Plate XIII: Don Quixote Braves the Lions.
We must observe, that at this place the author of this history breaks out into pathetick exclamations, expressing himself to this purpose: O Don Quixote de La Mancha! renowned for fortitude, brave beyond human expression; thou mirrour, in which all heroes of the earth may contemplate their own perfections! thou second and other Don Manual de Leon, glory and ornament of Spanish knights! how shall I find words worthy to relate this matchless atchievement: by what power of argument shall I make it gain credit among future generations? for what encomiums ever so exalted, even beyond the hyperbole, can there be but what thou deservest? On foot thou stood’st, collected within thy magnanimous self, with a sword far from being sharp, with a shield far from bright and shining; there, I say, didst thou stand waiting and expecting two of the fiercest lions that were ever yet engendered in the dens of Libya. I want words wherewithal to embellish thy great atchievements: let thy own exploits, then, be the harbinger of thy praises, O heroick Manchegan!
The author here breaks off his exclamation, and proceeds in the recital of the history, saying,—
The keeper seeing Don Quixote fixed in this posture, and finding himself under a necessity of letting loose the he-lion, to avoid the resentment of this enraged and intrepid hero, flung the door of the first cage open, where the lion appeared lying, of a monstrous bigness and terrifying aspect: he immediately turned himself round in the cage, put out one of his paws, and stretching himself at full length yawned and gaped with great composure, and then, with a tongue of about half a yard long, cleaned his face and eyes; after which he thrust his head out of the cage, and stared around him with eyes like firebrands; a sight sufficient to have struck a damp into the most intrepid heart: but Don Quixote only fixed his eyes attentively upon him, wishing for the minute he would leap out of the cart, that he might engage and cut him in pieces; to such an unaccountable degree had his frenzy worked up his disturbed imagination. But the lion, naturally generous, and more inclinable to be gentle than rough, heeded not his bravadoes or flourishing: on the contrary, after having looked around him, as we have observed, turned about, and shewing our hero his backside, with great composure and tranquillity, laid himself down again to rest; which circumstance Don Quixote perceiving, ordered the keeper to rouze him by blows, and oblige him to come forth. ‘Nay, that I wont,’ answered he; ‘for, should I enrage him, he would immediately tear me to pieces: come, Sir Knight, be contented with what you have done, which is all that can be expected from any man’s courage, and give over tempting fortune any more. The door of his cage is open, and he may come forth, or not, as he pleases; but as he has not come out now, he will not all day. The intrepidity of your worship’s valour is sufficiently vouched; I apprehend the bravery of no combatant needs do more than challenge his adversary, and await him in the field; and if the enemy won’t meet him, the imputation of cowardice lies with him, and the crown of victory devolves upon the other.’—‘You say true,’ said Don Quixote; ‘shut the door, my friend, and let me have, under your hand, in the best manner you are able to draw it, a certificate of what you have now seen; for I think it is highly fitting mankind should know that you opened the lion’s cage; that I waited for him, and he came not out; and that I waited for him again, and he came not out, and that again he laid himself down. I am not bound to do any more; so inchantments avaunt, and God prosper truth, justice, and noble chivalry! shut the door therefore, and I will wave a signal for those who have run off to return, and have an account of this action from your own mouth.’
The keeper obeyed; and Don Quixote clapping upon the point of his lance the cloth Sancho had given him to wipe off the curds, called out to them who were still pursuing their flight, and at every step, all in a body, turning about their heads, and Don Diego leading them on; but Sancho chancing to espy the signal of the linen cloth, ‘I’ll be bound to be crucified,’ said he, ‘if my master has not got the better of the lions; for he now calls to us.’ They all stopped, and perceived it was Don Quixote who made the sign; upon which the violence of their terrors somewhat abated, and they approached nearer and nearer by degrees, till they could distinctly hear the voice of Don Quixote calling to them; at last they came back to the cart, and Don Quixote said to the carter, ‘Harness your mules again, my friend, and go on in your journey; and, Sancho, give him and the keeper two crowns of gold, as a recompence for the time I have detained them.’—‘That I will most willingly do; but where are the lions, dead or alive?’ Then the keeper very circumstantially, and dividing his discourse with great propriety, gave an account of the issue of this adventure, exaggerating with all his might, and all the power of rhetorick he could muster up, the courage of Don Quixote: ‘At sight of whom,’ said he, ‘the lion, overawed, would not, or rather durst not, venture out of the cage, though I held the door open a considerable time; and that, upon remonstrating to the great knight, that it was tempting of God to provoke the lion so far as to oblige him to come out by force, as he wanted him to have done, and was going to make him do whether he would or not, his honour had suffered the cage-door to be shut.’—‘Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what dost thou think now; can inchantments avail aught against true courage? they may, indeed, and with ease, stand in the way of my good fortune; but of valour and resolution they never can deprive me.’ Sancho gave the crowns to the people; the carter harnessed his mules, and the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hand for his liberality, and promised, when he arrived at court, he would give an account of this heroick atchievement to his majesty himself. ‘Should the king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘perchance enquire who performed it, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; for I am determined, that, from this time forward, the title I have been hitherto distinguished by, of Knight of the Rueful Countenance, shall be changed, bartered, and sunk, into that of Knight of the Lions; and in this alteration I imitate the example of knights-errant of old, who, as they pleased, altered their designations as it best suited their purposes.’
