Chapter IV: Part 4

He gave it to his master, who placed it upon his head, turning it about from side to side in search of the vizor, and, not finding it, he said—

“Doubtless the Paynim to whose measure this famous headpiece was first forged, must have had a very large head, and the worst of it is that half of it is wanting.”

When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece, he could not contain his laughter, but bethinking him of his master’s wrath, he checked himself in the midst of it.

“What dost thou laugh at?” asked Don Quixote.

“I am laughing,” replied he, “for thinking of the big head the Paynim owner of this helmet must have had, for it looks for all the world like nothing but a perfect barber’s basin.”

“Knowest thou what I suspect, Sancho? That this famous piece of the enchanted helmet must by some strange accident have come into the hands of one who did not know or esteem its worth, and who, ignorant of what he did, seeing it to be of pure gold, must have melted down the other half of it to profit by its worth, and of this half he has made what looks to thee like a barber’s basin, as thou sayest. But, be that as it may, to me who recognise it, its transmutation makes no matter, for I will have it rectified in the first village where there is a smith, and in such wise that it shall not be surpassed or even approached by that which was made and forged by the god of smithies for the god of battles. And, in the meantime, I will wear it as I can, for something is better than nothing; all the more as it will well suffice to protect me against any blow from a stone.”

_Wherein is set forth the highest point and extreme to which the
never-before-heard-of courage of Don Quixote reached or could reach;
with the happily achieved Adventure of the Lions._

The history tells that Sancho, when Don Quixote called for his helmet, was buying some curds of the shepherds, and in his perturbation at his master’s hurried call, knew not what to do with them or how to carry them; so in order not to lose what he had now paid for, he bethought him of clapping them into his master’s helmet, and having thus made shift, he turned back to see what Don Quixote wanted, who, on his coming up, cried, “Give me that helmet, friend, for I know little of adventure or that which I descry yonder is one which should require, and does require, me to take to arms.”

He of the Green Coat, hearing this, turned his eyes every way, but saw nothing but a cart which came towards them with two or three little flags, which made him think that it must be carrying the King’s treasure, and so he told Don Quixote. But the Knight would not credit it, always supposing and imagining that all which happened was adventures, and still adventures; and so he replied—

“Forewarned is forearmed; nothing is lost by taking precaution, for I know by experience that I have enemies visible and invisible, nor know I when, nor where, nor in what moment, nor in what shape I have to encounter them.”

And turning to Sancho he asked for his helmet, which the squire, not having an opportunity of relieving it of the curds, was compelled to hand to him as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without giving a look to what it contained, clapped it on his head in all haste; and as the curds were squeezed and pressed, the whey began to pour over all Don Quixote’s face and beard, from which he got such a fright that he said to Sancho—

“What is this, Sancho? For methinks my skull is softening, or my brains are melting, or I sweat from feet to head. And if it is that I am sweating, truly it is not from fear. Without doubt I believe this is terrible, the adventure that now means to befall me. Give me something, if you can, with which to wipe myself, for this copious sweat doth blind my eyes.”

Sancho held his tongue and gave him a cloth, and with it thanks to God that his master had not found out the truth. Don Quixote wiped himself, and took off the helmet to see what it was which seemed to chill his head, and finding the white clots within his headpiece, held them to his nose, and smelling them, cried—

“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but these are curds thou hast put here, thou traitor! villain, brazen-faced squire!”

To which, with much deliberation and command of countenance, Sancho replied, “If they are curds give them to me, your worship, and I will eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must be he who put them there. I to dare soil your worship’s helmet! You must know who it is that’s so bold. In faith, sir, as God reads my mind, I, too, must have enchanters who persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship; and they will have put that nastiness there to move your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do; but, in truth, this time they have jumped wide of the mark, for I rely on my master’s good judgment, who will consider that I have neither curds nor milk about me, nor anything like; and if I had I would rather put it into my stomach than in the helmet.”

“It may be all so,” quoth Don Quixote. And the gentleman in the Green Coat, who noted all, was utterly amazed, especially when, after Don Quixote had wiped dry his head, face, beard, and helmet, he put it on again, and settling himself firmly in his stirrups, reaching for his sword and grasping his lance, exclaimed—

“Now come what may, for here I stand to do battle with Satan himself in person.”

The cart with the flags now approached, in which was nobody but the carter upon one of the mules and a man seated in front. Planting himself before it, Don Quixote exclaimed—

“Whither go ye, my brethren; what cart is this? What do you carry therein? And what flags are these?”

To which the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what go in it are two bold lions in a cage, which the General is sending from Oran to the capital as a present to his Majesty; the flags are the King‘s, our master, in token that something of his goes here.”

“And are they large, the lions?” asked Don Quixote.

“So large,” answered the man at the door of the van, “that none larger or so large have ever passed from Africa to Spain; and I am the lion-keeper, and have carried many, but none like these. They are male and female; the male goes in the first cage, and the female in the one behind, and they are now very hungry, for they have not eaten to-day; and so let your worship stand aside, for we must needs reach quickly the place where we are to give them their dinner.”

