Chap. IX In Which Is Continued the Diverting Adventure of the Puppet-Shew; With Other Matters Really Entertaining Enough
Universal silence prevailed among Tyrians as well as Trojans; that is, all the spectators of the shew sat in silent expectation, suspended as it were on the mouth of him who was appointed to expound the wonders of the piece; when their ears were saluted with the sound of attabals, trumpets, and artillery, that issued from behind the scene; and this noise being soon over, the boy thus began in an audible voice: ‘This true history, which will now be represented before the honourable company, is literally extracted from the French chronicles and Spanish ballads, which may be heard every day repeated in the streets by man, woman, and child. It exhibits the manner in which Signior Don Gayferos accomplished the deliverance of his spouse Melisendra, who was a captive in Spain, detained by the Moors in the city of Sansuenna, which was formerly the name given to what we now call Saragossa; and pray, gentlemen, take notice, Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to the old song:
‘“Now Gayferos, at tables playing,
Of Melisendra thinks no more.”
‘And that personage who next appears, with a crown on his head and a sceptre in his hand, is the emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of Melisendra, who, vexed at the indolence and carelessness of his son-in-law, comes forth to chide him; and observe with what vehemence and keenness he seems to scold; one would imagine he intended to give him half a dozen raps on the pate with his sceptre; nay, some authors say that he actually did bestow them, aye, and that with very good-will: after having said abundance of things concerning the risk his honour would run, if he did not effect the deliverance of his spouse, he is reported to have added these words, “I have said enough, look to it.” Behold, gentlemen, how the emperor turns about and walks off, leaving Don Gayferos in a fume, who, in the impatience of his anger, throws away the tablet and pieces, and calls hastily for his armour, desiring his cousin Orlando to lend him his sword Durindana. Don Orlando will not comply with his request; but offers to attend him in his difficult enterprize: however, the provoked hero will not accept of his offer; on the contrary, he says his own single arm is sufficient to deliver his wife, even though she were concealed in the profoundest centre of the earth. So saying, he goes in to arm, that he may be able to set out with all expedition. Gentlemen, turn your eyes to the tower that appears yonder, and suppose it one of the towers belonging to the castle of Saragossa, now called Aljaferia. That lady who stands in the balcony in the Moorish dress is the peerless Melisendra, who from thence hath often cast her longing eyes towards the road to France, and consoled herself in her captivity, by thinking on the city of Paris and her valiant lord. Observe likewise a new incident, the like of which perhaps you have never seen before: don’t you see that Moor stealing along silently and softly, step by step, with his finger on his mouth, behind Melisendra? Now mind how he prints a kiss in the very middle of her lips, and with what eagerness she spits, and wipes them with the sleeves of her shift, lamenting aloud, and tearing, for anger, her beautiful hair, as if it had been guilty of the transgression. Behold, now, that venerable Moor in yon gallery; he is Marsilius, the king of Sansuenna, who, having perceived the insolence of the Moor, although he was his own relation, and a great favourite, orders him to be apprehended, and carried through the principal streets of the city, with the criers before, and the rods behind, with which he is to receive two hundred stripes; and here you shall see the sentence executed, almost as soon as the crime is committed; for among the Moors there is no copy of a writ, trial, or delay, as in our courts of justice.’