The carriage went forward, Don Quixote, Sancho, and the traveller in green, pursued their journey; and during all this time, Don Diego de Miranda was so attentive to remark and observe the actions of Don Quixote, that he had not opened his mouth; but looked upon him as a man whose good sense was blended with a strange sort of madness: the reason was, he knew as yet nothing of the first part of his history; had he read that, his amazement at the knight’s words and actions would have vanished, as it would have cleared up to him the nature of his frenzy; but as he knew not that, he was at times divided in his opinion, sometimes believing him in his senses, and at other times thinking him frantick; because what he spoke was sensible, consistent, and genteelly expressed; but his actions discovered all the symptoms of wildness, folly, and temerity. ‘For what greater sign of disorder,’ said he to himself, ‘can there be, than for a man to clap on a helmet full of curds, and then take it into his head that some magician had liquified his skull; and what more certain proof of foolhardiness and wild frenzy, than for a person, in spite of all that can be said to him, to resolve to engage lions?’
Don Quixote interrupted these reflections and soliloquy of his fellow-traveller, by saying, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, I don’t doubt but that in your judgment I must pass for an extravagant madman; and, indeed, no wonder; for, to be sure, my actions would seem to declare me such: but, at the same time, I must beg leave to say to you, that I am not so disordered, or so bereft of understanding, as to you I may have seemed. The gay cavalier, who in burnished armour, before the ladies, prances over the lists, makes a gallant appearance! the adventurous knight too shews off to great advantage, when in the midst of the spacious square, in view of his prince, he transfixes the furious bull. And a noble appearance make those knights, who, in military exercises, or such like, are the life, spirit, and even honour of their prince’s court. But a much more noble figure than all these makes the knight-errant, who, in the solitudes of the desart, through the almost impervious passages of the forest, and over the craggy mountains, goes in quest of perilous adventures, to bring them to a successful issue, and that only to obtain glory, honour, and an immortal name. A knight-errant, I say, makes a more glorious appearance, when he assists the widow in some solitary plain, than the courtier knight, when he lavishes his gallantry on a town-lady. All cavaliers have their different spheres, in which they act; let the courtier pay his attendance to the ladies, adorn the court of his prince with the splendor of his equipage, entertain gentlemen of inferior fortunes with the hospitality of his sumptuous table; let him propose matches of different exercise, and direct the justs and tournaments; let him shew himself splendid, liberal, and munificent; and, above all, approve himself a good Christian: in acting thus, he will discharge the duties that belong to him. But for the knight-errant, let him explore the most hidden recesses of the universe, plunge into the perplexities of the labyrinths; let him, at all times, not be afraid of even impossibilities; in the barren, wasteful wilderness, let him defy the scorching rays of the solstitial sun, and the piercing chillings of the nipping frost. Lions must not frighten him, phantoms must not terrify him, nor dragons dismay him; for, in searching after such, engaging with and getting the better of all difficulties, consists his true and proper occupation. It being my fortune, then, to be of this last order, I cannot, consistent with that, avoid engaging in whatever I deem to be part of the duty of my calling; and for these reasons, though I knew, that encountering the lions was in itself an act of the greatest temerity, yet it immediately belonged to my profession: I am very sensible that true fortitude is placed between the two extremes of cowardice and fool-hardiness; but then, it is better valour should mount even to an over-daring hardiness, than be debased to pusillanimity; for, as the prodigal is more likely to become truly generous than the miser, so will the over-courageous sooner be brought to true valour, than the coward to be courageous at all; and in undertaking adventures, I assure you, Don Diego, it is much better to overdo than underdo, and much better does it sound in the ear of him to whom it is related, that a knight is daring and presumptuous, than that he is pusillanimous and faint-hearted.’
‘Signior Don Quixote,’ answered Diego, ‘I think all you have said is consonant to the rule of right reason; and I am of opinion, that if the laws and statutes of true chivalry were lost, they would be found deposited and faithfully recorded in your breast: but if you please, we will put on, for it grows late; let us get towards my house and village, that you may have some rest, and taste of some refreshment after your late fatigue, which, if it does not weary the body, must be heavy upon the mind, the labours of which often affect the body likewise.’—‘I accept of your invitation, Don Diego,’ said the other, ‘as a favour and mark of politeness.’ And hastening forward a little quicker than they had done before, they arrived about two in the afternoon at the habitation of Diego, on whom Don Quixote bestowed the appellation of the Knight of the Green Surtout.
END OF BOOK I. PART II.
Don Quixote found that Diego’s house, like the houses of most country gentlemen, was large and roomy, with the arms of the family over the great gates, cut out in rough stone; the buttery was in the yard, the cellar was under the porch, and around were placed divers jars, which jars being of the manufactory of Toboso, recalled the memory of the metamorphosed and inchanted Dulcinea; upon which, without reflecting what he said, or before whom he poured out his sighs and tears: ‘O dearest pledges,’ said he, ‘which now I find in bitterness of sorrow, but sweet and ravishing when Heaven’s high will ordained it so. O jars of Toboso, which have recalled into my mind the dear idea of my greatest sorrow!’ This exclamation was overheard by the young poet, Diego’s son; who, along with his mother, had come down to receive Don Quixote. Both mother and son were struck with his uncouth figure, and he, alighting from Rozinante, with great good breeding, begged leave to kiss the lady’s hand. To which intreaty Don Diego added, ‘Madam, receive with your usual politeness, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant, whom I here introduce to you as a gentleman of the brightest parts and most intrepid courage of any in the world.’ Donna Christina (for that was the lady’s name) received him with all the marks of respect and esteem, and Don Quixote overpaid them in polite and mannerly acknowledgments; the same kind of intercourse passed between him and the young scholar, whom he took by his conversation to be a gentleman of vivacity and acuteness.
The author here minutely describes Don Diego’s house, gives an inventory of the furniture usually contained in the house of a rich country gentleman: but the translators of this history have thought it adviseable not to mention these and such other particular matters, as being rather foreign from the main scope of this history, in which truth has more energy than needless and languid digressions.
