CHAPTER LXVI — WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT READ — TO HIM WILL HEAR

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As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he
had fallen. “Here Troy was,” said he; “here my ill-luck, not my
cowardice, robbed me of all the glory I had won; here Fortune made me
the victim of her caprices; here the lustre of my achievements was
dimmed; here, in a word, fell my happiness never to rise again.”

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“Señor,” said Sancho on hearing this, “it is the part of brave hearts
to be patient in adversity just as much as to be glad in prosperity; I
judge by myself, for, if when I was a governor I was glad, now that I
am a squire and on foot I am not sad; and I have heard say that she
whom commonly they call Fortune is a drunken whimsical jade, and, what
is more, blind, and therefore neither sees what she does, nor knows
whom she casts down or whom she sets up.”

“Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “thou
speakest very sensibly; I know not who taught thee. But I can tell thee
there is no such thing as Fortune in the world, nor does anything which
takes place there, be it good or bad, come about by chance, but by the
special preordination of heaven; and hence the common saying that ‘each
of us is the maker of his own Fortune.’ I have been that of mine; but
not with the proper amount of prudence, and my self-confidence has
therefore made me pay dearly; for I ought to have reflected that
Rocinante’s feeble strength could not resist the mighty bulk of the
Knight of the White Moon’s horse. In a word, I ventured it, I did my
best, I was overthrown, but though I lost my honour I did not lose nor
can I lose the virtue of keeping my word. When I was a knight-errant,
daring and valiant, I supported my achievements by hand and deed, and
now that I am a humble squire I will support my words by keeping the
promise I have given. Forward then, Sancho my friend, let us go to keep
the year of the novitiate in our own country, and in that seclusion we
shall pick up fresh strength to return to the by me never-forgotten
calling of arms.”

“Señor,” returned Sancho, “travelling on foot is not such a pleasant
thing that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to make long marches.
Let us leave this armour hung up on some tree, instead of someone that
has been hanged; and then with me on Dapple’s back and my feet off the
ground we will arrange the stages as your worship pleases to measure
them out; but to suppose that I am going to travel on foot, and make
long ones, is to suppose nonsense.”

“Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “let my armour be hung up
for a trophy, and under it or round it we will carve on the trees what
was inscribed on the trophy of Roland’s armour-

These let none move
Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.”

“That’s the very thing,” said Sancho; “and if it was not that we should
feel the want of Rocinante on the road, it would be as well to leave
him hung up too.”

“And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armour hung up,” said
Don Quixote, “that it may not be said, ‘for good service a bad
return.’”

“Your worship is right,” said Sancho; “for, as sensible people hold,
‘the fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack-saddle;’ and, as in
this affair the fault is your worship’s, punish yourself and don’t let
your anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour, or
the meekness of Rocinante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying to make
them travel more than is reasonable.”

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In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as did the four
succeeding ones, without anything occurring to interrupt their journey,
but on the fifth as they entered a village they found a great number of
people at the door of an inn enjoying themselves, as it was a holiday.
Upon Don Quixote’s approach a peasant called out, “One of these two
gentlemen who come here, and who don’t know the parties, will tell us
what we ought to do about our wager.”

“That I will, certainly,” said Don Quixote, “and according to the
rights of the case, if I can manage to understand it.”

“Well, here it is, worthy sir,” said the peasant; “a man of this
village who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged another, a
neighbour of his, who does not weigh more than nine, to run a race. The
agreement was that they were to run a distance of a hundred paces with
equal weights; and when the challenger was asked how the weights were
to be equalised he said that the other, as he weighed nine stone,
should put eleven in iron on his back, and that in this way the twenty
stone of the thin man would equal the twenty stone of the fat one.”

“Not at all,” exclaimed Sancho at once, before Don Quixote could
answer; “it’s for me, that only a few days ago left off being a
governor and a judge, as all the world knows, to settle these doubtful
questions and give an opinion in disputes of all sorts.”