On which said Don Quixote, with a little smile, “Lion-whelps to me? To me, lion-whelps? And at this time of day? Then by Heaven, those gentleman who send them here shall see whether I am a man who is frightened of lions. Alight, good fellow, and since you are the lion-keeper, open these cages, and turn me out these beasts, for in the middle of this open field I will teach them to know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in defiance and despite of the enchanters who send them to me.”

“So, so,” said he of the Green Coat to himself at this, “our good knight gives us a proof of what he is; the curds i’ faith have softened his skull and mellowed his brain.”

Here Sancho came up to him, and exclaimed, “For God’s sake, sir, mind that my master, Don Quixote, does not fight with these lions, for if he fights them all we here will be torn to pieces.”

“But is your master so mad,” the gentleman answered, “that you fear and believe that he will fight with animals so fierce?”

“Not mad is he,” replied Sancho, “but headstrong.”

“I will make him desist,” said the gentleman. And coming up to Don Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cage, he said, “Sir Knight, Knights Errant have to engage in adventures which hold out some prospect of a good issue from them, and not in those that are wholly devoid of it, for the valour which enters within the bounds of temerity has more of madness than of fortitude; moreover, these lions come not against you, nor do they dream of doing so, but are going as a present to his Majesty, and it will not be right to detain them or hinder their journey.”

“Get you gone, Sir Country-squire,” replied Don Quixote, “and look after your quiet pointer and your saucy ferret, and leave every one to do his duty; this is mine, and I know whether they come against me or not, these gentlemen the lions.” And, turning to the keeper, he said, “I swear, Don Rascal, that if you do not open the cage at once, instantly, I will pin you to the cart with this lance.”

The carter, seeing that armed phantom’s determination, said to him—

“Be pleased, dear sir, for charity, to let me unyoke the mules and place myself and them in safety before the lions are let loose, for if they are killed I shall be utterly ruined, for I have no other property but this cart and these mules.”

“O man of little faith!” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke, and do what thou wilt, for soon thou shalt see that thou toilest in vain, and might spare thyself these pains.”

The carter alighted and in great haste unyoked, and the keeper cried in a loud voice, “Be witnesses as many as are here, how against my will and on compulsion I open the cages and let loose the lions, and that I protest to this gentleman, that all the evil and damage these beasts shall do will run and go to his account, with my wages and dues besides. Let you, sirs, make yourselves safe before I open; for myself, I am sure they will do me no harm.”

Once more Don Diego entreated him not to commit such an act of madness, for to engage in such a freak were a tempting of Providence, to which Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was doing. The gentleman pressed him again to look well to it, for that he was surely mistaken.

“Nay, sir,” quoth Don Quixote, “if your worship would not bear witness to this, which in your opinion is about to be a tragedy, spur your grey and put yourself in safety.”

Sancho, on hearing this, prayed his master with tears in his eyes to desist from such an enterprise, compared to which that of the windmills, and the fearful one of the fulling-mills, and, in short, all the deeds his master had attempted in the course of his life, were but pleasuring and junketing.

“Look, sir,” quoth Sancho, “here there is no enchantment, nor anything like it, for I have seen through the chinks and bars of the cage a claw of a real lion, and I gather from it that such a lion, to have such a claw, is bigger than a mountain.”

“Fear, at least,” said Don Quixote, “will make it seem bigger to thee than half the earth. Retire, Sancho, and leave me, and if I die here, thou knowest our old compact: thou wilt betake thee to Dulcinea. I say no more.”

Other words he added to these which took away all hope of his giving up proceeding with his insane purpose. He of the Green Coat would have resisted him in it, but he saw himself unequal in arms, and judged it not wise to fight with a madman, for such he now appeared to him to be at all points. Don Quixote once more pressing the keeper and repeating his threats, caused the gentleman to urge his mare, and Sancho Dapple, and the carter his mules, all trying to get away from the cart as far as possible before the lions broke loose. Sancho wept over the death of his master, for this time he verily believed it had come from the lion’s claws; he cursed his fortune and called it a fatal hour when it came into his mind once more to serve Don Quixote; but none the less, in weeping and lamenting, did he stop cudgelling Dapple to get him farther from the cart. The lion-keeper, seeing now that those who had fled were well away, again entreated and warned Don Quixote as he had entreated and warned him before, but the Knight replied that he heard him, and that he cared for no more warnings and entreaties, which would be fruitless, and bade him despatch. Whilst the keeper was engaged in opening the first cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would be better to have the battle on foot or on horseback, and finally he decided to have it on foot, fearing lest Rozinante should be startled at the sight of the lions. Therefore, he leapt from his horse, threw away his lance, and buckling his shield and unsheathing his sword, leisurely, with a marvellous intrepidity and valiant heart advanced to post himself in front of the cart, commending his soul to God and then to his lady Dulcinea.

