Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra · English · Gutenberg #24754 · 468,241 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
Author: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Release date: March 4, 2008 [eBook #24754]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
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WIT AND WISDOM OF DON QUIXOTE.
PATCH GRIEF WITH PROVERBS.--_Shakespeare._
[Illustration: CERVANTES.]
[Illustration: Cervantes Monument in Madrid, Spain.]
Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1882.
Copyright, 1882,
by Roberts Brothers.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.
INDEX.
Abadexo, 9.
Adam, the first head scratched, 168.
Adventure of the dead body, 51.
Adventures of Esplandian, 17.
Alamos of Medina del Campo, 199.
Aldermen, the braying, 169.
Altisidora, songs of, 219, 265.
Amadis de Gaul, 4, 17.
Amadis de Greece, 19.
Arms, the honorable profession of, 173.
Araucana, 24.
Austriada, 24.
Bacallao, 9.
Barabbas, wife for, 115.
Barataria, the island of, 222, 223, 250.
Barber's basin, taken for Mambrino's helmet, 58.
Basilius the Poor, adventure of, 147.
Belfreys and palfreys much the same, 125.
Boar hunt, the, 182.
Bray, town of, 172.
Cane, the hollow, 227.
Carrasco, views upon critics, 109;
made executor, 286.
Chrysostom, story of, 37;
interment of, 41;
song of, 45;
epitaph upon, 49.
Clavileno, flight of, 203.
Comedy, adherence to the unities necessary, 89.
Countryman, the tale of, 239.
Critic, not cricket, 163.
Cuenza, cloth of, 180.
Cupid's address at wedding of Quiteria, 153.
Curadillo, 9.
Cure of jealousy, 22.
Dapple, 181, 182, 184, 197.
Darinel, 18.
Dead body, adventure of, 51.
Death, Sancho's views on, 165.
Description of a lady, 33.
Diana, the, of Montemayor, 21, 22.
Disenchantment of Dulcinea, 187, 196.
Don Bellionis, 20.
Don Diego de Miranda, 20.
Don Galaor, serving no especial mistress, 36.
Don Olivante de Laura, 18.
Don Kyrie Eleison of Montalvan, 21.
Don Quixote, income of, 1;
family of, 1;
age of, 1;
fancies of, 2;
his armor, 2;
his steed, 3;
begins his adventures, 5;
arrival at inn, 6;
seeks knighthood, 10;
watches his armor, 13;
is knighted, 14;
his self-confidence, 16;
his library destroyed, 16, 25;
his squire, 25;
extolls the Golden Age, 29;
his requisites for a knight-errant, 35;
at the interment of Chrysostom, 41;
his adventure with a dead body, 51;
captures Mambrino's helmet, 56;
performs penance, 63;
his views of knight-errantry, 76, 82;
receives a visit from the lady Dulcinea, 126;
adventure with the lions, 133;
attends the wedding of Quiteria the Fair, 147;
a "sensible madman," 197;
counsels Sancho, 203, 210, 225;
his views upon poetry, 131;
of love, 161;
of marriage, 162;
upon long finger-nails, 211;
of proverbs, 212;
converses with an author, 273;
returns home, 282;
his will, 284, 285;
his death, 287;
epitaph upon, 288.
Duke and Duchess, the, 181.
Dulcinea, described by Don Quixote, 37;
letters to, 65;
lines to, 66;
disenchantment of, 187, 196;
lines to, 66;
sonnet to, 96.
Earldom, Sancho's views of the management of one, 91.
El Cancionero, 23.
Enchanter's errand, the, 188.
Epitaphs on Don Quixote, 96, 98, 288.
Epitaphs on Dulcinea, 99.
Ermine, a modest women compared to one, 73.
Fabila, the fate of, 184.
Fish Nicholas, 143.
Florismarle of Hyrcania, 18.
Fort, Sonnet on the, 84.
Frasso, Antonio de lo, 22.
Friendship, sonnet to, 69.
Galatea of Cervantes, 24.
Genealogies reduced to four kinds, 119.
Gil Polo, 22.
Golden Age, panegyric upon the, 29.
Goleta, sonnet upon the, 83.
Governor's round of inspection, 245.
Gratitude a duty, 61.
Heaven, death by the hand of, demands patience, 55.
Herdsmen, the purse of the, 199.
Herradura, the, 199.
Industry tranquillizing, 281.
Instructions for government of Island, 203-210.
Island of Sancho Panza, promise of, 25, 26;
possession taken of, 222, 223.
Julius Caesar, anecdote of, 174.
Knighted, Don Quixote, 14.
Knight-errant, the, without a mistress, 4, 36, 177;
food of, 28;
impiety of, 35;
defence of, 35;
hunger of, 71;
compared to the courtier-knight, 118;
extolled, 141;
compared to the saints, 122, 123;
his need of money never recorded, 12.
Knight-errantry, the surpassing excellence of, 76;
compared to the life of a scholar or soldier, 78, 79;
science of, 142.
Knighthood, ceremonies of, 14, 15.
Knight of the Cross, 19.
Knight Platir, 19.
Knight, the, reproved, 198;
if poor, his rank is manifested by his virtues, 128.
Lace-bone, 263.
Lace worn in Purgatory, 281.
La Mancha, 1, 95, 288.
Lanzarote, romance of, 8.
Learning of Sancho Panza, 28, 205.
Letters, from Don Quixote, 255;
from the Duchess, 251;
from the Duke, 237;
from Sancho, 196, 258;
from Teresa, 261.
Library of Don Quixote destroyed, 16.
Licentiate, story of, 100.
Lions, adventure with, 133.
Lucifer, the first tumbler, 168.
Mambrino's helmet, 56.
Manuscript discovered in Saragossa, 95.
Marcela, cruelty of, 33, 37, 39.
Marriage of Camacho the Rich, 147.
Mateo Boyardo, 19.
Merlin, 188-190.
Miraguardia, castle of, 20.
Mirror of chivalry, 19.
Molinera buckles the spurs, 15.
Monteil, plains of, 26.
Monsurato, 24.
Montesinos, care of, 181.
Nymphs of Enares, 23.
Olalia, poem to, 31.
Oran, general of, 133.
Palinurus, 84.
Panza, Sancho, _vide_ Sancho Panza.
Panza, Teresa, _vide_ Teresa Panza.
Parley about the penance, 189.
Pastor Fido, 274.
Penance, a pleasing, 65.
Penance of Don Quixote, 63.
Poem addressed to Dulcinea, 66.
Poem addressed to Olalia, 31.
Poetry, views of Don Quixote upon, 131
Praise of poverty, 217.
Proverbs. See INDEX TO PROVERBS.
Proverbs, Don Quixote's dislike of, 186, 212, 215, 216
Proverbs of Sancho Panza, 212.
Pyramus and Thisbe, story of, 145.
Queen Pintiquinestra, 18.
Quexana, Antonia, heiress of Don Quixote, 286.
Quixote, Don, _vide_ Don Quixote.
Quiteria, the Fair, 147.
Retention, definition of, 63.
Rosinante, named, 3;
encomiums upon, 7;
sonnet to, 97, 124.
Saints and knights-errant compared, 123.
Sancha Mary, a match for her considered, 113-115.
Sanchica, 263.
Sancho Panza, becomes a squire, 25;
counselled to ambition, 27;
defines retention, 63;
love to God, 71;
his views upon administration, 91;
is received by his wife, 93;
plain speaking of, 105;
conditions of his service, 110;
self-confidence of, 111;
rejoicing at rejoining Don Quixote, 112;
homecomings of, 117;
at the wedding of Quiteria, 147;
views upon death, 165;
upon penance, 189, 196;
upon sleep, 277;
his conundrum, 168;
description of, 168;
plight of, 181;
at the boar hunt, 183;
submits to penance, 195;
government of, 197;
official dress of, 205;
learning of, 28, 205;
proverbs of, 212;
receives advice, 213;
assumes the governorship, 222;
encounter with the doctor, 233;
advises the countryman, 239;
makes a round of inspection, 245;
returns home, 282.
Saragossa, 95.
Scholars, sufferings of, 78, 79.
Serenade, a, 218.
Seville, story of lunatic of, 100.
Shepherd of Iberia, 23.
Shepherd of Filida, 23.
Sleep, Sancho's views upon, 277.
Soldier, sufferings of the, 79, 80.
Tailor, the secret of a, 224.
Tasters, story of, 129.
Tears of St. Peter, 72.
Tembleque, 200.
Teresa Panza, receives Sancho, 93;
counsels him, 114;
her good sense, 116;
receives the page, 249;
writes Sancho, 261.
Tirante the White, 21.
Tolosa, girds on sword of Don Quixote, 14.
Truchuela, 9.
Truth, the mother of history, 29.
Wife, but one good, 160.
Zamora, a bagpipe, 152.
INDEX TO PROVERBS.
Actions, when prejudicial, not to be recorded, 106.
Advice, a woman's, to be taken, 120.
Affront, an, to be maintained, 177.
Animals, lessons to be learned from, 127.
Analysis of fables, 87.
Army, the, a school for generosity, 82.
Associates, character indicated by self-chosen ones, 124.
Beauty, all does not inspire to love, 49.
Beauty in a modest woman, 49.
Beautiful objects infinite, 49.
Benefits conferred on the base, 61.
Bird, a, in the hand, 71, 120, 127, 282.
Birds, none in last year's nests, 218.
Biters, the, are bit, 245.
Book, good in every, 109.
Books, no, no bacon, 124.
Brevity pleasing, 60.
Building on impossibilities, 74.
By-and-by, the streets of, 162.
Cats, by night all are gray, 180.
Church, the, the court, the sea, 83.
Clergyman, a, what he should be to be beloved, 33.
Companions, a man known by his, 124.
Comparisons offensive, 104.
Course, the middle, the one of valor, 104.
Customs not all invented at once, 6.
Death, a remedy for everything but, 210.
Delay breeds danger, 86, 281.
Devil, the, assumes an angel form, 74.
Diligence, the mother of success, 86.
Disquietude designed for knights, 34.
Drinker, a good, covered by a bad cloak, 186.
Enemy, an, the merits of his cause, 209.
Epics, prose, 88.
Ermine, an, a modest woman compared to, 73.
Fables, analysis of, 87.
Fast bind, fast find, 120.
Fear, the effect of, 49.
Fiction, better as it resembles truth, 87.
Finger, a, between two eye-teeth, 215.
Flattery, the sway of, 145.
Forewarned, forearmed, 132.
Fortune, good, seldom comes single, 83.
Fortune like a mill-wheel, 87.
Friend, a, consolation, 62.
Frying-pan, out of, 50.
God's mercy more glorious than His justice, 210.
Good in every book, 109.
Gold, all that glitters is not, 244.
Governing pleasant, 203.
Gratitude, a compensation, 271; a duty, 61.
Grievance, no, can keep the sufferer from kindness, 70.
Handle, the right one of things, 56.
Happiness as reckoned by sages, 130.
History, a sacred subject, 108.
History, faithful, will survive, 280.
Holy days to be kept peacefully, 122.
Hope and love coincident, 74.
Host, to reckon without the, 104.
Hypocrite, a, less dangerous than the open transgressor, 173.
Jest, a painful, no jest, 272.
Jesting, a time for, 123.
Judge, a, should lean toward compassion, 209.
King, serving the, in war, 173.
Knights, all, not courteous, 118.
Lance, the, never blunted the pen, 49.
Learned men among mountains. 93.
Leap, a, better than a prayer, 60.
Liberality, the blessings of, 288.
Liberty, the blessings of, 2.
Light, the, shines upon all, 245.
Lineages, two kinds of, 60.
Liver, the good, the best preacher, 166.
Love, a leveller, 29.
Love, the eyes of, 70.
Love, unconstrained, 49.
Love, uncompromising, 56.
Love, conquered by flight, 74.
Love, vanities of, 76.
Love, wears spectacles, 163.
Lovers, external actions of, 124.
Madness, the followers of, 129.
Maiden, a, her reserve her defence, 104.
Many littles make a mickle, 121.
Man, a dishonored, 71.
Manners, good, cheap, 202.
Master, a, judged by his servants, 176.
Mayor, he whose father is a, 214.
Might overcomes, 86.
Mischance, one, invites another, 70.
Misfortunes never single, 70.
Money willingly lent to officials, 118.
Music, the effect of, 70.
Nail, a, in Fortune's wheel, 162.
Nature is like a potter, 176.
Nobility, true, 76.
Pains, those of others are easy to bear, 176.
Patience, and shuffle the cards, 168.
Paymaster, a good, needs no security, 176.
Peace, no, in scruples of conscience, 104.
Philosophers in cottages, 93.
Purpose, the honest, favored, 76.
Railing is neighbor to forgiveness, 281.
Remedy, a, for everything but death, 210.
Retreat sometimes wise, 61.
Riches, two roads to, 120.
Riches, of little avail against trouble, 62.
Rome, when in, 264.
Rules for obtaining excellence, 62.
Seeing is believing, 128.
Severity is not disdain, 50.
Sleep, a cure for trouble, 280.
Soldier, a covetous, a monster, 82.
Soldier, equal to a captain, 34.
Song, the relief of, 61.
Sorrow, concealed, 73.
Sorrow, a blessing, 128.
Thing, a, begun is half finished, 202.
Thing, a, the right handle of, 56.
To-day here, to-morrow gone, 121.
Tongues as weapons, 177.
Tricks of a town, 86.
Truffles, to look for, in the sea, 106.
Truth, the mother of history, 29.
Truth may bend, 124.
Virtue more persecuted than beloved, 86.
Walls have ears, 244.
Wealth, its gratification is a right application, 119.
Wise, a word to the, 202.
Wit and humor, attributes of genius, 108.
Woman, varieties of, 70.
Woman, the burden to which she is born, 118.
Woman, her advice, to be taken, 120.
Yes or no of a woman, between the, 162.
[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE.]
CERVANTES.
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
The most trivial act of the daily life of some men has a unique
interest, independent of idle curiosity, which dissatisfies us with the
meagre food of date, place, and pedigree. So in the "Cartas de Indias"
was published, two years ago, in Spain, a facsimile letter from
Cervantes when tax-gatherer to Philip II., informing him of the efforts
he had made to collect the taxes in certain Andalusian villages.
It is difficult, from the slight social record that we have of
Cervantes, to draw the line where imagination begins and facts end.
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the contemporary of Shakspeare, Galileo,
Camoens, Rubens, Tasso, and Lope de Vega, was born obscurely and in
poverty, but with good antecedents. His grandfather, Juan de Cervantes,
was the corregidor, or mayor, of Ossuna, and our poet was the youngest
son of Rodrigo and Leonora de Cortinos, of the Barajas family. On either
side he belonged to illustrious houses. He speaks of his birthplace as
the "famous Henares,"--"Alcala de Henares," sometimes called Alcala de
San Justo, from the saint San Justo having there suffered martyrdom
under the traitor Daciamos. The town is beautifully situated on the
borders of the Henares River, two thousand feet above the level of the
sea.
He was born on Sunday, October 9, 1547, and was baptized in the church
of Santa Maria la Mayor, receiving his name on the fete day of his
patron Saint Miguel, which some biographers have confounded with that of
his birthday.
We may be forgiven for a few words about Alcala de Henares, since, had
it only produced so rare a man as was Cervantes, it would have had
sufficient distinction; but it was a town of an eventful historical
record. It was destroyed about the year 1000, and rebuilt and possessed
by the Moors, was afterwards conquered by Bernardo, Archbishop of
Toledo. Three hundred years later it was the favorite retreat of
Ximenes, then Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, who returned to it, after
his splendid conquests, laden with gold and silver spoil taken from the
mosques of Oran, and with a far richer treasure of precious Arabian
manuscripts, intended for such a university as had long been his
ambition to create, and the corner-stone of which he laid with his own
hands in 1500. There was a very solemn ceremonial at the founding of
this famous university, and a hiding away of coins and inscriptions
under its massive walls, and a pious invocation to Heaven for a special
blessing on the archbishop's design! At the end of eight years the
extensive and splendid buildings were finished and the whole town
improved. With the quickening of literary labor and the increase of
opportunities of acquiring knowledge, the reputation of the university
was of the highest.
The cardinal's comprehensive mind included in its professorships all
that he considered useful in the arts. Emulation was encouraged, and
every effort was made to draw talent from obscurity. To this enlightened
ecclesiastic is the world indebted for the undertaking of the Polyglot
Bible, which, in connection with other learned works, led the university
to be spoken of as one of the greatest educational establishments in the
world. From far and near were people drawn to it. King Ferdinand paid
homage to his subject's noble testimonial of labor, by visiting the
cardinal at Alcala de Henares, and acknowledging that his own reign had
received both benefit and glory from it. The people of Alcala punningly
said, the church of Toledo had never had a bishop of greater
_edification_ than Ximenes; and Erasmus, in a letter to his friend
Vergara, perpetrates a Greek pun on the classic name of Alcala,
intimating the highest opinion of the state of science there. The
reclining statue of Ximenes, beautifully carved in alabaster, now
ornaments his sepulchre in the College of St. Ildefonso.
Cervantes shared the honor of the birthplace with the Emperor Ferdinand;
he of "blessed memory," who failed to obtain permission from the Pope
for priests to marry, but who, in spite of turbulent times, maintained
religious peace in Germany, and lived to see the closing of the Council
of Trent, marking his reign as one of the most enlightened of the age.
Alcala also claims Antonio de Solis, the well-known historian, whose
"Conquest of Mexico" has been translated into many languages, as well as
Teodora de Beza, a zealous Calvinistic reformer and famous divine, a
sharer of Calvin's labors in Switzerland and author of the celebrated
manuscripts known as Beza's manuscripts.
Judging from the character of the town and the refining educational
influence that so grand a university must have had over its inhabitants,
we have a right to believe that Cervantes was early imbued with all that
was noble and good, and it is difficult to understand why, with all the
advantages which the College of St. Ildefonso opened to him, he should
have been sent away from it to that of Salamanca. Even allowing that the
supposition of early poverty was correct, it would have appeared an
additional reason for his being educated in his native town,
particularly as liberal foundations were made for indigent students.
The fact of his being sent to Salamanca would seem to disprove the
supposition of pecuniary necessity. In its early days, the university of
Salamanca was justly celebrated for its progress in astronomy and
familiarity with Greek and Arabian writers; but, during the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries, it seems to have remained very stationary,
little attention being paid to aught beside medicine and dogmatic
theology.
After being two years at Salamanca he changed to Madrid, where he is
supposed to have made great progress, under the care of Juan Lopez de
Hoyos, a professor of _belles lettres_, who spoke of Cervantes as "our
dear and beloved pupil." Hoyos was himself a poet, and occasionally
published collections to which Cervantes contributed his pastoral
"Filena," which was much admired at the time. He also wrote several
ballads; but ballads generally belong to their own age, and those that
remain to us of his have lost much of their poignancy. Two poems,
written on the death of Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip II.,
specially pleased Hoyos, who at the time gave full credit to his
promising pupil. That eighth wonder of the world, the Escurial, was in
progress during Cervantes' time in Madrid; built as expiatory by the
king, the husband of the same unfortunate Isabella. He was that subtle
tyrant of Spain, who had the grace to say, on the destruction of the
Invincible Armada, "I sent my fleet to combat with the English, not with
the elements. God's will be done."
While he was yet a boy, bull-fights were introduced into Spain:--
"Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain,
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain."
The attention of the Cardinal Acquaviva was called to him through his
composition of "Filena," and, in 1568 or 1569, he joined the household
of the cardinal and accompanied him to Rome. It is sad to think that
only a few meagre items are all that remain to tell us of his daily life
at this important period of his life. By some of his biographers he is
mentioned as being under the protection of the cardinal; by one as
seeking to better his penniless condition; by another as having the
place of _valet de chambre_; and still again, we find him mentioned as a
chamberlain in the household. Monsignor Guilio Acquaviva, in 1568, went
as ambassador to Spain to offer the king the condolences of the Pontiff
on the death of Don Carlos. The cardinal was a man of high position,
young, yet of great accomplishments, and with cultivated literary
tastes. What then could have been more natural than that he should have
found companionship in Cervantes, and have desired to attach him to
himself as a friend or as a confidential secretary, to be always near
him. It is more than probable that his impressions of Southern France,
which he immortalized in his early pastoral romance of "Galatea" were
imbibed while making the journey to Rome with the cardinal, in whose
service he must have remained three years, as in October 7, 1571, we
find him joining the united Venetian, Papal, and Spanish expedition
commanded by Don John of Austria, against the Turks and the African
corsairs.
