In the first book of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and renowned Don Quixote with their gleaming swords brandished aloft, about to discharge two such furious strokes, as must (if they had cut sheer) have cleft them both asunder from top to toe, like a couple of pomegranates; and in this dubious and critical conjuncture, the delicious history abruptly breaks off, without our being informed by the author where or how that which is wanting may be found.
I was not a little concerned at this disappointment; for the pleasure I enjoyed in the little I had read, was changed into disgust, when I reflected on the small prospect I had of finding the greater part of this relishing story, which in my opinion was lost: and yet it seemed impossible, and contrary to every laudable custom, that such an excellent knight should be unprovided with some sage to undertake the history of his unheard of exploits; a convenience which none of those knights-errant, who went in quest of adventures, ever wanted, each of them having been accommodated with one or two necromancers, on purpose to record not only his atchievements, but even his most hidden thoughts and amusements. Surely, then, such a compleat errant could not be so unlucky as to want that, which even Platil, and other such second-rate warriors, enjoyed.
I could not therefore prevail upon myself to believe that such a spirited history was left so lame and unfinished, but laid the whole blame on the malignity of time, which wastes and devours all things, and by which, no doubt, this was either consumed or concealed: on the other hand, I considered, that as some books had been found in his library so modern as the Undeceptions of Jealousy, together with the Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares; his own history must also be of a modern date, and the circumstances, though not committed to writing, still fresh in the memory of his neighbours and townsmen. This consideration perplexed and inflamed me with the desire of knowing the true and genuine account of the life and wonderful exploits of our Spanish worthy Don Quixote de La Mancha, the sun and mirror of Manchegan chivalry; the first who, in this our age, and these degenerate times, undertook the toil and exercise of errantry and arms, to redress grievances, support the widow, and protect those damsels who stroll about with whip and palfrey, from hill to hill, and from dale to dale, on the strength of their virginity alone: for in times past, unless some libidinous clown with hatchet and morrion, or monstrous giant, forced her to his brutal wishes, a damsel might have lived fourscore years without ever lying under any other cover than that of heaven, and then gone to her grave as good a maiden as the mother that bore her. I say, therefore, that for these and many other considerations, our gallant Don Quixote merits incessant and immortal praise; and even I myself may claim some share, for my labour and diligence in finding the conclusion of this agreeable history; though I am well aware, that if I had not been favoured by fortune, chance, or Providence, the world would have been deprived of that pleasure and satisfaction which the attentive reader may enjoy for an hour or two, in perusing what follows: the manner of my finding it I will now recount.
While I was walking one day on the exchange of Toledo, a boy coming up to a certain mercer, offered to sell him a bundle of old papers he had in his hand: now, as I have always a strong propensity to read even those scraps that sometimes fly about the streets, I was led by this my natural curiosity, to turn over some of the leaves; I found them written in Arabick, which not being able to read, though I knew the characters, I looked about for some Portuguese Moor who should understand it; and, indeed, though the language had been both more elegant and ancient, I might easily have found an interpreter. In short, I lighted upon one, to whom expressing my desire, and putting the pamphlet into his hands, he opened it in the middle, and after having read a few lines, began to laugh; when I asked the cause of his laughter, he said it was occasioned by a whimsical annotation in the margin of the book. I begged he would tell me what it was, and he answered, still laughing, ‘What I find written in the margin, is to this purpose: “this same Dulcinea, so often mentioned in the history, is said to have had the best hand at salting pork of any woman in La Mancha.”’
Not a little surprized at hearing Dulcinea del Toboso mentioned, I immediately conjectured that the bundle actually contained the history of Don Quixote. Possessed with this notion, I bade him, with great eagerness, read the title-page, which having perused, he translated it extempore from Arabic to Spanish, in these words: ‘The History of Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian author.’ No small discretion was requisite to dissemble the satisfaction I felt, when my ears were saluted with the title of these papers, which, snatching from the master, I immediately bought in the lump for half a rial; though, if the owner had been cunning enough to discover my eagerness to possess them, he might have laid his account with getting twelve times the sum by the bargain.
I then retired with my Moor through the cloisters of the cathedral, and desired him to translate all those papers that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian tongue, without addition or diminution, offering to pay any thing he should charge for his labour: his demand was limited to two quarters of raisins, and as many bushels of wheat, for which he promised to translate them with great care, conciseness, and fidelity: but I, the more to facilitate the business without parting with such a rich prize, conducted him to my own house, where, in little less than six weeks, he translated the whole, in the same manner as shall here be related.
In the first sheet was painted to the life the battle betwixt Don Quixote and the Biscayan, who were represented in the same posture as the history has already described, their swords brandished aloft, one of the antagonists covered with his shield, the other with his cushion, and the Biscayan’s mule so naturally set forth, that you might have known her to have been an hireling, at the distance of a bow-shot. Under the feet of her rider was a label containing these words, ‘Don Sancho de Azpetia,’ which was doubtless his name; and beneath our knight was another, with the title of ‘Don Quixote.’ Rozinante was most wonderfully delineated, so long and raw-boned, so lank and meagre, so sharp in the back, and consumptive, that one might easily perceive, with what propriety and penetration the name of Rozinante had been bestowed upon him. Hard by the steed was Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter, at whose feet was a third label, inscribed ‘Sancho Zancas,’ who, in the picture, was represented as a person of a short stature, swag belly, and long spindle-shanks: for this reason he ought to be called indiscriminately by the names of Panza[45] and Zanchas; for by both these surnames is he sometimes mentioned in history.