Here Don Quixote interposing, said, with a loud voice, ‘Boy, boy, follow your story in a right line, without falling into curves and crosses; for there is not so much proof and counter-proof required to bring truth to light.’—‘Sirrah,’ cried Mr. Peter, from the curtain, ‘none of your vagaries, but follow that gentleman’s counsel, which is good and wholesome; sing your plain song, without counterpoints; for you may spin your thread so fine as to break it.’—‘I shall obey your orders,’ answered the boy, who proceeded, saying—
‘That there figure a horseback, wrapped up in a cloak of Gascony, is the very individual Don Gayferos, to whom his only lady, by this time revenged of the presumptuous and enamoured Moor, talks with more seeming composure from the battlements of the tower, supposing him to be some traveller, and between the two passeth the whole discourse and conversation, recorded in the ballad, which says,
‘“Sir knight, if you to France do go,
For Gayferos enquire:”
‘together with what follows, which I shall not at present repeat, because prolixity engenders disgust. Let it suffice that you see how Gayferos discovers himself, and that we learn from the joyful gestures of Melisendra, that she recognizes her husband; especially as we now see her let herself down from the balcony, in order to get a-horseback behind her loving spouse; but as ill luck would have it, the border of her under petticoat has caught hold of one of the iron spikes of the balcony, and there she hangs dangling, without being able to reach the ground: but you see how compassionate Heaven brings relief in the most pressing emergencies; for Don Gayferos comes to her assistance, and without minding whether or not the rich petticoat may be torn, seizes his lady, and by main force brings her to the ground; then with one jerk, sets her upon the crupper of his horse, astride like a man, bidding her hold fast, and throw her arms around his neck, so as to cross them on his breast, that she may be in no danger of falling; for my Lady Melisendra was not used to ride in that manner: you likewise perceive how the horse, by his neighing, expresses the satisfaction he feels in carrying the valiant and beautiful burden of his lord and mistress. You see how they turn about, and quitting the city, take the road to Paris, with equal eagerness and joy. Go in peace, ye peerless pair of faithful lovers; may you arrive in safety at your desired country, without fortune’s raising any obstruction to your happy journey; and may the eyes of your friends and kindred behold you enjoy in peace all the days of your life, which I hope will exceed the age of Nestor!’ Here Mr. Peter interposing again, called aloud, ‘None of your flourishes, sirrah; seek not to entangle yourself, for all affectation is naught.’ The interpreter, without answering a syllable, went on in this manner. ‘There were not wanting some idle eyes which nothing can escape, and they, perceiving the descent and flight of Melisendra, gave notice of it to king Marsilio, who straight gave orders for sounding to arms: and behold the hurry and commotion of the city, occasioned by the sound of bells that ring in every minaret.’
‘It cannot be,’ cried Don Quixote. ‘In what regards the bells, Mr. Peter is guilty of an impropriety; for the Moors use no bells, but attabals or kettle-drums, and a kind of dulcimers, like those belonging to our waits; so that the circumstance of ringing bells in Sansuenna is a downright absurdity.’ Mr. Peter hearing this observation, left off ringing and answered, ‘Signior Don Quixote, your worship must not mind such trifles, nor seek for that perfection which is not to be found. How many plays do you see every day represented, full of impropriety and absurdities? yet they happily run their career, and are heard, not simply with applause, but even with universal admiration. Proceed, boy, and let people talk; for, provided I fill my pocket, I don’t care if there should be more improprieties than there are atoms in the sun.’—‘You are in the right,’ replied the knight; and thus the boy went on:
‘Behold what a number of resplendent cavalry marches out of the city in pursuit of the two catholick lovers: what a sound of trumpets, tinkling of dulcimers, and rattling of drums and kettle-drums! I am afraid they will overtake and bring them back tied to their horse’s tail, and that would be a most dismal spectacle.’
Don Quixote seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing this uproar, thought it was incumbent upon him to assist the fugitives; and therefore starting up, he pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Never, while I breathe, will I consent that such an injury should be done in my presence to a knight so famous, daring, and enamoured, as is Don Gayferos: desist, ye base-born plebeians; seek not to follow and punish him, but face me in battle, if you dare.’ With these words and actions he unsheathed his sword, and springing up to the puppet shew, began with incredible agility and fury to lay about him among the Moorish puppets, demolishing some, beheading others, maiming this, and hacking that; and in the course of this exercise, he fetched such a back-stroke, that had not Mr. Peter stooped and squatted down with great expedition, he would have sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of ginger-bread. This unfortunate shew-man exalting his voice, ‘Hold, for the love of God! Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘and take notice, that those whom you overthrow, kill and destroy, are not real Moors, but poor, harmless, little figures of paste; consider, sinner that I am! you are ruining me, by depriving me of my livelihood.’ Notwithstanding this remonstrance, the knight continued to play away in a perfect shower of back-strokes, fore strokes, outside and inside, that fell as thick as hail; so that in less than a couple of credos, he brought the whole shew to the ground, all the tackle and figures being hewed down and dismembered; king Marsilio himself sorely wounded, and the crown, together with the head of the emperor, cleft in twain. The whole audience was involved in confusion; the ape fled to the roof of the house, the scholar trembled, the page was seized with consternation, and Sancho Panza himself overwhelmed with terror and dismay; for, as he swore after the hurricane subsided, he had never before seen his master in such a frantick rage.