In the naval engagement at Lepanto, Cervantes was badly wounded, and
finally lost his left hand and part of the arm. For six months he was
immured in the hospital at Messina. After his recovery, he joined the
expedition to the Levant, commanded by Marco Antonio Colonna, Duke of
Valiano. He joined at intervals various other expeditions, and not till
after his prominence in the engagement at Tunis, did he, in 1575, start
to return to Spain, the land of his heart, the theme of the poet, and
the region supposed by the Moors to have dropped from heaven. Don John
of Austria and Don Carlos of Arragon, Viceroy of Sicily, each bore the
warmest testimony to the bravery and heroism of our poet, and each gave
him strong letters of commendation to the king of Spain.
In company with his own brother Roderigo, and other wounded soldiers
who were returning home, he started in the ship _El Sol_, which had the
misfortune, September 26, 1575, to be captured by an Algerine squadron.
Then it happened that the letters from the two kings, so highly prized
and upon which he had built so many hopes, proved a great misfortune to
him. The pirates cast lots for the captives. Cervantes fell to the share
of the captain, Dali Mami by name, who, in consequence of finding these
two letters, imagined he must be some Don of great importance and worth
a heavy ransom. He was watched and guarded with great strictness, loaded
with heavy fetters, and subjected to cruelties of every kind, till his
captor, not finding him of so much account as he had supposed, and no
money being offered for his ransom, the captain finally sold him for
five hundred escudos to the Dey Azan.
Inasmuch as a change might lead to something better, Cervantes rejoiced.
His gallant spirit, ever hopeful, looked for the open door in
misfortune. But, alas! his increased sufferings with the Dey reached a
climax almost beyond endurance. He made every struggle to escape; but
even in the midst of all his own sufferings, he found ways of aiding his
fellow-victims and inspiring them with the hopes denied to himself.
Roderigo had escaped long before, and from that time was making constant
exertion to raise the needful amount to redeem Miguel from the Dey, but
not till September, 1580, did he succeed in effecting his release; some
biographers making it a still later date.
His father had long been dead, and his mother and sisters gathered what
they could, but the combined family efforts were insufficient. There was
a society of pious and generous monks, who made special exertions to
assist in the liberation of Christian captives, and they finally made up
the amount demanded by Azan for Cervantes' release.
Worn down in spirit, broken in health, crushed at heart, who may venture
to speak of the effect upon him when he once more found himself at home
and in the embraces of his family? He himself says: "What transport in
life can equal that which a man feels on the restoration of his
liberty?" There is probably no more thrilling or exact an account of the
Algerine slavery than he has given in "Don Quixote." Whether his love
for a military life still pursued him, whether he desired an opportunity
for revenge upon his persecutors, or whether it was fatality,--maimed
and ruined as he was he once more entered the army. We cannot analyze
his motive. He makes his bachelor Sampson say, "The historian must pen
things not as they ought to have been but as they really were, without
adding to or diminishing aught from the truth." The lives of literary
men are not always devoid of stirring incidents. M. Viardot says of
him: "Cervantes was an illustrious man before he became an illustrious
author; the doer of great deeds before he produced an immortal book."
Don Lope de Figueras then commanded a regiment of tried and veteran
soldiers in the army of the Duke of Alva, in Portugal. His brother
Roderigo was serving in it when he joined it; and as Figueras had known
Cervantes in former campaigns, it is most probable he was in his
regiment. Later on, we find Cervantes accompanying the Marquis de Santa
Cruz on an expedition to the Azores, serving long and bravely under him.
The conquest of the Azores is described as a fiercely won but brilliant
victory over all the islands; and Cervantes immortalized the genius and
gallantry of the admiral in a sonnet.
The spirit of adventure ran high among the Castilians, while the whole
nation was at the same time in course of mental as well as moral
development. We are obliged to acknowledge that Spain in many ways was
far behind Italy, though hardly as some would have it, at the distance
of half a century. We must remember that, in 1530, there were only two
hundred printing-presses in the whole of Europe, and that when the first
one was set up in London, the Westminster abbot exclaimed, "Brethren,
this is a tremendous engine! We must control it, or it will conquer us."
The first press in Spain was set up in Valencia, in 1474, and Clemencin
says that more printing-presses in the infancy of the art were probably
at work in Spain than there are at the present day.
A change seemed to have crept gradually over the whole national
character of Spain after the brilliant and prosperous reign of Ferdinand
and Isabella, commencing with the severity of the Inquisition and
continuing under the tyranny of Philip II., predisposing the army to
savage deeds, till even the women and children were infected and the
literature of the period slightly tinged.
Cervantes is too often merged into Don Quixote as if he had no separate
existence. He accomplished more for the improvement of Spanish
literature with his well-timed satire than all the laws or sermons could
effect. His remarkable mind seems to have escaped the influence of the
times, unless we make an exception of his drama "Numancia," which, while
it excites the imagination, fills us with horror at its details, and
fails to touch our hearts, but is full of historical truths. Schlegel,
however, reviews it with enthusiasm. He calls his "Life in Algiers" a
comedy, but undoubtedly it is a true picture of his own captivity. We
are touched and filled with gloom at its perusal, and only remember it
as a tragedy. These two dramas were lost sight of till the end of the
eighteenth century, and they are superior to later dramatic efforts. He
was proud of his original conception of a tragedy composed of ideal and
allegorical characters which he permitted to have part in the "Life in
Algiers," as well as in "Numancia." Of the thirty plays spoken of as
given to the stage but few now remain; but others may yet be found. The
Spaniards say the faults of a great writer are not left in the
ink-stand. Spain, in Cervantes' day, had passed the chivalric age,
though many relics of it still remained in its legends, songs, and
proverbs. Cervantes becomes his own critic in his "Supplement to a
Journey to Parnassus," and speaking of his dramas, says: "I should
declare them worthy the favor they have received were they not my own."
Unfortunately, his comedy of "La Confusa" is among the lost ones. He
alludes to it as a good one among the best.
We have known Cervantes as a student, a soldier, a captive, and an
author, and now we have to imagine our maimed and bronzed soldier-poet,
after his many fortunes of war, in the new character of a lover. In
thought we trace his noble features, his intelligent look and expressive
eye, combined with his dignified bearing and thoughtful manner, and in
so tracing we find it congenial to imagine him as being well dressed and
enveloped in the ample Spanish cloak thrown gracefully over his breast
and left shoulder, concealing the poor mutilated arm, and at the same
time making it all the more difficult to believe that the right one had
ever wielded a "Toledo blade" or sworn that very strongest vow of
loyalty, "A fe de Rodrigo."[1]
We find him much interested in the quaint old-fashioned town of
Esquivias, making many friends therein, and sometimes gossiping with the
host of the _fonda_, so famed for the generous wines of Esquivias that
it needed no "bush;" and while enjoying his cigarito and taking an
occasional morsel from the dish of _quisado_ before him, he is learning
from the same gossiping host many items of interest about the very
illustrious families of Esquivias,--for it was famed for its chivalrous
prowess and its "claims of long descent." He had commenced his
"Galatea," and in it he was painting living portraits, and with great
delicacy he was, as the shepherd Elicio, portraying his passion for
Catalina, the daughter of Fernando de Salazar y Voxmediano and Catalina
de Palacios, both of illustrious families. Her father was dead, and she
had been educated by her uncle, Francisco de Salazar, who left her a
legacy in his will.
The fair Catalina, like other Spanish senoritas, was under the espionage
of a strict duena, and his opportunities of seeing her were very
limited. Sometimes we fancy him awaiting the passing of the hour of the
siesta and knocking at the grating of the heavy door of the house of the
Salazars, and in reply to the porter's question of _Quien es_?
answering, in his melodious tones, _Gente de paz_ (literally, "a
friend"),--a precaution which still continues in Spain. Meanwhile, his
romance of "Galatea" and of his own life are both growing. The occasion
inspires him. He is still in Esquivias, wandering through the olive
groves and by the river side, sometimes resting, and drinking in the
fragrance from an orange-tree while his untold wealth of brain was
seeking for its exit. Sometimes he had Catalina for a companion, the
duena lingering slightly behind. Sometimes he saw her at the church like
a fair saint, kneeling; but oftener he wandered alone with his now happy
thoughts, scarce knowing that the night was closing about him, or scarce
heeding the watchman who cried, "All hail, Mary, mother of Jesus! half
past twelve o'clock and a cloudy morning!" and thus, to this day, are
the Spaniards warned of the hour and the weather. His "Galatea" remains
unfinished. He had not meant that all this song should be for the public
ear. The end was for his love alone!
On the 12th of December, 1584, he was married to Catalina. Not many
years ago, the marriage contract was found in the public registry of
Esquivias. It contains an inventory of the marriage-dowry promised by
the bride's mother, of "lands, furniture, utensils, and live-stock."
Then follows the details, "several vineyards, amounting to twelve acres,
beds, chairs, brooms, brushes, poultry, and sundry sacks of flour." It
is spoken of as a very respectable dowry at a time when sacks of wheat
were worth eight reals. Then follows, in the same document, his own
settlement upon his wife, which is stated to be one hundred ducats. By
the custom of the time that was one-tenth of his whole property, or to
quote again, which "must have amounted to a thousand ducats, which at
present would be equivalent to about four hundred and fifty pounds
sterling." Gladly would we find some pleasant items of happy home life,
though, for the next four years, he lived quietly at Esquivias, and
cared for the vineyards like any landholder, till, perhaps, he tired and
went on to Seville, where he took up some mercantile business, though
never entirely giving up the pen; but from 1598 till 1605, there are no
real traces of him, when it would appear that he had removed to
Valladolid.
There is little doubt but that he suffered both in purse and feeling
from want of appreciation; but the Spanish proverb says, "An author's
work who looks to money is the coat of a tailor who works late on the
vespers of Easter Sunday." He had too noble a mind to harbor so mean a
sentiment as jealousy, and was far in advance of his age. His
countrymen, with characteristic indolence, were ready to cry, _manana,
manana_ (to-morrow, to-morrow), and so it was left for later generations
to honor his memory, for his power of invention and purity of
imagination can never be rivalled. While acting as clerk in Seville to
Antonio de Guevara, the Commissary-General to the Indian and American
dependencies, he must have been sadly disappointed, particularly as,
during that time, he had been unjustly thrown into prison on the plea of
not accounting for trust-money with satisfaction. Mr. Ticknor gives the
following interesting account: "During his residence at Seville,
Cervantes made an ineffectual application to the king for an appointment
in America, setting forth by the exact documents a general account of
his adventures, services, and sufferings while a soldier in the Levant,
and of the miseries of his life while a slave in Algiers; but no other
than a formal answer seems to have been returned to his application, and
the whole affair leaves us to infer the severity of that distress which
could induce him to seek relief in exile to a colony of which he has
elsewhere spoken as the great resort for rogues." The appointment he
desired was either corregidor (or mayor) of the city of Paz or the
auditorship of New Grenada, the governorship of the province of
Socunusco or that of the galleys of Carthagena. His removal to
Valladolid seems to have been by command of the revenue authorities,
where he still collected taxes for public and private persons. While
collecting for the prior of the order of St. John, he was again
ill-treated and thrown into prison.
Not till he was fifty-eight years old did he give to the world his
master-piece, and thus immortalizes La Mancha, in return for his
inhospitable and cruel treatment. "Don Quixote" was licensed at
Valladolid in 1604, and printed at Madrid in 1605. Its success was so
great that, during his lifetime, thirty thousand volumes were printed,
which in that day was little short of marvellous. Four editions were
published the first year, two at Madrid, one at Valencia, and one at
Lisbon. Byron says: "Cervantes laugh'd Spain's chivalry away!" So
popular was it, that a spurious second part, under the fictitious
authorship of Avellanada was published. Cervantes was furious, and
called him a blockhead; but Germond de Lavigue, the distinguished
Spanish scholar, rashly asserts that but for this Avellanada, he would
never have finished "Don Quixote." Even before it was printed, jealousy
evidently existed in the hearts of rival writers, for in one of Lope's
letters he refers to it, and spitefully hints that no poet could be
found to write commendatory verses on it.
He recognized the fact of universal selfishness when he makes Sancho
Panza refuse to learn the Don's love-letter and say, "Write it, your
worship, for it's sheer nonsense to trust anything to my memory."
Spain is so full of rich material for romance that from it his mature
mind seemed to inaugurate a new age in Spanish literature. After the
gloomy intolerance of Philip II., the advent of Philip III. added much
to the literary freedom of Spain, which still belonged to the "Age of
Chivalry," and to this day the true Spaniard nourishes the lofty and
romantic qualities which, combined with a tone of sentiment and gravity
and nobility of conversation, embellishes the legitimate grandee.
Sismondi de Sismondi says the style of "Don Quixote" is inimitable.
Montesquieu says: "It is written to prove all others useless." To some
it is an allegory, to some a tragedy, to some a parable, and to others a
satire. As a satirist we think him unrivalled, and this spirit found a
choice opportunity for vent when the troops of Don Carlos I. marched
upon Rome, taking Pope Clement VII. prisoner, while at the same time the
king was having prayers said in the churches of Madrid for the
deliverance of the Pope, on the plea that "he was obliged to make war
against the _temporal_ sovereign of Rome, but not upon the spiritual
head of the Church!" No wonder the king, after proving himself so good a
Catholic, should end his days in a monastery, or that he should mortify
himself by lying in a coffin, wrapped in a shroud, while funeral
services were performed over him. What, again, could have appealed more
to his sense of the ridiculous than the contest between the priests and
the authorities over the funeral obsequies of Philip II., so intolerant
a tyrant that he caused every Spaniard to breathe more freely as he
ceased so to do. He used his people as
"Broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts."
We can easily believe in the greater freedom during the reign of Philip
III. "Viva el Rey."
The Count de Lemos was his near friend and protector when he brought out
the second part of "Don Quixote," and ridiculed his rival imitator. He
was a pioneer of so elevated a character as to preclude the possibility
of followers. Every one is familiar with it as a story, and the mishaps
of the gentle, noble-minded, kind-hearted old Don, as well as the
delusions, simplicity, and selfishness of the devoted squire, will never
lose their power to amuse. It may be extravagant, but it is not a
burlesque. The strong character painting, the ideas, situations, and
language, clothed in such simplicity that at times it becomes almost
solemn, give it a grandeur that no other book, considered as a romance,
possesses. The old anecdote of the king observing a student walking by
the river side and bursting into involuntary fits of laughter over a
book, exclaiming, "The man is either mad or reading 'Don Quixote,'" is
well preserved. One peculiar feature of the book is that, even now, for
some places, it would be a useful guide, many of the habits and customs
of Spain three hundred years ago being still the same. What a volume of
wit and wisdom is contained in the proverbs and aphorisms. One might
quote from it indefinitely had he not told us that "without discretion
there is no wit." His own motive in writing it we find in the last
paragraph of the book, namely, "My sole object has been to expose to the
contempt they deserved the extravagant and silly tricks of chivalry,
which this my true and genuine 'Don Quixote' has nearly accomplished,
their worldly credit being now actually tottering, and will doubtless
soon sink, never to rise again."
Now, all languages have it. There are eight translations into English
alone; but it is always impossible for the translator to render its true
spirit or to give it full justice. With all its vivacity and drollery,
its delicate satire and keen ridicule, it has a mournful tinge of
melancholy running through, and here and there peeping out, only to have
been gathered from such experience as his. He wrote with neither
bitterness nor a diseased imagination, always realizing what is due to
himself and with a full appreciation of and desire for fame. Many scenes
of real suffering appear under a dramatic guise, and here and there
creep out bits of personal history. His nature was chivalrous in the
highest degree. His sorrows were greater than his joys. Born for the
library, he prefers the camp, and abandons literature to fight the
Turks. Does he not make the Don say, "Let none presume to tell me the
pen is preferable to the sword." Again he says: "Allowing that the end
of war is peace, and that in this it exceeds the end of learning, let us
weigh the bodily labors the scholar undergoes against those the warrior
suffers, and then see which are the greatest." Then he enumerates:
"First, poverty; and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing
more need be urged to express his misery, for he that is poor enjoys no
happiness, but labors under this poverty in all its guises, at one time
in hunger, at another in cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in
all of them together." Later on he makes him say: "It gives me some
concern to think that powder and lead may suddenly cut short my career
of glory."
The world can only be grateful that "his career of glory" did not end in
the military advancement he had the right to expect. Had he been a
general, his Rozinante might still have been wandering without a name,
and Sancho Panza have died a common laborer. Again he says: "Would to
God I could find a place to serve as a private tomb for this wearisome
burden of life which I bear so much against my inclination." Surviving
almost unheard-of grievances only to emerge from them with greater
power; depicting in his works true outlines of his own adventures,
sometimes by a proverb, often by a romance, he never loses one jot of
his pride, giving golden advice to Sancho when a governor, and finishing
with the expression, "So may'st thou escape the PITY of the world." In
May, 1605, he was called upon as a witness in a case of a man who was
mortally wounded and dragged at night into his apartment, which almost
accidentally gives us his household, consisting of his wife; his natural
daughter Isabel, twenty years of age, unmarried; his sister, a widow,
above fifty years; her unmarried daughter, aged twenty-eight; his
half-sister, a religieuse; and a maid-servant. His "Espanola Inglesa"
appeared in 1611. His moral tales, the pioneers in Spanish literature,
are a combination without special plan of serious and comic, romance and
anecdote, evidently giving, under the guise of fiction, poetically
colored bits of his own experience in Italy and Africa. In his story of
"La Gitanilla" (the gipsy girl) may be found the argument of Weber's
opera of "Preciosa." "Parnassus" was written two years before his death,
after which he wrote eight comedies and a sequel to his twelve moral
tales. In his story of "Rinconete y Cortadilla" he evidently derives the
names from _rincon_ (a corner) and _cortar_ (to cut). His last work was
"Persiles and Sigismunda," the preface of which is a near presentiment
of his closing labors. He says: "Farewell, gayety; farewell, humor;
farewell, my pleasant friends. I must now die, and I desire nothing
more than to soon see you again happy in another world." His industry
was wonderful. We can but have a grateful feeling towards the Count de
Lemos for adding to his physical comfort for the last few years, and
feel a regret that the Count, who had lingered in Naples, could not have
arrived in time to see him once more when he so ardently desired it. In
a dedication to the Count of his final romance, written only four days
before his death, he very touchingly says: "I could have wished not to
have been obliged to make so close a personal application of the old
verses commencing 'With the foot already in the stirrup,' for with very
little alteration I may truly say that with my foot in the stirrup,
feeling this moment the pains of dissolution, I address this letter to
you. Yesterday I received extreme unction. To-day I have resumed my pen.
Time is short, my pains increase, my hopes diminish, yet I do wish my
life might be prolonged till I could see you again in Spain." His wish
was not to be gratified; the Count, unaware of the near danger of his
friend, only returned to find himself overwhelmed with grief at his
loss.
After sixty-nine years of varied fortunes and many struggles, Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra breathed his last, unsoothed by the hands he had
loved, for even this privilege seems to have been denied to him. At the
near end of his life he had joined the kindly third order of the
Franciscan friars, and the brethren cared for him at the last. His
remarkable clearness of intellect never failed him, and on April 23,
1616, the very day that Shakspeare died at Stratford, Cervantes died at
Madrid. Unlike the great English contemporary, whose undisturbed bones
have lain quietly under peril of his malediction, the bones of the great
Spanish poet were irrevocably lost when the old Convent of the Trinity,
in the Calle del Humilladero, was destroyed. Ungrateful Spain! the spot
had never been marked with a common tombstone.
The old house[2] in the Calle de Francos, where he died, was so
dilapidated that, in 1835, it was destroyed. It was rebuilt, and a
marble bust of Cervantes was placed over the entrance by the sculptor,
Antonio Sola.
