Chapter XXXVII: Book II (3)

‘“Softly, Signior Don Montesinos,” said I, interrupting him at the period, “be so good as to tell your story as it ought to be told; for you know all comparisons are odious, and therefore there is no occasion to compare any person with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the Lady Donna Belerma is likewise what she is and has been, and there let the matter rest.” To this remonstrance he replied, “Pardon me, Signior Don Quixote; I confess I have been to blame, and egregiously erred, in saying, the Lady Dulcinea would scarce equal the Lady Belerma; seeing, my having known by certain guesses that your worship is the knight of Dulcinea, was sufficient to have induced me to bite off my tongue, rather than compare her with any thing but Heaven itself.” Such satisfaction from the great Montesinos allayed the disgust that my heart received in hearing Belerma compared with my mistress.’

‘I marvel much,’ said Sancho, ‘that your worship did not fall upon the old hunks, and break every bone in his skin; aye, and pull his beard in such a manner as not to leave one single hair.’—‘By no means, friend Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘it would not have become me to behave in that manner; for we are all obliged to respect our seniors, although they are not knights; but more especially those who are really of that quality, and besides in a state of inchantment. This I know full well, that there was nothing left unpaid on either side, in the course of the questions and answers that passed between us.’

Here the scholar, interposing, ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘Signior Don Quixote, how your worship, in such a short time as that you have spent below, could see so many things, and ask and answer such a number of questions.’—‘How long is it since I descended?’ said the knight. ‘Little more than an hour,’ replied the squire. ‘That’s impossible,’ resumed Don Quixote; ‘for night fell, and morning dawned, and darkness and light succeeded each other three times; so that, by my reckoning, I must have remained three days in those sequestered shades, which are hidden from our view.’—‘My master must be in the right,’ said Sancho, ‘for as all those things have happened by inchantment, perhaps what appeared but one hour to us, might seem three days and nights to your worship.’—‘It may be so,’ answered the knight. Then the student asking if his worship had eaten any thing in all that time, ‘I have not tasted one mouthful,’ said he, ‘nor had I the least sensation of hunger.’—‘And do those who are inchanted, eat?’ resumed the scholar, ‘They do not eat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘nor do they void the larger excrements, though, it is supposed, that their nails, beards, and hair, are always growing.’

Here Sancho desired to know, if ever those inchanted gentry enjoyed the benefit of sleep. To which interrogation his master replied, ‘No, surely; at least, in those three days that I passed among them, neither they nor myself once closed an eye.’—‘Here then,’ said the squire, ‘we may conveniently trust in the proverb, Tell me your company, and I’ll tell you your manners. While your worship keeps company with inchanted people, who are always fasting and watching, it is no great wonder if you neither eat nor sleep while you are among them; but really, Signior, your worship must forgive me, if I say, that of all you have told us, God take me, I was going to say the devil, if I believe one circumstance.’—‘How!’ cried the scholar, ‘then Signior Don Quixote must have lyed: who even if we could entertain such a supposition, has not had time to compose and contrive such a number of fables.’—‘I do not believe that my master tells lies,’ answered Sancho. ‘What, then, is thy conception?’ said the knight. ‘I conceive,’ replied Sancho, ‘that Merlin, or those magicians who have inchanted the whole rabble which your worship hath seen and discoursed with below, have likewise stuffed your noddle or memory with all that nonsense which you have already recounted, as well as what you have left untold.’—‘That might be the case,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but I assure you it is not so at present; for what I have recounted I saw with my own eyes, and touched with my own hands. But, what wilt thou say, when I now tell thee, that among an infinite number of other wonderful things, which I shall relate hereafter in the course of our travels, as they do not all belong to this place, Montesinos shewed me three country-wenches, leaping and skipping like so many goats through those delightful plains; and scarce had I set eyes on them, when I recognize them to be the peerless Dulcinea, and those two individual young women, with whom we spoke in the neighbourhood of Toboso. When I asked Montesinos if he knew them, he answered in the negative, but said he took them to be some inchanted ladies of quality; for they had appeared but a few days in that meadow; nor ought I to wonder at that circumstance, forasmuch as in the same place there were many ladies of the past and present age, inchanted in different and strange forms; among whom he recollected Queen Ginebra and her duenna Quintanona, who was skinker to Lancelot, when he came from Britain.’ Sancho, hearing his master talk in this manner, was ready to run distracted, or burst with laughing; for, knowing the truth of the feigned inchantment of Dulcinea, of which indeed he himself had been the author and evidence, he was convinced beyond all doubt, that his master was stark-staring mad; and in that persuasion exclaimed, ‘In evil hour, accursed season, and unlucky day, my dear master, did your worship go down to the other world; and in a mischievous moment did you meet with Signior Montesinos, who has sent you back in such a woeful condition. Well was your worship here above, in your sound judgment, such as God had bestowed upon you, saying sentences, and giving counsel at every turn, and not as at present, venting a heap of the greatest nonsense, that was ever conceived.’—‘I know thee too well, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘to mind what thou sayest.’—‘And I, in like manner,’ replied the squire, ‘know you too well to regard what you say: wound me, or confound me, or kill me if you will, for what I have said, and what I mean to say, if your worship does not mend and correct your own speeches; but, now we are at peace, pray tell me how or by what token you came to know our lady mistress, and if you spoke to her, what answer she made?’

