Chapter L: Book IV (4)

The gentleman answered this compliment with expressions equally polite; and all his companions surrounding the knight in a body, they, to the musick of the waits and kettle-drums, conducted him to the city, his entrance into which was attended with a small misfortune. That mischief, from which all mischief is produced, ordained, that two bold and impudent boys, more mischievous than mischief itself, should squeeze themselves through the crowd, and approaching Rozinante and Dapple, clap a handful of furze under the tail of each: the poor animals, feeling the severity of this new kind of spurs, augmented the pain, by pressing their tails more closely to their buttocks; so that, after a thousand plunges, they came with their riders to the ground, to the unutterable shame and indignation of Don Quixote; who, with great dispatch, delivered the posteriors of his companion from this disagreeable plumage; while Sancho performed the same kind office for his friend Dapple.

The gentlemen would have willingly chastised the boys for their presumption; but it was not in their power to give the strangers that satisfaction; for, they had no sooner executed their purpose, than they concealed themselves among the crowd of above a thousand youngsters who followed the cavalcade: so that Don Quixote and Sancho were obliged to pocket the affront; and remounting their beasts, proceeded with the same musick and acclamation to the house of their conductor, which was large and magnificent, and in all respects suitable to the rank of an opulent cavalier. Here, then, we shall leave him for the present; for such is the will of Cid Hamet Benengeli.

CHAP. X.
CONTAINING THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD—WITH OTHER TRIVIAL
INCIDENTS, WHICH, HOWEVER, MUST NOT BE OMITTED.

Don Quixote’s landlord was called Don Antonio Moreno, a wealthy gentleman of good understanding, who loved a joke in a fair and good-humoured way; so that finding our knight safely housed under his roof, he began to contrive means for extracting diversion from the madness of his guests, without prejudice to his person; for those are no jests that give pain; nor is that pastime to be indulged which tends to the detriment of a fellow-creature. His first step was to unarm Don Quixote, and in that strait shamoy doublet, which we have already painted and described, expose him to publick view in a balcony that jetted out into one of the chief streets in the city, where he was surveyed by the people and the children, who gazed upon him as if he had been a monster or baboon. While he stood in this situation, the gentlemen with the rich liveries performed their courses before him, as if for his sake only, and not in order to celebrate the festival, they had provided all their finery; and Sancho was ravished with the thoughts of having so luckily found, without knowing how or wherefore, another wedding of Camacho, another house like that of Don Diego de Miranda, and another place equal to the duke’s castle, where he had been so hospitably entertained.

Don Antonio had that day invited some friends to dinner, and all of them paid particular respect to Don Quixote, whom they treated as a renowned knight-errant, a circumstance that elevated his vanity to such a pitch, that he could scarce contain his satisfaction; and Sancho’s conceits flowed so fast and humourous, that all the servants of the family, and all who heard his sallies, seemed to hang upon his lips. While he waited at table, Don Antonio accosting him, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘we are informed you are such a lover of fowls and balls of forced meat, that, when you can eat no longer, you pocket what remains for next day.’—‘No, Signior,’ answered Sancho; ‘that is not the case, and your worship must have been misinformed; I am a cleanly squire, and no such filthy glutton; for my master, here present, knows very well, that we have often passed eight whole days, without any other sustenance than an handful of nuts or acorns. True it is, If ever the heifer is offered, the tether is at hand; my meaning is, I eat what I get, and ride the ford as I find it[205]. If, therefore, any person whatever hath said that I am an exceeding glutton and foul feeder, your worship may take it for granted that he is in a mistake; and I would tell him my mind in another manner, if it was not for the respect I bear to the honourable beards of this company.’—‘Assuredly,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Sancho’s cleanliness, and moderation in eating, might be inscribed and engraved on tables of brass, for an everlasting memorial and example to succeeding ages. True it is, when very hungry, he may seem to be a little voracious; for he eats with precipitation, chewing with both sides of his jaws; but cleanliness he punctually maintains; and, while a governor, learned to eat so delicately, that he took up grapes, and even the grains of a pomegranate, with a fork.’—‘How!’ cried Don Antonio, ‘hath Sancho been a governor?’—‘Yes, sure,’ replied the squire; ‘and that of an island called Barataria, which I governed according to my own will and pleasure, for the space of ten days, during which I lost my natural rest, and learned to despise all the governments upon earth: I, therefore, fled from it as I would fly from the devil, and tumbled into a cavern, from whence, though I gave myself up as a dead man, I was brought up alive by a perfect miracle.’ Then Don Quixote gave them a circumstantial account of Sancho’s government, which afforded extraordinary entertainment to the whole audience.