The "Madrid Epoca," under the heading of "The Prison of Cervantes,"
calls attention to the alarming state of decay of the house in
Argamasilla del Alba, in the cellar of which, as an extemporized
dungeon, tradition asserts that Cervantes was imprisoned, and where he
penned at least a portion of his work. It was in this cellar that, a few
years since, the Madrid publishing house of Rivadeneyra erected a press
and printed their edition _de luxe_ of "Don Quijote." The house was,
some years since, purchased by the late Infante Don Sebastian, with a
view to a complete and careful restoration; but political changes and
his death prevented a realization of his project. The "Epoca" now calls
public attention to the state of decay of the house, with a view to an
immediate restoration.
In the Plaza de las Cortes, the city of Madrid has placed a beautiful
bronze statue of Cervantes upon a square pedestal of granite. Upon the
sides are bas-reliefs representing subjects taken from "Don Quijote de
la Mancha."
The present time honors his memory; and for all time he will live in the
hearts of all true lovers of genius.
REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
EMMA THOMPSON.
[Illustration: SANCHO PANZA.]
WIT AND WISDOM
OF
DON QUIXOTE.
Down in a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to
recollect, there lived, not long ago, one of those gentlemen who usually
keep a lance upon a rack, an old buckler, a lean horse, and a coursing
grayhound. Soup, composed of somewhat more mutton than beef, the
fragments served up cold on most nights, lentils on Fridays, collops and
eggs on Saturdays, and a pigeon by way of addition on Sundays, consumed
three-fourths of his income; the remainder of it supplied him with a
cloak of fine cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for
holidays, and a suit of the best homespun, in which he adorned himself
on week-days. His family consisted of a housekeeper above forty, a niece
not quite twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and at
home, who could saddle the horse or handle the pruning-hook. The age of
our gentleman bordered upon fifty years: he was of a strong
constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early riser, and
a lover of the chase. Some pretend to say that his surname was Quixada
or Quesada, for on this point his historians differ; though, from very
probable conjectures, we may conclude that his name was Quixana. This
is, however, of little importance to our history; let it suffice that,
in relating it, we do not swerve a jot from the truth.
In fine, his judgment being completely obscured, he was seized with one
of the strangest fancies that ever entered the head of any madman; this
was, a belief that it behooved him, as well for the advancement of his
glory as the service of his country, to become a knight-errant, and
traverse the world, armed and mounted, in quest of adventures, and to
practice all that had been performed by knights-errant of whom he had
read; redressing every species of grievance, and exposing himself to
dangers, which, being surmounted, might secure to him eternal glory and
renown. The poor gentleman imagined himself at least crowned Emperor of
Trebisond, by the valor of his arm; and thus wrapped in these agreeable
delusions and borne away by the extraordinary pleasure he found in them,
he hastened to put his designs into execution.
The first thing he did was to scour up some rusty armor which had been
his great-grandfather's, and had lain many years neglected in a corner.
This he cleaned and adjusted as well as he could; but he found one grand
defect,--the helmet was incomplete, having only the morion. This
deficiency, however, he ingeniously supplied by making a kind of visor
of pasteboard, which, being fixed to the morion, gave the appearance of
an entire helmet. It is true, indeed, that, in order to prove its
strength, he drew his sword, and gave it two strokes, the first of which
instantly demolished the labor of a week; but not altogether approving
of the facility with which it was destroyed, and in order to secure
himself against a similar misfortune, he made another visor, which,
having fenced in the inside with small bars of iron, he felt assured of
its strength, and, without making any more experiments, held it to be a
most excellent helmet.
In the next place he visited his steed; and although this animal had
more blemishes than the horse of Gonela, which, "_tantum pellis et ossa
fuit_," yet, in his eyes, neither the Bucephalus of Alexander nor the
Cid's Babieca, could be compared with him. Four days was he deliberating
upon what name he should give him; for, as he said to himself, it would
be very improper that a horse so excellent, appertaining to a knight so
famous, should be without an appropriate name; he therefore endeavored
to find one that should express what he had been before he belonged to a
knight-errant, and also what he now was: nothing could, indeed, be more
reasonable than that, when the master changed his state, the horse
should likewise change his name and assume one pompous and
high-sounding, as became the new order he now professed. So, after
having devised, altered, lengthened, curtailed, rejected, and again
framed in his imagination a variety of names, he finally determined upon
Rozinante, a name in his opinion lofty, sonorous, and full of meaning;
importing that he had only been a rozin--a drudge horse--before his
present condition, and that now he was before all the rozins in the
world.
Having given his horse a name so much to his satisfaction, he resolved
to fix upon one for himself. This consideration employed him eight more
days, when at length he determined to call himself Don Quixote; whence
some of the historians of this most true history have concluded that his
name was certainly Quixada, and not Quesada, as others would have it.
Then recollecting that the valorous Amadis, not content with the simple
appellation of Amadis, added thereto the name of his kingdom and native
country, in order to render it famous, styling himself Amadis de Gaul;
so he, like a good knight, also added the name of his province, and
called himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; whereby, in his opinion, he
fully proclaimed his lineage and country, which, at the same time, he
honored by taking its name.
His armor being now furbished, his helmet made perfect, his horse and
himself provided with names, he found nothing wanting but a lady to be
in love with, as he said,--
"A knight-errant without a mistress was a tree without either fruit or
leaves, and a body without a soul!"
One morning before day, being one of the most sultry in the month of
July, he armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted Rozinante, placed the helmet
on his head, braced on his target, took his lance, and, through the
private gate of his back yard, issued forth into the open plain, in a
transport of joy to think he had met with no obstacles to the
commencement of his honorable enterprise. But scarce had he found
himself on the plain when he was assailed by a recollection so terrible
as almost to make him abandon the undertaking; for it just then occurred
to him that he was not yet dubbed a knight; therefore, in conformity to
the laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to enter the lists
against any of that order; and, if he had been actually dubbed he
should, as a new knight, have worn white armor, without any device on
his shield, until he had gained one by force of arms. These
considerations made him irresolute whether to proceed, but frenzy
prevailing over reason, he determined to get himself made a knight by
the first one he should meet, like many others of whom he had read. As
to white armor, he resolved, when he had an opportunity, to scour his
own, so that it should be whiter than ermine. Having now composed his
mind, he proceeded, taking whatever road his horse pleased; for therein,
he believed, consisted the true spirit of adventure. Everything that our
adventurer saw and conceived was, by his imagination, moulded to what he
had read; so in his eyes the inn appeared to be a castle, with its four
turrets, and pinnacles of shining silver, together with its drawbridge,
deep moat, and all the appurtenances with which such castles are
visually described. When he had advanced within a short distance of it,
he checked Rozinante, expecting some dwarf would mount the battlements,
to announce by sound of trumpet the arrival of a knight-errant at the
castle; but, finding them tardy, and Rozinante impatient for the
stable, he approached the inn-door, and there saw the two girls, who to
him appeared to be beautiful damsels or lovely dames enjoying themselves
before the gate of their castle.
It happened that, just at this time, a swineherd collecting his hogs (I
make no apology, for so they are called) from an adjoining stubblefield,
blew the horn which assembles them together, and instantly Don Quixote
was satisfied, for he imagined it was a dwarf who had given the signal
of his arrival. With extraordinary satisfaction, therefore, he went up
to the inn; upon which the ladies, being startled at the sight of a man
armed in that manner, with lance and buckler, were retreating into the
house; but Don Quixote, perceiving their alarm, raised his pasteboard
visor, thereby partly discovering his meagre, dusty visage, and with
gentle demeanor and placid voice, thus addressed them: "Fly not, ladies,
nor fear any discourtesy, for it would be wholly inconsistent with the
order of knighthood, which I profess, to offer insult to any person,
much less to virgins of that exalted rank which your appearance
indicates." The girls stared at him, and were endeavoring to find out
his face, which was almost concealed by the sorry visor; but hearing
themselves called virgins, they could not forbear laughing, and to such
a degree that Don Quixote was displeased, and said to them: "Modesty
well becomes beauty, and excessive laughter proceeding from slight cause
is folly."
This language, so unintelligible to the ladies, added to the uncouth
figure of our knight, increased their laughter; consequently he grew
more indignant, and would have proceeded further but for the timely
appearance of the innkeeper, a very corpulent and therefore a very
pacific man, who, upon seeing so ludicrous an object, armed, and with
accoutrements so ill-sorted as were the bridle, lance, buckler, and
corselet, felt disposed to join the damsels in demonstrations of mirth;
but, in truth, apprehending some danger from a form thus strongly
fortified, he resolved to behave with civility, and therefore said, "If,
Sir Knight, you are seeking for a lodging, you will here find, excepting
a bed (for there are none in this inn), everything in abundance." Don
Quixote, perceiving the humility of the governor of the fortress,--for
such to him appeared the innkeeper,--answered, "For me, Signor
Castellano, anything will suffice, since arms are my ornaments, warfare
my repose." The host thought he called him Castellano because he took
him for a sound Castilian, whereas he was an Andalusian of the coast of
St. Lucar, as great a thief as Cacus and not less mischievous than a
collegian or a page; and he replied, "If so, your worship's beds must be
hard rocks, and your sleep continual watching; and that being the case,
you may dismount with a certainty of finding here sufficient cause for
keeping awake the whole year, much more a single night." So saying, he
laid hold of Don Quixote's stirrup, who alighted with much difficulty
and pain, for he had fasted the whole of the day. He then desired the
host to take especial care of his steed, for it was the finest creature
ever fed; the innkeeper examined him, but thought him not so good by
half as his master had represented him. Having led the horse to the
stable he returned to receive the orders of his guest, whom the damsels,
being now reconciled to him, were disarming; they had taken off the back
and breast plates, but endeavored in vain to disengage the gorget, or
take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had fastened with green
ribbons in such a manner that they could not be untied, and he would
upon no account allow them to be cut; therefore he remained all that
night with his helmet on, the strangest and most ridiculous figure
imaginable.
While these light girls, whom he still conceived to be persons of
quality and ladies of the castle, were disarming him, he said to them,
with infinite grace: "Never before was knight so honored by ladies as
Don Quixote, after his departure from his native village! damsels
attended upon him; princesses took charge of his steed! O
Rosinante,--for that, ladies, is the name of my horse, and Don Quixote
de la Mancha my own; although it was not my intention to have discovered
myself until deeds performed in your service should have proclaimed me;
but impelled to make so just an application of that ancient romance of
Lanzarote to my present situation, I have thus prematurely disclosed my
name: yet the time shall come when your ladyships may command, and I
obey; when the valor of my arm shall make manifest the desire I have to
serve you." The girls, unaccustomed to such rhetorical flourishes, made
no reply, but asked whether he would please to eat anything. "I shall
willingly take some food," answered Don Quixote, "for I apprehend it
would be of much service to me." That day happened to be Friday, and
there was nothing in the house but some fish of that kind which in
Castile is called Abadexo; in Andalusia, Bacallao; in some parts,
Curadillo: and in others, Truchuela. They asked if his worship would
like some truchuela, for they had no other fish to offer him. "If there
be many troutlings," replied Don Quixote, "they will supply the place of
one trout; for it is the same to me whether I receive eight single rials
or one piece-of-eight. Moreover, these troutlings may be preferable, as
veal is better than beef, and kid superior to goat. Be that as it may,
let it come immediately, for the toil and weight of arms cannot be
sustained by the body unless the interior be supplied with aliments."
For the benefit of the cool air, they placed the table at the door of
the inn, and the landlord produced some of his ill-soaked and
worse-cooked bacallao, with bread as foul and black as the knight's
armor. But it was a spectacle highly risible to see him eat; for his
hands being engaged in holding his helmet on and raising the beaver, he
could not feed himself, therefore one of the ladies performed that
office for him; but to drink would have been utterly impossible had not
the innkeeper bored a reed, and placing one end into his mouth at the
other poured in the wine; and all this he patiently endured rather than
cut the lacings of his helmet.
THE PLEASANT METHOD DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BE
DUBBED A KNIGHT.
It troubled him to reflect that he was not yet a knight, feeling
persuaded that he could not lawfully engage in any adventure until he
had been invested with the order of knighthood.
Agitated by this idea, he abruptly finished his scanty supper, called
the innkeeper, and, shutting himself up with him in the stable, he fell
on his knees before him and said, "Never will I arise from this place,
valorous knight, until your courtesy shall vouchsafe to grant a boon
which it is my intention to request,--a boon that will redound to your
glory and to the benefit of all mankind." The innkeeper, seeing his
guest at his feet and hearing such language, stood confounded and stared
at him without knowing what to do or say; he entreated him to rise, but
in vain, until he had promised to grant the boon he requested. "I
expected no less, signor, from your great magnificence," replied Don
Quixote; "know, therefore, that the boon I have demanded, and which your
liberality has conceded, is that on the morrow you will confer upon me
the honor of knighthood. This night I will watch my arms in the chapel
of your castle, in order that, in the morning, my earnest desire may be
fulfilled and I may with propriety traverse the four quarters of the
world in quest of adventures for the relief of the distressed,
conformable to the duties of chivalry and of knights-errant, who, like
myself, are devoted to such pursuits."
The host, who, as we have said, was a shrewd fellow, and had already
entertained some doubts respecting the wits of his guest, was now
confirmed in his suspicions; and to make sport for the night, determined
to follow his humor. He told him, therefore, that his desire was very
reasonable, and that such pursuits were natural and suitable to knights
so illustrious as he appeared to be, and as his gallant demeanor fully
testified; that he had himself in the days of his youth followed that
honorable profession, and travelled over various parts of the world in
search of adventures; failing not to visit the suburbs of Malaga, the
isles of Riaran, the compass of Seville, the market-place of Segovia,
the olive-field of Valencia, the rondilla of Grenada, the coast of St.
Lucar, the fountain of Cordova, the taverns of Toledo, and divers other
parts, where he had exercised the agility of his heels and the dexterity
of his hands; committing sundry wrongs, soliciting widows, seducing
damsels, cheating youths,--in short, making himself known to most of the
tribunals in Spain; and that, finally, he had retired to this castle,
where he lived upon his revenue and that of others, entertaining therein
all knights-errant of every quality and degree solely for the great
affection he bore them, and that they might share their fortune with him
in return for his good will. He further told him that in his castle
there was no chapel wherein he could watch his armor, for it had been
pulled down in order to be rebuilt; but that, in cases of necessity, he
knew it might be done wherever he pleased. Therefore, he might watch it
that night in a court of the castle, and the following morning, if it
pleased God, the requisite ceremonies should be performed, and he should
be dubbed so effectually that the world would not be able to produce a
more perfect knight. He then inquired if he had any money about him. Don
Quixote told him he had none, having never read in their histories that
knights-errant provided themselves with money. The innkeeper assured
him he was mistaken; for, admitting that it was not mentioned in their
history, the authors deeming it unnecessary to specify things so
obviously requisite as money and clean shirts, yet was it not therefore
to be inferred that they had none; but, on the contrary, he might
consider it as an established fact that all knights-errant, of whose
histories so many volumes are filled, carried their purses well provided
against accidents; that they were also supplied with shirts, and a small
casket of ointments to heal the wounds they might receive, for in plains
and deserts, where they fought and were wounded, no aid was near unless
they had some sage enchanter for their friend, who could give them
immediate assistance by conveying in cloud through the air some damsel
or dwarf, with a phial of water possessed of such virtue that, upon
tasting a single drop of it, they should instantly become as sound as if
they had received no injury. But when the knights of former times were
without such a friend, they always took care that their esquires should
be provided with money and such necessary articles as lint and salves;
and when they had no esquires--which very rarely happened--they carried
these things themselves upon the crupper of their horse, in wallets so
small as to be scarcely visible, that they might seem to be something of
more importance; for, except in such cases, the custom of carrying
wallets was not tolerated among knights-errant. He therefore advised,
though, as his godson (which he was soon to be), he might command him,
never henceforth to travel without money and the aforesaid provisions,
and he would find them serviceable when he least expected it. Don
Quixote promised to follow his advice with punctuality: and an order was
now given for performing the watch of the armor in a large yard
adjoining the inn. Don Quixote, having collected it together placed it
on a cistern which was close to a well; then, bracing on his target and
grasping his lance, with graceful demeanor he paced to and fro before
the pile, beginning his parade as soon as it was dark.
The innkeeper informed all who were in the inn of the frenzy of his
guest, the watching of his armor, and of the intended knighting.
The host repeated to him that there was no chapel in the castle, nor was
it by any means necessary for what remained to be done; that the stroke
of knighting consisted in blows on the neck and shoulders, according to
the ceremonial of the order, which might be effectually performed in the
middle of the field; that the duty of watching his armor he had now
completely fulfilled, for he had watched more than four hours, though
only two were required. All this Don Quixote believed, and said that he
was there ready to obey him, requesting him, at the same time, to
perform the deed as soon as possible; because, should he be assaulted
again when he found himself knighted, he was resolved not to leave one
person alive in the castle, excepting those whom, out of respect to him,
and at his particular request, he might be induced to spare. The
constable, thus warned and alarmed, immediately brought forth a book in
which he kept his account of the straw and oats he furnished to the
carriers, and attended by a boy, who carried an end of candle, and the
two damsels before mentioned, went towards Don Quixote, whom he
commanded to kneel down; he then began reading in his manual, as if it
were some devout prayer, in the course of which he raised his hand and
gave him a good blow on the neck, and, after that, a handsome stroke
over the shoulders, with his own sword, still muttering between his
teeth, as if in prayer. This being done, he commanded one of the ladies
to gird on his sword, an office she performed with much alacrity, as
well as discretion, no small portion of which was necessary to avoid
bursting with laughter at every part of the ceremony; but indeed the
prowess they had seen displayed by the new knight kept their mirth
within bounds.
At girding on the sword, the good lady said: "God grant you may be a
fortunate knight and successful in battle."
Don Quixote inquired her name, that he might thenceforward know to whom
he was indebted for the favor received, as it was his intention to
bestow upon her some share of the honor he should acquire by the valor
of his arm. She replied, with much humility, that her name was Tolosa,
and that she was the daughter of a cobbler at Toledo, who lived at the
stalls of Sanchobienaya; and that, wherever she was, she would serve and
honor him as her lord. Don Quixote, in reply, requested her, for his
sake, to do him the favor henceforth to add to her name the title of
don, and call herself Donna Tolosa, which she promised to do. The other
girl now buckled on his spur, and with her he held nearly the same
conference as with the lady of the sword; having inquired her name, she
told him it was Molinera, and that she was daughter to an honest miller
of Antiquera: he then requested her likewise to assume the don, and
style herself Donna Molinera, renewing his proffers of service and
thanks.
These never-till-then-seen ceremonies being thus speedily performed, Don
Quixote was impatient to find himself on horseback, in quest of
adventures. He therefore instantly saddled Rozinante, mounted him, and,
embracing his host, made his acknowledgments for the favor he had
conferred by knighting him, in terms so extraordinary, that it would be
in vain to attempt to repeat them. The host, in order to get rid of him
the sooner, replied, with no less flourish, but more brevity; and,
without making any demand for his lodging, wished him a good journey.
The tongue slow and the eyes quick.
Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.
The brave man carves out his own fortune.
Very full of pain, yet soon as he was able to stir, he began to roll
himself on the ground, and to repeat, in what they affirm was said by
the wounded knight of the wood:--
"Where art thou, mistress of my heart,
Unconscious of thy lover's smart?
Ah me! thou know'st not my distress,
Or thou art false and pitiless."
"I know who I am," answered Don Quixote; "and I know, too, that I am not
only capable of being those I have mentioned, but all the twelve peers
of France, yea, and the nine worthies, since my exploits will far exceed
all that they have jointly or separately achieved."
DESTRUCTION OF DON QUIXOTE'S LIBRARY.
Long and heavy was the sleep of Don Quixote: meanwhile the priest having
asked the niece for the key of the chamber containing the books, those
authors of the mischief, which she delivered with a very good will, they
entered, attended by the housekeeper, and found above a hundred large
volumes well bound, besides a great number of smaller size. No sooner
did the housekeeper see them than she ran out of the room in great
haste, and immediately returned with a pot of holy water and a bunch of
hyssop, saying: "Signor Licentiate, take this and sprinkle the room,
lest some enchanter of the many that these books abound with should
enchant us, as a punishment for our intention to banish them out of the
world."