The puppet-shew being thus entirely demolished, Don Quixote became a little more composed, saying, ‘I wish I had before me, at this very moment, those who either do not, or will not believe that knights-errant are of any benefit or service to mankind, that they might see what would have become of the worthy Don Gayferos, and the beautiful Melisendra, had not I been present on this occasion; certainly, by this time, they would have been overtaken by these dogs, who would have done them some grievous injury: let knight-errantry, therefore, live and flourish above all things upon the face of the earth.’—‘In a happy hour let it live,’ cried Mr. Peter in a languid tone, ’and let me die, who am so unfortunate, that I may say with king Rodrigo, “Yesterday I was lord of Spain, and now there is not one battlement I can call my own.” Half an hour, yea not half a minute is elapsed, since I saw myself in possession of kings and emperors; my stables, coffers, and bags, were filled with an infinite number of horses and other gay particulars, and now I find myself quite desolate and abased, poor and beggarly, and, which is worst of all, deprived of my ape, who in good faith will make my teeth sweat, before he returns to me his lawful master; and all this misfortune I have suffered from this here Sir Knight, who is said to protect orphans, rectify wrongs, and perform other charitable actions; but, in me alone, his generous intention has failed; blessed and praised be the highest Heavens above! In a word, the Knight of the Rueful Figure is he by whom I and mine are disfigured and undone.’
Sancho Panza melted at this piteous lamentation: ‘Do not weep, Mr. Peter,’ said he, ‘do not whine so piteously, or thou’lt break my heart, for I’d have thee know, my master Don Quixote is such a catholick and scrupulous Christian, that provided he be convinced of having done thee wrong, he knows how to make amends, and will satisfy and repay thee with double interest.’—‘If Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the shew-man, ‘will make some atonement for the deeds by which he has undone me, I shall rest satisfied, and his worship’s conscience will be at peace; for that man cannot expect salvation who withholds the effects of his neighbour against his will, and refuses to make restitution.’—‘You are in the right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but as yet I do not know that I withhold any of your effects, Mr. Peter.’—‘How! none of mine?’ cried the shew-man, ’and these unfortunate remains that lie extended on the hard and barren pavement, were they not thus scattered and annihilated by the invincible force of that redoubted arm? to whom but me did their unhappy bodies belong? and with what but them did I procure a comfortable subsistence?’—‘Now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘I am fully convinced of what I have on divers occasions believed; namely, that those inchanters, by whom I am persecuted, take pleasure in presenting realities to my view, and then changing and metamorphosing them into such figures and forms as they chuse to bestow: believe me, gentlemen, to me every thing that has passed appeared a true and literal concurrence of real facts; and the figures represented seemed to be really and truly the very individual persons of Melisendra, Don Gayferos, Marsilio, and Charlemagne: in consequence of that belief, my wrath was provoked; and, in order to fulfil the function of a knight-errant, I resolved to favour and assist the fair fugitive; in the execution of which resolve, I have done what you see. If the exploit has turned out contrary to my expectation, the blame ought not to lie with me, but with those miscreants, by whom I am persecuted: nevertheless, as I have committed an error, although it did not proceed from malice aforethought, I stand by my own award condemned in costs; let Mr. Peter make out his own bill of the figures that are demolished, and I promise it shall be paid on the spot, in good and lawful current coin of this kingdom.’ The shew-man hearing this declaration, made a profound bow, saying, ‘I expected no less from the unheard-of Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, the unflinching auxiliary and support of the whole tribe of needy and forlorn vagabonds: Mr. Landlord and the great Sancho shall act as moderators and appraisers between your worship and me, with regard to what the injured figures are or might be worth.’