There were divers other minute circumstances to be observed, but all of them of small importance and concern to the truth of the history, though, indeed, nothing that is true can be impertinent: however, if any objection can be started to the truth of this, it can be no other, but that the author was an Arabian, of a nation but too much addicted to falshood, though, as they are at present our enemies, it may be supposed, that he has rather failed than exceeded in the representation of our hero’s exploits; for, in my opinion, when he had frequently opportunities and calls to exercise his pen in the praise of such an illustrious knight, he seems to be industriously silent on the subject; a circumstance very little to his commendation, for all historians ought to be punctual, candid, and dispassionate, that neither interest, rancour, fear, or affection, may mislead them from the road of Truth, whose mother is History, that rival of Time, that repository of great actions, witness of the past, example and pattern of the present, and oracle of future ages. In this, I know, will be found whatsoever can be expected in the most pleasant performance; and if any thing seems imperfect, I affirm it must be owing to the fault of the infidel its author, rather than to any failure of the subject itself: in short, the second book in the translation begins thus—
The flaming swords of the two valiant and incensed combatants, brandished in the air, seemed to threaten heaven, earth, and hell, such was the rage and resolution of those that wielded them; but the first blow was discharged by the cholerick Biscayan, who struck with such force and fury, that if the blade had not turned by the way, that single stroke would have been sufficient to have put an end to this dreadful conflict, and all the other adventures of our knight; but his good genius, which preserved him for mightier things, turned the sword of his antagonist aside, so that though it fell upon his left shoulder, it did no other damage than disarm that whole side, slicing off in its passage, the greatest part of his helmet, with half of his ear, which fell to the ground with hideous ruin, leaving him in a very uncomfortable situation. Good Heavens! where is the man who can worthily express the rage and indignation which entered into the heart of our Manchegan, when he saw himself handled in this manner! I shall only say, his fury was such, that raising himself again in his stirrups, and grasping his sword with both hands, he discharged it so full upon the cushion and head of the Biscayan, which it but ill-defended, that, as if a mountain had fallen upon him, he began to spout blood from his nostrils, mouth, and ears, and seemed ready to fall from his mule, which would certainly have been the case, if he had not laid hold of the mane: yet notwithstanding this effort, his feet falling out of the stirrups, and his arms quitting their hold, the mule, which was frightened at the terrible stroke, began to run across the field, and after a few plunges came with her master to the ground. Don Quixote, who sat observing him with great tranquillity, no sooner perceived him fall, than leaping from his horse, he ran up to him with great agility, and setting the point of his sword to his throat, bade him surrender on pain of having his head cut off. The Biscayan was so confounded by the blow and fall he had sustained, that he could not answer one syllable; and as Don Quixote was blinded by his rage, he would have fared very ill, if the ladies of the coach, who had hitherto, in great consternation, been spectators of the battle, had not run to the place where he was, and requested, with the most fervent entreaties, that his worship would grant them the favour to spare the life of their squire.
To this petition the knight replied, with great stateliness and gravity, ‘Assuredly, most beautiful ladies, I am very ready to do what you desire, but it shall be upon condition and proviso, that this cavalier promise to go straight to Toboso, and present himself in my behalf, before the unparalleled Donna Dulcinea, that she may use him according to her good pleasure.’ The timorous and disconsolate ladies, without entering into the detail of what Don Quixote desired, or enquiring who this Dulcinea was, promised that the squire should obey the knight’s commands in every thing. ‘Upon the faith of your word, then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I will do him no farther damage, though he has richly deserved it at my hand.’
All this time, Sancho Panza having got up, though very roughly handled by the lacquies of the friars, stood very attentively beholding the battle of his master Don Quixote, and put up ejaculatory petitions to heaven, that it would please to grant him the victory, and that he might gain by it some island, of which he himself might be made governor, in consequence of the knight’s promise. Seeing therefore the battle ended, and his master returning to mount Rozinante, he went to hold his stirrup, and before he got up, fell on his knees before him; then laying hold of his hand, and kissing it, pronounced with great fervency, ‘Sir Don Quixote, will your worship be pleased to bestow on me the government of that island which you have won in this dreadful combat; for let it be ever so great, I find I have strength enough to govern it, as well as any he who governs an island in this world.’ To this request Don Quixote replied, ‘You must know, Brother Sancho, that such as these are not adventures of islands, but frays that happen in bye-roads, in which there is nothing to be got but a broken head, with the loss of an ear; have a little patience, and we shall meet with adventures, which will enable me to make you not only a governor, but something more.’ Sancho made him many hearty acknowledgments for his promise, then kissing his hand again, and his coat of mail, helped him to mount Rozinante; and he himself getting upon his ass, followed his master, who set off at a round pace, and without bidding adieu, or speaking one syllable to those in the coach, entered a wood that was in the neighbourhood.
