Chap. IX Of What Befel the Renowned Don Quixote in the Brown Mountain; Being One of the Most Surprizing Adventures Which Is Recounted in This True History
Don Quixote, finding himself so evil entreated, said to his squire, ‘I have always heard it observed, Sancho, that benefits conferred on base-minded people are like drops of water thrown into the sea. Had I taken thy advice, I might have avoided this vexation: but, now the affair is over, we must have recourse to patience, and take warning for the future.’—‘Yes,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship will take warning as sure as I am a Turk; but, since you allow, that if you had taken my advice, you would have avoided this misfortune, take my advice now, and you avoid a greater still! for I give you notice, that all your errantry will stand you in little stead against the holy brotherhood, who don’t value all the knights-errant in the universe three farthings: and, in faith, this minute methinks I hear their arrows buzzing about my ears.’—‘Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘but that thou mayest have no reason to say I am obstinate, and never follow thy counsel, for once thou shalt prevail; I will retreat from the danger thou dreadest so much; but it shall be on condition, that thou shalt never, either in life or death, hint to any person whatsoever, that I retired and avoided this peril through fear, but merely in compliance with thy earned request; for to say otherwise would be to propagate falsehood; and from this hour to that, and from that hour to this, I give thee the lye, and affirm thou lyest, and wilt lye as often as thou shalt say or think any such thing: make no reply, therefore; the very thought of my being supposed to abscond, or retreat from danger, especially from this, as it implies some sort of shadow of fear, inspires me with such courage, that here am I alone, ready to remain, and expect not only the holy brotherhood, which thou hast mentioned with fear and trembling, but also the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, those of the seven Maccabees, with Castor and Pollux, and all the brethren and brotherhoods in the universe.’—‘Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to retreat is not to fly; nor is it prudent to tarry when the danger overbalances the hope, and it is always the practice of wise people, to reserve something for to-morrow, without venturing all upon one cast; and you must know, that though I be a rustick and a clown, I have all my life-time had a small share of what is called good conduct; wherefore you need not repent of having taken my advice, but mount Rozinante, if you can; if not, I will lend you my assistance, and follow me; for this noddle of mine tells me, that, at present, we have more need of heels than of hands.’
Don Quixote accordingly mounted, without the least reply; and Sancho leading the way upon his ass, they took refuge in that part of the brown mountain which was nearest, the squire intending to go quite across to Viso or Almodavar del Campo, after they should have lurked for some days amongst the rocks, that they might not be found, in case the holy brotherhood should come in search of them: he was encouraged to this resolution, by seeing, that in the scuffle with the galley slaves, the provisions his ass carried had escaped untouched72; a circumstance that, in his opinion, amounted to a miracle, considering what the thieves had taken, and how narrowly they had searched.
That evening they arrived in the very heart of the Sierra Morena73, where Sancho proposed to spend the night, and even to pass a few days, at least to stay as long as their store should last: accordingly they took up their lodging between two rocks in the midst of a great number of cork-trees; but fate, which, according to the opinion of those who do not enjoy the light of the true faith, guides, conducts, and disposes all things after its own way, ordained that Gines de Passamonte, that famous robber and cheat, who had been delivered from the chain by the valour and madness of Don Quixote; I say, fate ordained that he, impelled by the fear of the holy brotherhood, which he did not dread without good reason happened likewise to take refuge in those mountains; and even to be carried by this fear to the same place whither the same principle had directed Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, just time enough to know who they were, notwithstanding their being gone to sleep. As the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity puts them to their shifts, and the present convenience overcomes the prospect of future quiet; Gines, who was neither grateful nor good-natured, resolved to steal Sancho’s ass, undervaluing Rozinante, as a subject that he could neither pawn nor sell: accordingly, while the squire was asleep, he stole Dapple; and, before morning, was gone far enough to elude all pursuit.