The priest smiled at the housekeeper's simplicity, and ordered the
barber to reach him the books one by one, that they might see what they
treated of, as they might perhaps find some that deserved not to be
chastised by fire.
"No," said the niece, "there is no reason why any of them should be
spared, for they have all been mischief-makers: so let them all be
thrown out of the window into the courtyard; and having made a pile of
them, set fire to it; or else make a bonfire of them in the back yard,
where the smoke will offend nobody."
The housekeeper said the same, so eagerly did they both thirst for the
death of those innocents. But the priest would not consent to it without
first reading the titles at least.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands was "Amadis de Gaul,"
in four parts; and the priest said: "There seems to be some mystery in
this, for I have heard say that this was the first book of chivalry
printed in Spain, and that all the rest had their foundation and rise
from it; I think, therefore, as head of so pernicious a sect, we ought
to condemn him to the fire without mercy."
"Not so," said the barber; "for I have heard also that it is the best of
all the books of this kind: therefore, as being unequalled in its way,
it ought to be spared."
"You are right," said the priest, "and for that reason its life is
granted for the present. Let us see that other next to him."
"It is," said the barber, "the 'Adventures of Esplandian,' the
legitimate son of 'Amadis de Gaul.'"
"Verily," said the priest, "the goodness of the father shall avail the
son nothing; take him, Mistress Housekeeper; open that casement, and
throw him into the yard, and let him make a beginning to the pile for
the intended bonfire."
The housekeeper did so with much satisfaction, and good Esplandian was
sent flying into the yard, there to wait with patience for the fire with
which he was threatened.
"Proceed," said the priest.
"The next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of Greece;' yea, and all these
on this side, I believe, are of the lineage of Amadis."
"Then into the yard with them all!" quoth the priest; "for rather than
not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel with his
eclogues, and the devilish perplexities of the author, I would burn the
father who begot me, were I to meet him in the shape of a
knight-errant."
"Of the same opinion am I," said the barber.
"And I too," added the niece.
"Well, then," said the housekeeper, "away with them all into the yard."
They handed them to her; and, as they were numerous, to save herself the
trouble of the stairs, she threw them all out of the window.
"What tun of an author is that?" said the priest.
"This," answered the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'"
"The author of that book," said the priest, "was the same who composed
the 'Garden of Flowers;' and in good truth I know not which of the two
books is the truest, or rather, the least lying: I can only say that
this goes to the yard for its arrogance and absurdity."
"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hyrcania,'" said the barber.
"What! is Signor Florismarte there?" replied the priest; "now, by my
faith, he shall soon make his appearance in the yard, notwithstanding
his strange birth and chimerical adventures; for the harshness and
dryness of his style will admit of no excuse. To the yard with him, and
this other, Mistress Housekeeper.
"With all my heart, dear sir," answered she, and with much joy executed
what she was commanded.
"Here is the 'Knight Platir,'" said the barber.
"That," said the priest, "is an ancient book, and I find nothing in him
deserving pardon: without more words, let him be sent after the rest;"
which was accordingly done. They opened another book, and found it
entitled the "Knight of the Cross." "So religious a title," quoth the
priest, "might, one would think, atone for the ignorance of the author;
but it is a common saying 'the devil lurks behind the cross:' so to the
fire with him."
The barber, taking down another book, said, "This is 'The Mirror of
Chivalry.'"
"Oh! I know his worship very well," quoth the priest. "I am only for
condemning this to perpetual banishment because it contains some things
of the famous Mateo Boyardo.
"If I find him here uttering any other language than his own, I will
show no respect; but if he speaks in his own tongue, I will put him upon
my head."
"I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not understand him."
"Neither is it any great matter, whether you understand him or not,"
answered the priest; "and we would willingly have excused the good
captain from bringing him into Spain and making him a Castilian; for he
has deprived him of a great deal of his native value; which, indeed, is
the misfortune of all those who undertake the translation of poetry into
other languages; for, with all their care and skill, they can never
bring them on a level with the original production. This book, neighbor,
is estimable upon two accounts; the one, that it is very good of itself;
and the other, because there is a tradition that it was written by an
ingenious king of Portugal. All the adventures of the castle of
Miraguarda are excellent, and contrived with much art; the dialogue
courtly and clear; and all the characters preserved with great judgment
and propriety. Therefore, Master Nicholas, saving your better judgment,
let this and 'Amadis de Gaul' be exempted from the fire, and let all the
rest perish without any further inquiry."
"Not so, friend," replied the barber; "for this which I have here is the
renowned 'Don Bellianis.'"
The priest replied: "This, and the second, third, and fourth parts, want
a little rhubarb to purge away their excess of bile; besides, we must
remove all that relates to the castle of Fame, and other absurdities of
greater consequence; for which let sentence of transportation be passed
upon them, and, according as they show signs of amendment, they shall be
treated with mercy or justice. In the mean time, neighbor, give them
room in your house; but let them not be read."
"With all my heart," quoth the barber; and without tiring himself any
farther in turning over books of chivalry, bid the housekeeper take all
the great ones and throw them into the yard. This was not spoken to the
stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to be burning them
than weaving the finest and largest web; and therefore, laying hold of
seven or eight at once, she tossed them out at the window.
But, in taking so many together, one fell at the barber's feet, who had
a mind to see what it was, and found it to be the history of the
renowned knight Tirante the White. "Heaven save me!" quoth the priest,
with a loud voice, "is Tirante the White there? Give him to me,
neighbor; for in him I shall have a treasure of delight, and a mine of
entertainment. Here we have Don Kyrie-Eleison of Montalvan, a valorous
knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, with the knight Fonseca,
and the combat which the valiant Tirante fought with the bull-dog, and
the witticisms of the damsel Plazerdemivida; also the amours and
artifices of the widow Reposada; and madam the Empress in love with her
squire Hypolito. Verily, neighbor, in its way it is the best book in the
world: here the knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds, and make
their wills before their deaths; with several things which are not to be
found in any other books of this kind. Notwithstanding this I tell you,
the author deserved, for writing so many foolish things seriously, to be
sent to the galleys for the whole of his life: carry it home, and read
it, and you will find all I say of him to be true."
"I will do so," answered the barber: "but what shall we do with these
small volumes that remain?"
"Those," said the priest, "are, probably, not books of chivalry, but of
poetry." Then opening one he found it was the 'Diana' of George de
Montemayor, and, concluding that all the others were of the same kind,
he said, "These do not deserve to be burnt like the rest; for they
cannot do the mischief that those of chivalry have done; they are works
of genius and fancy, and do injury to none."
"O sir," said the niece, "pray order them to be burnt with the rest; for
should my uncle be cured of this distemper of chivalry, he may possibly,
by reading such books, take it into his head to turn shepherd, and
wander through the woods and fields, singing and playing on a pipe; and
what would be still worse, turn poet, which, they say, is an incurable
and contagious disease."
"The damsel says true," quoth the priest, "and it will not be amiss to
remove this stumbling-block out of our friend's way. And, since we begin
with the 'Diana' of Montemayor, my opinion is that it should not be
burnt, but that all that part should be expunged which treats of the
sage Felicia, and of the enchanted fountain, and also most of the longer
poems; leaving him, in God's name, the prose and also the honor of being
the first in that kind of writing."
"The next that appears," said the barber, "is the Diana, called the
second, by Salmantino; and another, of the same name, whose author is
Gil Polo."
"The Salmantinian," answered the priest, "may accompany and increase the
number of the condemned--to the yard with him: but let that of Gil Polo
be preserved, as if it were written by Apollo himself. Proceed, friend,
and let us despatch; for it grows late."
"This," said the barber, opening another, "is the 'Ten Books of the
Fortune of Love,' composed by Antonio de lo Frasso, a Sardinian poet."
"By the holy orders I have received!" said the priest, "since Apollo was
Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets poets, so humorous and so
whimsical a book as this was never written; it is the best, and most
extraordinary of the kind that ever appeared in the world; and he who
has not read it may be assured that he has never read anything of taste:
give it me here, neighbor, for I am better pleased at finding it than if
I had been presented with a cassock of Florence satin." He laid it
aside, with great satisfaction, and the barber proceeded, saying:--
"These which follow are the 'Shepherd of Iberia,' the 'Nymphs of
Enares,' and the 'Cure of Jealousy.'"
"Then you have only to deliver them up to the secular arm of the
housekeeper," said the priest, "and ask me not why, for in that case we
should never have done."
"The next is the 'Shepherd of Filida.'"
"He is no shepherd," said the priest, "but an ingenious courtier; let
him be preserved, and laid up as a precious jewel."
"This bulky volume here," said the barber, "is entitled the 'Treasure of
Divers Poems.'"
"Had they been fewer," replied the priest, "they would have been more
esteemed: it is necessary that this book should be weeded and cleared of
some low things interspersed amongst its sublimities: let it be
preserved, both because the author is my friend, and out of respect to
other more heroic and exalted productions of his pen."
"This," pursued the barber, "is 'El Cancionero' of Lopez Maldonado."
"The author of that book," replied the priest, "is also a great friend
of mine: his verses, when sung by himself, excite much admiration;
indeed such is the sweetness of his voice in singing them, that they are
perfectly enchanting. He is a little too prolix in his eclogues; but
there can never be too much of what is really good: let it be preserved
with the select. But what book is that next to it?"
"The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.
"That Cervantes has been an intimate friend of mine these many years,
and I know that he is more versed in misfortunes than in poetry. There
is a good vein of invention in his book, which proposes something,
though nothing is concluded. We must wait for the second part, which he
has promised: perhaps, on his amendment, he may obtain that entire
pardon which is now denied him; in the mean time, neighbor, keep him a
recluse in your chamber."
"With all my heart," answered the barber. "Now, here come three
together: the 'Araucana' of Don Alonzo de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of
Juan Rufo, a magistrate of Cordova, and the 'Monserrato' of Christoval
de Virves, a poet of Valencia."
"These three books," said the priest, "are the best that are written in
heroic verse in the Castilian tongue, and may stand in competition with
the most renowned works of Italy. Let them be preserved as the best
productions of the Spanish Muse."
The priest grew tired of looking over so many books, and therefore,
without examination, proposed that all the rest should be burnt; but
the barber, having already opened one called the "Tears of Angelica," "I
should have shed tears myself," said the priest, on hearing the name,
"had I ordered that book to be burnt; for its author was one of the most
celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of the whole world: his
translations from Ovid are admirable."
The same night the housekeeper set fire to and burnt all the books that
were in the yard and in the house. Some must have perished that deserved
to be treasured up in perpetual archives, but their destiny or the
indolence of the scrutineer forbade it; and in them was fulfilled the
saying, that--
"The just sometimes suffer for the unjust."
In the mean time Don Quixote tampered with a laborer, a neighbor of his,
and an honest man (if such an epithet can be given to one that is poor),
but shallow brained; in short, he said so much, used so many arguments,
and made so many promises, that the poor fellow resolved to sally out
with him and serve him in the capacity of a squire. Among other things,
Don Quixote told him that he ought to be very glad to accompany him, for
such an adventure might some time or the other occur, that by one stroke
an island might be won, where he might leave him governor. With this and
other promises, Sancho Panza (for that was the laborer's name) left his
wife and children and engaged himself as squire to his neighbor.
Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass, like a patriarch, with his wallet
and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find himself
governor of the island, which his master had promised him. Don Quixote
happened to take the same route as on his first expedition, over the
plain of Montiel, which he passed with less inconvenience than before,
for it was early in the morning, and the rays of the sun, darting on
them horizontally, did not annoy them. Sancho Panza now said to his
master: "I beseech your worship, good sir knight-errant, not to forget
your promise concerning that same island; for I shall know how to govern
it, be it ever so large."
To which Don Quixote answered: "Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza,
that it was a custom much in use among the knights-errant of old to make
their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered, and I
am determined that so laudable a custom, shall not be lost through my
neglect; on the contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it: for they
sometimes, and perhaps most times, waited till their squires were grown
old; and when they were worn out in their service, and had endured many
bad days and worse nights, they conferred on them some title, such as
count, or at least marquis, of some valley or province of more or less
account; but if you live, and I live, before six days have passed I may
probably win such a kingdom as may have others depending on it, just fit
for thee to be crowned king of one of them. And do not think this any
extraordinary matter, for things fall out to knights by such unforeseen
and unexpected ways, that I may easily give thee more than I promise."
"So then," answered Sancho Panza, "if I were a king by some of those
miracles your worship mentions, Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to
be a queen, and my children infantas!"
"Who doubts it?" answered Don Quixote.
"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "for I am verily persuaded that, if
God were to rain down kingdoms upon the earth, none of them would sit
well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know, sir, she is not
worth two farthings for a queen. The title of countess would sit better
upon her, with the help of Heaven and good friends."
"Recommend her to God, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "and he will do
what is best for her, but do thou have a care not to debase thy mind so
low as to content thyself with being less than a viceroy."
"Heaven grant us good success, and that we may speedily get this island
which costs me so dear. No matter then how soon I die."
"I have already told thee, Sancho, to give thyself no concern upon that
account; for, if an island cannot be had, there is the kingdom of
Denmark or that of Sobradisa, which will fit thee like a ring to the
finger. Besides, as they are upon _terra firma_, thou shouldst prefer
them. But let us leave this to its own time, and see if thou hast
anything for us to eat in thy wallet. We will then go in quest of some
castle, where we may lodge this night and make the balsam that I told
thee of, for I declare that my ear pains me exceedingly."
"I have here an onion and a piece of cheese, and I know not how many
crusts of bread," said Sancho, "but they are not eatables fit for so
valiant a knight as your worship."
"How little dost thou understand of this matter!" answered Don Quixote.
"I tell thee, Sancho, that it is honorable in knights-errant not to eat
once in a month; and, if they do taste food, it must be what first
offers: and this thou wouldst have known hadst thou read as many
histories as I have done; for, though I have perused many, I never yet
found in them any account of knights-errant taking food, unless it were
by chance and at certain sumptuous banquets prepared expressly for them.
The rest of their days they lived, as it were, upon smelling. And though
it is to be presumed they could not subsist without eating and
satisfying all other wants,--as, in fact, they were men,--yet, since
they passed most part of their lives in wandering through forests and
deserts, and without a cook, their usual diet must have consisted of
rustic viands, such as those which thou hast now offered me. Therefore,
friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which gives me pleasure, nor
endeavor to make a new world, or to throw knight-errantry off its
hinges."
"Pardon me, sir," said Sancho; "for, as I can neither read nor write, as
I told you before, I am entirely unacquainted with the rules of the
knightly profession; but henceforward I will furnish my wallet with all
sorts of dried fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for
myself, who am none, I will supply it with poultry and other things of
more substance."
There cannot be too much of a good thing.
What is lost to-day may be won to-morrow.
A saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner.
Many go out for wool and return shorn.
Matters of war are most subject to continual change.
Every man that is aggrieved is allowed to defend himself by
all laws human and divine.
Truth is the mother of history, the rival of time, the
depository of great actions, witness of the past, example
and adviser of the present, and oracle of future ages.
Love, like knight-errantry, puts all things on a level.
He that humbleth himself God will exalt.[3]
After Don Quixote had satisfied his hunger, he took up a handful of
acorns, and, looking on them attentively, gave utterance to expressions
like these:--
"Happy times and happy ages were those which the ancients termed the
Golden Age! Not because gold, so prized in this our Iron age, was to be
obtained, in that fortunate period, without toil; but because they who
then lived were ignorant of those two words, Mine and Thine. In that
blessed age all things were in common; to provide their ordinary
sustenance no other labor was necessary than to raise their hands and
take it from the sturdy oaks, which stood liberally inviting them to
taste their sweet and relishing fruit. The limpid fountains and running
streams offered them, in magnificent abundance, their delicious and
transparent waters. In the clefts of rocks, and in hollow trees, the
industrious and provident bees formed their commonwealths, offering to
every hand, without interest, the fertile produce of their most
delicious toil. The stately cork-trees, impelled by their own courtesy
alone, divested themselves of their light and expanded bark, with which
men began to cover their houses, supported by rough poles, only as a
defence against the inclemency of the heavens. All then was peace, all
amity, all concord. The heavy colter of the crooked plough had not yet
dared to force open and search into the tender bowels of our first
mother, who, unconstrained, offered from every part of her fertile and
spacious bosom whatever might feed, sustain, and delight those, her
children, by whom she was then possessed."
ANTONIO.
Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize;
I boast the conquest of thy heart,
Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes,
Have yet revealed the latent smart.
Thy wit and sense assure my fate,
In them my love's success I see;
Nor can he be unfortunate
Who dares avow his flame for thee.
Yet sometimes hast thou frowned, alas!
And given my hopes a cruel shock;
Then did thy soul seem formed of brass,
Thy snowy bosom of the rock.
But in the midst of thy disdain,
Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays,
Hope from behind to ease my pain,
The border of her robe displays.
Ah, lovely maid! in equal scale
Weigh well thy shepherd's truth and love,
Which ne'er but with his breath can fail,
Which neither frowns nor smiles can move.
If love, as shepherds wont to say,
Be gentleness and courtesy,
So courteous is Olalia,
My passion will rewarded be.
And if obsequious duty paid,
The grateful heart can never move,
Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade
A due return and claim thy love.
For, to seem pleasing in thy sight,
I dress myself with studious care,
And, in my best apparel dight,
My Sunday clothes on Monday wear.
And shepherds say I'm not to blame,
For cleanly dress and spruce attire
Preserve alive love's wanton flame
And gently fan the dying fire.
To please my fair, in mazy ring
I join the dance, and sportive play;
And oft beneath thy window sing,
When first the cock proclaims the day.
With rapture on each charm I dwell,
And daily spread thy beauty's fame;
And still my tongue thy praise shall tell,
Though envy swell, or malice blame.
Teresa of the Berrocal,
When once I praised you, said in spite,
Your mistress you an angel call,
But a mere ape is your delight.
Thanks to the bugle's artful glare,
And all the graces counterfeit;
Thanks to the false and curled hair,
Which wary Love himself might cheat.
I swore 'twas false, and said she lied;
At that her anger fiercely rose;
I boxed the clown that took her side,
And how I boxed my fairest knows.
I court thee not, Olalia,
To gratify a loose desire;
My love is chaste, without alloy
Of wanton wish or lustful fire.
The church hath silken cords, that tie
Consenting hearts in mutual bands:
If thou, my fair, its yoke will try,
Thy swain its ready captive stands.
If not, by all the saints I swear
On these bleak mountains still to dwell,
Nor ever quit my toilsome care,
But for the cloister and the cell.
I think I see her now, with that goodly presence, looking as
if she had the sun on one side of her and the moon on the
other; and above all, she was a notable housewife, and a
friend to the poor; for which I believe her soul is at this
very moment in heaven.
A clergyman must be over and above good, who makes all his
parishioners speak well of him.
Parents ought not to settle their children against their
will.
Though she does not fly or shun the company and conversation
of the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous and
friendly manner, yet, when any one of them ventures to
discover his intention, though it be as just and holy as
that of marriage, she casts him from her as out of a
stone-bow. And by this sort of behavior she does more
mischief in this country than if she carried the plague
about with her; for her affability and beauty win the hearts
of those who converse with her, and incline them to serve
and love her; but her disdain and frank dealing drive them
to despair; and so they know not what to say to her, and can
only exclaim against her, calling her cruel and ungrateful,
with such other titles as plainly denote her character; and,
were you to abide here, sir, awhile, you would hear these
mountains and valleys resound with the complaints of those
rejected wretches that yet follow her. There is a place not
far hence, where about two dozen of tall beeches grow, and
not one of them is without the name of Marcela written and
engraved on its smooth bark; over some of them is carved a
crown, as if the lover would more clearly observe that
Marcela deserves and wears the crown of all human beauty.
Revels, banquets, and repose, were invented for effeminate
courtiers; but toil, disquietude, and arms alone were
designed for those whom the world calls knights-errant.
For never sure was any knight
So served by damsel, or by dame,
As Lancelot, that man of might,
When he at first from Britain came.
The soldier who executes his captain's command is no less
valuable than the captain who gave the order.