‘I knew her again,’ replied the knight, ‘by the same cloaths she wore when thou thyself didst shew her to my astonished eyes; I likewise addressed myself to her, but she answered not a syllable; on the contrary, she turned about, and fled so swiftly, that an arrow would not have overtaken her: nevertheless, I wished to follow, and would certainly have pursued her, had not Montesinos advised me not to fatigue myself; for it would be to no purpose, and besides, it was time for me to return to the light above. He likewise told me, that, in process of time, he would give me notice in what manner he, Durandarte, Belerma, and all the rest, in those sequestered shades, were to be disenchanted. But what of all I saw and observed gave me the greatest pain was this; while I was engaged in this conversation with Montesinos, one of the hapless Dulcinea’s companions came up to me, unperceived, and with tears in her eyes, thus accosted me, in a low and whimpering voice: “My Lady Dulcinea Del Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and begs your worship will be pleased to let her know how your worship does; moreover, being in great necessity, she supplicates your worship, in the most earnest manner, to be pleased to lend her, upon this her new cotton under petticoat, half a dozen rials, or any small matter your worship can spare, which upon her honest word, shall be restored in a very short time.” This message filled me with surprize and concern; and turning to the sage, “Is it possible, Signior Montesinos,” said I, “that people of condition are exposed to necessity, in a state of inchantment?” To this question he replied, “Take my word for it, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, that which we call necessity is known in all states, extending to all conditions, prevailing among every class of people, and not even sparing those who are inchanted; and since Signora Dulcinea Del Toboso sends to beg these six rials, and the pledge seems to be well worth the money, you had better let her have them; for she must certainly be in great trouble.”—“The pledge I will not touch,” said I, “nor indeed can I comply with her request; for I have not above four rials!” which I gave her; and these were the very individual pieces which I received from thee, Sancho, t’other day, in order to give away in charity to the poor I might meet with on the road, “Sweet-heart,” said I, “tell your lady that her distress affects me to the very soul, and I wish I were as rich as Fouckar[158] to remove it; let her know, that I neither can, nor will enjoy health while deprived of her agreeable presence and improving conversation; and that I fervently and earnestly beg her goodness will be pleased to indulge with her company, this her captive servant and afflicted knight. Tell her also, that, when least she dreams of any such matter, she shall hear that I have made a vow, like that which was sworn by the Marquis of Mantua, to revenge his cousin Valdovinos; when he found him at the last gasp, in the middle of the mountain; namely, that he would not eat from off a table-cloth, together with some whimsical additions, until he should have revenged his death; and, in like manner, I will swear never to be quiet, but traverse the seven divisions of the globe, more punctually than did the infant Don Pedro of Portugal[159], until she be restored to the upper world.”—“All that and much more you owe to my lady,” said the damsel; who, taking the rials instead of curtseying, cut a caper in the air two yards high.’

‘O holy God!’ cried Sancho, with a loud voice, ‘is it possible that those inchanters and enchantments should have such power to change the good sense of my master into such nonsensical madness! O Signior, Signior! for the love of God, look to yourself, have some respect for your own honour, and give no credit to those vanities, which have diminished and disturbed your senses.’—‘Thy regard for me, Sancho, makes thee talk in that manner,’ answered the knight: ‘and as thou art not experienced in the events of this world, every thing that is uncommon, to thee seems impossible; but the time will come, as I have already observed, when I shall recount some circumstances which I saw below, that will compel thee to believe what I have now related, the truth of which neither admits of dispute or reply.’

Footnote 158:

Fouckar was a very rich merchant of Augsburg, and a great favourite of
Charles V. who owed him a very considerable sum. It is reported of
him, that when the emperor lodged at his house, in his return from
Tunis, the fire in his chamber was of cinnamon, and his landlord
lighted it with his imperial majesty’s own obligation, thereby
cancelling an immense debt. The wealth of these traders, for there
were two brothers, became proverbial, and it was usual to say of any
very opulent person, ‘He is as rich as a Fouckar.’

Footnote 159:

This was the great patron of the Portuguese discoveries along the
coast of Africa to the Cape of Good Hope.

CHAP. VII.
IN WHICH ARE RECOUNTED A THOUSAND FOOLERIES,
EQUALLY IMPERTINENT,
AND NECESSARY TO THE TRUE UNDERSTANDING OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

He who translated this sublime history from the original, composed by its first author Cid Hamet Benengeli, says, that coming to the chapter which treats of the adventure of the cave, he found this observation written on the margin in the handwriting of the said Hamet.

