Chapter LI: Book IV (5)

At these words, Sancho opened his eyes, and raised his head, which he had hitherto hung in manifest despondence, reflecting upon the disgrace of his flying adventure; and looking at the pilgrim, recognized that same Ricote whom he had encountered the very day on which he quitted his government: he likewise recollected the features of his daughter, who being by this time unbound, mingled her tears with those of her father, whom she tenderly embraced; and then the old man, addressing himself to the viceroy and general, ‘My lords,’ said he, ‘this is my daughter; not so happy in the incidents of her life, as in her name, which is Anna Felix, with the addition of Ricote, as famous for her beauty as for her father’s wealth. I left my country in quest of a place where we should be received and hospitably entertained; and having found such an asylum in Germany, I returned as a pilgrim in the company of some people of that nation; hoping to find my daughter, and fetch away the wealth which I had buried in the earth: my daughter was gone, but I recovered my hoard, which is in my possession; and now, by this strange vicissitude which you have seen, I have retrieved that treasure which is the chief object of my affection, I mean, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and mutual tears can have influence enough upon your integrity and justice, to open the gates of mercy, O let it prevail in favour of us, who never offended you even in thought, nor in any shape corresponded with the designs of our people, who have been justly expelled.’ Here Sancho interposing, ‘I am very well acquainted with Ricote,’ said he, ‘and know all he has said about his daughter Anna Felix to be true; but with respect to that other trash of his comings and goings, and his good or evil designs, I neither meddle nor make.’ Every person present expressed admiration at this strange incident; and the general turning to the daughter, ‘Every tear you let fall,’ said he, ‘conspires in preventing the performance of my oath. Live, beauteous Anna Felix, the term of your life prescribed by Heaven; and let those insolent and presumptuous wretches suffer punishment for the crimes they have committed.’

So saying, he ordered the two Turks, who had killed his soldiers, to be hanged at the yard’s-arm; but the viceroy earnestly entreated him to spare their lives, as their crime was rather the effect of madness than of preconceived design. The general granted his request, especially as he did not think it commendable to execute revenge in cold blood.

Then they began to contrive some method for extricating Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he was involved; and Ricote offered to the value of above two thousand ducats, which he had about him in pearls and jewels, to any person who could effect his deliverance. Many schemes were projected; but none of them seemed so sensible as that which was presented by the fore-mentioned Spanish renegado, who offered to return to Algiers in some small bark of about six banks, manned with Christians, as he knew where, how, and when he might land with safety, and was well acquainted with the house in which Don Gaspar remained. The general and the viceroy were dubious of the renegado, and scrupled to trust him with the command of Christian rowers; but Anna Felix was satisfied of his integrity, and her father said he would engage to ransom them, should they chance to be taken and enslaved.

Matters being settled on this footing, the viceroy went ashore, after having laid strong injunctions on Don Antonio Moreno, who had invited the Moorish beauty and her father to his house, to make much of his guests, and command whatever his own palace could afford for their entertainment. Such was the charity and benevolence which Anna’s beauty had infused into his heart!

CHAP. XII.
GIVING THE DETAIL OF AN ADVENTURE
WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE MORTIFICATION
THAN HE HAD RECEIVED FROM ALL THE MISFORTUNES
WHICH HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM.

Don Antonio’s lady, as the history relates, was extremely pleased at the sight of Anna Felix, whom she received with great cordiality, equally enamoured of her beauty and discretion; for, indeed, the Moor excelled in both; and here she was visited by all the people of fashion in town, as if by toll of bell. As for Don Quixote, he gave Antonio to understand, that in his opinion, the plan they had formed for the deliverance of Don Gregorio was more dangerous than expedient; and that it would be much more effectual to set him on shore in Barbary, with his arms and horse; in which case he would bring home the young gentleman in despight of the whole Moorish race, as heretofore Don Gayferos had delivered his wife, Melisandra. Sancho, hearing this proposal, ‘Consider,’ said he, ‘that Signior Don Gayferos delivered his wife from captivity on the main land, and carried her off to France through the high road; but, in this case, even granting we should have the good luck to release Don Gregorio from his confinement, we shall not be able to convey him hither to Spain, because the sea is between us and Barbary.’—‘There’s a remedy for all things but death,’ replied the knight: ‘for, if there is a bark by the shore, we can go aboard, in opposition to the whole universe.’—‘Your worship describes it a very easy matter,’ said the squire; ‘but, between Said and Done, a long race may be run; and, for my part, I would stick to the offer of the renegado, who seems to be a very honest person, and a man of compassionate bowels.’ Don Antonio said, that if the renegado should fail in his undertaking, they would certainly find some means for transporting the great Don Quixote to Barbary; and in two days the renegado departed in a light bark with six oars on a side, manned with a crew of approved valour. In two days after her departure the gallies likewise set sail for the Levant, after the general had begged and obtained the viceroy’s promise to let him know the success of the scheme they had contrived for the deliverance of Don Gregorio, together with the fate of the lovely Anna Felix.