Don Quixote was conducted into a hall, where Sancho disarmed him; after which, he remained in his other accoutrements, a pair of wide walloon breeches, and a shamoy-leather doublet, stained with the rust of his armour; his band was collegian, neither starched nor laced; his buskins of the colour of dates, and his shoes of waxed leather; he girded upon his thigh his trusty sword, which hung at a belt of seal’s skin, for it is believed he had been for some years troubled with an imbecility in his loins; and over all these was a long cloak of good grey cloth; but, before he stirred any farther, he applied to his face five or six pitchers (the precise number not being exactly ascertained) of fair water, which, nevertheless, still ran off exhibiting a whey colour; and it was undoubtedly owing to the irregular appetite of Sancho, and his having made the bargain for these nasty curds, that his master was now scoured so white and so clean. In this equipment, as here described, and with a gallant air and address, Don Quixote walked into another hall, where the young gentleman of the house was waiting to receive and entertain him, till dinner should be got ready; for as to the Lady Donna Christina, she was busy in ordering matters so, upon the arrival of this noble guest, as to let it be seen she knew what reception to give those who came to visit under her roof.
While Don Quixote was unarming, Don Lorenzo (that was the name of Diego’s son) took the opportunity of that leisure time to ask his father, who that knight was he had brought home to them; ‘For,’ said he, ‘his name and his uncouth figure, and your telling us, at the same time, that he is a knight-errant, puzzle both my mother and me prodigiously.’—‘I know not,’ said Don Diego, ‘what answer to make you; all I can say is, I never saw a madman act more frantickly, and have heard him talk so very sensibly, as gave the lye to all his actions: but I would have you enter into conversation with him, and sound the depth of his understanding; you have sense enough, and therefore I would have you form a judgment of him according to your own observation; to say the truth, I myself am more inclined to believe him distracted than otherwise.’
Upon this intimation, Don Lorenzo went to entertain Don Quixote, as we have mentioned; who, among other discourse, said to Lorenzo, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, your father has been pleased to inform me a little of your great genius and good judgment, and particularly that you are a great poet.’—‘A poet, in some sense, I may be,’ said Lorenzo; ‘but a great one did I never so much as dare even in my own imagination to think myself. True it is, I am a little fond of poetry, and of reading the good poets; but don’t at all for that reason merit the title my father is pleased to bestow upon me.’—‘I love your reserve,’ said Don Quixote: ‘for poets are usually far removed from modesty, each thinking himself the greatest in the world.’—‘No rule holds universally,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘and there may be one who is really a great poet, and yet does not think himself so.’—‘There must be very few such,’ answered the other; ‘but pray, Sir,’ continued he, ‘what verses are those you are about, which your father says make you so anxious and studious? for, if it be commenting upon some theme, I know somewhat of the art of paraphrasing, and should be glad to see what your performance is; and if they are designed as a poetical prize, let me advise you to obtain the second, for the first is decreed in view of interest, or in favour of the great quality of some person; but merit carries the second: so that, according to the general practice of our universities, the third becomes the second, and the first the third; but, notwithstanding this acceptation, the name of the first makes a great shew.’—‘So far, surely,’ said Lorenzo to himself, ‘this gentleman shews no signs of a disturbed understanding; but we’ll go on.—Your worship, I presume, has been long at the schools; pray, Sir, what sciences have you addicted yourself to?’—‘That of knight-errantry,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘a science equally sublime as your poetry; and, in my humble opinion, even mounted a few steps above it.’—‘That science,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘I am hitherto a stranger to; it has not yet come within the extent of my knowledge.’—‘It is a science,’ answered the other, ‘that includes in itself virtually, most, if not all the other sciences in the world; for he who professes it must be a civilian, and know the laws both of distributive and communicative justice, to determine, with equity and propriety, what lawfully and properly belongs to every individual: he must be a good divine and casuist, that he may, with clearness and precision, defend the principles of the Christian faith, which he professes, as often as he shall be required so to do: he ought to be a physician, and particularly a botanist, that, in the midst of desarts and wildernesses, he may know those herbs that are of efficacy in curing wounds; for a knight-errant cannot at every turn have recourse to a surgeon. He ought to be an astronomer, to distinguish by the stars the time of the night, together with the climate and part of the globe on which he chances to be: he must be learned in the mathematicks, for which he will frequently have occasion; and besides being adorned with all the theological and cardinal virtues, he ought to descend to other minute branches of science. I say, for example, he must know how to swim like an herring, to shoe an horse, to mend a saddle and bridle; and, returning to what we have observed above, he must preserve his fealty to God and his mistress; he must be chaste in thought, decent in speech, liberal in action, valiant in exploits, patient in toil, charitable with the needy; and finally, an asserter of truth, even though the defence of it should cost him his life. Of all these great and small qualities is a good knight-errant composed; so that Signior Don Lorenzo may judge, whether it be a snivelling science which is learned and professed by a knight-errant: and whether it may not be compared with the sublimest which are taught in colleges and schools.’—‘If that be the case,’ replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I affirm, that it has the advantage over all others.’—‘How!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case!’—‘What I would say,’ resumed Lorenzo, ‘is, that I doubt whether there ever were or are knights-errants adorned with so many virtues.’—‘I have often said what I am now going to repeat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the greatest part of the world believes there never were knights-errant; and, in my opinion, if Heaven does not work a miracle to prove that they both did and do exist, whatever trouble may be taken will fail of success, as I know by repeated experience. I will not, therefore, spend time at present, in refuting and rectifying the error in which you and many others are involved; but my intention is to pray that Heaven will extricate you from your mistake, and give you to understand how advantageous and necessary knights-errant have been to the world in past ages, and how useful they might be to the present, were it the custom to solicit their assistance: but, now, for the sins of mankind, idleness, sloth, gluttony, and extravagance, prevail and triumph.’ Here Don Lorenzo said within himself, ‘Now hath our guest given us the slip; but, nevertheless, he is a whimsical madman, and I should be an idle fool, if I thought otherwise.’
