Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
in his thoughts, modest in his words, liberal in good works, valiant in
exploits, patient in toils, charitable to the needy, and steadfastly
adhering to the truth, even at the hazard of his life. Of all these
great and small parts a good knight-errant is composed."
THE TEXT.
Could I recall departed joy,
Though barred the hopes of greater gain,
Or now the future hours employ
That must succeed my present pain.
THE PARAPHRASE.
All fortune's blessings disappear,
She's fickle as the wind;
And now I find her as severe
As once I thought her kind.
How soon the fleeting pleasures passed!
How long the lingering sorrows last!
Unconstant goddess, in thy haste,
Do not thy prostrate slave destroy,
I'd ne'er complain, but bless my fate,
_Could I recall departed joy._
Of all thy gifts I beg but this,
Glut all mankind with more,
Transport them with redoubled bliss,
But only mine restore.
With thought of pleasure once possessed,
I'm now as cursed as I was blessed:
Oh, would the charming hours return,
How pleased I'd live, how free from pain,
I ne'er would pine, I ne'er would mourn.
_Though barred the hopes of greater gain._
But oh, the blessing I implore
Not fate itself can give!
Since time elapsed exists no more,
No power can bid it live.
Our days soon vanish into naught,
And have no being but in thought.
Whate'er began must end at last,
In vain we twice would youth enjoy,
In vain would we recall the past,
_Or now the future hours employ._
Deceived by hope, and racked by fear,
No longer life can please;
I'll then no more its torments bear,
Since death so soon can ease.
This hour I'll die--but, let me pause--
A rising doubt my courage awes.
Assist, ye powers that rule my fate,
Alarm my thoughts, my rage restrain,
Convince my soul there's yet a state
_That must succeed my present pain._
O Flattery, how potent is thy sway! How wide the bounds of
thy pleasing jurisdiction!
_On the story of Pyramus and Thisbe._
SONNET.
The nymph who Pyramus with love inspired
Pierces the wall, with equal passion fired:
Cupid from distant Cyprus thither flies,
And views the secret breach with laughing eyes.
Here silence, vocal, mutual vows conveys,
And whispering eloquent, their love betrays:
Though chained by fear, their voices dare not pass,
Their souls, transmitted through the chink, embrace.
Ah, woful story of disastrous love!
Ill-fated haste that did their ruin prove!
One death, one grave, unite the faithful pair,
And in one common fame their memories share.
No parents can see the deformity of their own children, and
still stronger is this self-deception with respect to the
offspring of the mind.
At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo: "I know not,"
said he, "whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let
me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the
shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of
fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of
poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry,
which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the
throne of empire in the turning of a straw."
Riches are able to solder abundance of flaws.
Every sheep to its like.
Let every goose a gander choose.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE MARRIAGE OF CAMACHO THE RICH; AND ALSO THE ADVENTURE
OF BASILIUS THE POOR.
"Come with us, and you will see one of the greatest and richest weddings
that has ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or for many leagues round."
"The nuptials of some prince, I presume?" said Don Quixote.
"No," replied the scholar, "only that of a farmer and a country maid: he
the wealthiest in this part of the country, and she the most beautiful
that eyes ever beheld. The preparations are very uncommon: for the
wedding is to be celebrated in a meadow near the village where the bride
lives, who is called Quiteria the Fair, and the bridegroom Camacho the
Rich: she is about the age of eighteen, and he twenty-two, both equally
matched, though some nice folks, who have all the pedigrees of the world
in their heads, pretend that the family of Quiteria the Fair has the
advantage over that of Camacho; but that is now little regarded, for
riches are able to solder up abundance of flaws. In short, this same
Camacho is as liberal as a prince; and, intending to be at some cost in
this wedding, has taken it into his head to convert a whole meadow into
a kind of arbor, shading it so that the sun itself will find some
difficulty to visit the green grass beneath. He will also have
morris-dances, both with swords and bells; for there are people in the
village who jingle and clatter them with great dexterity. As to the
number of shoe-clappers[10] invited, it is impossible to count them; but
what will give the greatest interest to this wedding is the effect it
is expected to have on the slighted Basilius.
"This Basilius is a swain of the same village as Quiteria; his house is
next to that of her parents, and separated only by a wall, whence Cupid
took occasion to revive the ancient loves of Pyramus and Thisbe: for
Basilius was in love with Quiteria from his childhood, and she returned
his affection with a thousand modest favors, insomuch that the loves of
the two children, Basilius and Quiteria, became the common talk of the
village. When they were grown up, the father of Quiteria resolved to
forbid Basilius the usual access to his family; and to relieve himself
of all fears on his account, he determined to marry his daughter to the
rich Camacho; not choosing to bestow her on Basilius, whose endowments
are less the gifts of fortune than of nature: in truth he is the most
active youth we know; a great pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler,
a great player at cricket, runs like a buck, leaps like a wild goat, and
plays at ninepins as if by witchcraft; sings like a lark, and touches a
guitar delightfully and, above all, he handles a sword like the most
skilful fencer."
