Bab Bab 71 · CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER

. CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER

CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER

WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS

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Don Quixote had gone but a short distance beyond Don Diego’s village,

when he fell in with a couple of either priests or students, and a

couple of peasants, mounted on four beasts of the ass kind. One of the

students carried, wrapped up in a piece of green buckram by way of a

portmanteau, what seemed to be a little linen and a couple of pairs of

ribbed stockings; the other carried nothing but a pair of new

fencing-foils with buttons. The peasants carried divers articles that

showed they were on their way from some large town where they had

bought them, and were taking them home to their village; and both

students and peasants were struck with the same amazement that

everybody felt who saw Don Quixote for the first time, and were dying

to know who this man, so different from ordinary men, could be. Don

Quixote saluted them, and after ascertaining that their road was the

same as his, made them an offer of his company, and begged them to

slacken their pace, as their young asses travelled faster than his

horse; and then, to gratify them, he told them in a few words who he

was and the calling and profession he followed, which was that of a

knight-errant seeking adventures in all parts of the world. He informed

them that his own name was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and that he was

called, by way of surname, the Knight of the Lions.

All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasants, but not so to the

students, who very soon perceived the crack in Don Quixote’s pate; for

all that, however, they regarded him with admiration and respect, and

one of them said to him, “If you, sir knight, have no fixed road, as it

is the way with those who seek adventures not to have any, let your

worship come with us; you will see one of the finest and richest

weddings that up to this day have ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or

for many a league round.”

Don Quixote asked him if it was some prince’s, that he spoke of it in

this way. “Not at all,” said the student; “it is the wedding of a

farmer and a farmer’s daughter, he the richest in all this country, and

she the fairest mortal ever set eyes on. The display with which it is

to be attended will be something rare and out of the common, for it

will be celebrated in a meadow adjoining the town of the bride, who is

called, _par excellence_, Quiteria the fair, as the bridegroom is

called Camacho the rich. She is eighteen, and he twenty-two, and they

are fairly matched, though some knowing ones, who have all the

pedigrees in the world by heart, will have it that the family of the

fair Quiteria is better than Camacho’s; but no one minds that

now-a-days, for wealth can solder a great many flaws. At any rate,

Camacho is free-handed, and it is his fancy to screen the whole meadow

with boughs and cover it in overhead, so that the sun will have hard

work if he tries to get in to reach the grass that covers the soil. He

has provided dancers too, not only sword but also bell-dancers, for in

his own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle the bells

to perfection; of shoe-dancers I say nothing, for of them he has

engaged a host. But none of these things, nor of the many others I have

omitted to mention, will do more to make this a memorable wedding than

the part which I suspect the despairing Basilio will play in it. This

Basilio is a youth of the same village as Quiteria, and he lived in the

house next door to that of her parents, of which circumstance Love took

advantage to reproduce to the word the long-forgotten loves of Pyramus

and Thisbe; for Basilio loved Quiteria from his earliest years, and she

responded to his passion with countless modest proofs of affection, so

that the loves of the two children, Basilio and Quiteria, were the talk

and the amusement of the town. As they grew up, the father of Quiteria

made up his mind to refuse Basilio his wonted freedom of access to the

house, and to relieve himself of constant doubts and suspicions, he

arranged a match for his daughter with the rich Camacho, as he did not

approve of marrying her to Basilio, who had not so large a share of the

gifts of fortune as of nature; for if the truth be told ungrudgingly,

he is the most agile youth we know, a mighty thrower of the bar, a

first-rate wrestler, and a great ball-player; he runs like a deer, and

leaps better than a goat, bowls over the nine-pins as if by magic,

sings like a lark, plays the guitar so as to make it speak, and, above

all, handles a sword as well as the best.”

“For that excellence alone,” said Don Quixote at this, “the youth

deserves to marry, not merely the fair Quiteria, but Queen Guinevere

herself, were she alive now, in spite of Launcelot and all who would

try to prevent it.”

“Say that to my wife,” said Sancho, who had until now listened in

silence, “for she won’t hear of anything but each one marrying his

equal, holding with the proverb ‘each ewe to her like.’ What I would

like is that this good Basilio (for I am beginning to take a fancy to

him already) should marry this lady Quiteria; and a blessing and good

luck—I meant to say the opposite—on people who would prevent those who

love one another from marrying.”