In this place their discourse was interrupted by a call to table; and Don Diego asked his son, what he had fairly extracted from the genius of his guest. To this question he replied, ‘All the best physicians and writers that the world contains, will not extract him fairly from the blotted sheet of his madness; but he is a party-coloured maniack, full of lucid intervals.’ They sat down to eat, and their repast was such as Don Diego had said upon the road he was wont to bestow upon his friends whom he invited, neat, plentiful, and savoury; but what yielded more satisfaction to Don Quixote, was the wonderful silence that prevailed over the whole house, which in this particular resembled a monastery of Carthusians.
The cloth being removed, grace said, and hands washed, Don Quixote earnestly desired that Don Lorenzo would repeat the verses designed for the literary contest; and the young gentleman answered, ‘Rather than appear one of those authors, who when they are requested to rehearse their works, refuse to grant the favour, and on the other hand, disgorge them upon those who have no inclination to hear them; I will repeat my gloss, from which I expect no reward, as I composed it solely with a view to exercise my genius.’—‘It was the opinion of an ingenious friend of mine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that no man ought to fatigue himself in glossing upon verses; because, as he observed, the gloss could never come up to the text; and very often, or indeed almost always, the gloss was foreign to the original proposition; besides, the laws of the gloss were extremely narrow, restricting the paraphraser from the use of interrogations; and, “Said he,” or, “I will say;” as well as from changing verbs into nouns, and altering the sentiment; with other ties and shackles incurred by those who try their fortune in this way, as you yourself undoubtedly know.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ cried Don Lorenzo, ‘I am very desirous of intrapping your worship in false Latin; but it is not in my power, for you slip through my fingers like an eel.’—‘I do not know,’ answered the knight, ‘what you mean by saying I slip through your fingers.’—‘I will explain myself some other time,’ replied Don Lorenzo; ‘mean-while, your worship will be pleased to hear the paraphrase and the text, which run thus—
Don Lorenzo no sooner concluded his paraphrase, than Don Quixote starting up, took the young gentleman by the right-hand, and raising his voice even almost to a halloo, pronounced, ‘Now, by the Heaven of heavens! noble youth, you are the best poet in the world, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus or Gaeta, as an author said, whom God pardon, but by the academy of Athens, did it now subsist, and by those of Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca, which are still in being. Heaven grant, that those judges who deny you the first prize, may be transfixed by the arrows of Apollo, and that the Muses may never deign to cross the thresholds of their doors. Signior, let me hear, if you please, some of your more majestick verses, that I may be thoroughly acquainted with the pulse of your admirable genius.’ Is it not diverting to observe, that Don Lorenzo was pleased with the applause of Don Quixote, although he considered him as a madman? O influence of flattery, how far dost thou extend! and how unlimited are the limits of thy agreeable jurisdiction! This truth is verified in the behaviour of Lorenzo; who, in compliance with the desire and intreaty of the knight, repeated this sonnet, on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.
‘Blessed be God!’ cried Don Quixote, when he had heard the sonnet of Don Lorenzo, ‘that amidst the infinite number of consumptive poets that now exist, I have found one consummate, as your worship has plainly evinced yourself, by the art and execution of those stanzas.’
The knight was sumptuously regaled in the house of Don Diego, for the space of four days; at the expiration of which he thanked his entertainer for the noble treatment he had received from his hospitality, and begged leave to depart; for as it did not become knights-errant to devote much time to ease and banquetting, he was desirous of fulfilling the duty of his profession in seeking adventures, with which he understood that country abounded, and in which he hoped to employ the time till the day of the tournament of Saragossa, whither he was bound; but, first of all, he was resolved to enter the cave of Montesinos, about which so many strange stories were recounted all over that neighbourhood, that he might investigate and discover the origin and real springs of the seven lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego and his son applauded the glorious design, and desired he would supply himself with whatever their house or fortune could afford; for they would, with the utmost good-will, perform that service, which they equally owed to his personal valour and honourable profession. At length arrived the day of his departure, as joyful to the knight as dismal and unfortunate to Sancho Panza, who had lived so much at his ease amidst the plenty of Don Diego’s house, that he could not without reluctance return to the hunger that prevails in dreary forests, and to the poverty of his ill provided bags, which, however, he now took care to fill and stuff with what he thought most necessary for his occasions.
At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo, ‘I know not,’ said he, ‘whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry, which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the throne of empire, in the turning of a straw.’ With this advice did the knight, as it were, sum up the process of his madness; which, however, was still more manifest in this addition: ‘Heaven knows what pleasure I should feel in the company and association of Don Lorenzo, whom I would teach, by my own example, to spare the fallen, and trample the haughty under foot; virtues annexed to the order I profess: but as his tender years do not require such tutorage, nor would his laudable exercises permit him to pursue my steps, I shall content myself with assuring his worship, that being a poet, he may certainly acquire renown, if he will conduct himself rather by the opinion of others, than his own; for no parent ever thought his own off-spring ugly, and this prejudice is still more strong towards the children of the understanding.’
Both father and son admired anew the strange medley of Don Quixote’s discourse, in which so much discretion and madness were jumbled together; and were astonished at the wilfulness and obstinacy with which he was so wholly bent upon the search of his misadventurous adventures, that constituted the very aim of all his desires. Nevertheless, they repeated their offers of service and civility, and with the good leave of the lady of the castle, Don Quixote and Sancho set out on Rozinante and Dapple.