One morning, Don Quixote rode forth upon the strand, completely armed; for he often observed, arms were his ornaments, and fighting his diversion, and he never cared to appear in any other dress; and as he pranced along, he saw coming towards him a knight, likewise armed cap-a-pee, having a full moon painted on his shield. This apparition was no sooner within hearing, than he addressed his discourse to Don Quixote, pronouncing aloud, ‘Renowned cavalier, never enough applauded Don Quixote de La Mancha, I, the Knight of the White Moon, whose unheard-of exploits, may, peradventure, recal him to your remembrance, am come with hostile intent to prove the force of thine arm; to convince and compel thee to own that my mistress, whosoever she is, exceeds in beauty thy Dulcinea del Toboso, beyond all comparison: which truth, if thou wilt fairly and fully confess, thou wilt avoid thy own death, and spare me the trouble of being thy executioner; but shouldst thou presume to engage with me in single combat, and be overcome, all the satisfaction I demand is, that thou wilt lay aside thine arms, desist from travelling in quest of adventures, and quitting the field, retire to thine own habitation, where thou shalt continue a whole year, without drawing a sword, in comfortable peace and profitable tranquillity, which may tend to the augmentation of thy fortune, and the salvation of thy precious soul. On the other hand, if it be my fate to be vanquished, my life shall exist at thy discretion; thine shall be the spoils of all my arms and horse, and to thee shall be transferred all the fame of my atchievements: consider which of these alternatives thou wilt chuse, and answer me on the spot; for, on this very day, the affair must be dispatched and determined.’

Don Quixote was astonished and confounded, as well at the arrogance of the Knight of the White Moon, as at the cause of his defiance; and, after a short pause of recollection, replied with a solemn tone, and countenance severe, ‘Sir Knight of the White Moon, whose exploits have not as yet reached mine ear, I dare say you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for, had you enjoyed that happiness, I know you would not have dreamed of making such a rash demand: one glimpse of her would have undeceived you perfectly, and plainly demonstrated, that there never was, or will be, beauty comparable to that which she possesses. I, therefore, without giving you the lye, but only affirming that you are egregiously mistaken, accept of your defiance on the conditions you have proposed, and will fight you forthwith, before the day you have pitched upon shall be elapsed; with this exception, however, that I will by no means adopt the fame of your exploits; because I know not how, where, or wherefore they were atchieved, and am content with my own, such as they are: chuse your ground therefore, and I will take my share of the field; and let St. Peter bless what God shall bestow.’

The Knight of the White Moon being discovered from the city, and seen talking with Don Quixote, notice was given to the viceroy; who, supposing it was some new adventure contrived by Don Antonio Moreno, or some other gentleman of the town, went down to the strand, accompanied by the said Don Antonio, and a number of other cavaliers, and reached the spot just as Don Quixote wheeled about on Rozinante to measure his distance. Seeing both parties ready for returning to the encounter, he placed himself in the middle between them, and demanded the cause that induced them so suddenly to engage in single combat. The Knight of the White Moon answered, that it was the precedency of beauty; and briefly repeated his proposal to Don Quixote, with the mutual acceptation of the conditions proposed. Then the viceroy taking Don Antonio aside, asked if he knew this Knight of the White Moon; and if this was a joke which he intended to perpetrate upon Don Quixote. Don Antonio assured him that he knew not the stranger, nor could guess whether the challenge was given in jest or earnest. He was a little perplexed, and dubious whether or not he should allow the battle to be fought; but, as he could not conceive it to be any thing else than a preconcerted joke, he retired, saying, ‘Valiant knights, seeing there is no other remedy, but you must confess or die; and Signior Don Quixote persists in denying what you, of the White Moon, presume to affirm; I leave you to your fate, and God stand by the righteous.’

The stranger, in very polite terms, and well-selected phrase, thanked the viceroy for the permission he had granted; and his example was, in this particular, followed by Don Quixote, who, having recommended himself heartily to Heaven and his Dulcinea, according to his usual practice when he engaged in any combat, turned about to take a little more ground, in imitation of his antagonist; then, without receiving a signal for engaging, either by sound of trumpet, or any other instrument, both parties wheeled about at the same instant. The Knight of the White Moon having the fleeter horse, coming up with his adversary, before this last had run one third of his career, lifting up his lance purposely that he might not wound Don Quixote, whom, however, he encountered with such an irresistible shock, that both he and Rozinante came to the ground with a very dangerous fall: the victor instantly sprung upon him, and clapping his lance to his vizor, ‘Knight,’ said he, ‘you are vanquished, and a dead man, unless you acknowledge the terms of the defiance.’ To this address the battered and astonished Don Quixote, without lifting up his beaver, replied in a languid tone and feeble voice, that seemed to issue from a tomb, ‘Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight on earth; and, as it is not reasonable that my weakness should discredit this truth, make use of your weapon, knight, and instantly deprive me of life, as you have already divested me of honour.’—‘By no means’ said he of the White Moon: ‘let the fame of my Lady Dulcinea’s beauty flourish in full perfection; all the satisfaction I ask is, that the great Don Quixote shall retire to his own house, and there abide for the space of one year, or during the term which I shall prescribe, according to the articles agreed upon before we engaged.’ This whole dialogue was overheard by the viceroy, Don Antonio, and a number of other people who were present, and they were also ear-witnesses of the answer made by Don Quixote, who said, that as the victor had demanded nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would comply with his proposal like a true and punctual knight.