Dinner being ended, and the table uncovered, Don Antonio took our hero by the hand, and conducted him into a private apartment, where there was no furniture but a table, that seemed to be of jasper, supported by one foot of the same substance; and upon this table was placed a bust of bronze, from the breast upwards, representing a head of one of the Roman emperors. Don Antonio, after having traversed the room with his guest, and more than once walked round the table, ‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘now that I am assured no person overhears us, as nobody listens, and the door is bolted, I will impart to your worship one of the rarest adventures, or rather one of the greatest rarities, that ever was known; on condition, however, that you will deposit the secret in the most hidden recess of your heart.’—‘I swear to the condition,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘and, for the greater security, will put a tomb-stone over whatever you shall communicate; for, know, Signior Don Antonio,’ (by this time he had learned his name) ‘your worship is talking to one, who, though he has ears to hear, has never a tongue to tattle; so that you may securely transfuse the contents of your own breast into mine, and take it for granted, you have ingulphed them in the abyss of silence.’—‘On the faith of that promise,’ replied Don Antonio, ‘I will excite your worship’s admiration with what you shall see and hear; and I, myself, will enjoy some alleviation of the pain I have felt from having no person to whom I could communicate the secret, which is not to be trusted to every body’s discretion.’ Don Quixote waited with impatience and surprize to see the result of this preamble; when his entertainer, taking him by the hand, made him feel all around the bust, the table, and the jasper foot upon which it was supported; then accosting him with great solemnity of aspect: ‘This bust, Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘was made and contrived by one of the greatest inchanters and necromancers that ever the world produced. He was, I think, a native of Poland, and disciple of the famous Escotillo[206], of whose knowledge such wonders are reported. As he chanced to be in this part of the world, I took him into my house, where, in consideration of a thousand crowns which I paid, he wrought this head, in which is centered the surprizing power and virtue of answering every question communicated to its ear. The master performed certain rites, erected schemes, consulted the stars, and carefully observed the lucky and unlucky minutes, until, at length, he brought it to that perfection which we shall perceive to-morrow; for on Fridays it is mute, and this being Friday, we must wait till another day: in the mean time, your worship may consider and prepare your questions, which I know by experience it will truly answer.’ Don Quixote was confounded and astonished at this property and virtue of the head, and indeed, almost tempted to disbelieve Don Antonio’s account; but, seeing how little time was required to make the experiment, he would not mention his incredulity; but, in very polite terms, thanked his entertainer for having entrusted him with such an important secret. They accordingly quitted the apartment, and Don Antonio having locked the door, returned to the rest of the company, who were highly entertained with Sancho’s recapitulation of many adventures and incidents to which his master had been exposed.

The same evening, they persuaded Don Quixote to make a progress along the streets with them, not in his armour, but in a loose coat of tawny-coloured cloth, which would have made ice itself sweat at that season; and, in the mean time, they directed their servants to amuse Sancho within doors, that he might not come forth and spoil their diversion. The knight was not mounted on Rozinante, but accommodated with an ambling mule, gaily caparisoned; and, upon the back of his coat or cloak, they, without his knowledge, pinned a parchment inscribed in large letters, ‘This is Don Quixote de La Mancha.’ The procession no sooner began, than this scroll attracted the eyes of the people; and, when they read it aloud, the knight was astonished to find himself known, and hear his name repeated by all the spectators. He, therefore, turning to Don Antonio, who rode by his side, ‘Great,’ said he, ‘is the prerogative that centers in knight-errantry, the professors of which are known and celebrated through all the corners of the earth: take notice, Signior Don Antonio, how my name is repeated by the very boys who never saw me before.’—‘It is even so, Signior Don Quixote,’ replied Antonio; ‘for, as light cannot be shut up and concealed, so neither can virtue remain unknown; and, that which is acquired by the profession of arms, shines with superior splendor over all other acquisitions.’

While our knight thus proceeded amidst the acclamation of the crowd, a certain Castilian happened to pass, and reading the scroll, exclaimed aloud, ‘Now, the devil take thee, Don Quixote de La Mancha! how hast thou made shift to come so far without expiring under some of those infinite drubbings which thy ribs have received? A madman thou surely art: and if the defect of thine understanding affected thyself only, and was confined within the gates of thy own madness, the misfortune would be the smaller; but thy frenzy is of such a peculiar nature as to turn the brains of all those with whom thou hast any commerce or communication; witness these gentlemen by whom thou art now accompanied. Return to your own house, Mr. Goose-cap, mind your family-concerns; look after your wife and children; and discard these vain maggots, which have eaten and burrowed into your brain, and skimmed off the very cream of your understanding.’—‘Hark ye, brother,’ said Don Antonio, ‘go about your business; and do not pretend to offer your advice to those who want none of your counsel: Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha is renowned for wisdom, and we who accompany him are not so mad as you may imagine. Virtue ought to be honoured wheresoever it is found: therefore be gone with a vengeance; and seek not to meddle in those affairs with which you have no concern.’—‘’Fore God! your worship is in the right,’ replied the Castilian: ‘advising that honest man is kicking against the pricks. Nevertheless, I am extremely sorry that the good sense, which, they say, this madman displays in some things, should be unprofitably wasted through the canal of his knight-errantry: and may that vengeance which your worship imprecated, overtake me and all my posterity, if, from this day forwards, I give advice to any person whatever, asked, or unasked, even though I should live to the age of Methusalem!’ So saying, this counsellor went away, and the procession went on; but the throng was so great, occasioned by the boys and other idle people who pressed in to read the scroll, that Don Antonio was fain to take it off, on pretence of freeing the knight from some other annoyance.