A little way Don Quixote had travelled from the habitation of Don Diego, when he was joined by two persons dressed like ecclesiasticks, or students, and a couple of labouring men mounted upon asses; behind one of the students was a bundle wrapped up in green buckram, seemingly consisting of some linen and two pair of coarse thread stockings; while the other was encumbered with nothing but a couple of new black fencing-foils, with their buttons. The countrymen carried other things, which discovered and gave notice, that they were on their return from some great town, where they had made a purchase, and were bringing it home to their own village; and they, as well as the students, were seized with that admiration which was incident to all those who for the first time beheld Don Quixote; indeed, they burned with curiosity to know what sort of a creature he was, so different in appearance from other men.
The knight saluted them courteously, and understanding their road was the same route that he designed to follow, made a proffer of his company, at the same time begging they would slacken their pace, as the beasts travelled faster than his horse. In order to facilitate their compliance with his request, he briefly told them who he was, made them acquainted with his office and profession, which was chivalry, and observed that he was going in quest of adventures, through all parts of the world; giving them to understand, that his proper name was Don Quixote de La Mancha, and his appellative the Knight of the Lions.
All this information was Greek or gibberish to the countrymen, but not to the students, who immediately discovered the weakness of Don Quixote’s brain; nevertheless, they beheld him with admiration, and one of them, in a respectful manner accosted him thus: ‘If your worship, Sir Knight, follows no determined road, as those who go in quest of adventures seldom do, be so good as to accompany us, and you will be an eye-witness of one of the most splendid and opulent weddings that ever was celebrated in La Mancha, or in many leagues around.’
When Don Quixote asked if it was the marriage of any prince, which he so highly extolled, the other replied, ‘It is no other than the bridal of a farmer and a country maid; he the richest of all this neighbourhood, and she the comeliest that ever man beheld. The preparations are new and extraordinary; for the marriage is to be celebrated in a meadow adjoining to the village of the bride who, by way of excellency, is called Quiteria the Beautiful, and the bridegroom is known by the appellation of Camacho the Rich; she is but eighteen, and he turned of twenty, to that they are extremely well matched; though some curious persons, who remember all the pedigrees in the world, are pleased to say, that her family has in that respect the advantage of Camacho’s: but now-a-days these circumstances are altogether overlooked; for wealth is able to repair a number of flaws. In a word, Camacho is liberal, and has taken it in his head to overshadow and cover the whole meadow in such a manner, that the sun will find some difficulty in penetrating, so as to visit the verdant plants with which the ground is adorned. He has likewise bespoke choice dancers, both with swords and morrice-bells; for there are people in the village who can jingle and snap to perfection; not to mention your shoe-slappers, a power of whom are summoned to the nuptials: but none of those things I have mentioned, or of a great many circumstances I have left untold, are likely to render the marriage so memorable as the behaviour which is on this occasion expected from the rejected Basilius.
‘This Basilius is a neighbouring swain, and townsman of Quiteria, and there is nothing but a partition wall between his house and that of her parents, whence Cupid took occasion to renew the long forgotten loves of Pyramus and Thisbe, for Basilius became enamoured of Quiteria, even from his tender years, and she smiled upon his passion with all manner of honourable indulgence; insomuch that the love of the two children, Basilius and Quiteria, furnished entertainment and discourse for the whole village. As their age increased, Quiteria’s father resolved to forbid Basilius the usual access he had to his house; and, to free himself from all sorts of jealousy and suspicion, proposed a match between his daughter and the rich Camacho, thinking it would not be so well to give her away to Basilius, to whom fortune had not been so kind as nature; though, to tell the truth, without envy or affection, he is the most active young man we know, an expert pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler, and great judge of hand-ball: he runs like a deer, leaps nimbler than a goat, plays at nine-pins as if he used inchantment, sings like a sky lark, touches the guittar so as to make it perfectly speak, and handles a foil like the best fencer in the world.’—‘For that sole accomplishment,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘the young man deserves not only to be married to the beautiful Quiteria, but even to Queen Ginebra herself, were she now alive, in spite of Sir Lancelot, and all those who should endeavour to oppose the match.’—‘Let my wife alone for that,’ said Sancho Panza, who had hitherto travelled in silent attention; ‘she, good woman, would have every body match with his equal, sticking to the old proverb, that says, Let every goose a gander chuse. What I would willingly see is the marriage of this worthy Basilius; for he has already got my good-will, with that same lady Quiteria; and God grant them peace and plenty, and rest their souls in heaven—[his meaning was quite the reverse]—who prevent lovers from marrying according to their inclinations.’—‘If that was always the case,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘parents would be deprived of that election and jurisdiction they possess, to marry their children when and how they shall think proper; and if every daughter was at liberty to indulge her own inclination in the choice of an husband, one would perhaps chuse her father’s servant, and another place her affection upon some gaudy coxcomb, whom she might chance to see passing along the street, even though he should be a disorderly ruffian: for love and affection easily blind the eyes of the understanding, which are so necessary towards the settlement of one’s condition in life; and as we are apt to commit very important mistakes in the article of matrimony, it requires great caution, as well as the particular favour of Heaven, to succeed in the choice of a wife. A prudent man, who is resolved to undertake a long journey, will, before he sets out, endeavour to find a safe, quiet, and agreeable fellow-traveller. Then why should not the same pains be taken by the man who is going to travel through the whole journey of life? especially in the choice of a companion for bed, board, and every other purpose for which the wife is subservient to the husband; a man’s own wedded wife is not like a commodity which being once bought may be bartered, exchanged, or returned, but is an inseparable appendage that lasts for life.