“If all those who love one another were to marry,” said Don Quixote,

“it would deprive parents of the right to choose, and marry their

children to the proper person and at the proper time; and if it was

left to daughters to choose husbands as they pleased, one would be for

choosing her father’s servant, and another, someone she has seen

passing in the street and fancies gallant and dashing, though he may be

a drunken bully; for love and fancy easily blind the eyes of the

judgment, so much wanted in choosing one’s way of life; and the

matrimonial choice is very liable to error, and it needs great caution

and the special favour of heaven to make it a good one. He who has to

make a long journey, will, if he is wise, look out for some trusty and

pleasant companion to accompany him before he sets out. Why, then,

should not he do the same who has to make the whole journey of life

down to the final halting-place of death, more especially when the

companion has to be his companion in bed, at board, and everywhere, as

the wife is to her husband? The companionship of one’s wife is no

article of merchandise, that, after it has been bought, may be

returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an inseparable accident

that lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose that, once you put it

round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot, which, if the scythe of

Death does not cut it, there is no untying. I could say a great deal

more on this subject, were I not prevented by the anxiety I feel to

know if the señor licentiate has anything more to tell about the story

of Basilio.”

To this the student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote called him,

licentiate, replied, “I have nothing whatever to say further, but that

from the moment Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria was to be

married to Camacho the rich, he has never been seen to smile, or heard

to utter rational word, and he always goes about moody and dejected,

talking to himself in a way that shows plainly he is out of his senses.

He eats little and sleeps little, and all he eats is fruit, and when he

sleeps, if he sleeps at all, it is in the field on the hard earth like

a brute beast. Sometimes he gazes at the sky, at other times he fixes

his eyes on the earth in such an abstracted way that he might be taken

for a clothed statue, with its drapery stirred by the wind. In short,

he shows such signs of a heart crushed by suffering, that all we who

know him believe that when to-morrow the fair Quiteria says ‘yes,’ it

will be his sentence of death.”

“God will guide it better,” said Sancho, “for God who gives the wound

gives the salve; nobody knows what will happen; there are a good many

hours between this and to-morrow, and any one of them, or any moment,

the house may fall; I have seen the rain coming down and the sun

shining all at one time; many a one goes to bed in good health who

can’t stir the next day. And tell me, is there anyone who can boast of

having driven a nail into the wheel of fortune? No, faith; and between

a woman’s ‘yes’ and ‘no’ I wouldn’t venture to put the point of a pin,

for there would not be room for it; if you tell me Quiteria loves

Basilio heart and soul, then I’ll give him a bag of good luck; for

love, I have heard say, looks through spectacles that make copper seem

gold, poverty wealth, and bleary eyes pearls.”

“What art thou driving at, Sancho? curses on thee!” said Don Quixote;

“for when thou takest to stringing proverbs and sayings together, no

one can understand thee but Judas himself, and I wish he had thee. Tell

me, thou animal, what dost thou know about nails or wheels, or anything

else?”

“Oh, if you don’t understand me,” replied Sancho, “it is no wonder my

words are taken for nonsense; but no matter; I understand myself, and I

know I have not said anything very foolish in what I have said; only

your worship, señor, is always gravelling at everything I say, nay,

everything I do.”

“Cavilling, not gravelling,” said Don Quixote, “thou prevaricator of

honest language, God confound thee!”

“Don’t find fault with me, your worship,” returned Sancho, “for you

know I have not been bred up at court or trained at Salamanca, to know

whether I am adding or dropping a letter or so in my words. Why! God

bless me, it’s not fair to force a Sayago-man to speak like a Toledan;

maybe there are Toledans who do not hit it off when it comes to

polished talk.”

“That is true,” said the licentiate, “for those who have been bred up

in the Tanneries and the Zocodover cannot talk like those who are

almost all day pacing the cathedral cloisters, and yet they are all

Toledans. Pure, correct, elegant and lucid language will be met with in

men of courtly breeding and discrimination, though they may have been

born in Majalahonda; I say of discrimination, because there are many

who are not so, and discrimination is the grammar of good language, if

it be accompanied by practice. I, sirs, for my sins have studied canon

law at Salamanca, and I rather pique myself on expressing my meaning in

clear, plain, and intelligible language.”

“If you did not pique yourself more on your dexterity with those foils

you carry than on dexterity of tongue,” said the other student, “you

would have been head of the degrees, where you are now tail.”

“Look here, bachelor Corchuelo,” returned the licentiate, “you have the

most mistaken idea in the world about skill with the sword, if you

think it useless.”