The innkeeper and squire having undertaken this office, Mr. Peter lifted up the headless Marsilio king of Saragossa, saying, ‘You see how impossible it is to reinstate the king in his former situation; and, therefore, with submission to better judgments, I think I must be allowed four rials and an half, on account of his death and final perdition.’ The knight desiring him to proceed, ‘Then,’ said he, ‘for this dreadful gash from top to bottom,’ (taking up the cloven emperor Charlemagne) ‘I cannot be thought exorbitant, if I demand five rials and a quarter.’—‘That’s no small matter,’ said Sancho. ‘Nor a great deal too much,’ replied the landlord. ‘Split the difference, and set him down at five rials.’—‘Let him have the whole five and a quarter,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for in such a notable misfortune, a quarter more or less is a mere trifle. And pray, dispatch, Mr. Peter, for it is now supper-time, and I begin to feel some symptoms of a keen appetite.’—‘For that figure without a nose, and deprived of one eye, which is the beautiful Melisendra,’ proceeded Peter, ‘I demand two rials and twelve maravedis.’—‘The devil’s in’t,’ cried the knight, ‘if Melisendra is not by this time, with her husband, at least upon the frontiers of France; for the horse on which they were mounted, seemed to fly rather than tread the ground; so that there is no reason for your selling me a cat instead of a coney; that is, in presenting me with a noseless Melisendra, when, in all probability, that lady is now enjoying herself at leisure with her husband in France. God give every man joy of his own, Mr. Peter, and let us all endeavour to walk tightly and rightly! and now you may proceed.’ Mr. Peter perceiving Don Quixote beginning to warp and return to his old bias, resolved to be even with him, and with that view said, ‘This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of her waiting-women, for whom I shall think myself very well paid, and rest satisfied with threescore maravedis.’ In the same manner did he set prices on many other maimed figures, so that, after they were moderated by the two arbitrators to the satisfaction of both parties, the whole sum amounted to forty rials and three quarters, which being disbursed by Sancho, Mr. Peter demanded another brace of rials for the trouble he should have in catching the ape. ‘Let him have them, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘not for catching the ape but the juice of the grape161; and I would now give two hundred as a reward to any person who would certify that the Lady Donna Melisendra, and her lord Don Gayferos, are now safe among their friends in France.’—‘No person upon earth can resolve that question sooner or better than my ape,’ replied Mr. Peter; ‘but the devil himself cannot catch him at present, though I imagine hunger and affection will compel him to return to me some time to-night; and if God will send us a new day, we shall see what can be done.’ In time, the hurricane of the puppet-shew being quite blown over, the whole company supped together in peace and good fellowship, at the expence of Don Quixote, who was liberal to excess.
Before day-break, the lance and halbert carrier set out for his village, and early in the morning the scholar and the page came to take their leave of Don Quixote, the first intending to return to his own home, and the other to pursue his journey, for the comfort of which the knight made him a present of a dozen rials. Mr. Peter, having no inclination to re-involve himself in any sort of dispute with Don Quixote, to whose disposition he was no stranger, arose before the sun, and packing up the remains of his puppets, together with his ape, sallied forth also in quest of farther adventures. The innkeeper, who knew not Don Quixote, was equally astonished at his madness and liberality. Finally, Sancho paid him handsomely, by his master’s order, and the two bidding him farewel about eight o’clock in the morning, left the inn, and betook themselves to the road, in which we will leave them, having now a proper opportunity to recount other incidents appertaining and necessary to the illustration of this famous history.