الفصل الفصل 123 · CHAPTER LXXI. OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO

. CHAPTER LXXI. OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO

CHAPTER LXXI.

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO

THEIR VILLAGE

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The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in

one respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his

defeat, and his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay in

Sancho, as had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora; though it

was with difficulty he could persuade himself that the love-smitten

damsel had been really dead. Sancho went along anything but cheerful,

for it grieved him that Altisidora had not kept her promise of giving

him the smocks; and turning this over in his mind he said to his

master, “Surely, señor, I’m the most unlucky doctor in the world;

there’s many a physician that, after killing the sick man he had to

cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only signing a bit

of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he makes up, and,

there, his labour is over; but with me though to cure somebody else

costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches, pinproddings, and whippings,

nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear by all that’s good if they

put another patient into my hands, they’ll have to grease them for me

before I cure him; for, as they say, ‘it’s by his singing the abbot

gets his dinner,’ and I’m not going to believe that heaven has bestowed

upon me the virtue I have, that I should be dealing it out to others

all for nothing.”

“Thou art right, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “and Altisidora

has behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she promised; and

although that virtue of thine is _gratis data_—as it has cost thee no

study whatever, any more than such study as thy personal sufferings may

be—I can say for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the

lashes on account of the disenchant of Dulcinea, I would have given it

to thee freely ere this. I am not sure, however, whether payment will

comport with the cure, and I would not have the reward interfere with

the medicine. I think there will be nothing lost by trying it; consider

how much thou wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay

thyself down with thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine.”

At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm’s breadth

wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, and

said he to his master, “Very well then, señor, I’ll hold myself in

readiness to gratify your worship’s wishes if I’m to profit by it; for

the love of my wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let your

worship say how much you will pay me for each lash I give myself.”

“If Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “I were to requite thee as the

importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice,

the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what thou

hast of mine, and put a price on each lash.”

“Of them,” said Sancho, “there are three thousand three hundred and

odd; of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the five

go for the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three hundred,

which at a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less though the

whole world should bid me) make three thousand three hundred quarter

reals; the three thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals,

which make seven hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred make a

hundred and fifty half reals, which come to seventy-five reals, which

added to the seven hundred and fifty make eight hundred and twenty-five

reals in all. These I will stop out of what I have belonging to your

worship, and I’ll return home rich and content, though well whipped,

for ‘there’s no taking trout’—but I say no more.”

“O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “how we shall be

bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that

heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot be

but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune, and my

defeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou

begin the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will

give thee a hundred reals over and above.”

“When?” said Sancho; “this night without fail. Let your worship order

it so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I’ll

scarify myself.”

Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the

world, came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of

Apollo’s car had broken down, and that the day was drawing itself out

longer than usual, just as is the case with lovers, who never make the

reckoning of their desires agree with time. They made their way at

length in among some pleasant trees that stood a little distance from

the road, and there vacating Rocinante’s saddle and Dapple’s

pack-saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made

their supper off Sancho’s stores, and he making a powerful and flexible

whip out of Dapple’s halter and headstall retreated about twenty paces

from his master among some beech trees. Don Quixote seeing him march

off with such resolution and spirit, said to him, “Take care, my

friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow the lashes to wait for one

another, and do not be in so great a hurry as to run thyself out of

breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so strenuously as to make thy life

fail thee before thou hast reached the desired number; and that thou

mayest not lose by a card too much or too little, I will station myself

apart and count on my rosary here the lashes thou givest thyself. May

heaven help thee as thy good intention deserves.”

“‘Pledges don’t distress a good payer,’” said Sancho; “I mean to lay on

in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in that, no

doubt, lies the essence of this miracle.”

He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up the

rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He might

have given himself six or eight when he began to think the joke no

trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a moment, he

told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for

each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a real

instead of a quarter.

“Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened,” said Don Quixote;

“for I double the stakes as to price.”