Sancho followed him as hard as his beast would trot; but Rozinante exerted such speed, that seeing himself left behind, he was obliged to call to his master to wait for him. The knight complied with his request, and checked his horse, until he was overtaken by his weary squire; who, when he approached him, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘methinks it would be the wisest course for us to retreat to some church; for as he with whom you fought remains but in a sorry condition, it is odds but they inform the holy brotherhood of the affair[46], and have us apprehended; and verily, if they do, before we get out of prison we may chance to sweat for it.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘where didst thou ever see or hear, that a knight-errant was brought to justice for the greatest homicides he had committed?’—‘I know nothing of your honey-seeds,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor in my life did I ever see one of them; this only I know, that the holy brotherhood commonly looks after those who quarrel and fight up and down the country; and as to the other affair, I have no business to intermeddle in it.’
‘Set your heart at ease then, friend Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘for I will deliver you from the hands of the Philistines, much more from the clutches of the brotherhood; but tell me, on thy life, hast thou ever seen a more valiant knight than me in any country of the known world? Hast thou ever read in story of any other who possesses, or has possessed, more courage in attacking, more breath in persevering, more dexterity in wounding, and more agility in overthrowing his antagonist?’—‘The truth is,’ answered Sancho, ‘I never read a history since I was born; for indeed I can neither read nor write; but what I will make bold to wager upon is, that a more daring master than your worship I never served in the days of my life; and I wish to God, that your courage may not meet with that reward I have already mentioned. What I beg of your worship at present is, that you would allow me to dress that ear, which bleeds very much, for I have got some lint, and a little white ointment in my wallet.’—‘These would have been altogether needless,’ answered the knight, ‘if I had remembered to make a phial of the balsam of Fierabras, one single drop of which would save abundance of time and trouble.’—‘What sort of a phial and balsam is that?’ said Sancho Panza. ‘It is a balsam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘the receipt of which I retain in my memory, and he that possesses the valuable composition needs be in no fear of death, nor think of perishing by any wound whatsoever: and therefore, when I shall have made it, and delivered it into thy keeping, thou hast no more to do when thou seest me in any combat cut through the middle, a circumstance that very often happens, but to snatch up that part of the body which falls to the ground, and before the blood shall congeal, set it upon the other half that remains in the saddle, taking care to join them with the utmost nicety and exactness; then making me swallow a couple of draughts of the aforesaid balsam, thou wilt see me in a twinkling, as whole and as sound as an apple.’
‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘I henceforth renounce the government of that island you promised me, and desire no other reward for my long and faithful service, but that your worship will give me the receipt of that same most exceeding liquor; for I imagine, that it will sell for two rials an ounce at least, and that will be sufficient to make me spend the rest of my days in credit and ease: but it will be necessary to know if the composition be costly.’—‘I can make a gallon of it for less than three rials,’ replied the knight. ‘Sinner that I am!’ cried Sancho, ‘what hinders your worship from teaching me to make it this moment?’—‘Hold thy tongue, friend,’ said the knight. ‘I intend to teach thee greater secrets, and bestow upon thee more considerable rewards than that; but, in the mean time, let us dress my ear, which pains me more than I could wish.’
The squire accordingly took out his lint and ointment: but when his master found that his helmet was quite demolished, he had almost run stark mad: he laid his hand upon his sword, and lifting up his hands to heaven, pronounced aloud, ‘I swear by the Creator of all things, and by all that is written in the four holy evangelists! to lead the life which the great Marquis of Mantua led, when he swore to revenge the death of his cousin Valdovinos; neither to eat food upon a table, nor enjoy his wife, with many other things, which, though I do not remember, I here consider as expressed, until I shall have taken full vengeance upon him who has done me this injury[47].’ Sancho hearing this invocation, ‘Sir Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘I hope your worship will consider, that if the knight shall accomplish what he was ordered to do, namely, to present himself before my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done his duty, and certainly deserves no other punishment, unless he commits a new crime.’—‘Thou hast spoke very much to the purpose, and hit the nail on the head,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘therefore I annul my oath, so far as it regards my revenge, but I make and confirm it anew, to lead the life I have mentioned, until such time as I can take by force as good a helmet as this from some other knight; and thou must not think, Sancho, that I am now making a smoke of straw; for I know very well whom I imitate in this affair; the same thing having literally happened about the helmet of Mambrino, which cost Sacripante so dear.[48]’
‘Sir, Sir,’ replied Sancho, with some heat, ‘I wish your worship would send to the devil all such oaths, which are so mischievous to the health and prejudicial to the conscience; for, tell me now, if we should not find in many days, a man armed with a helmet, what must we do? must we perform this vow, in spite of all the rubs and inconveniences in the way; such as to lie in one’s cloaths, and not to sleep in an inhabited place, with a thousand other penances contained in the oath of that old mad Marquis of Mantua, which your worship now wants to renew? Pray, Sir, consider that there are no armed people in these roads, none but carriers and carters, which far from wearing helmets themselves, perhaps never heard of any such thing during the whole course of their lives.’—‘There thou art egregiously mistaken,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for, before we are two hours in the cross-ways, we shall see armed men more numerous than those that came to Albraca, in order to win Angelica the fair.’—‘On then, and be it so,’ said Sancho, ‘and pray God we may succeed, and that the time may come when we shall gain that island which has cost me so dear, and then I care not how soon I die.’—‘I have already advised thee, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘to give thyself no trouble about that affair; for, should we be disappointed in the expectation of an island, there is the kingdom of Denmark; or that of Sobrediza, which will suit thee as well as ever a ring fitted a finger, and ought to give thee more joy, because it is situated on Terra Firma; but let us leave these things to the determination of time, and see if thou hast got any thing in thy wallet; for we must go presently in quest of some castle, where we may procure a night’s lodging, and ingredients to make that same balsam I mentioned; for, I vow to God! my ear gives me infinite pain.’
