Gavilan College celebrates 400 years of Don Quijote

The History of Don Quixote - The Second Part

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The History of the
Valorous & Witty Knight-Errant Don Quixote of the Mancha

By Miguel de Cervantes, Translated by Thomas Shelton

The Second Part

CHAPTER LXXI: Of what befel Don Quixote and his Squire Sancho Panza, in their Travel towards their Village

 

THE vanquished knight-errant, Don Quixote de la Mancha, went on his journey, very sad and pensive on the one side, and most glad and buxom on the other. From his being conquered proceeded the cause of his sadness; and his gladness, in considering the worth and virtue of Sancho, whereof he gave manifest evidence in the resurrection of Altisidora, although with some scruple he persuaded himself that the enamoured damsel was not verily dead.

Sancho was no whit well pleased, but chafed to himself, because Altisidora had not kept promise with him, and given him the shirts he expected at her hands; and therefore, musing and pondering on them, he said to his master, ‘By my faith, sir, I am the most unfortunate physician that may be found in the world. There be some leeches that kill a sick man whom they have under cure, and will nevertheless be well paid for their pains. Now all they do is but to write a short bill of certain medicines, which the apothecary, and not they, doth afterward compound; whereas I, clean contrary, to whom the recovery and health of others doth cost many a clod of blood, many a flirt and bob, many a bitter frump, and many a lash with whips and rods, reap not so much as one poor farthing. But certainly I promise you, if any diseased or sick body fall into my hands again, before I cure ‘em, I’ll be very well greased for my pains. For the abbot liveth singing, and I cannot think that the heavens have endowed me with the virtue and knowledge I have, to the end I should communicate and impart the same unto others for nothing.’

‘My good friend Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘thou art in the right; and Altisidora hath done very ill that she hath not given thee the shirts which she promised thee. Although that virtue and property which thou hast have been given thee gratis, and that in learning and studying it thou hast not been at a penny charge, nevertheless, the troubles and vexations which thou hast received and endured in thine own person are far more than all the studies that thou couldst have undergone or employed about it. As for me, I can tell thee that if thou wouldst have had the full pay for the whip-lashes that thou shouldst give thyself for disenchanting of Dulcinea, thou hadst already fully received it. Yet know I not whether the wages or hire will answer the cure, or recovery, and I would not have it be an hindrance to the remedy. Meseems, notwithstanding, that one shall lose nothing in the trial. Consider, Sancho, what thou wilt have, and forthwith whip thyself, and with thine own hands pay thyself downright, since thou hast money of mine in thy keeping.’

Sancho presently opened his eyes and ears a foot wide at these kind offers, and took a resolution with a cheerful heart to whip and lash himself, and therefore said unto his master, ‘Now is the time, my noble sir, that I will wholly dispose myself to give you satisfaction, since I shall reap some benefit by it. The love of my children and my wife induceth me to have no regard at all unto the harm or ill that may thereby come unto me. Tell me, then, what will you give me for every stripe or lash?’

‘If I were bound to pay thee,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘equivalent to the greatness and quality of the remedy, the treasure of Venice and the rich mines of Peru would not suffice to recompense thee. Look well thyself what thou hast of mine, and value every lash as thou wilt.’

‘The whiplashes,’ quoth Sancho, ‘are in number three thousand three hundred and odd; I have already given myself five, the other remain behind. Let the five serve to deduct the odd number remaining, and let all be reduced to three thousand and three hundred. My meaning is, to have for every lash a piece of three blanks, and less I will not have, should all the world command me the contrary, so that they will amount to three thousand and three hundred pieces of three blanks. The three thousand make a thousand and five hundred half ryals, and they make seven hundred and fifty whole ryals; and the three hundred make one hundred and fifty half ryals, which amount unto the sum of threescore and fifteen ryals, which added unto the seven hundred and fifty, the whole sum amounteth unto eight hundred and five-and-twenty ryals. I will reckon this sum, and deduct it from that I have of yours in my keeping; and by this means shall enter into my house both rich and well satisfied, albeit well whipped and scourged; for trouts are not caught with nothing, and I say no more.