“In that case,” said Sancho, “in God’s hand be it, and let it rain

lashes.” But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid

on to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one would

have thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the

roots. Don Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an

end of himself, and that through Sancho’s imprudence he might miss his

own object, said to him, “As thou livest, my friend, let the matter

rest where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, and it

will be well to have patience; ‘Zamora was not won in an hour.’ If I

have not reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over a thousand lashes;

that is enough for the present; ‘for the ass,’ to put it in homely

phrase, ‘bears the load, but not the overload.’”

“No, no, señor,” replied Sancho; “it shall never be said of me, ‘The

money paid, the arms broken;’ go back a little further, your worship,

and let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more; for in a

couple of bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot, and there

will be even cloth to spare.”

“As thou art in such a willing mood,” said Don Quixote, “may heaven aid

thee; lay on and I’ll retire.”

Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had

the bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with which

he whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and giving a beech

a tremendous lash, he cried out, “Here dies Samson, and all with him!”

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At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash,

Don Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that

served him for a courbash, said to him, “Heaven forbid, Sancho my

friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed

for the support of thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a

better opportunity, and I will content myself with a hope soon to be

realised, and have patience until thou hast gained fresh strength so as

to finish off this business to the satisfaction of everybody.”

“As your worship will have it so, señor,” said Sancho, “so be it; but

throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I’m sweating and I don’t want

to take cold; it’s a risk that novice disciplinants run.”

Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept

until the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which for the

time being they brought to an end at a village that lay three leagues

farther on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don Quixote recognised

as such and did not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis,

and drawbridge; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked more

rationally about everything, as will be shown presently. They quartered

him in a room on the ground floor, where in place of leather hangings

there were pieces of painted serge such as they commonly use in

villages. On one of them was painted by some very poor hand the Rape of

Helen, when the bold guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the

other was the story of Dido and Æneas, she on a high tower, as though

she were making signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was

out at sea flying in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two

stories that Helen did not go very reluctantly, for she was laughing

slyly and roguishly; but the fair Dido was shown dropping tears the

size of walnuts from her eyes. Don Quixote as he looked at them

observed, “Those two ladies were very unfortunate not to have been born

in this age, and I unfortunate above all men not to have been born in

theirs. Had I fallen in with those gentlemen, Troy would not have been

burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have been only for me to

slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided.”

“I’ll lay a bet,” said Sancho, “that before long there won’t be a

tavern, roadside inn, hostelry, or barber’s shop where the story of our

doings won’t be painted up; but I’d like it painted by the hand of a

better painter than painted these.”

“Thou art right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for this painter is like

Orbaneja, a painter there was at Úbeda, who when they asked him what he

was painting, used to say, ‘Whatever it may turn out; and if he chanced

to paint a cock he would write under it, ‘This is a cock,’ for fear

they might think it was a fox. The painter or writer, for it’s all the

same, who published the history of this new Don Quixote that has come

out, must have been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or

wrote ‘whatever it might turn out;’ or perhaps he is like a poet called

Mauleon that was about the Court some years ago, who used to answer at

haphazard whatever he was asked, and on one asking him what _Deum de

Deo_ meant, he replied _Dé donde diere_. But, putting this aside, tell

me, Sancho, hast thou a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night,

and wouldst thou rather have it indoors or in the open air?”

“Egad, señor,” said Sancho, “for what I’m going to give myself, it

comes all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields;

still I’d like it to be among trees; for I think they are company for

me and help me to bear my pain wonderfully.”

“And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “but, to

enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our own village;

for at the latest we shall get there the day after to-morrow.”

Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part he

would like to finish off the business quickly before his blood cooled

and while he had an appetite, because “in delay there is apt to be

danger” very often, and “praying to God and plying the hammer,” and

“one take was better than two I’ll give thee’s,” and “a sparrow in the

hand than a vulture on the wing.”

“For God’s sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “it

seems to me thou art becoming _sicut erat_ again; speak in a plain,

simple, straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt

find the good of it.”

“I don’t know what bad luck it is of mine,” said Sancho, “but I can’t

utter a word without a proverb that is not as good as an argument to my

mind; however, I mean to mend if I can;” and so for the present the

conversation ended.

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