In the twilight they returned to the house of Don Antonio, where they found a ball prepared by his lady, who was a woman of birth, beauty, good humour, and discretion; and had invited a number of friends to come and honour her guest, and enjoy the strange peculiarities of his madness: they accordingly came, and after supper, at which they were entertained in a very splendid manner, the ball began about ten o’clock. Among the company were two ladies who had a turn for satire, accompanied with a great deal of humour; and who, though persons of unblemished honour, indulged themselves with uncommon freedom of behaviour, in order to keep up the spirit of the diversion, that it might not flag. This pair of female wags persisted with incredible eagerness, in dancing with Don Quixote, until not only his body, but even his very soul, seemed fainting with fatigue; and nothing could be more ludicrous than the figure of the knight, so long, so lank, so lean, so yellow, capering about in a straight shamoy doublet, with an air unspeakably aukward, and legs that were never designed for such exercise. The young ladies affected to court his good graces by stealth; and he privately treated their advances with disdain, until, finding them become more and more pressing, he pronounced aloud, ‘_Fugite partes adversæ!_ disturb not my repose, ye unwelcome thoughts! avaunt, ladies, with your unruly desires; for she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, will not consent that I should surrender or be subject to any other than her own!’

So saying, he sat down upon the floor in the middle of the hall, quite exhausted and demolished with the violent exercise he had undergone; so that Don Antonio gave orders for his being carried forthwith to bed; and the first person who touched him in obedience to this order, was his own squire Sancho Panza; who, as he endeavoured to raise him upon his legs, could not help reprehending him in these words: ‘What a plague tempted your worship to fall a capering? Did you suppose every valiant man was as nimble as an harlequin, or that all knights-errant must needs be masterly dancers? If that was your opinion, I say you were much deceived: for there be men who would rather undertake to slay a giant, than to cut a caper. Had it been the shoe-slapping horn-pipe, I could have supplied your place; for I slap like a jerfaulcon; but as for your figured dances, I know not a stitch of the matter.’ With this address Sancho raised a laugh from the assembly, and his master from the floor, and carrying the knight to bed, covered him up very warm, that he might sweat out the cold caught in dancing.

Next day Don Antonio thought proper to try the experiment of the inchanted head, and for this purpose entered the apartment, accompanied by Don Quixote, Sancho, a couple of friends, with our hero’s two waggish partners, who had staid all night with Antonio’s lady. The door being fast bolted, he explained the property of the bust, after having laid injunctions on the company to keep the secret, and declared this was the day on which he intended to make the first trial of the virtue contained in the inchanted head[207]. Indeed, except his two friends, no other person knew the mystery; and if they had not been previously informed by Don Antonio, they would certainly have shared in the same admiration which necessarily seized the rest who were present at the execution of a scheme so artfully contrived.

The first who approached the ear of this inchanted head was Don Antonio himself, who said in a low voice, but so as to be overheard by all present, ‘Tell me, O head, by thy inherent virtue, what are my present thoughts?’ To this interrogation the head, without moving its lips, replied in a clear and distinct voice, which was heard by the whole company, ‘I do not pretend to investigate the thoughts.’ Those who knew not the plot were confounded at hearing this answer, as they plainly perceived there was not a living soul under the table or in the whole apartment to utter this reply. Don Antonio addressing himself again to it, asked, ‘How many persons are here in company?’ and was answered in the same key, ‘You and your wife[208], two friends of yours, and two of her companions, with a famous knight called Don Quixote de La Mancha, and his squire Sancho Panza by name.’ Here was fresh amazement! here was their hair standing on end with affright; while Don Antonio, stepping aside from the table, said, ‘This is enough to convince me that I have not been deceived by the person of whom I purchased thee; thou sage, speaking, oracular, and admirable head! Let some other person go and question it at will.’

As women are usually very curious and impatient, the next who approached was one of the two ladies, and her question was this: ‘Tell me, O head, what I shall do to be extremely beautiful?’ She received for answer, ‘Be extremely virtuous;’ and replied, ‘I ask no more.’ Then her companion advanced, saying, ‘I want to know, sagacious head, whether or not I am fondly beloved by my husband?’ and she was answered, ‘That you will learn by observing his behaviour.’ The married lady retired, observing that it required no magick to solve that question; for, in effect, an husband’s behaviour to his wife will always declare the state of his affection. The third person that approached the table was one of Don Antonio’s friends, who asked, ‘What am I?’ and when the voice answered, ‘Thou knowest best,’ he replied, ‘That is not the purport of my question; I desire thou wilt tell me if thou knowest my name?’—‘Yes,’ said the oracle; ‘I know thou art Don Pedro Noriez.’—‘Then I am satisfied,’ answered Don Pedro; ‘for that answer is sufficient to convince me, O head, that thou knowest every thing.’ Then he withdrew, and was succeeded by the other gentleman; who, advancing to the table, ‘Tell me, O head,’ said he, ‘the wish of my eldest son?’—‘I have already owned that I cannot dive into the thoughts of men,’ said the voice; ‘nevertheless, I will tell thee, that the wish of thy son is to bury his father.’—‘That is indeed his wish,’ replied the cavalier; ‘I see it with my eye, I touch it with my finger, and do not chuse to ask another question.’ Don Antonio’s lady approached, saying, ‘I know not how to interrogate thee, O head; but I should be glad to know if I shall long enjoy my good husband?’—‘Yes, you will,’ replied the voice; ‘his healthy constitution, and moderate way of life, promise a long succession of years and a good old age, of which many men deprive themselves by their own intemperance.’