"I am of the same opinion," replied the traveller; "but one thing, among
many others which appear to me to be censurable in knights-errant, is
that, when they are prepared to engage in some great and perilous
adventure to the manifest hazard of their lives, at the moment of attack
they never think of commending themselves to God, as every Christian is
bound to do at such a crisis, but rather commend themselves to their
mistresses, and that with as much fervor and devotion as if they were
really their God; a thing which to me savors of paganism."
"Signor," answered Don Quixote, "this can by no means be otherwise; and
the knight-errant who should act in any other manner would digress much
from his duty; for it is a received maxim and custom in chivalry, that
the knight-errant, who, on the point of engaging in some great feat of
arms, has his lady before him, must turn his eyes fondly and amorously
towards her, as if imploring her favor and protection in the hazardous
enterprise that awaits him; and, even if nobody hear him, he must
pronounce some words between his teeth, by which he commends himself to
her with his whole heart; and of this we have innumerable examples in
history. Nor is it thence to be inferred that they neglect commending
themselves to God; for there is time and opportunity enough to do it in
the course of the action."
"Notwithstanding all that," replied the traveller, "better had it been
if the words he spent in commending himself to his lady, in the midst of
the career, had been employed as the duties of a Christian require;
particularly as I imagine that all knights-errant have not ladies to
commend themselves to, because they are not all in love."
"That cannot be," answered Don Quixote: "I say there cannot be a
knight-errant without a mistress; for it is as essential and as natural
for them to be enamored as for the sky to have stars; and most
certainly, no history exists in which a knight-errant is to be found
without an amour; for, from the very circumstance of his being without,
he would not be acknowledged as a legitimate knight, but a bastard who
had entered the fortress of chivalry, not by the gate, but over the
pales, like a thief and robber."
"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I am not mistaken, I remember
having read that Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis de Gaul,
never had a particular mistress, to whom he might commend himself;
notwithstanding which, he was no less esteemed, and was a very valiant
and famous knight."
To which our Don Quixote answered: "Signor, one swallow does not make a
summer." [4]
"If it is essential that every knight-errant be a lover," said the
traveller, "it may well be presumed that you are yourself one, being of
the profession; and, if you do not pique yourself upon the same secrecy
as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in the name of all this good
company and in my own, to tell us the name, country, quality, and beauty
of your mistress, who cannot but account herself happy that all the
world should know that she is loved and served by so worthy a knight."
Here Don Quixote breathed a deep sigh, and said: "I cannot positively
affirm whether that sweet enemy of mine is pleased or not that the
world should know I am her servant. I can only say, in answer to what
you so very courteously inquire of me, that her name is Dulcinea; her
country Toboso, a town of la Mancha: her quality at least that of a
princess, since she is my queen and sovereign lady; her beauty more than
human, since in her all the impossible and chimerical attributes of
beauty which the poets ascribe to their mistresses are realized; for her
hair is gold, her forehead the Elysian Fields, her eyebrows rainbows,
her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her
neck, alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her whiteness snow,
and her whole person without parallel. She is of those of Toboso de la
Mancha; a lineage which, though modern, is yet such as may give a noble
beginning to the most illustrious families of future ages; and in this
let no one contradict me, unless it be on the conditions that Zerbino
fixed under the arms of Orlando, where it said:--
'That knight alone these arms shall move,
Who dares Orlando's prowess prove.'"
THE STORY OF CHRYSOSTOM.
"Comrades," said he, "do you know what is passing in the village?"
"How should we know?" answered one of them.
"Know, then," continued the youth, "that the famous shepherd and
scholar, Chrysostom, died this morning; and it is rumored that it was
for love of that saucy girl Marcela, daughter of William the rich; she
who rambles about these woods and fields in the dress of a
shepherdess."
"For Marcela, say you?" quoth one.
"For her, I say," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is, he has
ordered in his will that they should bury him in the fields, like a
Moor, at the foot of the rock, by the cork-tree fountain, which,
according to report, and as they say, he himself declared was the very
place where he first saw her. He ordered also other tilings so
extravagant that the clergy say they must not be performed; nor is it
fit that they should, for they seem to be heathenish. But his great
friend Ambrosio, the student, who accompanied him, dressed also like a
shepherd, declares that the whole of what Chrysostom enjoined shall be
executed: and upon this the village is all in an uproar: but by what I
can learn, they will at last do what Ambrosio and all his friends
require; and to-morrow they come to inter him, with great solemnity, in
the place I mentioned; and, in my opinion, it will be a sight well worth
seeing; at least, I shall not fail to go, although I were certain of not
returning to-morrow to the village."
"We will do the same," answered the goatherds; "and let us cast lots who
shall stay behind to look after the goats."
"You say well, Pedro," quoth another; "but it will be needless to make
use of this expedient, for I will remain for you all: and do not
attribute this to self-denial or want of curiosity in me, but to the
thorn which stuck into my foot the other day, and hinders me from
walking."
"We thank you, nevertheless," answered Pedro.
Don Quixote requested Pedro to give him some account of the deceased man
and the shepherdess. To which Pedro answered, "that all he knew was,
that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman, and inhabitant of a village
situate among these mountains, who had studied many years at Salamanca;
at the end of which time he returned home, with the character of a very
learned and well read person; particularly, it was said, he understood
the science of the stars, and what the sun and moon are doing in the
sky; for he told us punctually the clipse of the sun and moon."
"Friend," quoth Don Quixote, "the obscuration of those two luminaries is
called an _eclipse_, and not a _clipse_."
But Pedro, not regarding niceties, went on with his story, saying, "He
also foretold when the year would be plentiful or starel."
"_Sterile_, you would say, friend," quoth Don Quixote.
"_Sterile_, or _starel_," answered Pedro, "comes all to the same thing.
And, as I was saying, his father and friends, who gave credit to his
words, became very rich thereby; for they followed his advice in
everything. This year he would say, 'Sow barley, and not wheat; in this
you may sow vetches, and not barley; the next year there will be plenty
of oil; the three following there will not be a drop.'"
"This science they call astrology," said Don Quixote.
"I know not how it is called," replied Pedro, "but I know that he knew
all this, and more too. In short, not many months after he came from
Salamanca, on a certain day he appeared dressed like a shepherd, with
his crook and sheepskin jacket, having thrown aside his scholar's gown;
and with an intimate friend of his, called Ambrosio, who had been his
fellow-student, and who now put on likewise the apparel of a shepherd. I
forgot to tell you how the deceased Chrysostom was a great man at making
verses; insomuch that he made the carols for Christmas-eve and the
religious plays for Corpus Christi, which the boys of the village
represented; and everybody said they were most excellent. When the
people of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly habited like
shepherds, they were amazed, and could not get at the cause that induced
them to make that strange alteration in their dress. About this time the
father of Chrysostom died, and he inherited a large estate, in lands and
goods, flocks, herds, and money, of all which the youth remained
absolute master; and, indeed, he deserved it all, for he was a very good
companion, a charitable man, and a friend to those that were good, and
had a face like any blessing. Afterwards it came to be known that he
changed his habit for no other purpose but that he might wander about
these desert places after that shepherdess Marcela, with whom, as our
lad told you, he was in love.
"As all that I have related is certain truth, I can more readily believe
what our companion told us concerning the cause of Chrysostom's death;
and therefore I advise you, sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his
funeral, which will be very well worth seeing; for Chrysostom had a
great many friends, and it is not half a league hence to the place of
interment appointed by himself."
"I will certainly be there," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you for the
pleasure you have given me by the recital of so entertaining a story."
Morning scarcely had dawned through the balconies of the east, when five
of the six goatherds got up and went to awake Don Quixote, whom they
asked whether he continued in his resolution of going to see the famous
interment of Chrysostom, for, if so, they would bear him company. Don
Quixote, who desired nothing more, arose, and ordered Sancho to saddle
and pannel immediately, which he did with great expedition; and with the
same dispatch they all set out on their journey.
They had not gone a quarter of a league, when upon crossing a pathway,
they saw six shepherds advancing towards them, clad in jackets of black
sheepskin, with garlands of cypress and bitter rosemary on their heads;
each of them having in his hand a thick holly club. There came also with
them two gentlemen on horseback, well equipped for travelling, who were
attended by three lackeys on foot. When the two parties met they
courteously saluted each other, and finding upon inquiry that all were
proceeding to the place of burial, they continued their journey
together.
Proceeding on, they discerned through a cleft between two high mountains
about twenty shepherds coming down, all clad in jerkins of black wool,
and crowned with garlands, some of which were of yew, and some of
cypress. Six of them carried a bier covered with various flowers and
boughs. One of the goatherds said: "Those who come hither are bearing
the corpse of Chrysostom, and at the foot of yonder mountain is the
place where he desired to be interred." Four of them, with sharp
pickaxes, were making the grave by the side of a sharp rock. Upon the
bier lay a dead body, strewed with flowers, in the dress of a shepherd,
apparently about thirty years of age; and though dead, it was evident
that his countenance had been beautiful and his figure elegant. Several
books and a great number of papers, some open and some folded, lay round
him on the bier. All that were present, spectators as well as those who
were opening the grave, kept a marvellous silence, until one said to
another: "Observe carefully, Ambrosio, whether this be the place which
Chrysostom mentioned since you wish to be so exact in executing his
will."
"It is here," answered Ambrosio; "for in this very place my unhappy
friend often told me of his woe. Here it was, he told me, that he first
beheld that mortal enemy of the human race; here it was that he declared
to her his no less honorable than ardent passion; here it was that
Marcela finally undeceived and treated him with such disdain that she
put an end to the tragedy of his miserable life; and here, in memory of
so many misfortunes, he desired to be deposited in the bowels of eternal
oblivion."
Then, addressing himself to Don Quixote and the travellers, he thus
continued: "This body, sirs, which you are regarding with compassionate
eyes, was the receptacle of a soul upon which Heaven had bestowed an
infinite portion of its treasures; this is the body of Chrysostom, who
was a man of rare genius, matchless courtesy, and unbounded kindness; he
was a phoenix in friendship, magnificent without ostentation, grave
without arrogance, cheerful without meanness; in short, the first in all
that was good, and second to none in all that was unfortunate. He loved,
and was abhorred; he adored, and was scorned; he courted a savage; he
solicited a statue; he pursued the wind; he called aloud to the desert;
he was the slave of ingratitude, whose recompense was to leave him, in
the middle of his career of life, a prey to death, inflicted by a
certain shepherdess, whom he endeavored to render immortal in the
memories of men; as these papers you are looking at would sufficiently
demonstrate, had he not ordered me to commit them to the flames at the
same time that his body was deposited in the earth."
"You would then be more rigorous and cruel to them," said Vivaldo, "than
their master himself.
"It is neither just nor wise to fulfil the will of him who commands what
is utterly unreasonable.
"Augustus Caesar deemed it wrong to consent to the execution of what the
divine Mantuan commanded in his will; therefore, Signor Ambrosio,
although you commit your friend's body to the earth, do not commit his
writings also to oblivion; and if he has ordained like a man aggrieved,
do not you fulfil like one without discretion, but rather preserve those
papers, in order that the cruelty of Marcela may be still remembered,
and serve for an example to those who shall live in times to come, that
they may avoid falling down the like precipices; for I am acquainted, as
well as my companions here, with the story of this your enamored and
despairing friend; we know also your friendship, and the occasion of
his death, and what he ordered on his deathbed; from which lamentable
history we may conclude how great has been the cruelty of Marcela, the
love of Chrysostom, and the sincerity of your friendship; and also learn
the end of those who run headlong in the path that delirious passion
presents to their view. Last night we heard of Chrysostom's death, and
that he was to be interred in this place; led, therefore, by curiosity
and compassion, we turned out of our way, and determined to behold with
our eyes what had interested us so much in the recital; and, in return
for our pity, and our desire to give aid, had it been possible, we
beseech you, oh wise Ambrosio--at least I request it on my own
behalf--that you will not burn the papers, but allow me to take some of
them."
Then, without waiting for the shepherd's reply, he stretched out his
hand and took some of those that were nearest to him: upon which
Ambrosio said: "Out of civility, signor, I will consent to your keeping
those you have taken; but if you expect that I shall forbear burning
those that remain, you are deceived."
Vivaldo, desirous of seeing what the papers contained, immediately
opened one of them, and found that it was entitled, "The Song of
Despair." Ambrosio, hearing it, said: "This is the last thing which the
unhappy man wrote; and that all present may conceive, signor, to what a
state of misery he was reduced, read it aloud; for you will have time
enough while they are digging the grave."
"That I will do with all my heart," said Vivaldo; and, as all the
bystanders had the same desire, they assembled around him, and he read
in an audible voice as follows:--
CHRYSOSTOM'S SONG.
I.
Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim
From clime to clime, the triumph of your scorn,
Let hell itself inspire my tortured breast
With mournful numbers, and untune my voice;
Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart
Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue,
At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits,
Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear--
Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans,
Fetched from the bottom of my laboring breast,
To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart.
II.
The lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves,
The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak,
The burst of fighting winds that vex the main,
The widowed owl and turtle's plaintive moan,
With all the din of hell's infernal crew,
From my grieved soul forth issue in one sound--
Leaving my senses all confused and lost.
For ah! no common language can express
The cruel pains that torture my sad heart.
III.
Yet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds
To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands,
Or Betis, crowned with olives, pours his flood,
But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep,
Or to obscure and silent vales removed,
On shores by human footsteps never trod,
Where the gay sun ne'er lifts his radiant orb,
Or with the envenomed face of savage beasts
That range the howling wilderness for food,
Will I proclaim the story of my woes--
Poor privilege of grief!--while echoes hoarse
Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world.
IV.
Disdain gives death; suspicions, true or false,
O'erturn the impatient mind: with surer stroke
Fell jealousy destroys; the pangs of absence
No lover can support; nor firmest hope
Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect;
Yet I, strange fate! though jealous, though disdained,
Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live.
And amidst the various torments I endure,
No ray of hope e'er darted on my soul,
Nor would I hope; rather in deep despair
Will I sit down, and, brooding o'er my griefs,
Vow everlasting absence from her sight.
V.
Can hope and fear at once the soul possess,
Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear?
Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy,
Close my sad eyes, when every pang I feel
Presents the hideous phantom to my view?
What wretch so credulous but must embrace
Distrust with open arms, when he beholds
Disdain avowed, suspicions realized,
And truth itself converted to a lie?
Oh, cruel tyrant of the realm of love,
Fierce Jealousy, arm with a sword this hand,
Or thou, Disdain, a twisted cord bestow!
VI.
Let me not blame my fate; but, dying, think
The man most blest who loves, the soul most free
That love has most enthralled. Still to my thoughts
Let fancy paint the tyrant of my heart
Beauteous in mind as face, and in myself
Still let me find the source of her disdain,
Content to suffer, since imperial Love
By lover's woes maintains his sovereign state.
With this persuasion, and the fatal noose,
I hasten to the doom her scorn demands,
And, dying, offer up my breathless corse,
Uncrowned with garlands, to the whistling winds.
VII.
Oh thou, whose unrelenting rigor's force
First drove me to despair, and now to death;
When the sad tale of my untimely fall
Shall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh,
Veil not the heaven of those bright eyes in grief,
Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the world
At length my death has triumphed o'er thy scorn:
But dress thy face in smiles, and celebrate
With laughter and each circumstance of joy
The festival of my disastrous end.
Ah! need I bid thee smile? too well I know
My death's thy utmost glory and thy pride.
VIII.
Come, all ye phantoms of the dark abyss:
Bring, Tantalus, thy unextinguished thirst,
And Sisyphus, thy still returning stone;
Come, Tityus, with the vulture at thy heart;
And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy wheel;
Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind.
Pour your united griefs into this breast,
And in low murmurs sing sad obsequies
(If a despairing wretch such rites may claim)
O'er my cold limbs, denied a winding sheet.
And let the triple porter of the shades,
The sister Furies, and chimeras dire,
With notes of woe the mournful chorus join.
Such funeral pomp alone befits the wretch
By beauty sent untimely to the grave.
IX.
And thou, my song, sad child of my despair,
Complain no more; but since thy wretched fate
Improves her happier lot who gave thee birth,
Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb.
None of the shepherds departed until, the grave being made and the
papers burnt, the body of Chrysostom was interred, not without many
tears from the spectators. They closed the sepulchre with a large
fragment of a rock until a tombstone was finished, which Ambrosio said
it was his intention to provide, and to inscribe upon it the following
epitaph:--
CHRYSOSTOM'S EPITAPH.
The body of a wretched swain,
Killed by a cruel maid's disdain,
In this cold bed neglected lies.
He lived, fond, hapless youth! to prove
Th' inhuman tyranny of love,
Exerted in Marcela's eyes.
Then they strewed abundance of flowers and boughs
on the grave, and after expressions of condolence to his
friend Ambrosio, they took their leave of him.
All beauty does not inspire love; some please the sight
without captivating the affections. If all beauties were to
enamour and captivate, the hearts of mankind would be in a
continual state of perplexity and confusion--for beautiful
objects being infinite, the sentiments they inspire should
also be infinite.
True love cannot be divided, and must be voluntary and
unconstrained.
The viper deserves no blame for its sting, although it be
mortal--because it is the gift of Nature.
Beauty in a modest woman is like fire or a sharp sword at a
distance; neither doth the one burn nor the other wound
those that come not too near them.
Honor and virtue are ornaments of the soul, without which
the body, though it be really beautiful, ought not to be
thought so.
Let him who is deceived complain.
Let him to whom faith is broken despair.
She who loves none can make none jealous, and sincerity
ought not to pass for disdain.
Much time is necessary to know people thoroughly.
We are sure of nothing in this life.
There is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor
pain which death does not terminate.
Fortune always leaves some door open in misfortune.
Sometimes we look for one thing and find another.
Self-praise depreciates.
The cat to the rat--the rat to the rope--the rope to the
gallows.
Out of the frying-pan into the fire.
One man is no more than another, only inasmuch as he does
more than another.
The lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.
A mouth without teeth is like a mill without a stone.
The dead to the bier, and the living to good cheer.
One effect of fear is to disturb the senses, and make things
not to appear what they really are.
ADVENTURE OF THE DEAD BODY.
They saw, advancing towards them, on the same road, a great number of
lights, resembling so many moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at the
sight of them, nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The one checked his ass and
the other his horse, and both stood looking before them with eager
attention. They perceived that the lights were advancing towards them,
and that as they approached nearer they appeared larger. Sancho trembled
like quicksilver at the sight, and Don Quixote's hair bristled upon his
head; but, somewhat recovering himself, he exclaimed: "Sancho, this must
be a most perilous adventure, wherein it will be necessary for me to
exert my whole might and valor."
"Woe is me!" answered Sancho; "should this prove to be an adventure of
goblins, as to me it seems to be, where shall I find ribs to endure?"
"Whatsoever phantoms they may be," said Don Quixote, "I will not suffer
them to touch a thread of thy garment: for if they sported with thee
before, it was because I could not get over the wall; but we are now
upon even ground, where I can brandish my sword at pleasure."
"But, if they should enchant and benumb you, as they did then," quoth
Sancho, "what matters it whether we are in the open field or not?"
"Notwithstanding that," replied Don Quixote, "I beseech thee, Sancho, to
be of good courage; for experience shall give thee sufficient proof of
mine."
"I will, if it please God," answered Sancho; and, retiring a little on
one side of the road, and again endeavoring to discover what those
walking lights might be, they soon after perceived a great many persons
clothed in white.
This dreadful spectacle completely annihilated the courage of Sancho,
whose teeth began to chatter, as if seized with a quartan ague; and his
trembling and chattering increased as more of it appeared in view; for
now they discovered about twenty persons in white robes, all on
horseback, with lighted torches in their hands; behind them came a
litter covered with black, which was followed by six persons in deep
mourning; the mules on which they were mounted being covered likewise
with black down to their heels; for that they were mules, and not
horses, was evident by the slowness of their pace. Those robed in white
were muttering to themselves in a low and plaintive tone.
This strange vision, at such an hour, and in a place so uninhabited
might well strike terror into Sancho's heart, and even into that of his
master; and so it would have done had he been any other than Don
Quixote. As for Sancho, his whole stock of courage was now exhausted.