The appearance of Aurora that rejoices the earth, had a quite contrary effect upon Sancho Panza; who, missing his Dapple, and searching for him in vain, began to utter the most woeful lamentation that ever was heard; and Don Quixote, waked by the noise, heard him exclaiming in this manner: ‘O son of my bowels! born in my house, the play fellow of my children, the delight of my spouse, the envy of my neighbours, and comforter of my cares! in short, the half of my sustenance: for with six and twenty maravedis, which thou hast daily earned, did I defray one half of my family-expence!’ Don Quixote hearing this complaint, and being informed of the cause, consoled Sancho with all the arguments in his power; and, begging him to have patience, promised to give him a bill of exchange, on sight of which he should receive three asses out of five, which the knight had left at home. Sancho being comforted with this declaration, dried up his tears, moderated his sighs, and returned a thousand thanks to Don Quixote for his generosity. As they sauntered among the rocks, the knight’s heart was rejoiced to see places so well adapted to those adventures he was in quest of; for they recalled to his remembrance those wonderful events which had happened to knights-errant among such rocks and solitudes: he went on, musing on these subjects, and indeed so wrapped up and engrossed by them, that he minded nothing else; while Sancho’s only care, now that he thought he travelled in safety, was to satisfy his appetite with what remained of the spoils of the clergy; he therefore jogged on leisurely after his master, sitting side-ways on his ass74, and replenishing his own bags out of that which contained the provision; and while he was thus employed, would not have given a farthing for the best adventure that could happen.
Chancing, however, to lift up his eyes, he perceived his master had stopped, and was endeavouring, with the point of his lance to raise some bundle that lay upon the ground; he therefore hastened up to him, in order to lend his assistance, should it be found necessary; and arrived just as the knight had turned up with his lance, a pillion with a portmanteau fixed to it, all rotted and consumed by the weather; but so heavy, that Sancho was obliged to alight, in order to take them up. His master having ordered him to examine the contents of the portmanteau, he obeyed with great alacrity, and though it was shut with a chain and padlock, there were so many holes in it, that he soon reached the inside, where he found four shirts of fine holland, with other provision of linen, equally fashionable and clean, together with a pretty large heap of crowns of gold, wrapped up in a rag; which he no sooner perceived, than he cried in a rapture, ‘Blessed be Heaven for granting us one advantageous adventure!’ then continuing his search, he found a pocket-book richly garnished, which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding him keep the money for his own use. Sancho kissed his hand for the favour, and taking the linen out of the portmanteau, crammed it into the bag that held their provision.
The knight having considered the whole affair, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘I am of opinion, and I cannot possibly be mistaken, that some bewildered traveller, in his passage over these mountains, has been set upon by robbers, who having slain him, must have dragged his body to be buried in this unfrequented place.’—‘That cannot be the case,’ answered the squire; ‘for if they had been robbers, they would not have left the money behind them.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ’and I cannot guess nor conceive what the matter can have been. Let us see if there be any thing written in this pocket-book, by which we may trace out and come to the certainty of what we want to know.’ He opened it accordingly, and the first thing he found was the rough draught, though very legible, of a sonnet, which he read aloud for the benefit of Sancho, in these words.
I.
Love either cruel is or blind;
Or still unequal to the cause,
Is this distemper of the mind,
That with infernal torture gnaws.
II.
But Love’s a god, and cruelty
In heavenly breasts can never dwell:
Then say by what authority,
I’m doom’d to feel the pains of hell?
III.
Of all my sufferings and my woe,
Is Chloe then the fatal source?
Sure ill from good can never flow,
Nor so much beauty gild a curse.
IV.
With hopeless misery weigh’d down,
I’ll seek for quiet in the grave;
For when the malady’s unknown,
A miracle alone can save.
‘From such rhyme,’ said Sancho, ‘there is no information to be got, unless by that Clue we could come to the bottom of the affair75.’—‘What clue dost thou mean?’ said the knight. ‘The Clue your worship mentioned just now in the sonnet,’ answered the squire. ‘I mentioned no clue,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but Chloe, which is without doubt the name of the lady of whom the author of these verses complains; and really he must have been a very ingenious poet, or else I know very little of the art.’—‘Then your worship understands crambo?’ said the squire. ‘Better than you imagine,’ answered the knight, ’as you will see when you carry from me a letter to my mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, written in verse from top to bottom; for thou must know, Sancho, that all, or the greatest part of the knights-errant who lived in former ages, were very much addicted to poetry and musick; these two qualities, or rather gifts of nature, being annexed to all errants in love; though the truth is, their couplets were rather sprightly than elegant.’—‘I wish your worship would read on,’ said Sancho; ‘perhaps you may find something more to our satisfaction.’ Accordingly the knight having turned over the leaf, ‘Here is prose,’ said he; ’and seems to be a letter.’ Sancho asking if it was upon business, his master replied, ‘In the beginning there was nothing but love.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ cried Sancho, ‘read it aloud; for I am highly delighted with matters of love.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Don Quixote; who raising his voice, in compliance with the squire’s request, read what follows.