‘Marriage is a noose, into which if the neck should happen to slip, it becomes inexplicable as the Gordian knot, and cannot be undone till cut asunder by the scythe of death. Much more could I add upon this subject, if I were not prevented by the desire I have to know whether Mr. Licentiate has any thing farther to entertain us with, relative to the history of Basilius.’ To this hint the other (call him scholar, batchelor, or licentiate) replied, ‘I have not any thing material to add, but that from the time he understood Quiteria was to be married to Camacho the Rich, he was never seen to smile, or heard to speak consistently: he is thoughtful and melancholy, talks to himself; all which are undoubtedly symptoms of a disordered mind. He scarce either eats or sleeps; and what little he does eat is fruit; when he sleeps at all it is upon the bare ground, and in the open air, like the beasts of the field. He every now and then looks up to heaven; at other times, like one stupid, fixes his eyes on the ground, and seems as if he was a cloathed statue, with the drapery flowing to the gales of the wind: in a word, he gives such indications of a fatal passion, that we believe for certain, when Quiteria to-morrow pronounces the Word “Yes,” she will in that seal the sentence of his death.’
‘God will order things better,’ said Sancho, ‘for he inflicts the wound, and will also perform the cure. No one knows what may happen; there are a great many hours between this and to-morrow, and in one hour, even in a moment, down comes the house; I have myself seen sun-shine and rain at the same time; a man goes to bed well at night, but cannot bestir himself next morning. Let me know, the best of ye, if any man can brag of having put a spoke in fortune’s wheel? No one, to be sure; and between the Yes and No of a woman, I would not venture to thrust the point of a pin, and that for a weighty reason, because there would-not be room for it; if you will only allow me one thing, that Quiteria loves Basilius, I’ll yet engage to give him a wallet-full of good-luck; for I have been told, that love wears a pair of spectacles, which spectacles make copper look like gold, and poverty appear to be riches, and specks in the eyes to seem pearls.’—‘A curse on thee!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what is it thou wouldst be at! once thou art set in to stringing thy proverbs, none but Judas, with whom wish thou wert, can have patience to hear thee out! Say, animal, what knowest thou about spokes or wheels, or any other thing whatsoever?’—‘O! since you do not understand me,’ answered the squire, ‘no wonder you think it nonsense what I say; but that signifies nothing: I understand myself, nor have I said many nonsensical things yet, only your worship always plays the cricket upon my words and actions.’—‘God confound thee, thou confounder of all language!’ said Don Quixote. ‘Cricket! I suppose thou meanest critick.’—‘As to that matter, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘be not too severe upon me; you know I was neither bred at court, nor studied at Salamanca, to know when I am right in the letter of a word; and as I hope for mercy from God, I think it unreasonable to expect that, the Sayagues[154] should speak in the same manner as the Toledans; though, for that matter, there are Toledans who are not more nice than other folks at the work of speaking properly.’—‘Very true,’ said the licentiate, ‘for how should a man, whose business is in the tan yards, and in the Zocodover[155], speak so good language as they who do nothing but walk from morning to night in the cloysters of the cathedral? and yet they are all Toledans; on the other hand, purity, propriety, elegance, and perspicuity, are to be found among polite people of sense; though they be natives of Majalahonda; I say people of sense, because so great a number of people are not so, and sense is the foundation of good language, assisted by custom and use. I must tell you, gentlemen, it has pleased God, for my sins, that I have studied the canon-law at Salamanca, and I pique myself a little on being able to converse in clear, easy, and expressive language.’—‘If you had not piqued yourself more upon your dexterity at these good-for-nothing foils you carry about with you, than upon your knowledge in languages, instead of lagging the hindmost, you might have been at the head of your class,’ said the other student. ‘I tell you, Mr. Batchelor, that you are the most prejudiced man in the world, in that respect, for treating dexterity at the sword as a matter of no signification.’—‘It is no prejudice with me, it is a confirmed opinion and truth,’ replied Corchuelo; ‘and if you please to make the experiment, I will convince you. You carry foils now along with you, and an opportunity offers; I’ll shew you that I have nerves and strength, backed with such courage as will prove sufficient to demonstrate to you that my opinion is not the effect of prejudice; get off your ass, and try your measured distances, your wheelings, your longes, and art of defence; and I’ll engage, with only the plain rustick skill I have, to make you see the stars at noon-day; for I trust under God, the man is yet unborn who can make me turn my back; nor have I met with any man whom I will not oblige to give ground.’—‘As to turning your back, or not turning your back, that is none of my business,’ replied the master of the science; ‘though it is not impossible but that the first spot you fix your foot on may prove your burying-ground: I mean, it is possible you may be left dead there, for slighting the noble science of defence.’—‘That we shall see presently,’ replied Corchuelo, jumping hastily upon the ground, and snatching with great fury one of the foils, which the other carried upon his ass.
Here Don Quixote cried out, ‘Not so, by heavens! I will be umpire of this fencing-match, and judge of this long-controverted dispute.’ So saying, he alighted from Rozinante, and grasping his lance, planted himself in the very middle of the road, just as master licentiate, in a masterly posture and regular advances, was making towards Corchuelo, who ran at him with fire, as the saying is, flashing from his eyes; while the two country fellows, without dismounting, sat still as spectators of this most deadly tragedy. Corchuelo assailed him every way with high strokes, low strokes, back-strokes, cuts, thrusts, flashes out of number, and as thick as hail; in short, he fell upon the licentiate like an enraged lion, but was checked a little in the career of his fury by a smart push in the mouth from the licentiate’s foil, who made him kiss the button, though with less devotion than if it had been a relick. In a word, the licentiate, by skilful and well-planted thrusts, counted the buttons of his cassock, and went through it so often, that it hung in rags like the tails of the polypus: twice was Corchuelo’s hat struck off; and so spent was he, that in rage and spite, and furious choler, he flung the foil into the air with so much force, that one of the countrymen, who went to fetch it, being a kind of scrivener, declared upon oath, that it went near three quarters of a league; which affidavit being preserved, has been, and is, a testimony to demonstrate that art prevails over strength.