Don Quixote now took his turn, and addressing himself to the bust, ‘Tell me then, whatsoever thou art,’ said he, ‘is my account of what befel me in the cave of Montesinos really fact, or only the illusion of a dream? Will the flagellation of my squire Sancho be certainly accomplished? and will the disinchantment of Dulcinea take effect?’—‘With respect to the cave,’ replied the oracle, ‘much may be said; the adventure partakes both of truth and illusion. The flagellation of Sancho will proceed slowly; but Dulcinea will be disinchanted in process of time.’—‘And that is all I desire to know,’ cried the knight; ‘for, in the disinchantment of Dulcinea, I shall reckon all my wishes at once happily fulfilled.’

The last interrogator was Sancho; who, approaching the table, ‘Pray, good Mr. Head,’ said he, ‘shall I peradventure obtain another government? shall I ever rise above the humble station of a squire? and lastly, shall I ever see again my wife and children?’ To these questions he received these answers: ‘If it be thy fate to return to thy own house, thou wilt govern thy family, and see thy wife and children; and in ceasing to serve, thou wilt cease to be a squire.’—‘’Fore God! an excellent response!’ cried Sancho; ‘that I could have foretold myself, and the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more.’—‘What answer would you have, you beast?’ said Don Quixote; ‘is it not sufficient that the responses delivered by the head, correspond with the questions you have asked?’—‘It shall suffice,’ replied the squire; ‘but I wish it had explained itself a little more fully, and told me some more of my fortune.’

Thus ended the questions and answers, but not the admiration of the whole company; except Antonio’s two friends, who had been let into the secret; which Cid Hamet Benengeli will now explain, that the world may not be kept longer in suspense, or imagine that any necromantick talisman or extraordinary mystery was contained in this wonderful bust. He gives us, therefore, to understand, that Don Antonio Moreno, in imitation of such another head which he had seen at Madrid, contrived by a statuary, ordered this to be made in his own house for his private amusement, and with a view to surprize the vulgar; and in this manner was the whole fabricated. The table was of wood painted and varnished like jasper, and the foot that supported it of the same materials, carved into the resemblance of four eagles talons, which kept it firm and steady in its position. The head formed from the medal of one of the Roman emperors, and covered with a copper colour, was hollow, as well as the table, in which it was so nicely fixed, that no eye could perceive the joining; the foot was likewise hollow, and answered to the neck and breast of the bust; and the whole corresponed with another chamber below, by means of a concealed tin pipe which passed through the bust, the table, and the foot. In this lower apartment, communicating with that of the inchanted head, did the person who uttered the responses fix his mouth to the pipe, so as that the voice ascended and descended in distinct and articulate sounds, and it was impossible for any person to discover the deception. The respondent was Antonio’s nephew, a student of acute parts, and a well-cultivated understanding, who, being previously informed by his uncle of the number and names of the persons whom he intended to introduce into the chamber of the inchanted head, was enabled to answer the first question with great facility and precision; and to the rest he replied by conjectures which were equally ingenious and discreet.

Cid Hamet moreover relates, that for ten or twelve days the virtue of this wonderful machine continued in full force; but a report diffusing itself through the city, that Don Antonio had in his house an inchanted head, which could answer all manner of questions, he began to be afraid that these tidings might reach the ears of the vigilant centinels of our faith; for which reason he explained the whole affair to the fathers of the inquisition, who forbade him to proceed with the deception, and gave orders that the head should be broke in pieces, lest it should give umbrage to the superstitious vulgar: but, in the opinion of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, it passed for a head that was really inchanted and oracular; though it had given more satisfaction to the knight than the squire.

