Chap. XVIII Which Follows the Preceding, and Treats of Matters That Must Be Disclosed, in Order to Make the History the More Intelligible and Distinct
Sancho slept that night in a truckle-bed, in the apartment of Don Quixote; a circumstance which he would have waved, if possible, because he well knew his master would keep him awake with questions and replies, and he was not at all in a talkative humour; for the pain of his past sufferings kept them still present in his fancy, depriving his tongue of its usual freedom; and he would have much rather slept alone in a hut, than in the richest chamber thus accompanied. His apprehension was so true, and his suspicions so just, that scarce had his master committed his body to the bed, when he accosted the squire in these words: ‘What is thy opinion, Sancho, of this night’s adventure? Great and powerful is the force of amorous disdain, as thou hast seen with thy own eyes. Altisidora dead—not by shaft, or sword, or warlike instrument, or mortal poison, but solely by the reflection of that rigour and disdain with which I have always treated her advances.’—‘She might have died in good time, when and how she thought proper,’ cried Sancho, ’and left me in quiet at my own house, seeing I never treated her either with love or disdain in the whole course of my life; for my own part, I neither know, nor can I conceive, as I have formerly observed, what the health or life of such a whimsical girl as Altisidora has to do with the martyrdom of Sancho Panza: but now at length I can clearly and distinctly perceive, that this world actually abounds with inchanters and inchantments, from which I pray God may deliver me, since I cannot deliver myself! in the mean time, I humbly beseech your worship to let me sleep, without farther question, if you have not a mind to see me throw myself out of the window.’—‘Sleep, then, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou canst enjoy the benefit of slumber after the pinching, twitching, and pricking thou hast undergone.’—‘No pain is comparable to that of the twitching,’ replied the squire; ‘for no other reason, but because it was inflicted by duennas, whom God in heaven confound! I again intreat your worship to leave me to my repose, for deep is a remedy for those miseries which we feel when awake.’—‘Be it so,’ said the knight, ’and the Lord make thy sleep refreshing!’
While these two are left to their repose, Cid Hamet, author of this sublime history, takes occasion to explain the motives that induced the duke and duchess to raise the edifice of the adventure above related. He says, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco still remembering how, as Knight of the Mirrours, he had been vanquished and overthrown by Don Quixote, and his whole design blotted and defaced by that unlucky fall and defeat, he resolved to try his fortune once more, in hope of meeting with better success; and learning where the knight was, from the information of the page who carried the letter and the present to Sancho’s wife Teresa Panza, he purchased a new suit of armour and a horse, ordered a white moon to be painted on his shield, and fastened the whole cargo on the back of an he-mule, which was conducted by a certain ploughman, and not by his old squire Tom Cecial, lest he should be known by Sancho or Don Quixote. With this equipage he set out for the duke’s castle, where he was informed of the knight’s motions and route, together with his intention to assist at the tournament in Saragossa. His grace likewise gave him an account of the jokes they had executed upon our adventurer, with the contrivance of Dulcinea’s disinchantment, to be effected at the expence of Sancho’s posteriors. Nor did he forget to relate the trick which Sancho had practised on his master, in making him believe that Dulcinea was inchanted and transformed into a country-wench; as also how my lady duchess had persuaded the squire that Dulcinea was really and truly inchanted and transformed, and he himself the person that was mistaken and deceived: particulars which afforded abundance of mirth to the batchelor, who could not help admiring afresh the mixture of archness and simplicity in Sancho, as well as the unaccountable madness of Don Quixote. The duke begged he would return that way and communicate his success, whether he should be vanquished or victor. Sampson, having promised to comply with his request, set out in quest of our knight; and, as he did not find him in Saragossa, proceeded to Barcelona, where he met with the adventure we have already related in its proper place: then he returned to the duke’s castle, where he gave an account of the whole engagement, and the conditions of the combat; in consequence of which Don Quixote was already on his return, to fulfil, like a worthy knight-errant, the promise he had made to reside at his own habitation for the term of one year, during which, the batchelor said, he might possibly be cured of his madness. He declared this was his sole motive for disguising himself in such a manner, as it was a thousand pities that a gentleman of Don Quixote’s excellent understanding should continue under the influence of such infatuation. He accordingly took his leave of the duke, and returned to his own country, in full hope that the knight was not far behind.
