الفصل الفصل 119 · CHAPTER LXVII. OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A

. CHAPTER LXVII. OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A

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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