"To tell you the truth," said Altisidora, "I cannot have diedoutright, for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is verycertain I should never have come out again, do what I might. The truthis, I came to the gate, where some dozen or so of devils wereplaying tennis, all in breeches and doublets, with falling collarstrimmed with Flemish bonelace, and ruffles of the same that servedthem for wristbands, with four fingers' breadth of the arms exposed tomake their hands look longer; in their hands they held rackets offire; but what amazed me still more was that books, apparently full ofwind and rubbish, served them for tennis balls, a strange andmarvellous thing; this, however, did not astonish me so much as toobserve that, although with players it is usual for the winners tobe glad and the losers sorry, there in that game all were growling,all were snarling, and all were cursing one another." "That's nowonder," said Sancho; "for devils, whether playing or not, can neverbe content, win or lose."
"Very likely," said Altisidora; "but there is another thing thatsurprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that noball outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and itwas wonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old.To one of them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a strokethat they knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about.'Look what book that is,' said one devil to another, and the otherreplied, 'It is the "Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of LaMancha," not by Cide Hamete, the original author, but by anAragonese who by his own account is of Tordesillas.' 'Out of this withit,' said the first, 'and into the depths of hell with it out of mysight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other. 'So bad is it,' said thefirst, 'that if I had set myself deliberately to make a worse, I couldnot have done it.' They then went on with their game, knocking otherbooks about; and I, having heard them mention the name of DonQuixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this vision inmy memory."
"A vision it must have been, no doubt," said Don Quixote, "for thereis no other I in the world; this history has been going about here forsome time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, foreverybody gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed byhearing that I am wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness ofthe pit or in the daylight above, for I am not the one that historytreats of. If it should be good, faithful, and true, it will have agesof life; but if it should be bad, from its birth to its burial willnot be a very long journey."
Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against DonQuixote, when he said to her, "I have several times told you, senorathat it grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, asfrom mine they can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was bornto belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any,dedicated me to her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take theplace she occupies in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. Thisfrank declaration should suffice to make you retire within thebounds of your modesty, for no one can bind himself to doimpossibilities."
Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation,exclaimed, "God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of adate, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour whenhe has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out!Do you fancy, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for yoursake? All that you have seen to-night has been make-believe; I'm notthe woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, muchless die!"
"That I can well believe," said Sancho; "for all that about loverspining to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it-Judas may believe that!"
While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who hadsung the two stanzas given above came in, and making a profoundobeisance to Don Quixote said, "Will your worship, sir knight,reckon and retain me in the number of your most faithful servants, forI have long been a great admirer of yours, as well because of yourfame as because of your achievements?" "Will your worship tell mewho you are," replied Don Quixote, "so that my courtesy may beanswerable to your deserts?" The young man replied that he was themusician and songster of the night before. "Of a truth," said DonQuixote, "your worship has a most excellent voice; but what you sangdid not seem to me very much to the purpose; for what haveGarcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of this lady?"
"Don't be surprised at that," returned the musician; "for with thecallow poets of our day the way is for every one to write as hepleases and pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to thematter or not, and now-a-days there is no piece of silliness theycan sing or write that is not set down to poetic licence."
Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke andduchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a longand delightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said somany droll and saucy things that he left the duke and duchesswondering not only at his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixotebegged their permission to take his departure that same day,inasmuch as for a vanquished knight like himself it was fitter heshould live in a pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it veryreadily, and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his goodgraces.
He replied, "Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel'sailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honestand constant employment. She herself has told me that lace is wornin hell; and as she must know how to make it, let it never be out ofher hands; for when she is occupied in shifting the bobbins to andfro, the image or images of what she loves will not shift to and froin her thoughts; this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is myadvice."
"And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw alace-maker that died for love; when damsels are at work their mindsare more set on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves.I speak from my own experience; for when I'm digging I never thinkof my old woman; I mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than myown eyelids." "You say well, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I willtake care that my Altisidora employs herself henceforward inneedlework of some sort; for she is extremely expert at it." "There isno occasion to have recourse to that remedy, senora," said Altisidora;"for the mere thought of the cruelty with which this vagabondvillain has treated me will suffice to blot him out of my memorywithout any other device; with your highness's leave I will retire,not to have before my eyes, I won't say his rueful countenance, buthis abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of the common saying,that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.
Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with ahandkerchief, made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quittedthe room.
"Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betidethee! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heartas hard as oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would havecrowed to thee.'"
So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressedhimself and dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the sameevening.CHAPTER LXXI
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THEWAY TO THEIR VILLAGE
THE vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast inone respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from hisdefeat, and his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that layin Sancho, as had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora;though it was with difficulty he could persuade himself that thelove-smitten damsel had been really dead. Sancho went along anythingbut cheerful, for it grieved him that Altisidora had not kept herpromise of giving him the smocks; and turning this over in his mind hesaid to his master, "Surely, senor, I'm the most unlucky doctor in theworld; there's many a physician that, after killing the sick man hehad to cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is onlysigning a bit of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not hemakes up, and, there, his labour is over; but with me though to curesomebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swearby 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 theysay, 'it's by his singing the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm notgoing 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, "andAltisidora has behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks shepromised; and although that virtue of thine is gratis data- as ithas cost thee no study whatever, any more than such study as thypersonal sufferings may be- I can say for myself that if thouwouldst have payment for the lashes on account of the disenchant ofDulcinea, I would have given it to thee freely ere this. I am notsure, however, whether payment will comport with the cure, and I wouldnot have the reward interfere with the medicine. I think there will benothing lost by trying it; consider how much thou wouldst have,Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself down with thineown hand, as thou hast money of mine."
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