And it is to be known that, coming to this passage, the author of this truthful history breaks out into this exclamation, saying—

“O brave and beyond all commendation courageous Don Quixote of La Mancha! mirror wherein all the valiant may behold themselves, a second and new Don Manuel de Leon, who was the honour and glory of Spanish Knights! In what words shall I recount this dread exploit, or by what argument make it creditable to future ages? What praises can there be unfitting and unmeet for thee, be they ever such hyperboles upon hyperboles? Thou on foot, thou alone, thou fearless, thou great-hearted, with thy simple sword, and that not one of your trenchant dog blades; with a shield of no very bright and shining steel, standest watching and waiting for two of the fiercest lions that ever the African forests engendered! Let thy deeds themselves, valorous Manchegan, extol thee, for here I leave them at their height, failing words to glorify them.”

Here the author breaks off from his apostrophe, and proceeds to take up the thread of his history, saying—

The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in his position, and that it was impossible to avoid letting loose the male lion without falling under the resentment of the rageful and dauntless Knight, opened wide the door of the first cage where, as has been said, was the male lion, who looked to be of extraordinary size and of a hideous and terrible aspect. The first thing he did was to turn himself round in his cage, and to extend his claws and stretch himself to his full length. Then he opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely, and with about two hands’-breadth of tongue which he put out, he licked the dust from his eyes and bathed his face. This done, he put his head out of the cage and gazed all about with his eyes blazing like live coals, a spectacle and attitude to instil dread into daring itself. Don Quixote alone looked at him intently, longing for him to leap out of the cart and come within reach of his hands, between which he thought to rend him to pieces.

To this height did his unheard-of madness carry him; but the generous lion, more courteous than arrogant, taking no notice of these childish tricks and swaggerings, after having looked round about him, as has been said, turned his back and, showing to Don Quixote his hinder parts, with great calmness and nonchalance flung himself down again in the cage. Seeing this Don Quixote commanded him to give him some blows and tease him so that he might come out.

“That I will not do,” answered the keeper, “for if I excite him the first he will tear in pieces will be myself. Let your worship, Sir Knight, be content with what has been done, which is all that one can tell of in point of valour, and seek not to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has his door open; it rests with him to come out or not; but since he has not come out up to now he will not come out all day. Your worship’s greatness of heart is now made fully manifest. No champion fighter, as I take it, is bound to do more than defy his enemy and wait for him in the field; if the opponent does not appear the infamy rests upon him, and he who waits wins the crown of victory.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, friend, and give in the best form thou canst a voucher of what thou hast seen me do: to wit, how that thou didst open to the lion; I awaited him; he did not come out; I waited for him again; again he did not come out, but turned to lie down. I am bound to do no more. Enchantments avaunt! and God prosper justice and truth and true chivalry! Shut the door, friend, whilst I signal to the fugitive and absent to return that they may learn of this exploit from thy mouth.”

The keeper did so, and Don Quixote, placing on the point of his lance the cloth with which he had wiped the shower of curds off his face, began to hail those who had never ceased retreating all in a troop, looking round at every step, driven before him by the gentlemen in Green. Sancho happened to perceive the signal of the white cloth, and exclaimed, “May I die if my master has not conquered the wild beasts, for he is calling us!”

They all stopped, and seeing that it was Don Quixote who was making the signals, losing some of their fear, little by little they came nearer, until they clearly heard the voice of Don Quixote calling to them.

At length they returned to the cart, and on their approach Don Quixote said to the carter—

“Yoke your mules again, friend, and proceed on your journey, and thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and for the keeper, towards amends for my having detained them.”

“I will give them with all my heart,” answered Sancho; “but what has been done with the lions? Are they dead or alive?”

Then the keeper recounted minutely and at his leisure the issue of the encounter, extolling, to the best of his power and skill, the valour of Don Quixote, at sight of whom the cowed lion cared not, or durst not, to come out of his cage, though he had held the door open a good while, and that it was through his having told the Knight that it was a tempting of Providence to provoke the lion so as to force him to come out, as he wanted him to do, that he had most unwillingly and against the grain permitted him to close the door.”

“What is your judgment on this, Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote; “are there enchantments which avail against true valour? The enchanters may be able to rob me indeed of fortune, but of my resolution and courage, it is impossible.”

Sancho gave the gold crowns; the carter yoked up; the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hands for the largess received, and promised to relate that valorous deed to the King himself when he should see him at Court.

“And if by chance his Majesty should ask who performed it,” said Don Quixote, “you shall tell him, _The Knight of the Lions_; for henceforth I would that into this may be changed, altered, varied, and transferred, the name which till now I have borne, of the Knight of the Rueful Feature; and in this I follow the ancient usage of Knights Errant, who changed their names at their pleasure and according to the occasion.”

The cart proceeded on its journey, and Don Quixote. Sancho, and he of the Green Coat, continued theirs.

_Of the strange adventures which happened to Don Quixote in the Castle._

... With this she began to touch a harp very softly.

On hearing this Don Quixote was startled, for in that moment there came into his memory the infinite adventures similar to that, of windows, lattices, and gardens; of serenades, love-plaints, and languishments, which he had read of in his giddy books of chivalries. He at once conceived that some one of the Duchess’s maidens was enamoured of him, and that modesty compelled her to keep her love in secret. He trembled lest he should yield, but resolved in his mind not to let himself be overcome; so, commending himself with all good heart and soul to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he determined to listen to the music; and to let them know he was there, he feigned to sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little rejoiced, for they desired nothing better than that Don Quixote should hear them. Then, the harp being set up and tuned, Altisidora struck up this ballad—

BALLAD.

