my profession, which is no other than to succour the wretched and the weak.’
The goatherd stared at Don Quixote, and being struck with admiration at his rueful aspect and dishevelled locks, said to the barber, who sat near him, ‘Signior, pray, who is that man who looks and talks so wildly?’—‘Who should it be,’ answered the barber, ‘but the renowned Don Quixote de La Mancha! the redresser of grievances, the righter of wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and thunder-bolt of war?’—‘That discourse,’ replied the peasant, ‘puts me in mind of those books which treat of knights errant, who were commonly distinguished by such titles as you bestow on that man: but, I suppose, you are pleased to be merry, or else the apartments of this poor gentleman’s skull are but indifferent-furnished.’
‘You are a most impudent rascal!’ (cried the knight, over-hearing what he said) ‘it is your skull that is unfurnished and unsound; but mine is more pregnant than the abominable whore that brought you forth.’ So saying, he snatched up a loaf, and flung it at the goatherd with such fury, that he levelled his nose with his face.
Eugenio, who did not understand raillery, finding himself maltreated in earnest, without any respect for the carpet, table-cloth, or company, leaped upon the knight, and laying hold of his collar, with both hands, would certainly have strangled him, if Sancho Panza had not at that instant sprung to his master’s assistance, and pulling his antagonist backwards, tumbled him over upon the table, where plates, cups, victuals, wine, and all went to wreck. Don Quixote finding himself disengaged, arose, and in his turn, got upon the goatherd, who being battered by the master, and kicked by the man, was creeping about on all fours in quest of a table-knife, with which he intended to take some bloody revenge, but was prevented by the canon and curate; the goatherd, however, managed matters so as that he got the knight under him, when he rained such a shower of kicks and cuffs upon his carcase, that our hero’s countenance was as much overflowed with blood as his own; the curate and canon were ready to burst with laughing, the troopers capered about with joy, and the whole company hallooed, according to the practice of the spectators when two dogs are engaged: Sancho Panza alone was distracted, because he could not get out of the clutches of one of the canon’s servants, who hindered him from assisting his master. In fine, when every body was thus regaled and rejoiced, except the combatants, who worried each other, they heard a trumpet utter such a melancholy note, that they could not help turning their heads, and looking towards the place from whence the sound seemed to come: but he on whom it made the greatest impression was Don Quixote; who, though lying under his antagonist, very much against his inclination, and more than sufficiently pummelled, said to the goatherd, ‘Brother devil, (for sure thou canst be nothing else, who hast strength and valour sufficient to overcome my efforts) I beg a truce for one hour only; because the doleful sound of that trumpet which salutes our ears, seems to summon me to some new adventure.’
The goatherd being by this time heartily tired of drubbing, as well as of being drubbed, immediately complied with his request; and Don Quixote starting up, directed his view towards the place whence the sound seemed to issue, where he descried a great number of people dressed in white like disciplinants, coming down the side of a neighbouring hill. That year the heavens had withheld refreshing showers from the earth; and through all the villages of that district the people instituted processions, disciplines, and prayers, beseeching God to open the fountains of his mercy, and favour them with rain: for this purpose, the inhabitants of a neighbouring village were then going in procession to a holy hermitage built on an eminence that skirted the valley; and Don Quixote seeing the strange dress of the disciplinants[125], without recollecting that he had frequently seen such habits before, concluded the whole to be an adventure, which it was the province of him as a knight-errant to atchieve: what served to confirm him in this notion, was an image cloathed in black, which was carried before them, and which he supposed to be some princess whom those discourteous robbers were carrying off by force.
This whim no sooner entered his brain, than he ran with great agility to Rozinante, who was feeding very quietly, and taking the bridle and shield, which hung upon the pummel of the saddle, clapped the bit in his mouth in a twinkling, and demanding his sword from Sancho, mounted his steed, and braced his target, calling aloud to the company, ‘Now, honourable gentlemen, ye shall perceive the importance of those who profess the order of knight-errantry! now, I say, ye shall, in the deliverance of that excellent lady, who is at present a captive, behold how much knights-errant ought to be esteemed.’
So saying, he clapped heels to Rozinante, (spurs he had none) and at a hand-gallop (for we do not find in this true history that ever Rozinante went full-speed) rode up to attack the disciplinants. Though the canon, curate and barber, made efforts to detain him, they found it impracticable; he was even deaf to the cries of Sancho, who bawled with great vociferation: ‘Where are you going, Signior Don Quixote? what devil possesses and provokes you to act against our Catholick faith! take notice—a plague upon me!—take notice that this is no other than a procession of disciplinants, and that lady carried on the bier the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin! Consider, Signior, what you are about, for sure I am you do not know!’
In vain did Sancho strain his lungs: his master was so intent upon overtaking the apparitions, and setting the lady in black at liberty, that he heard not one syllable; nor if he had, would he have returned, even if the king had commanded him so to do. When he approached the procession, he stopped Rozinante, who was already out of breath, and with a hoarse disordered voice, pronounced, ‘You there, who perhaps disguise yourselves for no good, stop, and give ear to what I am going to say.’