‘I cannot conceive or persuade myself that the valiant Don Quixote literally saw and heard all that is recounted in the foregoing chapter, for this reason: all the adventures in which he has hitherto been engaged, are feasible and likely to have happened; but this of the cave I can by no means believe true, in any circumstance, because it is so wide of all reason and probability; then to suppose that Don Quixote would tell lyes, he that was the truest gentleman and most noble knight of his time! it is not possible! He certainly would have suffered himself to be shot to death, rather than deviate one tittle from the truth; besides, I consider that he explained and recounted the adventure so circumstantially, that he could not be supposed to have contrived extempore such a large concatenation of extravagances; but, after all, should the adventure seem apocryphal, the blame cannot be laid to my door, and therefore I give it to the publick without affirming it either to be true or false. Reader, if thou hast discernment, thou mayest judge for thyself; for it is neither my duty, nor is it in my power to do more: though it is held for certain, that the knight, on his death-bed, retracted the whole, saying he had invented the story because it seemed to agree and quadrate with those adventures he had read in his books.’

Then the Arabian proceeds in his history to this effect.

The scholar was equally astonished at the presumption of Sancho Panza and the forbearance of his master, and concluded that the satisfaction he derived from having seen his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, even though inchanted, had produced that milkiness of temper, which was now so remarkable; had not this been the case, Sancho’s freedom and remarks were such as would have brought a wooden shower upon his shoulders; for he was downright impertinent to his master, to whom the student thus addressed himself: ‘For my own part, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, I look upon this as the happiest journey I ever performed; for, in the course of it, I have made four valuable acquisitions. In the first place, I have gained the acquaintance of your worship, which I deem a piece of singular felicity. Secondly, I have been made acquainted with what is locked up and contained in the cave of Montesinos, together with the Metamorphoses of Guadiana, and the Lakes of Ruydera; transmutations that will aptly fill a place in the Spanish Ovid which I have in hand. Thirdly, I have discovered the antiquity of card-playing, which, at least, must be as old as the time of Charlemagne, as may be gathered from the words which your worship heard Durandarte pronounce, when, at the end of that long harangue of Montesinos, he awoke and said, “Patience, and shuffle the cards.” For that phrase and manner of speaking he could not have learned during his inchantment; but certainly, when he was alive and well in France, during the reign of the said Charlemagne: and this investigation comes pat to the purpose, for the other book which I am composing; I mean, the Supplement to Polydore Virgil, on the invention of antiquities; for I take it for granted, he has forgot to insert in his book the discovery of card-playing, which I will now explain, and doubtless it will be a very material circumstance, especially when confirmed by such a grave and authentick evidence as Signior Durandarte. Fourthly and lastly, I have now ascertained the source of the Guadiana, hitherto unknown among the nations.’

‘You have indeed good reason to be satisfied,’ replied the knight; ‘but I should be glad to know, if, by God’s assistance, you should obtain a licence for printing those books, (which is a matter of doubt with me) to what patron you intend they should be dedicated?’—‘There are plenty of lords and grandees in Spain,’ answered the scholar, ‘to whom they may be dedicated.’—‘But a very few,’ said Don Quixote; ‘not but that a great many deserve dedications, but because few will receive them, that they may not lay themselves under the obligation of making such a recompence as may seem due to the labour and courtesy of authors: one prince, indeed, I know, who supplies the defect of the rest with such advantages, that if I durst presume to describe them, I might perhaps excite envy in many noble hearts. But let that circumstance rest till a more convenient season; and, in the mean time, let us endeavour to find some place where we may procure a night’s lodging.’—‘Not far from hence,’ replied the student, ‘is an hermitage where lives an anchorite, who is said to have been a soldier, and bears the character of being a good Christian, and moreover a very discreet and charitable man: adjoining to the hermitage is a little house, built by the labour of his own hands, which, though narrow, is large enough to receive travellers.’—‘Can that same hermitage produce any poultry?’ said Sancho. ‘There are few hermitages destitute of that provision,’ answered the knight; ‘for the anchorites of these days are not like those who dwelt in the desarts of Egypt, cloathing themselves with palm-leaves, and subsisting on the roots of the earth. And here I would not be understood to extol one sort, in order to depreciate another; for the penance now in use does not come up to the rigour and austerity of those times. Nevertheless, they are all good, at least, so I suppose them to be be; and even should the stream run foul, the hypocrite, who cloaks his knavery, is less dangerous to the commonwealth than he who transgresses in the face of day.’

This conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a man coming towards them on foot, walking fast, and switching a mule loaded with lances and halberts: when he came up he saluted them, and passed on at a good pace, and Don Quixote perceiving his hurry, ‘Honest friend,’ said he, ‘pray stop a little, for you seem to go faster than your mule could wish.’—‘Signior,’ answered the man, ‘I cannot tarry at present, because these arms of which I have the charge, are to be used to-morrow morning, so that I cannot possibly stay, therefore adieu: but if you desire to know for what purpose they were procured, at the inn which is beyond the hermitage I have some thoughts of taking my night’s lodging, and if you are travelling the same road, there you will find me, and there you shall hear strange tidings; so, once more I bid you farewel.’ So saying, he whipped up the mule in such a manner, that Don Quixote had not time to ask another question concerning those strange tidings which he promised to relate; but, being extremely curious, and continually fatigued with the desire of learning novelties, he ordered his company to set off that instant, and proceed to the inn, without touching at the hermitage, where the scholar wished to pass the evening. In compliance with the knight’s desire, all three mounted their beasts, and followed the direct road to the inn, which they reached a little before the twilight. The student, however, proposed that they should call and take a draught at the hermitage. Sancho Panza, hearing this proposal, immediately turned Dapple’s head towards it, being followed by Don Quixote and the scholar: but his ill luck seemed to have ordained, that the hermit should not be at home, as they were told by an under-hermit, whom they found in the place. When the squire demanded a flask of his best and dearest, he answered, that his master had no wine, but if he chose a pitcher of his cheapest water, he should have it with all his heart. ‘If I had chosen water,’ said Sancho, ‘there is plenty of wells upon the road, from which I might have quenched my thirst. O the wedding of Camacho! and the abundance of Don Diego’s house! how often shall I lament the loss of you?’

When he had uttered this ejaculation, they quitted the hermitage, and pushed on towards the inn; and having rode forwards a little way, they overtook a lad who travelled the same road at his own leisure: he carried a sword over his shoulder, that supported a bundle of cloaths, which seemed to consist of trousers, a cloak, and shirt; for he wore a velvet jacket with some slips of sattin, and the shirt hanging out; he had silk stockings, and square-toed shoes in the court fashion; his age seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen; he had a sprightly countenance, and an agility in his person; he amused himself in singing couplets to beguile the fatigue of travelling, and when they overtook him, had just finished one, which the student remembered to have run in this strain.

‘To the wars my necessity drags me away,
But if I had money at home I would stay.’

The first who accosted him was Don Quixote, saying, ‘You travel very light, young gentleman; pray, good now, whither may you be going?’ To this interrogation the youth replied, ‘I travel so light on account of poverty, and the heat of the weather; and I am going to the wars.’—‘The heat may be a very good reason,’ resumed the knight; ‘but how should poverty be the cause of your travelling in that manner?’—‘Signior,’ answered the youth, ‘I carry in this bundle a pair of velvet trunk-breeches, fellows to this jacket, which if I wear out in the country, they will do me no credit in town, and I have not wherewithal to purchase a reinforcement; for this reason, therefore, and the benefit of the free air, I travel as you see me, until I get up with some companies of foot, which are quartered at a town about twelve leagues from hence; there I shall inlist among them, and there will not be wanting some baggage-waggon, in which I may proceed to the place of embarkation, which they say is to be Carthagena; and I would much rather have the king for my lord and master, and serve him in his wars, than be the lacquey of some scoundrel at court.’—‘And have you obtained any post?’ said the scholar. ‘Had I served a grandee of Spain, or some person of quality,’ replied the youth, ‘I should certainly have got something of that kind; for this is the advantage of being in good service, that a man is frequently preferred from the back of his master’s chair to a pair of colours, a company, or some handsome provision: but it was my unhappy fate to be always in the service of poor idle rascals, or foreigners, who give such a miserable and consumptive allowance of board-wages, that one half was expended in the starching of a ruff; and it would be looked upon as a miracle, if any such page adventurer should obtain a tolerable provision.’—‘And pray, friend,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is is possible, that during all the years you have been in service, you never had a livery?’—‘Yes,’ answered the page, ‘I have had two; but, as he who quits a convent before he professes, is stripped of his habit, and obliged to resume his own cloaths, so was I served by my masters, who, after having transacted the business that brought them to court, returned to their own homes, and took back the liveries, which they had given me out of mere ostentation.’

‘A very scandalous espilocheria[160], indeed, as the Italians call it,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, notwithstanding, you may think yourself very happy in having left the court with such a laudable intention; for there is nothing upon earth more productive of honour and profit, next to the service of God, than the service of the king, our natural lord and master; especially in the exercise of arms, by which more honour, if not more wealth, is acquired than by learning itself; for, as I have divers and sundry times observed, although a greater number of families has been raised by learning than by arms, yet those founded upon arms rise, I don’t know how, above their fellows, with a kind of natural splendor, by which all others are outshone; and what I am now going to say, I desire you will lay up in your remembrance, for it will be of much comfort and utility to you, in the midst of all your sufferings: never entertain a thought of what adversity may happen, for the worst is death; and provided it comes with honour, it is the greatest happiness to die. Julius Cæsar, that valiant emperor of Rome, being asked which was the most agreeable death, answered, “That which is sudden, unexpected, and unforeseen:” and though this reply savoured of the pagan, ignorant of the knowledge of the true God, nevertheless, with regard to his being freed from the pangs of human infirmity, he said well; for supposing you should be slain in the first action or skirmish, either by a cannon ball, or the explosion of a mine, what does it signify? we must all die, and there is an end to the whole; and, according to Terence, a dead soldier, who falls in battle, makes a much nobler appearance than one who lives by running away: the good soldier acquires reputation in proportion to the obedience he pays to his captain, or those who have a right to command him; and pray, take notice, child, a soldier had much better smell of gunpowder than of civet; and if old age overtake you in that noble employment, though you should be covered over with wounds, paralytick, or lame, it can never overtake you without such honour as poverty cannot diminish; especially now, that provision is to be made for the maintenance and relief of old disabled soldiers; for it is not reasonable that they should be treated like negro slaves, to whom, when they are old and incapable of service, their masters often give their freedom, driving them from their houses, and under the title of liberty, leaving them still slaves to hunger, which nothing but death can dispel. This is all I have to say at present; therefore get up and ride behind me to the inn, where I shall treat you with a supper, and in the morning you may pursue your journey, which I pray God may be as fortunate as your intention is good.’