Thou that all the night till morning
Sleepest on thy downy bed;
Gaily with thy legs out-stretched,
’twixt two sheets of linen laid:

Valiant Knight! thou whom La Mancha
Knows none greater or more bold;
Purer, blesseder, and chaster
Than Arabia’s sifted gold:

Hear a woful maid’s complaining,
Nurtured well but thriven ill,
Whose fond heart the burning sun-rays
From thine eyes do scorch and kill.

Seekest thou thine own adventures;
Others’ ventures thou suppliest;
Dealest wounds, yet for their healing
Salve of plaster thou deniest.

Tell me, lusty youth and valiant,
May thy wishes all be sped!
Was’t in Jaca’s gloomy mountains,
Or in Lybia thou wert bred?

Say, didst suck thy milk from serpents;
Was thine infant babyhood
Nurséd by the horrid mountain,
Dandled by the rugged wood?

Well may Dulcinea, thy charmer,
Damsel plump and round, be proud,
Conquering that heart of tiger,
Softening that bosom rude!

This shall make thy name e’er famous
From Jarama to Henares;
From Pisuerga to Arlanza;
From Tagus e’en to Manzanares.

Might I change with Dulcinea,
give her my best petticoat;
Rarest silk, of pretty colours,
Golden fringe and all to boot!

O to live within thine arms, and
O to sit beside thy bed!
O that poll so sweet to scratch, and
Brush the scurf from that dear head!

Much I ask, though undeserving
Of so notable a grace,
Would that I thy feet were stroking,
That’s enough for maid so base.

What fine night-caps I would work thee;
What fine shiny silvern socks;
Breeches of the rarest damask;
Lovely yellow Holland cloaks!

Precious milk-white pearls I’d give thee,
Each as big as any gall,
Such as, having no companions,
Orphans they are wont to call.

Gaze not from thy rock Tarpeian
On the fire which scorches me,
Nero of the world Manchegan!
Nor revive it cruelly.

Child I am—a tender pullet—
Fifteen years I’ve never seen;
I vow, by God and on my conscience,
I’m only three months past fourteen.

Lame I am not, neither crooked,
Nothing in my body’s wrong;
Locks like lilies, when I stand up,
Sweep the ground, they are so long.

Though my mouth is like an eagle’s,
And a little flat my nose,
With my topaz teeth,—of beauty
I’ve enough for Heaven, with those.

And my voice is, if you listen,
Equal to the best, I trow;
And I am of form and figure
Something less than middling too.

Spoils of thy spear, thy bow and quiver,
These my charms and more, are;
Maid am I of this here castle,
And my name Altisidora!

Here ended the lay of the sore-wounded Altisidora, and here began the terror of the courted Don Quixote, who, heaving a deep sigh, said to himself—

“How unhappy an Errant am I, that there is no maiden but looks upon me, who is not enamoured of me! How sad is the fate of the peerless Dulcinea, whom they will not leave free to enjoy my incomparable fidelity! Queens, what do ye want of her? Empresses, why do ye persecute her? Maidens of fourteen and fifteen, wherefore do ye molest her? Leave, O leave the unhappy one to triumph, to rejoice, to glory in the lot which love would assign her in the rendering her my heart, and delivering to her my soul! Know, ye amorous crew, that for Dulcinea alone am I dough and sugar-paste, and for all the rest of you flint. For her I am honey, and for you aloes. For me Dulcinea alone is the beautiful, the sensible, the chaste, the gay, and the well-bred; and the rest ugly, silly, wanton and base-born. To be her’s and none other’s Nature sent me into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing; let the lady despair for whose sake they belaboured me in the castle of the enchanted Moor; for Dulcinea’s I must be—roasted or boiled, clean, well-born, and chaste—in spite of all the powers of witchcraft in the world.”

And with that he clapt the window to, and laid down on his bed; where for the present we will leave him, for the great Sancho calls, who is desirous of making a beginning with his famous Governorship.

_Of the mode in which the great Sancho Panza began to govern, when he
had taken possession of his Isle._

... At this moment there entered the justice-hall two men, one dressed as a labourer and the other as a tailor, for he bore a pair of scissors in his hand, and the tailor said—

“Sir Governor, I and this labouring man have come before your worship for the cause that this good fellow came to my shop yesterday, who, saving your presences, am a licensed tailor, blessed be God! and putting a piece of cloth in my hands, asked me: ‘Sir, would there be enough in this cloth to make me a cap?’I, measuring the stuff, answered him ‘_Yes_.’He must have suspected, as I suspect, and suspected rightly, that without doubt I wished to rob him of some part of his cloth, founding his belief on his own roguery and the ill-opinion there is of tailors, and he replied that I should look and see if there were enough for two. I guessed his drift, and said, ‘_Yes_’ and he, riding away on his first damned intent, went on adding caps, and I adding _yeses_, till we reached five caps; and now at this moment he has come for them, and I am giving them to him; and he will not pay me for the making, but rather demands that I shall pay him, or give him back his cloth.”