Those who carried the image were the first that halted, and one of the four priests who sung the litanies, observing the strange aspect of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rozinante, with other ridiculous circumstances belonging to both, answered in these words: ‘Friend, if you have any thing to say, speak quickly; for these our brethren are all this while scourging their own flesh; and we cannot, nor is it reasonable we should tarry to hear any thing that cannot be comprehended in two words.’—‘I will comprehend what I have to say in one,’ replied the knight; ‘and it is this: I command you instantly to set free that beautiful lady, whose tears and melancholy deportment clearly demonstrate that you are carrying her off, contrary to her inclination, after having done her some notorious wrong; and I, who was born to redress such grievances, will not suffer you to proceed one step farther, until she shall have obtained that liberty she deserves.’
From these words, concluding that he must be some madman, all of them began to laugh very heartily; and their mirth acting as a train of gunpowder to the knight’s choler, he drew his sword, and without uttering another word, attacked the bearers; one of whom, leaving his share of the load to his companions, opposed himself to this aggressor, brandishing a fork or pole, on which (when they were wearied) they supported the bier. Don Quixote, with a furious back-stroke, cut this implement in two; but with the piece which remained in the hand of the defendant, received such a thwack upon the shoulder above his sword-arm, that his buckler was unable to sustain the shock of such a rude assault, and down came the poor knight in a most lamentable condition.
Sancho Panza, who came puffing after his master, seeing him fall, called aloud to his antagonist to forbear; for he was a poor inchanted knight, who had never done the least harm to man, woman, or child; but the peasant’s forbearance was not owing to this exclamation of the squire, so much as to the situation of Don Quixote, who neither moved hand nor foot; so that believing he had done his business, he hastily gathered up his frock, and fled through the field as nimble as a buck. By this time the whole company were come up to the place where Don Quixote lay; and those belonging to the procession seeing so many people running towards them, accompanied by the troopers with their cross-bows, began to be in dread of some mischievous event, and formed themselves into a circle around the image: then the disciplinants lifting up their hoods, and wielding their scourges, and the priests their long tapers, waited the assault, with full determination to defend themselves, and, if possible, act offensively against all who should attack them. But fortune disposed of things more favourably than they expected; for all that Sancho did, was to throw himself upon the body of his master, who he believed was actually dead, and utter the most doleful and ludicrous lamentation that ever was heard. The curate was immediately known by a brother of the cloth, who belonged to the procession, and this acquaintance dispelled the apprehension which both squadrons had began to conceive. Our licentiate told his friend in a few words who Don Quixote was, upon which he and the whole crowd of disciplinants went to see whether or not the poor knight was dead, and heard Sancho Panza, with tears in his eyes, lamenting in these words: ‘O flower of chivalry, who by the single stroke of a cudgel, hast finished the career of thy well-spent life! O thou honour of thy family, thou glory of La Mancha! aye, and of the whole world, which being deprived of thee, will soon be filled with evil-doers, who will prosper without fear of chastisement for their wicked deeds! Oh, thou wast more liberal than all the Alexanders that ever lived! for thou gavest me, for eight months service only, the best island that ever the sea surrounded. Oh! thou wast humble with the haughty, and haughty with the humble, tempting dangers, enduring disgraces, in love without cause, imitating the good, scourging the wicked, a professed enemy to every thing that was base; in short, a knight-errant, and that is every thing in one word!’
The cries and groans of Sancho revived his master, and the first words he pronounced were these: ‘He who is condemned to live absent from thee, most amiable Dulcinea! is subjected to much greater hardships than these. Friend Sancho, help to lay me on the inchanted car; for I am incapable of pressing Rozinante’s saddle, this whole shoulder being crushed to pieces.’—‘That I’ll do very willingly, dear master,’ replied the squire; ‘and let us return to our own habitation, in company of these gentlemen, who wish you well; and there we will lay a scheme for another sally, which I hope will be more fortunate and creditable.’—‘You are in the right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and it will be very prudent in us to let the malign influence of the stars pass over.’
The canon, curate, and barber, approved of his intention, and being extremely diverted with the squire’s simplicity, conveyed the knight to his former situation in the waggon. The procession was formed anew, and set forwards accordingly: the goatherd took his leave of the company; the troopers, being unwilling to go farther, were paid by the curate for their trouble; the canon having intreated the priest to inform him by letter of Don Quixote’s fate, with regard to the continuation or cure of his extravagance, bade him farewel, and proceeded on his journey; in short, there was a general separation, till at length the curate, barber, Don Quixote, and Panza, were left by themselves, with the trusty Rozinante, who, with the patience of his master, bore and beheld every thing that passed.