Corchuelo, quite tired out, sat down; and Sancho going up to him, ‘Mr. Batchelor,’ said he, ‘if you will be ruled by me, from henceforth challenge no one to fence, but dare them to wrestle and pitch the bar, since now you are of a proper age and strength for that exercise; for I have heard say of these fencers, that they can thrust you the point of a sword through the eye of a needle.’—‘I am now convinced,’ answered Corchuelo, ‘and am taught by experience a truth I could not otherwise have believed.’
So getting up, he went and embraced his adversary, and they were now better friends than ever. The company not being willing to wait for the scrivener, who was gone after the foil, imagining he might be too long absent, resolved to put forward as fast as they could, that they might arrive early at Quiteria’s village, whither they were all going. As they travelled on their way, the licentiate demonstrated to them the excellencies of the noble science of defence, by such convincing arguments, drawn from the nature of truth and mathematical certainty, that every one was convinced of the usefulness of the science; and Corchuelo particularly was made a convert, and entirely cured of his obstinacy.
The night was just fallen, and before they came to the village, it seemed as if something like a heaven full of an infinite number of bright stars was between them and it; they likewise heard an harmonious but mixed sound of flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals, drums, and bells. As they came nearer, they perceived the boughs of an arbour, which was made on one side of the entrance into the village; and this all flaming with lights, which were not in the least disturbed by the wind; for the evening was so calm, that there was not a breath of air, so much as to move a leaf upon a tree. But the life and spirit of the wedding consisted in the musicians, who in bands ranged up and down that delightful place, some singing, some dancing, and others playing upon the different instruments. In a word, it looked as if joy and delight were sporting and playing through this meadow: a great many were employed in raising scaffolds, that they might view from them more commodiously the plays and dances which were to be in that place, to solemnize the nuptials of Camacho the Rich, and the obsequies of Basilius. Don Quixote refused to enter the village, though both the batchelor and the countryman invited him: but he pleaded what he thought a sufficient excuse, the custom of knights-errant to sleep in fields and forests, rather than in towns, though under gilded roofs; and therefore he turned a little aside, grievously against the will of Sancho, who had not yet forgotten the good lodgings he had enjoyed in the house of Don Diego.
The fair Aurora had hardly allowed Phœbus time to dry up the liquid pearls that hung upon his golden locks, when Don Quixote shaking from his limbs the drowsy fetters of sloth, got upon his legs, and called to Sancho Panza, who lay stretched along, and snoring; which situation his master seeing, before he awaked him, broke out into this soliloquy: ‘Happy thou, and blessed beyond the fate of other mortals, who, neither envying nor envied, sleepest sound, with unconcern of soul! Inchanters neither persecute, nor inchantments terrify thee: sleep on, I say again, and a hundred times more I say, sleep on; no jealousies on account of a mistress torture thee with perpetual watchings, no anxious cares of paying debts awake thee, no solicitude how thou must to-morrow provide for thyself and little ones breaks in upon thy slumbers. Ambitious views create thee no disquiet, nor the vain pomp of this empty world occasions thee any disturbance; thy concern is centered within the bounds of taking care of thy ass; for, as to taking care of thy person, that is laid upon my shoulders, a charge and burden that both nature and custom have laid upon masters; the servant sleeps, while the master is awake, and thinking how he shall maintain him, advance him in life, or do him some service. The uneasiness that arises from seeing the heavens as it were hard as brass, locked up, and refusing rain to cherish the earth, brings no anxiety upon the servant, but upon the master; who, in the days of dearth and famine, is bound to provide for him who served him in the time of abundant and plentiful harvest.’
To all this effusion Sancho answered not one word, for he was fast asleep, nor would have waked when he did, but that his master jogged him with the butt-end of his lance. He waked yawning and drowsy; and turning his face every way, ‘Umph!’ said he, ‘from yonder shady bower, if my nostrils deceive me not, proceeds rather the steam and savour of broiled rashers of bacon, than the fragrance of thyme and jessamine. O’ my conscience! weddings that begin in this savoury manner, must needs, in truth, be magnificent and abundant.’—‘Thou epicure,’ said Don Quixote, ‘have done, and let us go see this wedding, and what will be the fate of the slighted Basilius.’—‘Let his fate be as it pleases,’ quoth Sancho; ‘what, he poor and marry Quiteria! A pretty fancy truly, for one not worth a groat to think of matching so high; ’tis my opinion, a man who is poor ought to bless God for what he finds, and not be diving to find truffles at the bottom of the sea. I’ll lay a limb that Camacho can cover this same Basilius from head to foot with sixpenny pieces; and if this be so, as it certainly is, Quiteria would be a pretty lady of a bride, indeed, to refuse all the fine cloaths and fine things that, I warrant you, Camacho has given her already, and can give her still more; and to prefer, instead of them, a pitch at the bar truly, and a pass at the foils, which, it seems, make up Basilius’s riches. Go into a tavern for a pint of wine, and see if they will take a pitch of the bar, or a clever push of the foils, in lieu of the reckoning; as for your abilities, and your refinements, and graces, that will bring in none of the ready; Count Dirlos may have them for me: but when they happen to take their resting-place on a man who has wherewithal, O then, I wish no better than that my life may shew off as well as they do. Upon a good foundation a good house may be raised, and the very best bottom and best foundation of any is wealth.’—‘Oh!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘have done; have done with this harangue: I do from my soul believe, if one would but suffer thee to go on, thou wouldst lose both thy eating and sleeping in talking.’—‘Was your worship possessed of a good memory,’ replied Sancho, ‘you would remember certain articles stipulated between us, before we sallied forth upon this expedition; one of which was, that I was to talk as much as I pleased, provided it was not scandal against my neighbour, or derogating from your worship’s authority; and I imagine that nothing I have hitherto said is a breach of this agreement.’—‘I remember no such agreement,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, allowing it to be so, it is my pleasure you should give over, and come attend me; for now the instruments we heard last evening send their chearing sounds through the vallies; and beyond all doubt the nuptials will not be put off to the sultry heat of the noon-day, but be solemnized in the fresh cool of the morning.’
