Chap. III An Account of the Wedding of Camacho the Rich, and What Happened to Basilius the Poor
The fair Aurora had hardly allowed Phœbus time to dry up the liquid pearls that hung upon his golden locks, when Don Quixote shaking from his limbs the drowsy fetters of sloth, got upon his legs, and called to Sancho Panza, who lay stretched along, and snoring; which situation his master seeing, before he awaked him, broke out into this soliloquy: ‘Happy thou, and blessed beyond the fate of other mortals, who, neither envying nor envied, sleepest sound, with unconcern of soul! Inchanters neither persecute, nor inchantments terrify thee: sleep on, I say again, and a hundred times more I say, sleep on; no jealousies on account of a mistress torture thee with perpetual watchings, no anxious cares of paying debts awake thee, no solicitude how thou must to-morrow provide for thyself and little ones breaks in upon thy slumbers. Ambitious views create thee no disquiet, nor the vain pomp of this empty world occasions thee any disturbance; thy concern is centered within the bounds of taking care of thy ass; for, as to taking care of thy person, that is laid upon my shoulders, a charge and burden that both nature and custom have laid upon masters; the servant sleeps, while the master is awake, and thinking how he shall maintain him, advance him in life, or do him some service. The uneasiness that arises from seeing the heavens as it were hard as brass, locked up, and refusing rain to cherish the earth, brings no anxiety upon the servant, but upon the master; who, in the days of dearth and famine, is bound to provide for him who served him in the time of abundant and plentiful harvest.’
To all this effusion Sancho answered not one word, for he was fast asleep, nor would have waked when he did, but that his master jogged him with the butt-end of his lance. He waked yawning and drowsy; and turning his face every way, ‘Umph!’ said he, ‘from yonder shady bower, if my nostrils deceive me not, proceeds rather the steam and savour of broiled rashers of bacon, than the fragrance of thyme and jessamine. O’ my conscience! weddings that begin in this savoury manner, must needs, in truth, be magnificent and abundant.’—‘Thou epicure,’ said Don Quixote, ‘have done, and let us go see this wedding, and what will be the fate of the slighted Basilius.’—‘Let his fate be as it pleases,’ quoth Sancho; ‘what, he poor and marry Quiteria! A pretty fancy truly, for one not worth a groat to think of matching so high; ’tis my opinion, a man who is poor ought to bless God for what he finds, and not be diving to find truffles at the bottom of the sea. I’ll lay a limb that Camacho can cover this same Basilius from head to foot with sixpenny pieces; and if this be so, as it certainly is, Quiteria would be a pretty lady of a bride, indeed, to refuse all the fine cloaths and fine things that, I warrant you, Camacho has given her already, and can give her still more; and to prefer, instead of them, a pitch at the bar truly, and a pass at the foils, which, it seems, make up Basilius’s riches. Go into a tavern for a pint of wine, and see if they will take a pitch of the bar, or a clever push of the foils, in lieu of the reckoning; as for your abilities, and your refinements, and graces, that will bring in none of the ready; Count Dirlos may have them for me: but when they happen to take their resting-place on a man who has wherewithal, O then, I wish no better than that my life may shew off as well as they do. Upon a good foundation a good house may be raised, and the very best bottom and best foundation of any is wealth.’—‘Oh!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘have done; have done with this harangue: I do from my soul believe, if one would but suffer thee to go on, thou wouldst lose both thy eating and sleeping in talking.’—‘Was your worship possessed of a good memory,’ replied Sancho, ‘you would remember certain articles stipulated between us, before we sallied forth upon this expedition; one of which was, that I was to talk as much as I pleased, provided it was not scandal against my neighbour, or derogating from your worship’s authority; and I imagine that nothing I have hitherto said is a breach of this agreement.’—‘I remember no such agreement,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but, allowing it to be so, it is my pleasure you should give over, and come attend me; for now the instruments we heard last evening send their chearing sounds through the vallies; and beyond all doubt the nuptials will not be put off to the sultry heat of the noon-day, but be solemnized in the fresh cool of the morning.’