The page excused himself from riding behind the knight, though he embraced his invitation to supper at the inn; and Sancho said within himself, ‘Lord comfort thee for a master! Is it possible that a man who can utter so many good things, should affirm that he has seen all that impossible nonsense which he has told of the cave of Montesinos! But, time is the trier of all things.’

In such discourse they arrived at the inn, just as it grew dark, and Sancho was not a little rejoiced to find that his master took it to be a real inn, and not a castle, according to his usual whims. They had scarcely entered, when Don Quixote enquired of the landlord about the man with the lances and halberts, and understood he was in the stable, providing for the accommodation of his beast; an example which was followed by the student and Sancho, who preferred Rozinante to the best manger and stall of the whole stable.

Footnote 160:

A knavish trick.

CHAP. VIII.
IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DIVERTING
ATCHIEVEMENT OF THE PUPPETS, WITH THE MEMORABLE RESPONSES OF THE
DIVINING APE.

Don Quixote would not stay till his bread was baked, as the saying is, so impatient was he to hear and know the strange tidings that were promised by the arms-carrier, in quest of whom he forthwith went to the place where the landlord said he was; and having found him, desired he would by all means gratify him with a circumstantial account of those things he had mentioned on the road. ‘The account of my strange tidings,’ answered the man, ‘I shall give when I am more at leisure, and not at work as I am at present: if your worship will give me time to take care of my beast, I will tell you such things as you will be surprized to hear.’—‘They shall not be delayed on that account,’ said the knight, ‘for I myself will lend you an helping hand.’ He accordingly winnowed the corn and cleaned the manger; so that the man, induced by his humility, could do no less than grant his request, with good will: sitting down, therefore, in a hollow of the wall, close by Don Quixote, who, with the scholar, page, Sancho Panza, and the inn-keeper, composed his council and audience, he began to relate what follows.

‘You must know, gentlemen, that in a village at the distance of four leagues and a half from this inn, it came to pass, that a certain alderman, through the craft and malice of a servant wench, which I have not time to explain, lost an ass; and though the said alderman used all possible means to find him, he found it impossible to succeed: fifteen days had the ass been missing, according to publick fame and report, when the owner was, in the market-place, accosted by another alderman of the same town, who said, “Hansel me for my good news, neighbour; your beast has appeared.”—“That I will, neighbour, and heartily,” answered the other; “but let us know where he has appeared.”—“Upon the mountain,” replied the finder: “I saw him this morning, without pack-saddle or any sort of furniture; and so lean, that it was piteous to behold him. I would have driven him before me, and brought him home; but he is so wild and shy, that when I went near him, he took to his heels, and ran into the most concealed part of the mountain: if you chuse it, we two will go in quest of him; stay till I house my own beast, and I’ll return presently.”—“I shall be much obliged to you,” said he of the strayed ass; “and I shall endeavour to repay you in the same coin.” With these very circumstances, and in the self-same manner that I relate the affair to you, it is told and related by all those who have entered into the true spirit of the case.