‘Thy false promises, together with the certainty of my misfortune, have exiled me to a corner of the world, from whence thou wilt hear an account of my death, before this my complaint shall reach thine ears. Thou hast cast me off, ungrateful as thou art, in favour of one who, though he is richer, is not a more deserving lover than me: for if virtue were the wealth that is most esteemed, I should have no cause to envy the happiness of others, or to bewail my own mishap. What thy beauty had raised, thy behaviour has overthrown: by the first I mistook thee for an angel; by the last I discovered thee to be a woman. Mayest thou live in peace, fair authoress of my misfortunes; and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband may never be disclosed, that thou mayest never repent of what thou hast done, nor I enjoy the revenge I do not desire!’
Don Quixote having read this letter, observed that nothing else could be inferred either from it, or the verses, but that the author was some despairing lover. Then perusing the rest of the book, he found more verses and letters, some legible, and others not intelligible; but the substance of them all was composed of complaints, lamentations, suspicions, desires, disgusts, favours, and disdain, some of which were extolled, and others deplored. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho rummaged the portmanteau, without leaving a corner in that of the pillion which he did not search, pry into, and overhaul; no seam was left unripped, no lock of wool unpicked, that nothing might be lost through negligence and want of care; so much was his cupidity awakened, by finding the money, which amounted to more than a hundred crowns; and though he reaped no other fruit from his industry, he thought himself abundantly requited for his capers in the blanket, his vomit of the balsam, the benediction of the pack-staves, the fisty-cuffs of the carrier, the loss of his bags, the robbery of his great coat, with all the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had undergone in the service of his worthy master, who had made him more than amends by his generous present of this windfall.
The knight of the rueful countenance was impatient to know the owner of the portmanteau; conjecturing by the sonnet, the letter, the gold, and the fine linen, that he must be some lover of quality, whom the disdain and barbarity of his mistress had driven to some desperate end: but, as in that uninhabited and rocky place, there was nobody who could give him the information he wanted, he resolved to penetrate still farther into the mountain, without taking any other road than what Rozinante should chuse for his own conveniency, still confident of meeting with some strange adventure among these briars and brambles.
As he went on, entertaining himself with these reflections, he perceived upon the top of a hill right before him, a man skipping from bush to bush, and rock to rock, with wonderful agility; his body seemed naked, his beard black and bushy, his hair long and matted, his feet unshod, his legs bare, and his thighs covered with breeches, which to all appearance were of crimson, but so ragged, that his skin appeared through many different holes, while his head was without any sort of covering. Notwithstanding the nimbleness with which he passed, all these minute circumstances were seen and remarked by the knight of the rueful countenance, who in vain attempted to follow him; those rough roads being quite unpassable by the feeble Rozinante, who was naturally phlegmatick and tender-footed. However, Don Quixote concluded that this must be the owner of the pillion and portmanteau, and determined within himself to find him out, although he should travel a whole year through the mountains for that very purpose. With this view he ordered Sancho to alight, and take a short cut over one part of the mountain, while he should go round the other; and by this expedient they might come up with the man who had so suddenly vanished from their sight. ‘That proposal I can by no means comply with,’ answered the squire; ‘for if I stir but an inch from your worship, fear instantly lays hold on me, and assaults me in a thousand horrid shapes and visions; and let this serve to apprize you, that henceforward, I will not budge a finger’s breadth from your presence.’—‘Be it so,’ said he of the rueful countenance; ’and I am very glad that thou canst avail thyself of my courage, which shall never fail thee, even if thy soul should fail thy body; follow me, therefore, step by step, or at thy own leisure; and use thine eyes like two spy glasses; we will take a compass round this little mountain, and perhaps we may meet again with that man, who is certainly no other than the owner of what we found.’ To this observation Sancho replied, ‘Methinks we may save ourselves that trouble; for if, upon finding him, he should prove to be the owner of the money, I must of course make restitution; therefore we had better spare all this fruitless search; and keep it bona fide, until the true owner appear of himself, without all this intricate enquiry: and before that happens, perhaps I shall have spent the whole, and then I shall be discharged by law.’—‘In that notion thou art mistaken, Sancho,’ resumed the knight; ‘for as we have already good grounds to believe he is the owner, it is our duty to find him out, and restore what we have taken; and though we should not find him, the strong reason we have to believe that it belongs to him will make us equally guilty in detaining it, as we should be if it really did. Wherefore, friend Sancho, do not give thyself any uneasiness about the enquiry; because if we find him, I shall be freed from a great deal of anxiety.’ So saying, he put spurs to Rozinante, and Sancho followed him in his usual manner. Having surrounded part of the mountain, they found in a brook that watered the foot of it, a dead mule saddled and bridled, and half consumed by the dogs and crows; another circumstance which confirmed them in the opinion, that he who fled from them was master both of the mule and portmanteau.
