Kabanata Kabanata 53 · OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT

. OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT

HIS MALADY

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Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third

sally of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained

nearly a month without seeing him, lest they should recall or bring

back to his recollection what had taken place. They did not, however,

omit to visit his niece and housekeeper, and charge them to be careful

to treat him with attention, and give him comforting things to eat, and

such as were good for the heart and the brain, whence, it was plain to

see, all his misfortune proceeded. The niece and housekeeper replied

that they did so, and meant to do so with all possible care and

assiduity, for they could perceive that their master was now and then

beginning to show signs of being in his right mind. This gave great

satisfaction to the curate and the barber, for they concluded they had

taken the right course in carrying him off enchanted on the ox-cart, as

has been described in the First Part of this great as well as accurate

history, in the last chapter thereof. So they resolved to pay him a

visit and test the improvement in his condition, although they thought

it almost impossible that there could be any; and they agreed not to

touch upon any point connected with knight-errantry so as not to run

the risk of reopening wounds which were still so tender.

They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a

green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and dried

up that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They were very

cordially received by him; they asked him after his health, and he

talked to them about himself very naturally and in very well-chosen

language. In the course of their conversation they fell to discussing

what they call State-craft and systems of government, correcting this

abuse and condemning that, reforming one practice and abolishing

another, each of the three setting up for a new legislator, a modern

Lycurgus, or a brand-new Solon; and so completely did they remodel the

State, that they seemed to have thrust it into a furnace and taken out

something quite different from what they had put in; and on all the

subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke with such good sense that

the pair of examiners were fully convinced that he was quite recovered

and in his full senses.

The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could

not find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their

master so clear in his mind; the curate, however, changing his original

plan, which was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry, resolved to

test Don Quixote’s recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine

or not; and so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of

the news that had come from the capital, and, among other things, he

said it was considered certain that the Turk was coming down with a

powerful fleet, and that no one knew what his purpose was, or when the

great storm would burst; and that all Christendom was in apprehension

of this, which almost every year calls us to arms, and that his Majesty

had made provision for the security of the coasts of Naples and Sicily

and the island of Malta.

To this Don Quixote replied, “His Majesty has acted like a prudent

warrior in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the

enemy may not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would

recommend him to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his

Majesty is very far from thinking of.”

The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, “God keep thee in

his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art precipitating

thyself from the height of thy madness into the profound abyss of thy

simplicity.”

But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked Don

Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said ought

to be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would have to

be added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions that people

were in the habit of offering to princes.

“Mine, master shaver,” said Don Quixote, “will not be impertinent, but,

on the contrary, pertinent.”

“I don’t mean that,” said the barber, “but that experience has shown

that all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty

are either impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to the

kingdom.”

“Mine, however,” replied Don Quixote, “is neither impossible nor

absurd, but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most

expeditious that could suggest itself to any projector’s mind.”

“You take a long time to tell it, Señor Don Quixote,” said the curate.

“I don’t choose to tell it here, now,” said Don Quixote, “and have it

reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and some

other carry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble.”

“For my part,” said the barber, “I give my word here and before God

that I will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or earthly

man—an oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who, in the

prelude, told the king of the thief who had robbed him of the hundred

gold crowns and his pacing mule.”

“I am not versed in stories,” said Don Quixote; “but I know the oath is

a good one, because I know the barber to be an honest fellow.”

“Even if he were not,” said the curate, “I will go bail and answer for

him that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under pain of

paying any penalty that may be pronounced.”

“And who will be security for you, señor curate?” said Don Quixote.

“My profession,” replied the curate, “which is to keep secrets.”

“Ods body!” said Don Quixote at this, “what more has his Majesty to do

but to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant that are

scattered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the capital, for

even if no more than half a dozen come, there may be one among them who

alone will suffice to destroy the entire might of the Turk. Give me

your attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing for a single

knight-errant to demolish an army of two hundred thousand men, as if

they all had but one throat or were made of sugar paste? Nay, tell me,

how many histories are there filled with these marvels? If only (in an

evil hour for me: I don’t speak for anyone else) the famous Don

Belianis were alive now, or anyone of the innumerable progeny of Amadis

of Gaul! If any these were alive to-day, and were to come face to face

with the Turk, by my faith, I would not give much for the Turk’s

chance. But God will have regard for his people, and will provide

someone, who, if not so valiant as the knights-errant of yore, at least

will not be inferior to them in spirit; but God knows what I mean, and

I say no more.”