He of the White Moon hearing his declaration, turning his horse, and, bowing courteously to the viceroy, entered the city at an half gallop, whither he was followed by Don Antonio, at the desire of the viceroy, who entreated him to make enquiry, and obtain satisfactory information concerning this romantick stranger. In the mean time, they raised up Don Quixote; and uncovering his face, found him pale as death, and his forehead bedewed with a cold sweat, while Rozinante lay motionless, from the rough treatment he had received. As for Sancho, he was so overwhelmed with sorrow and vexation, that he knew not what to say or do: this unlucky incident seemed to be a dream, and he looked upon the whole scene as a matter of inchantment. Seeing his lord and master overcome, and obliged to lay aside his arms for the space of a whole year, he imagined the splendor of his exploits was eclipsed, and all those fair hopes, produced from his late promise, dispersed in the air, as smoak is dissipated by the wind, in a word, he was afraid that Rozinante was maimed for ever, and his master’s bones dislocated; and even thought it would be a great mercy if he was not in a worse condition.

Finally, the viceroy ordered his people to bring a sedan, in which the knight was carried to the city, accompanied by that nobleman, who longed very much to know who this Knight of the White Moon was, by whom Don Quixote had been left in such a cruel dilemma.

CHAP. XIII.
WHICH DISCOVERS WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS, AND GIVES AN
ACCOUNT OF THE DELIVERANCE OF DON GREGORIO—WITH OTHER INCIDENTS.

Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, who was also accompanied, and even persecuted by a number of boys, until they had housed him in one of the city inns, which was at the same time entered by Don Antonio, who burned with impatience to know what he was; and, without ceremony, intruded himself into the apartment to which the stranger retired, with his squire, to be unarmed. He of the White Moon, perceiving how much the gentleman’s curiosity was inflamed, and that he was resolved to stick close by him until it should be satisfied, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not ignorant that you are come hither on purpose to know who I am; and as there is no reason why I should refuse you that satisfaction, I will, while my servant is employed in taking off my armour, explain the whole mystery, without the least reserve: you must know, then, Signior, that I am called the Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, a townsman of Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose madness and extravagance has given great concern to all his acquaintance, and to me in particular. Believing that his recovery would depend upon his living quietly at his own habitation, I projected a scheme for compelling him to stay at home; and, about three months ago, sallied forth upon the highway, as a knight-errant, assuming the appellation of the Knight of the Mirrours, fully resolved to engage and vanquish Don Quixote, without hurting him dangerously, after I should have established, as the condition of our combat, that the vanquished should be at the discretion of the victor: and, as I deemed him already conquered, my intention was to demand that he should return to his own house, from which he should not stir for the space of one year, in which time I hoped his cure might be effected. But fate ordained things in another manner; I was conquered and overthrown, and my design entirely frustrated; he proceeded in quest of new adventures, and I returned vanquished, ashamed, and sorely bruised by the dangerous fall I had sustained in battle: nevertheless, I did not lay aside the design of returning in quest of him to overthrow him in my turn, and you have this day seen my intention succeed; for he is so punctual in observing the ordinances of chivalry, that he will, doubtless, perform his promise in complying with my demand. This, Signior, is an account of the whole affair: nor have I omitted one circumstance; and I beg you will not discover and disclose to Don Quixote who I am, that my Christian intention may take effect, and the poor gentleman retrieve his judgement, which would be altogether excellent, were he once abandoned by those mad notions of chivalry.’—‘God forgive you, Signior,’ cried Don Antonio, ‘for the injury you have done the world, in seeking to restore to his senses the most agreeable madman that ever lived! Do not you perceive, Signior, that the benefit resulting from the cure of Don Quixote will never counterbalance the pleasure produced by his extravagances? But, I imagine, all the care and industry of Signior Batchelor will hardly be sufficient to effect the recovery of a man who is so thoroughly mad, and, if it was no breach of charity, I would say, May Don Quixote never be cured; for, in his recovery, we not only lose his own diverting flights, but also those of his squire Sancho Panza; and any of these conceits are such as might convert Melancholy herself into merriment and laughter: nevertheless, I shall put a seal upon my lips, and say nothing, that I may see whether or not I shall judge aright, in supposing that the diligence of Signior Carrasco will not answer his expectation.’ The batchelor answered, that all things considered, the business was already in a fair way; and, he did not doubt, would be blessed with a prosperous issue. Don Antonio having made a tender of his services, and taken his leave, Sampson ordered his arms to be fastened upon a mule; then mounting the horse on which he engaged Don Quixote, he quitted the city the same day, on his return to his own country, in which he arrived without having met with any incident worthy of being recorded in this authentick history. Don Antonio made the viceroy acquainted with all the particulars he had learned from Carrasco, which afforded no great pleasure to that nobleman, as the retirement of Don Quixote would destroy all that entertainment enjoyed by those who had the opportunity of observing his madness.