Sancho did as he was commanded, and putting on Rozinante’s saddle and Dapple’s pannel, they both mounted, and gently walked their beasts into the artificial shade. The first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho, was an entire bullock spitted whole, upon an elm, roasting by a fire of wood of the size of a middling mountain, and round it six pots, but not such pots as are cast in common moulds, for they were half jars, and each of them contained a whole shamble of meat; whole sheep found room in them, and were stowed as commodiously as if they had been so many pigeons. There was an innumerable quantity of cased hares; and ready-plucked fowls that hung about the branches of the trees, ready to be swallowed up in these receivers; and an infinite number of wild-fowl, with vast quantities of venison, were likewise hanging about the trees, for the air to cool them. Sancho himself told above threescore skins, which, as it was afterwards discovered, were full of rich wines, every skin containing above twenty-four quarts. Loaves of the whitest bread were piled up like heaps of wheat on a threshing-floor; and such a quantity of cheese ranged in the form of bricks, as seemed a wall; two cauldrons of oil, larger than a dyer’s vat, were ready for frying their fritters and pancakes; and when fried, they took them out with strong peels, and dipped them in another pot that stood by full of prepared honey. The cooks, men and women, amounted to above fifty, clean, good-humoured, and all busy; in the belly of the roasting bullock were sewed a dozen sucking pigs, to make it tender and savoury. Spices of all sorts, which seemed to have been bought by wholesale and not by retail, stood in a vast chest. In short, the preparations for the wedding were indeed in a rustick taste, but in such plenty and profusion as might have feasted an army.
Sancho looked at every thing, attentively considered each particular, and was in raptures with the whole. But his whole heart and affections were chiefly captivated by the flesh pots; out of them he would have been glad, with all his heart, to have filled about a moderate barrel. Then the wine-skins made his bowels yearn; and after these the contents of the frying-pans, if vessels of such immoderate size may be so called. He could hold out no longer; it was not in the power of his nature to contain himself; therefore up he went to one of the cooks, who was busy, and addressing himself to him with a humble and hungry air, begged that he might be permitted to sop a luncheon of bread in one of the pots. To which request the cook replied, ‘Hunger does not preside over this day, thanks be to Camacho the Rich; e’en alight, and see if thou canst find any where a ladle, and skim out a fowl or two, and much good may it do thy good heart.’—‘I see no ladle,’ laid Sancho. ‘God forgive me all my sins!’ cried the cook, ‘what a poor helpless thing thou art! stay.’ So saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and dipping it at once into one of the half-jar pots, brought up three pullets, and a couple of geese. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘eat; make a breakfast of this scum, and see if you can stay your stomach with it till dinner-time.’—‘I have nothing to put it in,’ said Sancho. ‘Then take ladle and all,’ replied the cook; ‘for Camacho’s riches and good fortune are sufficient to supply every thing.’
While Sancho Panza passed his time in this manner, Don Quixote was attentive in observing about a dozen of countrymen, who entered in at one side of this spacious arbour, mounted upon beautiful mares, each of them accoutred with rich and gay caparisons, and hung round with little bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and coursed round the meadow in a body, and, in regular careers, several times, with a joyous Moorish shout, flourishing, and crying out, ‘Long live Camacho and Quiteria, he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of the universe.’ Which exclamation, Don Quixote hearing, said within himself, ‘It is evident they never have beheld the beauty of my Dulcinea del Toboso; had they ever been blessed with a sight of her transcendant charms, they would be more sparing in their praises of this their Quiteria.’