The gentlemen of the city, in complaisance to Don Antonio, and for the entertainment of Don Quixote, whom they wanted to furnish with an opportunity of discovering his diverting follies, appointed a running at the ring to be performed in six days; but this was prevented by an incident which will be explained in the sequel. Meanwhile, the knight was desirous of going out and viewing the city at leisure, and afoot; fearing that, should he appear on horseback, he would again be persecuted by the boys and vulgar. He accordingly went forth, attended by Sancho, and two of Antonio’s servants, whom their master had chosen for that purpose; and chancing to lift up his eyes in passing through one of the streets, he saw inscribed over a gate, in capital letters, ‘This is a printing-house;’ a circumstance which gave him uncommon satisfaction, as hitherto he had never seen a printing-press, and longed much to know something of that art: he therefore entered the house with all his train, and saw people casting off in one part, correcting in another, composing in a third, revising in a fourth, and, in short, the whole œconomy of a large printing-house. Going up to one box, he asked what was doing; and being informed by the workmen, expressed his admiration, and proceeded to a second. Among others, he went up to one, and putting the same question, the workman replied, ‘Signior, that there gentleman,’ pointing to a grave person of a very prepossessing appearance, ‘has translated a book from the Tuscan into the Castilian language, and I am now composing it for the press.’—‘What is the name of the book?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Signior,’ answered the author, ‘the book in the original is called, _Le Bagatelle_.’—‘And what is the signification of Le Bagatelle in our language?’ resumed the knight. ‘_Le Bagatelle_,’ replied the author, ‘is, as if we should say, in Castilian, _Juquetes_[209]: and, although the title of the book be so humble, it includes and contains a great deal of excellent and substantial writing.’—‘I am not altogether ignorant of the Tuscan language,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for I value myself upon singing some stanzas of Ariosto; but, pray tell me, Signior, (and what I am going to ask is not with any intention to sound your genius, but merely to satisfy my own curiosity) have you ever, in composing your books, met with the word _pignatta_?’—‘Yes, frequently,’ replied the author. ‘And how do you translate it into Castilian?’ resumed the knight. ‘How should I translate it,’ said the other, ‘but by the word _olla_?’—‘Body o’me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what progress you have made in the knowledge of the Tuscan idiom! I will lay a good wager that you translate _piace_ into _plaze_, _piu_ into _mas_, _su_ into _arriba_, and _giu_ into _abaxo_.’—‘Certainly,’ said the author, ‘because these words of the two languages correspond with one another.’—‘Notwithstanding all your learning,’ replied the knight, ‘I could almost swear you are hitherto unknown to the world, which is ever averse to remunerate a flourishing genius, and works of merit. What talents are lost, what abilities obscured, and what virtues are undervalued, in this degenerate age! yet, nevertheless, a translation from one language to another, excepting always those sovereign tongues the Greek and Latin, is, in my opinion, like the wrong side of Flemish tapestry, in which, though we distinguish the figures, they are confused and obscured by ends and threads, without that smoothness and expression which the other side exhibits: and to translate from easy languages, argues neither genius nor elocution, nor any merit superior to that of transcribing from one paper to another; but from hence I would not infer that translation is not a laudable exercise, for a man may employ his time in a much worse and more unprofitable occupation. At any rate, my observation cannot affect our two famous translators, Doctor Christoval de Figueroa, in Pastor Fido, and Don Juan de Xaurigui in Aminta, two pieces they have so happily executed, as to render it doubtful which is the original and which the translation: but pray, Signior, is this book printed on your own account, or have you sold the copy to a bookseller?’—‘I publish it on my own account,’ replied the author, ‘and expect to gain a thousand ducats at least upon the first impression, of which there will be two thousand copies, that will fetch six rials a piece in the turning of a straw.’—‘That is a very clear and comfortable reckoning,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but you seem to be very little acquainted with the outgoings and the incomings, the schemes, conspiracies, and cabals of booksellers: when you find your back burdened with two thousand copies, I give you my word both your mind and body will be terribly fatigued; especially if the books should be harsh, or a little deficient in point of spirit.’—‘What!’ said the author, ‘your worship thinks, then, I ought to offer my performance to a bookseller, who would give me three maravedis for the copy, and insist upon it that he had done me a favour into the bargain? I do not publish with a view to acquire reputation in the world, where, thank Heaven, I am already well known by my works; I print for profit, without which, reputation is not worth a doit.’—‘God send you good luck, Signior,’ answered the knight; who, advancing to another box, where he saw the corrector employed on the sheet of a book, intitled, ‘The Light of the Soul;’—‘Aye,’ said he, ‘these are the books that ought to be printed; for, although there is already a pretty large number of this kind in print, numerous are the sinners for whose use they are intended; and for such multitudes who are in darkness, an infinite number of lights is required.’ He proceeded in his enquiry, and when he asked another corrector the name of a book on which he saw him at work, he understood it was the second part of The Sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by a certain person a native of Tordesillas. ‘I have heard of this performance,’ said the knight; ‘and really, in my conscience, thought it was long before this time burned into ashes, or pounded into dust, for the impertinence it contains; but, as we say of hogs, “Martinmas will come in due season[210].” Works of imagination are the more useful and entertaining the nearer they approach to truth, and the more probability they contain; and even history is valued according to its truth and authenticity.’

So saying, he quitted the printing-house with some marks of displeasure; and that same day, Don Antonio proposed that he should go on board, and see the gallies in the road; a proposal which was extremely agreeable to Sancho, who had never seen the inside of a galley in the whole course of his life; and he sent a message to inform the commodore of his intention to visit him in the evening, with his guest the renowned Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose name and person were already well known to this commander and all the citizens of Barcelona. What passed during this visit, will be related in the following chapter.

Footnote 205:

Literally, ‘Use the times as I find them.’

Footnote 206:

This was Michael Scot, who lived in the thirteenth century, and was
such an adept in medicine, mathematicks, chymistry, alchymy, and other
branches of natural knowledge, that the vulgar looked upon him as a
wizard or magician. But as this philosopher died in 1291, and this
conversation between Don Antonio and our knight must have happened
after the year 1605, when the first part of Don Quixote was licensed,
how could the disciple of Scot be in the house of Don Antonio? Yet
this anachronism might easily pass upon Don Quixote, as it related to
matters of inchantment.

Footnote 207:

But in this very chapter he has already told Don Quixote, that he knew
the virtue of the head from experience.

Footnote 208:

Antonio’s wife must have been here before the others entered: for she
is not in the list of those who went in with her husband.

Footnote 209:

Trifles.

