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VOLUME[ PART 2  ]  

CHAPTER[ LXX. WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE

CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don Quixote, a

thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he knew very well that

with questions and answers his master would not let him sleep, and he was

in no humour for talking much, as he still felt the pain of his late

martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom of speech; and it would have

been more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in that luxurious

chamber in company. And so well founded did his apprehension prove, and

so correct was his anticipation, that scarcely had his master got into

bed when he said, "What dost thou think of tonight's adventure, Sancho?

Great and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine

own eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword, nor

by any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought of the

sternness and scorn with which I have always treated her."

"She might have died and welcome," said Sancho, "when she pleased and how

she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never made her fall

in love or scorned her. I don't know nor can I imagine how the recovery

of Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise, can have, as I have said

before, anything to do with the sufferings of Sancho Panza. Now I begin

to see plainly and clearly that there are enchanters and enchanted people

in the world; and may God deliver me from them, since I can't deliver

myself; and so I beg of your worship to let me sleep and not ask me any

more questions, unless you want me to throw myself out of the window."

"Sleep, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "if the pinprodding and

pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will let

thee."

"No pain came up to the insult of the smacks," said Sancho, "for the

simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to me;

but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is relief

from misery to those who are miserable when awake."

"Be it so, and God be with thee," said Don Quixote.

They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of this great

history, took this opportunity to record and relate what it was that

induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot that has been

described. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not forgetting how he

as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown by Don

Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, resolved to try

his hand again, hoping for better luck than he had before; and so, having

learned where Don Quixote was from the page who brought the letter and

present to Sancho's wife, Teresa Panza, he got himself new armour and

another horse, and put a white moon upon his shield, and to carry his

arms he had a mule led by a peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire

for fear he should be recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the

duke's castle, and the duke informed him of the road and route Don

Quixote had taken with the intention of being present at the jousts at

Saragossa. He told him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him, and

of the device for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense of

Sancho's backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sancho

had played upon his master, making him believe that Dulcinea was

enchanted and turned into a country wench; and of how the duchess, his

wife, had persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived,

inasmuch as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed

not a little, and marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity of

Sancho as at the length to which Don Quixote's madness went. The duke

begged of him if he found him (whether he overcame him or not) to return

that way and let him know the result. This the bachelor did; he set out

in quest of Don Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa, he went on,

and how he fared has been already told. He returned to the duke's castle

and told him all, what the conditions of the combat were, and how Don

Quixote was now, like a loyal knight-errant, returning to keep his

promise of retiring to his village for a year, by which time, said the

bachelor, he might perhaps be cured of his madness; for that was the

object that had led him to adopt these disguises, as it was a sad thing

for a gentleman of such good parts as Don Quixote to be a madman. And so

he took his leave of the duke, and went home to his village to wait there

for Don Quixote, who was coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the

opportunity of practising this mystification upon him; so much did he

enjoy everything connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads

about the castle far and near, everywhere he thought Don Quixote was

likely to pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his servants

on foot and on horseback, who were to bring him to the castle, by fair

means or foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and sent word to the

duke, who, having already settled what was to be done, as soon as he

heard of his arrival, ordered the torches and lamps in the court to be

lit and Altisidora to be placed on the catafalque with all the pomp and

ceremony that has been described, the whole affair being so well arranged

and acted that it differed but little from reality. And Cide Hamete says,

moreover, that for his part he considers the concocters of the joke as

crazy as the victims of it, and that the duke and duchess were not two

fingers' breadth removed from being something like fools themselves when

they took such pains to make game of a pair of fools.

As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying awake

occupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them bringing

with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a delight to Don

Quixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back from death to life

as Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of her lord and lady,

entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she had worn on the

catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta embroidered with gold flowers,

her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and leaning upon a staff of

fine black ebony. Don Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at her

appearance, huddled himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogether

with the sheets and counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable to

offer her any civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head

of the bed, and, after a deep sigh, said to him in a feeble, soft voice,

"When women of rank and modest maidens trample honour under foot, and

give a loose to the tongue that breaks through every impediment,

publishing abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts, they are reduced to

sore extremities. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha,

crushed, conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffering and

virtuous, and so much so that my heart broke with grief and I lost my

life. For the last two days I have been dead, slain by the thought of the

cruelty with which thou hast treated me, obdurate knight,

O harder thou than marble to my plaint;

or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been

that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings of

this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world."

"Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my ass, and

I should have been obliged to him," said Sancho. "But tell me,

senora--and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master-what did

you see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of course that's

where one who dies in despair is bound for."

"To tell you the truth," said Altisidora, "I cannot have died outright,

for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very certain I should

never have come out again, do what I might. The truth is, I came to the

gate, where some dozen or so of devils were playing tennis, all in

breeches and doublets, with falling collars trimmed with Flemish

bonelace, and ruffles of the same that served them for wristbands, with

four fingers' breadth of the arms exposed to make their hands look

longer; in their hands they held rackets of fire; but what amazed me

still more was that books, apparently full of wind and rubbish, served

them for tennis balls, a strange and marvellous thing; this, however, did

not astonish me so much as to observe that, although with players it is

usual for the winners to be glad and the losers sorry, there in that game

all were growling, all were snarling, and all were cursing one another."

"That's no wonder," said Sancho; "for devils, whether playing or not, can

never be content, win or lose."

"Very likely," said Altisidora; "but there is another thing that

surprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no ball

outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it was

wonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old. To one

of them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke that they

knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about. 'Look what

book that is,' said one devil to another, and the other replied, 'It is

the "Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha," not by Cide

Hamete, the original author, but by an Aragonese who by his own account

is of Tordesillas.' 'Out of this with it,' said the first, 'and into the

depths of hell with it out of my sight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other.

'So bad is it,' said the first, 'that if I had set myself deliberately to

make a worse, I could not have done it.' They then went on with their

game, knocking other books about; and I, having heard them mention the

name of Don Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this

vision in my memory."

"A vision it must have been, no doubt," said Don Quixote, "for there is

no other I in the world; this history has been going about here for some

time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for everybody

gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by hearing that I am

wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of the pit or in the

daylight above, for I am not the one that history treats of. If it should

be good, faithful, and true, it will have ages of life; but if it should

be bad, from its birth to its burial will not be a very long journey."

Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don Quixote,

when he said to her, "I have several times told you, senora that it

grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as from mine they

can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born to belong to

Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any, dedicated me to

her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the place she occupies

in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This frank declaration should

suffice to make you retire within the bounds of your modesty, for no one

can bind himself to do impossibilities."

Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation, exclaimed,

"God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a date, more

obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when he has his mind

made up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out! Do you fancy, Don

Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your sake? All that you have

seen to-night has been make-believe; I'm not the woman to let the black

of my nail suffer for such a camel, much less die!"

"That I can well believe," said Sancho; "for all that about lovers pining

to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it-Judas may

believe that!"

While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung the

two stanzas given above came in, and making a profound obeisance to Don

Quixote said, "Will your worship, sir knight, reckon and retain me in the

number of your most faithful servants, for I have long been a great

admirer of yours, as well because of your fame as because of your

achievements?" "Will your worship tell me who you are," replied Don

Quixote, "so that my courtesy may be answerable to your deserts?" The

young man replied that he was the musician and songster of the night

before. "Of a truth," said Don Quixote, "your worship has a most

excellent voice; but what you sang did not seem to me very much to the

purpose; for what have Garcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of this

lady?"

"Don't be surprised at that," returned the musician; "for with the callow

poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he pleases and

pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the matter or not, and

now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they can sing or write that is

not set down to poetic licence."

Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke and

duchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long and

delightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so many droll

and saucy things that he left the duke and duchess wondering not only at

his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote begged their permission

to take his departure that same day, inasmuch as for a vanquished knight

like himself it was fitter he should live in a pig-sty than in a royal

palace. They gave it very readily, and the duchess asked him if

Altisidora was in his good graces.

He replied, "Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel's ailment

comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest and constant

employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn in hell; and as she

must know how to make it, let it never be out of her hands; for when she

is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and fro, the image or images of

what she loves will not shift to and fro in her thoughts; this is the

truth, this is my opinion, and this is my advice."

"And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a lace-maker

that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds are more set on

finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from my

own experience; for when I'm digging I never think of my old woman; I

mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids." "You say

well, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will take care that my Altisidora

employs herself henceforward in needlework of some sort; for she is

extremely expert at it." "There is no occasion to have recourse to that

remedy, senora," said Altisidora; "for the mere thought of the cruelty

with which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice to blot him

out of my memory without any other device; with your highness's leave I

will retire, not to have before my eyes, I won't say his rueful

countenance, but his abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of the

common saying, that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.

Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief,

made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room.

"Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betide thee!

Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart as hard as

oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have crowed to thee.'"

So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed himself and

dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening.

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