Some time after there entered, at different parts of the arbour, different sets of dancers; one of whom consisted of twenty-four sword dancers, all of them clean, well-made, jolly swains, clad in fine white linen, and white handkerchiefs embroidered with silk of various colours. One of those who were mounted upon the mares asked a youth, who led the band of the sword-dancers, whether any of his companions had received any hurt? ‘As yet,’ replied the other, ‘we are all safe and sound, thanks be to God, no one is wounded!’ and immediately upon that mixed among his companions with so many twistings and windings, and with such dexterity, that though Don Quixote had been used to behold such dances, he never saw any he approved so much. Another dance likewise pleased him prodigiously; that was another chorus of twelve most beautiful damsels, of such an age, that none appeared under fourteen, nor did any seem to be quite eighteen; they were all clad in green stuff of Cuenca, their locks were, some plaited, some flowing loose, and all so fine and flaxen, as to rival those of Phœbus himself, and crowned with garlands of roses, of jessamine, and of woodbine. This beautiful bevy was led up to the dance by a venerable old man and an ancient matron, both more airy and agile than could be expected from their years. A bagpipe of Zamora was their musick, and with modesty in their looks and countenances, and lightness of foot, they danced and tripped it away the prettiest in the world. After these, entered an emblematick dance of eight nymphs divided into two bodies: the God of Love led one, and Interest the other; Cupid with his wings, his bow, his quiver, and arrows; Interest clad in gold, and silk of rich and various colours. The nymphs, attendants on Cupid, had their names displayed in white parchment, and capital letters on their backs: the first was named Poetry, the second Discretion, the third Pedigree, the fourth Bravery. The attendants on Interest were likewise characterised: the first was Liberality, the second Bounty, the third Treasure, the fourth Quiet possession. The whole masque was preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by savages, clad in ivy and hemp dyed green, and so savage they looked, that they had almost frightened Sancho. On the front and on each of the four sides of this machine were inscribed these words, ‘The Castle of Discretion.’ Four able musicians played on the tabor and the pipe. Cupid, who began the dance, after he had made two movements, lifted up his eyes, and bent his bow against a damsel that stood upon the battlements of the castle, to whom he pronounced this address—
‘I am the God whose pow’r extends
Thro’ the wide ocean, earth, and sky;
To my soft sway all nature bends,
Compell’d by beauty to comply.
Fearless, I rule, in calm and storm,
Indulge my pleasure to the full,
Things deem’d impossible perform,
Bestow, resume, ordain, annul.’
Having repeated these stanzas, he shot an arrow to the top of the castle, and retired to his station. Then Interest advanced, and performed other two movements; after which the tabors were silent, and the power rehearsed these lines—
‘My pow’r exceeds the might of Love;
For Cupid bows to me alone,
Of all things fram’d by Heav’n above,
The most respected, sought, and known.
My name is Interest, mine aid
But few obtain, though all desire;
Yet shall thy virtue, beauteous maid,
My constant services acquire.’
Interest retiring, was succeeded by Poetry; who, after having performed his motions like the rest, fixed his eyes upon the lady of the castle, and said—
‘Let Poetry, whose strain divine
The wond’rous pow’r of song displays,
His heart to thee, fair nymph, consign,
Transported, in melodious lays;
If haply, thou wilt not refuse
To grant my supplicated boon,
Thy fame shall, wafted by the muse,
Surmount the circle of the moon.’
Poetry disappearing, Liberality advanced from the side of Interest, and, after several movements, repeated these lines—
‘My name is Liberality,
Alike beneficent and wise,
To shun wild prodigality,
And sordid avarice despise:
Yet, for thy favour lavish grown,
A prodigal I mean to prove;
An honourable vice, I own,
But giving is the test of love.’
In this manner, all the figures of the two squadrons advanced and retired, every one performing his movements, and repeating his verses, some of which were elegant, and others foolish enough; but those we have inserted were all that Don Quixote could retain, although his memory was very tenacious: then mixing all together in the dance, they winded and turned with great ease, grace, and agility. Cupid, in passing, shot arrows at the castle, while Interest battered it with round gilded earthen pots: at length, after the dance had continued a good while, this last pulled out a large purse made of Roman cat skin, to all appearance full of money, and throwing it at the castle, the boards seemed to be disjointed by the blow, and immediately fell asunder, leaving the damsel quite discovered and defenceless; then Interest, with the figures of his train, advancing, and throwing a great gold chain about her neck, seemed bent upon taking and dragging her into captivity. This design being perceived by Cupid and his partisans, they made an effort to release her, and all their motions were performed by the sound of the tabors, to which they danced and capered in concert. Then the savages interposing, and effecting an accommodation, refitted and rejoined the boards of the castle with admirable dispatch, the damsel enclosed herself anew; and thus the dance was finished, to the infinite satisfaction of the spectators.
Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs, what author had contrived and composed this entertainment; and being told it was the production of the parson, who had a rare noddle for such conceits, ‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said he, ‘that this same batchelor or curate is more a friend of Camacho than of Basilius; and that he is better acquainted with satire than prayer; for he has very artfully interwoven in this mask the talents of Basilius, and the wealth of his rival.’ Sancho Panza overhearing this observation, ‘My cock is the king,’ said he; ‘and I hold fast by Camacho.’—‘Then am I convinced,’ replied the knight, ‘that Sancho is one of those low-born peasants, who cry, “Long life to the conqueror.”’—‘I know not,’ resumed the squire, ‘what sect I am of; but this I know perfectly well, that I shall never skim from the flesh pots of Basilius, such a delicate scum as this that I have taken from the boilers of Camacho.’ With these words, he produced the kettle full of geese and pullets, and seizing a bird, began to eat with great glee and satisfaction; saying, in defiance of the talents possessed by Basilius, ‘Thou art worth just as much as thou hast, and hast just as much as thou art worth. There are only two families in the world, as my grannum was wont to observe, the Have-somethings and the Have-nothings: though she always stuck to the former; and now-a-days, my good master, we are more apt to feel the pulse of property than of wisdom. An ass with golden trappings, makes a better appearance than a horse with a pack saddle. Therefore, I say again, I hold fast by Camacho, the plentiful scum of whose pots contains geese, hares, and conies; while that of Basilius, if it comes to hand, or even if it should only come to the feet, is no better than dish-washings.’
‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘hast thou finished thy harangue?’—‘It shall be finished,’ replied the squire, ’as I see your worship is displeased with it; though, if your disgust had not fallen in the way, I had cut out work enough for three days.’—‘Grant Heaven,’ said the knight, ‘that I may see thee dumb before I die!’—‘At the rate we follow,’ answered Panza, ‘before your worship dies, my mouth will be crammed with clay, and then I may chance to be so dumb, that I shall not speak another word to the end of the world, or at least till the day of judgment.’—‘Even should that be the case,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I say unto thee, O Sancho! thy silence will never counterbalance what thou didst, dost, and wilt say, during the course of thy life; moreover, according to the nature of things, the day of my death will happen before thine; so that I have no hope of ever seeing thee silent, even while thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the greatest favour I could expect.’
‘In good sooth, Signior,’ said the squire, ‘there is no trusting to Mrs. Ghostly, (I mean, death) who gobbles up the goslin as well as the goose156; and as I have heard our curate observe, tramples down the lofty turrets of the prince, as well as the lowly cottage of the swain. That same lady who is more powerful than coy, knows not what it is to be dainty and squeamish; but eats of every thing, and crams her wallet with people of all nations, degrees, and conditions; she is none of your labourers that take this afternoon’s nap, but mows at all hours, cutting down the dry stubble as well as the green grass; nor does she seem to chew, but rather swallows and devours every thing that falls in her way; for she is gnawed by a dog’s hunger that is never satisfied; and though she has no belly, plainly shews herself dropsical, and so thirsty as to drink up the lives of all the people upon earth, just as one would swallow a draught of cool water.’—‘Enough, friend Sancho,’ cried the knight, interrupting him in this place; ‘keep thyself well, now thou art in order, and beware of stumbling again; for, really, a good preacher could not speak more to the purpose than thou hast spoken upon death, in thy rustick manner of expression; I say unto thee, Sancho, if thy discretion was equal to thy natural parts, thou mightest ascend the pulpit, and go about teaching and preaching to admiration.’—‘He is a good preacher who is a good liver,’ answered Panza; ’and that is all the divinity I know.’—’And that is sufficient,’ said the knight; ‘yet I shall never understand or comprehend, as the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, how thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of thy Maker, should be so wise?’—‘Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘I desire your worship would determine in your own affairs of chivalry, without taking the trouble to judge of other people’s valour or fears; for my own part, I am as pretty a fearer of God as one would desire to see in any neighbour’s child; wherefore, I beseech your worship, let me discuss this same scum; for every thing else is idle chat, of which we shall be able to give a bad account in the other world.’ So saying, he renewed his attack upon his kettle, with such keen appetite as awakened that of his master, who would certainly have joined in the assault, had not he been prevented by that which we must now relate.