“It is no idea on my part, but an established truth,” replied

Corchuelo; “and if you wish me to prove it to you by experiment, you

have swords there, and it is a good opportunity; I have a steady hand

and a strong arm, and these joined with my resolution, which is not

small, will make you confess that I am not mistaken. Dismount and put

in practice your positions and circles and angles and science, for I

hope to make you see stars at noonday with my rude raw swordsmanship,

in which, next to God, I place my trust that the man is yet to be born

who will make me turn my back, and that there is not one in the world I

will not compel to give ground.”

“As to whether you turn your back or not, I do not concern myself,”

replied the master of fence; “though it might be that your grave would

be dug on the spot where you planted your foot the first time; I mean

that you would be stretched dead there for despising skill with the

sword.”

“We shall soon see,” replied Corchuelo, and getting off his ass

briskly, he drew out furiously one of the swords the licentiate carried

on his beast.

“It must not be that way,” said Don Quixote at this point; “I will be

the director of this fencing match, and judge of this often disputed

question;” and dismounting from Rocinante and grasping his lance, he

planted himself in the middle of the road, just as the licentiate, with

an easy, graceful bearing and step, advanced towards Corchuelo, who

came on against him, darting fire from his eyes, as the saying is. The

other two of the company, the peasants, without dismounting from their

asses, served as spectators of the mortal tragedy. The cuts, thrusts,

down strokes, back strokes and doubles, that Corchuelo delivered were

past counting, and came thicker than hops or hail. He attacked like an

angry lion, but he was met by a tap on the mouth from the button of the

licentiate’s sword that checked him in the midst of his furious onset,

and made him kiss it as if it were a relic, though not as devoutly as

relics are and ought to be kissed. The end of it was that the

licentiate reckoned up for him by thrusts every one of the buttons of

the short cassock he wore, tore the skirts into strips, like the tails

of a cuttlefish, knocked off his hat twice, and so completely tired him

out, that in vexation, anger, and rage, he took the sword by the hilt

and flung it away with such force, that one of the peasants that were

there, who was a notary, and who went for it, made an affidavit

afterwards that he sent it nearly three-quarters of a league, which

testimony will serve, and has served, to show and establish with all

certainty that strength is overcome by skill.

Corchuelo sat down wearied, and Sancho approaching him said, “By my

faith, señor bachelor, if your worship takes my advice, you will never

challenge anyone to fence again, only to wrestle and throw the bar, for

you have the youth and strength for that; but as for these fencers as

they call them, I have heard say they can put the point of a sword

through the eye of a needle.”

“I am satisfied with having tumbled off my donkey,” said Corchuelo,

“and with having had the truth I was so ignorant of proved to me by

experience;” and getting up he embraced the licentiate, and they were

better friends than ever; and not caring to wait for the notary who had

gone for the sword, as they saw he would be a long time about it, they

resolved to push on so as to reach the village of Quiteria, to which

they all belonged, in good time.

During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held forth to them

on the excellences of the sword, with such conclusive arguments, and

such figures and mathematical proofs, that all were convinced of the

value of the science, and Corchuelo cured of his dogmatism.

It grew dark; but before they reached the town it seemed to them all as

if there was a heaven full of countless glittering stars in front of

it. They heard, too, the pleasant mingled notes of a variety of

instruments, flutes, drums, psalteries, pipes, tabors, and timbrels,

and as they drew near they perceived that the trees of a leafy arcade

that had been constructed at the entrance of the town were filled with

lights unaffected by the wind, for the breeze at the time was so gentle

that it had not power to stir the leaves on the trees. The musicians

were the life of the wedding, wandering through the pleasant grounds in

separate bands, some dancing, others singing, others playing the

various instruments already mentioned. In short, it seemed as though

mirth and gaiety were frisking and gambolling all over the meadow.

Several other persons were engaged in erecting raised benches from

which people might conveniently see the plays and dances that were to

be performed the next day on the spot dedicated to the celebration of

the marriage of Camacho the rich and the obsequies of Basilio. Don

Quixote would not enter the village, although the peasant as well as

the bachelor pressed him; he excused himself, however, on the grounds,

amply sufficient in his opinion, that it was the custom of

knights-errant to sleep in the fields and woods in preference to towns,

even were it under gilded ceilings; and so turned aside a little out of

the road, very much against Sancho’s will, as the good quarters he had

enjoyed in the castle or house of Don Diego came back to his mind.

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