The History of Don Quixote, Vol. II., Part 40 - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
DON QUIXOTE
Volume II.
Part 40.
by Miguel de Cervantes
Translated by John Ormsby
CHAPTER LXVII.
OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE
IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING
ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY
If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he had
been overthrown, a great many more harassed him since his fall. He was
under the shade of a tree, as has been said, and there, like flies on
honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of them
turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the life he was
about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up and spoke in
high praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey Tosilos.
"Is it possible, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou dost still think
that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped thy memory
that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into a peasant wench,
and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor Carrasco; all the work of
the enchanters that persecute me. But tell me now, didst thou ask this
Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has become of Altisidora, did she weep
over my absence, or has she already consigned to oblivion the love
thoughts that used to afflict her when I was present?"
"The thoughts that I had," said Sancho, "were not such as to leave time
for asking fool's questions. Body o' me, senor! is your worship in a
condition now to inquire into other people's thoughts, above all love
thoughts?"
"Look ye, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great difference between
what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude. A knight may
very possibly be proof against love; but it is impossible, strictly
speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora, to all appearance, loved
me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs thou knowest of; she wept at my
departure, she cursed me, she abused me, casting shame to the winds she
bewailed herself in public; all signs that she adored me; for the wrath
of lovers always ends in curses. I had no hopes to give her, nor
treasures to offer her, for mine are given to Dulcinea, and the treasures
of knights-errant are like those of the fairies,' illusory and deceptive;
all I can give her is the place in my memory I keep for her, without
prejudice, however, to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou
art wronging by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that
flesh--would that I saw it eaten by wolves--which would rather keep
itself for the worms than for the relief of that poor lady."
"Senor," replied Sancho, "if the truth is to be told, I cannot persuade
myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do with the
disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, 'If your head aches
rub ointment on your knees;' at any rate I'll make bold to swear that in
all the histories dealing with knight-errantry that your worship has read
you have never come across anybody disenchanted by whipping; but whether
or no I'll whip myself when I have a fancy for it, and the opportunity
serves for scourging myself comfortably."
"God grant it," said Don Quixote; "and heaven give thee grace to take it
to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my lady, who is
thine also, inasmuch as thou art mine."
As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the very
same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don Quixote
recognised it, and said he to Sancho, "This is the meadow where we came
upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who were trying to
revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an idea as novel as it was
happy, in emulation whereof, if so be thou dost approve of it, Sancho, I
would have ourselves turn shepherds, at any rate for the time I have to
live in retirement. I will buy some ewes and everything else requisite
for the pastoral calling; and, I under the name of the shepherd Quixotize
and thou as the shepherd Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves and
meadows singing songs here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of the
crystal waters of the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. The
oaks will yield us their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, the trunks of
the hard cork trees a seat, the willows shade, the roses perfume, the
widespread meadows carpets tinted with a thousand dyes; the clear pure
air will give us breath, the moon and stars lighten the darkness of the
night for us, song shall be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will
supply us with verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall make
ourselves famed for ever, not only in this but in ages to come."
"Egad," said Sancho, "but that sort of life squares, nay corners, with my
notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and Master
Nicholas the barber won't have well seen it before they'll want to follow
it and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may not come into
the curate's head to join the sheepfold too, he's so jovial and fond of
enjoying himself."
"Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as no
doubt he will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or perhaps the
shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself Niculoso, as old
Boscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the curate I don't know what
name we can fit to him unless it be something derived from his title, and
we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherdesses whose lovers we
shall be, we can pick names as we would pears; and as my lady's name does
just as well for a shepherdess's as for a princess's, I need not trouble
myself to look for one that will suit her better; to thine, Sancho, thou
canst give what name thou wilt."
"I don't mean to give her any but Teresona," said Sancho, "which will go
well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is called
Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I'll show how
chaste my passion is, for I'm not going to look 'for better bread than
ever came from wheat' in other men's houses. It won't do for the curate
to have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example; and if the bachelor
chooses to have one, that is his look-out."