“Answer in God’s name, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “for I am
not fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and upset.”

With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered
round him, waiting with open mouths for the decision to come from his,
“Brothers, what the fat man requires is not in reason, nor has it a
shadow of justice in it; because, if it be true, as they say, that the
challenged may choose the weapons, the other has no right to choose
such as will prevent and keep him from winning. My decision, therefore,
is that the fat challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and correct himself,
and take eleven stone of his flesh off his body, here or there, as he
pleases, and as suits him best; and being in this way reduced to nine
stone weight, he will make himself equal and even with nine stone of
his opponent, and they will be able to run on equal terms.”

“By all that’s good,” said one of the peasants as he heard Sancho’s
decision, “but the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and given
judgment like a canon! But I’ll be bound the fat man won’t part with an
ounce of his flesh, not to say eleven stone.”

“The best plan will be for them not to run,” said another, “so that
neither the thin man break down under the weight, nor the fat one strip
himself of his flesh; let half the wager be spent in wine, and let’s
take these gentlemen to the tavern where there’s the best, and ‘over me
be the cloak when it rains.’”

“I thank you, sirs,” said Don Quixote; “but I cannot stop for an
instant, for sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force me to seem
discourteous and to travel apace;” and spurring Rocinante he pushed on,
leaving them wondering at what they had seen and heard, at his own
strange figure and at the shrewdness of his servant, for such they took
Sancho to be; and another of them observed, “If the servant is so
clever, what must the master be? I’ll bet, if they are going to
Salamanca to study, they’ll come to be alcaldes of the Court in a
trice; for it’s a mere joke—only to read and read, and have interest
and good luck; and before a man knows where he is he finds himself with
a staff in his hand or a mitre on his head.”

That night master and man passed out in the fields in the open air, and
the next day as they were pursuing their journey they saw coming
towards them a man on foot with alforjas at the neck and a javelin or
spiked staff in his hand, the very cut of a foot courier; who, as soon
as he came close to Don Quixote, increased his pace and half running
came up to him, and embracing his right thigh, for he could reach no
higher, exclaimed with evident pleasure, “O Señor Don Quixote of La
Mancha, what happiness it will be to the heart of my lord the duke when
he knows your worship is coming back to his castle, for he is still
there with my lady the duchess!”

“I do not recognise you, friend,” said Don Quixote, “nor do I know who
you are, unless you tell me.”

“I am Tosilos, my lord the duke’s lacquey, Señor Don Quixote,” replied
the courier; “he who refused to fight your worship about marrying the
daughter of Doña Rodriguez.”

“God bless me!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “is it possible that you are the
one whom mine enemies the enchanters changed into the lacquey you speak
of in order to rob me of the honour of that battle?”

“Nonsense, good sir!” said the messenger; “there was no enchantment or
transformation at all; I entered the lists just as much lacquey Tosilos
as I came out of them lacquey Tosilos. I thought to marry without
fighting, for the girl had taken my fancy; but my scheme had a very
different result, for as soon as your worship had left the castle my
lord the duke had a hundred strokes of the stick given me for having
acted contrary to the orders he gave me before engaging in the combat;
and the end of the whole affair is that the girl has become a nun, and
Doña Rodriguez has gone back to Castile, and I am now on my way to
Barcelona with a packet of letters for the viceroy which my master is
sending him. If your worship would like a drop, sound though warm, I
have a gourd here full of the best, and some scraps of Tronchon cheese
that will serve as a provocative and wakener of your thirst if so be it
is asleep.”

“I take the offer,” said Sancho; “no more compliments about it; pour
out, good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies.”

“Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote, “and the greatest booby on earth, not to be able to see that
this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a sham one; stop with him
and take thy fill; I will go on slowly and wait for thee to come up
with me.”

The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his scraps, and
taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves on the
green grass, and in peace and good fellowship finished off the contents
of the alforjas down to the bottom, so resolutely that they licked the
wrapper of the letters, merely because it smelt of cheese.

