|
DON QUIXOTE went on, wonderful pensative to think what a shrewd trick the enchanters had played
him, in changing his mistress Dulcinea into the rustic shape of a country-wench, and could not imagine what means he
might use to bring her to her pristine being; and these thoughts so distracted him that carelessly he gave Rozinante
the reins, who, perceiving the liberty he had, stayed every stitch-while to feed upon the green grass of which those
fields were full; but Sancho put him out of his maze, saying, ‘Sir, sorrow was not ordained for beasts but men, yet
if men do exceed in it they become beasts. Pray, sir, recollect and come to yourself, and pluck up Rozinante’s
reins; revive and cheer yourself, show the courage that befits a knight-errant. What a devil’s the matter? What
faintness is this? Are we dreaming on a dry summer? Now, Satan take all the Dulcineas in the world! since the
welfare of one only knight-errant is more worth than all the enchantments and transformations in the world.’
‘Peace, Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote, with a voice now not very faint; ‘peace, I say, and speak no blasphemies against
that enchanted lady, for I only am in fault for her misfortune and unhappiness; her ill plight springs from the envy
that enchanters bear me.’ ‘So say I too,’ quoth Sancho; ‘for what heart sees her now, that saw her before, and doth
not deplore?’ ‘Thou mayst well say so, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘since thou sawest her in her just entire
beauty, and the enchantment dimmed not thy sight nor concealed her fairness. Against me only, only against mine
eyes, the force of its venom is directed. But for all that, Sancho, I have fallen upon one thing, which is that thou
didst ill describe her beauty to me; for, if I forget not, thou saidst she had eyes of pearls, and such eyes are
rather the eyes of a sea-bream than a fair dame’s; but, as I think, Dulcinea’s eyes are like two green emeralds
rared with two celestial arcs, that serve them for eyebrows. And therefore, for you pearls, take them from her eyes
and put them to her teeth; for doubtless, Sancho, thou mistookest eyes for teeth.’
‘All this may be,’ said Sancho, ‘for her beauty troubled me as much as her foulness since hath done you; but leave
we all to God, who is the knower of all things that befals us in this vale of tears, in this wicked world, where
there is scarce anything without mixture of mischief, impostorship, or villainy. One thing, master mine, troubles me
more than all the rest — to think what means there will be, when you overcome any giant or other knight, and command
him to present himself before the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea, where this poor giant or miserable vanquished knight
shall find her? Methinks I see ‘em go staring up and down Toboso to find my Lady Dulcinea, and, though they should
meet her in the middle of the street, yet they would no more know her than my father.’
‘It may be, Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘her enchantment will not extend to take from vanquished and presented
giants and knights the knowledge of Dulcinea; and therefore, in one or two of the first I conquer and send, we will
make trial whether they see her or no, commanding them that they return to relate unto me what hath befallen them.’
‘I say, sir,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I like what you have said very well, and by this device we shall know what we desire;
and, if so be she be only hidden to you, your misfortune is beyond hers. But, so my Lady Dulcinea have health and
content, we will bear and pass it over here as well as we may, seeking our adventures; and let time alone, who is
the best physician for these and other infirmities.’
Don Quixote would have answered Sancho Panza, but he was interrupted by a waggon that came cross the way, loaden
with the most different and strange personages and shapes that might be imagined. He that guided the mules, and
served for waggoner, was an ugly devil. The waggon’s self was open, without tilt or boughs. The first shape that
presented itself to Don Quixote’s eyes was of Death herself, with a human face, and next her an angel with large
painted wings; on one side stood an emperor, with a crown upon his head, to see to, of gold; at Death’s feet was the
god called Cupid, not blindfolded, but with his bow, his quiver, and arrows. There was also a knight completely
armed, only he had no morion or headpiece, but a hat full of divers-coloured plumes. With these there were other
personages of different fashions and faces. All which, seen on a sudden, in some sort troubled Don Quixote, and
affrighted Sancho’s heart; but straight Don Quixote was jocund, believing that some rare and dangerous adventure was
offered unto him; and with this thought, and a mind disposed to give the onset to any peril, he got himself before
the waggon, and with a loud and threatening voice cried out, ‘Carter, coachman, or devil, or whatsoe’er thou art, be
not slow to tell me who thou art, whither thou goest, and what people these are thou carriest in thy cart-coach,
rather like Charon’s boat than waggons now in use.
To which the devil, staying the cart, gently replied, ‘Sir, we are players of Thomas Angulo’s company. We have
played a play called The Parliament of Death against this Corpus Christi tide, in a town behind the ridge of
yonder mountain, and this afternoon we are to play it again at the town you see before us, which because it is so
near, to save a labour of new attiring us, we go in the same clothes in which we are to act. That young man plays
Death; that other an angel; that woman, our author’s wife, the queen; a fourth there, a soldier; a fifth the
emperor; and I the devil, which is one of the chiefest actors in the play, for I have the best part. If you desire
to know anything else of us, ask me, and I shall answer you most punctually; for, as I am a devil, nothing is
unknown to me.’
‘By the faith of a knight-errant,’ said Don Quixote, ‘as soon as ever I saw this waggon I imagined some strange
adventure towards; and now I say it is fit to be fully satisfied of these apparitions, by touching them with our
hands. God be with you, honest people; act your play, and see whether you will command anything wherein I may be
serviceable to you; for I will be so most cheerfully and willingly: for since I was a boy I have loved mask-shows,
and in my youth I have been ravished with stage-plays.’