Six whole days did Don Quixote lie a-bed, pensive, melancholy, mauled, and meagre, revolving in his imagination, and meditating incessantly on the unfortunate incident of his overthrow; notwithstanding the consolations of Sancho, who, among other arguments of comfort, exhorted his worship to hold up his head, and dispel his sorrow, if possible. ‘Your worship,’ said he, ‘has reason to thank God, that, though you are overthrown, your ribs are still whole: you know that, in those matters, we must take as well as give; and where there are hooks we do not always find bacon—A fig for the physician, seeing we do not want his help in the cure of this distemper: let us return to our habitation, and leave off travelling about in quest of adventures, through lands and countries unknown; nay, if we rightly consider the case, I am the greatest loser, though your worship is the most roughly handled; for though, when I quitted the government, I likewise quitted all thought of governing, I did not give up the desire of being a count, which will never be fulfilled if your worship should renounce your design of being a king, and quit the exercise of chivalry; in that case all my hopes must vanish into smoke.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said the disconsolate knight; ‘the term of my penance and retirement will not exceed a year, at the end of which I will return to the honourable duties of my profession, and then we shall find kingdoms to conquer and countships to bestow.’—‘The Lord give ear, and my sin never hear!’ cried Sancho: ‘and I have always heard it said, that righteous hope is better than unjust possession.’

Their conversation was interrupted by Don Antonio; who, entering the apartment with marks of infinite satisfaction, exclaimed—‘Money for my good news, Signior Don Quixote: Don Gregorio, and the renegado who undertook his deliverance, are now in the road—in the road! they are, by this time, in the viceroy’s palace, and will be here in an instant.’ The knight was a little revived by these tidings, and replied—‘In truth, I was going to say, I should have been glad to hear that the scheme had not succeeded, so that I should have been obliged to cross over into Barbary, where I would, by the strength of my arm, have given liberty not only to Don Gregorio, but also to all the Christian captives in Algiers—but what am I saying, miserable caitif? am not I vanquished? am not I overthrown? am not I excluded from the exercise of arms for the space of a whole year? wherefore, then, promise what I cannot perform? wherefore praise my own valour, when I am fitter for handling a distaff than for wielding a sword?’—‘No more of that, good Signior,’ replied the squire; ‘Let the hen live though she has the pip: To-day for thee, and to-morrow for me: as to those matters of encounters and dry bastings, they are not to be minded; for he that falls to-day may rise to-morrow, if he does not chuse to lie a-bed; I mean, if he does not chuse to despair, without endeavouring to recover fresh spirits for fresh adventures. Get up, therefore, I beseech your worship, and receive Don Gregorio; for the people are in such an uproar, that by this time he must be in the house.’

This was really the case: Don Gregorio and the renegado having given the viceroy an account of the voyage and success of the undertaking, the young gentleman, impatient to see his dear Anna Felix, was come with his deliverer to the house of Don Antonio; and although Don Gregorio was in woman’s apparel when they delivered him from Algeirs, he had exchanged it in the vessel with another captive by whom he was accompanied; but, in any dress whatsoever, his appearance was such as commanded friendship, service, and esteem; for he was exceedingly beautiful, and seemingly not above seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his daughter went forth to receive him; the father with tears of joy, and Anna with the most modest deportment: nor did this fair couple embrace one another; for, where genuine love prevails, such freedom of behaviour is seldom indulged. The beauty of Don Gregorio and his mistress excited the admiration of all the spectators; while silence spoke for the lovers themselves, and their eyes performing the office of the tongue, disclosed the joy of their virtuous thoughts. The renegado recounted the stratagem and means he had used for the deliverance of the youth; who likewise entertained the company with a detail of the dangers and distresses to which he was exposed among the women with whom he had been left; and this task he performed not with diffused prolixity, but in elegant and concise terms, which plainly proved that his discretion far exceeded his years. Finally, Ricote liberally rewarded the rowers and the renagado, who re-united and re-incorporated himself with the church, and from a rotten member, became fair and sound, by dint of mortification and sincere repentance.

Two days after the arrival of Don Gregorio, the viceroy consulted with Don Antonio about the means of obtaining permission for Anna Felix and her father to reside in Spain, as they were persuaded that no inconvenience could arise from such indulgence to a daughter who was so perfectly a Christian, and a father so righteously disposed. Don Antonio offered to negotiate this affair at court, whither he was pressingly called by his own occasions; observing, that by dint of interest and presents many difficulties are removed. Ricote, who was present at this conversation, said, ‘There is nothing to be hoped from favour or presents; neither tears, entreaties, promises, nor presents, will avail with the great Don Bernandino de Velasco, Count de Selaza, to whom his majesty has entrusted the charge of our expulsion; for, although he really tempers justice with mercy, as he perceives the whole body of our nation contaminated and gangrened, he applies the actual cautery instead of the mollifying ointment; so that, by his diligence, prudence, sagacity, and terrifying threats, he has sustained upon his able shoulders the weight of that vast project which he has successfully put in execution, without suffering his Argus eyes, which are always alert, to be blinded by all our industry, stratagem, fraud, and solicitation. He is resolved that none of our people shall remain concealed; lest, like an hidden root, they may hereafter bud and bring forth fruit which may be poisonous to Spain, already cleansed and delivered from those fears that arose from the prodigious number of Moors: an heroick resolution of the great Philip III. who has, at the same time, displayed the most consummate wisdom, in committing the execution of the scheme to the courage and ability of Don Bernandino de Velasco.’—‘Nevertheless,’ said Don Antonio, ‘I will, while at court, use all possible means in your behalf, and leave the determination to Heaven; Don Gregorio shall go along with me, and console his parents for the grief they have suffered from his absence; Anna Felix shall stay with my wife, or be boarded in a monastery; and, I know, my lord viceroy will be pleased to lodge honest Ricote until we shall see the issue of my negociation.’ The viceroy agreed to every circumstance of the proposal; but Don Gregorio, being informed of the scheme, declared he neither could nor would leave his charming Anna Felix. At length, however, he assented to the proposal, resolving to go and visit his parents, with whom he would concert measures for returning to fetch away his mistress; so that Anna Felix remained with Don Antonio’s lady, and Ricote staid in the viceroy’s palace.