Footnote 210:

About Martinmas they killed the hogs designed for bacon.

CHAP. XI.
OF THE MISFORTUNE WHICH BEFEL SANCHO PANZA ON BOARD OF THE GALLIES,
AND THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL MOOR.

Manifold and profound were the self-deliberations of Don Quixote on the response of the inchanted head, without his being able to discover the deceit; and the result of all his reflections was the promise of Dulcinea’s being disinchanted, on which he reposed himself with the most implicit confidence. This was the goal of all his thoughts, and he rejoiced, in full assurance of seeing it suddenly accomplished. As for Sancho, although he abhorred the office of a governor, as we have already observed, he could not help wishing for another opportunity of issuing out orders and seeing them obeyed; a misfortune which never fails to attend the exertion of power, even though founded on mock authority.

In a word, that very evening his landlord Don Antonio Moreno, and his two friends, went on board of the gallies with Don Quixote and Sancho; and the commodore being apprized of the visit intended by two such famous personages, no sooner perceived them coming towards the sea-side, than he ordered the awnings to be struck and the musick to play; the barge was hoisted out, covered with rich carpets, and furnished with velvet cushions, and the minute Don Quixote embarked, the cannon a-midships of the captain-galley was discharged, and the others followed her example. When the knight ascended the accommodation-ladder, on the starboard side, the whole crew saluted him with three cheers, a compliment usually paid to persons of the first quality; and the general, for by this name we shall henceforth call him, who was a noble Valentian, presented his hand, and embracing Don Quixote, ‘This day,’ said he, ‘will I mark with a white stone, as one of the happiest I shall ever enjoy, on account of seeing the renowned Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, in whom the whole worth of knight-errantry is cyphered and concentered.’ No less courteous and polite was the reply of Don Quixote, who rejoiced above measure at seeing himself treated with such respect. The whole company having ascended the poop, which was very gaily ornamented, and seated themselves upon benches, the boatswain repaired to the gangway, and making a signal with his whistle for all the slaves to strip, was obeyed in an instant, to the no small discomposure of Sancho, who was terrified at the sight of so many naked backs; nor did his apprehension abate, when he saw the awning stretched with such incredible dispatch, that he thought all the devils in hell had assisted in the operation. Yet this was nothing but cakes and gingerbread to what I am going to relate.

The squire sat upon the stentril, close by the aftermost rower on the starboard side; who, in consequence of the previous instructions he had received, lifted up Sancho in his arms, and while the whole crew of slaves stood up, alert with the prospect of the joke, tossed him like a tennis-ball to his fellow, who in the same manner committed him to a third; and thus he was bandied forwards on the starboard side, from slave to slave, and bench to bench, with such expedition, that poor Panza lost his eyesight entirely, and firmly believed himself in the possession of the fiends: nor did they desist from this exercise, until he was reconveyed by the larboard-side to the poop, where this miserable object lay bruised, breathless, and covered with a cold sweat, and in such perturbation of spirits that he scarce knew what he had undergone.

Don Quixote seeing Sancho flying in that manner without wings, asked the general, if it was a ceremony practised upon every person at his first going on board; for, in that case, as he himself did not intend to make profession of a seafaring life, he had no ambition to perform such an exercise; and he vowed to God, if any man should attempt to seize him, as a fit subject for flying, he would spurn his soul out of his body; in confirmation of which resolve, he started up, and laying his hand upon his sword, put himself in a posture of defence.

At that instant the awning was furled, and the main-yard lowered with such a terrible noise, that Sancho imagined the heavens were tore from off their hinges and tumbling down upon his head, which he forthwith shrunk between his legs in an agony of terror: nor was all serene in the breast of Don Quixote; who, while his legs trembled under him, shrugged up his shoulders, and changed colour. The crew having hoisted the main-yard, with the same expedition and noise which were made in its descent; while they themselves continued as silent as if they had been altogether without breath or utterance, the boatswain piped all hands to weigh anchor, and leaping into the middle of the gangway, began to ply their shoulders with his supple-jack, or bull’s-pizzle, and the galley by little and little stood out to sea.

Sancho beholding such a huge body, moved by so many painted feet, for such he took the oars to be, said within himself, ‘This, indeed, is really inchantment; but what my master takes for it is no such matter. What have these miserable wretches done to be scourged in this manner? and I wonder how the devil that single man, who skips up and down, piping and whistling, dares whip and flog so many people; now, on my conscience, I believe this is hell itself, or purgatory at least!’

Don Quixote perceiving with what attention the squire observed every circumstance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘with what facility and dispatch might you now, if you please, strip yourself from the middle upwards, and taking your place among these gentlemen, finish at once the disenchantment of Dulcinea; for, amidst the distress of so much good company, you would hardly be sensible of bodily pain: and who knows, but the sage Merlin would reckon each of these stripes, which are bestowed with goodwill, equivalent to ten of these, which, at the long run, you must receive from your own hand.’ The general had just opened his mouth to enquire about the nature of this flagellation, and Dulcinea’s disenchantment, when a mariner came and told him, that the fort of Munjuy had made signal of a rowing bark upon the coast, to the westward. He no sooner received this intelligence, than advancing into a gang-way, ‘Pull away, my lads!’ cried he, ‘let not this corsair brigantine escape; for certainly she must be a vessel belonging to Algiers which the castle has discovered.’