“Alas!” exclaimed the niece at this, “may I die if my master does not

want to turn knight-errant again;” to which Don Quixote replied, “A

knight-errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when he

likes, and in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows

what I mean.” But here the barber said, “I ask your worships to give me

leave to tell a short story of something that happened in Seville,

which comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like greatly

to tell it.” Don Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared to

listen, and he began thus:

“In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had

placed there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in

canon law; but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of

most people that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate,

after some years of confinement, took it into his head that he was sane

and in his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the

Archbishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, to

have him released from the misery in which he was living; for by God’s

mercy he had now recovered his lost reason, though his relations, in

order to enjoy his property, kept him there, and, in spite of the

truth, would make him out to be mad until his dying day. The

Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written letters, directed

one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the truth of

the licentiate’s statements, and to have an interview with the madman

himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to take

him out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and the

governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that though he

often spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end break

out into nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced all the

sensible things he had said before, as might be easily tested by

talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the experiment, and

obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an hour or more,

during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that was

incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally that

the chaplain was compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other

things, he said the governor was against him, not to lose the presents

his relations made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid

intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his

large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and

threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turning him from

a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in such a way that he cast

suspicion on the governor, and made his relations appear covetous and

heartless, and himself so rational that the chaplain determined to take

him away with him that the Archbishop might see him, and ascertain for

himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this conviction, the

worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in which the

licentiate had entered the house given to him. The governor again bade

him beware of what he was doing, as the licentiate was beyond a doubt

still mad; but all his cautions and warnings were unavailing to

dissuade the chaplain from taking him away. The governor, seeing that

it was the order of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed the

licentiate in his own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon

as he saw himself clothed like one in his senses, and divested of the

appearance of a madman, entreated the chaplain to permit him in charity

to go and take leave of his comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he

would go with him to see what madmen there were in the house; so they

went upstairs, and with them some of those who were present.

Approaching a cage in which there was a furious madman, though just at

that moment calm and quiet, the licentiate said to him, ‘Brother, think

if you have any commands for me, for I am going home, as God has been

pleased, in his infinite goodness and mercy, without any merit of mine,

to restore me my reason. I am now cured and in my senses, for with

God’s power nothing is impossible. Have strong hope and trust in him,

for as he has restored me to my original condition, so likewise he will

restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some good

things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you know I am

convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all this madness of

ours comes of having the stomach empty and the brains full of wind.

Take courage! take courage! for despondency in misfortune breaks down

health and brings on death.’

“To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage opposite

that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up from an

old mat on which he lay stark naked, he asked in a loud voice who it

was that was going away cured and in his senses. The licentiate

answered, ‘It is I, brother, who am going; I have now no need to remain

here any longer, for which I return infinite thanks to Heaven that has

had so great mercy upon me.’

“‘Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don’t let the devil deceive

you,’ replied the madman. ‘Keep quiet, stay where you are, and you will

save yourself the trouble of coming back.’

“‘I know I am cured,’ returned the licentiate, ‘and that I shall not

have to go stations again.’

“‘You cured!’ said the madman; ‘well, we shall see; God be with you;

but I swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that

for this crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in releasing

you from this house, and treating you as if you were in your senses, I

shall have to inflict such a punishment on it as will be remembered for

ages and ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable little

licentiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer,

who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with which I am able and am wont

to threaten and lay waste the world? But in one way only will I punish

this ignorant town, and that is by not raining upon it, nor on any part

of its district or territory, for three whole years, to be reckoned

from the day and moment when this threat is pronounced. Thou free, thou

cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I disordered, I bound! I will as

soon think of sending rain as of hanging myself.

“Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of the

madman; but our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by

the hands, said to him, ‘Be not uneasy, señor; attach no importance to

what this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will not send rain,

I, who am Neptune, the father and god of the waters, will rain as often

as it pleases me and may be needful.’

“The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter the

chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, ‘For all that, Señor

Neptune, it will not do to vex Señor Jupiter; remain where you are, and

some other day, when there is a better opportunity and more time, we

will come back for you.’ So they stripped the licentiate, and he was

left where he was; and that’s the end of the story.”

“So that’s the story, master barber,” said Don Quixote, “which came in

so pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it? Master

shaver, master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve.

Is it possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit with wit,

valour with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always

odious and unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the

waters, nor do I try to make anyone take me for an astute man, for I am

not one. My only endeavour is to convince the world of the mistake it

makes in not reviving in itself the happy time when the order of

knight-errantry was in the field. But our depraved age does not deserve

to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed when knights-errant took

upon their shoulders the defence of kingdoms, the protection of

damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the chastisement of the

proud, and the recompense of the humble. With the knights of these

days, for the most part, it is the damask, brocade, and rich stuffs

they wear, that rustle as they go, not the chain mail of their armour;

no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open field exposed to the inclemency

of heaven, and in full panoply from head to foot; no one now takes a

nap, as they call it, without drawing his feet out of the stirrups, and

leaning upon his lance, as the knights-errant used to do; no one now,

issuing from the wood, penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the

barren, lonely shore of the sea—mostly a tempestuous and stormy one—and

finding on the beach a little bark without oars, sail, mast, or

tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart flings himself

into it and commits himself to the wrathful billows of the deep sea,

that one moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge him into the

depths; and opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds

himself, when he least expects it, three thousand leagues and more away

from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore in a remote and

unknown land has adventures that deserve to be written, not on

parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy, indolence

over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and theory

over practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the golden

ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more virtuous and more

valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more discreet than Palmerin

of England? Who more gracious and easy than Tirante el Blanco? Who more

courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who more slashed or slashing than Don

Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? Who more ready to face

danger than Felixmarte of Hircania? Who more sincere than Esplandian?

Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold than

Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than

Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and

courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present

day are descended, according to Turpin in his ‘Cosmography.’ All these

knights, and many more that I could name, señor curate, were

knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or such as

these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty

would find himself well served and would save great expense, and the

Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am, as

the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber has

told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I please.

I say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him.”

“Indeed, Señor Don Quixote,” said the barber, “I did not mean it in

that way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your worship

ought not to be vexed.”

“As to whether I ought to be vexed or not,” returned Don Quixote, “I

myself am the best judge.”

Hereupon the curate observed, “I have hardly said a word as yet; and I

would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote has

said, that worries and works my conscience.”

“The señor curate has leave for more than that,” returned Don Quixote,

“so he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to have a doubt on

one’s conscience.”

“Well then, with that permission,” said the curate, “I say my doubt is

that, all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole pack of

knights-errant you, Señor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were really and

truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever lived in the world; on the

contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and falsehood, and

dreams told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep.”

“That is another mistake,” replied Don Quixote, “into which many have

fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in the

world, and I have often, with divers people and on divers occasions,

tried to expose this almost universal error to the light of truth.

Sometimes I have not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I have,

supporting it upon the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so clear

that I can almost say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who

was a man of lofty stature, fair complexion, with a handsome though

black beard, of a countenance between gentle and stern in expression,

sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to put it away from him; and

as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think, portray and describe

all the knights-errant that are in all the histories in the world; for

by the perception I have that they were what their histories describe,

and by the deeds they did and the dispositions they displayed, it is

possible, with the aid of sound philosophy, to deduce their features,

complexion, and stature.”

“How big, in your worship’s opinion, may the giant Morgante have been,

Señor Don Quixote?” asked the barber.

“With regard to giants,” replied Don Quixote, “opinions differ as to

whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy

Scripture, which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that

there were, when it gives us the history of that big Philistine,

Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a huge

size. Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there have been found

leg-bones and arm-bones so large that their size makes it plain that

their owners were giants, and as tall as great towers; geometry puts

this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with

certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot have

been very tall; and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I find

in the history in which his deeds are particularly mentioned, that he

frequently slept under a roof and as he found houses to contain him, it

is clear that his bulk could not have been anything excessive.”

“That is true,” said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of

hearing such nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the features

of Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the Twelve

Peers of France, for they were all knights-errant.

“As for Reinaldos,” replied Don Quixote, “I venture to say that he was

broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat prominent

eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the society of

thieves and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or Rotolando, or

Orlando (for the histories call him by all these names), I am of

opinion, and hold, that he was of middle height, broad-shouldered,

rather bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned, red-bearded, with a hairy body

and a severe expression of countenance, a man of few words, but very

polite and well-bred.”

“If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has

described,” said the curate, “it is no wonder that the fair Lady

Angelica rejected him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and

grace of that budding-bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered

herself; and she showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle

softness of Medoro rather than the roughness of Roland.”

“That Angelica, señor curate,” returned Don Quixote, “was a giddy

damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of

her vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a

thousand gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a

smooth-faced sprig of a page, without fortune or fame, except such

reputation for gratitude as the affection he bore his friend got for

him. The great poet who sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring

to sing her adventures after her contemptible surrender (which probably

were not over and above creditable), dropped her where he says:

How she received the sceptre of Cathay,

Some bard of defter quill may sing some day;

and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called

_vates_, that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for

since then a famous Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears,

and another famous and rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty.”

“Tell me, Señor Don Quixote,” said the barber here, “among all those

who praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady

Angelica?”

“I can well believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that if Sacripante or

Roland had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for

it is naturally the way with poets who have been scorned and rejected

by their ladies, whether fictitious or not, in short by those whom they

select as the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge themselves in satires

and libels—a vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous hearts; but up

to the present I have not heard of any defamatory verse against the

Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down.”

“Strange,” said the curate; but at this moment they heard the

housekeeper and the niece, who had previously withdrawn from the

conversation, exclaiming aloud in the courtyard, and at the noise they

all ran out.

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