‘I have got here in my bags,’ said Sancho, ‘an onion, a slice of cheese, and a few crusts of bread; but these are eatables which do not suit the palate of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship.’—‘How little you understand of the matter!’ answered Don Quixote. ‘Thou must know, Sancho, that it is for the honour of knights-errant, to abstain whole months together from food, and when they do eat, to be contented with what is next at hand; this thou wouldst not have been ignorant of, hadst thou read so many histories as I have perused, in which, numerous as they are, I have never found any account of knights-errant eating, except occasionally, at some sumptuous banquet made on purpose for them; at other times, living upon air; and though it must be taken for granted, that they could not altogether live without eating, or complying with the other necessities of nature, being in effect men as we are; yet we are likewise to consider, that as the greatest part of their lives was spent in travelling through woods and desarts, without any cook or caterer, their ordinary diet was no other than such rustick food as thou hast now got for our present occasions[49]; therefore, friend Sancho, give thyself no uneasiness, because thou hast got nothing to gratify the palate, nor seek to unhinge or alter the constitution of things.’
‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Sancho, ‘for as I can neither read nor write, as I have already observed, I may have mistaken the rules of your knightly profession; but from henceforward I will store my budget with all sorts of dry fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for myself, who am none, I will provide other more volatile and substantial food[50].’—‘I do not say, Sancho, that knights-errant are obliged to eat nothing except these fruits, but only that their most ordinary sustenance is composed of them and some certain herbs, which they know how to gather in the fields; a species of knowledge which I myself am no stranger to.’—‘Surely,’ answered Sancho, ‘it is a great comfort to know these same herbs; for it comes into my head, we shall one day or another have occasion to make use of the knowledge:’ and taking out the contents of his wallet, they eat together with great harmony and satisfaction; but, being desirous of finding some place for their night’s lodging, they finished their humble repast in a hurry, and mounting their beasts, put on at a good rate, in order to reach some village before it should be dark; but the hope of gratifying that desire failed them with day-light, just when they happened to be near a goatherd’s hut, in which they resolved to pass the night; and in the same proportion that Sancho was disgusted at not being able to reach some village, his master was rejoiced at an opportunity of sleeping under the cope of heaven, because he looked upon every occasion of this kind as an act of possession that strengthened the proof of his knight-errantry.
He received a very hearty welcome from the goatherds; and Sancho having, as well as he could, accommodated Rozinante and his ass, was attracted by the odour that issued from some pieces of goat’s flesh that were boiling in a kettle; but though he longed very much at that instant to see if it was time to transfer them from the kettle to the belly, he checked his curiosity, because the landlord took them from the fire, and spreading some sheep-skins upon the ground, let out their rustick table without loss of time; inviting their two guests to a share of their mess, with many expressions of good-will and hospitality. Then those who belonged to the cot, being six in number, seated themselves round the skins, having first, with their boorish ceremony, desired Don Quixote to sit down on a trough, which they had overturned for that purpose.
The knight accepted their offer, and Sancho remained standing, to administer the cup, which was made of horn; but his master perceiving him in this attitude, ‘That thou may’st see, Sancho,’ said he, ‘the benefit which is concentered in knight-errantry; and how near all those who exercise themselves in any sort of ministry belonging to it, are to preferment and esteem of the world, I desire thee to sit down here by my side, in company with these worthy people; and that thou may’st be on an equal footing with me, thy natural lord and master, eating in the same dish, and drinking out of the same cup that I use; for what is said of love may be observed of knight-errantry, that it puts all things upon a level.’
‘I give you a thousand thanks,’ said Sancho; ‘but I must tell your worship that, provided I have plenty, I can eat as much, nay more to my satisfaction, standing on my legs, and in my own company, than if I was to sit by the side of an emperor; and, if all the truth must be told, I had much rather dine by myself in a corner, though it should be upon a bit of bread and an onion, without all your niceties and ceremonies, than eat turkey-cocks at another man’s table, where I am obliged to chew softly, to drink sparingly, to wipe my mouth every minute, to abstain from sneezing or coughing, though I should be never so much inclined to either, and from a great many other things, which I can freely do when alone; therefore, Sir master of mine, I hope these honours which your worship would put upon me, as being the servant and abettor of knight errantry, which to be sure I am, while I remain in quality of your squire, may be converted into other things of more ease and advantage to me, than those which, though I hold them as received in full, I renounce from henceforth for ever, amen.’—‘Thou must nevertheless sit thee down,’ said his master; ‘for him that is humble, God will exalt;’ and, seizing him by the arm, he pulled him down to the seat on which he himself sat.