But it was otherwise with his master, whose lively imagination instantly
suggested to him that this must be truly a chivalrous adventure. He
conceived that the litter was a bier, whereon was carried some knight
sorely wounded, or slain, whose revenge was reserved for him alone; he,
therefore, without delay couched his spear, seated himself firm in his
saddle, and with grace and spirit advanced into the middle of the road
by which the procession must pass; and, when they were near, he raised
his voice and said: "Ho, knights, whoever ye are, halt, and give me an
account to whom ye belong; whence ye come, whither ye are going, and
what it is ye carry upon that bier; for in all appearance either ye have
done some injury to others, or others to you: and it is expedient and
necessary that I be informed of it, either to chastise ye for the evil
ye have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sustained."
"We are in haste," answered one in the procession; "the inn is a great
way off, and we cannot stay to give so long an account as you require."
Then, spurring his mule, he passed forward.
Don Quixote, highly resenting this answer, laid hold of his bridle and
said: "Stand, and with more civility give me the account I demand;
otherwise I challenge ye all to battle."
The mule was timid, and started so much upon his touching the bridle,
that, rising on her hind legs, she threw her rider over the crupper to
the ground. A lacquey that came on foot, seeing the man in white fall,
began to revile Don Quixote, whose choler being now raised, he couched
his spear, and immediately attacking one of the mourners, laid him on
the ground grievously wounded; then turning about to the rest, it was
worth seeing with what agility he attacked and defeated them; and it
seemed as if wings at that instant had sprung on Rozinante--so lightly
and swiftly he moved! All the white-robed people, being timorous and
unarmed, soon quitted the skirmish and ran over the plain with their
lighted torches, looking like so many masqueraders on a carnival or
festival night. The mourners were so wrapped up and muffled in their
long robes that they could make no exertion; so that Don Quixote, with
entire safety, assailed them all, and, sorely against their will,
obliged them to quit the field; for they thought him no man, but the
devil from hell broke loose upon them to seize the dead body they were
conveying in the litter.
All this Sancho beheld with admiration at his master's intrepidity, and
said to himself: "This master of mine is certainly as valiant and
magnanimous as he pretends to be."
A burning torch lay upon the ground near the first whom the mule had
overthrown, by the light of which Don Quixote espied him, and going up
to him, placed the point of his spear to his throat, commanding him to
surrender, on pain of death. To which the fallen man answered: "I am
surrendered enough already, since I cannot stir, for one of my legs is
broken. I beseech you, sir, if you are a Christian gentleman, do not
kill me: you would commit a great sacrilege, for I am a licentiate and
have taken the lesser orders."
"Who the devil, then," said Don Quixote, "brought you hither, being an
ecclesiastic?"
"Who, sir?" replied the fallen man; "my evil fortune."
"A worse fate now threatens you," said Don Quixote, "unless you reply
satisfactorily to all my first questions."
"Your worship shall soon be satisfied," answered the licentiate; "and
therefore you must know, sir, that though I told you before I was a
licentiate, I am in fact only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Alonzo
Lopez. I am a native of Alcovendas, and came from the city of Baeza with
eleven more ecclesiastics, the same who fled with the torches. We were
attending the corpse in that litter to the city of Segovia. It is that
of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was deposited till now, that,
as I said before, we are carrying his bones to their place of burial in
Segovia, where he was born."
"And who killed him?" demanded Don Quixote.
"God," replied the bachelor, "by means of a pestilential fever."
"Then," said Don Quixote, "our Lord hath saved me the labor of revenging
his death, in case he had been slain by any other hand. But, since he
fell by the hand of Heaven, there is nothing expected from us but
patience and a silent shrug; for just the same must I have done had it
been His pleasure to pronounce the fatal sentence upon me. It is proper
that your reverence should know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don
Quixote by name, and that it is my office and profession to go over the
world righting wrongs and redressing grievances."
He that seeketh danger perisheth therein.
Fear hath many eyes.
Evil to him that evil seeks.
Everybody has not discretion to take things by the right
handle.
He loves thee well who makes thee weep.
THE GRAND ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET.
About this time it began to rain a little, and Sancho proposed entering
the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such an abhorrence of
them for the late jest, that he would by no means go in: turning,
therefore, to the right hand, they struck into another road, like that
they had travelled through the day before. Soon after, Don Quixote
discovered a man on horseback, who had on his head something which
glittered as if it had been of gold; and scarcely had he seen it when,
turning to Sancho, he said, "I am of opinion, Sancho, there is no
proverb but what is true, because they are all sentences drawn from
experience itself, the mother of all the sciences; especially that which
says, 'Where one door is shut another is opened.' I say this because, if
fortune last night shut the door against what we sought, deceiving us
with the fulling-mills, it now opens wide another, for a better and
more certain adventure; in which, if I am deceived, the fault will be
mine, without imputing it to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or to the
darkness of night. This I say because, if I mistake not, there comes one
towards us who carries on his head Mambrino's helmet, concerning which
thou mayest remember I swore the oath."
"Take care, sir, what you say, and more what you do," said Sancho; "for
I would not wish for other fulling-mills, to finish the milling and
mashing our senses."
"The devil take thee!" replied Don Quixote: "what has a helmet to do
with fulling-mills?"
"I know not," answered Sancho; "but in faith, if I might talk as much as
I used to do, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would
see you are mistaken in what you say."
"How can I be mistaken in what I say, scrupulous traitor?" said Don
Quixote. "Tell me, seest thou not yon knight coming towards us on a
dapple-gray steed, with a helmet of gold on his head?"
"What I see and perceive," answered Sancho, "is only a man on a gray ass
like mine, with something on his head that glitters."
"Why, that is Mambrino's helmet," said Don Quixote; "retire, and leave
me alone to deal with him, and thou shalt see how, in order to save
time, I shall conclude this adventure without speaking a word, and the
helmet I have so much desired remain my own."
"I shall take care to get out of the way," replied Sancho; "but Heaven
grant, I say again, it may not prove another fulling-mill adventure."
"I have already told thee, Sancho, not to mention those fulling-mills,
nor even think of them," said Don Quixote: "if thou dost--I say no more,
but I vow to mill thy soul for thee!" Sancho held his peace, fearing
lest his master should perform his vow, which had struck him all of a
heap.
Now the truth of the matter, concerning the helmet, the steed, and the
knight which Don Quixote saw, was this. There were two villages in that
neighborhood, one of them so small that it had neither shop nor barber,
but the other adjoining to it had both; therefore the barber of the
larger served also the less, wherein one customer now wanted to be let
blood and another to be shaved; to perform which, the barber was now on
his way, carrying with him his brass basin; and it so happened that
while upon the road it began to rain, and to save his hat, which was a
new one, he clapped the basin on his head, which being lately scoured
was seen glittering at the distance of half a league; and he rode on a
gray ass, as Sancho had affirmed. Thus Don Quixote took the barber for a
knight, his ass for a dapple-gray steed, and his basin for a golden
helmet; for whatever he saw was quickly adapted to his knightly
extravagances: and when the poor knight drew near, without staying to
reason the case with him, he advanced at Rozinante's best speed, and
couched his lance, intending to run him through and through; but, when
close upon him, without checking the fury of his career, he cried out,
"Defend thyself, caitiff! or instantly surrender what is justly my due."
The barber, so unexpectedly seeing this phantom advancing upon him, had
no other way to avoid the thrust of the lance than to slip down from the
ass; and no sooner had he touched the ground than, leaping up nimbler
than a roebuck, he scampered over the plain with such speed that the
wind could not overtake him. The basin he left on the ground; with which
Don Quixote was satisfied, observing that the pagan had acted
discreetly, and in imitation of the beaver, which, when closely pursued
by the hunters, tears off with his teeth that which it knows by instinct
to be the object of pursuit. He ordered Sancho to take up the helmet;
who, holding it in his hand, said, "Before Heaven, the basin is a
special one, and is well worth a piece of eight, if it is worth a
farthing."
He then gave it to his master, who immediately placed it upon his head,
turning it round in search of the visor; but not finding it he said,
"Doubtless the pagan for whom this famous helmet was originally forged
must have had a prodigious head--the worst of it is that one half is
wanting."
When Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he could not forbear
laughing; which, however, he instantly checked on recollecting his
master's late choler.
"What dost thou laugh at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
"I am laughing," answered he, "to think what a huge head the pagan had
who owned that helmet, which is for all the world just like a barber's
basin."
"Knowest thou, Sancho, what I conceive to be the case? This famous
piece, this enchanted helmet, by some strange accident must have fallen
into the possession of one who, ignorant of its true value as a helmet
and seeing it to be of the purest gold, hath inconsiderately melted down
the one-half for lucre's sake, and of the other half made this, which,
as thou sayest, doth indeed look like a barber's basin; but to me, who
know what it really is, its transformation is of no importance, for I
will have it so repaired in the first town where there is a smith, that
it shall not be surpassed nor even equalled by that which the god of
smiths himself made and forged for the god of battles. In the mean time
I will wear it as I best can, for something is better than nothing; and
it will be sufficient to defend me from stones."
Be brief in thy discourse, for what is prolix cannot be
pleasing.
Never stand begging for that which you have the power to
take.
There are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some there are
who derive their pedigree from princes and monarchs, whom
time has gradually reduced until they have ended in a point,
like a pyramid; others have had a low origin, and have risen
by degrees, until they have become great lords. So that the
difference is, that some have been what they now are not,
and others are now what they were not before.
A leap from a hedge is better than the prayer of a bishop.
A snatch from behind a bush is better than the prayer of
good men.
Customs come not all together, neither were they all
invented at once.
Who sings in grief procures relief.
Let every one turn himself round, and look at home, and he
will find enough to do.
To be grateful for benefits received is the duty of honest
men--one of the sins that most offendeth God is ingratitude.
Benefits conferred on base-minded people are like drops of
water thrown into the sea.
Retreating is not running away, nor is staying wisdom when
the danger overbalances the hope; and it is the part of wise
men to secure themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not to
venture all upon one throw.
The wicked are always ungrateful.
Necessity urges desperate measures.
SONNET.
Know'st thou, O love, the pangs that I sustain,
Or, cruel, dost thou view those pangs unmov'd?
Or has some hidden cause its influence proved,
By all this sad variety of pain?
Love is a god, then surely he must know,
And knowing, pity wretchedness like mine;
From other hands proceeds the fatal blow--
Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine?
Ah, no! a form so exquisitely fair
A soul so merciless can ne'er enclose.
From Heaven's high will my fate resistless flows,
And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear.
Nought but a miracle my life can save,
And snatch its destined victim from the grave.
The devil is subtle, and lays stumbling-blocks in our way,
over which we fall without knowing how.
In all misfortunes the greatest consolation is a
sympathizing friend.
Riches are but of little avail against the ills inflicted by
the hand of Heaven.
He that buys and denies, his own purse belies.
Till you hedge in the sky, the starlings will fly.
If a painter would be famous in his art, he must endeavor to
copy after the originals of the most excellent masters; the
same rule is also applicable to all the other arts and
sciences which adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever aspires
to a reputation for prudence and patience, must imitate
Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws a lively
picture of those qualities; so also Virgil, in the
character of AEneas, delineates filial piety, courage, and
martial skill, being representations of not what they really
were, but of what they ought to be, in order to serve as
models of virtue to succeeding generations.
The absent feel and fear every ill.
"I have heard say," quoth Sancho, "'from hell there is no retention.'"
"I know not," said Don Quixote, "what retention means."
"Retention," answered Sancho, "means that he who is once in hell never
does, nor ever can, get out again. I must strip off all my armor, and
remain as naked as I was born, if I should determine upon imitating
Orlando, in my penance, instead of Amadis."
While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a high
mountain, which stood separated from several others that surrounded it,
as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base ran a gentle stream,
that watered a verdant and luxuriant vale, adorned with many
wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers of various hues. This was
the spot in which the knight of the sorrowful figure chose to perform
his penance; and, while contemplating the scene, he thus broke forth in
a loud voice:--
"This is the place, O ye heavens! which I select and appoint for
bewailing the misfortune in which ye have involved me. This is the spot
where my flowing tears shall increase the waters of this crystal stream,
and my sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly move the foliage of
these lofty trees, in testimony and token of the pain my persecuted
heart endures. O ye rural deities, whoever ye be, that inhabit these
remote deserts, give ear to the complaints of an unhappy lover, whom
long absence and some pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail himself
among these rugged heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that
ungrateful fair, the utmost extent and ultimate perfection of all human
beauty! O ye wood-nymphs and dryads, who are accustomed to inhabit the
dark recesses of the mountain groves (so may the nimble and lascivious
satyrs, by whom ye are wooed in vain, never disturb your sweet repose),
assist me to lament my hard fate, or at least be not weary of hearing my
groans! O my Dulcinea del Toboso, light of my darkness, glory of my
pain, the north-star of my travels, and overruling planet of my fortune
(so may Heaven listen to all thy petitions), consider, I beseech thee,
to what a condition thy absence hath reduced me, and reward me as my
fidelity deserves! O ye solitary trees, who henceforth are to be the
companions of my retirement, wave gently your branches, to indicate that
my presence does not offend you! And, O thou my squire, agreeable
companion in my prosperous and adverse fortunes, carefully imprint on
thy memory what thou shalt see me here perform, that thou mayest recount
and recite it to her who is the sole cause of all!"
"There is no reason why you should threaten me," quoth Sancho, "for I am
not a man to rob or murder anybody. Let every man's fate kill him, or
God who made him. My master is doing a certain penance much to his
liking in the midst of yon mountains."
Don Quixote took out the pocket-book, and, stepping aside, began with
much composure to write the letter; and having finished, he called
Sancho and said he would read it to him that he might have it by heart,
lest he might perchance lose it by the way, for everything was to be
feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho answered: "Write it, sir,
two or three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good
care of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly,
for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship,
however, may read it to me. I shall be glad to hear it, for it must
needs be very much to the purpose."
"Listen, then," said Don Quixote, "this is what I have written ":--
DON QUIXOTE'S LETTER TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.
HIGH AND SOVEREIGN LADY:--He who is stabbed by the point of absence, and
pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets
thee with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself. If thy
beauty despise me, if thy worth favor me not, and if thy disdain still
pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill support an
affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho
will tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe, to what a state
I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure to relieve me, I am
thine; if not, do what seemeth good to thee,--for by my death I shall
at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion.
Until death thine,
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FIGURE.
One should not talk of halters in the house of the hanged.
LINES DISCOVERED ON THE BARK OF A TREE, ADDRESSED TO DULCINEA DEL
TOBOSO.
Ye lofty trees, with spreading arms,
The pride and shelter of the plain;
Ye humble shrubs and flowery charms,
Which here in springing glory reign!
If my complaints may pity move,
Hear the sad story of my love!
While with me here you pass your hours,
Should you grow faded with my cares,
I'll bribe you with refreshing showers;
You shall be watered with my tears.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
Love's truest slave, despairing, chose
This lonely wild, this desert plain,
This silent witness of the woes
Which he, though guiltless, must sustain.
Unknowing why these pains he bears,
He groans, he raves, and he despairs.
With lingering fires Love racks my soul:
In vain I grieve, in vain lament;
Like tortured fiends I weep, I howl,
And burn, yet never can repent.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
While I through Honor's thorny ways,
In search of distant glory rove,
Malignant fate my toil repays
With endless woes and hopeless love.
Thus I on barren rocks despair,
And curse my stars, yet bless my fair.
Love, armed with snakes, has left his dart,
And now does like a fury rave;
And scourge and sting on every part,
And into madness lash his slave.
Distant, though present in idea,
I mourn my absent Dulcinea
Del Toboso.
When the stars are adverse, what is human power?
Who is there in the world that can boast of having fathomed
and thoroughly penetrated the intricate and ever-changing
nature of a woman?
What causes all my grief and pain?
Cruel disdain.
What aggravates my misery?
Accursed jealousy.
How has my soul its patience lost?
By tedious absence crossed.
Alas! no balsam can be found
To heal the grief of such a wound.
When absence, jealousy, and scorn
Have left me hopeless and forlorn.
What in my breast this grief could move?
Neglected love.
What doth my fond desires withstand?
Fate's cruel hand.
And what confirms my misery?
Heaven's fixed decree.
Ah me! my boding fears portend,
This strange disease my life will end:
For die I must, when three such foes,
Heaven, fate, and love, my bliss oppose.
My peace of mind, what can restore?
Death's welcome hour.
What gains love's joys most readily?
Fickle inconstancy.
Its pains what medicine can assuage?
Wild frenzy's rage.
'Tis therefore little wisdom, sure,
For such a grief to seek a cure,
That knows no better remedy
Than frenzy, death, inconstancy.
The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the
singer, all conspired to impress the auditors with wonder and delight,
and they remained for some time motionless, in expectation of hearing
more; but, finding the silence continue, they resolved to see who it was
who had sung so agreeably, and were again detained by the same voice
regaling their ears with this sonnet:--
Friendship, thou hast with nimble flight
Exulting gained the empyreal height,
In heaven to dwell, while here below
Thy semblance reigns in mimic show;
From thence to earth, at thy behest,
Descends fair peace, celestial guest!
Beneath whose veil of shining hue
Deceit oft lurks, concealed from view.
Leave, friendship! leave thy heavenly seat,
Or strip thy livery off the cheat.
If still he wears thy borrowed smiles,
And still unwary truth beguiles,
Soon must this dark terrestrial ball
Into its first confusion fall.
What is sudden death to a protracted life of anguish?
"O heavens! have I then at last found a place which may
afford a secret grave for this wretched body? Yes, if the
silence of this rocky desert deceive me not, here I may die
in peace. Ah, woe is me! Here at least I may freely pour
forth my lamentations to Heaven, and shall be less wretched
than among men, from whom I should in vain seek counsel,
redress, or consolation."
One evil produces another, and misfortunes never come
singly.
O memory, thou mortal enemy of my repose! wherefore now
recall to me the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of
mine! Were it not better, thou cruel faculty! to represent
to my imagination her conduct at that period--that moved by
so flagrant an injury, I may strive if not to avenge it, at
least to end this life of pain?
For no grievance can harass or drive the afflicted to such
extremity, while life remains, as to make them shut their
ears against that counsel which is given with the most
humane and benevolent intention.
Music lulls the disordered thoughts, and elevates the
dejected spirits.
All women, let them be never so homely, are pleased to hear
themselves celebrated for beauty.
The eyes of love or of idleness are like those of a lynx.
One mischance invites another, and the end of one misfortune
is often the beginning of a worse.
Among friends we ought not to stand upon trifles.
No man can command the first emotions of his passions.
Every new fault deserves a new penance.
Where is the wonder one devil should be like another?
Gifts are good after Easter.
A sparrow in the hand is worth more than a bustard on the
wing.
He that will not when he may, when he would he shall have
nay.
Men may prove and use their friends, and not presume upon
their friendship in things contrary to the decrees of
Heaven.
A man dishonored is worse than dead.
"I have heard it preached," quoth Sancho, "that God is to be loved with
this kind of love, for Himself alone, without our being moved to it by
hope of reward or fear of punishment; though, for my part, I am inclined
to love and serve Him for what He is able to do for me."
"The devil take thee for a bumpkin," said Don Quixote; "thou sayest ever
and anon such apt things that one would almost think thee a scholar."
"And yet, by my faith," quoth Sancho, "I cannot so much as read."
Squires and knight-errants are subject to much hunger and
ill-luck.
A man on whom Heaven has bestowed a beautiful wife should be
as cautious respecting the friends he introduces at home as
to her female acquaintance abroad.
If from equal parts we take equal parts, those that remain
are equal.
To attempt voluntarily that which must be productive of evil
rather than good, is madness and folly. Difficult works are
undertaken for the sake of Heaven, or of the world, or both:
the first are such as are performed by the saints while they
endeavor to live the life of angels in their human frames;
such as are performed for love of the world are encountered
by those who navigate the boundless ocean, traverse
different countries and various climates to acquire what are
called the goods of fortune. Those who assail hazardous
enterprises for the sake of both God and man are brave
soldiers, who no sooner perceive in the enemy's wall a
breach made by a single cannon-ball, than, regardless of
danger and full of zeal in the defence of their faith, their
country, and their king, they rush where death in a thousand
shapes awaits them. These are difficulties commonly
attempted, and, though perilous, are glorious and
profitable.