‘O thrice-happy Sancho! O amiable Sancho!’ said Don Quixote, ‘how am I and Dulcinea bound to serve thee, so long as the heavens shall be pleased to give us life! If she recover her first being, and if it be impossible to continue still in that state, her misfortune shall prove most fortunate, and my defeat or conquest a most glorious and happy triumph. Then look, Sancho, when thou wilt begin this discipline, and I will give thee one hundred ryals over and above, that so I may bind thee to begin betimes.’

‘When?’ replied Sancho; ‘even this very night. Be you but pleased that this night we meet in the open fields, and you shall see me open, gash, and flay myself.’

To be short, the night came which Don Quixote had with all manner of impatience long looked for; to whom it seemed that the wheels of Apollo’s chariot had been broken, and that the day grew longer than it was wont, even as it happeneth unto lovers, who think that they shall never come to obtain the accomplishment of their desires. At last they entered a grove of delightsome trees, which was somewhat remote and out of the highway. After they had taken off the saddle and pack-saddle of Rozinante and Dapple they sat down upon the green grass, and supped with such victuals as Sancho had in his wallets.

This good squire having made of Dapple’s halter or head-stall a good big whip or scourge, he went about twenty paces from his master, and thrust himself among bushes and hedges.

Don Quixote seeing him march thus all naked, and with so good a courage, began thus to discourse unto him: ‘Take heed, good friend, that thou hack not thyself in pieces, and that the stripes and lashes stay the one another’s leisure; thou must not make such haste in thy career that thy wind or breath fail in thy course. My meaning is, that thou must not lash thyself so hard and fast that thy life faint before thou come to thy desired number. But to the end that thou lose not thyself for want of a pair of writing-tables, more or less, I will stand aloof off, and upon these my prayer-beads will number the lashes that thou shalt give thyself. Now the heavens favour thee, as thy good meaning well deserveth!’

‘A good paymaster,’ answered Sancho, ‘will never grudge to give wages; I think to curry or so belabour myself that, without endangering my life, my lashes shall be sensible unto me; and therein must the substance of this miracle consist.’

And immediately Sancho stripped himself bare from the girdle upward, and, taking the whip in his hand, began to rib-baste and lash himself roundly, and Don Quixote to number the strokes. When Sancho had given himself seven or eight stripes he thought he had killed himself; so that, pausing awhile, he said to his master that he was very much deceived, and would therefore appeal, forasmuch as every whip-lash did, in lieu of a piece of three blanks, deserve half a ryal.

‘Make an end, my friend Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘and be not dismayed, for I will redouble thy pay.

‘Now by my life, then,’ quoth Sancho, ‘blows shall shower upon me as thick as hail’; but the mountebank and cheating companion, instead of lashing his shoulders, whipped the trees, and so sighingly groaned at every stroke that you would have thought his soul had flown out of his body.

Don Quixote, who was now full of compassion, fearing he would kill himself, and that, through the folly of Sancho, his desires should not be accomplished, began thus to say unto him : ‘Friend, I conjure thee, let this business end here; this remedy seems to me very hard and sharp. It shall not be amiss that we give time unto time; for Rome was never built in one day. If I have told right, thou hast already given thyself more than a thousand lashes; it now sufficeth—let me use a homely phrase—that the ass endure his charge, but not the surcharge.’

‘No, no, my good sir,’ answered Sancho; ‘it shall never be said of me, “Money well paid, and the arms broken.” I pray you go but a little aside, and permit me to give myself one thousand stripes more, and then we shall quickly make an end; yea, and we shall have more left behind.’

‘Since thou art so well disposed,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will then withdraw myself; may the heavens assist and recompense thee!’

Sancho returned to his task with such an earnest passion that the bark of many a tree fell off, so great was the rigour and fury wherewith he scourged himself. Now, in giving such an exceeding and outrageous lash upon a hedge, he cried out aloud, ‘Here is the place where Samson shall die, with all those that are with him.’

Don Quixote ran presently at the sound of that woeful voice, and at the noise of that horrible whip-stroke. Then laying fast hold on the halter, which served Sancho in lieu of an ox-pizzle, he said to him, ‘Friend Sancho, let fortune never permit that thou, to give me contentment, hazard the loss of thy life, which must serve for the entertainment of thy wife and children. I will contain myself within the bounds of the next hope, and will stay until thou have recovered new strength, to the end this business may be ended, to the satisfaction of all parties.’