‘In conclusion, the two aldermen walked hand in hand to the mountain, and coming to the place and spot where they expected to find the ass, they found him not; nor could they get one glimpse of him, although they searched all about, over and over. Perceiving that he was not likely to appear, “Heark ye, neighbour,” said the alderman who had seen him, “there is a contrivance come into my head, by which we shall certainly discover this animal, even though he should be concealed in the bowels of the earth, much more if he is in this mountain; and that is this, I have a marvellous knack at braying, and if you have any turn that way, you may conclude the business is done.”—“Any turn, neighbour!” cried the other: “by the Lord! I will not yield in point of braying to the best man alive, not even to an identical ass,”—“We shall see presently,” answered the second alderman; “for my intention is that you should go to one side of the mountain, and I to the other, so as to walk round it quite, and every now and then you shall bray, and I will bray; and it cannot be but that the ass will hear, and answer, if he is on this mountain.” To this proposal the owner replied, “Neighbour, it is an excellent scheme, and worthy your great genius.” So parting, according to agreement, it came to pass that both brayed almost at the same time, and each being deceived by the other’s braying ran forward in hopes of finding the ass; when perceiving their mistake, “Neighbour,” said the loser, “is it possible that was not my ass which brayed just now?”—“No: it was I,” answered the other. “Agad, then,” cried the owner, “there is not the least difference, in point of braying, between you and an ass! for in my life did I never hear or see such a resemblance.”—“That compliment and approbation,” answered the contriver, “would be much better bestowed upon yourself than upon me, neighbour; for by the God that made me, you would give two heats of advantage to the biggest and best brayer in Christendom; for the sound you produce is deep, sonorous, within proper time and compass, and the falls frequent and sharp; in a word, I own myself overcome, and yield you the palm and banner of that rare talent.”—“By the mass!” said the owner, “I will from henceforward have a higher opinion of my own ability, and believe I know something, since I really possess such a gift; for although I always thought I brayed tolerably well, I never imagined I excelled so much as you say I do.”—“I therefore tell you,” replied the other, “that many rare talents are lost in this world; and that they are ill-bestowed on those who cannot turn them to advantage.”—“Ours,” said the owner, “except in such cases as this, that we have now in hand, can be but of little service, and even in this God grant it may turn to account.”

‘After these mutual compliments they parted a second time, and began to bray again; but still they were deceived, and met as before, until, by way of counter-signal, from which they might know one another, they agreed to bray twice in a breath: accordingly they doubled their brayings, and encompassed the whole mountain, without being favoured with the least answer or sign from the strayed ass; and, indeed, no wonder, the poor unfortunate animal did not answer; for they found him in the remotest part of the wood, almost devoured by the wolves. The owner seeing him in this plight, “I marvelled much,” said he, “that he did not answer, for had he been alive and heard you, he must have brayed again, else he had been no ass; but as I have had the pleasure of hearing you bray so melodiously, neighbour, I think my trouble well bestowed, even although I have found him dead.”—“’Tis in good hands, neighbour,” replied the other; “for in chanting the clerk is not a whit inferior to the curate.”

‘Having made these mutual remarks, they returned to the village, equally hoarse and disconsolate, and recounted to their friends, neighbours, and acquaintance, what had happened to them, in their searching for the ass, extolling one another to the skies for the talent of braying; so that every circumstance of the story was related among the neighbouring villages; and the devil, who is never at rest, but always glad of an opportunity to sow discord and scatter quarrels, raising lyes in the wind, and huge chimeras from little or no foundation, so ordered matters, that the people of the other villages, when they saw any person belonging to our town, began to bray, as if to hit him in the teeth with the braying of our aldermen. The story was taken up by the boys, which was all one as if he had fallen into the hands and mouths of all the devils in hell, and the braying was circulated from one town to another in such a manner, that the natives of the village of Braywick are as well known and distinguished as a Blackmore from a Spaniard; and this joke has become so serious, that our townsmen have frequently gone forth in arms and regular order to give battle to the jokers, without any regard to king or rook, or fear or shame; I believe that tomorrow or next day, the men of Braywick will take the field once more against the people of another village within two leagues of us, who are our chief persecutors; and that we may be well provided for the occasion, I have purchased the lances and halberts, you have seen. Now these are the strange tidings which I said I would relate; and if you do not think them so, I have no other worth your hearing.’

Thus the honest man concluded his story; and at that instant came into the house, a man cloathed in a doublet, breeches, and hose of shamoy-leather, who said with a loud voice, ‘So ho, Mr. Landlord! have you got any lodging for the fortune-telling ape, and the puppet-shew of the deliverance of Melisendra?’—‘Odd’s bodikins!’ cried the inn-keeper, ‘Master Peter here! we shall have rare doings i’faith.’ We forgot to observe that the left-eye, and half of the cheek of this Master Peter was covered with a patch of green silk, from whence it was supposed all that side of the face laboured under some infirmity. Be that as it will, the innkeeper proceeded, saying, ‘Welcome, good Master Peter; but where is the ape and the puppet-shew? for I see neither.’—‘They are at hand,’ answered the owner of the shamoy-suit; ‘but I came before to know whether or not we could have lodging.’—‘The Duke D’Alva himself should be turned out to make room for Master Peter,’ said the landlord; ‘bring hither your ape and your shew, for there is company in the house that will pay for a sight of them.’—‘In good time, then,’ replied the wearer of the patch. ‘I will lower the price, and think myself well paid, if they defray the expence of my lodging; meanwhile, I’ll go and lead hither the cart that contains my puppets and my ape.’