"God bless me, Sancho my friend!" said Don Quixote, "what a life we shall
lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what tabors,
timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different sorts of
music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the pastoral instruments
will be there."
"What are albogues?" asked Sancho, "for I never in my life heard tell of
them or saw them."
"Albogues," said Don Quixote, "are brass plates like candlesticks that
struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which, if not
very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords very well
with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word albogue is
Morisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that begin with al; for
example, almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil, alhucema, almacen,
alcancia, and others of the same sort, of which there are not many more;
our language has only three that are Morisco and end in i, which are
borcegui, zaquizami, and maravedi. Alheli and alfaqui are seen to be
Arabic, as well by the al at the beginning as by the they end with. I
mention this incidentally, the chance allusion to albogues having
reminded me of it; and it will be of great assistance to us in the
perfect practice of this calling that I am something of a poet, as thou
knowest, and that besides the bachelor Samson Carrasco is an accomplished
one. Of the curate I say nothing; but I will wager he has some spice of
the poet in him, and no doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, or
most of them, are guitar players and stringers of verses. I will bewail
my separation; thou shalt glorify thyself as a constant lover; the
shepherd Carrascon will figure as a rejected one, and the curate
Curiambro as whatever may please him best; and so all will go as gaily as
heart could wish."
To this Sancho made answer, "I am so unlucky, senor, that I'm afraid the
day will never come when I'll see myself at such a calling. O what neat
spoons I'll make when I'm a shepherd! What messes, creams, garlands,
pastoral odds and ends! And if they don't get me a name for wisdom,
they'll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica will
bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay-she's good-looking, and
shepherds there are with more mischief than simplicity in them; I would
not have her 'come for wool and go back shorn;' love-making and lawless
desires are just as common in the fields as in the cities, and in
shepherds' shanties as in royal palaces; 'do away with the cause, you do
away with the sin;' 'if eyes don't see hearts don't break' and 'better a
clear escape than good men's prayers.'"
"A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho," exclaimed Don Quixote; "any one of
those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning; many a time
have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with proverbs and to exercise
some moderation in delivering them; but it seems to me it is only
'preaching in the desert;' 'my mother beats me and I go on with my
tricks."
"It seems to me," said Sancho, "that your worship is like the common
saying, 'Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.' You
chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples yourself."
"Observe, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I bring in proverbs to the
purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger; thou
bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that thou dost
drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not mistaken, I have
told thee already that proverbs are short maxims drawn from the
experience and observation of our wise men of old; but the proverb that
is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense and not a maxim. But enough
of this; as nightfall is drawing on let us retire some little distance
from the high road to pass the night; what is in store for us to-morrow
God knoweth."
They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against Sancho's
will, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant upon
knight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plenty
presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de Miranda's, at
the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno's; he
reflected, however, that it could not be always day, nor always night;
and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his master in waking.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
The night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon in the sky it
was not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the lady
Diana goes on a stroll to the antipodes, and leaves the mountains all
black and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so far as to
sleep his first sleep, but did not give way to the second, very different
from Sancho, who never had any second, because with him sleep lasted from
night till morning, wherein he showed what a sound constitution and few
cares he had. Don Quixote's cares kept him restless, so much so that he
awoke Sancho and said to him, "I am amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of
thy temperament. I believe thou art made of marble or hard brass,
incapable of any emotion or feeling whatever. I lie awake while thou
sleepest, I weep while thou singest, I am faint with fasting while thou
art sluggish and torpid from pure repletion. It is the duty of good
servants to share the sufferings and feel the sorrows of their masters,
if it be only for the sake of appearances. See the calmness of the night,
the solitude of the spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of
some sort. Rise as thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with a
good heart and cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred lashes
on account of Dulcinea's disenchantment score; and this I entreat of
thee, making it a request, for I have no desire to come to grips with
thee a second time, as I know thou hast a heavy hand. As soon as thou
hast laid them on we will pass the rest of the night, I singing my
separation, thou thy constancy, making a beginning at once with the
pastoral life we are to follow at our village."