The hour of Antonio’s departure arrived; and, in two days, was followed by that of Don Quixote, whose fall would not permit him to travel before that time. The parting of the lovers was attended with weeping, sighing, sobbing, and swooning; and Ricote offered to accommodate Don Gregorio with a thousand crowns; but the young gentleman would take but five, which he borrowed of Don Antonio, promising to repay them at court. Thus they set out together for Madrid; and soon after, as we have already observed, Don Quixote and Sancho departed from Barcelona; the knight unarmed, in a travelling dress, and the squire trudging a-foot, because Dapple carried the armour of his master.

CHAP. XIV.
TREATING OF THAT WHICH WILL BE SEEN BY HIM WHO READS,
AND KNOWN BY HIM WHO HEARS IT READ.

Don Quixote, in leaving Barcelona, turned about to survey the fatal spot in which he had fallen, and thus exclaimed: ‘Here Troy once stood! here, by misfortune, not by cowardice, was I despoiled of all the glory I had acquired! Here did I feel the vicissitudes of fortune! here all my atchievements were eclipsed! and, finally, here fell my fortune, never more to rise!’ Sancho hearing this effusion, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘it is the part of a valiant man to bear with patience his sufferings and adversity, as well as to enjoy his prosperity with good humour. I judge from my own feeling; for, if I was merry when a governor, I am not melancholy now that I am a poor squire travelling a-foot; and I have often heard, that she we call Fortune is a drunken, fickle female, and so blind withal, that she sees not what she does, and knows not whom she is abusing, or whom exalting.’—‘Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘thou art very philosophical, and hast spoke with great discretion, which I know not where thou hast learned; I can tell thee, however, there is no such thing as fortune in the whole world; nor do those things which happen, whether good or evil, proceed from chance, but solely from the particular providence of Heaven; and hence comes the usual saying, That every man is the maker of his own fortune. I at least have been the maker of mine, though not with sufficient prudence, and therefore my presumptuous hopes miscarried. I ought to have considered that Rozinante’s weakness could not resist the weight and magnitude of my adversary’s horse; in a word, I tried my fortune, did what I could, found myself vanquished and overthrown, and though I lost mine honour, I neither did nor can forfeit my integrity, and the merit of fulfilling my promise; while I was a knight-errant valiant and intrepid, my hand and my performance gave credit to my exploits; and now that I am no more than a pedestrian squire, my word shall be confirmed by the accomplishment of my promise. Make haste, then, friend Sancho, let us return to our own country, and pass the year of our probation, and during that term of confinement acquire fresh vigour and virtue, to resume the never by me forgotten exercise of arms.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘the pastime of trudging a-foot is not quite so pleasant, as to move and instigate me to travel a great pace; let us leave these arms of yours, hanging like a malefactor on some tree; and then I, occupying the back of Dapple, with my feet no longer in the mire, we may travel just as your worship shall desire or demand; but, to think that I can make long marches a-foot, is a vain supposition.’—‘Thou art in the right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘let my arms be suspended in form of a trophy; and beneath, or around them, we will engrave upon the tree, an inscription like that which appeared under the armour of Orlando—

‘“Let him alone these arms displace,
Who dares Orlando’s fury face.”’

‘A most excellent device!’ cried the squire; ‘and if it were not that we should feel the want of him in our journey, it would not be amiss to hang up Rozinante at the same time.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘neither Rozinante nor my arms will I suffer to be hung up; for it shall never be said of me, that a good service met with a bad remuneration.’—‘Your worship talks very much to the purpose,’ said Sancho; ‘for according to the opinion of wise men, The pannel ought not to suffer for the fault of the ass; and since your worship alone was to blame for the bad success of the last adventure, you ought to punish yourself only, and not vent your indignation upon your bloody and already rusted arms, or upon the meekness of Rozinante, or, lastly, upon the tenderness of my feet, in desiring them to walk at a pace which they cannot maintain.’