So saying, he went out; and Don Quixote enquiring who this Master Peter was, with the puppet-shew and ape, the landlord replied, ‘This is a famous puppet-shew man, who had long travelled through La Mancha and Arragon, representing the story of Melisendra, who was delivered by the famous Don Gayferos, one of the most entertaining and best represented histories which have been for many years seen in this kingdom; he likewise carries along with him an ape of the rarest talent that ever was known among apes, or conceived among men: for if you ask any question, it listens attentively to what you say, then leaping upon his master’s shoulders, and clapping its mouth to his ear, it gives an answer, which Master Peter immediately explains. Of things that are past it says much more than of those that are to come, and though it does not hit the truth exactly in every thing, it errs but seldom; so that we are inclined to believe it is inspired by the devil. Every question costs a couple of rials, provided the ape answers; I mean, supposing the master answers for the ape, after it has whispered in his ear; wherefore, Master Peter is thought to be woundy rich: indeed, he is a gallant man, as they say in Italy, an excellent companion, and lives the pleasantest life in the world; he talks as much as any six, and drinks more than a dozen, and all at the expence of his tongue, his ape, and his puppet-shew.’

Just as he spoke these words, Master Peter returned with the cart that contained the puppets and the ape, which was a very large animal, without a tail; his buttocks were like felt, but not ugly withal; and Don Quixote no sooner beheld him than he asked, ‘Pray, Mr. Fortune-teller, what have we got in the net? what fortune awaits us? Behold, here are my two rials.’ So saying, he ordered Sancho to give them to Mr. Peter; who answered in the name of the ape, ‘Signior, this animal gives no response or intelligence concerning what is to come; he is only acquainted with the past, and knows something of the present.’—‘Rabbit it!’ cried Sancho, ‘I would not give a doit to be told of the past; for who knows that better than myself; and to pay for being informed of what I know, would be downright folly; but since he knows the present, here are my two rials; and tell me, good your apeship, how my wife Teresa Panza is at present employed?’ Master Peter refused to take the money; saying, ‘I will not receive a premium per advance, until it is preceded by service.’ Then clapping his hand twice upon his left shoulder, the ape with one skip, leaped upon it, and laying its mouth to his ear, began to mow and chatter with great eagerness; having made this motion, which continued as long time as one would take in repeating the creed, with another skip he leaped upon the ground. Immediately Master Peter, with infinite hurry, threw himself on his knees before Don Quixote, and hugging his shins, exclaimed, ‘These legs I embrace, as I would embrace the pillars of Hercules, O thou celebrated reviver of the already forgotten order of knight-errantry! thou never enough to be applauded cavalier Don Quixote de La Mancha; the soul of the dejected, the prop of the falling, the shield of those that are fallen, the staff and comfort of all the unhappy!’ Don Quixote was alarmed, Sancho thunderstruck; the scholar surprized, the page confounded, the Braywick carrier amazed, the landlord astonished, and, in a word, admiration prevailed among all those who heard the words of the shewman; while he proceeded, saying, ‘And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the best squire of the bravest knight in the universe, be merry and rejoice; for thine agreeable helpmate Teresa is in good health, and this very moment employed in dressing a pound of flax; by the same token, there stands at her right-hand a broken mouthed pitcher, containing a good sup of wine, with which she comforts herself while she is at work.’—‘That I can easily believe,’ answered Sancho; ‘for she is a rare one, and if she was not a little given to jealousy, I would not exchange her for the giantess Andandona, who, as my master says, was a very proper and compleat housewife; and truly my Teresa is one of those who will live to their heart’s content, even though their heirs pay for it.’

‘I am now convinced,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that he who reads and travels much, will see and learn a great deal. This observation I make, because no arguments would have been sufficient to persuade me, that there are apes in the world endowed with the gift of divination, as I have this day seen with my own eyes; for I am the very Don Quixote named by that good animal, which, however, has expatiated rather too much in my praise; but be that as it may, I give thanks to God, who bestowed upon me a mild and compassionate disposition, ever inclined to do good to all mankind, and harm to no person whatever.’—‘If I had money,’ said the page, ‘I would ask Signior Ape, what will be the success of my present perigrination?’ To this hint, Master Peter, who had rose from his prostration, replied, ‘I have already told you, that this creature does not answer for what is to come; if he did, your want of money would be no objection; for, in order to to serve Don Quixote here present, I would willingly forfeit all the interested views in the world; and now, as in duty bound, I will, for his amusement, set up my shew, and divert all the people in the house, without fee or reward.’ The landlord, hearing this declaration, was rejoiced beyond measure, and pointed out a proper place for the exhibition of his entertainment, which was prepared in a twinkling.

Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape, as he did not think it natural for such an animal to divine, in things either past, present, or to come; and, therefore, while Master Peter was busy in setting up his shew, he retired, with his squire, to a corner of the stable, where they could confer together without being overheard, and spoke to this effect: ‘Hark ye, Sancho, I have considered this wonderful talent of the ape; and, according to my notion, this same Master Peter, its owner, must certainly have made a secret or express pact with the devil.’—‘Nay, if it be the devil’s pack,’ answered Sancho, ‘it must be a very dirty pack; but what signifies such a pack to Master Peter?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘you do not understand my meaning; what I would say is, that he must certainly have made some concert with the devil who hath infused this talent into the ape, by which he gains his livelihood; and when he becomes rich, he must yield him his soul, which is the aim of that universal enemy of mankind; and what confirms me in this opinion, is, that the ape answers no questions but such as regard the past and present time: now, the devil’s understanding reaches no farther; what is to come he knows only by conjecture, and that not always; for it is the attribute of God alone to know times and seasons; to him there is neither past nor future, but all things are ever present to his eyes. This being the case, as doubtless it is, the ape certainly speaks from the inspiration of the devil; and I am surprized it hath not been accused and examined by the holy office, which would soon discover by virtue of whom it presumes to divine; for surely this ape is no astrologer, nor did he or his master ever raise, or were capable of raising, those figures called judicial, which are now so common in Spain, that every pitiful little hussy, page, and even cobler, has the impudence to raise an horoscope, as readily as a knave of trumps, from the ground, ruining and disgracing, by their ignorance and falsities, the wonderful truth of that noble science. One lady I myself know, who having enquired of one of those pretenders, whether a little bitch she had would have puppies, how many, and of what colour they would be; Mr. Astrologer, after having raised his figure, replied, that the bitch would bring forth three puppies, one of a green, another of carnation, and a third of a mixed colour, provided the bitch would take the dog between the hours of eleven and twelve at noon or night, on Saturday or Monday. Notwithstanding this prediction, the bitch died in three days of a surfeit; and yet Mr. Figure-caster was still esteemed in the place a most infallible astrologer, as almost all those fellows are.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered Sancho, ‘I wish your worship would desire Master Peter to ask his ape, if what happened to your worship in the cave of Montesinos is really true; as for my own part, begging your worship’s pardon, I cannot for the blood of me help thinking it was all a flam and a lye, or at least no better than a dream.’—‘It may be so,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘But I will take thy advice; for truly, I myself have some sort of scruples about the matter.’

Here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Peter, who came to tell him that the shew was ready, and invite him to come and see it; for it would be well worth his trouble. Then the knight imparted his sentiments, desiring he would ask the ape whether or not certain incidents that happened in the cave of Montesinos, were dreams or realities, for to him the whole seemed to be a mixture of both, Master Peter, without answering one word, went and brought the ape into the presence of Don Quixote and Sancho, and thus accosted it: ‘Look ye, Mr. Ape, this knight wants to know, whether certain things that happened to him in a place called the cave of Montesinos be true or false.’ Then making the usual signal, the creature leaped upon his left-shoulder, and seemingly whispered something in his ear. In consequence of this communication, ‘The ape,’ said Master Peter, ‘declares, that part of what your worship saw and underwent in that same cave is false, and part is likely to be true; and this, and nothing else, is all he knows touching that interrogation: but if your worship desires to be farther informed he will next Friday answer all the questions you can ask; at present his virtue has left him, and will not return till Friday, as I have already observed.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘did not I always affirm your worship should never make me believe that all, or even the half of those accidents you pretended to have met with in the cave was true?’—‘The event will shew,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for there is nothing that time, the discoverer of all things, will not bring to light, even though it should be hidden in the bowels of the earth. Let that suffice for the present; and now we will go and see the puppet-shew of honest Master Peter, which I really believe will be productive of some novelty.’—‘Of some!’ cried master Peter: ‘my shew is productive of sixty thousand. Why, I tell your worship, Signior Don Quixote, there is nothing equal to it in the whole world; but, _Operibus credite & non verbis_: let us begin presently; for it grows late, and we have a great deal to do, to say, and to shew.’

In consequence of this request, Don Quixote and Sancho repaired to the place where the puppet-shew was set up, and set forth with a great number of little wax-lights, which made a most resplendent appearance. Master Peter withdrew within the curtain, in order to play the figures of the piece; and on the outside sat a boy, who was his servant, to interpret and explain the mysteries of the shew, holding a wand, with which he pointed out the puppets as they entered. All the people of the inn being seated, some fronting the stage, and Don Quixote with Sancho, the page and the scholar, accommodated with the best places, the dragoman began to pronounce that which will be heard and seen by those who will take the trouble to read or peruse the following chapter.

CHAP. IX.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE DIVERTING ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHEW;
WITH OTHER MATTERS REALLY ENTERTAINING ENOUGH.

Universal silence prevailed among Tyrians as well as Trojans; that is, all the spectators of the shew sat in silent expectation, suspended as it were on the mouth of him who was appointed to expound the wonders of the piece; when their ears were saluted with the sound of attabals, trumpets, and artillery, that issued from behind the scene; and this noise being soon over, the boy thus began in an audible voice: ‘This true history, which will now be represented before the honourable company, is literally extracted from the French chronicles and Spanish ballads, which may be heard every day repeated in the streets by man, woman, and child. It exhibits the manner in which Signior Don Gayferos accomplished the deliverance of his spouse Melisendra, who was a captive in Spain, detained by the Moors in the city of Sansuenna, which was formerly the name given to what we now call Saragossa; and pray, gentlemen, take notice, Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to the old song:

‘“Now Gayferos, at tables playing,
Of Melisendra thinks no more.”