Said Tosilos to Sancho, “Beyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, this master
of thine ought to be a madman.”

“Ought!” said Sancho; “he owes no man anything; he pays for everything,
particularly when the coin is madness. I see it plain enough, and I
tell him so plain enough; but what’s the use? especially now that it is
all over with him, for here he is beaten by the Knight of the White
Moon.”

Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened him, but Sancho replied
that it would not be good manners to leave his master waiting for him;
and that some other day if they met there would be time enough for
that; and then getting up, after shaking his doublet and brushing the
crumbs out of his beard, he drove Dapple on before him, and bidding
adieu to Tosilos left him and rejoined his master, who was waiting for
him under the shade of a tree.

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CHAPTER LXVII.
OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A
LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS
RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY

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If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he had
been overthrown, a great many more harassed him since his fall. He was
under the shade of a tree, as has been said, and there, like flies on
honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of them
turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the life he was
about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up and spoke in
high praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey Tosilos.

“Is it possible, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that thou dost still think
that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped thy memory
that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into a peasant
wench, and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor Carrasco; all
the work of the enchanters that persecute me. But tell me now, didst
thou ask this Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has become of
Altisidora, did she weep over my absence, or has she already consigned
to oblivion the love thoughts that used to afflict her when I was
present?”

“The thoughts that I had,” said Sancho, “were not such as to leave time
for asking fool’s questions. Body o’ me, señor! is your worship in a
condition now to inquire into other people’s thoughts, above all love
thoughts?”

“Look ye, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “there is a great difference
between what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude. A
knight may very possibly be proof against love; but it is impossible,
strictly speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora, to all
appearance, loved me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs thou
knowest of; she wept at my departure, she cursed me, she abused me,
casting shame to the winds she bewailed herself in public; all signs
that she adored me; for the wrath of lovers always ends in curses. I
had no hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her, for mine are
given to Dulcinea, and the treasures of knights-errant are like those
of the fairies,’ illusory and deceptive; all I can give her is the
place in my memory I keep for her, without prejudice, however, to that
which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou art wronging by thy
remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that flesh—would that I
saw it eaten by wolves—which would rather keep itself for the worms
than for the relief of that poor lady.”

“Señor,” replied Sancho, “if the truth is to be told, I cannot persuade
myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do with the
disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, ‘If your head aches
rub ointment on your knees;’ at any rate I’ll make bold to swear that
in all the histories dealing with knight-errantry that your worship has
read you have never come across anybody disenchanted by whipping; but
whether or no I’ll whip myself when I have a fancy for it, and the
opportunity serves for scourging myself comfortably.”

“God grant it,” said Don Quixote; “and heaven give thee grace to take
it to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my lady, who
is thine also, inasmuch as thou art mine.”

As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the very
same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don Quixote
recognised it, and said he to Sancho, “This is the meadow where we came
upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who were trying to
revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an idea as novel as it
was happy, in emulation whereof, if so be thou dost approve of it,
Sancho, I would have ourselves turn shepherds, at any rate for the time
I have to live in retirement. I will buy some ewes and everything else
requisite for the pastoral calling; and, I under the name of the
shepherd Quixotize and thou as the shepherd Panzino, we will roam the
woods and groves and meadows singing songs here, lamenting in elegies
there, drinking of the crystal waters of the springs or limpid brooks
or flowing rivers. The oaks will yield us their sweet fruit with
bountiful hand, the trunks of the hard cork trees a seat, the willows
shade, the roses perfume, the widespread meadows carpets tinted with a
thousand dyes; the clear pure air will give us breath, the moon and
stars lighten the darkness of the night for us, song shall be our
delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will supply us with verses, and love
with conceits whereby we shall make ourselves famed for ever, not only
in this but in ages to come.”