Sancho did as he was commanded, and putting on Rozinante’s saddle and Dapple’s pannel, they both mounted, and gently walked their beasts into the artificial shade. The first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho, was an entire bullock spitted whole, upon an elm, roasting by a fire of wood of the size of a middling mountain, and round it six pots, but not such pots as are cast in common moulds, for they were half jars, and each of them contained a whole shamble of meat; whole sheep found room in them, and were stowed as commodiously as if they had been so many pigeons. There was an innumerable quantity of cased hares; and ready-plucked fowls that hung about the branches of the trees, ready to be swallowed up in these receivers; and an infinite number of wild-fowl, with vast quantities of venison, were likewise hanging about the trees, for the air to cool them. Sancho himself told above threescore skins, which, as it was afterwards discovered, were full of rich wines, every skin containing above twenty-four quarts. Loaves of the whitest bread were piled up like heaps of wheat on a threshing-floor; and such a quantity of cheese ranged in the form of bricks, as seemed a wall; two cauldrons of oil, larger than a dyer’s vat, were ready for frying their fritters and pancakes; and when fried, they took them out with strong peels, and dipped them in another pot that stood by full of prepared honey. The cooks, men and women, amounted to above fifty, clean, good-humoured, and all busy; in the belly of the roasting bullock were sewed a dozen sucking pigs, to make it tender and savoury. Spices of all sorts, which seemed to have been bought by wholesale and not by retail, stood in a vast chest. In short, the preparations for the wedding were indeed in a rustick taste, but in such plenty and profusion as might have feasted an army.
Sancho looked at every thing, attentively considered each particular, and was in raptures with the whole. But his whole heart and affections were chiefly captivated by the flesh pots; out of them he would have been glad, with all his heart, to have filled about a moderate barrel. Then the wine-skins made his bowels yearn; and after these the contents of the frying-pans, if vessels of such immoderate size may be so called. He could hold out no longer; it was not in the power of his nature to contain himself; therefore up he went to one of the cooks, who was busy, and addressing himself to him with a humble and hungry air, begged that he might be permitted to sop a luncheon of bread in one of the pots. To which request the cook replied, ‘Hunger does not preside over this day, thanks be to Camacho the Rich; e’en alight, and see if thou canst find any where a ladle, and skim out a fowl or two, and much good may it do thy good heart.’—‘I see no ladle,’ laid Sancho. ‘God forgive me all my sins!’ cried the cook, ‘what a poor helpless thing thou art! stay.’ So saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and dipping it at once into one of the half-jar pots, brought up three pullets, and a couple of geese. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘eat; make a breakfast of this scum, and see if you can stay your stomach with it till dinner-time.’—‘I have nothing to put it in,’ said Sancho. ‘Then take ladle and all,’ replied the cook; ‘for Camacho’s riches and good fortune are sufficient to supply every thing.’
While Sancho Panza passed his time in this manner, Don Quixote was attentive in observing about a dozen of countrymen, who entered in at one side of this spacious arbour, mounted upon beautiful mares, each of them accoutred with rich and gay caparisons, and hung round with little bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and coursed round the meadow in a body, and, in regular careers, several times, with a joyous Moorish shout, flourishing, and crying out, ‘Long live Camacho and Quiteria, he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of the universe.’ Which exclamation, Don Quixote hearing, said within himself, ‘It is evident they never have beheld the beauty of my Dulcinea del Toboso; had they ever been blessed with a sight of her transcendant charms, they would be more sparing in their praises of this their Quiteria.’
Some time after there entered, at different parts of the arbour, different sets of dancers; one of whom consisted of twenty-four sword dancers, all of them clean, well-made, jolly swains, clad in fine white linen, and white handkerchiefs embroidered with silk of various colours. One of those who were mounted upon the mares asked a youth, who led the band of the sword-dancers, whether any of his companions had received any hurt? ‘As yet,’ replied the other, ‘we are all safe and sound, thanks be to God, no one is wounded!’ and immediately upon that mixed among his companions with so many twistings and windings, and with such dexterity, that though Don Quixote had been used to behold such dances, he never saw any he approved so much. Another dance likewise pleased him prodigiously; that was another chorus of twelve most beautiful damsels, of such an age, that none appeared under fourteen, nor did any seem to be quite eighteen; they were all clad in green stuff of Cuenca, their locks were, some plaited, some flowing loose, and all so fine and flaxen, as to rival those of Phœbus himself, and crowned with garlands of roses, of jessamine, and of woodbine. This beautiful bevy was led up to the dance by a venerable old man and an ancient matron, both more airy and agile than could be expected from their years. A bagpipe of Zamora was their musick, and with modesty in their looks and countenances, and lightness of foot, they danced and tripped it away the prettiest in the world. After these, entered an emblematick dance of eight nymphs divided into two bodies: the God of Love led one, and Interest the other; Cupid with his wings, his bow, his quiver, and arrows; Interest clad in gold, and silk of rich and various colours. The nymphs, attendants on Cupid, had their names displayed in white parchment, and capital letters on their backs: the first was named Poetry, the second Discretion, the third Pedigree, the fourth Bravery. The attendants on Interest were likewise characterised: the first was Liberality, the second Bounty, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet possession. The whole masque was preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by savages, clad in ivy and hemp dyed green, and so savage they looked, that they had almost frightened Sancho. On the front and on each of the four sides of this machine were inscribed these words, ‘The Castle of Discretion.’ Four able musicians played on the tabor and the pipe. Cupid, who began the dance, after he had made two movements, lifted up his eyes, and bent his bow against a damsel that stood upon the battlements of the castle, to whom he pronounced this address—