“Is all this so, brother?” inquired Sancho.

“Yes, sir,” answered the man; “but let your worship make him show the five caps he has made me.”

“With all my heart,” said the tailor, and thrusting his hand suddenly under his cloak he showed five caps on it, placed on the five tops of his fingers, and said: “Here are the five caps which this good man wants of me, and on God and my conscience I have none of the cloth left for myself, and I will give the work to be examined by the inspectors of the trade.”

All those present laughed at the number of caps, and at the novelty of the suit. Sancho set himself to consider a little while, and then said—

“Methinks there need be no long delays in this case, but that it may be decided, according to a wise mans’ judgment, off-hand; and so I decree that the tailor shall lose the making, and the countryman the stuff, the caps to be given to the prisoners in the gaol; and let no more be said.”

This judgment provoked the laughter of the audience, but what the Governor commanded was done.

_Of how Don Quixote fell sick, and of the will he made, and of his
death._

... The Notary entered with the rest, and after having written the preamble to the will, and Don Quixote had disposed of his soul with all those Christian circumstances which are requisite, coming to the bequests he said—

“_Item, it is my will that of certain moneys which Sancho Panza, whom in my madness I made my squire, retains, that because there have been between him and me certain accounts, receipts, and disbursements, I wish that he be not charged with them, nor that any reckoning be asked from him, but that, if there should be any surplus after he has paid himself what I owe him, the residue should be his, which will be very little, and may it do him much good. And if I, being mad, was a party to giving him the governorship of the Isle, now, being sane, I would give him that of a Kingdom, were I able, for the simplicity of his nature and the fidelity of his behaviour deserve it._”

And turning to Sancho, he said to him—

“Pardon me, friend, that I have given thee occasion to appear mad like myself, making thee fall into the error into which I fell, that there were and are Knights Errant in the world.”

“Alack!” responded Sancho, weeping, “don’t you die, your worship, dear master, but take my advice and live many years, for the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without more ado, without anybody killing him, nor other hands to finish him off than those of melancholy. Look you, do not be lazy, but get out of that bed, and we will go into the country, dressed like shepherds, as we have arranged. Mayhap behind some hedge we shall find the lady Donna Dulcinea disenchanted, and as fine as may be seen. If so be that you are dying of fretting at being conquered, put the fault on me, and say they overthrew you because I girthed Rozinante badly; more by token, as your worship must have seen in your books of chivalries, that it was a common thing for some Knights to overthrow others, and he who is conquered to-day may be conqueror to-morrow.”

“It is so,” said Samson, “and honest Sancho is very true about these matters.”

“Gently, sirs,” said Don Quixote, “for _in last year’s nests you look not for birds of this year_. I was mad, and now I am sane. I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and to-day I am, as I have said, Alonso Quixano the Good. May my repentance and my sincerity restore me to the esteem you once had for me, and so let Master Notary go on.”

“_Item, I bequeath all my estate, without reserve, to Antonia Quixana, my Niece, who is present, there being first deducted from it, as may be most convenient, what is needed for the satisfaction of the bequests which I have made; and the first payment to be made I desire to be of the salary due to my Housekeeper from the time she has been in my service, with twenty ducats more for a dress. I leave as my executors Master Priest, and Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, who are present. Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my Niece, is inclined to marry, she should wed a man of whom she shall first have evidence that he knows not what books of chivalries are; and in case it shall be discovered that he does know, and yet my Niece wishes to marry with him and does so marry, that she shall forfeit all that I have bequeathed her, which my executors are empowered to distribute in pious works at their pleasure. Item, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, that if good fortune should bring them to know the author who, they say, wrote a history which is current hereabout under the title of Second Part of the Exploits of Don Quixote of La Mancha, that they will on my behalf beg him, as earnestly as they can, to pardon the occasion which I unwittingly gave him for writing so many and such enormous follies as therein be written, for I quit this life with some tenderness of conscience for having given him a motive for writing them._”

With this he concluded his testament, and, being taken with a fainting fit, he lay extended at full length upon the bed. They were all alarmed, and ran to his assistance, and during the three days that he lived after the day on which he made his will he fainted very frequently. The house was all in confusion; however, the Niece ate, the Housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza was cheerful; for this inheriting of something dulls or tempers in the inheritor the memory of the pain which the dead man naturally leaves behind.

At last came Don Quixote’s end, after he had received all the sacraments, and after he had expressed with many and moving terms his horror at the books of chivalries. The Notary was present, and said that never had he read in any book of chivalries that any Knight Errant had died in his bed so tranquilly and so Christianlike as Don Quixote, who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all who stood by, gave up his spirit,—that is to say, died.

On seeing this, the Priest asked the Notary to give him a certificate that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed out of this present life, and had died a natural death; declaring that he sought such certificate in order to take away from any other author than Cid Hamet Benengeli the excuse falsely to resuscitate him, and write interminable histories of his deeds.

