The Children's Hour, v 5. Stories From Seven Old Favorites

by Eva March Tappan

That very moment Don Quixote, regardless of times and seasons, took the bachelor and the curate aside, and in few words gave them an account of his defeat and the obligation he lay under of not leaving his village for a year, which, like a knight-errant bound by the strictness and discipline of knight-errantry, he was resolved to observe to the letter without infringing it one jot. And that he intended to make himself a shepherd for that year, and entertain himself in the solitude of the fields, where he might give play to his amorous thoughts with a loose rein, and employ himself in that pastoral and virtuous exercise; and he begged them, if they had not much to do, and if business of greater importance were not an obstruction, that they would please to be his companions; for he would provide sheep and cattle enough to give them the name of shepherds; and that he would have them know that the chief part of the undertaking was done, for he had provided them all with names that would fit them exactly. The curate asked him to tell them. Don Quixote told him he would himself be called the shepherd Quixotiz, and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curiambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.

They were all struck with amazement at this new folly; but, in order that they might not have him leaving the village again on his chivalry, and hoping that within the year he might be cured, they came into his new design, and approved of his folly as if it were wise, offering their company in his employment. "And the more," said Samson Carrasco, "as everybody knows I am a most celebrated poet, and at every step I will compose verses pastoral, or courtly, or any that shall come more seasonably, so as to divert us in those groves where we shall range. But one thing, gentlemen, is most necessary, that each of us choose a name for the shepherdess he means to celebrate in his lays; and that we leave no tree, be it ever so hard, on which her name is not inscribed and cut, as is the use and custom of enamored shepherds."—"You are quite right," replied Don Quixote; "provided that I am free from seeking an imaginary shepherdess, since there is the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks, the ornament of these meads, the support of beauty, the cream of elegance, and, in short, the subject on which all praise may light, however hyperbolical it may be."—"That is true," said the curate; "but we shall seek out some shepherdesses of ordinary kind who, if they do not suit us squarely, will do so cornerwise." To which added Samson Carrasco, "And if they be wanting, we will give those very names we find in books, of which the world is full, such as Phyllises, Amaryllises, Dianas, Floridas, Galateas, Belisardas, which are to be disposed of in the markets, and can be purchased and kept as our own. If my mistress, or my shepherdess I should rather say, chance to be called Anne, I will celebrate her under the name of Anarda; if Francisca, I will call her Francenia; and if Lucy, Lucinda, and so forth. And Sancho Panza, if he has to enter into this fraternity, may celebrate his wife Teresa Panza by the name of Teresayna." Don Quixote laughed at the turn given to the name. And the curate greatly applauded his virtuous and honorable resolution, and repeated his offer of bearing him company all the time that his compulsory employments would allow him. With this they took their leave of him, and begged and counseled him to take thought about his health by enjoying whatever was good for him.

Fate willed that the niece and the housekeeper, according to custom, had been listening to the discourse of the three, and so, as they went away, both came in to Don Quixote; and the niece said, "What is here to do, uncle! Now when we thought you were come to stay at home, and live like a sober, honest gentleman in your house, are you hankering after new crotchets, and turning into a

'Gentle shepherd, coming hither,
Gentle shepherd, going hence?'

For by my troth, sir, the corn is now too old to make pipes of." To which the housekeeper added, "And will your worship be able to endure the summer noondays, and the winter's night frosts, and the howlings of the wolves? No, for certain, for this is the business and duty of strong men, cut out and bred for such work almost from their swaddling bands and long clothes. Ill for ill, it is even better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd. Look ye, sir, take my advice, which is not given on a full meal of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty years over my head. Stay at home, look after your property, go often to confession, do good to the poor; and on my soul be it if ill comes of it."—"Peace, daughters," answered Don Quixote to them; "I know well what it behooves me to do. Help me to bed, for it seems to me I am not very well; and be assured that whether I now be a knight-errant or an errant-shepherd, I shall never fail to provide whatever you shall need, as you shall see indeed." And the good women took him to bed, brought him something to eat, and tended him with all possible care.

As human things are not eternal, always tending downwards from their beginnings till they reach their final end, especially the lives of men, and as Don Quixote held no privilege from heaven to stay the course of his, so his end and finish arrived when he least expected it. For whether it was from the melancholy that his defeat caused, or whether it was by the disposition of heaven that so ordered it, a fever took possession of him that confined him to his bed for six days.

All that time his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, came often to see him, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred from his bedside.

They, conjecturing that the regret of his defeat, and his being disappointed of his desire for Dulcinea's liberty and disenchantment, kept him in this case, essayed to divert him in all possible ways. The bachelor begged him to pluck up a good heart, and rise, that he might begin his pastoral life, for which he had already written an eclogue, which would confound all those that Sannazaro had ever written, and that he had already bought, with his own money, two famous dogs to watch their flock, the one called Barcino, and the other Butron, that a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him. But this had no effect on Don Quixote's sadness. His friends called in the doctor, who, upon feeling his pulse, did not very well like it; and said that in any case he should provide for the safety of his soul, for that of his body was in danger. Don Quixote heard this with a calm mind, but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell a-weeping bitterly, as if they already saw him dead before them. The physician was of opinion that melancholy and vexation were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote desired them to leave him alone, for he would sleep a little; they did so, and he slept for more than six hours straight off, as they say, so that the housekeeper and the niece thought that he would never wake.

At the end of that time he awaked, and, with a loud voice said, "Blessed be Almighty God, who hath done me so much good. His mercies are without end, nor are they shortened or hindered by the sins of men." The niece, hearkening very attentively to these words of her uncle, and finding more sense in them than there was wont to be in his talk, at least since he had fallen ill, asked him, "What is that you say, sir; has anything fresh happened? What mercies are these or what sins of men?"—"The mercies, niece," answered Don Quixote, "are those that heaven has this moment vouchsafed to me, which, as I said, my sins do not prevent. My judgment is now free and clear, and the murky clouds of ignorance removed, which my painful and continual reading of those detestable books of knight-errantry cast over me. Now I perceive their nonsense and deceit, and am only sorry the discovery happens so late, when I want time to make some amends by reading others that would enlighten my soul. I find, niece, that I am at the point of death; and I would meet it in such a manner as to show that my life has not been so evil as to leave me the character of a madman. Send, my dear, for my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will." But this trouble the niece was saved by the entrance of the three. Don Quixote had scarcely seen them when he said, "Largess, good gentlemen, for I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, the same whom my behavior gave the surname of Good. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul and all the endless crowd of his descendants; all the profane stories of knight-errantry are now hateful to me. I have a sense of my folly and the danger I have run by having read them; and now, through heaven's mercy and my own experience, I abhor them." When the three heard this, they concluded without doubt some new frenzy had possessed him, and Samson said to him, "Now, Signor Don Quixote, when we have just had news that the Lady Dulcinea is disenchanted, do you come out with this? and now we are upon the point of turning shepherds, to spend our lives singing like princes, do you wish to make yourself a hermit? Peace, on your life; come to yourself and leave idle tales."

"Those which hitherto have been true, to my prejudice," replied Don Quixote, "my death, with the assistance of heaven, shall turn to my advantage. I perceive, sirs, that I am dying with all speed. Put aside jests, and fetch me a confessor to confess me, and a scrivener to draw up my will, for in such straits as this a man must not play with his soul; and I beg that whilst Master Curate confesses me a scrivener may be fetched."