The goatherds, who understood not a word of all this jargon of squire and knights-errant, did nothing but eat in silence, and gaze upon their guests; who, with keen appetite, and infinite relish, solaced their stomachs, by swallowing pieces as large as their fists. This service of meat being finished, they spread upon their skins great quantities of acorns, and half a cheese, harder than plaister of Paris: all this time the horn was not idle, but went round so fast, sometimes full, sometimes empty, like the buckets of a well, that they soon voided one of the two skins of wine that hung in view.
Don Quixote having satisfied his appetite, took up an handful of the acorns, and after looking at them attentively, delivered himself to this purpose: ‘Happy age, and happy days were those, to which the ancients gave the name of golden; not that gold, which in these our iron times is so much esteemed, was to be acquired without trouble, in that fortunate period; but because people were then ignorant of those two words MINE and THINE: in that sacred age, all things were in common; no man was necessitated, in search of his daily food, to undergo any other trouble than that of reaching out his hand, and receiving it from the sturdy oak, that liberally invited him to pull his sweet and salutary fruit. The limpid fountains and murmuring rills afforded him their savoury and transparent waters in magnificent abundance. In clefts of rocks and hollow trees, the prudent and industrious bees formed their commonwealths, offering without interest to every hand the fruitful harvest of their delicious toil. The stately cork-trees voluntarily stripped themselves of their light extended bark, with which men began to cover their rural cottages, supported upon rustick poles, with a view only to defend themselves from the inclemencies of the weather. All was then peace, all was harmony, and all was friendship. As yet the ponderous coulter of the crooked plough had not presumed to open, or visit the pious entrails of our first mother, who, without compulsion, presented on every part of her wide and fertile bosom, every thing that could satisfy, sustain, and delight her sons, who then possessed her. Then did the simple and beautiful shepherdesses rove from hill to hill, and dale to dale, bare-headed, in their braided locks, without any other cloaths than what were necessary to cover modestly that which modesty commands, and always has commanded to be covered. Neither were their ornaments such as are used now-a-days, enhanced in value by the Tyrian purple, and the many-ways martyred silk, but composed of verdant dock-leaves, and ivy interwove together; with which they appeared, perhaps, with as great pomp and contrivance as the court ladies of our days, dressed in all the rare and foreign fashions which idle curiosity has invented. Then were the amorous dictates of the soul expressed in sensible simplicity, just as they were conceived, undisguised by the artificial cloak of specious words. There was no fraud, no deceit, no malice intermixed with plain dealing truth; justice then kept within her proper bounds, undisturbed and unbiased by interest and favour, which now impair, confound, and persecute, her so much; law was not then centered in the arbitrary bosom of the judge, for, at that time, there was neither cause nor contest. Damsels and decency, as I have already laid, went about single, and without fear of being injured by insolence or lust; and their ruin, when it happened, was the fruit of their own will and pleasure. But, now-a-days, in this detestable age, no maid is secure, though she was concealed and shut up in such another labyrinth as was that of Crete; for, even there, the amorous pestilence, with the zeal of mischievous importunity, would enter either by the help of wings, or by gliding through some chink or other, and all her barricadoed chastity would go to wreck. For the security of this virtue, in process of time, when mischief grew to a greater head, the order of knight-errantry was first instituted to defend damsels, protect widows, and succour the needy and the fatherless. This order, brother goatherds, I profess; and thank you for this kind entertainment and reception, which I and my squire have received at your hands; for though, by the law of nature, all mankind are obliged to favour and assist knights-errant, during the whole course of their lives; yet, as you have received and regaled me, before you knew yourselves to be under that obligation, I think it my duty to return my most sincere acknowledgment for your hospitality.’
The whole of this tedious harangue, which might very well have been spared, was pronounced by our knight, because the acorns they presented recalled to his memory the golden age: therefore he took it in his head to make these useless reflections to the goatherds; who, without answering one syllable, listened with suspence and astonishment. Sancho was also silent, but kept his teeth employed upon the acorns, and paid many a visit to the second wine-bag; which, that the contents might be the cooler, was hung upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote was less tedious in his discourse than at his meal, which being ended, one of the goatherds said, ‘That your worship, knight-errant, may be convinced of our readiness and good-will to give you all the entertainment in our power, you shall have the pleasure and satisfaction of hearing a song from one of our companions, who will soon be here. He is an understanding young fellow, very much in love, who, moreover, can read and write, and play upon the rebeck[51], that it will delight you to hear him.’ Scarce had the goatherd pronounced these words, when their ears were saluted with a sound of this instrument; and presently after appeared the musician, who was a young fellow of about twenty, or twenty two years of age, and of a very graceful appearance. His companions asked him if he had supped, and he answering in the affirmative, one of them, who made the offer to the knight, said to him, ‘If that be the case, Antonio, you will do us the pleasure to sing a song, that this gentleman, our guest, may see there are some, even among these woods and mountains, who understand musick. We have already informed him of thy uncommon talents, and we desire thou wouldst shew them, in order to justify what we have said in thy praise; I therefore earnestly beseech thee to sit down and sing the ballad of thy love, composed by thy uncle the curate, which is so much commended in our village.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied the young man; who, without farther entreaty, sat down upon the trunk of an ancient oak, and tuning his instrument, began in a very graceful manner to sing and accompany the following song.