In this conversation, and other such discourse, they passed that whole day and the next four, without meeting with any incident that could interrupt their journey: on the fifth, which was a holiday, they entered a village where they saw a number of people making merry at the gate of an inn; and when Don Quixote approached, a countryman exclaimed, ‘One of these gentlemen travellers, who are unacquainted with the parties, shall decide our wager.’ The knight assuring them he would give his opinion freely and honestly, as soon as he should be informed of the matter, the peasant replied, ‘Worthy Signior, this here is the case: One of our townsmen, who is so fat and bulky that he weighs little less than three hundred weight, has challenged one of his neighbours, a thin creature, not half so heavy, to run with him one hundred yards with equal weight. The match was accordingly made; but when the challenger was asked how the weight of both should be made equal, he insisted on the other’s carrying the difference in bars of iron, by which means, Limberham would be upon a footing with Loggerhead.’—‘By no means,’ cried Sancho, interposing before his master could answer one word, ‘to me, who have been lately a governor and a judge, as all the world knows, it belongs to resolve these doubts, and give my opinion in every dispute.’—‘Speak, then, in happy time, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘for my judgment is so confounded and disturbed, that I am hardly fit to throw crumbs to a cat.’ With this permission, Sancho addressing himself to the peasants, who had assembled around him, and waited his decision with open mouths, ‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘the demand of Loggerhead will not hold water, and is indeed without the least shadow of justice; for if what all the world says be true, namely, that the challenged party has the choice of the weapons, it is not reasonable that the said Loggerhead should pretend to chuse such arms as will encumber his adversary, and secure the victory to himself; it is therefore my opinion, that Loggerhead, the challenger, shall scrape, shave, pare, polish, slice, and take away, one hundred and fifty pounds weight of his own individual flesh from different parts of his body, according to his own fancy and convenience; so that, leaving the other moiety, which will be sufficient to counterbalance his antagonist, the parties may run with equal advantage.’—‘’Fore God!’ cried one of the countrymen, hearing this wise decision, ‘the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and given sentence like a canon; but, sure I am, Loggerhead will not part with an ounce, much less one hundred and fifty pounds of his flesh.’—‘The best part of the joke,’ replied another peasant, ‘is, that the match cannot be run; for Limberham will not touch a bar of iron, and Loggerhead will not pare himself; let us therefore spend the half of the money in treating these gentlemen at the tavern with some of the best wine; and, when it rains, let the shower fall upon my cloak.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I thank you for your invitation, but I really cannot tarry a moment; for melancholy thoughts and unlucky adventures oblige me to appear uncivil on this occasion, and to travel faster than the ordinary pace.’ So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and set on; leaving them astonished in consequence of having seen and observed the strange figure of the master, and the sagacity of the servant, for such they supposed Sancho to be. One of them could not help saying, ‘If the servant is so wise, what must the master be? I’ll lay a wager if they go to study at Salamanca, they will in a trice be created alcaldes of the court; for it is nothing but children’s play, studying and poring, and having interest and good luck: and when a man thinks least about the matter, he finds himself with a white rod in his hand, or a mitre upon his head.’

That night our adventurer and his squire passed in the middle of an open field, under the spacious cope of heaven; and next day, proceeding on their journey, they saw coming towards them a man on foot, with a javelin or half-pike in his hand, and a wallet on his back; circumstances from which they judged he was a post or courier. As he advanced he quickened his pace, and running to Don Quixote, embraced his right thigh, for he could reach no higher, exclaiming, with marks of extraordinary satisfaction, ‘O my good Signior Don Quixote! how will the heart of my lord duke be rejoiced when he knows your worship is returning to his castle, where he still continues with my lady duchess!’—‘Friend,’ said the knight, ‘I do not recollect your features, nor do I know who you are, unless you will be pleased to tell me.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the courier, ‘I am my lord duke’s lacquey Tosilos, who refused to fight with your worship concerning the marriage of the duenna’s daughter.’—‘God in heaven protect me!’ cried the knight, ‘is it possible that you are he whom my enemies the enchanters transformed into that same lacquey you mention, to deprive me of the glory of that combat?’—‘No more of that, worthy Signior,’ replied the post; ‘there was no inchantment in the case, nor any sort of transformation; I was as much the lacquey Tosilos when I entered the lists, as when I left them. I thought the girl handsome, and therefore would have married her without fighting, but the event did not answer my expectation. Your worship was no sooner gone from the castle, than my lord duke ordered me to be severely bastinadoed, for having contradicted the instructions he had given me before I entered the lists; and this is the upshot of the whole affair: the girl is by this time a nun, Donna Rodriguez is gone back to Castile, and I am now bound for Barcelona with a packet of letters from his grace to the viceroy. If your worship is inclined to take a small draught of good wine, though not very cool, I have here a calabash full of the best, and some slices of Tronchon cheese, which will serve as provocatives and rouzers of thirst, if perchance it should be asleep.’—‘Your invitation is accepted,’ cried Sancho; ‘truce with your compliments and skink away, honest Tosilos, maugre and in despite of all the inchanters of the Indies.’—‘Verily, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art the most insatiate glutton in the universe, and the most ignorant animal upon earth: but, as thou art not persuaded that this courier is inchanted, and no other than a counterfeit Tosilos, thou mayst tarry along with him and fill thy belly, and I will jog on at a slow pace until thou shalt overtake me.’ The lacquey smiled at his infatuation, unsheathed his calabash, unwalletted his cheese, and producing a small loaf, he and Sancho sat down upon the grass, where in peace and harmony they dispatched and discussed the contents of the wallet with great perseverance and good-will, and even licked the packet, because it smelled of cheese. During the repast, Tosilos said to the squire, ‘Doubtless, friend Sancho, thy master is bankrupt in common-sense.’—‘How, bankrupt!’ answered Panza; ‘he owes no man a farthing, but pays like a prince, especially where madness is the current coin; I see the matter plain enough, and tell him my opinion freely: but to what purpose? Now, indeed, he is going home in despair, for having been vanquished by the Knight of the White Moon.’ Tosilos earnestly begged he would recount that adventure; but Sancho declined the talk, observing, that it would be unmannerly to let his master wait for him; though at their next meeting he should have more leisure. He accordingly started up, and shaking the crumbs from his garment and beard, bade adieu to Tosilos; then driving Dapple before him, soon came up with his master, whom he found waiting for him under the shade of a tree.