While they were looking at this object, they heard a shepherd’s whistle, and presently on the left appeared a good number of goats, and behind them, on the top of the mountain, they descried the goatherd, who seemed to be a man in years. Don Quixote calling aloud, entreated him to come down; and he, in the same tone, asked what had brought them to that place, which was seldom trodden, except by the feet of goats, wolves, and other wild beasts that harboured thereabouts? Sancho bade him come down, and they would tell him what had brought them thither; upon which the goatherd descended, and coming up to Don Quixote, ‘I will wager,’ said he, ‘that you are looking at the hireling mule, which lies dead in that bottom, where in good sooth it hath lain full six months. Pray, have you met with its master?’—‘We have met with nothing,’ answered the knight, ‘but a pillion and portmanteau, which we found not far from hence.’—‘I have often seen the same things,’ replied the goatherd, ‘but would never touch nor go near them, being afraid of some misfortune, or of being questioned for theft; for the devil is very cunning, and raises blocks under our feet, over which we stumble, and very often fall, without knowing how or wherefore.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘though I saw them also, I would not go within a stone’s throw of them; there I left them, and there they remain as they were; for I don’t chuse to steal a dog with a collar about his neck76.’—‘Pr’ythee, honest friend,’ said Quixote, ‘dost thou know who the owner of these things is?’—‘All that I can say of the matter,’ answered the goatherd, ’is, that it may be about six months, more or less, since there came to our hut, which is about three leagues from hence, a very genteel young man of a comely appearance, riding upon that very mule that now lies dead, with the same pillion and portmanteau which you say you found. He asked what part of the mountain was the most woody and concealed, and we told him, that it was this very spot where we now are; and it is so, for if you go half a league farther into the mountain, you will perhaps find it a very difficult matter to return: and I marvel much how you have got so far, for there is neither high-road nor by-path that leads to this place. But as I was saying, the young man hearing our reply, turned his mule, and rode towards the place to which we had directed him, leaving us all very much pleased with his appearance, though not a little surprized at his question, and the speed with which we saw him ride back, into the heart of the mountain: from that time we saw no more of him, till a few days after; when he sprung upon one of our shepherds on the road; and, without saying why or wherefore, beat and bruised him unmercifully; after which he went to the sumpter ass, and carrying off all the bread and cheese that was on his back, with surprizing nimbleness, ran back again to the thicket. As soon as we understood this particular, several of us goatherds went in search of him, through the most wild and unfrequented part of the mountain, for the space of two days, at the end of which we found him lying in the hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us in a very civil manner, with his cloaths all torn, and his face so tanned and disfigured by the sun, that we should scarce have known him, had not his cloaths, tattered as they were, which we had before taken particular notice of, assured us that he was the person we went in search of. He saluted us very courteously, and in a few words, though very well chosen, bade us not wonder at seeing him in that condition; for he was obliged in that manner to do penance, which had been enjoined him, on account of his manifold sins and transgressions. We earnestly begged to know who he was; but that he never could be prevailed upon to tell: we desired him also, whenever he should have occasion for food, without which he could not live, to tell us where we should find him, and we would bring it to him with great care and affection; or if that was not to his liking, we desired him to ask it civilly, without taking it by force. He thanked us kindly for our tenders of service, begged pardon for the assaults he had committed, and promised for the future, to ask it for God’s sake, without giving offence to any person whatsoever. With regard to the place of his habitation, he said, he had no other than that which chance presented every night when it grew dark; and concluded his discourse with such piteous lamentation, that our hearts must have been made of flint, if we could have heard it without shedding tears, considering the woeful change he had undergone since we saw him at first: for as I have already observed, he was a genteel, comely youth, and by his courteous and polite discourse, shewed himself to be a person of good birth and excellent breeding; and though we who heard him were only home-bred country