TEARS OF ST. PETER.
Shame, grief, remorse, in Peter's breast increase,
Soon as the blushing morn his crime betrays;
When most unseen, then most himself he sees,
And with due horror all his soul surveys.
For a great spirit needs no censuring eyes
To wound his soul, when conscious of a fault;
But, self-condemn'd, and e'en self-punished, lies,
And dreads no witness like upbraiding Thought.
Expect not, therefore, by concealment, to banish sorrow;
for, even though you weep not openly, tears of blood will
flow from your heart. So wept that simple doctor, who,
according to the poet, would venture to make a trial of the
cup which the more prudent Rinaldo wisely declined doing;
and although this be a poetical fiction, there is a
concealed moral in it worthy to be observed and followed.
There is no jewel in the world so valuable as a chaste and
virtuous woman. The honor of women consists in the good
opinion of the world; and since that of your wife is
eminently good, why would you have it questioned? Woman, my
friend, is an imperfect creature; and, instead of laying
stumbling-blocks in her way, we should clear the path before
her, that she may readily attain that virtue which is
essential in her. Naturalists inform us that the ermine is a
little creature with extremely white fur, and that when the
hunters are in pursuit of it, they spread with mire all the
passes leading to its haunts, to which they then drive it,
knowing that it will submit to be taken rather than defile
itself. The virtuous and modest woman is an ermine, and her
character whiter than snow; and in order to preserve it, a
very different method must be taken from that which is used
with the ermine.
The reputation of a woman may also be compared to a mirror
of crystal, shining and bright, but liable to be sullied by
every breath that comes near it. The virtuous woman must be
treated like a relic--adored but not handled; she should be
guarded and prized, like a fine flower-garden, the beauty
and fragrance of which the owner allows others to enjoy only
at a distance, and through iron rails.
The devil, when he would entrap a cautious person, assumes
an angel form till he carries his point, when the cloven
foot appears.
He who builds on impossibilities should be denied the
privilege of any other foundation.
Hope is ever born with love.
Castles should not be left without governors, nor armies
without generals.
The passion of love is to be conquered by flight alone; it
is vain to contend with a power which, though human,
requires more than human strength to subdue.
SONNET.
In the dead silence of the peaceful night,
When others' cares are hushed in soft repose,
The sad account of my neglected woes
To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite.
And when the sun, with his returning light,
Forth from the east his radiant journey goes,
With accents such as sorrow only knows,
My griefs to tell is all my poor delight.
And when bright Phoebus from his starry throne
Sends rays direct upon the parched soil,
Still in the mournful tale I persevere;
Returning night renews my sorrow's toil;
And though from morn to night I weep and moan,
Nor Heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear.
Are we to take all that enamored poets sing for truth?
SONNET.
Believe me, nymph, I feel th' impending blow,
And glory in the near approach of death;
For when thou see'st my corse devoid of breath,
My constancy and truth thou sure wilt know,
Welcome to me Oblivion's shade obscure!
Welcome the loss of fortune, life, and fame!
But thy loved features, and thy honored name,
Deep graven on my heart, shall still endure.
And these, as sacred relics, will I keep
Till that sad moment when to endless night
My long-tormented soul shall take her flight
Alas for him who on the darkened deep
Floats idly, sport of the tempestuous tide,
No port to shield him, and no star to guide!
He who gives freely gives twice.
That which is lightly gained is little valued.
For love sometimes flies and sometimes walks--runs with one
person, and goes leisurely with another: some he warms, and
some he burns; some he wounds, and others he kills: in one
and the same instant he forms and accomplishes his projects.
He often in the morning lays siege to a fortress which in
the evening surrenders to him--for no force is able to
resist him.
Heaven always favors the honest purpose.
Rank is not essential in a wife.
True nobility consists in virtue.
It is no derogation to rank to elevate beauty adorned with
virtue.
Time will discover.
"Certainly, gentlemen, if we rightly consider it, those who make
knight-errantry their profession often meet with surprising and most
stupendous adventures. For what mortal in the world, at this time
entering within this castle, and seeing us sit together as we do, will
imagine and believe us to be the same persons which in reality we are?
Who is there that can judge that this lady by my side is the great queen
we all know her to be, and that I am that Knight of the Sorrowful Figure
so universally made known by fame? It is, then, no longer to be doubted
but that this exercise and profession surpasses all others that have
been invented by man, and is so much the more honorable as it is more
exposed to dangers. Let none presume to tell me that the pen is
preferable to the sword. This may be ascertained by regarding the end
and object each of them aims at; for that intention is to be most valued
which makes the noblest end its object. The scope and end of learning, I
mean human learning (in this place I speak not of divinity, whose aim is
to guide souls to Heaven, for no other can equal a design so infinite as
that), is to give a perfection to distribute justice, bestowing upon
every one his due, and to procure and cause good laws to be observed; an
end really generous, great, and worthy of high commendation, but yet not
equal to that which knight-errantry tends to, whose object and end is
peace, which is the greatest blessing man can wish for in this life.
And, therefore, the first good news that the world received was that
which the angels brought in the night--the beginning of our day--when
they sang in the air, 'Glory to God on high, peace on earth, and to men
good-will.' And the only manner of salutation taught by our great Master
to His friends and favorites was, that entering any house they should
say, 'Peace be to this house.' And at other times He said to them, 'My
peace I give to you,' 'My peace I leave to you,' 'Peace be among you.' A
jewel and legacy worthy of such a donor, a jewel so precious that
without it there can be no happiness either in earth or heaven. This
peace is the true end of war; for arms and war are one and the same
thing. Allowing, then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, and
that in this it excels the end of learning, let us now weigh the bodily
labors the scholar undergoes against those the warrior suffers, and then
see which are the greatest.
"These, then, I say, are the sufferings and hardships a scholar endures.
First, poverty (not that they are all poor, but to urge the worst that
may be in this case); and having said he endures poverty, methinks
nothing more need be urged to express his misery; for he that is poor
enjoys no happiness, but labors under this poverty in all its parts, at
one time in hunger, at another in cold, another in nakedness, and
sometimes in all of them together; yet his poverty is not so great, but
still he eats, though it be later than the usual hour, and of the scraps
of the rich; neither can the scholar miss of somebody's stove or
fireside to sit by; where, though he be not thoroughly heated, yet he
may gather warmth, and at last sleep away the night under a roof. I will
not touch upon other less material circumstances, as the want of linen,
and scarcity of shoes, thinness and baldness of their clothes, and their
surfeiting when good fortune throws a feast in their way; this is the
difficult and uncouth path they tread, often stumbling and falling, yet
rising again and pushing on, till they attain the preferment they aim
at; whither being arrived, we have seen many of them, who, having been
carried by a fortunate gale through all these quick-sands, from a chair
govern the world; their hunger being changed into satiety, their cold
into comfortable warmth, their nakedness into magnificence of apparel,
and the mats they used to lie upon, into stately beds of costly silks
and softest linen, a reward due to their virtue. But yet their
sufferings, being compared to those the soldier endures, appear much
inferior, as I shall in the next place make out."
Don Quixote, after a short pause, continued his discourse thus:--"Since,
in speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty and its several
branches, let us see whether the soldier be richer. We shall find that
poverty itself is not more poor: for he depends on his wretched pay,
which comes late, and sometimes never; or upon what he can pillage, at
the imminent risk of his life and conscience. Such often is his
nakedness that his slashed buff-doublet serves him both for finery and
shirt; and in the midst of winter, on the open plain, he has nothing to
warm him but the breath of his mouth, which, issuing from an empty
place, must needs be cold. But let us wait, and see whether night will
make amends for these inconveniences: if his bed be too narrow it is his
own fault, for he may measure out as many feet of earth as he pleases,
and roll himself thereon at pleasure without fear of rumpling the
sheets. Suppose the moment arrived of taking his degree--I mean,
suppose-the day of battle come: his doctoral cap may then be of lint, to
cover some gun-shot wound, which perhaps has gone through his temples,
or deprived him of an arm or leg.
"And even suppose that Heaven in its mercy should preserve him alive and
unhurt, he will probably remain as poor as ever; for he must be engaged
and victorious in many battles before he can expect high promotion; and
such good fortune happens only by a miracle: for you will allow,
gentlemen, that few are the number of those that have reaped the reward
of their services, compared with those who have perished in war. The
dead are countless; whereas those who survived to be rewarded may be
numbered with three figures. Not so with scholars, who by their salaries
(I will not say their perquisites) are generally handsomely provided
for. Thus the labors of the soldier are greater, although his reward is
less. It may be said in answer to this, that it is easier to reward two
thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers: for scholars are
rewarded by employments which must of course be given to men of their
profession; whereas the soldier can only be rewarded by the property of
the master whom, he serves; and this defence serves to strengthen my
argument.
"But, waiving this point, let us consider the comparative claims to
pre-eminence: for the partisans of each can bring powerful arguments in
support of their own cause. It is said in favor of letters that without
them arms could not subsist; for war must have its laws, and laws come
within the province of the learned. But it may be alleged in reply, that
arms are necessary to the maintenance of law; by arms the public roads
are protected, cities guarded, states defended, kingdoms preserved, and
the seas cleared of corsairs and pirates. In short, without arms there
would be no safety for cities, commonwealths or kingdoms. Besides, it is
just to estimate a pursuit in proportion to the cost of its attainment.
Now it is true that eminence in learning is purchased by time, watching,
hunger, nakedness, vertigo, indigestion, and many other inconveniences
already mentioned; but a man who rises gradually to be a good soldier
endures all these, and far more. What is the hunger and poverty which
menace the man of letters compared with the situation of the soldier,
who, besieged in some fortress, and placed as sentinel in some ravelin
or _cavalier_, perceives that the enemy is mining toward the place where
he stands, and yet he must on no account stir from his post or shun the
imminent danger that threatens him? All that he can do in such a case is
to give notice to his officer of what passes, that he may endeavor to
counteract it; in the meantime he must stand his ground, in momentary
expectation of being mounted to the clouds without wings, and then
dashed headlong to the earth. And if this be thought but a trifling
danger, let us see whether it be equalled or exceeded by the encounter
of two galleys, prow to prow, in the midst of the white sea, locked and
grappled together, so that there is no more room left for the soldier
than the two-foot plank at the break-head; and though he sees as many
threatening ministers of death before him as there are pieces of
artillery pointed at him from the opposite side, not the length of a
lance from his body; though he knows that the first slip of his foot
sends him to the bottom of the sea; yet, with an undaunted heart,
inspired by honor, he exposes himself as a mark to all their fire, and
endeavors by that narrow pass to force his way into the enemy's vessel!
And, what is most worthy of admiration, no sooner is one fallen, never,
to rise again in this world, than another takes his place; and if he
also fall into the sea, which lies in wait to devour him, another and
another succeeds without intermission! In all the extremities of war
there is no example of courage and intrepidity to exceed this. Happy
those ages which knew not the dreadful fury of artillery!--those
instruments of hell (where, I verily believe, the inventor is now
receiving the reward of his diabolical ingenuity), by means of which the
cowardly and the base can deprive the bravest soldier of life. While a
gallant spirit animated with heroic ardor is pressing to glory, comes a
chance ball, sent by one who perhaps fled in alarm at the flash of his
own accursed weapon, and in an instant cuts short the life of him who
deserved to live for ages! When I consider this, I could almost repent
having undertaken this profession of knight-errantry in so detestable an
age; for though no danger can daunt me, still it gives me some concern
to think that powder and lead may suddenly cut short my career of glory.
But Heaven's will be done! I have this satisfaction, that I shall
acquire the greater fame if I succeed, inasmuch as the perils by which I
am beset are greater than those to which the knights-errant of past ages
were exposed."
The army is a school in which the miser becomes generous,
and the generous prodigal.
A covetous soldier is a monster which is rarely seen.
Liberality may be carried too far in those who have children
to inherit from them.
How seldom promises made in slavery are remembered after a
release from bondage.
Good fortune seldom comes pure and single, unattended by
some troublesome or unexpected circumstance.
Though we love the treason we abhor the traitor.
What transport in life can equal that which a man feels on
the restoration of his liberty?
"The church, the court, or the sea;" as if it more fully
expressed the following advice,--He that would make his
fortune, ought either to dedicate his time to the church, go
to sea as a merchant, or attach himself to the court: for it
is commonly observed, that "the king's crumb is worth the
baron's batch."[5]
SONNET UPON THE GOLETA.
O happy souls, by death at length set free
From the dark prison of mortality,
By glorious deeds, whose memory never dies--
From earth's dim spot exalted to the skies!
What fury stood in every eye confessed!
What generous ardor fired each manly breast,
While slaughtered heaps distained the sandy shore,
And the tinged ocean blushed with hostile gore!
O'erpowered by numbers, gloriously ye fell:
Death only could such matchless courage quell;
Whilst dying thus ye triumphed o'er your foes--
Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows!
SONNET ON THE FORT.
From 'midst these walls, whose ruins spread around,
And scattered clods that heap the ensanguined ground,
Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight,
To better regions took their happy flight.
Long with unconquered souls they bravely stood,
And fearless shed their unavailing blood:
Till, to superior force compelled to yield,
Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field.
This fatal soil has ever been the tomb
Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb:
Yet braver bodies did it ne'er sustain,
Nor send more glorious soul the skies to gain.
I.
Tossed in a sea of doubts and fears,
Love's hapless mariner, I sail,
Where no inviting port appears,
To screen me from the stormy gale.
II.
At distance viewed, a cheering star
Conducts me through the swelling tide;
A brighter luminary, far,
Than Palinurus o'er descried.
III.
My soul, attracted by its blaze,
Still follows where it points the way,
And while attentively I gaze,
Considers not how far I stray.
IV.
But female pride, reserved and shy,
Like clouds that deepen on the day,
Oft shroud it from my longing eye,
When most I need the genial ray.
V.
O lovely star, so pure and bright!
Whose splendor feeds my vital fire,
The moment thou deny'st thy light,
Thy lost adorer will expire!
SONG.
Unconquered hope, thou bane of fear,
And last deserter of the brave,
Thou soothing ease of mortal care,
Thou traveller beyond the grave;
Thou soul of patience, airy food,
Bold warrant of a distant good,
Reviving cordial, kind decoy;
Though fortune frowns and friends depart,
Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy,
Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart.
No slave, to lazy ease resigned,
E'er triumphed over noble foes;
The monarch fortune most is kind
To him who bravely dares oppose.
They say, Love rates his blessing high,
But who would prize an easy joy?
My scornful fair then I'll pursue,
Though the coy beauty still denies;
I grovel now on earth, 'tis true,
But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise.
Might overcomes.
Him to whom God giveth may St. Peter bless.
Diligence is the mother of success, and in many important
causes experience hath shown that the assiduity of the
solicitor hath brought a very doubtful suit to a very
fortunate issue; but the truth of this maxim is nowhere more
evinced than in war, where activity and despatch anticipate
the designs of the enemy, and obtain the victory before he
has time to put himself in a posture of defence.
The common adage that delays are dangerous acts as spurs
upon the resolution.
There are more tricks in the town than are dreamt of.
Virtue is always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved
by the righteous.
Virtue is so powerful that of herself she will, in spite of
all the necromancy possessed by the first inventor,
Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every severe trial, and
shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the
heavens.
Fables should not be composed to outrage the understanding;
but by making the wonderful appear possible, and creating in
the mind a pleasing interest, they may both surprise and
entertain; which cannot be effected where no regard is paid
to probability. I have never yet found a regular,
well-connected fable in any of our books of chivalry--they
are all inconsistent and monstrous; the style is generally
bad; and they abound with incredible exploits, lascivious
amours, absurd sentiment, and miraculous adventures; in
short, they should be banished every Christian country.
Just are virtue's fears where envy domineers.
Bounty will not stay where niggards bear the sway.
Fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and those who were
yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day.
Every one is the son of his own works.
The mind receives pleasure from the beauty and consistency
of what is presented to the imagination, not from that which
is incongruous and unnatural.
Fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth,
and agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears and
the doubtful credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such
fables ought to be suited to the understanding of those who
read them, and written so as that, by softening
impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the
mind in suspense, they may surprise, agreeably perplex, and
entertain, creating equal admiration and delight; and these
never can be excited by authors who forsake probability and
imitation, in which the perfection of writing consists.
Epics may be written in prose as well as verse.
To assert that there never was an Amadis in the world, nor
any other of the knights-adventurers of whom so many records
remain, is to say that the sun does not enlighten, the frost
produce cold, nor the earth yield sustenance.
The approbation of the judicious few should far outweigh
the censure of the ignorant.
An author had better be applauded by the few that are wise,
than laughed at by the many that are foolish.
Our modern plays, not only those which are formed upon
fiction, but likewise such as are founded on the truth of
history, are all, or the greatest part, universally known to
be monstrous productions, without either head or tail, and
yet received with pleasure by the multitude, who approve and
esteem them as excellent performances, though they are far
from deserving that title; and if the authors who compose,
and the actors who represent them, affirm that this and no
other method is to be practised, because the multitude must
be pleased; that those which bear the marks of contrivance,
and produce a fable digested according to the rules of art,
serve only for entertainment to four or five people of
taste, who discern the beauties of the plan, which utterly
escape the rest of the audience; and that it is better for
them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than
starve upon reputation with the few; at this rate, said I,
if I should finish my book, after having scorched every hair
in my whiskers in poring over it, to preserve those rules
and precepts already mentioned, I might fare at last like
the sagacious botcher, who sewed for nothing and found his
customers in thread.
It is not a sufficient excuse to say that the object in
permitting theatrical exhibitions being chiefly to provide
innocent recreation for the people, it is unnecessary to
limit and restrain the dramatic author within strict rules
of composition; for I affirm that the same object is, beyond
all comparison, more effectually attained by legitimate
works. The spectator of a good drama is amused, admonished,
and improved by what is diverting, affecting, and moral in
the representation; he is cautioned against deceit,
corrected by example, incensed against vice, stimulated to
the love of virtue.
Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirror of life,
the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas those
that are represented in this age are mirrors of absurdity,
exemplars of folly, and pictures of lewdness; for sure,
nothing can be more absurd in a dramatic performance, than
to see the person, who, in the first scene of the first
act, was produced a child in swaddling-clothes, appear a
full-grown man with a beard in the second; or to represent
an old man active and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a
footman eloquent, a page a counsellor, a king a porter, and
a princess a scullion. Then what shall we say concerning
their management of the time and place in which the actions
have, or may be supposed to have happened? I have seen a
comedy, the first act of which was laid in Europe, the
second in Asia, and the third was finished in Africa; nay,
had there been a fourth, the scene would have shifted to
America, so that the fable would have travelled through all
the four divisions of the globe. If imitation be the chief
aim of comedy, how can any ordinary understanding be
satisfied with seeing an action that passed in the time of
King Pepin and Charlemagne, ascribed to the Emperor
Heraclius, who, being the principal personage, is
represented, like Godfrey of Boulogne, carrying the cross
into Jerusalem, and making himself master of the holy
sepulchre, an infinite number of years having passed between
the one and the other? Or, when a comedy is founded upon
fiction, to see scraps of real history introduced, and facts
misrepresented both with regard to persons and times, not
with any ingenuity of contrivance, but with the most
manifest and inexcusable errors and stupidity; and what is
worst of all, there is a set of ignorant pretenders who call
this the perfection of writing, and that every attempt to
succeed by a contrary method is no other than a wild-goose
chase.
The bow cannot remain always bent; and relaxation, both of
body and mind, is indispensable to all.
Can you deny what is in everybody's mouth, when a person is
in the dumps? It is always then said, "I know not what such
a one ails--he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor
answers to the purpose, like other men--surely he is
enchanted." Wherefore, it is clear that such, and such only,
are enchanted who neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep, and not
they who eat and drink when they can get it, and answer
properly to all that is asked them.
The poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of liberality;
and the gratitude which consists only in inclination is a
dead thing, even as faith without works is dead. I shall,
therefore, rejoice when fortune presents me with an
opportunity of exalting myself, that I may show my heart in
conferring benefits on my friends, especially on poor Sancho
Panza here, my squire, who is one of the best men in the
world; and I would fain bestow on him an earldom, as I have
long since promised; although I am somewhat in doubt of his
ability in the government of his estate.
Sancho, overhearing his master's last words, said: "Take you the
trouble, Signor Don Quixote, to procure me that same earldom, which your
worship has so often promised, and I have been so long waiting for, and
you shall see that I shall not want ability to govern it. But even if I
should, there are people, I have heard say, who farm these lordships;
and paying the owners so much a year, take upon themselves the
government of the whole, while his lordship lolls at his ease, enjoying
his estate, without concerning himself any further about it. Just so
will I do, and give myself no more trouble than needs mast, but enjoy
myself like any duke, and let the world rub."
"This, brother Sancho," said the canon, "may be done, as far as regards
the management of your revenue; but the administration of justice must
be attended to by the lord himself, and requires capacity, judgment,
and, above all, an upright intention, without which nothing prospers;
for Heaven assists the good intent of the simple, and disappoints the
evil designs of the cunning."
"I do not understand these philosophies," answered Sancho; "all that I
know is, that I wish I may as surely have the earldom as I should know
how to govern it; for I have as large a soul as another, and as large a
body as the best of them; and I should be as much king of my own
dominion as any other king; would do what I pleased; and, doing what I
pleased, I should have my will; and having my will, I should be
contented; and, being content, there is no more to be desired; and when
there is no more to desire, there is an end of it."
"These are no bad philosophies, as you say, Sancho," quoth the canon;
"nevertheless, there is a great deal more to be said upon the subject of
earldoms."
"That may be," observed Don Quixote; "but I am guided by the numerous
examples offered on this subject by knights of my own profession; who,
in compensation for the loyal and signal services they had received from
their squires, conferred upon them extraordinary favors, making them
absolute lords of cities and islands: indeed, there was one whose
services were so great that he had the presumption to accept of a
kingdom. But why should I say more, when before me is the bright example
of the great Amadis de Gaul, who made his squire knight of the Firm
Island? Surely I may, therefore, without scruple of conscience, make an
earl of Sancho Panza, who is one of the best squires that ever served
knight-errant."
The mountains breed learned men, and the cottages of shepherds contain
philosophers.
Upon the news of Don Quixote's arrival, Sancho Panza's wife repaired
thither, and on meeting him, her first inquiry was whether the ass had
come home well.
Sancho told her that he was in a better condition than his master.
"The Lord be praised," replied she, "for so great a mercy to me! But
tell me, husband, what good have you got by your squireship? Have you
brought a petticoat home for me, and shoes for your children?"
"I have brought you nothing of that sort, dear wife," quoth Sancho; "but
I have got other things of greater consequence."
"I am very glad of that," answered the wife, "pray show me your things
of greater consequence, friend; for I would fain see them, to gladden my
heart, which has been so sad, all the long time you have been away."
"You shall see them at home, wife," quoth Sancho, "and be satisfied at
present; for if it please God that we make another sally in quest of
adventures, you will soon see me an earl or governor of an island, and
no common one either, but one of the best that is to be had."
"Grant Heaven it may be so, husband," quoth the wife, "for we have need
enough of it. But pray tell me what you mean by islands; for I do not
understand you."
"Honey is not for the mouth of an ass," answered Sancho: "in good time,
wife, you shall see, yea, and admire to hear yourself styled ladyship by
all your vassals."
"What do you mean, Sancho, by ladyship, islands, and vassals?" answered
Teresa Panza; for that was Sancho's wife's name, though they were not of
kin, but because it is the custom in La Mancha for the wife to take the
husband's name.
"Be not in so much haste, Teresa, to know all this," said Sancho; "let
it suffice that I tell you the truth, and sew up your mouth. But for the
present know that there is nothing in the world so pleasant to an honest
man, as to be squire to a knight-errant, and seeker of adventures. It is
true indeed, most of them are not so much to a man's mind as he could
wish; for ninety-nine of a hundred one meets with fall out cross and
unlucky. This I know by experience; for I have sometimes come off tossed
in a blanket, and sometimes well cudgelled. Yet, for all that, it is a
fine thing to be in expectation of accidents, traversing mountains,
searching woods, marching over rocks, visiting castles, lodging in inns,
all at discretion, and the devil a farthing to pay."
Fame has preserved in the memoirs of La Mancha, that Don Quixote, the
third time he sallied from home, went to Saragossa, where he was present
at a famous tournament in that city, and that there befell him things
worthy of his valor and good understanding. Nor would the chronicler
have learned any thing concerning his death had he not fortunately
become acquainted with an aged physician, who had in his custody a
leaden box, found, as he said, under the ruins of an ancient hermitage
then rebuilding: in which box was found a manuscript of parchment
written in Gothic characters, but in Castilian verse, containing many of
his exploits, and giving an account of the beauty of Dulcinea del
Toboso, the figure of Rozinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the
burial of Don Quixote himself, with several epitaphs and eulogies on his
life and manners. All that could be read, and perfectly made out, were
those inserted here by the faithful author of this strange and
never-before-seen history; which author desires no other reward from
those who shall read it, in recompense of the vast pains it has cost him
to inquire into and search all the archives of La Mancha to bring it to
light, but that they would afford him the same credit that ingenious
people give to books of knight-errantry, which are so well received in
the world; and herewith he will reckon himself well paid, and will rest
satisfied; and will moreover be encouraged to seek and find out others,
if not as true, at least of as much invention and entertainment. The
first words, written in the parchment which was found in the leaden box,
were these:--
THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA,
A TOWN OF LA MANCHA,
ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THE VALOROUS
DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA,
HOC SCRIPSERUNT.
_Monicongo, Academician of Argamasilla, on the Sepulture of
Don Quixote._
EPITAPH.
La Mancha's thunderbolt of war,
The sharpest wit and loftiest muse,
The arm which from Gaeta far
To Catai did its force diffuse;
He who, through love and valor's fire,
Outstripped great Amadis's fame
Bid warlike Galaor retire,
And silenced Belianis' name:
He who, with helmet, sword, and shield,
On Rozinante, steed well known,
Adventures fought in many a field,
Lies underneath this frozen stone.
_Paniaguado, Academician of Argamasilla, in praise of Dulcinea
Del Toboso._
SONNET.
She whom you see the plump and lusty dame,
With high erected chest and vigorous mien,
Was erst th' enamored knight Don Quixote's flame,
The fair Dulcinea, of Toboso, queen.
For her, armed cap-a-pie with sword and shield,
He trod the sable mountain o'er and o'er;
For her he traversed Montiel's well-known field,
And in her service toils unnumbered bore.
Hard fate! that death should crop so fine a flower!
And love o'er such a knight exert his tyrant power!
_Caprichoso, a most ingenious Academician of Argamasilla, in
praise of Don Quixote's Horse Rozinante._
SONNET.
On the aspiring adamantine trunk
Of a huge tree, whose root, with slaughter drunk
Sends forth a scent of war, La Mancha's knight,
Frantic with valor, and returned from fight,
His bloody standard trembling in the air,
Hangs up his glittering armor beaming far,
With that fine-tempered steel whose edge o'erthrows,
Hacks, hews, confounds, and routs opposing foes.
Unheard-of prowess! and unheard-of verse!
But art new strains invents, new glories to rehearse.
If Amadis to Grecia gives renown,
Much more her chief does fierce Bellona crown.
Prizing La Mancha more than Gaul or Greece,
As Quixote triumphs over Amadis.
Oblivion ne'er shall shroud his glorious name,
Whose very horse stands up to challenge fame!
Illustrious Rozinante, wondrous steed!
Not with more generous pride or mettled speed,
His rider erst Rinaldo's Bayard bore,
Or his mad lord, Orlando's Brilladore.
_Burlador, the little Academician of Argamasilla, on Sancho Panza._
SONNET.
See Sancho Panza, view him well,
And let this verse his praises tell.
His body was but small, 'tis true,
Yet had a soul as large as two.
No guile he knew, like some before him
But simple as his mother bore him.
This gentle squire on gentle ass
Went gentle Rozinante's pace,
Following his lord from place to place.
To be an earl he did aspire,
And reason good for such desire;
But worth in these ungrateful times,
To envied honor seldom climbs.
Vain mortals! give your wishes o'er,
And trust the flatterer Hope no more,
Whose promises, whate'er they seem,
End in a shadow or a dream.
_Cachidiablo, Academician of Argamasilla, on the Sepulture of
Don Quixote._
EPITAPH.
Here lies an evil-errant knight,
Well bruised in many a fray,
Whose courser, Rozinante hight,
Long bore him many a way.
Close by his loving master's side
Lies booby Sancho Panza,
A trusty squire of courage tried,
And true as ever man saw.
_Tiquitoc, Academician of Argamasilla, on the sepulture of Dulcinea
del Toboso._
Dulcinea, fat and fleshy, lies
Beneath this frozen stone;
But, since to frightful death a prize,
Reduced to skin and bone.
Of goodly parentage she came,
And had the lady in her;
She was the great Don Quixote's flame,
But only death could win her.
These were all the verses that could be read: the rest, the characters
being worm-eaten, were consigned to one of the Academicians, to find out
their meaning by conjectures. We are informed he has done it, after many
lucubrations and much pains, and that he designs to publish them, giving
us hopes of Don Quixote's third sally.
"Forsi altro cantara con miglior plectro."
The noble mind may be clouded by adversity, but cannot be
wholly concealed; for true merit shines by a light of its
own, and, glimmering through the rents and crannies of
indigence, is perceived, respected, and honored by the
generous and the great.
A SHORT STORY OF WHAT HAPPENED ONCE IN SEVILLE.
A certain man, being deranged in his intellects, was placed by his
relations in the mad-house of Seville. He had taken his degrees in the
canon law at Ossuna; but had it been at Salamanca, many are of opinion
he would, nevertheless, have been mad. This graduate, after some years'
confinement, took into his head that he was quite in his right senses,
and therefore wrote to the archbishop, beseeching him, with great
earnestness and apparently with much reason, that he would be pleased to
deliver him from that miserable state of confinement in which he lived;
since, through the mercy of God, he had regained his senses; adding that
his relations, in order to enjoy part of his estate, kept him still
there, and, in spite of the clearest evidence, would insist upon his
being mad as long as he lived.
The archbishop, prevailed upon by the many sensible epistles he received
from him, sent one of his chaplains to the keeper of the mad-house to
inquire into the truth of what the licentiate had alleged, and also to
talk with him, and if it appeared that he was in his senses, to set him
at liberty. The chaplain accordingly went to the rector, who assured him
that the man was still insane, for though he sometimes talked very
sensibly, it was seldom for any length of time without betraying his
derangement; as he would certainly find on conversing with him. The
chaplain determined to make the trial, and during the conversation of
more than an hour, could perceive no symptom of incoherence in his
discourse; on the contrary, he spoke with so much sedateness and
judgment that the chaplain could not entertain a doubt of the sanity of
his intellects. Among other things he assured him that the keeper was
bribed by his relations to persist in reporting him to be deranged; so
that his large estate was his great misfortune, to enjoy which his
enemies had recourse to fraud, and pretended to doubt of the mercy of
Heaven in restoring him from the condition of a brute to that of a man.
In short, he talked so plausibly that he made the rector appear venal
and corrupt, his relations unnatural, and himself so discreet that the
chaplain determined to take him immediately to the archbishop, that he
might be satisfied he had done right.
With this resolution the good chaplain desired the keeper of the house
to restore to him the clothes which he wore when he was first put under
his care. The keeper again desired him to beware what he did, since he
might be assured that the licentiate was still insane; but the chaplain
was not to be moved either by his cautions or entreaties; and as he
acted by order of the archbishop, the keeper was compelled to obey him.
The licentiate put on his new clothes, and now, finding himself rid of
his lunatic attire, and habited like a rational creature, he entreated
the chaplain, for charity's sake, to permit him to take leave of his
late companions in affliction. Being desirous of seeing the lunatics
who were confined in that house, the chaplain, with several other
persons, followed him upstairs, and heard him accost a man who lay
stretched in his cell outrageously mad; though just then composed and
quiet. "Brother," said he to him, "have you any commands for me? for I
am going to return to my own house, God having been pleased, of His
infinite goodness and mercy, without any desert of mine, to restore me
to my senses. I am now sound and well, for with God nothing is
impossible; put your whole trust and confidence in Him, and he will
doubtless restore you also. I will take care to send you some choice
food; and fail not to eat it: for I have reason to believe, from my own
experience, that all our distraction proceeds from empty stomachs, and
brains filled with wind. Take heart, then, my friend, take heart; for
despondence under misfortune impairs our health, and hastens our death."
This discourse was overheard by another madman, who was in an opposite
cell; and raising himself up from an old mat, whereon he had thrown
himself stark naked, he demanded aloud, who it was that was going away
recovered and in his senses.
"It is I, brother," answered the licentiate, "that am going; for I need
stay no longer here, and am infinitely thankful to heaven for having
bestowed so great a blessing upon me."
"Take heed, licentiate, what you say, let not the devil delude you,"
replied the madman; "stir not a foot, but keep where you are, and you
will spare yourself the trouble of being brought back."
"I know," replied the licentiate, "that I am perfectly well, and shall
have no more occasion to visit the station churches."[6]
"You well?" said the madman; "we shall soon see that; farewell! but I
swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this
offence alone, which Seville is now committing, in carrying you out of
this house, and judging you to be in your senses, I am determined to
inflict such a signal punishment on this city, that the memory thereof
shall endure for ever and ever, Amen. Know you not, little crazed
licentiate, that I can do it, since, as I say, I am thundering Jupiter,
who hold in my hands the flaming bolts, with which I can, and use, to
threaten and destroy the world? But in one thing only will I chastise
this ignorant people; and that is, there shall no rain fall on this
town, or in all its district, for three whole years, reckoning from the
day and hour in which this threatening is denounced. You at liberty, you
recovered, and in your right senses! and I a madman, I distempered and
in bonds! I will no more rain than I will hang myself."
All the bystanders were very attentive to the madman's discourse: but
our licentiate, turning himself to our chaplain, and holding him by both
hands, said to him: "Be in no pain, good sir, nor make any account of
what this madman has said; for, if he is Jupiter and will not rain, I,
who am Neptune, the father and the god of the waters, will rain as
often as I please, and whenever there shall be occasion." To which the
chaplain answered: "However, signor Neptune, it will not be convenient
at present to provoke signor Jupiter; therefore, pray stay where you
are; for, some other time, when we have a better opportunity and more
leisure, we will come for you." The rector and the bystanders laughed;
which put the chaplain half out of countenance. They disrobed the
licentiate, who remained where he was; and there is an end of the story.
True valor lies in the middle, between the extremes of
cowardice and rashness.
No padlocks, bolts, or bars can secure a maiden so well as
her own reserve.
Honey is not for the mouth of an ass.
He must be blind, indeed, who cannot see through a sieve.
Comparisons, whether as to sense, courage, beauty, or rank,
are always offensive.
Scruples of conscience afford no peace.
You have reckoned without your host.
When the head aches, all the members ache also.
_Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_;--_i. e._, Will put
me on St. Lucia's thorn; applicable to any uneasy situation.
Let every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not take
white for black, nor black for white; for we are all as God
made us, and oftentimes a great deal worse.
"First and foremost, then," said Sancho, "the common people take your
worship for a downright madman, and me for no less a fool. The gentry
say that, not content to keep to your own proper rank of a gentleman,
you call yourself Don, and set up for a knight, with no more than a
paltry vineyard and a couple of acres of land. The cavaliers say they do
not choose to be vied with by those country squires who clout their
shoes, and take up the fallen stitches of their black stockings with
green silk."
"That," said Don Quixote, "is no reflection upon me; for I always go
well clad, and my apparel is never patched; a little torn it may be, but
more by the fretting of my armor than by time."
"As to your valor, courtesy, achievements, and undertakings," continued
Sancho, "there are many different opinions. Some say you are mad, but
humorous; others, valiant, but unfortunate; others, courteous, but
absurd; and thus they pull us to pieces, till they leave neither your
worship nor me a single feather upon our backs."
"Take notice, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that, when virtue exists in an
eminent degree, it is always persecuted."
"There cannot be a more legitimate source of gratification to a virtuous
and distinguished man," said Don Quixote, "than to have his good name
celebrated during his lifetime, and circulated over different nations; I
say his good name, for if it were otherwise than good, death in any
shape would be preferable."
To be represented otherwise than with approbation is worse
than the worst of deaths.
There are as many different opinions as there are different
tastes.
_Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for truffles
in the sea, a proverb applicable to those who are too
sanguine in their expectations and unreasonable in their
desires.
"There is no necessity for recording actions which are
prejudicial to the hero, without being essential to the
history. It is not to be supposed that AEneas was in all his
actions so pure as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so
uniformly prudent as he is described by Homer."
"True," replied Sampson; "but it is one thing to write as a poet, and
another to write as an historian. The poet may say or sing, not as
things were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian must pen
them not as they ought to have been, but as they really were, without
adding to or diminishing aught from the truth."
There is no human history that, does not contain reverses of
fortune.
Let every man take care how he speaks or writes of honest
people, and not set down at a venture the first thing that
comes uppermost.
"Sancho, thou art an arch rogue," replied Don Quixote, "and in faith,
upon some occasions, hast no want of memory."
"Though I wanted ever so much to forget what my poor body has suffered,"
quoth Sancho, "the tokens that are still fresh on my ribs would not let
me."
"Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and let signor bachelor proceed,
that I may know what is further said of me in the history."
"And of me too," quoth Sancho, "for I hear that I am one of the
principal parsons in it."
"Persons, not parsons, friend Sancho," quoth Sampson.
"What, have we another corrector of words?" quoth Sancho; "if we are to
go on at this rate, we shall make slow work of it."
"As sure as I live, Sancho," answered the bachelor, "you are the second
person of the history; nay, there are those who had rather hear you talk
than the finest fellow of them all; though there are also some who
charge you with being too credulous in expecting the government of that
island promised you by Signor Don Quixote, here present."
"There is still sunshine on the wall," quoth Don Quixote; "and when
Sancho is more advanced in age, with the experience that years bestow,
he will be better qualified to be a governor than he is at present."
"'Fore Gad! sir," quoth Sancho, "if I am not fit to govern an island at
these years, I shall be no better, able at the age of Methusalem. The
mischief of it is, that the said island sticks somewhere else, and not
in my want of a headpiece to govern it."
"Recommend the matter to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and all will
be well--perhaps better than thou mayst think; for not a leaf stirs on
the tree without his permission."
"That is very true," quoth Sampson; "and if it please God, Sancho will
not want a thousand islands to govern, much less one."
"I have seen governors ere now," quoth Sancho, "who, in my opinion, do
not come up to the sole of my shoe; and yet they are called 'your
lordship,' and eat their victuals upon plate."
With hay or with straw it is all the same.
Much knowledge and a mature understanding are requisite for
an historian.
Wit and humor belong to genius alone.
The wittiest person in the comedy is he that plays the fool.
History is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is
truth; and where truth is, there the divinity will reside;
yet there are some who compose and cast off books as if they
were tossing up a dish of pancakes.
There is no book so bad but something good may be found in
it.
Printed works may be read leisurely, their defects easily
seen, so they are scrutinized more or less strictly in
proportion to the celebrity of the author.
"Men of great talents, whether poets or historians, seldom
escape the attacks of those who, without ever favoring the
world with any production of their own, take delight in
criticising the works of others."
"Nor can we wonder at that," said Don Quixote, "when we observe the same
practice among divines, who, though dull enough in the pulpit
themselves, are wonderfully sharp-sighted in discovering the defects of
other preachers."
"True, indeed, Signor Don Quixote," said Carrasco; "I wish critics would
be less fastidious, nor dwell so much upon the motes which may be
discerned even in the brightest works; for, though _aliquando bonus
dormitat Homerus_, they ought to consider how much he was awake to
produce a work with so much light and so little shade; nay, perhaps even
his seeming blemishes are like moles, which are sometimes thought to be
rather an improvement to beauty. But it cannot be denied that whoever
publishes a book to the world, exposes himself to imminent
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