CHAP. XV.
OF THE RESOLUTION WHICH DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BECOME A SHEPHERD,
AND LEAD A PASTORAL LIFE
UNTIL THE TERM OF HIS CONFINEMENT SHOULD BE ELAPSED—
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS TRULY ENTERTAINING.

If Don Quixote was perplexed with cogitation before his overthrow, much more was he fatigued by his own thoughts after his late misfortune. Under the shade of a tree, as we have already observed, did he remain, and there he was stung with reflections that swarmed like flies about honey; some dwelling upon the disinchantment of Dulcinea, and others revolving plans for the life he was to lead in his compulsive retirement. When Sancho joined him, and began to expatiate upon the liberal disposition of Tosilos, ‘Is it possible, O Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘that thou still believest that man to be the individual lacquey? One would think thou hadst forgot that thy own eyes have seen Dulcinea converted and transformed into a country wench, and the Knight of the Mirrours into the Bachelor Carrasco, by the wicked arts of those inchanters who persecute my virtue. But, tell me now didst thou ask Tosilos how Providence hath disposed of Altisidora? Hath she bewailed my absence, or already consigned to oblivion those amorous thoughts by which she was tormented during my residence at the castle?’—‘My thoughts,’ answered Sancho, ‘were not such as allowed me to ask these childish questions. Body O me! Signior, is your worship at present in a condition to enquire about other people’s thoughts, especially those you call amorous?’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘you must consider there is a wide difference between the suggestions of love, and those of gratitude: a gentleman may very well be insensible to love; but, strictly speaking, he can never be ungrateful. Altisidora, in all appearance, loved me to distraction: she, as thou very well knowest, made me a present of three night-caps; she bewailed my departure, loaded me with curses and reproach, and, in spite of maiden shame, complained of me in publick; undoubted proofs of my being the object of her adoration; for the indignation of lovers usually vents itself in maledictions. I had no hopes to give, nor treasures to offer; all my affections are yielded to Dulcinea; and the treasures of knights-errant are like those of the fairies, altogether phantom and illusion: all, therefore, that I can return, is a kind remembrance, without prejudice, however, to the memory of Dulcinea, who is greatly aggrieved by thy remissness in delaying to scourge and chastise that flesh which I hope will be a prey to the wolves; seeing thou seemed more inclined to reserve it for the worms, than to use it in behalf of that poor distressed lady.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘if the truth must be told, I cannot persuade myself that the whipping of my posteriors can have any effect in disenchanting those who are inchanted, no more than if we should anoint the shins to cure the head-ache; at least, I will venture to swear that in all the histories your worship has read concerning knight-errantry, you have never found that any person was disinchanted by such a whipping: but be that as it may, I will lay it on when I have time, convenience, and inclination, to make free with my own flesh.’—‘God grant thou mayst,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and Heaven give thee grace to understand and be sensible of the obligation thou liest under, to assist my mistress; who, as thou art mine, is thine also.’

With such conversation they amused themselves in travelling, until they arrived at the very spot where they had been overturned by the bulls; when Don Quixote recognizing the ground, ‘This is the meadow,’ said he, ‘where we met the gay shepherdesses and gallant swains, who sought to renew and re-act the pastoral Arcadia, a project equally original and ingenious; in imitation of which, shouldst thou approve of the scheme, we will assume the garb and employment of shepherds during the term of our retirement. I will purchase some sheep, together with all the necessary implements of a pastoral life, and taking the name of Quixotiz, while thou shalt bear that of the swain Pancino; we will stroll about through mountains, woods, and meadows, singing here, lamenting there, drinking liquid chrystal from the gelid springs, the limpid rills, and mighty rivers. The lofty oaks will shed upon us abundance of their delightful fruit; the trunks of hardest cork trees will yield us seats; the willows will afford us shade; the rose perfume; the extended meadow, carpets of a thousand dyes; the pure serenity of air will give us breath; the moon and stars will grant us light in spite of darkness; our singing will inspire delight; our lamentations, mirth; Apollo, verses; and Love himself, conceits to render us immortal and renowned, not only in the present age, but also to the latest posterity.’—‘Odds tens!’ cried Sancho, ‘such a life will square, aye, and be the very corner-stone of my wishes: the Batchelor Sampson Carrasco and Master Nicholas the barber, as soon as they have a glimpse of it, will wish to join us in the scheme, and turn shepherds for our company; and God grant that the curate himself may not take it in his head to enter the fold; for he is a merry companion, and a great friend to good fellowship.’—‘Thou hast a very good notion,’ said the knight; ‘and if the batchelor shall be inclined to join our pastoral association, as he doubtless will, he may take the appellation of the shepherd Sansonino, or of the swain Carrascon: Nicholas the barber may be called Niculoso, as old Boscan called himself Nemoroso: and as for the curate, I know not what title we can confer upon him, except some derivative from his own name, such as the shepherd Curiambro. For the nymphs of whom we must be enamoured, there is plenty of names to chuse; but seeing that of my mistress will suit as well with a shepherdess as with a princess, I need not give myself the trouble to invent any other that might be more proper; as for thee, Sancho, thou mayest give thy mistress what appellation will please thy own fancy.’—‘I have no intention,’ replied the squire, ‘to give her any other than that of Teresona, which will fit her fatness to an hair, as well as be agreeable to her own name Teresa; especially as in celebrating her in verse, I shall disclose my chaste desires, without going in search of fine bread in a neighbour’s house: the curate would be in the wrong to chuse a shepherdess, because he ought to set a good example to his flock; and as for the batchelor, if he has any such inclination, Let him please his own soul, without lett or controul.’