The other three gallies ranging alongside of the admiral to receive orders, the general directed that two of them should stand out to sea, and the other keep along shore, so that the Algerine should not escape. The slaves immediately began to ply their oars, which impelled the gallies with such velocity, that they seemed to fly; while the two that put to sea, at the distance of two miles, discovered a bark, which, from the view, they judged to have fourteen or fifteen banks, and their conjecture was right. This vessel no sooner descried the gallies, than she made the best of her way, in hope of being able to escape by her nimbleness; but she was baffled in this expedition; for the admiral being one of the swiftest gallies that ever sailed, came up with her apace, and the captain of the brigantine perceiving plainly that he could not escape, desired the rowers to quit their oars and strike, that he might not by his obstinacy incense the officer who commanded the gallies: but fate, which conducted their affairs in another manner, ordained, that even after the admiral was within hearing, and ordered them to strike, two Toraquis, that is, a couple of drunken Turks, belonging to the brigantine, discharged two firelocks, which killed as many soldiers who chanced to be in the head of the galley; an incident which was no sooner perceived by the general, than he swore he would not leave one person alive in the brigantine, which he ordered his people to board with all expedition; nevertheless, she, for the present, escaped under the oars, and the galley had such way, that she shot a-head to a good distance, so that the people on board the chace, seeing themselves in danger of being destroyed, hoisted their sails and put before the wind, while the galley tacked and pursued with all her force of canvas and of oars. The diligence and dexterity of the Algerines did not turn out so much to their advantage, as their presumption conduced to their prejudice; for, the admiral running along-side, grappled with the brigantine, and took the whole crew prisoners. The other two gallies came up, and all returned with the prize to the road, while a great concourse of people stood on the beach, to see the contents of the ship they had taken. The general anchored close by the shore, and understanding the viceroy of the city was among the spectators, he ordered the barge to be hoisted out to fetch him on board, and commanded the yard to be lowered for the convenience of hanging the master of the brigantine, and the other Turks he had taken, to the number of thirty-six, all stout young fellows, and mostly Turkish musqueteers. When he asked who commanded the brigantine, one of the prisoners, who was afterwards known to be a Spanish renegado, answered in Castilian, ‘That there young man is our master;’ pointing to one of the most beautiful and genteel youths that human imagination can conceive, whose age to all appearance was under twenty. ‘Ill-advised dog,’ said the general, ‘what induced thee to kill my soldiers, when thou sawest it was impossible to escape? Is that the respect which is due to admiral-gallies? Dost thou not know, that rashness is not valour, and that doubtful hopes ought to make men resolute, but not desperate?’

The Moor was about to reply, but the general could not at that time hear his answer, because he was obliged to go and receive the viceroy, who had just entered the galley, with some of his own servants, and a few other persons. ‘General,’ said this nobleman, ‘you have had a fine chace.’—‘Aye, so fine,’ replied the other, ‘that your excellency shall see it presently hoisted up at the yard-arm.’—‘For what reason?’ said the viceroy. ‘I mean, the master of the brigantine and his crew,’ answered the commodore, ‘who have, against all law, reason, and custom of war, killed two of the best soldiers that ever served on board; so that I have sworn to hang all the prisoners, especially this youth who was their captain,’ pointing to the handsome Moor; who, by this time, waited for execution, with his hands tied, and a rope about his neck.

The viceroy, surveying this unhappy prisoner, (whose beauty, genteel mien, and humility, served him instead of a recommendation) was seized with the desire of saving his life, and approaching him, ‘Tell me, corsair,’ said he, ‘art thou a Turk, Moor, or Renegado?’ To this question the youth answered, in the Castilian tongue, ‘I am neither Turk, Moor, or Renegado.’—‘Then, what art thou?’ resumed the viceroy. ‘A Christian woman,’ replied the captive. ‘A Christian woman,’ cried the viceroy, ‘in such dress and situation! this is a circumstance more worthy of admiration than of credit.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said the youth, ‘be so good as to suspend my execution, until I shall have recounted the particulars of my story; and that small delay will not much retard the accomplishment of your revenge.’ What heart could be so obdurate as not to relent at this address; so far at least, as to hear the story of the afflicted youth? The general, accordingly, told him he might proceed with his relation, but by no means expect pardon for the crime of which he was convicted. With this permission he began in these terms.