Thus ended the goatherd’s ditty; and though Don Quixote desired him to sing another, yet Sancho Panza would by no means give his consent, being more inclined to take his natural rest than to hear ballads; and therefore, he said to his master, ‘Your worship had better consider where you are to lodge this night; for the labour that these honest men undergo in the day, will not suffer them to pass the night in singing.’—‘I understand thee, Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘it plainly appears that the visits thou hast made to the wine-bag, demand the consolation of sleep, rather than that of musick.’—‘They agreed with us all very well, blessed be God!’ replied Sancho. ‘I do not deny it,’ said the knight; ‘and thou mayest bestow thyself in the best manner thou canst; but it is more seemly for those of my profession to watch than to sleep: it would not be amiss, however, Sancho, to dress my ear again; for it gives me more pain than I could wish.’ Sancho did as he desired: when one of the goatherds perceiving the wound, bade him give himself no trouble about it, for he would apply a remedy that would heal it in a trice: so saying, he took some leaves of rosemary, which grew in great plenty round the hut, and having chewed and mixed them with a little salt, applied the poultice to his ear; and binding it up carefully, assured him, as it actually happened, that it would need no other plaister.
In the mean time, another of the lads, who brought them victuals from the village, entering the hut, said, ‘Do you know what has happened in our town, comrades?’ When one of them answered, ‘How should we!’ ‘Know, then,’ continued he, ‘that the famous student Chrysostom died this morning; and it is murmured about, that his death was occasioned by his love for that devilish girl Marcella, daughter of William the rich. She that roves about these plains in the habit of a shepherdess.’—‘For Marcella, said you!’ cried one. ‘The same,’ answered the goatherd; ‘and it is certain, that in his last will he ordered himself to be buried in the field like a Moor (God bless us!) at the foot of the rock, hard by the cork-tree spring; for, the report goes, and they say he said so himself, as how the first time he saw her was in that place; and he has also ordained many other such things as the clergy say must not be accomplished; nor is it right they should be accomplished; for, truly, they seem quite heathenish: to all which objections his dear friend, Ambrosio the student, who also dressed himself like a shepherd, to keep him company, replies, that he will perform every thing, without fail, that Chrysostom has ordered; and the whole village is in an uproar about it: but it is believed that every thing, at last, will be done according to the desire of Ambrosio, and all the rest of the shepherds, his friends; and that to-morrow he will be interred with great pomp in the very spot I have mentioned. I am resolved, therefore, as it will be a thing well worth seeing, to go thither without fail, even though I thought I should not be able to return to the village that night.’—‘We will do so too,’ replied the goatherds, ‘and cast lots to see which of us must stay and take care of our flocks.’—‘You are in the right, Pedro,’ said one; ‘but there will be no occasion to use that shift, for I myself will stay and take care of the whole; and you must not impute my tarrying to virtue, or the want of curiosity, but to the plaguy thorn that ran into my foot the other day, and hinders me from walking.’—‘We are obliged to thee, however,’ answered Pedro; whom Don Quixote desired to tell him who that same dead shepherd and living shepherdess were.