This was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village Cid Hamet desired not to indicate precisely, in order to let all the cities and towns of La Mancha contend among themselves for the honour of giving him birth and adopting him for their own, as the seven cities of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho, of the Niece, and the Housekeeper of Don Quixote are here omitted, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; but this was what Samson Carrasco put there:—

“A valiant gentleman here lies,
Whose courage reached to such a height,
Of death itself he made a prize,
When against Death he lost the fight.
He reck’d not of the world a jot,
The world’s great bugbear and the dread;
Strong was his arm, and strange his lot;
Stark mad in life,—when sober, dead.“

“_Don Quixote de La Mancha._” _Miguel Cervantes_ (1547-1616).
_Trans. H. E. Watts._

_CERVANTES TAKES A MERRY LEAVE OF LIFE._

It happened afterwards, dear reader, that as two of my friends and myself were coming from Esquivias, a place famous for twenty reasons, more especially for its illustrious families and for its excellent wines, I heard a man behind me whipping his nag with all his might, and seemingly very desirous of overtaking us. Presently he called out to us, and begged us to stop, which we did; and when he came up, he turned out to be a country student, dressed in brown, with spatterdashes and round-toed shoes. He had a sword in a huge sheath, and a band tied with tape. He had indeed but two tapes, so that his band got out of its place, which he took great pains to rectify. “Doubtless,” said he, “Señors, you are in quest of some office or some prebendal stall at the court of my Lord of Toledo, or from the King, if I may judge from the celerity with which you journey; for, in good truth, my ass has hitherto had the fame of a good trotter, and yet he could not overtake you.”

One of my companions answered, “It is the stout steed of Señor Miguel Cervantes that is the cause of it, for he is very quick in his paces.”

Scarcely had the student heard the name of Cervantes, than, throwing himself off his ass, whilst his cloak-bag tumbled on one side and his portmanteau on the other, and his bands covered his face, he sprang towards me, and seizing me by the left hand, exclaimed: “This, then, is the famous one-handed author, the merriest of writers, the favourite of the Muses.”

As for me, when I heard him pouring forth all these praises, I thought myself obliged in politeness to answer him; so embracing his neck, whereby I contrived to pull off his bands altogether, I said: “I am indeed Cervantes, Señor, but not the favourite of the Muses, nor any other of those fine things which you have said of me. Pray, sir, mount your ass again, and let us converse together for the small remainder of our journey.”

The good student did as I desired. We then drew bit, and proceeded at a more moderate pace. As we rode on, we talked of my illness, but the student gave me little hope, saying: “It is an hydropsy, which all the water in the ocean, if you could drink it, would not cure; you must drink less, Señor Cervantes, and not neglect to eat, for this alone can cure you.”

“Many other people,” said I, “have told me the same thing; but it is as impossible for me not to drink, as if I had been born for nothing but drinking. My life is pretty nearly ended, and to judge by the quickness of my pulse, I cannot live longer than next Sunday. You have made acquaintance with me at a very unfortunate time, as I fear that I shall not live to show my gratitude to you for your obliging conduct.”

Such was our conversation when we arrived at the bridge of Toledo, over which I was to pass, while he was bound another route by the bridge of Segovia.

“As to my future history, I leave that to the care of fame. My friends will, no doubt, be very anxious to narrate it, and I should have great pleasure in hearing it.”

I embraced him anew, and repeated the offer of my services. He spurred his ass and left me as ill inclined to prosecute my journey, as he was well disposed to do so. He had, however, supplied my pen with ample materials for pleasantry. But all times are not the same. Perhaps the time may yet arrive when, taking up the thread which I am now compelled to break, I may complete what is now wanting, and what I fain would tell. But adieu to gaiety, adieu to humour, adieu, my pleasant friends! I must now die, and I wish for nothing better than speedily to see you well contented in another world.

_Preface_ (written a little time before the author’s death) _to the “Labours of Persiles and Sigismunda.”_ _Miguel Cervantes_ (1547-1616). _Trans. Roscoe._

_THE LOVERS’ RUSE._

_Theodora._ Show more of gentleness and modesty;
Of gentleness in walking quietly,
Of modesty in looking only down
Upon the earth you tread.

_Belisa._ ’Tis what I do.

_Theodora._ What? When yoe looking straight towards that man?

_Belisa._ Did you not bid me look upon the earth?
And what is he but just a bit of it?

_Theodora._ I said the earth whereon you tread, my niece.

_Belisa._ But that whereon I tread is hidden quite
With my own petticoat and walking-dress.

_Theodora._ Words such as these become no well-bred maid.
But by your mother’s blessèd memory,
I’ll put an end to all your pretty tricks;—
What? You look back at him again?

_Belisa._ Who? I?

_Theodora._ Yes, you; and make him secret signs besides.

_Belisa._ Not I. ’Tis only that you troubled me
With teasing questions and perverse replies,
So that I stumbled and looked round to see
Who would prevent my fall.

_Riselo_ (_to Lisardo_). She falls again.
Be quick and help her.

_Lisardo_ (_to Belisa_). Pardon me lady,
And forgive my glove.