"Senor," replied Sancho, "I'm no monk to get up out of the middle of my
sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can pass from
one extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music. Will your
worship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping myself? or you'll
make me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet, not to say my flesh."
"O hard heart!" said Don Quixote, "O pitiless squire! O bread
ill-bestowed and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done thee
and those I mean to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself a
governor, and through me thou seest thyself in immediate expectation of
being a count, or obtaining some other equivalent title, for I-post
tenebras spero lucem."
"I don't know what that is," said Sancho; "all I know is that so long as
I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory; and good
luck betide him that invented sleep, the cloak that covers over all a
man's thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink that drives away
thirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that tempers the heat,
and, to wind up with, the universal coin wherewith everything is bought,
the weight and balance that makes the shepherd equal with the king and
the fool with the wise man. Sleep, I have heard say, has only one fault,
that it is like death; for between a sleeping man and a dead man there is
very little difference."
"Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; "and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou dost
sometimes quote, 'Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art
fed.'"
"Ha, by my life, master mine," said Sancho, "it's not I that am stringing
proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship's mouth faster
than from mine; only there is this difference between mine and yours,
that yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but anyhow, they are all
proverbs."
At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that seemed
to spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood up and laid
his hand upon his sword, and Sancho ensconced himself under Dapple and
put the bundle of armour on one side of him and the ass's pack-saddle on
the other, in fear and trembling as great as Don Quixote's perturbation.
Each instant the noise increased and came nearer to the two terrified
men, or at least to one, for as to the other, his courage is known to
all. The fact of the matter was that some men were taking above six
hundred pigs to sell at a fair, and were on their way with them at that
hour, and so great was the noise they made and their grunting and
blowing, that they deafened the ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and
they could not make out what it was. The wide-spread grunting drove came
on in a surging mass, and without showing any respect for Don Quixote's
dignity or Sancho's, passed right over the pair of them, demolishing
Sancho's entrenchments, and not only upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping
Rocinante off his feet into the bargain; and what with the trampling and
the grunting, and the pace at which the unclean beasts went, pack-saddle,
armour, Dapple and Rocinante were left scattered on the ground and Sancho
and Don Quixote at their wits' end.
Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give him his
sword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty unmannerly
pigs, for he had by this time found out that that was what they were.
"Let them be, my friend," said Don Quixote; "this insult is the penalty
of my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that jackals
should devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and pigs trample
him under foot."
"I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too," said Sancho, "that
flies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice eat them,
and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the knights we
serve, or their very near relations, it would be no wonder if the penalty
of their misdeeds overtook us, even to the fourth generation. But what
have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes? Well, well, let's lie down again
and sleep out what little of the night there's left, and God will send us
dawn and we shall be all right."
"Sleep thou, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for thou wast born to sleep
as I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn I will
give a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a little
madrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last night."
"I should think," said Sancho, "that the thoughts that allow one to make
verses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string verses as
much as you like and I'll sleep as much as I can;" and forthwith, taking
the space of ground he required, he muffled himself up and fell into a
sound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt, or trouble of any sort. Don
Quixote, propped up against the trunk of a beech or a cork tree--for Cide
Hamete does not specify what kind of tree it was--sang in this strain to
the accompaniment of his own sighs:
When in my mind
I muse, O Love, upon thy cruelty,
To death I flee,
In hope therein the end of all to find.
But drawing near
That welcome haven in my sea of woe,
Such joy I know,
That life revives, and still I linger here.
Thus life doth slay,
And death again to life restoreth me;
Strange destiny,
That deals with life and death as with a play!
He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears, just like
one whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his separation
from Dulcinea.