Whilst they were thus discoursing, it fell out that one of the company came toward them, clad for the fool in the
play, with morrice-bells, and at the end of a stick he had three cows’ bladders full-blown, who thus masked, running
toward Don Quixote, began to fence with his cudgel, and to thwack the bladders upon the ground, and to frisk with
his bells in the air, which dreadful sight so troubled Rozinante that, Don Quixote not able to hold him in, for he
had gotten the bridle betwixt his teeth, he fell a-running up and down the field, much swifter than his anatomised
bones made show for. Sancho, that considered in what danger of being thrown down his master might be, leaped from
Dapple, and with all speed ran to help him; but, by that time he came to him, he was upon the ground, and Rozinante
by him, for they both tumbled together. This was the common pass Rozinante’s tricks and boldness came to. But no
sooner had Sancho left his horsebackship to come to Don Quixote, when the damning devil with the bladders leaped on
Dapple, and, clapping him with them, the fear and noise, more than the blows, made him fly thorough the field toward
the place where they were to play. Sancho beheld Dapple’s career and his master’s fall, and knew not to which of the
ill chances he might first repair; but yet, like a good squire and faithful servant, his master’s love prevailed
more with him than the cockering of his ass, though every hoisting of the bladders, and falling on Dapple’s
buttocks, were to him trances and tidings of death, and rather had he those blows had lighted on his eyeballs than
on the least hair of his ass’s tail.
In this perplexity he came to Don Quixote, who was in a great deal worse plight than he was willing to see him; and,
helping him on Rozinante, said, ‘Sir, the devil hath carried away Dapple.’ ‘What devil?’ quoth Don Quixote. ‘He with
the bladders,’ replied Sancho. ‘Well, I will recover him,’ said Don Quixote, ‘though he should lock him up with him
in the darkest and deepest dungeons of hell. Follow me, Sancho, for the waggon goes but slowly, and the mules shall
satisfy Dapple’s loss.’ ‘There is no need,’ said Sancho; ‘temper your choler, for now I see the devil hath left
Dapple, and he returns to his home.’ And he said true, for the devil having fallen with Dapple, to imitate Don
Quixote and Rozinante, he went on foot to the town, and the ass came back to his master.
‘For all that,’ said Don Quixote, ‘it were fit to take revenge of the devil’s unmannerliness upon some of those in
the waggon, even of the emperor himself.’ ‘Oh, never think of any such matter,’ said Sancho, ‘and take my counsel,
that is, never to meddle with players, for they are a people mightily beloved. I have known one of ‘em in prison for
two murders, and yet scaped scot-free. Know this, sir, that, as they are merry jovial lads, all men love, esteem,
and help them, especially if they be the king’s players, and all of them in their fashion and garb are
gentleman-like.’ ‘For all that,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the devil-player shall not scape from me and brag of it, though
all mankind help him.’ And so saying, he got to the waggon, that was now somewhat near the town, and, crying aloud,
said, ‘Hold, stay, merry Greeks, for I’ll make ye know what belongs to the asses and furniture belonging to the
squires of knights-errant.’ Don Quixote’s noise was such that those of the waggon heard it; and, guessing at his
intention by his speeches, in an instant Mistress Death leaped out of the waggon, and after her the emperor, the
devil-waggoner, and the angel, and the queen too, with little Cupid; all of them were straight loaded with stones,
and put themselves in order, expecting Don Quixote with their peeble-points.
Don Quixote, that saw them in so gallant a squadron, ready to discharge strongly their stones, held in Rozinante’s
reins, and began to consider how he should set upon them with least hazard of his person. Whilst he thus stayed,
Sancho came to him, and, seeing him ready to give the onset, said: ‘‘Tis a mere madness, sir, to attempt this
enterprise; I pray consider that, for your river-sops,1 there are no defensive weapons in the world, but
to be shut up and inlaid under a brazen bell; and consider likewise ‘tis rather rashness than valour for one man
alone to set upon an army wherein Death is, and where emperors fight in person, and where good and bad angels help;
and, if the consideration of this be not sufficient, may this move you, to know that amongst all these, though they
seem to be kings, princes, and emperors, yet there is not so much as one knight-errant.’
‘Thou hast hit upon the right, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the very point that may alter my determination. I neither
can nor must draw my sword, as I have often told thee, against any that be not knights-errant. It concerns thee,
Sancho, if thou meanest to be revenged for the wrong done unto thine ass; and I will encourage thee, and from hence
give thee wholesome instructions.’ ‘There needs no being revenged of anybody,’ said Sancho, ‘for there is no
Christianity in it; besides, mine ass shall be contented to put his cause to me and to my will, which is to live
peaceable and quietly, as long as Heaven shall be pleased to afford me life.’ ‘Since this is thy determination,’
said Don Quixote, ‘honest, wise, discreet, Christian-like, pure Sancho, let us leave these dreams, and seek other
better and more real adventures; for I see this country is like to afford us many miraculous ones.’
So he turned Rozinante’s reins, and Sancho took his Dapple; Death with all the flying squadron returned to the
waggon, and went on their voyage; and this was the happy end of the waggon of Death’s adventure, thanks be to the
good advice that Sancho Panza gave his master, to whom the day after there happened another adventure, no less
pleasant, with an enamoured knight-errant as well as he.
|