‘I was born of that nation, more unfortunate than wise, which hath been lately overwhelmed by a sea of trouble: in other words, my parents were Moors; and, in the torrent of their misfortune, I was carried by two uncles into Barbary, notwithstanding my professing myself a Christian; not one of those impostors, who are so only in appearance, but a true and faithful Roman catholick. This declaration did not avail me with those who had the charge of our miserable expulsion; nor was it believed by my uncles, who, on the contrary, supposing it no more than a lye, and expedient, by which I thought to obtain permission to remain in my native country, hurried me along with them in a forcible manner. My mother was a Christian, and my father a prudent man of the same religion: I sucked in the catholick faith when an infant at the breast, and was trained up in the ways of virtue; nor do I think I have ever given the least marks of Mahometanism, either in word or deed. In equal pace with my virtue, (for I really think my life was virtuous) my beauty, such as it is, hath ever walked; and notwithstanding the extraordinary reserve in which I lived, concealed from publick view, it was my fate to be seen by a young cavalier, called Don Gregorio, eldest son of a gentleman who had an estate in our neighbourhood. How he became desperately enamoured of me, and how I grew fond of him to distraction, it would be tedious to relate, considering my present situation, standing as I am, with the fatal cord between my tongue and throat: I shall therefore only observe, that Don Gregorio resolved to accompany me in my exile, and actually mingled with those Moors who joined us in different places, without being discovered; for he spoke the language perfectly well. Nay, in the course of our voyage, he insinuated himself into the friendship of my two uncles, with whom I travelled; for my father, who was a man of prudence and foresight, no sooner heard the first mandate for our expulsion, than he went abroad to foreign kingdoms in quest of an asylum for his family, leaving a large quantity of pearls, valuable jewels, with some money, in crusadoes and doubloons of gold, concealed and interred in a certain place, to which I alone was privy; and laying strong injunctions upon me to avoid touching this treasure, in case we should be exiled before his return. I obeyed his commands in this particular, and as I have already observed, set sail with my uncles, relations, and friends, for Barbary; and the place in which we settled was Algiers, whereas we might as well have taken up our habitation in hell itself. The king hearing of my beauty, and the report of my wealth, which was partly fortunate for my designs, ordered me to be brought before him, and asked from what part of Spain I had come, and what money and jewels I had brought to Barbary. I told him the place of my nativity, and gave him to understand that the money and jewels were buried under-ground: but that I should easily recover the whole hoard, provided I could return alone for that purpose. This information I gave, that he might be more blinded by his own avarice than my beauty: but, during the conversation, a person told him that I was accompanied in my voyage by one of the most beautiful and genteel youths that ever was seen. I immediately understood that this was no other than Don Gasper Gregorio, whose beauty far exceeds the fairest that ever was extolled; and was exceedingly afflicted at the prospect of danger to which the dear youth might be exposed; for, among those barbarous Turks, a boy or handsome youth is more prized and esteemed than any woman, let her be never so beautiful.

‘The king forthwith ordered his people to bring Don Gregorio into his presence, and in the mean time asked me if his person actually corresponded with this report. Then I, as if inspired by Heaven, answered in the affirmative; though at the same time I assured him, it was no youth, but a woman like myself; and begged leave to go and dress her in her natural attire, which would shew her beauty to the best advantage, and enable her to appear in his presence with less confusion. He said I might go, in good time, and that some other day he would concert measures for my return into Spain, to bring off the hidden treasure. Thus dismissed, I went and explained to Don Gaspar the risque he would run in appearing as a man, and dressing him in the habit of a Moorish woman, accompanied him that same evening to the presence of the king, who was seized with admiration at sight of her beauty, and resolved to keep her for a present to the Grand Signior. In order to avoid the danger to which this young creature might be exposed in his seraglio, from his own inordinate desires, he ordered her to be lodged, quartered, and attended, in the house of some Moorish ladies, whither she was immediately conveyed; and what we both felt at parting, for I cannot deny that I love him tenderly, I leave to the confederation of lovers who have experienced such a cruel separation.

‘The king afterwards contrived a scheme for my returning to Spain in this brigantine, accompanied by two native Turks, the very persons who killed your soldiers, and that Spanish renegado,’ (pointing to him who spoke first) ‘who I know is a Christian in his heart, and is much more desirous of remaining in Spain than of returning to Barbary; the rest of the crew are Moors and Turks, whom we engaged as rowers. The two insolent and rapacious Turks, without minding the order they received to land the renegado and me in the habit of Christians, with which we were provided on the first part of Spain they could make, resolved previously to scour the coast, with a view to take prizes, fearing that should they set us on shore beforehand, we might meet with some accident which would oblige us to discover that there was a corsair on the coast, and they of consequence run the risk of being taken by the gallies. At night we descried this road, though we did not perceive the four gallies, and being discovered, were taken as you see. In a word, Don Gregorio remains in the habit of a woman among the Moorish ladies, at the imminent hazard of his life, and here I stand fettered and manacled, in expectation, or rather in fear, of losing that existence of which I am already tired. This, Signior, is the end of my lamentable story, which is equally true and unfortunate; and all I beg of you is, that I may die like a Christian, seeing, as I have already observed, I have in no shape been guilty of the fault which hath been charged upon our unhappy nation!’

So saying, she stood silent, her lovely eyes impregnated with tears, which few of the spectators could behold unmoved; and the viceroy, whose disposition was humane and compassionate, unable to speak, advanced to the place, and with his own hands released those of the beautiful Moor.

While this Christian Moor related her peregrinations, an ancient pilgrim who had followed the viceroy into the galley, kept his eyes close fixed upon her countenance, and her story was no sooner finished than he threw himself at her feet, which he bathed with his tears, while in accents interrupted with a thousand sighs and groans, he exclaimed, ‘O, Anna Felix! my unhappy daughter; I am thy father Ricote, who have returned in search of thee to Spain, because I could not live without thee, who art dear to my affection even as my own soul!’