And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his
beams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his lazy
limbs, and seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores he cursed
the drove, and more besides. Then the pair resumed their journey, and as
evening closed in they saw coming towards them some ten men on horseback
and four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart beat quick and Sancho's
quailed with fear, for the persons approaching them carried lances and
bucklers, and were in very warlike guise. Don Quixote turned to Sancho
and said, "If I could make use of my weapons, and my promise had not tied
my hands, I would count this host that comes against us but cakes and
fancy bread; but perhaps it may prove something different from what we
apprehend." The men on horseback now came up, and raising their lances
surrounded Don Quixote in silence, and pointed them at his back and
breast, menacing him with death. One of those on foot, putting his finger
to his lips as a sign to him to be silent, seized Rocinante's bridle and
drew him out of the road, and the others driving Sancho and Dapple before
them, and all maintaining a strange silence, followed in the steps of the
one who led Don Quixote. The latter two or three times attempted to ask
where they were taking him to and what they wanted, but the instant he
began to open his lips they threatened to close them with the points of
their lances; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he seemed
about to speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad, and Dapple
likewise, as if he too wanted to talk. Night set in, they quickened their
pace, and the fears of the two prisoners grew greater, especially as they
heard themselves assailed with--"Get on, ye Troglodytes;" "Silence, ye
barbarians;" "March, ye cannibals;" "No murmuring, ye Scythians;" "Don't
open your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemes, ye blood-thirsty lions," and
suchlike names with which their captors harassed the ears of the wretched
master and man. Sancho went along saying to himself, "We, tortolites,
barbers, animals! I don't like those names at all; 'it's in a bad wind
our corn is being winnowed;' 'misfortune comes upon us all at once like
sticks on a dog,' and God grant it may be no worse than them that this
unlucky adventure has in store for us."
Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of all his wits to
make out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they called
them, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there was no
good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And now, about an hour
after midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at once was
the duke's, where they had been but a short time before. "God bless me!"
said he, as he recognised the mansion, "what does this mean? It is all
courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the vanquished good turns
into evil, and evil into worse."
They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and
fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their
fears, as will be seen in the following chapter.
CHAPTER LXIX.
OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY
The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without a
moment's delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried them
into the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in sockets
were burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the corridors, so that
in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the want of daylight
could not be perceived. In the middle of the court was a catafalque,
raised about two yards above the ground and covered completely by an
immense canopy of black velvet, and on the steps all round it white wax
tapers burned in more than a hundred silver candlesticks. Upon the
catafalque was seen the dead body of a damsel so lovely that by her
beauty she made death itself look beautiful. She lay with her head
resting upon a cushion of brocade and crowned with a garland of
sweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts, her hands crossed upon her bosom,
and between them a branch of yellow palm of victory. On one side of the
court was erected a stage, where upon two chairs were seated two persons
who from having crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands
appeared to be kings of some sort, whether real or mock ones. By the side
of this stage, which was reached by steps, were two other chairs on which
the men carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in
silence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too were to be
silent; which, however, they would have been without any signs, for their
amazement at all they saw held them tongue-tied. And now two persons of
distinction, who were at once recognised by Don Quixote as his hosts the
duke and duchess, ascended the stage attended by a numerous suite, and
seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs close to the two kings, as they
seemed to be. Who would not have been amazed at this? Nor was this all,
for Don Quixote had perceived that the dead body on the catafalque was
that of the fair Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stage
Don Quixote and Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisance, which
they returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official
crossed over, and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black
buckram painted all over with flames of fire, and taking off his cap put
upon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the Holy
Office wear; and whispered in his ear that he must not open his lips, or
they would put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho surveyed himself
from head to foot and saw himself all ablaze with flames; but as they did
not burn him, he did not care two farthings for them. He took off the
mitre and seeing painted with devils he put it on again, saying to
himself, "Well, so far those don't burn me nor do these carry me off."
Don Quixote surveyed him too, and though fear had got the better of his
faculties, he could not help smiling to see the figure Sancho presented.
And now from underneath the catafalque, so it seemed, there rose a low
sweet sound of flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice (for there
silence itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. Then,
beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, suddenly appeared a
fair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the accompaniment of a harp which he
himself played, sang in a sweet and clear voice these two stanzas:
While fair Altisidora, who the sport
Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been,
Returns to life, and in this magic court
The dames in sables come to grace the scene,
And while her matrons all in seemly sort
My lady robes in baize and bombazine,
Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing
With defter quill than touched the Thracian string.