The waggoner yoking his oxen, accommodated the knight with a truss of hay, and with his usual phlegm jogged on according to the priest’s directions, till, at the end of six days, they arrived at their own village, which they entered about noon; and it chancing to be Sunday, the market-place through which they were obliged to pass was crouded with people, who running to see what was in the cage, recognized their townsman, and were struck with astonishment. A boy ran immediately to his housekeeper and niece, whom when he informed of their master’s arrival, in a most meagre, withered condition, stretched upon a truss of hay, in a waggon; it was a piteous thing to hear the cries that were uttered by these worthy ladies, who buffetted themselves through vexation, and vented bitter curses against the wicked books of chivalry; which lamentations, buffettings, and curses, were repeated with greater violence than ever, when they saw the knight enter his own gate.
Sancho Panza’s wife, who had got intimation that he was gone with Don Quixote in quality of his squire, hearing of his return, ran straight to her husband, and the first question she asked was, whether or not the ass was in good health? when the squire answered, that the ass was in better health than his master, ‘Thanks be to God,’ cried she, ‘for that and all his other mercies. But, now tell me, friend, what good you have got by your squireship? Have you brought home a new petticoat for me, or shoes for your children?’—‘I have brought no such matters, my dear,’ replied Sancho, ‘but things of greater consideration and importance.’—‘I am glad of that, with all my heart!’ said the wife; ‘pray shew me these things of greater consideration and importance, that the sight of them may rejoice my heart, which hath been so sad and discontented all the weary time of your being away.’—‘You shall see them at home,’ answered Sancho; ‘and heark’ee, wife, make yourself easy for the present; for, an it please God that we set out again in quest of adventures, you shall speedily behold your husband an earl, or governor of an island; I don’t mean your common islands, but one of the best that ever was seen.’—‘The Lord in heaven grant it, husband; for I am sure we have need enough of such windfalls: but tell me, what is an island; for, truly, I know not the meaning of the word?’—‘Honey was not made for the mouth of an ass,’ said the squire; ‘you shall see what it is, all in good time, my dear; aye, and admire to hear all your vassals call you, my lady.’—‘What is that you say, Sancho, of ladies, islands, and vassals?’ cried Joan Panza; for that was the name of the squire’s wife, though she was not related to Sancho before marriage; but it is the custom in La Mancha for the women to take the names of their husbands. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry to know every thing, Joan,’ replied the squire; ‘it is sufficient that I tell thee nothing but truth; let this, therefore, stop that mouth of thine. Mean time, however, I care not if I tell thee, that it is one of the most pleasant occupations in the world for an honourable person, like me, to be squire to a knight-errant, when he is in quest of adventures. True it is, the greatest part of them do not fall out quite so much to one’s liking as one could wish; for, out of a hundred in which we are engaged, ninety-nine are generally cross and unfortunate. That I know by experience, having been sometimes threshed, and sometimes blanketted; but howsomever, it is a curious pastime to be always in expectation of adventures, crossing huge mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting castles, lodging at inns, where we live at rack and manger, and the devil a farthing to pay.’
While this conversation passed between Sancho and his wife, the housekeeper and niece received Don Quixote, whom they undressed and put to bed in his old chamber, while he eyed them askance, without being able to comprehend where he was. The curate laid his injunctions on the niece to cherish her uncle with great tenderness, and charged them both to take especial care that he might not escape again, giving them an account of the trouble he had been at in bringing him back to his own house. Here they raised their voices again in concert, renewing their curses upon the books of chivalry, and beseeching Heaven to confound the authors of such madness and lyes to the lowest pit of hell; in short they were half distracted with the apprehension of losing him again, as soon as his health should be re-established; and this was actually the case.
But the author of this history, although he inquired with the utmost curiosity and diligence, concerning the actions of Don Quixote in his third sally, could never find any satisfactory and authentick account of them; only, fame hath preserved some memoirs in La Mancha, by which it appears that Don Quixote, when he set out the third time, went to Saragossa, where he was present at a most celebrated tournament, in which many things happened to him worthy of his genius and valour: but with regard to his death and burial, he could obtain no information; and must have remained entirely ignorant of that event, had he not luckily met with an old physician, who had in his custody a leaden box, which he said he found under the foundation of an ancient hermitage that was repairing. This box contained some skins of parchment, on which were written in Gothick characters and Castilian verse, many of our knight’s exploits, with a description of Dulcinea’s beauty, Rozinante’s figure, Sancho’s fidelity, and Don Quixote’s own funeral, celebrated by divers epitaphs, and panegyricks on his life and morals. All that could be read, and fairly copied, are those which are here inserted by the faithful author of this new and surprizing history, who, in recompence for the immense trouble he has undergone in his enquiries, and in examining the archives of La Mancha, that he might publish it with more certainty, desires the reader to favour him with the same credit which intelligent persons give to those books of chivalry that pass so currently in the world; and herewith he will rest fully satisfied; and perhaps be animated to search after, and find out other histories, if not as authentick, at least as full of invention and entertainment.
The verses which were written in the first skin of parchment found in the leaden box were these—
THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA, A TOWN OF LA MANCHA, ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, HOC SCRIPSERUNT.
MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON QUIXOTE.