_Theodora._ Who ever saw the like?

_Belisa._ Thank you, sir; you saved me from a fall.

_Lisardo._ An angel, lady, might have fallen so;
Or stars that shine with Heaven’s own blessèd light.

_Theodora._ I, too, can fall; but this is but a trick.
Good gentleman, farewell to you!

_Lisardo._ Madam,
Your servants. (Heaven save us from such spleen!)

_Theodora._ A pretty fall you made of it, and now I hope
You’ll be content, since they assisted you.

_Belisa._ And you no less content, since now you have
The means to tease me for a week to come.

_Theodora._ But why again do you turn back your head?

_Belisa._ Why, sure you think it wise and wary
To notice well the place I stumbled at,
Lest I should stumble there when next I pass,

_Theodora._ Go to! Come home! come home!

_Belisa._ Now we shall have
A pretty scolding cook’d up out of this.

_“El Azero de Madrid.” Lope de Vega (1562-1635)._
_Trans. Ticknor._

_AUNTS._

That young creature whom you see there,” said the God of Love, as he led me on, “is the chief captain of my war, the one that has brought most men under my banners. The elderly person that is leading her along by the hand is her aunt.”

“Her _aunt_, did you say?” I replied; “her _aunt_? Then there is an end of all my love for her. That word ‘_aunt_’is a counter-poison that has disinfected me entirely, and quite healed the wound your well-planted arrow was beginning to make in my heart. For, however much a man may be in love, there can be no doubt an _aunt_ will always be enough to purge him clean of it. Inquisitive, suspicious, envious,—one or the other she cannot fail to be,—and if the niece have the luck to escape, the lover never has; for if she is envious, she wants him for herself; and if she is only suspicious, she still spoils all comfort, so disconcerting every little project, and so disturbing every little nice plan, as to render pleasure itself unsavoury.”

“Why, what a desperately bad opinion you have of aunts?” said Love.

“To be sure I have,” said I. “If the state of innocence in which Adam and Eve were created had nothing else to recommend it, the simple fact that there could have been no _aunts_ in Paradise would have been enough for me. Why, every morning, as soon as I get up, I cross myself and say, ‘By the sign of the Holy Rood, from all aunts deliver us this day, good Lord.’And every time I repeat the _Pater Noster_, after ‘Lead us not into temptation,’I always add, ‘nor into the way of aunts either.’”

_Jacinto Polo (?) (fl. 1630). Trans. Ticknor._

_THE MISER CHASTISED._

In this edifying manner did Don Marcos arrive at the age of thirty, with the reputation of a wealthy man; and with good reason, for he had gathered together, at the expense of every gentlemanly quality, and the starvation of his unfortunate carcase, a good round sum, which he always retained near him, for he dreaded every kind of speculation that might place in the slightest degree of jeopardy his darling treasure.

Now as Don Marcos was known to be neither a gambler nor a libertine, good opportunities of marriage continually presented themselves, of which, however, he did not avail himself always, considering it a speculation, and not unlikely to lead to some unfortunate result. Nevertheless, he wished to appear to advantage in the eyes of the ladies, some of whom, not knowing him, might have no objection to him as a husband. To them he appeared more in the light of a gallant than a miser. Amongst others who would have no objection to him, was a lady who had been married, but was not so well reconciled to her situation as a widow.

She was a lady of superior air and pretentions, although somewhat past the prime of life; but by the help of a little study and skill, no one would have supposed that she had arrived at so discreet an age as she certainly had. She was prettily enough called Donna Isidora, and was reported to be very rich; that she had actual property, at least according to those who knew her well, her manner of living clearly enough proved. Now this eligible match was proposed to Don Marcos; the lady was represented to him in such engaging colours, with such perfect assurance that she possessed more than fourteen or fifteen thousand ducats, that he was led into temptation—the temptation of Mammon. Her deceased husband was represented to have been a gentleman of one of the best families of Andalusia, and Donna Isidora was equally well born, and a native of the famous city of Seville.

These flattering communications so worked on the avarice and pride of our friend Don Marcos, that he almost wished himself already married, that he might be sure of the possession of so enviable a prize. He who first entangled Don Marcos in this notable affair was a cunning rogue of a dealer, who not only dealt in marriages, but in other descriptions of more sure traffic.

He promised therefore an introduction to Don Marcos that very evening, because, as he said, there was danger in delay.

Donna Isidora was profuse in her thanks to the obliging gentleman who had procured her the pleasure of such an acquaintance; and she finally established her triumph over Don Marcos, by inviting him to a costly entertainment, wherein she displayed the utmost luxury and wealth.

At this entertainment Don Marcos was introduced to a young man of a very gallant and prepossessing appearance, whom Donna Isidora honoured with the title of nephew. His name was Augustin, and he, in turn, seemed happy in the chance that gave him so delightful a relationship. The under servant, Ines, waited on them at table, because Marcella, the upper maid, by the order of her mistress, was engaged to entertain them with her guitar, in the management of which she was so perfect, that even the grandees of the court were seldom regaled with better music. Her voice, which she accompanied with the instrument, was so melodious, that it appeared more like that of an angel than a woman. The unaffected manner, too, without the slightest timidity, yet equally free from boldness, in which she sung, lent an additional charm; for without being entreated, she continued to amuse them, feeling confident that her performance would be well received.

Don Marcos felt himself so completely at ease with the well-bred, though generous hospitality of Donna Isidora and her nephew, that without the least scruple he amply indemnified himself for many a hungry day, as the sensible diminution of the luxuries of the table bore abundant, or rather scanty testimony. It may be said without exaggeration, that that evening’s entertainment furnished him with as much as six days of his ordinary consumption; and the continual and repeated supplies, forced on him by his elegant and kind hostess, were in themselves sufficient to enable him to dispense with eating for a considerable time to come.

The pleasures of the conversation and of the table finished with the daylight, and four wax candles were placed in beautiful candelabras, by the light of which, and the sounds which Augustin drew from the instrument which Marcella had before touched so well, the two girls commenced a dance, in which they moved with such grace, as to excite the admiration of their superiors. After all this, Marcella, at the request of Don Marcos, again took her guitar, and closed the evening’s amusement with an old chivalric romance.

On the conclusion of the song, the gentleman who had introduced Don Marcos gave him a hint that it was time to retire; who, though unwilling to leave such good company, and such good cheer, and at such little cost, took leave of his kind hostess with expressions of consideration and friendship, and took his road homewards, entertaining his friend by the way with expressions of admiration of Donna Isidora, or rather, more properly speaking, of her money. He begged him as soon as possible to have a deed drawn up which would ensure to him so enviable a treasure. His friend replied that he might already consider the marriage concluded, for that his opinion held such weight with Donna Isidora, that he would take an early opportunity of speaking with her to effect the arrangement, for he fully agreed with him, that delays were dangerous.

With this excellent maxim they separated, the one to recount to Donna Isidora what had passed, and the other to return to the house of his master.

It being very late, all the household had retired to rest. Don Marcos availing himself of the end of a candle, which he generally carried in his pocket for the purpose, withdrew to a small lamp, which lighted an image of the Virgin, at the corner of the street. There he placed it on the point of his sword and lighted it, making, at the same time, a very short but devout prayer that the very reasonable hopes he had framed might not be disappointed. Satisfied with this pious duty, he then retired to rest, waiting, however, impatiently for the day which should crown his expectations.

The next day he was visited by his friend Gamorre, such was the name of the gentleman who had recommended to him this tempting alliance. Don Marcos had risen by times that morning, for love and interest had conspired to banish sleep from his pillow. It was, therefore, with the utmost joy that he welcomed his visitor, who informed him that he had been successful in his mission to Donna Isidora, and that he was the bearer of an invitation to him from that lady to pass the day at her house, when he would have an opportunity of personally pressing his suit, and perhaps concluding the negociation which had so happily commenced.

* * * * *

Before they parted that night everything was arranged for their marriage, which in three days from that time was solemnised with all the splendour becoming people of rank and wealth. Don Marcos on this occasion so far overcame his parsimony as to present his wife with a rich wedding dress of great cost and fashion; calculating very wisely that the expense was but trifling in comparison with what he had to receive.

Behold, then, our friend Don Marcos, lord and master of this sumptuous dwelling, and its amiable inmates; and when the day of the auspicious union arrived, it found him in a state of the greatest possible contentment and happiness.

“Surely this is the happiest day of my life,” he said to himself. The future domestic arrangements were all carefully discussed by the calculating mind of the bridegroom; and he already had disposed of his anticipated savings in a speculation; for he had begun even to think of speculating as to the greatest saving and profit.

Before retiring to rest, however, these flattering visions were a little disturbed by the sudden illness of Augustin. Whether it proceeded from mortification at his aunt’s wedding, which threatened to curtail him of some of his fair proportions—his accustomed pleasures, or from some natural cause, it is impossible to say; but the house was suddenly thrown into a state of the greatest confusion; servants running about for remedies, and Donna Isidora in a state of the most violent agitation! However, the invalid became composed with the efforts which were made in his behalf; and Donna Isidora ventured to leave him and retire to rest, while the bridegroom went his round, taking care to see that the doors and windows were all fast, possessing himself of the keys for their better security.

This last act of caution seemed to be looked on with great distrust by the servants, who immediately attributed to jealousy that which was the result only of care and prudence; for Don Marcos had that morning removed to the house, with his own valuable person, and all his worldly possessions, including his six thousand ducats, which had not for a long time seen the light of day, and which he intended should still be consigned to solitary confinement, as far as locks and keys would ensure it.

Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he retired to his bridal-chamber, leaving the servants to bewail their unhappy fortune, in having got a master whose habits threatened to curtail them of little liberties which the kindness of their mistress had so long indulged. Marcella spoke of her dissatisfaction at once; saying that rather than live like a nun, she should seek her fortune elsewhere, but Ines fancying that she heard a noise in the chamber of Don Augustin, and feeling he might require something in his illness, stepped lightly to his room to inquire in what she might assist him.