‘My good sir,’ quoth Sancho, ‘since you will needs have it so, in good time be it. In the meanwhile, I beseech you, sir, cast your cloak upon my shoulders. I am all in a sweat, and I would be loth to take cold. Our new disciplinants run the like danger.’

Don Quixote did so, and, leaving himself in his doublet, he covered Sancho, who fell asleep, and slept until the sun awakened him. They kept on their way so long, that at last they arrived to a place three leagues off, and at last stayed at an inn.

Don Quixote knew it to be an inn, and not a castle round environed with ditches or trenches, fortified with towers, with portcullises, and strong draw-bridges; for since his last defeature he discerned and distinguished of all things that presented themselves unto him with better judgment, as we shall presently declare.

He was lodged in a low chamber, to which certain old worn curtains of painted serge served in lieu of tapestry hangings, as commonly they use in country villages. In one of the pieces might be seen painted by a bungling and unskilful hand the rape of Helen, at what time her fond-hardy guest stole her from Menelaus. In another was the history of Dido and Aeneas; she on a high turret, with a sheet making sign unto her fugitive guest, who on the sea, carried in a ship, was running away from her.

Don Quixote observed in these two stories that Helen seemed not to be discontented with her rape, forsomuch as she leered and smiled underhand; whereas beauteous Dido seemed to trickle down tears from her eyes as big as walnuts. Don Quixote, in beholding this painted work,’ said, ‘These two ladies were exceedingly unfortunate that they were not born in this age, and I most of all thrice unhappy that I was not born in theirs; in faith, I would so have spoken to these lordly gallants as Troy should not have been burned nor Carthage destroyed, since that only by putting Paris to death I should have been the occasion that so many mischiefs would never have happened.’

‘I hold a wager,’ quoth Sancho, ‘that ere long there shall be never a tippling-house, tavern, inn, hostery, or barber’s shop, but in them all we shall see the history of our famous acts painted; nevertheless, I would wish with all my heart that they might be drawn by a more cunning and skilful hand than by that which hath portrayed these figures.’

‘Thou hast reason, Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for this painter is like unto Orbanegia, who dwelled at Ubeda, who, when he was demanded what he was painting, made this answer, “That which shall come forth to light”; and if perchance he drew a cock, he would write about it, “This is a cock,” lest any man should think it to be a fox. Now methinks, Sancho, that such ought to be the painter or the writer (for all is one same thing) who hath set forth the history of this new Don Quixote, because he hath painted or written that which may come forth to the open light. He hath imitated a certain poet named Mauleon, who the last year was at the court, who suddenly would make answer to whatsoever was demanded him. And as one asked him one day what these words “Deum de Deo” signified, he answered in Spanish, “De donde diere.” But, omitting all this, tell me, Sancho, hast thou a mind to give thyself another touch this night, and wilt thou have it to be under the roof of a house, or else in the open air?’

‘Now I assure you,’ quoth Sancho, ‘for the stripes and lashes that I intend to give myself, I love them as well in the house as in the open fields; yet with this proviso, that I would have it to be amongst trees; for methinks that they keep me good company, and do exceedingly help me to endure and undergo my travail and pains.’

‘Friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that shall not be; rather reserve them, that you may exercise them when we shall be arrived at our village, whither at the furthest we shall reach the next day after to-morrow; and in the meantime thou shalt have recovered new strength.’

Sancho answered that he might do what best pleased him; but notwithstanding he desired to despatch this business in hot blood, and whilst the mill was going; for dangers consist often in lingering and expectation, and that, with prayers unto God, a man must strike with his mallet; that one ‘Take it’ is more worth than two ‘Thou shalt have it’; and better is one sparrow in the hand than a vulture flying in the air.

‘Now for God’s sake, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘let us not allege so many proverbs; methinks thou art still returning unto “sicut erat.” I prithee speak plainly, clearly, and go not so about the bush with such embroiling speeches, as I have often told thee; and thou shalt see that one loaf of bread will yield thee more than an hundred.’

‘I am so unlucky,’ quoth Sancho, ‘that I cannot discourse without proverbs, nor can I allege a proverb that seems not to be a reason unto me. Nevertheless, if I can, I will correct myself’; and with that they gave over their enterparley at that time.
 

Gavilan College celebrates 400 years of Don Quijote

The History of Don Quixote - The Second Part

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