“Egad,” said Sancho, “but that sort of life squares, nay corners, with
my notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and Master
Nicholas the barber won’t have well seen it before they’ll want to
follow it and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may not
come into the curate’s head to join the sheepfold too, he’s so jovial
and fond of enjoying himself.”

“Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as no
doubt he will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or perhaps the
shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself Niculoso, as
old Boscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the curate I don’t know
what name we can fit to him unless it be something derived from his
title, and we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherdesses
whose lovers we shall be, we can pick names as we would pears; and as
my lady’s name does just as well for a shepherdess’s as for a
princess’s, I need not trouble myself to look for one that will suit
her better; to thine, Sancho, thou canst give what name thou wilt.”

“I don’t mean to give her any but Teresona,” said Sancho, “which will
go well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is
called Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I’ll show
how chaste my passion is, for I’m not going to look ‘for better bread
than ever came from wheat’ in other men’s houses. It won’t do for the
curate to have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example; and if the
bachelor chooses to have one, that is his look-out.”

“God bless me, Sancho my friend!” said Don Quixote, “what a life we
shall lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what
tabors, timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different
sorts of music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the pastoral
instruments will be there.”

“What are albogues?” asked Sancho, “for I never in my life heard tell
of them or saw them.”

“Albogues,” said Don Quixote, “are brass plates like candlesticks that
struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which, if
not very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords very
well with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word albogue is
Morisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that begin with al;
for example, _almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil, alhucema,
almacen, alcancia_, and others of the same sort, of which there are not
many more; our language has only three that are Morisco and end in i,
which are borceguí, zaquizamí, and maravedí. Alhelí and alfaquí
are seen to be Arabic, as well by the al at the beginning as by the
í they end with. I mention this incidentally, the chance allusion to
albogues having reminded me of it; and it will be of great assistance
to us in the perfect practice of this calling that I am something of a
poet, as thou knowest, and that besides the bachelor Samson Carrasco is
an accomplished one. Of the curate I say nothing; but I will wager he
has some spice of the poet in him, and no doubt Master Nicholas too,
for all barbers, or most of them, are guitar players and stringers of
verses. I will bewail my separation; thou shalt glorify thyself as a
constant lover; the shepherd Carrascon will figure as a rejected one,
and the curate Curiambro as whatever may please him best; and so all
will go as gaily as heart could wish.”

To this Sancho made answer, “I am so unlucky, señor, that I’m afraid
the day will never come when I’ll see myself at such a calling. O what
neat spoons I’ll make when I’m a shepherd! What messes, creams,
garlands, pastoral odds and ends! And if they don’t get me a name for
wisdom, they’ll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My daughter
Sanchica will bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay—she’s
good-looking, and shepherds there are with more mischief than
simplicity in them; I would not have her ‘come for wool and go back
shorn;’ love-making and lawless desires are just as common in the
fields as in the cities, and in shepherds’ shanties as in royal
palaces; ‘do away with the cause, you do away with the sin;’ ‘if eyes
don’t see hearts don’t break’ and ‘better a clear escape than good
men’s prayers.’”

“A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho,” exclaimed Don Quixote; “any one of
those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning; many a
time have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with proverbs and to
exercise some moderation in delivering them; but it seems to me it is
only ‘preaching in the desert;’ ‘my mother beats me and I go on with my
tricks.”

“It seems to me,” said Sancho, “that your worship is like the common
saying, ‘Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.’ You
chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples
yourself.”

“Observe, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “I bring in proverbs to the
purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger; thou
bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that thou
dost drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not mistaken, I
have told thee already that proverbs are short maxims drawn from the
experience and observation of our wise men of old; but the proverb that
is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense and not a maxim. But
enough of this; as nightfall is drawing on let us retire some little
distance from the high road to pass the night; what is in store for us
to-morrow God knoweth.”

They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against
Sancho’s will, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant upon
knight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plenty
presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de Miranda’s,
at the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno’s; he
reflected, however, that it could not be always day, nor always night;
and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his master in waking.

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