‘Good Heaven! friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what a life shall we lead! how will our ears be regaled with pipes and bagpipes of Zamora, tambourines, timbrels, and rebecks! and if these different kinds of musick be reinforced with the sound of the albogues, we shall have a full concert of all the pastoral instruments.’—‘And pray what are the albogues?’ said Sancho, ‘I never saw nor heard them named before, in the whole course of my life.’—‘Albogues,’ answered the knight, ‘are plates of brass resembling candlesticks, the hollow parts of which being clashed together produce a sound, if not ravishing or harmonious, at least not disagreeable nor unsuited to the rusticity of the bagpipe and tabor. The name of _albogues_ is Moorish, as are all the words in our language beginning with _al_; for example, _almoaca_, _almorcar_, _alhombra_, _alguazil_, _alucima_, _almacen_, _alcanzia_, and a few others; and we have only three Moorish words ending in _i_, namely, _borcegui_, _zaquicami_, and _maravedi_; as for _alheli_ and _alsaqui_, they are known to be Arabick, as well from their beginning with _al_, as for their ending in _i_: these observations I have made, by the bye, in consequence of having mentioned _albogues_, which recalled them to my remembrance. But, to return to our scheme, nothing will conduce so much to the perfection of it, as my having a talent for versification, as thou very well knowest, and the batchelor’s being an excellent poet. Of the curate I shall say nothing; though I would lay a good wager that his collars and points are truly poetical: and that Master Nicholas is in the same fashion I do not at all doubt; for people of his profession are famous for making ballads and playing on the guittar. For my own part, I will complain of absence; thou wilt extol the constancy of thy own love; the swain Carrascon will lament the disdain of his mistress; the curate Curiambro chuse his own subject; and every thing proceed in such a manner as to fulfil the warmest wishes.’

To this effusion Sancho replied, ‘Verily, Signior, I am such an unlucky wretch, that I am afraid the time will never come when I shall see myself in that blessed occupation. O what delicate wooden spoons shall I make when I am a shepherd! O what crumbs and cream shall I devour! O what garlands and pastoral nick-nacks shall I contrive! and though these may not, perhaps, add much to my reputation for wisdom, they will not fail to convince the world of my ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica shall bring our victuals to the fold; but ’ware mischief! the wench is buxom, and there are some shepherds more knavish than simple; I would not have her come out for wool and go home shorn. Those same amours, and unruly desires, are gratified in the open field as well as in the city chamber, in a shepherd’s cot as well as in a royal palace. The sin will cease when the temptation is removed; The heart will not grieve for what the eye does not perceive; and, What prayers ne’er can gain, a leap from a hedge will obtain.’ ‘No more of your proverbs, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘any one of those thou hast repeated is sufficient to explain thy meaning; and I have often exhorted thee to be less prodigal of old saws, and keep them more under command; but, I see, it is like preaching to the desart: and My mother whips me, and I scourge the top.’—‘Under correction,’ answered the squire, ‘your worship, methinks, is like the frying-pan which called to the pot, “Avaunt black-a-moor, avaunt!” Even in the very act of rebuking me for uttering proverbs, your worship strings them together in pairs.’—‘But, then, you must consider, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that when I use them, they are seasonably brought in, and fit the purpose as the ring fits the finger: whereas, by thee, they are not brought in, but lugged in, as it were, by the head and shoulders. If my memory fails me not, I have formerly told thee, that proverbs are short sentences extracted from the experience and speculation of ancient sages; and a proverb unseasonably introduced, is rather an absurdity than a judicious apothegm. But let us quit the subject, and, as the day is already spent, retire from the highway to some place where we may pass the night; for God alone knows what will be to-morrow.’

They accordingly retired to a grove, where they made a late and very indifferent supper, to the no small mortification of Sancho, who ruefully reflected upon the meagre commons of chivalry, so uncomfortably discussed among woods and mountains; though his imagination was also regaled with the remembrance of that abundance which he had enjoyed at the castle, as well as at the wedding of the rich Camacho, and in the houses of Don Diego de Miranda, and Don Antonio de Moreno: but, finally, considering it could not be always day, or always night, he resolved, for the present, to sleep, while his master indulged his contemplations awake.

CHAP. XVI.
OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE WAS INVOLVED.

The night was a little dark; for, although the moon was in the heavens, she was invisible to the people of our hemisphere, Madam Diana having taken a trip to the Antipodes, and left our mountains obumbrated and our vallies obscured.