It now began to grow dark, and as they approached the village there
appeared before them a new heaven, blazing with innumerable stars. At
the same time they heard the sweet and mingled sounds of various
instruments--such as flutes, tambourines, psalters, cymbals, drums, and
bells; and, drawing still nearer, they perceived a spacious arbor,
formed near the entrance into the town, hung round with lights that
shone undisturbed by the breeze; for it was so calm that not a leaf was
seen to move. The musicians, who are the life and joy of such festivals,
paraded in bands up and down this delightful place, some dancing, others
singing, and others playing upon different instruments: in short,
nothing was there to be seen but mirth and pleasure. Several were
employed in raising scaffolds, from which they might commodiously behold
the shows and entertainments of the following day, that were to be
dedicated to the nuptial ceremony of the rich Camacho and the obsequies
of poor Basilius.
If he is poor he cannot think to wed Quiteria. A pleasant fancy,
forsooth, for a fellow who has not a groat in his pocket to look for a
yoke-mate above the clouds. Faith, sir, in my opinion a poor man should
be contented with what he finds, and not be seeking for truffles at the
bottom of the sea.
The first thing that presented itself to Sancho's sight was a whole
bullock spitted upon a large elm. The fire it was roasted by was
composed of a middling mountain of wood, and round it were placed six
pots, not cast in common moulds; for they were half-jars, each
containing a whole shamble of flesh; and entire sheep were sunk and
swallowed up in them, as commodiously as if they were only so many
pigeons. The hares ready cased, and the fowls ready plucked, that hung
about upon the branches, in order to be buried in the caldrons, were
without number. Infinite was the wild fowl and venison hanging about the
trees, that the air might cool them. Sancho counted above threescore
skins, each of above twenty-four quarts, and all, as appeared
afterwards, full of generous wines.
There were also piles of the whitest bread, arranged like heaps of wheat
on the threshing-floor, and cheeses, piled up in the manner of bricks,
formed a kind of wall. Two caldrons of oil, larger than dyers' vats,
stood ready for frying all sorts of batter-ware; and, with a couple of
stout peels, they shovelled them up when fried, and forthwith immersed
them in a kettle of prepared honey that stood near. The men and women
cooks were about fifty in number, all clean, all active, and all in good
humor. In the bullock's distended belly were sewed up a dozen sucking
pigs, to make it savory and tender. The spices of various kinds, which
seemed to have been bought, not by the pound, but by the hundredweight,
were deposited in a great chest, and open to every hand. In short the
preparation for the wedding was all rustic, but in sufficient abundance
to have feasted an army.
Sancho beheld all with wonder and delight. The first that captivated and
subdued his inclinations were the flesh-pots, out of which he would have
been glad to have filled a moderate pipkin; next the wine-skins drew his
affections; and lastly the products of the frying-pans--if such
capacious vessels might be so called; and, being unable any longer to
abstain, he ventured to approach one of the busy cooks, and in
persuasive and hungry terms begged leave to sop a luncheon of bread in
one of the pots.
To which the cook answered, "This, friend, is not a day for hunger to be
abroad--thanks to rich Camacho. Alight, and look about you for a ladle
to skim out a fowl or two, and much good may they do you."
"I see no ladle," answered Sancho.
"Stay," said the cook. "Heaven save me, what a helpless varlet!" So
saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and sousing it into one of the
half-jars, he fished out three pullets and a couple of geese, and said
to Sancho, "Eat, friend, and make your breakfast of this scum, to stay
your stomach till dinner-time."
"I have nothing to put it in," answered Sancho.
"Then take ladle and all," quoth the cook; "for Camacho's riches and joy
supply everything."
While Sancho was thus employed, Don Quixote stood observing the entrance
of a dozen peasants at one side of the spacious arbor, each mounted on a
beautiful mare, in rich and gay caparisons, hung round with little
bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, and in a regular troop made
sundry careers about the meadow, with a joyful Moorish cry of "Long live
Camacho and Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of
the world!"
Don Quixote hearing this, said to himself, "These people, it is plain,
have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; otherwise they would have been
less extravagant in the praise of their Quiteria."
Soon after there entered, on different sides of the arbor, various sets
of dancers, among which was one consisting of four-and-twenty
sword-dancers; handsome, sprightly swains, all arrayed in fine white
linen, and handkerchiefs wrought with several colors of fine silk. One
of those mounted on horseback inquired of a young man who led the
sword-dance, whether any of his comrades were hurt.
"No," replied the youth; "thank Heaven, as yet we are all well;" and
instantly he twined himself in among his companions with so many turns,
and so dexterously, that though Don Quixote had often seen such dances
before, none had ever pleased him so well. Another dance also delighted
him much, performed by twelve damsels, young and beautiful, all clad in
green stuff of Cuenza, having their hair partly plaited, and partly