To this question the goatherd replied, all that he knew of the matter was, that the deceased was the son of a rich farmer, who lived in the neighbourhood of a village in these mountains; that he had studied in Salamanca many years, at the end of which he had returned to his family with the character of a great scholar: in particular, they said he was very knowing in the science of the stars, and what passed betwixt the sun and moon, and the heavens; for he had punctually foretold the clipse of them both! ‘The obscuration of those two great luminaries,’ said the knight, ‘is called the eclipse, and not the clipse, friend.’ But Pedro, without troubling his head with these trifles, proceeded, saying, ‘he likewise foresaw when the year would be plentiful or staril.’—‘You mean, sterile,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Sterile, or staril,’ replied Pedro, ‘comes all to the same purpose; and I say, that his father and his friends, taking his advice, became very rich: for they gave credit to his words, and followed his counsel in all things. When he would say, this year you must sow barley, and no wheat; here you must sow carabances, but no barley; next year there will be a good harvest of oil; but for three years to come there will not be a drop.’—‘That science,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘is called astrology.’—‘I know not how it is called,’ replied Pedro; ‘but this I know, that he knew all this, and much more. In short, not many months after he came from Salamanca, he appeared all of a sudden in shepherd-weeds, with his woolly jacket, and a flock of sheep, having laid aside the long dress of a student. And he was accompanied by a friend of his in the same habit, whose name was Ambrosio, and who had been his fellow student at college. I forgot to tell you that Chrysostom the defunct was such a great man at composing couplets, that he made carols for Christmas eve, and plays for the Lord’s-day, which were represented by the young men in our village; and every body said, that they were tip-top. When the people of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly cloathed like shepherds, they were surprized, and could not guess their reason for such an odd change. About that time the father of this Chrysostom dying, he inherited great riches, that were in moveables and in lands, with no small number of sheep, more or less, and a great deal of money: of all which this young man remained desolate lord and master: and truly he deserved it all; for he was an excellent companion, very charitable, a great friend to good folks, and had a most blessed countenance. Afterwards it came to be known, that his reason for changing his garb, was no other than with a view of strolling through the woods and desarts after that same shepherdess Marcella, whose name my friend mentioned just now, and with whom the poor defunct Chrysostom was woundily in love: and I will now tell you, for it is necessary that you should know who this wench is; for, mayhap, nay even without a mayhap, you never heard of such a thing in all the days of your life, though you be older than St. Paul[53].’—‘Say, Paul’s,’ replied Don Quixote, offended at the goatherd’s perverting the words. ‘Saint Paul was no chicken,’ replied Pedro; ‘and if your worship be resolved to correct my words every moment, we shall not have done in a twelvemonth.’—‘I ask your pardon friend,’ said the knight; ‘I only mention this, because there is a wide difference between the person of St. Paul, and a church that goes by his name: but, however, you made a very sensible reply; for, to be sure, the saint lived long before the church was built: therefore go on with your story, and I promise not to interrupt you again.’
‘Well, then, my good master,’ said the goatherd, ‘there lived in our village a farmer, still richer than Chrysostom’s father; his name was William, and God gave him, over and above great wealth, a daughter, who at her birth was the death of her mother, the most worthy dame in all the country. Methinks I see her now with that face of her’s, which seemed to have the sun on one side, and the moon on the other; she was an excellent housewife, and a great friend to the poor, for which reason I believe her soul is enjoying the presence of God in paradise. Her husband died of grief for the loss of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcella, young and rich, to the care of an uncle, who has got a living in our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that she put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share, and yet it was thought it would be surpassed by the daughter’s. It happened accordingly; for when she came to the age of fourteen or fifteen, nobody could behold her without blessing God, for having made so beautiful a creature; and every body almost grew desperately in love with her. Her uncle kept her up with great care; but, for all that, the fame of her exceeding beauty spread in such a manner, that both for her person and her fortune, not only the richest people in our town, but likewise in many leagues about, came to ask her in marriage of her uncle, with much importunity and felicitation. But he, who, to give him his due, was a good christian, although he wanted to dispose of her as soon as she came to the age fit for matrimony, would not give her away without her own consent; neither had he a view in deferring her marriage, to the gain and advantage which he might enjoy in managing the girl’s fortune. And truly I have heard this spoken in more companies than one, very much to the praise of the honest priest. For I would have you know, Sir traveller, that in these small towns people intermeddle and grumble about every thing. And this you may take for certain, as I know it to be so, that a clergyman must be excessively good indeed, if he can oblige his flock to speak well of him, especially in country villages.’—‘You are certainly in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and pray go on, for your story is very entertaining; and you, honest Pedro, relate it with a good grace.’—‘May I never want God’s grace!’ said the shepherd; ‘for that is the main chance; and you must know, moreover, that though the uncle proposed to his niece, and described the good qualities of each in particular who asked her in marriage, desiring her to give her hand to some one or other, and chuse for herself; she never would give him any other answer, but that she did not chuse to marry, for she was too young to bear the burden of matrimony. On account of these excuses, which seemed to have some reason in them, her uncle forbore to importune her, and waited till she should have more years and discernment to make choice of her own company; for he said, and to be sure it was well said, that parents should never dispose of their children against their own inclinations. But behold, when we least thought of it, the timorous Marcella one day appeared in the habit of a shepherdess; and without imparting her design to her uncle, or any body in the village, for fear they might have dissuaded her from it, she took to the field with her own flock, in company of the other damsels of the village. As she now appeared in publick, and her beauty was exposed to the eyes of every body, you cannot conceive what a number of rich youths, gentlemen and farmers, immediately took the garb of Chrysostom, and went wooing her through the fields. One of these suitors, as you have heard, was the deceased, who, they say, left off loving to adore her; and you must not think, that because Marcella took to this free and unconfined way of living, she brought the least disparagement upon her chastity and good name; on the contrary, such is the vigilance with which she guards her honour, that of all those who serve and solicit her, not one has boasted, nor indeed can boast with any truth, that she has given him the smallest hope of accomplishing his desire; for though she neither flies, or avoids the company and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous and friendly manner, whenever any one of them comes to disclose his intention, let it be ever so just and holy, even marriage itself, she throws him from her like a stone from a sling; and being of this disposition, does more damage in this country, than if a pestilence had seized it; for her affability and beauty allures all the hearts of those that converse with her to serve and love her, but her coyness and plain dealing drives them even to the borders of despair; therefore they know not what to say, but upbraid her with cruelty and ingratitude, and give her a great many such titles, as plainly shew the nature of her disposition: and if your worship was but to stay here one day, you would hear these hills and dales resound with the lamentations of her rejected followers. Not far from this place there is a tuft of about a dozen of tall beeches, upon every one of which you may read engraved the name of Marcella, and over some a crown cut out in the bark, as if her lover would have declared, that Marcella wears, and deserves to wear, the crown of all earthly beauty. Here one shepherd sighs, there another complains; in one place you may hear amorous ditties, in another the dirges of despair; one lover sits musing through all the hours of the night, at the foot of some tall ash or rugged rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes, shrunk up as it were, and intranced in his own reflections, he is found by the rising sun; a second, without giving respite or truce to his sighs, exposed to the heat of the most sultry summer’s sun, lies stretched upon the burning sand, breathing his complaints to pitying Heaven, and over this and that, and these and those, the free, the unconcerned, the fair Marcella triumphs. We who are acquainted with her disposition, wait with impatience to see the end of all this disdain, and long to know what happy man will tame such an unsociable humour, and enjoy such exceeding beauty. As every thing that I have recounted is true to a tittle, I have no reason to doubt the truth of what our comrades said concerning the cause of Chrysostom’s death; and therefore I advise you, Sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his burial, which will be well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a great many friends, and the spot in which he ordered himself to be buried is not more than half a league from hence.’