From this information, his grace took the opportunity to connive this last adventure, so much was he delighted with the behaviour of Sancho and Don Quixote. He ordered a great number of his people on horseback and a-foot, to scour the country far and near, and a patrole through every road by which he thought the knight could possibly return, with orders to bring him to the castle, either by fair means or foul. Accordingly, when they found him, they gave notice to his grace, who having already pre-concerted what was to be done, no sooner heard of his coming than he directed that the torches and tapers should be lighted around the court, and Altisidora placed upon the tomb, together with all the apparatus already described; which was so naturally and artfully executed, that it differed very little from the real truth. Nay, Cid Hamet moreover observes, that he looked upon the jokers to be as mad as those who were joked; and the duke and duchess to be within two-fingers-breadth of lunacy, seeing they placed such happiness in playing pranks upon two confirmed madmen; one of whom the new day found sleeping at full snore, and the other watching over his disastrous thoughts, and very impatient to quit his couch; for, whether vanquished or victor, Don Quixote never took pleasure in lolling on the lazy down.
It was now that Altisidora, who in the knight’s opinion had returned from death, in compliance with the humour of her lord and lady, entered his apartment crowned with the same garland she had worn on the tomb, clad in a robe of white taffety powdered with flowers of gold, her hair flowing loose upon her shoulders, and supporting herself upon a staff of fine polished black ebony. This apparition discomposed our hero to such a degree, that he shrunk within his nest in silent confusion, and almost covered himself wholly with the sheets, fully determined against making any return of compliment. Meanwhile, Altisidora sitting down upon a chair, at his bed’s head, heaved a profound sigh, and thus addressed herself to him, in a faint and tender tone—‘When women of fashion, and damsels of reserve, trample upon honour, and give their tongues the liberty to break through all inconveniences, so as to divulge the secrets which their hearts conceal, their condition must be desperate indeed. I am one of those, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; sorely hampered, vanquished, and enamoured; but withal so patient and modest, that my soul broke through my silence, and I lost my life: in consequence of thy rigour, O flinty-hearted knight! more deaf than marble to my complaints, have I been dead for two days, or at least supposed to be dead by those who saw me; and if love, in pity to my fate, had not deposited a remedy in the tortures of that worthy squire, I should have remained for ever in the other world.’—‘Love,’ said Sancho, ‘might as well have deposited the remedy in the tortures of my ass, and I should have thanked him for it heartily: but pray, Madam, tell me, so may Heaven send you a kinder lover than my master, what did you see in the other world? What is going forward in hell? for surely those who die in despair must go to that baiting-place.’—‘To tell you the truth,’ answered Altisidora, ‘I could not be quite dead, seeing I did not enter the infernal regions; for, had I been once fairly introduced, I could not have left the place again, whatever inclination I might have had to return. The truth is, I went no farther than the gate, where I saw about a dozen devils playing at tennis, in their drawers and doublets, having bands edged with Flanders lace, and ruffles of the same at their wrists, which were naked to the length of four inches, in order to enlarge the appearance of their hands, in which they wielded rackets of fire: but what I chiefly admired was, that instead of balls, they made use of books, which seemed to be filled with wind and flocks; a circumstance equally new and surprizing! and yet there was another particular which still increased my astonishment; for, whereas among the gamesters of this world, it is natural for the winners to be merry, and for the losers to be sad; in that diabolical pastime, all the players growled and grumbled, and cursed one another.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’ replied the squire; ‘for the devils, play or not play, win or not win, can never be content.’—‘That must certainly be the case,’ answered Altisidora; ‘but there was likewise another peculiarity at which I wonder, I mean, at which I then wondered; namely, that after the first toss, the ball was useless, and could not be used a second time; so that they whirled them away, new and old, in a marvellous manner. On one of these, which was finely gilt and lettered, they bestowed such a violent stroke, that the guts flew out in scattered leaves. “What book is that?” said one devil to his fellow. The other answered, that it was the second part of the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, composed not by the original author Cid Hamet, but by an Arragonian, who calls himself a native of Tordesillas. “Away with it!” cried the first, “plunge it into the lowest abyss of hell, that mine eyes may never behold it again.”—“What, is it so bad!” said the second. “So very bad,” replied the other, “that if I myself had endeavoured to make it worse, it would not have been in my power.” They proceeded with their play, driving about the unfortunate books; and I hearing them mention Don Quixote, whom I love and adore, endeavoured to retain the vision in my memory.’—‘A vision it must have been, without all doubt,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for there is no other I in the whole world; and as for that history, it is bandied from hand to hand, without finding a resting place, and every body has a fling at the author: nor am I in the least mortified to hear that I wander like a fantastick shadow through the dark abodes of hell, as well as through the enlightened mansions of this globe, as I am not the person recorded in that history; which, were it elegant, faithful, and authentick, would live for ages; but, being false and execrable as it is, there will be no great distance between its birth and burial.’
Altisidora was going to proceed with her lamentations, when she was prevented by the knight; who said, with great solemnity, ‘I have often told you, Madam, that I am sorry you have placed your affection upon me, who can make no other return than that of gratitude and thanks; I was born for Dulcinea del Toboso; and the Fates, if such there be, have consecrated me for her service; so that to imagine any other beauty shall ever occupy the place which she possesses in my heart, is to suppose a mere impossibility. Let this declaration, therefore, undeceive and prevail upon you to retire within the limits of virtue and decorum, seeing no man is obliged to perform impossibilities.’ Altisidora, in consequence of this repulse, assumed an air of indignation, and in an affected transport of rage, exclaimed, ‘How now, Don Stockfish! soul of a mortar! stone of a date! more positive and obstinate than a courted peasant when his harrow hath chanced to hit the mark, by the Lord! if I once fall upon you, I will tear your eyes out. Hark ye, Don Beaten-and-cudgelled, are you such a wiseacre as to suppose I died for love of you? All you have seen this last night was a pure fiction; for I am not the woman to have a finger ache, much less to die for such a camel.’—‘O my conscience! I believe what you say,’ cried Sancho; ‘that of dying for love is a most ridiculous affair: your lovers, indeed, may easily say they are dying; but that they will actually give up the ghost, Judas may believe it for me.’
During this conversation, the musician and poet, who had sung the two stanzas which we have already repeated, came into the apartment, and made a profound bow to Don Quixote, saying, ‘Sir Knight, I beg you will esteem and reckon me among the number of your most humble servants; for many days are elapsed since I have conceived the warmest affection for your person, from the fame of your character and atchievements.’ When Don Quixote desired to know who he was, that he might respect him according to his merit, he answered, that he was the musician and panegyrist of the preceding night. ‘Assuredly, your voice is extremely sweet,’ said the knight; ‘but, methinks, the verses you sung were not much to the purpose; for what affinity is there between the stanzas of Garcilasso and the death of this young lady?’—‘Your worship must not wonder at that impropriety,’ answered the musician; ‘it is a common practice among the beardless poets of this age to write what they will, and steal from whom they please to pillage, whether it be or be not to the purpose; and every absurdity that occurs in their singing or writing, they attribute to the licentia poetica.’
Don Quixote’s reply was prevented by the entrance of the duke and duchess, who came to visit him in his chamber, and a long diverting conversation ensued, in the course of which Sancho uttered so many humorous sallies, and satirical jokes, that their graces admired anew the mixture of his acuteness and simplicity. As for the knight, he humbly requested that he might be allowed to depart that very day, as it was much more proper that vanquished knights, like him, should live in hog-sties than in sumptuous palaces. They graciously complied with his request; and when the duchess enquired if Altisidora had, as yet, acquired his good graces, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that damsel’s distemper wholly proceeds from idleness, which may be easily cured by continual and decent occupation: she tells me it is the fashion in hell to wear lace, and as she knows how to make it, let the work never be out of her hand, which being employed in moving the bobbins, the idea or ideas of what she loves will no longer move in her imagination; and this is the truth, the substance of my opinion, and the marrow of my advice.’—‘Aye, and of mine too,’ cried Sancho; ‘for never in my born days did I know a lace-maker die for love: the thoughts of girls employed at that work, run more upon the finishing of their tasks than upon the idle fancies of love; and, for myself, I can safely say, that while I am digging in the field, I never so much as dream of my duck; I mean, my wife Teresa Panza, whom I love as the apple of mine eye.’—‘You talk like an oracle, Sancho,’ said the duchess: ’and I will take care, that, from this day forward, Altisidora shall be employed in some plain work, which she understands to perfection.’—‘Your ladyship shall not need to use any such expedient,’ replied Altisidora; ‘for the consideration of the cruelty with which I have been used by that felonious monster, will blot him effectually from my remembrance, without any other assistance; and, in the mean time, with your grace’s permission, I will retire, that I may no longer have before my eyes—I will not say his rueful countenance, but his frightful and abominable aspect.’—‘These reproaches,’ said the duke, ‘put me in mind of the old observation, that Scolding among lovers is the next neighbour to forgiveness.’
Altisidora, making a shew of wiping the tears from her eyes with a white handkerchief, dropped a low curtsey to her lord and lady, and withdrew; and Sancho sending after her an earnest look, ‘Poor damsel!’ cried he, ‘I can bequeath, bequeath thee nothing, I say, but bad luck, seeing thou hast placed thine affection upon a soul of rush, and an heart of oak: had it lighted upon me, another sort of a cock would have crowned thy fortune.’
Thus the conversation ended, Don Quixote put on his cloaths, dined with the duke and duchess, and set out that same evening for his own habitation.