people, the gentility of his carriage was easily perceived by our clownish ignorance. In the midst of this conversation that passed between him and us, he grew silent all of a sudden, and nailed, as it were, his eyes to the ground, for a considerable space of time, during which we remained in suspense and no small concern, to see the effect of this stupefaction; for by his staring at the ground for a good while, without moving his eye-lids, then shutting them close and biting his lips, and then drawing up the skin of his forehead, we could easily perceive that he was seized with some fit of madness; and he soon confirmed the truth of our opinion, for he sprung up with surprizing force from the ground on which he had thrown himself, and attacked the person who was next to him with such rage and resolution, that if we had not taken him off, he would have beaten and bit him to death; crying aloud all the time, “Ha, treacherous Fernando! now shalt thou pay for the injury thou hast done me. These hands shall tear out thy heart, in which all kinds of wickedness, particularly fraud and deceit, are harboured and dwell!” To these he added other expressions, tending to reproach that Fernando with treachery and baseness. When we had got our friend out of his clutches, with no small trouble, he went off without speaking another word, and ran at full speed among these shrubs and brambles, so as that it was impossible for us to follow him. From these things we conjectured that his madness came upon him by fits, and that some person of the name of Fernando must have done him some deadly wrong, which hath driven him to distraction. Indeed, this conjecture has been since confirmed by his different behaviour on divers occasions, when he hath met with our shepherds, from whom he hath sometimes begged part of their provision, and at other times hath taken it by force; for when the fit of lunacy is upon him, though they offer it of their own free will, he will not accept of it peaceably, without coming to blows; but when he is in his right senses, he begs it for God’s sake, in a very courteous and civil manner, and returns many thanks for the favour, accompanied with abundance of tears. And truly, gentlemen,’ added the goatherd, ‘I and four more country lads, two of them my own servants, and the other two friends of mine, yesterday resolved to go in search of him, and after having found him, to carry him, either by force or fair means, to the city of Almodavar, which is about eight leagues from hence, and there have him cured, if he be curable; or learn of him, when he is in his senses, who he is, or whether or not he has any relations to whom we may give an account of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is all I can say, in answer to the questions you asked; and you may take it for granted, that the owner of the goods you found, is the very same person whom you saw skip about half-naked, with such agility:’ for Don Quixote had said that they had seen a man in that condition, leaping from rock to rock.
The knight was very much surprized at this information of the goatherd, which making him still more impatient to know who this unfortunate lunatick was, he determined with himself to put his former design in execution, and go in quest of him, through the whole mountain, without leaving a cave or corner unsearched until he should find him. But accident was more his friend on this occasion than he could either imagine or expect; for at that instant, the young man of himself appeared in the cleft of a rock hard by the place where they stood; and came towards them, muttering something to himself, which they could not have understood had he been near, much less as he was at some distance from them. His equipage was just as it has been described; but, as he approached, Don Quixote perceived that his buff doublet, though torn to rags, still retained the perfume: from whence he concluded, that the person who wore such dress, could not be a man of the lowest rank. When he came up, he saluted them very politely, though with a hoarse, mistuned voice; and the salutation was returned with no less courtesy by Don Quixote, who alighting from Rozinante, with genteel and graceful deportment, went and embraced the stranger, whom he strained within his arms a good while, as if he had been a very old acquaintance. The other, who might have been called the tatterdemalion of the distracted, as Don Quixote was stiled the knight of the rueful countenance, after having submitted to this embrace, stepped back, and laying his hands on the shoulders of the knight, stood looking attentively in his face, in order to recollect him; no less astonished, perhaps, at the figure, mien, and armour of Don Quixote, than this last was surprized at his forlorn appearance. At length, the first who broke silence after the embrace, was the ragged youth, who spoke what you may read in the following chapter.