‘I will take care to be present,’ said the knight, ‘and thank you heartily for the pleasure you have given me in relating such an interesting story.’—‘Oh! as for that,’ cried the goatherd, ‘I do not know one half of what has happened to the lovers of Marcella: but to-morrow, perhaps, we may light upon some shepherd on the road, who is better acquainted with them. In the mean time you will do well to go to sleep under some cover, for the cold night air may not agree with the hurt your jaws have received, though the remedy I have applied is such, that you have nothing else to fear.’
Sancho Panza, who wished the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil, earnestly intreated his master to go to sleep in Pedro’s hut. This request the knight complied with, and spent the greatest part of the night in thinking of his Lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcella’s lovers; while Sancho Panza, taking up his lodging betwixt Rozinante and his ass, slept soundly, not like a discarded lover, but like one who had been battered and bruised the day before.
Scarce had Aurora disclosed herself through the balconies of the east, when five of the six goatherds arising, went to waken Don Quixote, and told him, that if he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous funeral of Chrysostom, they would keep him company. The knight, who desired nothing better, arose, and commanded Sancho to saddle his horse and pannel his ass immediately. This order was executed with great dispatch, and they set out without loss of time. They had not travelled more than a quarter of a league, when, upon crossing a path, they saw coming towards them six shepherds, cloathed in jackets of black sheep-skin, and crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter-bay, each having a club of holly in his hand. Along with them came also two gentlemen on horseback, very well equipped for travel, accompanied by three young men on foot.
When they advanced they saluted one another, and understanding, upon inquiry, that they were all bound to the place of interment, they joined company, and travelled together. One of the horsemen said to his companion, ‘Signior Vivaldo, we shall not have reason to grudge our tarrying to see this famous funeral, which must certainly be very extraordinary, by the strange account we have received from these people, of the dead shepherd, and the murderous shepherdess.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ answered Vivaldo; ‘and would not only tarry one day, but even four or five, on purpose to see it.’ Don Quixote asking what they had heard of Marcella and Chrysostom, the traveller replied, that early in the morning they had met with these shepherds, of whom inquiring the cause of their being cloathed in such melancholy weeds, they had been informed of the coyness and beauty of a certain shepherdess called Marcella, and the hapless love of many who courted her, together with the death of that same Chrysostom to whose funeral they were going. In short, he recounted every circumstance of what Pedro had told Don Quixote before.
This conversation being ended, another began by Vivaldo’s asking Don Quixote why he travelled thus in armour in a peaceable country. To this question the knight replied, ‘The exercise of my profession will not permit or allow me to go in any other manner. Revels, feasting, and repose, were invented by effeminate courtiers; but toil, anxiety, and arms, are peculiar to those whom the world calls knights-errant, of which order I, though unworthy, and the least, am one.’ He had no sooner pronounced these words, than all present took him for a madman; but, in order to confirm their opinion, and discover what kind of madness it was, Vivaldo desired to know what he meant by knights-errant. ‘What!’ said Don Quixote, ‘have you never read the annals and history of England, which treat of the famous exploits of Arthur, who, at present, in our Castilian language, is called King Artus, and of whom there is an ancient tradition, generally believed all over Great Britain, that he did not die, but was, by the art of inchantment, metamorphosed into a raven; and that the time will come when he shall return, and recover his sceptre and throne; for which reason it cannot be proved, that from that period to this, any Englishman has killed a raven. In the reign of that excellent king was instituted that famous order of chivalry, called the Knights of the Round Table; and those amours punctually happened, which are recounted of Don Lancelot of the Lake, with Queen Ginebra, by the help and mediation of that sage and venerable duenna Quitaniona, from whence that delightful ballad, so much sung in Spain, took its rise: