DON QUIXOTE

by Miguel de Cervantes

Volume II

Translated by John Ormsby

Ebook Editor’s Note

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND
THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY

CHAPTER
II WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH
DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
DROLLMATTERS

CHAPTER III OF THE LAUGHABLE
CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE
BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO

CHAPTER IV IN WHICH
SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE
BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH KNOWING AND
TELLING

CHAPTER V OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL
CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA,
AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED

CHAPTER
VI OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY

CHAPTER VII OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS

CHAPTER VIII WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

CHAPTER
IX WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE

CHAPTER X WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO
ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS
THEY ARE TRUE

CHAPTER XI OF THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR CART OF
“THE CORTES OF DEATH”

CHAPTER XII
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE
BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

CHAPTER XIII IN
WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH
THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO
SQUIRES

CHAPTER XIV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED
THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE

CHAPTER
XV WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS
SQUIRE WERE

CHAPTER XVI OF WHAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

CHAPTER
XVII WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE
UNEXAMPLEDCOURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE
HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS

CHAPTER
XVIII OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE
KNIGHT OF THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON

CHAPTER XIX IN WHICH IS RELATED THE
ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL
INCIDENTS

CHAPTER XX WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS
GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF
BASILIO THE POOR

CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH
CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS

CHAPTER XXII WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND
ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY TERMINATION

CHAPTER XXIII OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE
DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE
IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED
APOCRYPHAL

CHAPTER XXIV WHEREIN ARE RELATED
A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT
UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

CHAPTER XXV
WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE
PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING
APE

CHAPTER XXVI WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE
DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH
RIGHT GOOD

CHAPTER XXVII WHEREIN IT IS
SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON
QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE AS HE
WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED

CHAPTER
XXVIII OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF
HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION

CHAPTER XXIX
OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK

CHAPTER
XXX OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS

CHAPTER XXXI WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS

CHAPTER XXXII OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE
HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL

CHAPTER XXXIII OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE
DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND
NOTING

CHAPTER XXXIV WHICH RELATES HOW THEY
LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL
TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK

CHAPTER XXXV WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN
TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS

CHAPTER XXXVI
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED
DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO
PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA

CHAPTER
XXXVII WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED
DUENNA

CHAPTER XXXVIII WHEREIN IS TOLD THE
DISTRESSED DUENNA’S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

CHAPTER XXXIX IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER
MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY

CHAPTER XL
OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS MEMORABLE
HISTORY

CHAPTER XLI OF THE ARRIVAL OF
CLAVILEÑO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE

CHAPTER XLII OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE
SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS

CHAPTER XLIII OF
THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA

CHAPTER XLIV HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS
GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE
CASTLE

CHAPTER XLV OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO
PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN
GOVERNING

CHAPTER XLVI OF THE TERRIBLE BELL
AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED
ALTISIDORA’S WOOING

CHAPTER XLVII
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN
HIS GOVERNMENT

CHAPTER XLVIII OF WHAT
BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS’S DUENNA,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE

CHAPTER XLIX OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN
MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND

CHAPTER L
WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED
THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO
CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA’S WIFE

CHAPTER LI OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO’S GOVERNMENT,
AND OTHER SUCH ENTERTAINING MATTERS

CHAPTER LII
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED
DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DONA RODRIGUEZ

CHAPTER
LIII OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA’S
GOVERNMENT CAME TO

CHAPTER LIV WHICH DEALS
WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER

CHAPTER LV OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER
THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED

CHAPTER LVI
OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON
QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER OF
DONA RODRIGUEZ

CHAPTER LVII WHICH TREATS OF
HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE
WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S DAMSELS

CHAPTER LVIII WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING
ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO
BREATHING-TIME

CHAPTER LIX WHEREIN IS
RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT
HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE

CHAPTER LX OF WHAT
HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA

CHAPTER
LXI OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS

CHAPTER LXII WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE
ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT
UNTOLD

CHAPTER LXIII OF THE MISHAP THAT
BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO

CHAPTER LXIV
TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL
THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM

CHAPTER LXV
WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON
GREGORIO’S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS

CHAPTER
LXVI WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT
READ TO HIM WILL HEAR

CHAPTER LXVII OF THE
RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE IN THE
FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING ITS
COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY

CHAPTER LXVIII OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE

CHAPTER LXIX OF THE STRANGEST AND
MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE
OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

CHAPTER LXX WHICH
FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR
COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

CHAPTER LXXI
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO
THEIR VILLAGE

CHAPTER LXXII OF HOW DON
QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE

CHAPTER
LXXIII OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND
OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY

CHAPTER LXXIV OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK,
AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED

DON QUIXOTE

Volume II.

DEDICATION OF VOLUME II.

TO THE COUNT OF LEMOS:

These days past, when sending Your Excellency my plays, that had appeared
in print before being shown on the stage, I said, if I remember well, that
Don Quixote was putting on his spurs to go and render homage to Your
Excellency. Now I say that “with his spurs, he is on his way.”
Should he reach destination methinks I shall have rendered some service to
Your Excellency, as from many parts I am urged to send him off, so as to
dispel the loathing and disgust caused by another Don Quixote who, under
the name of Second Part, has run masquerading through the whole world. And
he who has shown the greatest longing for him has been the great Emperor
of China, who wrote me a letter in Chinese a month ago and sent it by a
special courier. He asked me, or to be truthful, he begged me to send him
Don Quixote, for he intended to found a college where the Spanish tongue
would be taught, and it was his wish that the book to be read should be
the History of Don Quixote. He also added that I should go and be the
rector of this college. I asked the bearer if His Majesty had afforded a
sum in aid of my travel expenses. He answered, “No, not even in
thought.”

“Then, brother,” I replied, “you can return to your
China, post haste or at whatever haste you are bound to go, as I am not
fit for so long a travel and, besides being ill, I am very much without
money, while Emperor for Emperor and Monarch for Monarch, I have at Naples
the great Count of Lemos, who, without so many petty titles of colleges
and rectorships, sustains me, protects me and does me more favour than I
can wish for.”

Thus I gave him his leave and I beg mine from you, offering Your
Excellency the “Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda,” a book I
shall finish within four months, Deo volente, and which will be either the
worst or the best that has been composed in our language, I mean of those
intended for entertainment; at which I repent of having called it the
worst, for, in the opinion of friends, it is bound to attain the summit of
possible quality. May Your Excellency return in such health that is wished
you; Persiles will be ready to kiss your hand and I your feet, being as I
am, Your Excellency’s most humble servant.

From Madrid, this last day of October of the year one thousand six hundred
and fifteen.

At the service of Your Excellency:

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE

God bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly must thou
be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find there retaliation,
scolding, and abuse against the author of the second Don Quixote—I
mean him who was, they say, begotten at Tordesillas and born at Tarragona!
Well then, the truth is, I am not going to give thee that satisfaction;
for, though injuries stir up anger in humbler breasts, in mine the rule
must admit of an exception. Thou wouldst have me call him ass, fool, and
malapert, but I have no such intention; let his offence be his punishment,
with his bread let him eat it, and there’s an end of it. What I
cannot help taking amiss is that he charges me with being old and
one-handed, as if it had been in my power to keep time from passing over
me, or as if the loss of my hand had been brought about in some tavern,
and not on the grandest occasion the past or present has seen, or the
future can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder’s
eye, they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of those who know
where they were received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage dead
in battle than alive in flight; and so strongly is this my feeling, that
if now it were proposed to perform an impossibility for me, I would rather
have had my share in that mighty action, than be free from my wounds this
minute without having been present at it. Those the soldier shows on his
face and breast are stars that direct others to the heaven of honour and
ambition of merited praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is
not with grey hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that
commonly improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me
envious, and explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for
really and truly, of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is
holy, noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely
to attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of
familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account of him
on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for I worship
the genius of that person, and admire his works and his unceasing and
strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful to this gentleman, the
author, for saying that my novels are more satirical than exemplary, but
that they are good; for they could not be that unless there was a little
of everything in them.

I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and keeping
myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a feeling that
additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a sufferer, and that
what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be very great, as he does
not dare to come out into the open field and broad daylight, but hides his
name and disguises his country as if he had been guilty of some lese
majesty. If perchance thou shouldst come to know him, tell him from me
that I do not hold myself aggrieved; for I know well what the temptations
of the devil are, and that one of the greatest is putting it into a man’s
head that he can write and print a book by which he will get as much fame
as money, and as much money as fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in
your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story.

There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest absurdities
and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It was this: he
made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a dog in the street, or
wherever it might be, he with his foot held one of its legs fast, and with
his hand lifted up the other, and as best he could fixed the tube where,
by blowing, he made the dog as round as a ball; then holding it in this
position, he gave it a couple of slaps on the belly, and let it go, saying
to the bystanders (and there were always plenty of them): “Do your
worships think, now, that it is an easy thing to blow up a dog?”—Does
your worship think now, that it is an easy thing to write a book?

And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell him this
one, which is likewise of a madman and a dog.

In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a piece of
marble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and when he came
upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and let the weight fall
right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage, barking and howling,
would run three streets without stopping. It so happened, however, that
one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was a cap-maker’s dog,
of which his master was very fond. The stone came down hitting it on the
head, the dog raised a yell at the blow, the master saw the affair and was
wroth, and snatching up a measuring-yard rushed out at the madman and did
not leave a sound bone in his body, and at every stroke he gave him he
said, “You dog, you thief! my lurcher! Don’t you see, you
brute, that my dog is a lurcher?” and so, repeating the word “lurcher”
again and again, he sent the madman away beaten to a jelly. The madman
took the lesson to heart, and vanished, and for more than a month never
once showed himself in public; but after that he came out again with his
old trick and a heavier load than ever. He came up to where there was a
dog, and examining it very carefully without venturing to let the stone
fall, he said: “This is a lurcher; ware!” In short, all the
dogs he came across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he said were lurchers;
and he discharged no more stones. Maybe it will be the same with this
historian; that he will not venture another time to discharge the weight
of his wit in books, which, being bad, are harder than stones. Tell him,
too, that I do not care a farthing for the threat he holds out to me of
depriving me of my profit by means of his book; for, to borrow from the
famous interlude of “The Perendenga,” I say in answer to him,
“Long life to my lord the Veintiquatro, and Christ be with us all.”
Long life to the great Conde de Lemos, whose Christian charity and
well-known generosity support me against all the strokes of my curst
fortune; and long life to the supreme benevolence of His Eminence of
Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; and what matter if there be no
printing-presses in the world, or if they print more books against me than
there are letters in the verses of Mingo Revulgo! These two princes,
unsought by any adulation or flattery of mine, of their own goodness
alone, have taken it upon them to show me kindness and protect me, and in
this I consider myself happier and richer than if Fortune had raised me to
her greatest height in the ordinary way. The poor man may retain honour,
but not the vicious; poverty may cast a cloud over nobility, but cannot
hide it altogether; and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even
though it be through the straits and chinks of penury, it wins the esteem
of lofty and noble spirits, and in consequence their protection. Thou
needst say no more to him, nor will I say anything more to thee, save to
tell thee to bear in mind that this Second Part of “Don Quixote”
which I offer thee is cut by the same craftsman and from the same cloth as
the First, and that in it I present thee Don Quixote continued, and at
length dead and buried, so that no one may dare to bring forward any
further evidence against him, for that already produced is sufficient; and
suffice it, too, that some reputable person should have given an account
of all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the matter again;
for abundance, even of good things, prevents them from being valued; and
scarcity, even in the case of what is bad, confers a certain value. I was
forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect the “Persiles,”
which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part of “Galatea.”

CHAPTER I.

OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS
MALADY

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 any one 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 some one, 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.

CHAPTER II.

WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH DON
QUIXOTE’S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS

The history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, and the
barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to Sancho,
who was striving to force his way in to see Don Quixote while they held
the door against him, “What does the vagabond want in this house? Be
off to your own, brother, for it is you, and no one else, that delude my
master, and lead him astray, and take him tramping about the country.”

To which Sancho replied, “Devil’s own housekeeper! it is I who
am deluded, and led astray, and taken tramping about the country, and not
thy master! He has carried me all over the world, and you are mightily
mistaken. He enticed me away from home by a trick, promising me an island,
which I am still waiting for.”

“May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho,” said
the niece; “What are islands? Is it something to eat, glutton and
gormandiser that thou art?”

“It is not something to eat,” replied Sancho, “but
something to govern and rule, and better than four cities or four
judgeships at court.”

“For all that,” said the housekeeper, “you don’t
enter here, you bag of mischief and sack of knavery; go govern your house
and dig your seed-patch, and give over looking for islands or shylands.”

The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to the words of
the three; but Don Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho should blab and blurt out a
whole heap of mischievous stupidities, and touch upon points that might
not be altogether to his credit, called to him and made the other two hold
their tongues and let him come in. Sancho entered, and the curate and the
barber took their leave of Don Quixote, of whose recovery they despaired
when they saw how wedded he was to his crazy ideas, and how saturated with
the nonsense of his unlucky chivalry; and said the curate to the barber,
“You will see, gossip, that when we are least thinking of it, our
gentleman will be off once more for another flight.”

“I have no doubt of it,” returned the barber; “but I do
not wonder so much at the madness of the knight as at the simplicity of
the squire, who has such a firm belief in all that about the island, that
I suppose all the exposures that could be imagined would not get it out of
his head.”

“God help them,” said the curate; “and let us be on the
look-out to see what comes of all these absurdities of the knight and
squire, for it seems as if they had both been cast in the same mould, and
the madness of the master without the simplicity of the man would not be
worth a farthing.”

“That is true,” said the barber, “and I should like very
much to know what the pair are talking about at this moment.”

“I promise you,” said the curate, “the niece or the
housekeeper will tell us by-and-by, for they are not the ones to forget to
listen.”

Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with Sancho, and when
they were alone he said to him, “It grieves me greatly, Sancho, that
thou shouldst have said, and sayest, that I took thee out of thy cottage,
when thou knowest I did not remain in my house. We sallied forth together,
we took the road together, we wandered abroad together; we have had the
same fortune and the same luck; if they blanketed thee once, they
belaboured me a hundred times, and that is the only advantage I have of
thee.”

“That was only reasonable,” replied Sancho, “for, by
what your worship says, misfortunes belong more properly to knights-errant
than to their squires.”

“Thou art mistaken, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “according
to the maxim quando caput dolet, etc.”

“I don’t understand any language but my own,” said
Sancho.

“I mean to say,” said Don Quixote, “that when the head
suffers all the members suffer; and so, being thy lord and master, I am
thy head, and thou a part of me as thou art my servant; and therefore any
evil that affects or shall affect me should give thee pain, and what
affects thee give pain to me.”

“It should be so,” said Sancho; “but when I was
blanketed as a member, my head was on the other side of the wall, looking
on while I was flying through the air, and did not feel any pain whatever;
and if the members are obliged to feel the suffering of the head, it
should be obliged to feel their sufferings.”

“Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that
I did not feel when they were blanketing thee? If thou dost, thou must not
say so or think so, for I felt more pain then in spirit than thou didst in
body. But let us put that aside for the present, for we shall have
opportunities enough for considering and settling the point; tell me,
Sancho my friend, what do they say about me in the village here? What do
the common people think of me? What do the hidalgos? What do the
caballeros? What do they say of my valour; of my achievements; of my
courtesy? How do they treat the task I have undertaken in reviving and
restoring to the world the now forgotten order of chivalry? In short,
Sancho, I would have thee tell me all that has come to thine ears on this
subject; and thou art to tell me, without adding anything to the good or
taking away anything from the bad; for it is the duty of loyal vassals to
tell the truth to their lords just as it is and in its proper shape, not
allowing flattery to add to it or any idle deference to lessen it. And I
would have thee know, Sancho, that if the naked truth, undisguised by
flattery, came to the ears of princes, times would be different, and other
ages would be reckoned iron ages more than ours, which I hold to be the
golden of these latter days. Profit by this advice, Sancho, and report to
me clearly and faithfully the truth of what thou knowest touching what I
have demanded of thee.”

“That I will do with all my heart, master,” replied Sancho,
“provided your worship will not be vexed at what I say, as you wish
me to say it out in all its nakedness, without putting any more clothes on
it than it came to my knowledge in.”

“I will not be vexed at all,” returned Don Quixote; “thou
mayest speak freely, Sancho, and without any beating about the bush.”

“Well then,” said he, “first of all, I have to tell you
that the common people consider your worship a mighty great madman, and me
no less a fool. The hidalgos say that, not keeping within the bounds of
your quality of gentleman, you have assumed the ‘Don,’ and
made a knight of yourself at a jump, with four vine-stocks and a couple of
acres of land, and never a shirt to your back. The caballeros say they do
not want to have hidalgos setting up in opposition to them, particularly
squire hidalgos who polish their own shoes and darn their black stockings
with green silk.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “does not apply to me, for I
always go well dressed and never patched; ragged I may be, but ragged more
from the wear and tear of arms than of time.”

“As to your worship’s valour, courtesy, accomplishments, and
task, there is a variety of opinions. Some say, ‘mad but droll;’
others, ‘valiant but unlucky;’ others, ‘courteous but
meddling,’ and then they go into such a number of things that they
don’t leave a whole bone either in your worship or in myself.”

“Recollect, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that wherever
virtue exists in an eminent degree it is persecuted. Few or none of the
famous men that have lived escaped being calumniated by malice. Julius
Caesar, the boldest, wisest, and bravest of captains, was charged with
being ambitious, and not particularly cleanly in his dress, or pure in his
morals. Of Alexander, whose deeds won him the name of Great, they say that
he was somewhat of a drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the many labours, it is
said that he was lewd and luxurious. Of Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis
of Gaul, it was whispered that he was over-quarrelsome, and of his brother
that he was lachrymose. So that, O Sancho, amongst all these calumnies
against good men, mine may be let pass, since they are no more than thou
hast said.”

“That’s just where it is, body of my father!”

“Is there more, then?” asked Don Quixote.

“There’s the tail to be skinned yet,” said Sancho;
“all so far is cakes and fancy bread; but if your worship wants to
know all about the calumnies they bring against you, I will fetch you one
this instant who can tell you the whole of them without missing an atom;
for last night the son of Bartholomew Carrasco, who has been studying at
Salamanca, came home after having been made a bachelor, and when I went to
welcome him, he told me that your worship’s history is already
abroad in books, with the title of THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF
LA MANCHA; and he says they mention me in it by my own name of Sancho
Panza, and the lady Dulcinea del Toboso too, and divers things that
happened to us when we were alone; so that I crossed myself in my wonder
how the historian who wrote them down could have known them.”

“I promise thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “the author
of our history will be some sage enchanter; for to such nothing that they
choose to write about is hidden.”

“What!” said Sancho, “a sage and an enchanter! Why, the
bachelor Samson Carrasco (that is the name of him I spoke of) says the
author of the history is called Cide Hamete Berengena.”

“That is a Moorish name,” said Don Quixote.

“May be so,” replied Sancho; “for I have heard say that
the Moors are mostly great lovers of berengenas.”

“Thou must have mistaken the surname of this ‘Cide’—which
means in Arabic ‘Lord’—Sancho,” observed Don
Quixote.

“Very likely,” replied Sancho, “but if your worship
wishes me to fetch the bachelor I will go for him in a twinkling.”

“Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend,” said Don
Quixote, “for what thou hast told me has amazed me, and I shall not
eat a morsel that will agree with me until I have heard all about it.”

“Then I am off for him,” said Sancho; and leaving his master
he went in quest of the bachelor, with whom he returned in a short time,
and, all three together, they had a very droll colloquy.

CHAPTER III.

OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO
PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO

Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for the bachelor
Carrasco, from whom he was to hear how he himself had been put into a book
as Sancho said; and he could not persuade himself that any such history
could be in existence, for the blood of the enemies he had slain was not
yet dry on the blade of his sword, and now they wanted to make out that
his mighty achievements were going about in print. For all that, he
fancied some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, by the aid of
magic, have given them to the press; if a friend, in order to magnify and
exalt them above the most famous ever achieved by any knight-errant; if an
enemy, to bring them to naught and degrade them below the meanest ever
recorded of any low squire, though as he said to himself, the achievements
of squires never were recorded. If, however, it were the fact that such a
history were in existence, it must necessarily, being the story of a
knight-errant, be grandiloquent, lofty, imposing, grand and true. With
this he comforted himself somewhat, though it made him uncomfortable to
think that the author was a Moor, judging by the title of “Cide;”
and that no truth was to be looked for from Moors, as they are all
impostors, cheats, and schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt with
his love affairs in some indecorous fashion, that might tend to the
discredit and prejudice of the purity of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he
would have had him set forth the fidelity and respect he had always
observed towards her, spurning queens, empresses, and damsels of all
sorts, and keeping in check the impetuosity of his natural impulses.
Absorbed and wrapped up in these and divers other cogitations, he was
found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom Don Quixote received with great
courtesy.

The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great bodily size,
but he was a very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion, but very
sharp-witted, somewhere about four-and-twenty years of age, with a round
face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, all indications of a mischievous
disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of this he gave a sample as
soon as he saw Don Quixote, by falling on his knees before him and saying,
“Let me kiss your mightiness’s hand, Señor Don Quixote of La
Mancha, for, by the habit of St. Peter that I wear, though I have no more
than the first four orders, your worship is one of the most famous
knights-errant that have ever been, or will be, all the world over. A
blessing on Cide Hamete Benengeli, who has written the history of your
great deeds, and a double blessing on that connoisseur who took the
trouble of having it translated out of the Arabic into our Castilian
vulgar tongue for the universal entertainment of the people!”

Don Quixote made him rise, and said, “So, then, it is true that
there is a history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage who wrote it?”

“So true is it, señor,” said Samson, “that my belief is
there are more than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in print
this very day. Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have
been printed, and moreover there is a report that it is being printed at
Antwerp, and I am persuaded there will not be a country or language in
which there will not be a translation of it.”

“One of the things,” here observed Don Quixote, “that
ought to give most pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is to find
himself in his lifetime in print and in type, familiar in people’s
mouths with a good name; I say with a good name, for if it be the
opposite, then there is no death to be compared to it.”

“If it goes by good name and fame,” said the bachelor, “your
worship alone bears away the palm from all the knights-errant; for the
Moor in his own language, and the Christian in his, have taken care to set
before us your gallantry, your high courage in encountering dangers, your
fortitude in adversity, your patience under misfortunes as well as wounds,
the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your worship and my
lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso-”

“I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Dona,” observed Sancho
here; “nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here
already the history is wrong.”

“That is not an objection of any importance,” replied
Carrasco.

“Certainly not,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me, señor
bachelor, what deeds of mine are they that are made most of in this
history?”

“On that point,” replied the bachelor, “opinions differ,
as tastes do; some swear by the adventure of the windmills that your
worship took to be Briareuses and giants; others by that of the fulling
mills; one cries up the description of the two armies that afterwards took
the appearance of two droves of sheep; another that of the dead body on
its way to be buried at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the galley
slaves is the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up to the
affair with the Benedictine giants, and the battle with the valiant
Biscayan.”

“Tell me, señor bachelor,” said Sancho at this point, “does
the adventure with the Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went
hankering after dainties?”

“The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle,” replied Samson;
“he tells all and sets down everything, even to the capers that
worthy Sancho cut in the blanket.”

“I cut no capers in the blanket,” returned Sancho; “in
the air I did, and more of them than I liked.”

“There is no human history in the world, I suppose,” said Don
Quixote, “that has not its ups and downs, but more than others such
as deal with chivalry, for they can never be entirely made up of
prosperous adventures.”

“For all that,” replied the bachelor, “there are those
who have read the history who say they would have been glad if the author
had left out some of the countless cudgellings that were inflicted on
Señor Don Quixote in various encounters.”

“That’s where the truth of the history comes in,” said
Sancho.

“At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in
silence,” observed Don Quixote; “for there is no need of
recording events which do not change or affect the truth of a history, if
they tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. Æneas was not in truth
and earnest so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise as
Homer describes him.”

“That is true,” said Samson; “but it is one thing to
write as a poet, another to write as a historian; the poet may describe or
sing things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; but the
historian has to write them down, not as they ought to have been, but as
they were, without adding anything to the truth or taking anything from
it.”

“Well then,” said Sancho, “if this señor Moor goes in
for telling the truth, no doubt among my master’s drubbings mine are
to be found; for they never took the measure of his worship’s
shoulders without doing the same for my whole body; but I have no right to
wonder at that, for, as my master himself says, the members must share the
pain of the head.”

“You are a sly dog, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “i’
faith, you have no want of memory when you choose to remember.”

“If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me,” said
Sancho, “my weals would not let me, for they are still fresh on my
ribs.”

“Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and don’t
interrupt the bachelor, whom I entreat to go on and tell all that is said
about me in this history.”

“And about me,” said Sancho, “for they say, too, that I
am one of the principal presonages in it.”

“Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho,” said Samson.

“What! Another word-catcher!” said Sancho; “if that’s
to be the way we shall not make an end in a lifetime.”

“May God shorten mine, Sancho,” returned the bachelor, “if
you are not the second person in the history, and there are even some who
would rather hear you talk than the cleverest in the whole book; though
there are some, too, who say you showed yourself over-credulous in
believing there was any possibility in the government of that island
offered you by Señor Don Quixote.”

“There is still sunshine on the wall,” said Don Quixote;
“and when Sancho is somewhat more advanced in life, with the
experience that years bring, he will be fitter and better qualified for
being a governor than he is at present.”

“By God, master,” said Sancho, “the island that I cannot
govern with the years I have, I’ll not be able to govern with the
years of Methuselah; the difficulty is that the said island keeps its
distance somewhere, I know not where; and not that there is any want of
head in me to govern it.”

“Leave it to God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for all
will be and perhaps better than you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but
by God’s will.”

“That is true,” said Samson; “and if it be God’s
will, there will not be any want of a thousand islands, much less one, for
Sancho to govern.”

“I have seen governors in these parts,” said Sancho, “that
are not to be compared to my shoe-sole; and for all that they are called
‘your lordship’ and served on silver.”

“Those are not governors of islands,” observed Samson, “but
of other governments of an easier kind: those that govern islands must at
least know grammar.”

“I could manage the gram well enough,” said Sancho; “but
for the mar I have neither leaning nor liking, for I don’t know what
it is; but leaving this matter of the government in God’s hands, to
send me wherever it may be most to his service, I may tell you, señor
bachelor Samson Carrasco, it has pleased me beyond measure that the author
of this history should have spoken of me in such a way that what is said
of me gives no offence; for, on the faith of a true squire, if he had said
anything about me that was at all unbecoming an old Christian, such as I
am, the deaf would have heard of it.”

“That would be working miracles,” said Samson.

“Miracles or no miracles,” said Sancho, “let everyone
mind how he speaks or writes about people, and not set down at random the
first thing that comes into his head.”

“One of the faults they find with this history,” said the
bachelor, “is that its author inserted in it a novel called ‘The
Ill-advised Curiosity;’ not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it
is out of place and has nothing to do with the history of his worship
Señor Don Quixote.”

“I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the baskets,”
said Sancho.

“Then, I say,” said Don Quixote, “the author of my
history was no sage, but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard and
heedless way, set about writing it, let it turn out as it might, just as
Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, used to do, who, when they asked him what
he was painting, answered, ‘What it may turn out.’ Sometimes
he would paint a cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to
write alongside of it in Gothic letters, ‘This is a cock;’
and so it will be with my history, which will require a commentary to
make it intelligible.”

“No fear of that,” returned Samson, “for it is so plain
that there is nothing in it to puzzle over; the children turn its leaves,
the young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise
it; in a word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by heart by people of
all sorts, that the instant they see any lean hack, they say, ‘There
goes Rocinante.’ And those that are most given to reading it are the
pages, for there is not a lord’s ante-chamber where there is not a
‘Don Quixote’ to be found; one takes it up if another lays it
down; this one pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In short, the said
history is the most delightful and least injurious entertainment that has
been hitherto seen, for there is not to be found in the whole of it even
the semblance of an immodest word, or a thought that is other than
Catholic.”

“To write in any other way,” said Don Quixote, “would
not be to write truth, but falsehood, and historians who have recourse to
falsehood ought to be burned, like those who coin false money; and I know
not what could have led the author to have recourse to novels and
irrelevant stories, when he had so much to write about in mine; no doubt
he must have gone by the proverb ‘with straw or with hay,
&c.,’ for by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my
tears, my lofty purposes, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as
large, or larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up. In fact,
the conclusion I arrive at, señor bachelor, is, that to write histories,
or books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a ripe
understanding. To give expression to humour, and write in a strain of
graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The cleverest
character in comedy is the clown, for he who would make people take him
for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a sacred thing, for
it should be true, and where the truth is, there God is; but
notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books broadcast
on the world as if they were fritters.”

“There is no book so bad but it has something good in it,”
said the bachelor.

“No doubt of that,” replied Don Quixote; “but it often
happens that those who have acquired and attained a well-deserved
reputation by their writings, lose it entirely, or damage it in some
degree, when they give them to the press.”

“The reason of that,” said Samson, “is, that as printed
works are examined leisurely, their faults are easily seen; and the
greater the fame of the writer, the more closely are they scrutinised. Men
famous for their genius, great poets, illustrious historians, are always,
or most commonly, envied by those who take a particular delight and
pleasure in criticising the writings of others, without having produced
any of their own.”

“That is no wonder,” said Don Quixote; “for there are
many divines who are no good for the pulpit, but excellent in detecting
the defects or excesses of those who preach.”

“All that is true, Señor Don Quixote,” said Carrasco; “but
I wish such fault-finders were more lenient and less exacting, and did not
pay so much attention to the spots on the bright sun of the work they
grumble at; for if aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus, they should remember
how long he remained awake to shed the light of his work with as little
shade as possible; and perhaps it may be that what they find fault with
may be moles, that sometimes heighten the beauty of the face that bears
them; and so I say very great is the risk to which he who prints a book
exposes himself, for of all impossibilities the greatest is to write one
that will satisfy and please all readers.”

“That which treats of me must have pleased few,” said Don
Quixote.

“Quite the contrary,” said the bachelor; “for, as
stultorum infinitum est numerus, innumerable are those who have relished
the said history; but some have brought a charge against the author’s
memory, inasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief was who stole Sancho’s
Dapple; for it is not stated there, but only to be inferred from what is
set down, that he was stolen, and a little farther on we see Sancho
mounted on the same ass, without any reappearance of it. They say, too,
that he forgot to state what Sancho did with those hundred crowns that he
found in the valise in the Sierra Morena, as he never alludes to them
again, and there are many who would be glad to know what he did with them,
or what he spent them on, for it is one of the serious omissions of the
work.”

“Señor Samson, I am not in a humour now for going into accounts or
explanations,” said Sancho; “for there’s a sinking of
the stomach come over me, and unless I doctor it with a couple of sups of
the old stuff it will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. I have it at
home, and my old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I’ll come
back, and will answer you and all the world every question you may choose
to ask, as well about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the
hundred crowns;” and without another word or waiting for a reply he
made off home.

Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance with
him. The bachelor accepted the invitation and remained, a couple of young
pigeons were added to the ordinary fare, at dinner they talked chivalry,
Carrasco fell in with his host’s humour, the banquet came to an end,
they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho returned, and their conversation
was resumed.

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND
QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING

Sancho came back to Don Quixote’s house, and returning to the late
subject of conversation, he said, “As to what Señor Samson said,
that he would like to know by whom, or how, or when my ass was stolen, I
say in reply that the same night we went into the Sierra Morena, flying
from the Holy Brotherhood after that unlucky adventure of the galley
slaves, and the other of the corpse that was going to Segovia, my master
and I ensconced ourselves in a thicket, and there, my master leaning on
his lance, and I seated on my Dapple, battered and weary with the late
frays we fell asleep as if it had been on four feather mattresses; and I
in particular slept so sound, that, whoever he was, he was able to come
and prop me up on four stakes, which he put under the four corners of the
pack-saddle in such a way that he left me mounted on it, and took away
Dapple from under me without my feeling it.”

“That is an easy matter,” said Don Quixote, “and it is
no new occurrence, for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege
of Albracca; the famous thief, Brunello, by the same contrivance, took his
horse from between his legs.”

“Day came,” continued Sancho, “and the moment I stirred
the stakes gave way and I fell to the ground with a mighty come down; I
looked about for the ass, but could not see him; the tears rushed to my
eyes and I raised such a lamentation that, if the author of our history
has not put it in, he may depend upon it he has left out a good thing.
Some days after, I know not how many, travelling with her ladyship the
Princess Micomicona, I saw my ass, and mounted upon him, in the dress of a
gipsy, was that Gines de Pasamonte, the great rogue and rascal that my
master and I freed from the chain.”

“That is not where the mistake is,” replied Samson; “it
is, that before the ass has turned up, the author speaks of Sancho as
being mounted on it.”

“I don’t know what to say to that,” said Sancho, “unless
that the historian made a mistake, or perhaps it might be a blunder of the
printer’s.”

“No doubt that’s it,” said Samson; “but what
became of the hundred crowns? Did they vanish?”

To which Sancho answered, “I spent them for my own good, and my wife’s,
and my children’s, and it is they that have made my wife bear so
patiently all my wanderings on highways and byways, in the service of my
master, Don Quixote; for if after all this time I had come back to the
house without a rap and without the ass, it would have been a poor
look-out for me; and if anyone wants to know anything more about me, here
I am, ready to answer the king himself in person; and it is no affair of
anyone’s whether I took or did not take, whether I spent or did not
spend; for the whacks that were given me in these journeys were to be paid
for in money, even if they were valued at no more than four maravedis
apiece, another hundred crowns would not pay me for half of them. Let each
look to himself and not try to make out white black, and black white; for
each of us is as God made him, aye, and often worse.”

“I will take care,” said Carrasco, “to impress upon the
author of the history that, if he prints it again, he must not forget what
worthy Sancho has said, for it will raise it a good span higher.”

“Is there anything else to correct in the history, señor bachelor?”
asked Don Quixote.

“No doubt there is,” replied he; “but not anything that
will be of the same importance as those I have mentioned.”

“Does the author promise a second part at all?” said Don
Quixote.

“He does promise one,” replied Samson; “but he says he
has not found it, nor does he know who has got it; and we cannot say
whether it will appear or not; and so, on that head, as some say that no
second part has ever been good, and others that enough has been already
written about Don Quixote, it is thought there will be no second part;
though some, who are jovial rather than saturnine, say, ‘Let us have
more Quixotades, let Don Quixote charge and Sancho chatter, and no matter
what it may turn out, we shall be satisfied with that.’”

“And what does the author mean to do?” said Don Quixote.

“What?” replied Samson; “why, as soon as he has found
the history which he is now searching for with extraordinary diligence, he
will at once give it to the press, moved more by the profit that may
accrue to him from doing so than by any thought of praise.”

Whereat Sancho observed, “The author looks for money and profit,
does he? It will be a wonder if he succeeds, for it will be only hurry,
hurry, with him, like the tailor on Easter Eve; and works done in a hurry
are never finished as perfectly as they ought to be. Let master Moor, or
whatever he is, pay attention to what he is doing, and I and my master
will give him as much grouting ready to his hand, in the way of adventures
and accidents of all sorts, as would make up not only one second part, but
a hundred. The good man fancies, no doubt, that we are fast asleep in the
straw here, but let him hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which
foot it is we go lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my
advice, we would be now afield, redressing outrages and righting wrongs,
as is the use and custom of good knights-errant.”

Sancho had hardly uttered these words when the neighing of Rocinante fell
upon their ears, which neighing Don Quixote accepted as a happy omen, and
he resolved to make another sally in three or four days from that time.
Announcing his intention to the bachelor, he asked his advice as to the
quarter in which he ought to commence his expedition, and the bachelor
replied that in his opinion he ought to go to the kingdom of Aragon, and
the city of Saragossa, where there were to be certain solemn joustings at
the festival of St. George, at which he might win renown above all the
knights of Aragon, which would be winning it above all the knights of the
world. He commended his very praiseworthy and gallant resolution, but
admonished him to proceed with greater caution in encountering dangers,
because his life did not belong to him, but to all those who had need of
him to protect and aid them in their misfortunes.

“There’s where it is, what I abominate, Señor Samson,”
said Sancho here; “my master will attack a hundred armed men as a
greedy boy would half a dozen melons. Body of the world, señor bachelor!
there is a time to attack and a time to retreat, and it is not to be
always ‘Santiago, and close Spain!’ Moreover, I have heard it
said (and I think by my master himself, if I remember rightly) that the
mean of valour lies between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; and if
that be so, I don’t want him to fly without having good reason, or
to attack when the odds make it better not. But, above all things, I warn
my master that if he is to take me with him it must be on the condition
that he is to do all the fighting, and that I am not to be called upon to
do anything except what concerns keeping him clean and comfortable; in
this I will dance attendance on him readily; but to expect me to draw
sword, even against rascally churls of the hatchet and hood, is idle. I
don’t set up to be a fighting man, Señor Samson, but only the best
and most loyal squire that ever served knight-errant; and if my master Don
Quixote, in consideration of my many faithful services, is pleased to give
me some island of the many his worship says one may stumble on in these
parts, I will take it as a great favour; and if he does not give it to me,
I was born like everyone else, and a man must not live in dependence on
anyone except God; and what is more, my bread will taste as well, and
perhaps even better, without a government than if I were a governor; and
how do I know but that in these governments the devil may have prepared
some trip for me, to make me lose my footing and fall and knock my
grinders out? Sancho I was born and Sancho I mean to die. But for all
that, if heaven were to make me a fair offer of an island or something
else of the kind, without much trouble and without much risk, I am not
such a fool as to refuse it; for they say, too, ‘when they offer
thee a heifer, run with a halter; and ‘when good luck comes to thee,
take it in.’”

“Brother Sancho,” said Carrasco, “you have spoken like a
professor; but, for all that, put your trust in God and in Señor Don
Quixote, for he will give you a kingdom, not to say an island.”

“It is all the same, be it more or be it less,” replied
Sancho; “though I can tell Señor Carrasco that my master would not
throw the kingdom he might give me into a sack all in holes; for I have
felt my own pulse and I find myself sound enough to rule kingdoms and
govern islands; and I have before now told my master as much.”

“Take care, Sancho,” said Samson; “honours change
manners, and perhaps when you find yourself a governor you won’t
know the mother that bore you.”

“That may hold good of those that are born in the ditches,”
said Sancho, “not of those who have the fat of an old Christian four
fingers deep on their souls, as I have. Nay, only look at my disposition,
is that likely to show ingratitude to anyone?”

“God grant it,” said Don Quixote; “we shall see when the
government comes; and I seem to see it already.”

He then begged the bachelor, if he were a poet, to do him the favour of
composing some verses for him conveying the farewell he meant to take of
his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and to see that a letter of her name was
placed at the beginning of each line, so that, at the end of the verses,
“Dulcinea del Toboso” might be read by putting together the
first letters. The bachelor replied that although he was not one of the
famous poets of Spain, who were, they said, only three and a half, he
would not fail to compose the required verses; though he saw a great
difficulty in the task, as the letters which made up the name were
seventeen; so, if he made four ballad stanzas of four lines each, there
would be a letter over, and if he made them of five, what they called
decimas or redondillas, there were three letters short; nevertheless he
would try to drop a letter as well as he could, so that the name “Dulcinea
del Toboso” might be got into four ballad stanzas.

“It must be, by some means or other,” said Don Quixote,
“for unless the name stands there plain and manifest, no woman would
believe the verses were made for her.”

They agreed upon this, and that the departure should take place in three
days from that time. Don Quixote charged the bachelor to keep it a secret,
especially from the curate and Master Nicholas, and from his niece and the
housekeeper, lest they should prevent the execution of his praiseworthy
and valiant purpose. Carrasco promised all, and then took his leave,
charging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or evil fortunes whenever
he had an opportunity; and thus they bade each other farewell, and Sancho
went away to make the necessary preparations for their expedition.

CHAPTER V.

OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND
HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED

The translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth chapter,
says that he considers it apocryphal, because in it Sancho Panza speaks in
a style unlike that which might have been expected from his limited
intelligence, and says things so subtle that he does not think it possible
he could have conceived them; however, desirous of doing what his task
imposed upon him, he was unwilling to leave it untranslated, and therefore
he went on to say:

Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed his
happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him, “What
have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?”

To which he replied, “Wife, if it were God’s will, I should be
very glad not to be so well pleased as I show myself.”

“I don’t understand you, husband,” said she, “and
I don’t know what you mean by saying you would be glad, if it were
God’s will, not to be well pleased; for, fool as I am, I don’t
know how one can find pleasure in not having it.”

“Hark ye, Teresa,” replied Sancho, “I am glad because I
have made up my mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote,
who means to go out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going
with him again, for my necessities will have it so, and also the hope that
cheers me with the thought that I may find another hundred crowns like
those we have spent; though it makes me sad to have to leave thee and the
children; and if God would be pleased to let me have my daily bread,
dry-shod and at home, without taking me out into the byways and
cross-roads—and he could do it at small cost by merely willing it—it
is clear my happiness would be more solid and lasting, for the happiness I
have is mingled with sorrow at leaving thee; so that I was right in saying
I would be glad, if it were God’s will, not to be well pleased.”

“Look here, Sancho,” said Teresa; “ever since you joined
on to a knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no
understanding you.”

“It is enough that God understands me, wife,” replied Sancho;
“for he is the understander of all things; that will do; but mind,
sister, you must look to Dapple carefully for the next three days, so that
he may be fit to take arms; double his feed, and see to the pack-saddle
and other harness, for it is not to a wedding we are bound, but to go
round the world, and play at give and take with giants and dragons and
monsters, and hear hissings and roarings and bellowings and howlings; and
even all this would be lavender, if we had not to reckon with Yanguesans
and enchanted Moors.”

“I know well enough, husband,” said Teresa, “that
squires-errant don’t eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be
always praying to our Lord to deliver you speedily from all that hard
fortune.”

“I can tell you, wife,” said Sancho, “if I did not
expect to see myself governor of an island before long, I would drop down
dead on the spot.”

“Nay, then, husband,” said Teresa; “let the hen live,
though it be with her pip, live, and let the devil take all the
governments in the world; you came out of your mother’s womb without
a government, you have lived until now without a government, and when it
is God’s will you will go, or be carried, to your grave without a
government. How many there are in the world who live without a government,
and continue to live all the same, and are reckoned in the number of the
people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as the poor are never
without that, they always eat with a relish. But mind, Sancho, if by good
luck you should find yourself with some government, don’t forget me
and your children. Remember that Sanchico is now full fifteen, and it is
right he should go to school, if his uncle the abbot has a mind to have
him trained for the Church. Consider, too, that your daughter Mari-Sancha
will not die of grief if we marry her; for I have my suspicions that she
is as eager to get a husband as you to get a government; and, after all, a
daughter looks better ill married than well whored.”

“By my faith,” replied Sancho, “if God brings me to get
any sort of a government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for
Mari-Sancha that there will be no approaching her without calling her
‘my lady.”

“Nay, Sancho,” returned Teresa; “marry her to her equal,
that is the safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into
high-heeled shoes, out of her grey flannel petticoat into hoops and silk
gowns, out of the plain ‘Marica’ and ‘thou,’ into
‘Dona So-and-so’ and ‘my lady,’ the girl won’t
know where she is, and at every turn she will fall into a thousand
blunders that will show the thread of her coarse homespun stuff.”

“Tut, you fool,” said Sancho; “it will be only to
practise it for two or three years; and then dignity and decorum will fit
her as easily as a glove; and if not, what matter? Let her be ‘my
lady,’ and never mind what happens.”

“Keep to your own station, Sancho,” replied Teresa; “don’t
try to raise yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that says,
‘wipe the nose of your neigbbour’s son, and take him into your
house.’ A fine thing it would be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some
great count or grand gentleman, who, when the humour took him, would abuse
her and call her clown-bred and clodhopper’s daughter and spinning
wench. I have not been bringing up my daughter for that all this time, I
can tell you, husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho, and leave marrying
her to my care; there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho’s son, a stout,
sturdy young fellow that we know, and I can see he does not look sour at
the girl; and with him, one of our own sort, she will be well married, and
we shall have her always under our eyes, and be all one family, parents
and children, grandchildren and sons-in-law, and the peace and blessing of
God will dwell among us; so don’t you go marrying her in those
courts and grand palaces where they won’t know what to make of her,
or she what to make of herself.”

“Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas,” said Sancho, “what
do you mean by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying
my daughter to one who will give me grandchildren that will be called
‘your lordship’? Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my
elders say that he who does not know how to take advantage of luck when it
comes to him, has no right to complain if it gives him the go-by; and now
that it is knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it out; let us go
with the favouring breeze that blows upon us.”

It is this sort of talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the
translator of the history say he considered this chapter apocryphal.

“Don’t you see, you animal,” continued Sancho, “that
it will be well for me to drop into some profitable government that will
lift us out of the mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you
yourself will find yourself called ‘Dona Teresa Panza,’ and
sitting in church on a fine carpet and cushions and draperies, in spite
and in defiance of all the born ladies of the town? No, stay as you are,
growing neither greater nor less, like a tapestry figure—Let us say
no more about it, for Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you will.”

“Are you sure of all you say, husband?” replied Teresa.
“Well, for all that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my
daughter will be her ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess or a
princess of her, but I can tell you it will not be with my will and
consent. I was always a lover of equality, brother, and I can’t bear
to see people give themselves airs without any right. They called me
Teresa at my baptism, a plain, simple name, without any additions or tags
or fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo was my father’s name, and as I
am your wife, I am called Teresa Panza, though by right I ought to be
called Teresa Cascajo; but ‘kings go where laws like,’ and I
am content with this name without having the ‘Don’ put on top
of it to make it so heavy that I cannot carry it; and I don’t want
to make people talk about me when they see me go dressed like a countess
or governor’s wife; for they will say at once, ‘See what airs
the slut gives herself! Only yesterday she was always spinning flax, and
used to go to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead of
a mantle, and there she goes to-day in a hooped gown with her broaches and
airs, as if we didn’t know her!’ If God keeps me in my seven
senses, or five, or whatever number I have, I am not going to bring myself
to such a pass; go you, brother, and be a government or an island man, and
swagger as much as you like; for by the soul of my mother, neither my
daughter nor I are going to stir a step from our village; a respectable
woman should have a broken leg and keep at home; and to be busy at
something is a virtuous damsel’s holiday; be off to your adventures
along with your Don Quixote, and leave us to our misadventures, for God
will mend them for us according as we deserve it. I don’t know, I’m
sure, who fixed the ‘Don’ to him, what neither his father nor
grandfather ever had.”

“I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!” said
Sancho. “God help thee, what a lot of things thou hast strung
together, one after the other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo,
and the broaches and the proverbs and the airs, to do with what I say?
Look here, fool and dolt (for so I may call you, when you don’t
understand my words, and run away from good fortune), if I had said that
my daughter was to throw herself down from a tower, or go roaming the
world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca wanted to do, you would be right in not
giving way to my will; but if in an instant, in less than the twinkling of
an eye, I put the ‘Don’ and ‘my lady’ on her back,
and take her out of the stubble, and place her under a canopy, on a dais,
and on a couch, with more velvet cushions than all the Almohades of
Morocco ever had in their family, why won’t you consent and fall in
with my wishes?”

“Do you know why, husband?” replied Teresa; “because of
the proverb that says ‘who covers thee, discovers thee.’ At
the poor man people only throw a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix
their eyes; and if the said rich man was once on a time poor, it is then
there is the sneering and the tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the
streets here they swarm as thick as bees.”

“Look here, Teresa,” said Sancho, “and listen to what I
am now going to say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and
I do not give my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions
of his reverence the preacher, who preached in this town last Lent, and
who said, if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes
behold, bring themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on our
memory much better and more forcibly than things past.”

These observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on account of
which the translator says he regards this chapter as apocryphal, inasmuch
as they are beyond Sancho’s capacity.

“Whence it arises,” he continued, “that when we see any
person well dressed and making a figure with rich garments and retinue of
servants, it seems to lead and impel us perforce to respect him, though
memory may at the same moment recall to us some lowly condition in which
we have seen him, but which, whether it may have been poverty or low
birth, being now a thing of the past, has no existence; while the only
thing that has any existence is what we see before us; and if this person
whom fortune has raised from his original lowly state (these were the very
words the padre used) to his present height of prosperity, be well bred,
generous, courteous to all, without seeking to vie with those whose
nobility is of ancient date, depend upon it, Teresa, no one will remember
what he was, and everyone will respect what he is, except indeed the
envious, from whom no fair fortune is safe.”

“I do not understand you, husband,” replied Teresa; “do
as you like, and don’t break my head with any more speechifying and
rethoric; and if you have revolved to do what you say-”

“Resolved, you should say, woman,” said Sancho, “not
revolved.”

“Don’t set yourself to wrangle with me, husband,” said
Teresa; “I speak as God pleases, and don’t deal in
out-of-the-way phrases; and I say if you are bent upon having a
government, take your son Sancho with you, and teach him from this time on
how to hold a government; for sons ought to inherit and learn the trades
of their fathers.”

“As soon as I have the government,” said Sancho, “I will
send for him by post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no
lack, for there is never any want of people to lend it to governors when
they have not got it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he is and
make him look what he is to be.”

“You send the money,” said Teresa, “and I’ll dress
him up for you as fine as you please.”

“Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess,”
said Sancho.

“The day that I see her a countess,” replied Teresa, “it
will be the same to me as if I was burying her; but once more I say do as
you please, for we women are born to this burden of being obedient to our
husbands, though they be dogs;” and with this she began to weep in
earnest, as if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried.

Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a countess, he
would put it off as long as possible. Here their conversation came to an
end, and Sancho went back to see Don Quixote, and make arrangements for
their departure.

CHAPTER VI.

OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER; ONE
OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY

While Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, held the above irrelevant
conversation, Don Quixote’s niece and housekeeper were not idle, for
by a thousand signs they began to perceive that their uncle and master
meant to give them the slip the third time, and once more betake himself
to his, for them, ill-errant chivalry. They strove by all the means in
their power to divert him from such an unlucky scheme; but it was all
preaching in the desert and hammering cold iron. Nevertheless, among many
other representations made to him, the housekeeper said to him, “In
truth, master, if you do not keep still and stay quiet at home, and give
over roaming mountains and valleys like a troubled spirit, looking for
what they say are called adventures, but what I call misfortunes, I shall
have to make complaint to God and the king with loud supplication to send
some remedy.”

To which Don Quixote replied, “What answer God will give to your
complaints, housekeeper, I know not, nor what his Majesty will answer
either; I only know that if I were king I should decline to answer the
numberless silly petitions they present every day; for one of the greatest
among the many troubles kings have is being obliged to listen to all and
answer all, and therefore I should be sorry that any affairs of mine
should worry him.”

Whereupon the housekeeper said, “Tell us, señor, at his Majesty’s
court are there no knights?”

“There are,” replied Don Quixote, “and plenty of them;
and it is right there should be, to set off the dignity of the prince, and
for the greater glory of the king’s majesty.”

“Then might not your worship,” said she, “be one of
those that, without stirring a step, serve their king and lord in his
court?”

“Recollect, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “all knights
cannot be courtiers, nor can all courtiers be knights-errant, nor need
they be. There must be all sorts in the world; and though we may be all
knights, there is a great difference between one and another; for the
courtiers, without quitting their chambers, or the threshold of the court,
range the world over by looking at a map, without its costing them a
farthing, and without suffering heat or cold, hunger or thirst; but we,
the true knights-errant, measure the whole earth with our own feet,
exposed to the sun, to the cold, to the air, to the inclemencies of
heaven, by day and night, on foot and on horseback; nor do we only know
enemies in pictures, but in their own real shapes; and at all risks and on
all occasions we attack them, without any regard to childish points or
rules of single combat, whether one has or has not a shorter lance or
sword, whether one carries relics or any secret contrivance about him,
whether or not the sun is to be divided and portioned out, and other
niceties of the sort that are observed in set combats of man to man, that
you know nothing about, but I do. And you must know besides, that the true
knight-errant, though he may see ten giants, that not only touch the
clouds with their heads but pierce them, and that go, each of them, on two
tall towers by way of legs, and whose arms are like the masts of mighty
ships, and each eye like a great mill-wheel, and glowing brighter than a
glass furnace, must not on any account be dismayed by them. On the
contrary, he must attack and fall upon them with a gallant bearing and a
fearless heart, and, if possible, vanquish and destroy them, even though
they have for armour the shells of a certain fish, that they say are
harder than diamonds, and in place of swords wield trenchant blades of
Damascus steel, or clubs studded with spikes also of steel, such as I have
more than once seen. All this I say, housekeeper, that you may see the
difference there is between the one sort of knight and the other; and it
would be well if there were no prince who did not set a higher value on
this second, or more properly speaking first, kind of knights-errant; for,
as we read in their histories, there have been some among them who have
been the salvation, not merely of one kingdom, but of many.”

“Ah, señor,” here exclaimed the niece, “remember that
all this you are saying about knights-errant is fable and fiction; and
their histories, if indeed they were not burned, would deserve, each of
them, to have a sambenito put on it, or some mark by which it might be
known as infamous and a corrupter of good manners.”

“By the God that gives me life,” said Don Quixote, “if
thou wert not my full niece, being daughter of my own sister, I would
inflict a chastisement upon thee for the blasphemy thou hast uttered that
all the world should ring with. What! can it be that a young hussy that
hardly knows how to handle a dozen lace-bobbins dares to wag her tongue
and criticise the histories of knights-errant? What would Señor Amadis say
if he heard of such a thing? He, however, no doubt would forgive thee, for
he was the most humble-minded and courteous knight of his time, and
moreover a great protector of damsels; but some there are that might have
heard thee, and it would not have been well for thee in that case; for
they are not all courteous or mannerly; some are ill-conditioned
scoundrels; nor is it everyone that calls himself a gentleman, that is so
in all respects; some are gold, others pinchbeck, and all look like
gentlemen, but not all can stand the touchstone of truth. There are men of
low rank who strain themselves to bursting to pass for gentlemen, and high
gentlemen who, one would fancy, were dying to pass for men of low rank;
the former raise themselves by their ambition or by their virtues, the
latter debase themselves by their lack of spirit or by their vices; and
one has need of experience and discernment to distinguish these two kinds
of gentlemen, so much alike in name and so different in conduct.”

“God bless me!” said the niece, “that you should know so
much, uncle—enough, if need be, to get up into a pulpit and go
preach in the streets—and yet that you should fall into a delusion
so great and a folly so manifest as to try to make yourself out vigorous
when you are old, strong when you are sickly, able to put straight what is
crooked when you yourself are bent by age, and, above all, a caballero
when you are not one; for though gentlefolk may be so, poor men are
nothing of the kind!”

“There is a great deal of truth in what you say, niece,”
returned Don Quixote, “and I could tell you somewhat about birth
that would astonish you; but, not to mix up things human and divine, I
refrain. Look you, my dears, all the lineages in the world (attend to what
I am saying) can be reduced to four sorts, which are these: those that had
humble beginnings, and went on spreading and extending themselves until
they attained surpassing greatness; those that had great beginnings and
maintained them, and still maintain and uphold the greatness of their
origin; those, again, that from a great beginning have ended in a point
like a pyramid, having reduced and lessened their original greatness till
it has come to nought, like the point of a pyramid, which, relatively to
its base or foundation, is nothing; and then there are those—and it
is they that are the most numerous—that have had neither an
illustrious beginning nor a remarkable mid-course, and so will have an end
without a name, like an ordinary plebeian line. Of the first, those that
had an humble origin and rose to the greatness they still preserve, the
Ottoman house may serve as an example, which from an humble and lowly
shepherd, its founder, has reached the height at which we now see it. For
examples of the second sort of lineage, that began with greatness and
maintains it still without adding to it, there are the many princes who
have inherited the dignity, and maintain themselves in their inheritance,
without increasing or diminishing it, keeping peacefully within the limits
of their states. Of those that began great and ended in a point, there are
thousands of examples, for all the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of Egypt, the
Caesars of Rome, and the whole herd (if I may apply such a word to them)
of countless princes, monarchs, lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks,
and barbarians, all these lineages and lordships have ended in a point and
come to nothing, they themselves as well as their founders, for it would
be impossible now to find one of their descendants, and, even should we
find one, it would be in some lowly and humble condition. Of plebeian
lineages I have nothing to say, save that they merely serve to swell the
number of those that live, without any eminence to entitle them to any
fame or praise beyond this. From all I have said I would have you gather,
my poor innocents, that great is the confusion among lineages, and that
only those are seen to be great and illustrious that show themselves so by
the virtue, wealth, and generosity of their possessors. I have said
virtue, wealth, and generosity, because a great man who is vicious will be
a great example of vice, and a rich man who is not generous will be merely
a miserly beggar; for the possessor of wealth is not made happy by
possessing it, but by spending it, and not by spending as he pleases, but
by knowing how to spend it well. The poor gentleman has no way of showing
that he is a gentleman but by virtue, by being affable, well-bred,
courteous, gentle-mannered, and kindly, not haughty, arrogant, or
censorious, but above all by being charitable; for by two maravedis given
with a cheerful heart to the poor, he will show himself as generous as he
who distributes alms with bell-ringing, and no one that perceives him to
be endowed with the virtues I have named, even though he know him not,
will fail to recognise and set him down as one of good blood; and it would
be strange were it not so; praise has ever been the reward of virtue, and
those who are virtuous cannot fail to receive commendation. There are two
roads, my daughters, by which men may reach wealth and honours; one is
that of letters, the other that of arms. I have more of arms than of
letters in my composition, and, judging by my inclination to arms, was
born under the influence of the planet Mars. I am, therefore, in a measure
constrained to follow that road, and by it I must travel in spite of all
the world, and it will be labour in vain for you to urge me to resist what
heaven wills, fate ordains, reason requires, and, above all, my own
inclination favours; for knowing as I do the countless toils that are the
accompaniments of knight-errantry, I know, too, the infinite blessings
that are attained by it; I know that the path of virtue is very narrow,
and the road of vice broad and spacious; I know their ends and goals are
different, for the broad and easy road of vice ends in death, and the
narrow and toilsome one of virtue in life, and not transitory life, but in
that which has no end; I know, as our great Castilian poet says, that-

“Woe is me!” exclaimed the niece, “my lord is a poet,
too! He knows everything, and he can do everything; I will bet, if he
chose to turn mason, he could make a house as easily as a cage.”

“I can tell you, niece,” replied Don Quixote, “if these
chivalrous thoughts did not engage all my faculties, there would be
nothing that I could not do, nor any sort of knickknack that would not
come from my hands, particularly cages and tooth-picks.”

At this moment there came a knocking at the door, and when they asked who
was there, Sancho Panza made answer that it was he. The instant the
housekeeper knew who it was, she ran to hide herself so as not to see him;
in such abhorrence did she hold him. The niece let him in, and his master
Don Quixote came forward to receive him with open arms, and the pair shut
themselves up in his room, where they had another conversation not
inferior to the previous one.

CHAPTER VII.

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS

The instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself in with her
master, she guessed what they were about; and suspecting that the result
of the consultation would be a resolve to undertake a third sally, she
seized her mantle, and in deep anxiety and distress, ran to find the
bachelor Samson Carrasco, as she thought that, being a well-spoken man,
and a new friend of her master’s, he might be able to persuade him
to give up any such crazy notion. She found him pacing the patio of his
house, and, perspiring and flurried, she fell at his feet the moment she
saw him.

Carrasco, seeing how distressed and overcome she was, said to her, “What
is this, mistress housekeeper? What has happened to you? One would think
you heart-broken.”

“Nothing, Señor Samson,” said she, “only that my master
is breaking out, plainly breaking out.”

“Whereabouts is he breaking out, señora?” asked Samson;
“has any part of his body burst?”

“He is only breaking out at the door of his madness,” she
replied; “I mean, dear señor bachelor, that he is going to break out
again (and this will be the third time) to hunt all over the world for
what he calls ventures, though I can’t make out why he gives them
that name. The first time he was brought back to us slung across the back
of an ass, and belaboured all over; and the second time he came in an
ox-cart, shut up in a cage, in which he persuaded himself he was
enchanted, and the poor creature was in such a state that the mother that
bore him would not have known him; lean, yellow, with his eyes sunk deep
in the cells of his skull; so that to bring him round again, ever so
little, cost me more than six hundred eggs, as God knows, and all the
world, and my hens too, that won’t let me tell a lie.”

“That I can well believe,” replied the bachelor, “for
they are so good and so fat, and so well-bred, that they would not say one
thing for another, though they were to burst for it. In short then,
mistress housekeeper, that is all, and there is nothing the matter, except
what it is feared Don Quixote may do?”

“No, señor,” said she.

“Well then,” returned the bachelor, “don’t be
uneasy, but go home in peace; get me ready something hot for breakfast,
and while you are on the way say the prayer of Santa Apollonia, that is if
you know it; for I will come presently and you will see miracles.”

“Woe is me,” cried the housekeeper, “is it the prayer of
Santa Apollonia you would have me say? That would do if it was the
toothache my master had; but it is in the brains, what he has got.”

“I know what I am saying, mistress housekeeper; go, and don’t
set yourself to argue with me, for you know I am a bachelor of Salamanca,
and one can’t be more of a bachelor than that,” replied
Carrasco; and with this the housekeeper retired, and the bachelor went to
look for the curate, and arrange with him what will be told in its proper
place.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up together, they had a discussion
which the history records with great precision and scrupulous exactness.
Sancho said to his master, “Señor, I have educed my wife to let me
go with your worship wherever you choose to take me.”

“Induced, you should say, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “not
educed.”

“Once or twice, as well as I remember,” replied Sancho,
“I have begged of your worship not to mend my words, if so be as you
understand what I mean by them; and if you don’t understand them to
say ‘Sancho,’ or ‘devil,’ ‘I don’t
understand thee; and if I don’t make my meaning plain, then you may
correct me, for I am so focile-”

“I don’t understand thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at
once; “for I know not what ‘I am so focile’ means.”

“‘So focile’ means I am so much that way,” replied
Sancho.

“I understand thee still less now,” said Don Quixote.

“Well, if you can’t understand me,” said Sancho, “I
don’t know how to put it; I know no more, God help me.”

“Oh, now I have hit it,” said Don Quixote; “thou wouldst
say thou art so docile, tractable, and gentle that thou wilt take what I
say to thee, and submit to what I teach thee.”

“I would bet,” said Sancho, “that from the very first
you understood me, and knew what I meant, but you wanted to put me out
that you might hear me make another couple of dozen blunders.”

“May be so,” replied Don Quixote; “but to come to the
point, what does Teresa say?”

“Teresa says,” replied Sancho, “that I should make sure
with your worship, and ‘let papers speak and beards be still,’
for ‘he who binds does not wrangle,’ since one ‘take’
is better than two ‘I’ll give thee’s;’ and I say a
woman’s advice is no great thing, and he who won’t take it is
a fool.”

“And so say I,” said Don Quixote; “continue, Sancho my
friend; go on; you talk pearls to-day.”

“The fact is,” continued Sancho, “that, as your worship
knows better than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we
are, and to-morrow we are not, and the lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and
nobody can promise himself more hours of life in this world than God may
be pleased to give him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to knock at
our life’s door, it is always urgent, and neither prayers, nor
struggles, nor sceptres, nor mitres, can keep it back, as common talk and
report say, and as they tell us from the pulpits every day.”

“All that is very true,” said Don Quixote; “but I cannot
make out what thou art driving at.”

“What I am driving at,” said Sancho, “is that your
worship settle some fixed wages for me, to be paid monthly while I am in
your service, and that the same be paid me out of your estate; for I don’t
care to stand on rewards which either come late, or ill, or never at all;
God help me with my own. In short, I would like to know what I am to get,
be it much or little; for the hen will lay on one egg, and many littles
make a much, and so long as one gains something there is nothing lost. To
be sure, if it should happen (what I neither believe nor expect) that your
worship were to give me that island you have promised me, I am not so
ungrateful nor so grasping but that I would be willing to have the revenue
of such island valued and stopped out of my wages in due promotion.”

“Sancho, my friend,” replied Don Quixote, “sometimes
proportion may be as good as promotion.”

“I see,” said Sancho; “I’ll bet I ought to have
said proportion, and not promotion; but it is no matter, as your worship
has understood me.”

“And so well understood,” returned Don Quixote, “that I
have seen into the depths of thy thoughts, and know the mark thou art
shooting at with the countless shafts of thy proverbs. Look here, Sancho,
I would readily fix thy wages if I had ever found any instance in the
histories of the knights-errant to show or indicate, by the slightest
hint, what their squires used to get monthly or yearly; but I have read
all or the best part of their histories, and I cannot remember reading of
any knight-errant having assigned fixed wages to his squire; I only know
that they all served on reward, and that when they least expected it, if
good luck attended their masters, they found themselves recompensed with
an island or something equivalent to it, or at the least they were left
with a title and lordship. If with these hopes and additional inducements
you, Sancho, please to return to my service, well and good; but to suppose
that I am going to disturb or unhinge the ancient usage of
knight-errantry, is all nonsense. And so, my Sancho, get you back to your
house and explain my intentions to your Teresa, and if she likes and you
like to be on reward with me, bene quidem; if not, we remain friends; for
if the pigeon-house does not lack food, it will not lack pigeons; and bear
in mind, my son, that a good hope is better than a bad holding, and a good
grievance better than a bad compensation. I speak in this way, Sancho, to
show you that I can shower down proverbs just as well as yourself; and in
short, I mean to say, and I do say, that if you don’t like to come
on reward with me, and run the same chance that I run, God be with you and
make a saint of you; for I shall find plenty of squires more obedient and
painstaking, and not so thickheaded or talkative as you are.”

When Sancho heard his master’s firm, resolute language, a cloud came
over the sky with him and the wings of his heart drooped, for he had made
sure that his master would not go without him for all the wealth of the
world; and as he stood there dumbfoundered and moody, Samson Carrasco came
in with the housekeeper and niece, who were anxious to hear by what
arguments he was about to dissuade their master from going to seek
adventures. The arch wag Samson came forward, and embracing him as he had
done before, said with a loud voice, “O flower of knight-errantry! O
shining light of arms! O honour and mirror of the Spanish nation! may God
Almighty in his infinite power grant that any person or persons, who would
impede or hinder thy third sally, may find no way out of the labyrinth of
their schemes, nor ever accomplish what they most desire!” And then,
turning to the housekeeper, he said, “Mistress housekeeper may just
as well give over saying the prayer of Santa Apollonia, for I know it is
the positive determination of the spheres that Señor Don Quixote shall
proceed to put into execution his new and lofty designs; and I should lay
a heavy burden on my conscience did I not urge and persuade this knight
not to keep the might of his strong arm and the virtue of his valiant
spirit any longer curbed and checked, for by his inactivity he is
defrauding the world of the redress of wrongs, of the protection of
orphans, of the honour of virgins, of the aid of widows, and of the
support of wives, and other matters of this kind appertaining, belonging,
proper and peculiar to the order of knight-errantry. On, then, my lord Don
Quixote, beautiful and brave, let your worship and highness set out to-day
rather than to-morrow; and if anything be needed for the execution of your
purpose, here am I ready in person and purse to supply the want; and were
it requisite to attend your magnificence as squire, I should esteem it the
happiest good fortune.”

At this, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said, “Did I not tell thee,
Sancho, there would be squires enough and to spare for me? See now who
offers to become one; no less than the illustrious bachelor Samson
Carrasco, the perpetual joy and delight of the courts of the Salamancan
schools, sound in body, discreet, patient under heat or cold, hunger or
thirst, with all the qualifications requisite to make a knight-errant’s
squire! But heaven forbid that, to gratify my own inclination, I should
shake or shatter this pillar of letters and vessel of the sciences, and
cut down this towering palm of the fair and liberal arts. Let this new
Samson remain in his own country, and, bringing honour to it, bring honour
at the same time on the grey heads of his venerable parents; for I will be
content with any squire that comes to hand, as Sancho does not deign to
accompany me.”

“I do deign,” said Sancho, deeply moved and with tears in his
eyes; “it shall not be said of me, master mine,” he continued,
“‘the bread eaten and the company dispersed.’ Nay, I
come of no ungrateful stock, for all the world knows, but particularly my
own town, who the Panzas from whom I am descended were; and, what is more,
I know and have learned, by many good words and deeds, your worship’s
desire to show me favour; and if I have been bargaining more or less about
my wages, it was only to please my wife, who, when she sets herself to
press a point, no hammer drives the hoops of a cask as she drives one to
do what she wants; but, after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a
woman; and as I am a man anyhow, which I can’t deny, I will be one
in my own house too, let who will take it amiss; and so there’s
nothing more to do but for your worship to make your will with its codicil
in such a way that it can’t be provoked, and let us set out at once,
to save Señor Samson’s soul from suffering, as he says his
conscience obliges him to persuade your worship to sally out upon the
world a third time; so I offer again to serve your worship faithfully and
loyally, as well and better than all the squires that served
knights-errant in times past or present.”

The bachelor was filled with amazement when he heard Sancho’s
phraseology and style of talk, for though he had read the first part of
his master’s history he never thought that he could be so droll as
he was there described; but now, hearing him talk of a “will and
codicil that could not be provoked,” instead of “will and
codicil that could not be revoked,” he believed all he had read of
him, and set him down as one of the greatest simpletons of modern times;
and he said to himself that two such lunatics as master and man the world
had never seen. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho embraced one another and
made friends, and by the advice and with the approval of the great
Carrasco, who was now their oracle, it was arranged that their departure
should take place three days thence, by which time they could have all
that was requisite for the journey ready, and procure a closed helmet,
which Don Quixote said he must by all means take. Samson offered him one,
as he knew a friend of his who had it would not refuse it to him, though
it was more dingy with rust and mildew than bright and clean like
burnished steel.

The curses which both housekeeper and niece poured out on the bachelor
were past counting; they tore their hair, they clawed their faces, and in
the style of the hired mourners that were once in fashion, they raised a
lamentation over the departure of their master and uncle, as if it had
been his death. Samson’s intention in persuading him to sally forth
once more was to do what the history relates farther on; all by the advice
of the curate and barber, with whom he had previously discussed the
subject. Finally, then, during those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho
provided themselves with what they considered necessary, and Sancho having
pacified his wife, and Don Quixote his niece and housekeeper, at
nightfall, unseen by anyone except the bachelor, who thought fit to
accompany them half a league out of the village, they set out for El
Toboso, Don Quixote on his good Rocinante and Sancho on his old Dapple,
his alforjas furnished with certain matters in the way of victuals, and
his purse with money that Don Quixote gave him to meet emergencies. Samson
embraced him, and entreated him to let him hear of his good or evil
fortunes, so that he might rejoice over the former or condole with him
over the latter, as the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote promised
him he would do so, and Samson returned to the village, and the other two
took the road for the great city of El Toboso.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY
DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

“Blessed be Allah the all-powerful!” says Hamete Benengeli on
beginning this eighth chapter; “blessed be Allah!” he repeats
three times; and he says he utters these thanksgivings at seeing that he
has now got Don Quixote and Sancho fairly afield, and that the readers of
his delightful history may reckon that the achievements and humours of Don
Quixote and his squire are now about to begin; and he urges them to forget
the former chivalries of the ingenious gentleman and to fix their eyes on
those that are to come, which now begin on the road to El Toboso, as the
others began on the plains of Montiel; nor is it much that he asks in
consideration of all he promises, and so he goes on to say:

Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment Samson took his
departure, Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple to sigh, which, by both
knight and squire, was accepted as a good sign and a very happy omen;
though, if the truth is to be told, the sighs and brays of Dapple were
louder than the neighings of the hack, from which Sancho inferred that his
good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his master, building,
perhaps, upon some judicial astrology that he may have known, though the
history says nothing about it; all that can be said is, that when he
stumbled or fell, he was heard to say he wished he had not come out, for
by stumbling or falling there was nothing to be got but a damaged shoe or
a broken rib; and, fool as he was, he was not much astray in this.

Said Don Quixote, “Sancho, my friend, night is drawing on upon us as
we go, and more darkly than will allow us to reach El Toboso by daylight;
for there I am resolved to go before I engage in another adventure, and
there I shall obtain the blessing and generous permission of the peerless
Dulcinea, with which permission I expect and feel assured that I shall
conclude and bring to a happy termination every perilous adventure; for
nothing in life makes knights-errant more valorous than finding themselves
favoured by their ladies.”

“So I believe,” replied Sancho; “but I think it will be
difficult for your worship to speak with her or see her, at any rate where
you will be able to receive her blessing; unless, indeed, she throws it
over the wall of the yard where I saw her the time before, when I took her
the letter that told of the follies and mad things your worship was doing
in the heart of Sierra Morena.”

“Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote, “where or at which thou sawest that never sufficiently
extolled grace and beauty? It must have been the gallery, corridor, or
portico of some rich and royal palace.”

“It might have been all that,” returned Sancho, “but to
me it looked like a wall, unless I am short of memory.”

“At all events, let us go there, Sancho,” said Don Quixote;
“for, so that I see her, it is the same to me whether it be over a
wall, or at a window, or through the chink of a door, or the grate of a
garden; for any beam of the sun of her beauty that reaches my eyes will
give light to my reason and strength to my heart, so that I shall be
unmatched and unequalled in wisdom and valour.”

“Well, to tell the truth, señor,” said Sancho, “when I
saw that sun of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright enough to
throw out beams at all; it must have been, that as her grace was sifting
that wheat I told you of, the thick dust she raised came before her face
like a cloud and dimmed it.”

“What! dost thou still persist, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“in saying, thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady
Dulcinea was sifting wheat, that being an occupation and task entirely at
variance with what is and should be the employment of persons of
distinction, who are constituted and reserved for other avocations and
pursuits that show their rank a bowshot off? Thou hast forgotten, O
Sancho, those lines of our poet wherein he paints for us how, in their
crystal abodes, those four nymphs employed themselves who rose from their
loved Tagus and seated themselves in a verdant meadow to embroider those
tissues which the ingenious poet there describes to us, how they were
worked and woven with gold and silk and pearls; and something of this sort
must have been the employment of my lady when thou sawest her, only that
the spite which some wicked enchanter seems to have against everything of
mine changes all those things that give me pleasure, and turns them into
shapes unlike their own; and so I fear that in that history of my
achievements which they say is now in print, if haply its author was some
sage who is an enemy of mine, he will have put one thing for another,
mingling a thousand lies with one truth, and amusing himself by relating
transactions which have nothing to do with the sequence of a true history.
O envy, root of all countless evils, and cankerworm of the virtues! All
the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of pleasure with them; but envy brings
nothing but irritation, bitterness, and rage.”

“So I say too,” replied Sancho; “and I suspect in that
legend or history of us that the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he saw,
my honour goes dragged in the dirt, knocked about, up and down, sweeping
the streets, as they say. And yet, on the faith of an honest man, I never
spoke ill of any enchanter, and I am not so well off that I am to be
envied; to be sure, I am rather sly, and I have a certain spice of the
rogue in me; but all is covered by the great cloak of my simplicity,
always natural and never acted; and if I had no other merit save that I
believe, as I always do, firmly and truly in God, and all the holy Roman
Catholic Church holds and believes, and that I am a mortal enemy of the
Jews, the historians ought to have mercy on me and treat me well in their
writings. But let them say what they like; naked was I born, naked I find
myself, I neither lose nor gain; nay, while I see myself put into a book
and passed on from hand to hand over the world, I don’t care a fig,
let them say what they like of me.”

“That, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “reminds me of
what happened to a famous poet of our own day, who, having written a
bitter satire against all the courtesan ladies, did not insert or name in
it a certain lady of whom it was questionable whether she was one or not.
She, seeing she was not in the list of the poet, asked him what he had
seen in her that he did not include her in the number of the others,
telling him he must add to his satire and put her in the new part, or else
look out for the consequences. The poet did as she bade him, and left her
without a shred of reputation, and she was satisfied by getting fame
though it was infamy. In keeping with this is what they relate of that
shepherd who set fire to the famous temple of Diana, by repute one of the
seven wonders of the world, and burned it with the sole object of making
his name live in after ages; and, though it was forbidden to name him, or
mention his name by word of mouth or in writing, lest the object of his
ambition should be attained, nevertheless it became known that he was
called Erostratus. And something of the same sort is what happened in the
case of the great emperor Charles V and a gentleman in Rome. The emperor
was anxious to see that famous temple of the Rotunda, called in ancient
times the temple ‘of all the gods,’ but now-a-days, by a
better nomenclature, ‘of all the saints,’ which is the best
preserved building of all those of pagan construction in Rome, and the one
which best sustains the reputation of mighty works and magnificence of its
founders. It is in the form of a half orange, of enormous dimensions, and
well lighted, though no light penetrates it save that which is admitted by
a window, or rather round skylight, at the top; and it was from this that
the emperor examined the building. A Roman gentleman stood by his side and
explained to him the skilful construction and ingenuity of the vast fabric
and its wonderful architecture, and when they had left the skylight he
said to the emperor, ‘A thousand times, your Sacred Majesty, the
impulse came upon me to seize your Majesty in my arms and fling myself
down from yonder skylight, so as to leave behind me in the world a name
that would last for ever.’ ‘I am thankful to you for not
carrying such an evil thought into effect,’ said the emperor,
‘and I shall give you no opportunity in future of again putting your
loyalty to the test; and I therefore forbid you ever to speak to me or to
be where I am; and he followed up these words by bestowing a liberal
bounty upon him. My meaning is, Sancho, that the desire of acquiring fame
is a very powerful motive. What, thinkest thou, was it that flung Horatius
in full armour down from the bridge into the depths of the Tiber? What
burned the hand and arm of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to plunge into
the deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of Rome? What, in
opposition to all the omens that declared against him, made Julius Caesar
cross the Rubicon? And to come to more modern examples, what scuttled the
ships, and left stranded and cut off the gallant Spaniards under the
command of the most courteous Cortes in the New World? All these and a
variety of other great exploits are, were and will be, the work of fame
that mortals desire as a reward and a portion of the immortality their
famous deeds deserve; though we Catholic Christians and knights-errant
look more to that future glory that is everlasting in the ethereal regions
of heaven than to the vanity of the fame that is to be acquired in this
present transitory life; a fame that, however long it may last, must after
all end with the world itself, which has its own appointed end. So that, O
Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass the bounds which the Christian
religion we profess has assigned to us. We have to slay pride in giants,
envy by generosity and nobleness of heart, anger by calmness of demeanour
and equanimity, gluttony and sloth by the spareness of our diet and the
length of our vigils, lust and lewdness by the loyalty we preserve to
those whom we have made the mistresses of our thoughts, indolence by
traversing the world in all directions seeking opportunities of making
ourselves, besides Christians, famous knights. Such, Sancho, are the means
by which we reach those extremes of praise that fair fame carries with it.”

“All that your worship has said so far,” said Sancho, “I
have understood quite well; but still I would be glad if your worship
would dissolve a doubt for me, which has just this minute come into my
mind.”

“Solve, thou meanest, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “say
on, in God’s name, and I will answer as well as I can.”

“Tell me, señor,” Sancho went on to say, “those Julys or
Augusts, and all those venturous knights that you say are now dead—where
are they now?”

“The heathens,” replied Don Quixote, “are, no doubt, in
hell; the Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in
purgatory or in heaven.”

“Very good,” said Sancho; “but now I want to know—the
tombs where the bodies of those great lords are, have they silver lamps
before them, or are the walls of their chapels ornamented with crutches,
winding-sheets, tresses of hair, legs and eyes in wax? Or what are they
ornamented with?”

To which Don Quixote made answer: “The tombs of the heathens were
generally sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Caesar’s body were
placed on the top of a stone pyramid of vast size, which they now call in
Rome Saint Peter’s needle. The emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a
castle as large as a good-sized village, which they called the Moles
Adriani, and is now the castle of St. Angelo in Rome. The queen Artemisia
buried her husband Mausolus in a tomb which was reckoned one of the seven
wonders of the world; but none of these tombs, or of the many others of
the heathens, were ornamented with winding-sheets or any of those other
offerings and tokens that show that they who are buried there are saints.”

“That’s the point I’m coming to,” said Sancho;
“and now tell me, which is the greater work, to bring a dead man to
life or to kill a giant?”

“The answer is easy,” replied Don Quixote; “it is a
greater work to bring to life a dead man.”

“Now I have got you,” said Sancho; “in that case the
fame of them who bring the dead to life, who give sight to the blind, cure
cripples, restore health to the sick, and before whose tombs there are
lamps burning, and whose chapels are filled with devout folk on their
knees adoring their relics be a better fame in this life and in the other
than that which all the heathen emperors and knights-errant that have ever
been in the world have left or may leave behind them?”

“That I grant, too,” said Don Quixote.

“Then this fame, these favours, these privileges, or whatever you
call it,” said Sancho, “belong to the bodies and relics of the
saints who, with the approbation and permission of our holy mother Church,
have lamps, tapers, winding-sheets, crutches, pictures, eyes and legs, by
means of which they increase devotion and add to their own Christian
reputation. Kings carry the bodies or relics of saints on their shoulders,
and kiss bits of their bones, and enrich and adorn their oratories and
favourite altars with them.”

“What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, Sancho?”
asked Don Quixote.

“My meaning is,” said Sancho, “let us set about becoming
saints, and we shall obtain more quickly the fair fame we are striving
after; for you know, señor, yesterday or the day before yesterday (for it
is so lately one may say so) they canonised and beatified two little
barefoot friars, and it is now reckoned the greatest good luck to kiss or
touch the iron chains with which they girt and tortured their bodies, and
they are held in greater veneration, so it is said, than the sword of
Roland in the armoury of our lord the King, whom God preserve. So that,
señor, it is better to be an humble little friar of no matter what order,
than a valiant knight-errant; with God a couple of dozen of penance
lashings are of more avail than two thousand lance-thrusts, be they given
to giants, or monsters, or dragons.”

“All that is true,” returned Don Quixote, “but we cannot
all be friars, and many are the ways by which God takes his own to heaven;
chivalry is a religion, there are sainted knights in glory.”

“Yes,” said Sancho, “but I have heard say that there are
more friars in heaven than knights-errant.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “is because those in religious
orders are more numerous than knights.”

“The errants are many,” said Sancho.

“Many,” replied Don Quixote, “but few they who deserve
the name of knights.”

With these, and other discussions of the same sort, they passed that night
and the following day, without anything worth mention happening to them,
whereat Don Quixote was not a little dejected; but at length the next day,
at daybreak, they descried the great city of El Toboso, at the sight of
which Don Quixote’s spirits rose and Sancho’s fell, for he did
not know Dulcinea’s house, nor in all his life had he ever seen her,
any more than his master; so that they were both uneasy, the one to see
her, the other at not having seen her, and Sancho was at a loss to know
what he was to do when his master sent him to El Toboso. In the end, Don
Quixote made up his mind to enter the city at nightfall, and they waited
until the time came among some oak trees that were near El Toboso; and
when the moment they had agreed upon arrived, they made their entrance
into the city, where something happened them that may fairly be called
something.

CHAPTER IX.

WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE

‘Twas at the very midnight hour—more or less—when Don
Quixote and Sancho quitted the wood and entered El Toboso. The town was in
deep silence, for all the inhabitants were asleep, and stretched on the
broad of their backs, as the saying is. The night was darkish, though
Sancho would have been glad had it been quite dark, so as to find in the
darkness an excuse for his blundering. All over the place nothing was to
be heard except the barking of dogs, which deafened the ears of Don
Quixote and troubled the heart of Sancho. Now and then an ass brayed, pigs
grunted, cats mewed, and the various noises they made seemed louder in the
silence of the night; all which the enamoured knight took to be of evil
omen; nevertheless he said to Sancho, “Sancho, my son, lead on to
the palace of Dulcinea, it may be that we shall find her awake.”

“Body of the sun! what palace am I to lead to,” said Sancho,
“when what I saw her highness in was only a very little house?”

“Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her
palace,” said Don Quixote, “to amuse herself with damsels, as
great ladies and princesses are accustomed to do.”

“Señor,” said Sancho, “if your worship will have it in
spite of me that the house of my lady Dulcinea is a palace, is this an
hour, think you, to find the door open; and will it be right for us to go
knocking till they hear us and open the door; making a disturbance and
confusion all through the household? Are we going, do you fancy, to the
house of our wenches, like gallants who come and knock and go in at any
hour, however late it may be?”

“Let us first of all find out the palace for certain,” replied
Don Quixote, “and then I will tell thee, Sancho, what we had best
do; but look, Sancho, for either I see badly, or that dark mass that one
sees from here should be Dulcinea’s palace.”

“Then let your worship lead the way,” said Sancho, “perhaps
it may be so; though I see it with my eyes and touch it with my hands, I’ll
believe it as much as I believe it is daylight now.”

Don Quixote took the lead, and having gone a matter of two hundred paces
he came upon the mass that produced the shade, and found it was a great
tower, and then he perceived that the building in question was no palace,
but the chief church of the town, and said he, “It’s the
church we have lit upon, Sancho.”

“So I see,” said Sancho, “and God grant we may not light
upon our graves; it is no good sign to find oneself wandering in a
graveyard at this time of night; and that, after my telling your worship,
if I don’t mistake, that the house of this lady will be in an alley
without an outlet.”

“The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!” said Don Quixote;
“where hast thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built
in alleys without an outlet?”

“Señor,” replied Sancho, “every country has a way of its
own; perhaps here in El Toboso it is the way to build palaces and grand
buildings in alleys; so I entreat your worship to let me search about
among these streets or alleys before me, and perhaps, in some corner or
other, I may stumble on this palace—and I wish I saw the dogs eating
it for leading us such a dance.”

“Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady, Sancho,” said
Don Quixote; “let us keep the feast in peace, and not throw the rope
after the bucket.”

“I’ll hold my tongue,” said Sancho, “but how am I
to take it patiently when your worship wants me, with only once seeing the
house of our mistress, to know always, and find it in the middle of the
night, when your worship can’t find it, who must have seen it
thousands of times?”

“Thou wilt drive me to desperation, Sancho,” said Don Quixote.
“Look here, heretic, have I not told thee a thousand times that I
have never once in my life seen the peerless Dulcinea or crossed the
threshold of her palace, and that I am enamoured solely by hearsay and by
the great reputation she bears for beauty and discretion?”

“I hear it now,” returned Sancho; “and I may tell you
that if you have not seen her, no more have I.”

“That cannot be,” said Don Quixote, “for, at any rate,
thou saidst, on bringing back the answer to the letter I sent by thee,
that thou sawest her sifting wheat.”

“Don’t mind that, señor,” said Sancho; “I must
tell you that my seeing her and the answer I brought you back were by
hearsay too, for I can no more tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can
hit the sky.”

“Sancho, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “there are times for
jests and times when jests are out of place; if I tell thee that I have
neither seen nor spoken to the lady of my heart, it is no reason why thou
shouldst say thou hast not spoken to her or seen her, when the contrary is
the case, as thou well knowest.”

While the two were engaged in this conversation, they perceived some one
with a pair of mules approaching the spot where they stood, and from the
noise the plough made, as it dragged along the ground, they guessed him to
be some labourer who had got up before daybreak to go to his work, and so
it proved to be. He came along singing the ballad that says-

Ill did ye fare, ye men of France,
In Roncesvalles chase—

“May I die, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, when he heard him,
“if any good will come to us to-night! Dost thou not hear what that
clown is singing?”

“I do,” said Sancho, “but what has Roncesvalles chase to
do with what we have in hand? He might just as well be singing the ballad
of Calainos, for any good or ill that can come to us in our business.”

By this time the labourer had come up, and Don Quixote asked him, “Can
you tell me, worthy friend, and God speed you, whereabouts here is the
palace of the peerless princess Dona Dulcinea del Toboso?”

“Señor,” replied the lad, “I am a stranger, and I have
been only a few days in the town, doing farm work for a rich farmer. In
that house opposite there live the curate of the village and the
sacristan, and both or either of them will be able to give your worship
some account of this lady princess, for they have a list of all the people
of El Toboso; though it is my belief there is not a princess living in the
whole of it; many ladies there are, of quality, and in her own house each
of them may be a princess.”

“Well, then, she I am inquiring for will be one of these, my friend,”
said Don Quixote.

“May be so,” replied the lad; “God be with you, for here
comes the daylight;” and without waiting for any more of his
questions, he whipped on his mules.

Sancho, seeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatisfied, said to him,
“Señor, daylight will be here before long, and it will not do for us
to let the sun find us in the street; it will be better for us to quit the
city, and for your worship to hide in some forest in the neighbourhood,
and I will come back in the daytime, and I won’t leave a nook or
corner of the whole village that I won’t search for the house,
castle, or palace, of my lady, and it will be hard luck for me if I don’t
find it; and as soon as I have found it I will speak to her grace, and
tell her where and how your worship is waiting for her to arrange some
plan for you to see her without any damage to her honour and reputation.”

“Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou hast delivered a
thousand sentences condensed in the compass of a few words; I thank thee
for the advice thou hast given me, and take it most gladly. Come, my son,
let us go look for some place where I may hide, while thou dost return, as
thou sayest, to seek, and speak with my lady, from whose discretion and
courtesy I look for favours more than miraculous.”

Sancho was in a fever to get his master out of the town, lest he should
discover the falsehood of the reply he had brought to him in the Sierra
Morena on behalf of Dulcinea; so he hastened their departure, which they
took at once, and two miles out of the village they found a forest or
thicket wherein Don Quixote ensconced himself, while Sancho returned to
the city to speak to Dulcinea, in which embassy things befell him which
demand fresh attention and a new chapter.

CHAPTER X.

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY
DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE

When the author of this great history comes to relate what is set down in
this chapter he says he would have preferred to pass it over in silence,
fearing it would not be believed, because here Don Quixote’s madness
reaches the confines of the greatest that can be conceived, and even goes
a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, though still
under the same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding to
the story or leaving out a particle of the truth, and entirely
disregarding the charges of falsehood that might be brought against him;
and he was right, for the truth may run fine but will not break, and
always rises above falsehood as oil above water; and so, going on with his
story, he says that as soon as Don Quixote had ensconced himself in the
forest, oak grove, or wood near El Toboso, he bade Sancho return to the
city, and not come into his presence again without having first spoken on
his behalf to his lady, and begged of her that it might be her good
pleasure to permit herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and deign to
bestow her blessing upon him, so that he might thereby hope for a happy
issue in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook to
execute the task according to the instructions, and to bring back an
answer as good as the one he brought back before.

“Go, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and be not dazed when
thou findest thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art
going to seek. Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in
mind, and let it not escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if she
changes colour while thou art giving her my message; if she is agitated
and disturbed at hearing my name; if she cannot rest upon her cushion,
shouldst thou haply find her seated in the sumptuous state chamber proper
to her rank; and should she be standing, observe if she poises herself now
on one foot, now on the other; if she repeats two or three times the reply
she gives thee; if she passes from gentleness to austerity, from asperity
to tenderness; if she raises her hand to smooth her hair though it be not
disarranged. In short, my son, observe all her actions and motions, for if
thou wilt report them to me as they were, I will gather what she hides in
the recesses of her heart as regards my love; for I would have thee know,
Sancho, if thou knowest it not, that with lovers the outward actions and
motions they give way to when their loves are in question are the faithful
messengers that carry the news of what is going on in the depths of their
hearts. Go, my friend, may better fortune than mine attend thee, and bring
thee a happier issue than that which I await in dread in this dreary
solitude.”

“I will go and return quickly,” said Sancho; “cheer up
that little heart of yours, master mine, for at the present moment you
seem to have got one no bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say,
that a stout heart breaks bad luck, and that where there are no fletches
there are no pegs; and moreover they say, the hare jumps up where it’s
not looked for. I say this because, if we could not find my lady’s
palaces or castles to-night, now that it is daylight I count upon finding
them when I least expect it, and once found, leave it to me to manage her.”

“Verily, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou dost always
bring in thy proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me
better luck in what I am anxious about.”

With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don Quixote
remained behind, seated on his horse, resting in his stirrups and leaning
on the end of his lance, filled with sad and troubled forebodings; and
there we will leave him, and accompany Sancho, who went off no less
serious and troubled than he left his master; so much so, that as soon as
he had got out of the thicket, and looking round saw that Don Quixote was
not within sight, he dismounted from his ass, and seating himself at the
foot of a tree began to commune with himself, saying, “Now, brother
Sancho, let us know where your worship is going. Are you going to look for
some ass that has been lost? Not at all. Then what are you going to look
for? I am going to look for a princess, that’s all; and in her for
the sun of beauty and the whole heaven at once. And where do you expect to
find all this, Sancho? Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well,
and for whom are you going to look for her? For the famous knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha, who rights wrongs, gives food to those who thirst
and drink to the hungry. That’s all very well, but do you know her
house, Sancho? My master says it will be some royal palace or grand
castle. And have you ever seen her by any chance? Neither I nor my master
ever saw her. And does it strike you that it would be just and right if
the El Toboso people, finding out that you were here with the intention of
going to tamper with their princesses and trouble their ladies, were to
come and cudgel your ribs, and not leave a whole bone in you? They would,
indeed, have very good reason, if they did not see that I am under orders,
and that ‘you are a messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to you.’
Don’t you trust to that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as
hot-tempered as they are honest, and won’t put up with liberties
from anybody. By the Lord, if they get scent of you, it will be worse for
you, I promise you. Be off, you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why should I
go looking for three feet on a cat, to please another man; and what is
more, when looking for Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in Ravena, or
the bachelor in Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody else, has mixed
me up in this business!”

Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all the conclusion he
could come to was to say to himself again, “Well, there’s
remedy for everything except death, under whose yoke we have all to pass,
whether we like it or not, when life’s finished. I have seen by a
thousand signs that this master of mine is a madman fit to be tied, and
for that matter, I too, am not behind him; for I’m a greater fool
than he is when I follow him and serve him, if there’s any truth in
the proverb that says, ‘Tell me what company thou keepest, and I’ll
tell thee what thou art,’ or in that other, ‘Not with whom
thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.’ Well then, if he be mad,
as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one thing for another, and
white for black, and black for white, as was seen when he said the
windmills were giants, and the monks’ mules dromedaries, flocks of
sheep armies of enemies, and much more to the same tune, it will not be
very hard to make him believe that some country girl, the first I come
across here, is the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not believe it, I’ll
swear it; and if he should swear, I’ll swear again; and if he
persists I’ll persist still more, so as, come what may, to have my
quoit always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out in this way, I may put a
stop to his sending me on messages of this kind another time; or maybe he
will think, as I suspect he will, that one of those wicked enchanters, who
he says have a spite against him, has changed her form for the sake of
doing him an ill turn and injuring him.”

With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting the business as
good as settled, and stayed there till the afternoon so as to make Don
Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and return; and things
turned out so luckily for him that as he got up to mount Dapple, he spied,
coming from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood, three peasant girls
on three colts, or fillies—for the author does not make the point
clear, though it is more likely they were she-asses, the usual mount with
village girls; but as it is of no great consequence, we need not stop to
prove it.

To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned full
speed to seek his master, and found him sighing and uttering a thousand
passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he exclaimed, “What
news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a white stone or a
black?”

“Your worship,” replied Sancho, “had better mark it with
ruddle, like the inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who
see it may see it plain.”

“Then thou bringest good news,” said Don Quixote.

“So good,” replied Sancho, “that your worship has only
to spur Rocinante and get out into the open field to see the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, who, with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your
worship.”

“Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?” exclaimed
Don Quixote. “Take care thou art not deceiving me, or seeking by
false joy to cheer my real sadness.”

“What could I get by deceiving your worship,” returned Sancho,
“especially when it will so soon be shown whether I tell the truth
or not? Come, señor, push on, and you will see the princess our mistress
coming, robed and adorned—in fact, like what she is. Her damsels and
she are all one glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all diamonds, all
rubies, all cloth of brocade of more than ten borders; with their hair
loose on their shoulders like so many sunbeams playing with the wind; and
moreover, they come mounted on three piebald cackneys, the finest sight
ever you saw.”

“Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,” said Don Quixote.

“There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys,”
said Sancho; “but no matter what they come on, there they are, the
finest ladies one could wish for, especially my lady the princess
Dulcinea, who staggers one’s senses.”

“Let us go, Sancho, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and in
guerdon of this news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow upon thee the
best spoil I shall win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does
not satisfy thee, I promise thee the foals I shall have this year from my
three mares that thou knowest are in foal on our village common.”

“I’ll take the foals,” said Sancho; “for it is not
quite certain that the spoils of the first adventure will be good ones.”

By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three village lasses
close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El Toboso, and as
he could see nobody except the three peasant girls, he was completely
puzzled, and asked Sancho if it was outside the city he had left them.

“How outside the city?” returned Sancho. “Are your
worship’s eyes in the back of your head, that you can’t see
that they are these who are coming here, shining like the very sun at
noonday?”

“I see nothing, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but three
country girls on three jackasses.”

“Now, may God deliver me from the devil!” said Sancho, “and
can it be that your worship takes three hackneys—or whatever they’re
called—as white as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I
could tear my beard if that was the case!”

“Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote,
“that it is as plain they are jackasses—or jennyasses—as
that I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me
to be so.”

“Hush, señor,” said Sancho, “don’t talk that way,
but open your eyes, and come and pay your respects to the lady of your
thoughts, who is close upon us now;” and with these words he
advanced to receive the three village lasses, and dismounting from Dapple,
caught hold of one of the asses of the three country girls by the halter,
and dropping on both knees on the ground, he said, “Queen and
princess and duchess of beauty, may it please your haughtiness and
greatness to receive into your favour and good-will your captive knight
who stands there turned into marble stone, and quite stupefied and
benumbed at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am Sancho
Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of La Mancha,
otherwise called ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’”

Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside Sancho,
and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze, was regarding
her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could see nothing in her
except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured one, for she was
platter-faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and bewildered, and did not
venture to open his lips. The country girls, at the same time, were
astonished to see these two men, so different in appearance, on their
knees, preventing their companion from going on. She, however, who had
been stopped, breaking silence, said angrily and testily, “Get out
of the way, bad luck to you, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.”

To which Sancho returned, “Oh, princess and universal lady of El
Toboso, is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing the pillar and
prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated presence?”

On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, “Woa then! why, I’m
rubbing thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law! See how the lordlings come
to make game of the village girls now, as if we here could not chaff as
well as themselves. Go your own way, and let us go ours, and it will be
better for you.”

“Get up, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this; “I see that
fortune, ‘with evil done to me unsated still,’ has taken
possession of all the roads by which any comfort may reach ‘this
wretched soul’ that I carry in my flesh. And thou, highest
perfection of excellence that can be desired, utmost limit of grace in
human shape, sole relief of this afflicted heart that adores thee, though
the malign enchanter that persecutes me has brought clouds and cataracts
on my eyes, and to them, and them only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty
and changed thy features into those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he
has not at the same time changed mine into those of some monster to render
them loathsome in thy sight, refuse not to look upon me with tenderness
and love; seeing in this submission that I make on my knees to thy
transformed beauty the humility with which my soul adores thee.”

“Hey-day! My grandfather!” cried the girl, “much I care
for your love-making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we’ll
thank you.”

Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have got so well
out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass who had done
duty for Dulcinea found herself free, prodding her “cackney”
with a spike she had at the end of a stick, she set off at full speed
across the field. The she-ass, however, feeling the point more acutely
than usual, began cutting such capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to
the ground; seeing which, Don Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho to
fix and girth the pack-saddle, which also had slipped under the ass’s
belly. The pack-saddle being secured, as Don Quixote was about to lift up
his enchanted mistress in his arms and put her upon her beast, the lady,
getting up from the ground, saved him the trouble, for, going back a
little, she took a short run, and putting both hands on the croup of the
ass she dropped into the saddle more lightly than a falcon, and sat
astride like a man, whereat Sancho said, “Rogue! but our lady is
lighter than a lanner, and might teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican
how to mount; she cleared the back of the saddle in one jump, and without
spurs she is making the hackney go like a zebra; and her damsels are no
way behind her, for they all fly like the wind;” which was the
truth, for as soon as they saw Dulcinea mounted, they pushed on after her,
and sped away without looking back, for more than half a league.

Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no longer in
sight, he turned to Sancho and said, “How now, Sancho? thou seest
how I am hated by enchanters! And see to what a length the malice and
spite they bear me go, when they seek to deprive me of the happiness it
would give me to see my lady in her own proper form. The fact is I was
born to be an example of misfortune, and the target and mark at which the
arrows of adversity are aimed and directed. Observe too, Sancho, that
these traitors were not content with changing and transforming my
Dulcinea, but they transformed and changed her into a shape as mean and
ill-favoured as that of the village girl yonder; and at the same time they
robbed her of that which is such a peculiar property of ladies of
distinction, that is to say, the sweet fragrance that comes of being
always among perfumes and flowers. For I must tell thee, Sancho, that when
I approached to put Dulcinea upon her hackney (as thou sayest it was,
though to me it appeared a she-ass), she gave me a whiff of raw garlic
that made my head reel, and poisoned my very heart.”

“O scum of the earth!” cried Sancho at this, “O
miserable, spiteful enchanters! O that I could see you all strung by the
gills, like sardines on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great
deal, and ye do a great deal more. It ought to have been enough for you,
ye scoundrels, to have changed the pearls of my lady’s eyes into oak
galls, and her hair of purest gold into the bristles of a red ox’s
tail, and in short, all her features from fair to foul, without meddling
with her smell; for by that we might somehow have found out what was
hidden underneath that ugly rind; though, to tell the truth, I never
perceived her ugliness, but only her beauty, which was raised to the
highest pitch of perfection by a mole she had on her right lip, like a
moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like threads of gold, and more
than a palm long.”

“From the correspondence which exists between those of the face and
those of the body,” said Don Quixote, “Dulcinea must have
another mole resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on
which she has the one on her face; but hairs of the length thou hast
mentioned are very long for moles.”

“Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,”
replied Sancho.

“I believe it, my friend,” returned Don Quixote; “for
nature bestowed nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and
well-finished; and so, if she had a hundred moles like the one thou hast
described, in her they would not be moles, but moons and shining stars.
But tell me, Sancho, that which seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou
wert fixing it, was it a flat-saddle or a side-saddle?”

“It was neither,” replied Sancho, “but a jineta saddle,
with a field covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it.”

“And that I could not see all this, Sancho!” said Don Quixote;
“once more I say, and will say a thousand times, I am the most
unfortunate of men.”

Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing the
simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. At length, after a
good deal more conversation had passed between them, they remounted their
beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which they expected to reach
in time to take part in a certain grand festival which is held every year
in that illustrious city; but before they got there things happened to
them, so many, so important, and so strange, that they deserve to be
recorded and read, as will be seen farther on.

CHAPTER XI.

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR
CART OF “THE CORTES OF DEATH”

Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey, turning over
in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him in changing his
lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass, nor could he think
of any way of restoring her to her original form; and these reflections so
absorbed him, that without being aware of it he let go Rocinante’s
bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, stopped at
every step to crop the fresh grass with which the plain abounded.

Sancho recalled him from his reverie. “Melancholy, señor,”
said he, “was made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way
to it overmuch they turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be
yourself again; gather up Rocinante’s reins; cheer up, rouse
yourself and show that gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to have.
What the devil is this? What weakness is this? Are we here or in France?
The devil fly away with all the Dulcineas in the world; for the well-being
of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than all the enchantments
and transformations on earth.”

“Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice,
“hush and utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I
alone am to blame for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come
of the hatred the wicked bear me.”

“So say I,” returned Sancho; “his heart rend in twain, I
trow, who saw her once, to see her now.”

“Thou mayest well say that, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote,
“as thou sawest her in the full perfection of her beauty; for the
enchantment does not go so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her
loveliness from thee; against me alone and against my eyes is the strength
of its venom directed. Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred
to me, and that is that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as
well as I recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes that
are like pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a lady, and I
am persuaded that Dulcinea’s must be green emeralds, full and soft,
with two rainbows for eyebrows; take away those pearls from her eyes and
transfer them to her teeth; for beyond a doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken
the one for the other, the eyes for the teeth.”

“Very likely,” said Sancho; “for her beauty bewildered
me as much as her ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to
God, who alone knows what is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil
world of ours, where there is hardly a thing to be found without some
mixture of wickedness, roguery, and rascality. But one thing, señor,
troubles me more than all the rest, and that is thinking what is to be
done when your worship conquers some giant, or some other knight, and
orders him to go and present himself before the beauty of the lady
Dulcinea. Where is this poor giant, or this poor wretch of a vanquished
knight, to find her? I think I can see them wandering all over El Toboso,
looking like noddies, and asking for my lady Dulcinea; and even if they
meet her in the middle of the street they won’t know her any more
than they would my father.”

“Perhaps, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “the
enchantment does not go so far as to deprive conquered and presented
giants and knights of the power of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by
experiment with one or two of the first I vanquish and send to her,
whether they see her or not, by commanding them to return and give me an
account of what happened to them in this respect.”

“I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent,”
said Sancho; “and that by this plan we shall find out what we want
to know; and if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden, the
misfortune will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady Dulcinea
is well and happy, we on our part will make the best of it, and get on as
well as we can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time to take his own
course; for he is the best physician for these and greater ailments.”

Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he was prevented by a
cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange personages and
figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules and acted as carter
was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky, without a tilt or cane
roof, and the first figure that presented itself to Don Quixote’s
eyes was that of Death itself with a human face; next to it was an angel
with large painted wings, and at one side an emperor, with a crown, to all
appearance of gold, on his head. At the feet of Death was the god called
Cupid, without his bandage, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows; there
was also a knight in full armour, except that he had no morion or helmet,
but only a hat decked with plumes of divers colours; and along with these
there were others with a variety of costumes and faces. All this,
unexpectedly encountered, took Don Quixote somewhat aback, and struck
terror into the heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don Quixote was glad
of it, believing that some new perilous adventure was presenting itself to
him, and under this impression, and with a spirit prepared to face any
danger, he planted himself in front of the cart, and in a loud and
menacing tone, exclaimed, “Carter, or coachman, or devil, or
whatever thou art, tell me at once who thou art, whither thou art going,
and who these folk are thou carriest in thy wagon, which looks more like
Charon’s boat than an ordinary cart.”

To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, “Señor, we
are players of Angulo el Malo’s company; we have been acting the
play of ‘The Cortes of Death’ this morning, which is the
octave of Corpus Christi, in a village behind that hill, and we have to
act it this afternoon in that village which you can see from this; and as
it is so near, and to save the trouble of undressing and dressing again,
we go in the costumes in which we perform. That lad there appears as
Death, that other as an angel, that woman, the manager’s wife, plays
the queen, this one the soldier, that the emperor, and I the devil; and I
am one of the principal characters of the play, for in this company I take
the leading parts. If you want to know anything more about us, ask me and
I will answer with the utmost exactitude, for as I am a devil I am up to
everything.”

“By the faith of a knight-errant,” replied Don Quixote,
“when I saw this cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting
itself to me; but I declare one must touch with the hand what appears to
the eye, if illusions are to be avoided. God speed you, good people; keep
your festival, and remember, if you demand of me ought wherein I can
render you a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for from a child
I was fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of the actor’s
art.”

While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the company in a
mummers’ dress with a great number of bells, and armed with three
blown ox-bladders at the end of a stick, joined them, and this
merry-andrew approaching Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick and
banging the ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great
jingling of the bells, which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante
that, in spite of Don Quixote’s efforts to hold him in, taking the
bit between his teeth he set off across the plain with greater speed than
the bones of his anatomy ever gave any promise of.

Sancho, who thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped off
Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he reached him
he was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, who had come
down with his master, the usual end and upshot of Rocinante’s
vivacity and high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast to go
and help Don Quixote, the dancing devil with the bladders jumped up on
Dapple, and beating him with them, more by the fright and the noise than
by the pain of the blows, made him fly across the fields towards the
village where they were going to hold their festival. Sancho witnessed
Dapple’s career and his master’s fall, and did not know which
of the two cases of need he should attend to first; but in the end, like a
good squire and good servant, he let his love for his master prevail over
his affection for his ass; though every time he saw the bladders rise in
the air and come down on the hind quarters of his Dapple he felt the pains
and terrors of death, and he would have rather had the blows fall on the
apples of his own eyes than on the least hair of his ass’s tail. In
this trouble and perplexity he came to where Don Quixote lay in a far
sorrier plight than he liked, and having helped him to mount Rocinante, he
said to him, “Señor, the devil has carried off my Dapple.”

“What devil?” asked Don Quixote.

“The one with the bladders,” said Sancho.

“Then I will recover him,” said Don Quixote, “even if he
be shut up with him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of hell. Follow
me, Sancho, for the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make
good the loss of Dapple.”

“You need not take the trouble, señor,” said Sancho; “keep
cool, for as I now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back
to his old quarters;” and so it turned out, for, having come down
with Dapple, in imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made off
on foot to the town, and the ass came back to his master.

“For all that,” said Don Quixote, “it will be well to
visit the discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, even
if it were the emperor himself.”

“Don’t think of it, your worship,” returned Sancho;
“take my advice and never meddle with actors, for they are a
favoured class; I myself have known an actor taken up for two murders, and
yet come off scot-free; remember that, as they are merry folk who give
pleasure, everyone favours and protects them, and helps and makes much of
them, above all when they are those of the royal companies and under
patent, all or most of whom in dress and appearance look like princes.”

“Still, for all that,” said Don Quixote, “the player
devil must not go off boasting, even if the whole human race favours him.”

So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town,
shouting out as he went, “Stay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want
to teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of
knights-errant for steeds.”

So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the cart heard and
understood them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker’s
intention was, Death in an instant jumped out of the cart, and the
emperor, the devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the queen or
the god Cupid stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and formed
in line, prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their pebbles.
Don Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a gallant array with
uplifted arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones, checked Rocinante
and began to consider in what way he could attack them with the least
danger to himself. As he halted Sancho came up, and seeing him disposed to
attack this well-ordered squadron, said to him, “It would be the
height of madness to attempt such an enterprise; remember, señor, that
against sops from the brook, and plenty of them, there is no defensive
armour in the world, except to stow oneself away under a brass bell; and
besides, one should remember that it is rashness, and not valour, for a
single man to attack an army that has Death in it, and where emperors
fight in person, with angels, good and bad, to help them; and if this
reflection will not make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to know for
certain that among all these, though they look like kings, princes, and
emperors, there is not a single knight-errant.”

“Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote, “which may and should turn me from the resolution I had
already formed. I cannot and must not draw sword, as I have many a time
before told thee, against anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for
thee, Sancho, if thou wilt, to take vengeance for the wrong done to thy
Dapple; and I will help thee from here by shouts and salutary counsels.”

“There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, señor,”
replied Sancho; “for it is not the part of good Christians to
revenge wrongs; and besides, I will arrange it with my ass to leave his
grievance to my good-will and pleasure, and that is to live in peace as
long as heaven grants me life.”

“Well,” said Don Quixote, “if that be thy determination,
good Sancho, sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest Sancho, let us
leave these phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier
adventures; for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to find
plenty of marvellous ones in it.”

He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of his Dapple,
Death and his flying squadron returned to their cart and pursued their
journey, and thus the dread adventure of the cart of Death ended happily,
thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master; who had, the following day, a
fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than the last, with an
enamoured knight-errant.

CHAPTER XII.

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE
BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote and
his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at Sancho’s
persuasion ate a little from the store carried by Dapple, and over their
supper Sancho said to his master, “Señor, what a fool I should have
looked if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the first adventure
your worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares. After all,
‘a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.’”

“At the same time, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “if
thou hadst let me attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor’s
gold crown and Cupid’s painted wings would have fallen to thee as
spoils, for I should have taken them by force and given them into thy
hands.”

“The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors,” said
Sancho, “were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “for it would not be
right that the accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being
mere fictions and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho—and,
as a necessary consequence, towards those who represent and produce it—I
would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments of
great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in which
we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is there any
similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and ought to be than
the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted
in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers other
personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another the knave, this
one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted fool, another the
foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they have put off the
dresses they wore in it, all the actors become equal.”

“Yes, I have seen that,” said Sancho.

“Well then,” said Don Quixote, “the same thing happens
in the comedy and life of this world, where some play emperors, others
popes, and, in short, all the characters that can be brought into a play;
but when it is over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all
of the garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in
the grave.”

“A fine comparison!” said Sancho; “though not so new but
that I have heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of
the game of chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own
particular office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed,
jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much
like ending life in the grave.”

“Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho,”
said Don Quixote.

“Ay,” said Sancho; “it must be that some of your worship’s
shrewdness sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will
come to yield good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is that
your worship’s conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the
barren soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and
society has been the tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield
fruit in abundance that will not fall away or slide from those paths of
good breeding that your worship has made in my parched understanding.”

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s affected phraseology, and perceived
that what he said about his improvement was true, for now and then he
spoke in a way that surprised him; though always, or mostly, when Sancho
tried to talk fine and attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling
over from the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance;
and where he showed his culture and his memory to the greatest advantage
was in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not
upon the subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be
noticed in the course of this history.

In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but
Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to
say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he left him at
liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante’s saddle, as
his master’s express orders were, that so long as they were in the
field or not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped—the
ancient usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take off
the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove the saddle from
the horse—never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same
liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a
friendship so unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by
tradition from father to son, that the author of this veracious history
devoted some special chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the
propriety and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert
therein; although at times he forgets this resolution of his and describes
how eagerly the two beasts would scratch one another when they were
together and how, when they were tired or full, Rocinante would lay his
neck across Dapple’s, stretching half a yard or more on the other
side, and the pair would stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground,
for three days, or at least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did
not drive them to go and look for food. I may add that they say the author
left it on record that he likened their friendship to that of Nisus and
Euryalus, and Pylades and Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived,
to the admiration of mankind, how firm the friendship must have been
between these two peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships
with one another so badly. This was why it was said-

For friend no longer is there friend; The reeds turn lances now.

And some one else has sung—

Friend to friend the bug, etc.

And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared
the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received many
lessons from beasts, and learned many important things, as, for example,
the clyster from the stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog, watchfulness
from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the elephant, and
loyalty from the horse.

Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote
dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a
noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up startled, he listened
and looked in the direction the noise came from, and perceived two men on
horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to the
other, “Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the horses,
for, so far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for them, and the
solitude and silence my love-sick thoughts need of.” As he said this
he stretched himself upon the ground, and as he flung himself down, the
armour in which he was clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he
must be a knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he
shook him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his
senses, and said in a low voice to him, “Brother Sancho, we have got
an adventure.”

“God send us a good one,” said Sancho; “and where may
her ladyship the adventure be?”

“Where, Sancho?” replied Don Quixote; “turn thine eyes
and look, and thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it
strikes me, is not over and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off
his horse and throw himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection,
and his armour rattled as he fell.”

“Well,” said Sancho, “how does your worship make out
that to be an adventure?”

“I do not mean to say,” returned Don Quixote, “that it
is a complete adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in
this way adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute or
guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must be
getting ready to sing something.”

“Faith, you are right,” said Sancho, “and no doubt he is
some enamoured knight.”

“There is no knight-errant that is not,” said Don Quixote;
“but let us listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall
extract the ball of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of the
heart the mouth speaketh.”

Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove’s
voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and
listening attentively the pair heard him sing this

With an “Ah me!” that seemed to be drawn from the inmost
recesses of his heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end,
and shortly afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice,
“O fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most
serene Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight
to waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous
toils? It is not enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre,
all the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, and finally all
the knights of La Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?”

“Not so,” said Don Quixote at this, “for I am of La
Mancha, and I have never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor
should I confess a thing so much to the prejudice of my lady’s
beauty; thou seest how this knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen,
perhaps he will tell us more about himself.”

“That he will,” returned Sancho, “for he seems in a mood
to bewail himself for a month at a stretch.”

But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices
near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed in
a distinct but courteous tone, “Who goes there? What are you? Do you
belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?”

“Of the miserable,” answered Don Quixote.

“Then come to me,” said he of the Grove, “and rest
assured that it is to woe itself and affliction itself you come.”

Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous manner,
went over to him, and so did Sancho.

The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, “Sit down
here, sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess
knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in this
place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat of
knights-errant, keep you company.” To which Don made answer, “A
knight I am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows,
misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion
I feel for the misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from
it. From what you have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love,
I mean from the love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament.”

In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground
peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not
going to break one another’s heads.

“Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?” asked he of the
Grove of Don Quixote.

“By mischance I am,” replied Don Quixote; “though the
ills arising from well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours
rather than misfortunes.”

“That is true,” returned he of the Grove, “if scorn did
not unsettle our reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks
like revenge.”

“I was never scorned by my lady,” said Don Quixote.

“Certainly not,” said Sancho, who stood close by, “for
my lady is as a lamb, and softer than a roll of butter.”

“Is this your squire?” asked he of the Grove.

“He is,” said Don Quixote.

“I never yet saw a squire,” said he of the Grove, “who
ventured to speak when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine,
who is as big as his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever
opened his lips when I am speaking.”

“By my faith then,” said Sancho, “I have spoken, and am
fit to speak, in the presence of one as much, or even—but never mind—it
only makes it worse to stir it.”

The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, “Let
us two go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and
leave these gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story of their
loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it without having
made an end of it.”

“So be it by all means,” said Sancho; “and I will tell
your worship who I am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among
the number of the most talkative squires.”

With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there
passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between their masters
was serious.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER
WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE
TWO SQUIRES

The knights and the squires made two parties, these telling the story of
their lives, the others the story of their loves; but the history relates
first of all the conversation of the servants, and afterwards takes up
that of the masters; and it says that, withdrawing a little from the
others, he of the Grove said to Sancho, “A hard life it is we lead
and live, señor, we that are squires to knights-errant; verily, we eat our
bread in the sweat of our faces, which is one of the curses God laid on
our first parents.”

“It may be said, too,” added Sancho, “that we eat it in
the chill of our bodies; for who gets more heat and cold than the
miserable squires of knight-errantry? Even so it would not be so bad if we
had something to eat, for woes are lighter if there’s bread; but
sometimes we go a day or two without breaking our fast, except with the
wind that blows.”

“All that,” said he of the Grove, “may be endured and
put up with when we have hopes of reward; for, unless the knight-errant he
serves is excessively unlucky, after a few turns the squire will at least
find himself rewarded with a fine government of some island or some fair
county.”

“I,” said Sancho, “have already told my master that I
shall be content with the government of some island, and he is so noble
and generous that he has promised it to me ever so many times.”

“I,” said he of the Grove, “shall be satisfied with a
canonry for my services, and my master has already assigned me one.”

“Your master,” said Sancho, “no doubt is a knight in the
Church line, and can bestow rewards of that sort on his good squire; but
mine is only a layman; though I remember some clever, but, to my mind,
designing people, strove to persuade him to try and become an archbishop.
He, however, would not be anything but an emperor; but I was trembling all
the time lest he should take a fancy to go into the Church, not finding
myself fit to hold office in it; for I may tell you, though I seem a man,
I am no better than a beast for the Church.”

“Well, then, you are wrong there,” said he of the Grove;
“for those island governments are not all satisfactory; some are
awkward, some are poor, some are dull, and, in short, the highest and
choicest brings with it a heavy burden of cares and troubles which the
unhappy wight to whose lot it has fallen bears upon his shoulders. Far
better would it be for us who have adopted this accursed service to go
back to our own houses, and there employ ourselves in pleasanter
occupations—in hunting or fishing, for instance; for what squire in
the world is there so poor as not to have a hack and a couple of
greyhounds and a fishingrod to amuse himself with in his own village?”

“I am not in want of any of those things,” said Sancho;
“to be sure I have no hack, but I have an ass that is worth my
master’s horse twice over; God send me a bad Easter, and that the
next one I am to see, if I would swap, even if I got four bushels of
barley to boot. You will laugh at the value I put on my Dapple—for
dapple is the colour of my beast. As to greyhounds, I can’t want for
them, for there are enough and to spare in my town; and, moreover, there
is more pleasure in sport when it is at other people’s expense.”

“In truth and earnest, sir squire,” said he of the Grove,
“I have made up my mind and determined to have done with these
drunken vagaries of these knights, and go back to my village, and bring up
my children; for I have three, like three Oriental pearls.”

“I have two,” said Sancho, “that might be presented
before the Pope himself, especially a girl whom I am breeding up for a
countess, please God, though in spite of her mother.”

“And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a countess?”
asked he of the Grove.

“Fifteen, a couple of years more or less,” answered Sancho;
“but she is as tall as a lance, and as fresh as an April morning,
and as strong as a porter.”

“Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a nymph of
the greenwood,” said he of the Grove; “whoreson strumpet! what
pith the rogue must have!”

To which Sancho made answer, somewhat sulkily, “She’s no
strumpet, nor was her mother, nor will either of them be, please God,
while I live; speak more civilly; for one bred up among knights-errant,
who are courtesy itself, your words don’t seem to me to be very
becoming.”

“O how little you know about compliments, sir squire,”
returned he of the Grove. “What! don’t you know that when a
horseman delivers a good lance thrust at the bull in the plaza, or when
anyone does anything very well, the people are wont to say, ‘Ha,
whoreson rip! how well he has done it!’ and that what seems to be
abuse in the expression is high praise? Disown sons and daughters, señor,
who don’t do what deserves that compliments of this sort should be
paid to their parents.”

“I do disown them,” replied Sancho, “and in this way,
and by the same reasoning, you might call me and my children and my wife
all the strumpets in the world, for all they do and say is of a kind that
in the highest degree deserves the same praise; and to see them again I
pray God to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to the same thing,
to deliver me from this perilous calling of squire into which I have
fallen a second time, decayed and beguiled by a purse with a hundred
ducats that I found one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena; and the
devil is always putting a bag full of doubloons before my eyes, here,
there, everywhere, until I fancy at every stop I am putting my hand on it,
and hugging it, and carrying it home with me, and making investments, and
getting interest, and living like a prince; and so long as I think of this
I make light of all the hardships I endure with this simpleton of a master
of mine, who, I well know, is more of a madman than a knight.”

“There’s why they say that ‘covetousness bursts the bag,’”
said he of the Grove; “but if you come to talk of that sort, there
is not a greater one in the world than my master, for he is one of those
of whom they say, ‘the cares of others kill the ass;’ for, in
order that another knight may recover the senses he has lost, he makes a
madman of himself and goes looking for what, when found, may, for all I
know, fly in his own face.” “And is he in love perchance?”
asked Sancho.

“He is,” said of the Grove, “with one Casildea de
Vandalia, the rawest and best roasted lady the whole world could produce;
but that rawness is not the only foot he limps on, for he has greater
schemes rumbling in his bowels, as will be seen before many hours are
over.”

“There’s no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance
in it,” said Sancho; “in other houses they cook beans, but in
mine it’s by the potful; madness will have more followers and
hangers-on than sound sense; but if there be any truth in the common
saying, that to have companions in trouble gives some relief, I may take
consolation from you, inasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own.”

“Crazy but valiant,” replied he of the Grove, “and more
roguish than crazy or valiant.”

“Mine is not that,” said Sancho; “I mean he has nothing
of the rogue in him; on the contrary, he has the soul of a pitcher; he has
no thought of doing harm to anyone, only good to all, nor has he any
malice whatever in him; a child might persuade him that it is night at
noonday; and for this simplicity I love him as the core of my heart, and I
can’t bring myself to leave him, let him do ever such foolish
things.”

“For all that, brother and señor,” said he of the Grove,
“if the blind lead the blind, both are in danger of falling into the
pit. It is better for us to beat a quiet retreat and get back to our own
quarters; for those who seek adventures don’t always find good ones.”

Sancho kept spitting from time to time, and his spittle seemed somewhat
ropy and dry, observing which the compassionate squire of the Grove said,
“It seems to me that with all this talk of ours our tongues are
sticking to the roofs of our mouths; but I have a pretty good loosener
hanging from the saddle-bow of my horse,” and getting up he came
back the next minute with a large bota of wine and a pasty half a yard
across; and this is no exaggeration, for it was made of a house rabbit so
big that Sancho, as he handled it, took it to be made of a goat, not to
say a kid, and looking at it he said, “And do you carry this with
you, señor?”

“Why, what are you thinking about?” said the other; “do
you take me for some paltry squire? I carry a better larder on my horse’s
croup than a general takes with him when he goes on a march.”

Sancho ate without requiring to be pressed, and in the dark bolted
mouthfuls like the knots on a tether, and said he, “You are a proper
trusty squire, one of the right sort, sumptuous and grand, as this banquet
shows, which, if it has not come here by magic art, at any rate has the
look of it; not like me, unlucky beggar, that have nothing more in my
alforjas than a scrap of cheese, so hard that one might brain a giant with
it, and, to keep it company, a few dozen carobs and as many more filberts
and walnuts; thanks to the austerity of my master, and the idea he has and
the rule he follows, that knights-errant must not live or sustain
themselves on anything except dried fruits and the herbs of the field.”

“By my faith, brother,” said he of the Grove, “my
stomach is not made for thistles, or wild pears, or roots of the woods;
let our masters do as they like, with their chivalry notions and laws, and
eat what those enjoin; I carry my prog-basket and this bota hanging to the
saddle-bow, whatever they may say; and it is such an object of worship
with me, and I love it so, that there is hardly a moment but I am kissing
and embracing it over and over again;” and so saying he thrust it
into Sancho’s hands, who raising it aloft pointed to his mouth,
gazed at the stars for a quarter of an hour; and when he had done drinking
let his head fall on one side, and giving a deep sigh, exclaimed, “Ah,
whoreson rogue, how catholic it is!”

“There, you see,” said he of the Grove, hearing Sancho’s
exclamation, “how you have called this wine whoreson by way of
praise.”

“Well,” said Sancho, “I own it, and I grant it is no
dishonour to call anyone whoreson when it is to be understood as praise.
But tell me, señor, by what you love best, is this Ciudad Real wine?”

“O rare wine-taster!” said he of the Grove; “nowhere
else indeed does it come from, and it has some years’ age too.”

“Leave me alone for that,” said Sancho; “never fear but
I’ll hit upon the place it came from somehow. What would you say,
sir squire, to my having such a great natural instinct in judging wines
that you have only to let me smell one and I can tell positively its
country, its kind, its flavour and soundness, the changes it will undergo,
and everything that appertains to a wine? But it is no wonder, for I have
had in my family, on my father’s side, the two best wine-tasters
that have been known in La Mancha for many a long year, and to prove it I’ll
tell you now a thing that happened them. They gave the two of them some
wine out of a cask, to try, asking their opinion as to the condition,
quality, goodness or badness of the wine. One of them tried it with the
tip of his tongue, the other did no more than bring it to his nose. The
first said the wine had a flavour of iron, the second said it had a
stronger flavour of cordovan. The owner said the cask was clean, and that
nothing had been added to the wine from which it could have got a flavour
of either iron or leather. Nevertheless, these two great wine-tasters held
to what they had said. Time went by, the wine was sold, and when they came
to clean out the cask, they found in it a small key hanging to a thong of
cordovan; see now if one who comes of the same stock has not a right to
give his opinion in such like cases.”

“Therefore, I say,” said he of the Grove, “let us give
up going in quest of adventures, and as we have loaves let us not go
looking for cakes, but return to our cribs, for God will find us there if
it be his will.”

“Until my master reaches Saragossa,” said Sancho, “I’ll
remain in his service; after that we’ll see.”

The end of it was that the two squires talked so much and drank so much
that sleep had to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst, for to
quench it was impossible; and so the pair of them fell asleep clinging to
the now nearly empty bota and with half-chewed morsels in their mouths;
and there we will leave them for the present, to relate what passed
between the Knight of the Grove and him of the Rueful Countenance.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE

Among the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of the
Wood, the history tells us he of the Grove said to Don Quixote, “In
fine, sir knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or, more properly
speaking, my choice led me to fall in love with the peerless Casildea de
Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has no peer, whether it be in
bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank and beauty. This same Casildea,
then, that I speak of, requited my honourable passion and gentle
aspirations by compelling me, as his stepmother did Hercules, to engage in
many perils of various sorts, at the end of each promising me that, with
the end of the next, the object of my hopes should be attained; but my
labours have gone on increasing link by link until they are past counting,
nor do I know what will be the last one that is to be the beginning of the
accomplishment of my chaste desires. On one occasion she bade me go and
challenge the famous giantess of Seville, La Giralda by name, who is as
mighty and strong as if made of brass, and though never stirring from one
spot, is the most restless and changeable woman in the world. I came, I
saw, I conquered, and I made her stay quiet and behave herself, for
nothing but north winds blew for more than a week. Another time I was
ordered to lift those ancient stones, the mighty bulls of Guisando, an
enterprise that might more fitly be entrusted to porters than to knights.
Again, she bade me fling myself into the cavern of Cabra—an
unparalleled and awful peril—and bring her a minute account of all
that is concealed in those gloomy depths. I stopped the motion of the
Giralda, I lifted the bulls of Guisando, I flung myself into the cavern
and brought to light the secrets of its abyss; and my hopes are as dead as
dead can be, and her scorn and her commands as lively as ever. To be
brief, last of all she has commanded me to go through all the provinces of
Spain and compel all the knights-errant wandering therein to confess that
she surpasses all women alive to-day in beauty, and that I am the most
valiant and the most deeply enamoured knight on earth; in support of which
claim I have already travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have
there vanquished several knights who have dared to contradict me; but what
I most plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished in single combat
that so famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, and made him confess that
my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea; and in this one victory I
hold myself to have conquered all the knights in the world; for this Don
Quixote that I speak of has vanquished them all, and I having vanquished
him, his glory, his fame, and his honour have passed and are transferred
to my person; for

Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote are now set down
to my account and have become mine.”

Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Grove, and was a
thousand times on the point of telling him he lied, and had the lie direct
already on the tip of his tongue; but he restrained himself as well as he
could, in order to force him to confess the lie with his own lips; so he
said to him quietly, “As to what you say, sir knight, about having
vanquished most of the knights of Spain, or even of the whole world, I say
nothing; but that you have vanquished Don Quixote of La Mancha I consider
doubtful; it may have been some other that resembled him, although there
are few like him.”

“How! not vanquished?” said he of the Grove; “by the
heaven that is above us I fought Don Quixote and overcame him and made him
yield; and he is a man of tall stature, gaunt features, long, lank limbs,
with hair turning grey, an aquiline nose rather hooked, and large black
drooping moustaches; he does battle under the name of ‘The
Countenance,’ and he has for squire a peasant called Sancho Panza;
he presses the loins and rules the reins of a famous steed called
Rocinante; and lastly, he has for the mistress of his will a certain
Dulcinea del Toboso, once upon a time called Aldonza Lorenzo, just as I
call mine Casildea de Vandalia because her name is Casilda and she is of
Andalusia. If all these tokens are not enough to vindicate the truth of
what I say, here is my sword, that will compel incredulity itself to give
credence to it.”

“Calm yourself, sir knight,” said Don Quixote, “and give
ear to what I am about to say to you. I would have you know that this Don
Quixote you speak of is the greatest friend I have in the world; so much
so that I may say I regard him in the same light as my own person; and
from the precise and clear indications you have given I cannot but think
that he must be the very one you have vanquished. On the other hand, I see
with my eyes and feel with my hands that it is impossible it can have been
the same; unless indeed it be that, as he has many enemies who are
enchanters, and one in particular who is always persecuting him, some one
of these may have taken his shape in order to allow himself to be
vanquished, so as to defraud him of the fame that his exalted achievements
as a knight have earned and acquired for him throughout the known world.
And in confirmation of this, I must tell you, too, that it is but ten
hours since these said enchanters his enemies transformed the shape and
person of the fair Dulcinea del Toboso into a foul and mean village lass,
and in the same way they must have transformed Don Quixote; and if all
this does not suffice to convince you of the truth of what I say, here is
Don Quixote himself, who will maintain it by arms, on foot or on horseback
or in any way you please.”

And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his sword, waiting to see
what the Knight of the Grove would do, who in an equally calm voice said
in reply, “Pledges don’t distress a good payer; he who has
succeeded in vanquishing you once when transformed, Sir Don Quixote, may
fairly hope to subdue you in your own proper shape; but as it is not
becoming for knights to perform their feats of arms in the dark, like
highwaymen and bullies, let us wait till daylight, that the sun may behold
our deeds; and the conditions of our combat shall be that the vanquished
shall be at the victor’s disposal, to do all that he may enjoin,
provided the injunction be such as shall be becoming a knight.”

“I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms,”
replied Don Quixote; and so saying, they betook themselves to where their
squires lay, and found them snoring, and in the same posture they were in
when sleep fell upon them. They roused them up, and bade them get the
horses ready, as at sunrise they were to engage in a bloody and arduous
single combat; at which intelligence Sancho was aghast and thunderstruck,
trembling for the safety of his master because of the mighty deeds he had
heard the squire of the Grove ascribe to his; but without a word the two
squires went in quest of their cattle; for by this time the three horses
and the ass had smelt one another out, and were all together.

On the way, he of the Grove said to Sancho, “You must know, brother,
that it is the custom with the fighting men of Andalusia, when they are
godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle with folded arms while their
godsons fight; I say so to remind you that while our masters are fighting,
we, too, have to fight, and knock one another to shivers.”

“That custom, sir squire,” replied Sancho, “may hold
good among those bullies and fighting men you talk of, but certainly not
among the squires of knights-errant; at least, I have never heard my
master speak of any custom of the sort, and he knows all the laws of
knight-errantry by heart; but granting it true that there is an express
law that squires are to fight while their masters are fighting, I don’t
mean to obey it, but to pay the penalty that may be laid on peacefully
minded squires like myself; for I am sure it cannot be more than two
pounds of wax, and I would rather pay that, for I know it will cost me
less than the lint I shall be at the expense of to mend my head, which I
look upon as broken and split already; there’s another thing that
makes it impossible for me to fight, that I have no sword, for I never
carried one in my life.”

“I know a good remedy for that,” said he of the Grove; “I
have here two linen bags of the same size; you shall take one, and I the
other, and we will fight at bag blows with equal arms.”

“If that’s the way, so be it with all my heart,” said
Sancho, “for that sort of battle will serve to knock the dust out of
us instead of hurting us.”

“That will not do,” said the other, “for we must put
into the bags, to keep the wind from blowing them away, half a dozen nice
smooth pebbles, all of the same weight; and in this way we shall be able
to baste one another without doing ourselves any harm or mischief.”

“Body of my father!” said Sancho, “see what marten and
sable, and pads of carded cotton he is putting into the bags, that our
heads may not be broken and our bones beaten to jelly! But even if they
are filled with toss silk, I can tell you, señor, I am not going to fight;
let our masters fight, that’s their lookout, and let us drink and
live; for time will take care to ease us of our lives, without our going
to look for fillips so that they may be finished off before their proper
time comes and they drop from ripeness.”

“Still,” returned he of the Grove, “we must fight, if it
be only for half an hour.”

“By no means,” said Sancho; “I am not going to be so
discourteous or so ungrateful as to have any quarrel, be it ever so small,
with one I have eaten and drunk with; besides, who the devil could bring
himself to fight in cold blood, without anger or provocation?”

“I can remedy that entirely,” said he of the Grove, “and
in this way: before we begin the battle, I will come up to your worship
fair and softly, and give you three or four buffets, with which I shall
stretch you at my feet and rouse your anger, though it were sleeping
sounder than a dormouse.”

“To match that plan,” said Sancho, “I have another that
is not a whit behind it; I will take a cudgel, and before your worship
comes near enough to waken my anger I will send yours so sound to sleep
with whacks, that it won’t waken unless it be in the other world,
where it is known that I am not a man to let my face be handled by anyone;
let each look out for the arrow—though the surer way would be to let
everyone’s anger sleep, for nobody knows the heart of anyone, and a
man may come for wool and go back shorn; God gave his blessing to peace
and his curse to quarrels; if a hunted cat, surrounded and hard pressed,
turns into a lion, God knows what I, who am a man, may turn into; and so
from this time forth I warn you, sir squire, that all the harm and
mischief that may come of our quarrel will be put down to your account.”

“Very good,” said he of the Grove; “God will send the
dawn and we shall be all right.”

And now gay-plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in the trees, and
with their varied and gladsome notes seemed to welcome and salute the
fresh morn that was beginning to show the beauty of her countenance at the
gates and balconies of the east, shaking from her locks a profusion of
liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture bathed, the plants, too, seemed to
shed and shower down a pearly spray, the willows distilled sweet manna,
the fountains laughed, the brooks babbled, the woods rejoiced, and the
meadows arrayed themselves in all their glory at her coming. But hardly
had the light of day made it possible to see and distinguish things, when
the first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the
squire of the Grove’s nose, which was so big that it almost
overshadowed his whole body. It is, in fact, stated, that it was of
enormous size, hooked in the middle, covered with warts, and of a mulberry
colour like an egg-plant; it hung down two fingers’ length below his
mouth, and the size, the colour, the warts, and the bend of it, made his
face so hideous, that Sancho, as he looked at him, began to tremble hand
and foot like a child in convulsions, and he vowed in his heart to let
himself be given two hundred buffets, sooner than be provoked to fight
that monster. Don Quixote examined his adversary, and found that he
already had his helmet on and visor lowered, so that he could not see his
face; he observed, however, that he was a sturdily built man, but not very
tall in stature. Over his armour he wore a surcoat or cassock of what
seemed to be the finest cloth of gold, all bespangled with glittering
mirrors like little moons, which gave him an extremely gallant and
splendid appearance; above his helmet fluttered a great quantity of
plumes, green, yellow, and white, and his lance, which was leaning against
a tree, was very long and stout, and had a steel point more than a palm in
length.

Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what he saw and
observed he concluded that the said knight must be a man of great
strength, but he did not for all that give way to fear, like Sancho Panza;
on the contrary, with a composed and dauntless air, he said to the Knight
of the Mirrors, “If, sir knight, your great eagerness to fight has
not banished your courtesy, by it I would entreat you to raise your visor
a little, in order that I may see if the comeliness of your countenance
corresponds with that of your equipment.”

“Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this emprise, sir
knight,” replied he of the Mirrors, “you will have more than
enough time and leisure to see me; and if now I do not comply with your
request, it is because it seems to me I should do a serious wrong to the
fair Casildea de Vandalia in wasting time while I stopped to raise my
visor before compelling you to confess what you are already aware I
maintain.”

“Well then,” said Don Quixote, “while we are mounting
you can at least tell me if I am that Don Quixote whom you said you
vanquished.”

“To that we answer you,” said he of the Mirrors, “that
you are as like the very knight I vanquished as one egg is like another,
but as you say enchanters persecute you, I will not venture to say
positively whether you are the said person or not.”

“That,” said Don Quixote, “is enough to convince me that
you are under a deception; however, entirely to relieve you of it, let our
horses be brought, and in less time than it would take you to raise your
visor, if God, my lady, and my arm stand me in good stead, I shall see
your face, and you shall see that I am not the vanquished Don Quixote you
take me to be.”

With this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don Quixote
wheeled Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge back
upon his adversary, and he of the Mirrors did the same; but Don Quixote
had not moved away twenty paces when he heard himself called by the other,
and, each returning half-way, he of the Mirrors said to him, “Remember,
sir knight, that the terms of our combat are, that the vanquished, as I
said before, shall be at the victor’s disposal.”

“I am aware of it already,” said Don Quixote; “provided
what is commanded and imposed upon the vanquished be things that do not
transgress the limits of chivalry.”

“That is understood,” replied he of the Mirrors.

At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself to
Don Quixote’s view, and he was no less amazed than Sancho at the
sight; insomuch that he set him down as a monster of some kind, or a human
being of some new species or unearthly breed. Sancho, seeing his master
retiring to run his course, did not like to be left alone with the nosy
man, fearing that with one flap of that nose on his own the battle would
be all over for him and he would be left stretched on the ground, either
by the blow or with fright; so he ran after his master, holding on to
Rocinante’s stirrup-leather, and when it seemed to him time to turn
about, he said, “I implore of your worship, señor, before you turn
to charge, to help me up into this cork tree, from which I will be able to
witness the gallant encounter your worship is going to have with this
knight, more to my taste and better than from the ground.”

“It seems to me rather, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that
thou wouldst mount a scaffold in order to see the bulls without danger.”

“To tell the truth,” returned Sancho, “the monstrous
nose of that squire has filled me with fear and terror, and I dare not
stay near him.”

“It is,” said Don Quixote, “such a one that were I not
what I am it would terrify me too; so, come, I will help thee up where
thou wilt.”

While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork tree he of the
Mirrors took as much ground as he considered requisite, and, supposing Don
Quixote to have done the same, without waiting for any sound of trumpet or
other signal to direct them, he wheeled his horse, which was not more
agile or better-looking than Rocinante, and at his top speed, which was an
easy trot, he proceeded to charge his enemy; seeing him, however, engaged
in putting Sancho up, he drew rein, and halted in mid career, for which
his horse was very grateful, as he was already unable to go. Don Quixote,
fancying that his foe was coming down upon him flying, drove his spurs
vigorously into Rocinante’s lean flanks and made him scud along in
such style that the history tells us that on this occasion only was he
known to make something like running, for on all others it was a simple
trot with him; and with this unparalleled fury he bore down where he of
the Mirrors stood digging his spurs into his horse up to buttons, without
being able to make him stir a finger’s length from the spot where he
had come to a standstill in his course. At this lucky moment and crisis,
Don Quixote came upon his adversary, in trouble with his horse, and
embarrassed with his lance, which he either could not manage, or had no
time to lay in rest. Don Quixote, however, paid no attention to these
difficulties, and in perfect safety to himself and without any risk
encountered him of the Mirrors with such force that he brought him to the
ground in spite of himself over the haunches of his horse, and with so
heavy a fall that he lay to all appearance dead, not stirring hand or
foot. The instant Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork tree, and
made all haste to where his master was, who, dismounting from Rocinante,
went and stood over him of the Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if
he was dead, and to give him air if he should happen to be alive, he saw—who
can say what he saw, without filling all who hear it with astonishment,
wonder, and awe? He saw, the history says, the very countenance, the very
face, the very look, the very physiognomy, the very effigy, the very image
of the bachelor Samson Carrasco! As soon as he saw it he called out in a
loud voice, “Make haste here, Sancho, and behold what thou art to
see but not to believe; quick, my son, and learn what magic can do, and
wizards and enchanters are capable of.”

Sancho came up, and when he saw the countenance of the bachelor Carrasco,
he fell to crossing himself a thousand times, and blessing himself as many
more. All this time the prostrate knight showed no signs of life, and
Sancho said to Don Quixote, “It is my opinion, señor, that in any
case your worship should take and thrust your sword into the mouth of this
one here that looks like the bachelor Samson Carrasco; perhaps in him you
will kill one of your enemies, the enchanters.”

“Thy advice is not bad,” said Don Quixote, “for of
enemies the fewer the better;” and he was drawing his sword to carry
into effect Sancho’s counsel and suggestion, when the squire of the
Mirrors came up, now without the nose which had made him so hideous, and
cried out in a loud voice, “Mind what you are about, Señor Don
Quixote; that is your friend, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you have at
your feet, and I am his squire.”

“And the nose?” said Sancho, seeing him without the hideous
feature he had before; to which he replied, “I have it here in my
pocket,” and putting his hand into his right pocket, he pulled out a
masquerade nose of varnished pasteboard of the make already described; and
Sancho, examining him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in a voice of
amazement, “Holy Mary be good to me! Isn’t it Tom Cecial, my
neighbour and gossip?”

“Why, to be sure I am!” returned the now unnosed squire;
“Tom Cecial I am, gossip and friend Sancho Panza; and I’ll
tell you presently the means and tricks and falsehoods by which I have
been brought here; but in the meantime, beg and entreat of your master not
to touch, maltreat, wound, or slay the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has
at his feet; because, beyond all dispute, it is the rash and ill-advised
bachelor Samson Carrasco, our fellow townsman.”

At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don Quixote
perceiving it, held the naked point of his sword over his face, and said
to him, “You are a dead man, knight, unless you confess that the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia in beauty;
and in addition to this you must promise, if you should survive this
encounter and fall, to go to the city of El Toboso and present yourself
before her on my behalf, that she deal with you according to her good
pleasure; and if she leaves you free to do yours, you are in like manner
to return and seek me out (for the trail of my mighty deeds will serve you
as a guide to lead you to where I may be), and tell me what may have
passed between you and her—conditions which, in accordance with what
we stipulated before our combat, do not transgress the just limits of
knight-errantry.”

“I confess,” said the fallen knight, “that the dirty
tattered shoe of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is better than the
ill-combed though clean beard of Casildea; and I promise to go and to
return from her presence to yours, and to give you a full and particular
account of all you demand of me.”

“You must also confess and believe,” added Don Quixote,
“that the knight you vanquished was not and could not be Don Quixote
of La Mancha, but some one else in his likeness, just as I confess and
believe that you, though you seem to be the bachelor Samson Carrasco, are
not so, but some other resembling him, whom my enemies have here put
before me in his shape, in order that I may restrain and moderate the
vehemence of my wrath, and make a gentle use of the glory of my victory.”

“I confess, hold, and think everything to be as you believe, hold,
and think it,” the crippled knight; “let me rise, I entreat
you; if, indeed, the shock of my fall will allow me, for it has left me in
a sorry plight enough.”

Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his squire Tom
Cecial; from whom Sancho never took his eyes, and to whom he put
questions, the replies to which furnished clear proof that he was really
and truly the Tom Cecial he said; but the impression made on Sancho’s
mind by what his master said about the enchanters having changed the face
of the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
would not permit him to believe what he saw with his eyes. In fine, both
master and man remained under the delusion; and, down in the mouth, and
out of luck, he of the Mirrors and his squire parted from Don Quixote and
Sancho, he meaning to go look for some village where he could plaster and
strap his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho resumed their journey to Saragossa,
and on it the history leaves them in order that it may tell who the Knight
of the Mirrors and his long-nosed squire were.

CHAPTER XV.

WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS SQUIRE
WERE

Don Quixote went off satisfied, elated, and vain-glorious in the highest
degree at having won a victory over such a valiant knight as he fancied
him of the Mirrors to be, and one from whose knightly word he expected to
learn whether the enchantment of his lady still continued; inasmuch as the
said vanquished knight was bound, under the penalty of ceasing to be one,
to return and render him an account of what took place between him and
her. But Don Quixote was of one mind, he of the Mirrors of another, for he
just then had no thought of anything but finding some village where he
could plaster himself, as has been said already. The history goes on to
say, then, that when the bachelor Samson Carrasco recommended Don Quixote
to resume his knight-errantry which he had laid aside, it was in
consequence of having been previously in conclave with the curate and the
barber on the means to be adopted to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in
peace and quiet without worrying himself with his ill-starred adventures;
at which consultation it was decided by the unanimous vote of all, and on
the special advice of Carrasco, that Don Quixote should be allowed to go,
as it seemed impossible to restrain him, and that Samson should sally
forth to meet him as a knight-errant, and do battle with him, for there
would be no difficulty about a cause, and vanquish him, that being looked
upon as an easy matter; and that it should be agreed and settled that the
vanquished was to be at the mercy of the victor. Then, Don Quixote being
vanquished, the bachelor knight was to command him to return to his
village and his house, and not quit it for two years, or until he received
further orders from him; all which it was clear Don Quixote would
unhesitatingly obey, rather than contravene or fail to observe the laws of
chivalry; and during the period of his seclusion he might perhaps forget
his folly, or there might be an opportunity of discovering some ready
remedy for his madness. Carrasco undertook the task, and Tom Cecial, a
gossip and neighbour of Sancho Panza’s, a lively, feather-headed
fellow, offered himself as his squire. Carrasco armed himself in the
fashion described, and Tom Cecial, that he might not be known by his
gossip when they met, fitted on over his own natural nose the false
masquerade one that has been mentioned; and so they followed the same
route Don Quixote took, and almost came up with him in time to be present
at the adventure of the cart of Death and finally encountered them in the
grove, where all that the sagacious reader has been reading about took
place; and had it not been for the extraordinary fancies of Don Quixote,
and his conviction that the bachelor was not the bachelor, señor bachelor
would have been incapacitated for ever from taking his degree of
licentiate, all through not finding nests where he thought to find birds.

Tom Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a sorry end their
expedition had come to, said to the bachelor, “Sure enough, Señor
Samson Carrasco, we are served right; it is easy enough to plan and set
about an enterprise, but it is often a difficult matter to come well out
of it. Don Quixote a madman, and we sane; he goes off laughing, safe, and
sound, and you are left sore and sorry! I’d like to know now which
is the madder, he who is so because he cannot help it, or he who is so of
his own choice?”

To which Samson replied, “The difference between the two sorts of
madmen is, that he who is so will he nil he, will be one always, while he
who is so of his own accord can leave off being one whenever he likes.”

“In that case,” said Tom Cecial, “I was a madman of my
own accord when I volunteered to become your squire, and, of my own
accord, I’ll leave off being one and go home.”

“That’s your affair,” returned Samson, “but to
suppose that I am going home until I have given Don Quixote a thrashing is
absurd; and it is not any wish that he may recover his senses that will
make me hunt him out now, but a wish for the sore pain I am in with my
ribs won’t let me entertain more charitable thoughts.”

Thus discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a town where it
was their good luck to find a bone-setter, with whose help the unfortunate
Samson was cured. Tom Cecial left him and went home, while he stayed
behind meditating vengeance; and the history will return to him again at
the proper time, so as not to omit making merry with Don Quixote now.

CHAPTER XVI.

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and
self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous
knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late victory. All the
adventures that could befall him from that time forth he regarded as
already done and brought to a happy issue; he made light of enchantments
and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless drubbings that had
been administered to him in the course of his knight-errantry, nor of the
volley of stones that had levelled half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude
of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower
of stakes that fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that could he
discover any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he
would not envy the highest fortune that the most fortunate knight-errant
of yore ever reached or could reach.

He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said to
him, “Isn’t it odd, señor, that I have still before my eyes
that monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?”

“And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“that the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his
squire Tom Cecial thy gossip?”

“I don’t know what to say to that,” replied Sancho;
“all I know is that the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife
and children, nobody else but himself could have given me; and the face,
once the nose was off, was the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it
many a time in my town and next door to my own house; and the sound of the
voice was just the same.”

“Let us reason the matter, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “Come
now, by what process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor
Samson Carrasco would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and
defensive, to fight with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy?
Have I ever given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival, or
does he profess arms, that he should envy the fame I have acquired in
them?”

“Well, but what are we to say, señor,” returned Sancho,
“about that knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor
Carrasco, and his squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be
enchantment, as your worship says, was there no other pair in the world
for them to take the likeness of?”

“It is all,” said Don Quixote, “a scheme and plot of the
malignant magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be
victorious in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should
display the countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the
friendship I bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword and
might of my arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who
sought to take my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own. And to
prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience which cannot lie or
deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance into
another, turning fair into foul, and foul into fair; for it is not two
days since thou sawest with thine own eyes the beauty and elegance of the
peerless Dulcinea in all its perfection and natural harmony, while I saw
her in the repulsive and mean form of a coarse country wench, with
cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; and when the perverse
enchanter ventured to effect so wicked a transformation, it is no wonder
if he effected that of Samson Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch
the glory of victory out of my grasp. For all that, however, I console
myself, because, after all, in whatever shape he may have been, I have
been victorious over my enemy.”

“God knows what’s the truth of it all,” said Sancho; and
knowing as he did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device
and imposition of his own, his master’s illusions were not
satisfactory to him; but he did not like to reply lest he should say
something that might disclose his trickery.

As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man who
was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome
flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny
velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The trappings of the
mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of mulberry colour and
green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad green and gold
baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the baldric; the spurs were
not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly polished that, matching as
they did the rest of his apparel, they looked better than if they had been
of pure gold.

When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously, and
spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote
called out to him, “Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our
road, and has no occasion for speed, it would be a pleasure to me if we
were to join company.”

“In truth,” replied he on the mare, “I would not pass
you so hastily but for fear that horse might turn restive in the company
of my mare.”

“You may safely hold in your mare, señor,” said Sancho in
reply to this, “for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved
horse in the world; he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and
the only time he misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold; I
say again your worship may pull up if you like; for if she was offered to
him between two plates the horse would not hanker after her.”

The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote,
who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front
of Dapple’s pack-saddle; and if the man in green examined Don
Quixote closely, still more closely did Don Quixote examine the man in
green, who struck him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he was
about fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of
features, and an expression between grave and gay; and his dress and
accoutrements showed him to be a man of good condition. What he in green
thought of Don Quixote of La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape
he had never yet seen; he marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty
stature, the lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his
bearing and his gravity—a figure and picture such as had not been
seen in those regions for many a long day.

Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveller was
regarding him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and courteous
as he was and ready to please everybody, before the other could ask him
any question he anticipated him by saying, “The appearance I present
to your worship being so strange and so out of the common, I should not be
surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when
I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights who, as people say, go
seeking adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I
have given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune, to
bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to life again
knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past, stumbling here, falling
there, now coming down headlong, now raising myself up again, I have
carried out a great portion of my design, succouring widows, protecting
maidens, and giving aid to wives, orphans, and minors, the proper and
natural duty of knights-errant; and, therefore, because of my many valiant
and Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy to make my
way in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the earth.
Thirty thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and it is on the
high-road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven does
not put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words, or in a
single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called
‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;’ for though self-praise
is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that is to say, when
there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that, gentle sir, neither this
horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor this squire, nor all these
arms put together, nor the sallowness of my countenance, nor my gaunt
leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now that you know who I am and
what profession I follow.”

With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took to
answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a long
pause, however, he said to him, “You were right when you saw
curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not succeeded in
removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for although you say,
señor, that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done so; on
the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished than
before. What! is it possible that there are knights-errant in the world in
these days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot realise the
fact that there can be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids widows, or
protects maidens, or defends wives, or succours orphans; nor should I
believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. Blessed be
heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and genuine chivalrous
deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless stories of fictitious
knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to the injury of
morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories, will have been
driven into oblivion.”

“There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Don
Quixote, “as to whether the histories of the knights-errant are
fiction or not.”

“Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?”
said the man in green.

“I doubt it,” said Don Quixote, “but never mind that
just now; if our journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show
your worship that you do wrong in going with the stream of those who
regard it as a matter of certainty that they are not true.”

From this last observation of Don Quixote’s, the traveller began to
have a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting for him to
confirm it by something further; but before they could turn to any new
subject Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was, since he himself
had rendered account of his station and life. To this, he in the green
gaban replied “I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a
gentleman by birth, native of the village where, please God, we are going
to dine to-day; I am more than fairly well off, and my name is Don Diego de
Miranda. I pass my life with my wife, children, and friends; my pursuits
are hunting and fishing, but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing
but a tame partridge or a bold ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of
books, some in our mother tongue, some Latin, some of them history, others
devotional; those of chivalry have not as yet crossed the threshold of my
door; I am more given to turning over the profane than the devotional, so
long as they are books of honest entertainment that charm by their style
and attract and interest by the invention they display, though of these
there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and
friends, and often invite them; my entertainments are neat and well served
without stint of anything. I have no taste for tattle, nor do I allow
tattling in my presence; I pry not into my neighbours’ lives, nor
have I lynx-eyes for what others do. I hear mass every day; I share my
substance with the poor, making no display of good works, lest I let
hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that subtly take possession of the
most watchful heart, find an entrance into mine. I strive to make peace
between those whom I know to be at variance; I am the devoted servant of
Our Lady, and my trust is ever in the infinite mercy of God our Lord.”

Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the
gentleman’s life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy
life, and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw himself off
Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup and kissed his foot
again and again with a devout heart and almost with tears.

Seeing this the gentleman asked him, “What are you about, brother?
What are these kisses for?”

“Let me kiss,” said Sancho, “for I think your worship is
the first saint in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life.”

“I am no saint,” replied the gentleman, “but a great
sinner; but you are, brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your
simplicity shows.”

Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a laugh
from his master’s profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement
in Don Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and
observed that one of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were
without the true knowledge of God, placed the summum bonum was in the
gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, and many and
good children.

“I, Señor Don Quixote,” answered the gentleman, “have
one son, without whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am,
not because he is a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could
wish. He is eighteen years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca
studying Latin and Greek, and when I wished him to turn to the study of
other sciences I found him so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be
called a science) that there is no getting him to take kindly to the law,
which I wished him to study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I
would like him to be an honour to his family, as we live in days when our
kings liberally reward learning that is virtuous and worthy; for learning
without virtue is a pearl on a dunghill. He spends the whole day in
settling whether Homer expressed himself correctly or not in such and such
a line of the Iliad, whether Martial was indecent or not in such and such
an epigram, whether such and such lines of Virgil are to be understood in
this way or in that; in short, all his talk is of the works of these
poets, and those of Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the
moderns in our own language he makes no great account; but with all his
seeming indifference to Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed
in making a gloss on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca,
which I suspect are for some poetical tournament.”

To all this Don Quixote said in reply, “Children, señor, are
portions of their parents’ bowels, and therefore, be they good or
bad, are to be loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for the
parents to guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue, propriety, and
worthy Christian conduct, so that when grown up they may be the staff of
their parents’ old age, and the glory of their posterity; and to
force them to study this or that science I do not think wise, though it
may be no harm to persuade them; and when there is no need to study for
the sake of pane lucrando, and it is the student’s good fortune that
heaven has given him parents who provide him with it, it would be my
advice to them to let him pursue whatever science they may see him most
inclined to; and though that of poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it
is not one of those that bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry,
gentle sir, is, as I take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme
beauty, to array, bedeck, and adorn whom is the task of several other
maidens, who are all the rest of the sciences; and she must avail herself
of the help of all, and all derive their lustre from her. But this maiden
will not bear to be handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed
either at the corners of the market-places, or in the closets of palaces.
She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who is able to
practise it, will turn her into pure gold of inestimable worth. He that
possesses her must keep her within bounds, not permitting her to break out
in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She must on no account be offered
for sale, unless, indeed, it be in heroic poems, moving tragedies, or
sprightly and ingenious comedies. She must not be touched by the buffoons,
nor by the ignorant vulgar, incapable of comprehending or appreciating her
hidden treasures. And do not suppose, señor, that I apply the term vulgar
here merely to plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is
ignorant, be he lord or prince, may and should be included among the
vulgar. He, then, who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the
conditions I have named, shall become famous, and his name honoured
throughout all the civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what
you say, señor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I
am inclined to think that he is not quite right there, and for this
reason: the great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a
Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in short,
all the ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with their mother’s
milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to express their sublime
conceptions; and that being so, the usage should in justice extend to all
nations, and the German poet should not be undervalued because he writes
in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing
in his. But your son, señor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish
poetry, but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers,
without any knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give
life and vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may
be wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to
say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother’s womb;
and following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the aid
of study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke who said,
‘Est Deus in nobis,’ etc. At the same time, I say that the
poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far better poet, and
will surpass him who tries to be one relying upon his knowledge of art
alone. The reason is, that art does not surpass nature, but only brings it
to perfection; and thus, nature combined with art, and art with nature,
will produce a perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I would say
then, gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for being so
studious as he seems to be, and having already successfully surmounted the
first step of the sciences, which is that of the languages, with their
help he will by his own exertions reach the summit of polite literature,
which so well becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns, honours, and
distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown the
learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the honour of
others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he compose
discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of Horace,
and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for a poet
to write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the other
vices too, provided he does not single out individuals; there are,
however, poets who, for the sake of saying something spiteful, would run
the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in
his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the tongue of
the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things that
it writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvellous science
of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honour, value,
exalt them, and even crown them with the leaves of that tree which the
thunderbolt strikes not, as if to show that they whose brows are honoured
and adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone.”

He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote’s
argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up
about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being not
very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to beg a
little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by; and
just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the
conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered with
royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and persuaded that
this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho to come and
bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted the
shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to whom
there fell a terrific and desperate adventure.

CHAPTER XVII.

WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED
COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE HAPPILY
ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS

The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to bring him
his helmet, Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to sell him,
and flurried by the great haste his master was in did not know what to do
with them or what to carry them in; so, not to lose them, for he had
already paid for them, he thought it best to throw them into his master’s
helmet, and acting on this bright idea he went to see what his master
wanted with him. He, as he approached, exclaimed to him:

“Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of
adventures, or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call upon
me to arm myself.”

He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but
could perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or
three small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying treasure
of the King’s, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however, would not
believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all that happened
to him must be adventures and still more adventures; so he replied to the
gentleman, “He who is prepared has his battle half fought; nothing
is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by experience that I have
enemies, visible and invisible, and I know not when, or where, or at what
moment, or in what shapes they will attack me;” and turning to
Sancho, he called for his helmet; and Sancho, as he had no time to take
out the curds, had to give it just as it was. Don Quixote took it, and
without perceiving what was in it thrust it down in hot haste upon his
head; but as the curds were pressed and squeezed the whey began to run all
over his face and beard, whereat he was so startled that he cried out to
Sancho:

“Sancho, what’s this? I think my head is softening, or my
brains are melting, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating
it is not indeed from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the
adventure which is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something
to wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is blinding
me.”

Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at
the same time that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don
Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was
that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash inside his
helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it he exclaimed:

“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou
hast put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!”

To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied,
“If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I’ll
eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put
them there. I dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender
finely! Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have
enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship,
and they must have put that nastiness there in order to provoke your
patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do. Well,
this time, indeed, they have missed their aim, for I trust to my master’s
good sense to see that I have got no curds or milk, or anything of the
sort; and that if I had it is in my stomach I would put it and not in the
helmet.”

“May be so,” said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was
observing, and with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped
himself clean, his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on,
and settling himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in the
scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, “Now, come who will,
here am I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!”

By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by anyone
except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote
planted himself before it and said, “Whither are you going,
brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are
those?”

To this the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what is in it is a
pair of wild caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court
as a present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the King’s,
to show that what is here is his property.”

“And are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote.

“So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart,
“that larger, or as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain;
I am the keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these.
They are male and female; the male is in that first cage and the female in
the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing
to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the
place where we are to feed them.”

Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, “Lion-whelps to
me! to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those
gentlemen who send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened by
lions. Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages,
and turn me out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I will let
them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of
the enchanters who send them to me.”

“So, so,” said the gentleman to himself at this; “our
worthy knight has shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have
softened his skull and brought his brains to a head.”

At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, “Señor, for God’s
sake do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these
lions; for if he does they’ll tear us all to pieces here.”

“Is your master then so mad,” asked the gentleman, “that
you believe and are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?”

“He is not mad,” said Sancho, “but he is venturesome.”

“I will prevent it,” said the gentleman; and going over to Don
Quixote, who was insisting upon the keeper’s opening the cages, he
said to him, “Sir knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures
which encourage the hope of a successful issue, not those which entirely
withhold it; for valour that trenches upon temerity savours rather of
madness than of courage; moreover, these lions do not come to oppose you,
nor do they dream of such a thing; they are going as presents to his
Majesty, and it will not be right to stop them or delay their journey.”

“Gentle sir,” replied Don Quixote, “you go and mind your
tame partridge and your bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own
business; this is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions come
to me or not;” and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, “By
all that’s good, sir scoundrel, if you don’t open the cages
this very instant, I’ll pin you to the cart with this lance.”

The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour, said to
him, “Please your worship, for charity’s sake, señor, let me
unyoke the mules and place myself in safety along with them before the
lions are turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for life,
for all I possess is this cart and mules.”

“O man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, “get down
and unyoke; you will soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing,
and that you might have spared yourself the trouble.”

The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper
called out at the top of his voice, “I call all here to witness that
against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions
loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be accountable for all
the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and
dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I open,
for I know they will do me no harm.”

Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a
mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To
this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about. The gentleman in
return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion.

“Well, señor,” answered Don Quixote, “if you do not like
to be a spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur
your flea-bitten mare, and place yourself in safety.”

Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an
enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful one
of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted in the
whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread. “Look ye,
señor,” said Sancho, “there’s no enchantment here, nor
anything of the sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have
seen the paw of a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a
paw could belong to must be bigger than a mountain.”

“Fear at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, “will make him
look bigger to thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and
if I die here thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea—I
say no more.” To these he added some further words that banished all
hope of his giving up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have
offered resistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, and did
not think it prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don Quixote
now showed himself to be in every respect; and the latter, renewing his
commands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave warning to the
gentleman to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules,
all striving to get away from the cart as far as they could before the
lions broke loose. Sancho was weeping over his master’s death, for
this time he firmly believed it was in store for him from the claws of the
lions; and he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour when he
thought of taking service with him again; but with all his tears and
lamentations he did not forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a good space
between himself and the cart. The keeper, seeing that the fugitives were
now some distance off, once more entreated and warned him as before; but
he replied that he heard him, and that he need not trouble himself with
any further warnings or entreaties, as they would be fruitless, and bade
him make haste.

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first
cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do
battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to fight on
foot, fearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight of the lions;
he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced his
buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with marvellous
intrepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart,
commending himself with all his heart to God and to his lady Dulcinea.

It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of this
veracious history breaks out into exclamations. “O doughty Don
Quixote! high-mettled past extolling! Mirror, wherein all the heroes of
the world may see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon, once the
glory and honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I describe
this dread exploit, by what language shall I make it credible to ages to
come, what eulogies are there unmeet for thee, though they be hyperboles
piled on hyperboles! On foot, alone, undaunted, high-souled, with but a
simple sword, and that no trenchant blade of the Perrillo brand, a shield,
but no bright polished steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and awaiting
the two fiercest lions that Africa’s forests ever bred! Thy own
deeds be thy praise, valiant Manchegan, and here I leave them as they
stand, wanting the words wherewith to glorify them!”

Here the author’s outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take
up the thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don
Quixote had taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to
avoid letting out the male without incurring the enmity of the fiery and
daring knight, flung open the doors of the first cage, containing, as has
been said, the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim
and hideous mien. The first thing he did was to turn round in the cage in
which he lay, and protrude his claws, and stretch himself thoroughly; he
next opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and with near two palms’
length of tongue that he had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his
eyes and washed his face; having done this, he put his head out of the
cage and looked all round with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and
demeanour to strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote merely
observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to
close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.

So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more courteous
than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, after having
looked all round, as has been said, turned about and presented his
hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and tranquilly lay down
again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a
stick to him and provoke him to make him come out.

“That I won’t,” said the keeper; “for if I anger
him, the first he’ll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied,
sir knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said
on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time.
The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but
as he has not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. Your worship’s
great courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it
strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for him
on the field; if his adversary does not come, on him lies the disgrace,
and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my
friend, and let me have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen
me do, by way of certificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion,
that I waited for him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for
him, and that still he did not come out, and lay down again. I am not
bound to do more; enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the
truth, and true chivalry! Close the door as I bade thee, while I make
signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this
exploit from thy lips.”

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the
cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to
recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step,
all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the rear. Sancho, however,
happening to observe the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed, “May
I die, if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to
us.”

They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making
signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached
slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote’s
voice calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they
came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, “Put your mules to once
more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him
two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay
they have incurred through me.”

“That will I give with all my heart,” said Sancho; “but
what has become of the lions? Are they dead or alive?”

The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of the
contest, exalting to the best of his power and ability the valour of Don
Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion quailed, and would not and dared
not come out of the cage, although he had held the door open ever so long;
and showing how, in consequence of his having represented to the knight
that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to force him out,
which he wished to have done, he very reluctantly, and altogether against
his will, had allowed the door to be closed.

“What dost thou think of this, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“Are there any enchantments that can prevail against true valour?
The enchanters may be able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and
courage they cannot.”

Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s
hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give an account of
the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he saw him at court.

“Then,” said Don Quixote, “if his Majesty should happen
to ask who performed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is
my desire that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of the
Rueful Countenance be from this time forward changed, altered,
transformed, and turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of
knights-errant, who changed their names when they pleased, or when it
suited their purpose.”

The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green gaban
went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a word,
being entirely taken up with observing and noting all that Don Quixote did
and said, and the opinion he formed was that he was a man of brains gone
mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first part of his
history had not yet reached him, for, had he read it, the amazement with
which his words and deeds filled him would have vanished, as he would then
have understood the nature of his madness; but knowing nothing of it, he
took him to be rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he said
was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd, rash,
and foolish; and said he to himself, “What could be madder than
putting on a helmet full of curds, and then persuading oneself that
enchanters are softening one’s skull; or what could be greater
rashness and folly than wanting to fight lions tooth and nail?”

Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy by
saying, “No doubt, Señor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in
your mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you did,
for my deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I would have
you take notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must have
seemed to you. A gallant knight shows to advantage bringing his lance to
bear adroitly upon a fierce bull under the eyes of his sovereign, in the
midst of a spacious plaza; a knight shows to advantage arrayed in
glittering armour, pacing the lists before the ladies in some joyous
tournament, and all those knights show to advantage that entertain,
divert, and, if we may say so, honour the courts of their princes by
warlike exercises, or what resemble them; but to greater advantage than
all these does a knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, solitudes,
cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous adventures, bent
on bringing them to a happy and successful issue, all to win a glorious
and lasting renown. To greater advantage, I maintain, does the
knight-errant show bringing aid to some widow in some lonely waste, than
the court knight dallying with some city damsel. All knights have their
own special parts to play; let the courtier devote himself to the ladies,
let him add lustre to his sovereign’s court by his liveries, let him
entertain poor gentlemen with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him
arrange joustings, marshal tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous,
and magnificent, and above all a good Christian, and so doing he will
fulfil the duties that are especially his; but let the knight-errant
explore the corners of the earth and penetrate the most intricate
labyrinths, at each step let him attempt impossibilities, on desolate
heaths let him endure the burning rays of the midsummer sun, and the
bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts; let no lions daunt him,
no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him quail; for to seek these, to
attack those, and to vanquish all, are in truth his main duties. I, then,
as it has fallen to my lot to be a member of knight-errantry, cannot avoid
attempting all that to me seems to come within the sphere of my duties;
thus it was my bounden duty to attack those lions that I just now
attacked, although I knew it to be the height of rashness; for I know well
what valour is, that it is a virtue that occupies a place between two
vicious extremes, cowardice and temerity; but it will be a lesser evil for
him who is valiant to rise till he reaches the point of rashness, than to
sink until he reaches the point of cowardice; for, as it is easier for the
prodigal than for the miser to become generous, so it is easier for a rash
man to prove truly valiant than for a coward to rise to true valour; and
believe me, Señor Don Diego, in attempting adventures it is better to lose
by a card too many than by a card too few; for to hear it said, ‘such
a knight is rash and daring,’ sounds better than ‘such a
knight is timid and cowardly.’”

“I protest, Señor Don Quixote,” said Don Diego, “everything
you have said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and
I believe, if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost,
they might be found in your worship’s breast as in their own proper
depository and muniment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my
village, where you shall take rest after your late exertions; for if they
have not been of the body they have been of the spirit, and these
sometimes tend to produce bodily fatigue.”

“I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Señor Don
Diego,” replied Don Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace
than before, at about two in the afternoon they reached the village and
house of Don Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, “The Knight of
the Green Gaban.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE
GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON

Don Quixote found Don Diego de Miranda’s house built in village
style, with his arms in rough stone over the street door; in the patio was
the store-room, and at the entrance the cellar, with plenty of wine-jars
standing round, which, coming from El Toboso, brought back to his memory
his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea; and with a sigh, and not thinking
of what he was saying, or in whose presence he was, he exclaimed-

The student poet, Don Diego’s son, who had come out with his mother
to receive him, heard this exclamation, and both mother and son were
filled with amazement at the extraordinary figure he presented; he,
however, dismounting from Rocinante, advanced with great politeness to ask
permission to kiss the lady’s hand, while Don Diego said, “Señora,
pray receive with your wonted kindness Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha,
whom you see before you, a knight-errant, and the bravest and wisest in
the world.”

The lady, whose name was Dona Christina, received him with every sign of
good-will and great courtesy, and Don Quixote placed himself at her
service with an abundance of well-chosen and polished phrases. Almost the
same civilities were exchanged between him and the student, who listening
to Don Quixote, took him to be a sensible, clear-headed person.

Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to Don Diego’s
mansion, putting before us in his picture the whole contents of a rich
gentleman-farmer’s house; but the translator of the history thought
it best to pass over these and other details of the same sort in silence,
as they are not in harmony with the main purpose of the story, the strong
point of which is truth rather than dull digressions.

They led Don Quixote into a room, and Sancho removed his armour, leaving
him in loose Walloon breeches and chamois-leather doublet, all stained
with the rust of his armour; his collar was a falling one of scholastic
cut, without starch or lace, his buskins buff-coloured, and his shoes
polished. He wore his good sword, which hung in a baldric of sea-wolf’s
skin, for he had suffered for many years, they say, from an ailment of the
kidneys; and over all he threw a long cloak of good grey cloth. But first
of all, with five or six buckets of water (for as regard the number of
buckets there is some dispute), he washed his head and face, and still the
water remained whey-coloured, thanks to Sancho’s greediness and
purchase of those unlucky curds that turned his master so white. Thus
arrayed, and with an easy, sprightly, and gallant air, Don Quixote passed
out into another room, where the student was waiting to entertain him
while the table was being laid; for on the arrival of so distinguished a
guest, Dona Christina was anxious to show that she knew how and was able
to give a becoming reception to those who came to her house.

While Don Quixote was taking off his armour, Don Lorenzo (for so Don Diego’s
son was called) took the opportunity to say to his father, “What are
we to make of this gentleman you have brought home to us, sir? For his
name, his appearance, and your describing him as a knight-errant have
completely puzzled my mother and me.”

“I don’t know what to say, my son,” replied. Don Diego;
“all I can tell thee is that I have seen him act the acts of the
greatest madman in the world, and heard him make observations so sensible
that they efface and undo all he does; do thou talk to him and feel the
pulse of his wits, and as thou art shrewd, form the most reasonable
conclusion thou canst as to his wisdom or folly; though, to tell the
truth, I am more inclined to take him to be mad than sane.”

With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote as has been said,
and in the course of the conversation that passed between them Don Quixote
said to Don Lorenzo, “Your father, Señor Don Diego de Miranda, has
told me of the rare abilities and subtle intellect you possess, and, above
all, that you are a great poet.”

“A poet, it may be,” replied Don Lorenzo, “but a great
one, by no means. It is true that I am somewhat given to poetry and to
reading good poets, but not so much so as to justify the title of ‘great’
which my father gives me.”

“I do not dislike that modesty,” said Don Quixote; “for
there is no poet who is not conceited and does not think he is the best
poet in the world.”

“There is no rule without an exception,” said Don Lorenzo;
“there may be some who are poets and yet do not think they are.”

“Very few,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me, what verses
are those which you have now in hand, and which your father tells me keep
you somewhat restless and absorbed? If it be some gloss, I know something
about glosses, and I should like to hear them; and if they are for a
poetical tournament, contrive to carry off the second prize; for the first
always goes by favour or personal standing, the second by simple justice;
and so the third comes to be the second, and the first, reckoning in this
way, will be third, in the same way as licentiate degrees are conferred at
the universities; but, for all that, the title of first is a great
distinction.”

“So far,” said Don Lorenzo to himself, “I should not
take you to be a madman; but let us go on.” So he said to him,
“Your worship has apparently attended the schools; what sciences
have you studied?”

“That of knight-errantry,” said Don Quixote, “which is
as good as that of poetry, and even a finger or two above it.”

“I do not know what science that is,” said Don Lorenzo,
“and until now I have never heard of it.”

“It is a science,” said Don Quixote, “that comprehends
in itself all or most of the sciences in the world, for he who professes
it must be a jurist, and must know the rules of justice, distributive and
equitable, so as to give to each one what belongs to him and is due to
him. He must be a theologian, so as to be able to give a clear and
distinctive reason for the Christian faith he professes, wherever it may
be asked of him. He must be a physician, and above all a herbalist, so as
in wastes and solitudes to know the herbs that have the property of
healing wounds, for a knight-errant must not go looking for some one to
cure him at every step. He must be an astronomer, so as to know by the
stars how many hours of the night have passed, and what clime and quarter
of the world he is in. He must know mathematics, for at every turn some
occasion for them will present itself to him; and, putting it aside that
he must be adorned with all the virtues, cardinal and theological, to come
down to minor particulars, he must, I say, be able to swim as well as
Nicholas or Nicolao the Fish could, as the story goes; he must know how to
shoe a horse, and repair his saddle and bridle; and, to return to higher
matters, he must be faithful to God and to his lady; he must be pure in
thought, decorous in words, generous in works, valiant in deeds, patient
in suffering, compassionate towards the needy, and, lastly, an upholder of
the truth though its defence should cost him his life. Of all these
qualities, great and small, is a true knight-errant made up; judge then,
Señor Don Lorenzo, whether it be a contemptible science which the knight
who studies and professes it has to learn, and whether it may not compare
with the very loftiest that are taught in the schools.”

“If that be so,” replied Don Lorenzo, “this science, I
protest, surpasses all.”

“How, if that be so?” said Don Quixote.

“What I mean to say,” said Don Lorenzo, “is, that I
doubt whether there are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, and adorned
with such virtues.”

“Many a time,” replied Don Quixote, “have I said what I
now say once more, that the majority of the world are of opinion that
there never were any knights-errant in it; and as it is my opinion that,
unless heaven by some miracle brings home to them the truth that there
were and are, all the pains one takes will be in vain (as experience has
often proved to me), I will not now stop to disabuse you of the error you
share with the multitude. All I shall do is to pray to heaven to deliver
you from it, and show you how beneficial and necessary knights-errant were
in days of yore, and how useful they would be in these days were they but
in vogue; but now, for the sins of the people, sloth and indolence,
gluttony and luxury are triumphant.”

“Our guest has broken out on our hands,” said Don Lorenzo to
himself at this point; “but, for all that, he is a glorious madman,
and I should be a dull blockhead to doubt it.”

Here, being summoned to dinner, they brought their colloquy to a close.
Don Diego asked his son what he had been able to make out as to the wits
of their guest. To which he replied, “All the doctors and clever
scribes in the world will not make sense of the scrawl of his madness; he
is a madman full of streaks, full of lucid intervals.”

They went in to dinner, and the repast was such as Don Diego said on the
road he was in the habit of giving to his guests, neat, plentiful, and
tasty; but what pleased Don Quixote most was the marvellous silence that
reigned throughout the house, for it was like a Carthusian monastery.

When the cloth had been removed, grace said and their hands washed, Don
Quixote earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to repeat to him his verses for the
poetical tournament, to which he replied, “Not to be like those
poets who, when they are asked to recite their verses, refuse, and when
they are not asked for them vomit them up, I will repeat my gloss, for
which I do not expect any prize, having composed it merely as an exercise
of ingenuity.”

“A discerning friend of mine,” said Don Quixote, “was of
opinion that no one ought to waste labour in glossing verses; and the
reason he gave was that the gloss can never come up to the text, and that
often or most frequently it wanders away from the meaning and purpose
aimed at in the glossed lines; and besides, that the laws of the gloss
were too strict, as they did not allow interrogations, nor ‘said he,’
nor ‘I say,’ nor turning verbs into nouns, or altering the
construction, not to speak of other restrictions and limitations that
fetter gloss-writers, as you no doubt know.”

“Verily, Señor Don Quixote,” said Don Lorenzo, “I wish I
could catch your worship tripping at a stretch, but I cannot, for you slip
through my fingers like an eel.”

“I don’t understand what you say, or mean by slipping,”
said Don Quixote.

“I will explain myself another time,” said Don Lorenzo;
“for the present pray attend to the glossed verses and the gloss,
which run thus:

When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his gloss, Don Quixote stood up,
and in a loud voice, almost a shout, exclaimed as he grasped Don Lorenzo’s
right hand in his, “By the highest heavens, noble youth, but you are
the best poet on earth, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not by
Cyprus or by Gaeta—as a certain poet, God forgive him, said—but
by the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by those that
flourish now, Paris, Bologna, Salamanca. Heaven grant that the judges who
rob you of the first prize—that Phoebus may pierce them with his
arrows, and the Muses never cross the thresholds of their doors. Repeat me
some of your long-measure verses, señor, if you will be so good, for I
want thoroughly to feel the pulse of your rare genius.”

Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself praised
by Don Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as a madman? power of flattery,
how far-reaching art thou, and how wide are the bounds of thy pleasant
jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of it, for he complied with Don
Quixote’s request and entreaty, and repeated to him this sonnet on
the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.

“Blessed be God,” said Don Quixote when he had heard Don
Lorenzo’s sonnet, “that among the hosts there are of irritable
poets I have found one consummate one, which, señor, the art of this
sonnet proves to me that you are!”

For four days was Don Quixote most sumptuously entertained in Don Diego’s
house, at the end of which time he asked his permission to depart, telling
him he thanked him for the kindness and hospitality he had received in his
house, but that, as it did not become knights-errant to give themselves up
for long to idleness and luxury, he was anxious to fulfill the duties of
his calling in seeking adventures, of which he was informed there was an
abundance in that neighbourhood, where he hoped to employ his time until
the day came round for the jousts at Saragossa, for that was his proper
destination; and that, first of all, he meant to enter the cave of
Montesinos, of which so many marvellous things were reported all through
the country, and at the same time to investigate and explore the origin
and true source of the seven lakes commonly called the lakes of Ruidera.

Don Diego and his son commended his laudable resolution, and bade him
furnish himself with all he wanted from their house and belongings, as
they would most gladly be of service to him; which, indeed, his personal
worth and his honourable profession made incumbent upon them.

The day of his departure came at length, as welcome to Don Quixote as it
was sad and sorrowful to Sancho Panza, who was very well satisfied with
the abundance of Don Diego’s house, and objected to return to the
starvation of the woods and wilds and the short-commons of his ill-stocked
alforjas; these, however, he filled and packed with what he considered
needful. On taking leave, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, “I know
not whether I have told you already, but if I have I tell you once more,
that if you wish to spare yourself fatigue and toil in reaching the
inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have nothing to do but to
turn aside out of the somewhat narrow path of poetry and take the still
narrower one of knight-errantry, wide enough, however, to make you an
emperor in the twinkling of an eye.”

In this speech Don Quixote wound up the evidence of his madness, but still
better in what he added when he said, “God knows, I would gladly
take Don Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare the humble, and trample
the proud under foot, virtues that are part and parcel of the profession I
belong to; but since his tender age does not allow of it, nor his
praiseworthy pursuits permit it, I will simply content myself with
impressing it upon your worship that you will become famous as a poet if
you are guided by the opinion of others rather than by your own; because
no fathers or mothers ever think their own children ill-favoured, and this
sort of deception prevails still more strongly in the case of the children
of the brain.”

Both father and son were amazed afresh at the strange medley Don Quixote
talked, at one moment sense, at another nonsense, and at the pertinacity
and persistence he displayed in going through thick and thin in quest of
his unlucky adventures, which he made the end and aim of his desires.
There was a renewal of offers of service and civilities, and then, with
the gracious permission of the lady of the castle, they took their
departure, Don Quixote on Rocinante, and Sancho on Dapple.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS

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, some one 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.

CHAPTER XX.

WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER
WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR

Scarce had the fair Aurora given bright Phoebus time to dry the liquid
pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his fervent rays, when Don
Quixote, shaking off sloth from his limbs, sprang to his feet and called
to his squire Sancho, who was still snoring; seeing which Don Quixote ere
he roused him thus addressed him: “Happy thou, above all the
dwellers on the face of the earth, that, without envying or being envied,
sleepest with tranquil mind, and that neither enchanters persecute nor
enchantments affright. Sleep, I say, and will say a hundred times, without
any jealous thoughts of thy mistress to make thee keep ceaseless vigils,
or any cares as to how thou art to pay the debts thou owest, or find
to-morrow’s food for thyself and thy needy little family, to
interfere with thy repose. Ambition breaks not thy rest, nor doth this
world’s empty pomp disturb thee, for the utmost reach of thy anxiety
is to provide for thy ass, since upon my shoulders thou hast laid the
support of thyself, the counterpoise and burden that nature and custom
have imposed upon masters. The servant sleeps and the master lies awake
thinking how he is to feed him, advance him, and reward him. The distress
of seeing the sky turn brazen, and withhold its needful moisture from the
earth, is not felt by the servant but by the master, who in time of
scarcity and famine must support him who has served him in times of plenty
and abundance.”

To all this Sancho made no reply because he was asleep, nor would he have
wakened up so soon as he did had not Don Quixote brought him to his senses
with the butt of his lance. He awoke at last, drowsy and lazy, and casting
his eyes about in every direction, observed, “There comes, if I don’t
mistake, from the quarter of that arcade a steam and a smell a great deal
more like fried rashers than galingale or thyme; a wedding that begins
with smells like that, by my faith, ought to be plentiful and unstinting.”

“Have done, thou glutton,” said Don Quixote; “come, let
us go and witness this bridal, and see what the rejected Basilio does.”

“Let him do what he likes,” returned Sancho; “be he not
poor, he would marry Quiteria. To make a grand match for himself, and he
without a farthing; is there nothing else? Faith, señor, it’s my
opinion the poor man should be content with what he can get, and not go
looking for dainties in the bottom of the sea. I will bet my arm that
Camacho could bury Basilio in reals; and if that be so, as no doubt it is,
what a fool Quiteria would be to refuse the fine dresses and jewels
Camacho must have given her and will give her, and take Basilio’s
bar-throwing and sword-play. They won’t give a pint of wine at the
tavern for a good cast of the bar or a neat thrust of the sword. Talents
and accomplishments that can’t be turned into money, let Count
Dirlos have them; but when such gifts fall to one that has hard cash, I
wish my condition of life was as becoming as they are. On a good
foundation you can raise a good building, and the best foundation in the
world is money.”

“For God’s sake, Sancho,” said Don Quixote here, “stop
that harangue; it is my belief, if thou wert allowed to continue all thou
beginnest every instant, thou wouldst have no time left for eating or
sleeping; for thou wouldst spend it all in talking.”

“If your worship had a good memory,” replied Sancho, “you
would remember the articles of our agreement before we started from home
this last time; one of them was that I was to be let say all I liked, so
long as it was not against my neighbour or your worship’s authority;
and so far, it seems to me, I have not broken the said article.”

“I remember no such article, Sancho,” said Don Quixote;
“and even if it were so, I desire you to hold your tongue and come
along; for the instruments we heard last night are already beginning to
enliven the valleys again, and no doubt the marriage will take place in
the cool of the morning, and not in the heat of the afternoon.”

Sancho did as his master bade him, and putting the saddle on Rocinante and
the pack-saddle on Dapple, they both mounted and at a leisurely pace
entered the arcade. The first thing that presented itself to Sancho’s
eyes was a whole ox spitted on a whole elm tree, and in the fire at which
it was to be roasted there was burning a middling-sized mountain of
faggots, and six stewpots that stood round the blaze had not been made in
the ordinary mould of common pots, for they were six half wine-jars, each
fit to hold the contents of a slaughter-house; they swallowed up whole
sheep and hid them away in their insides without showing any more sign of
them than if they were pigeons. Countless were the hares ready skinned and
the plucked fowls that hung on the trees for burial in the pots,
numberless the wildfowl and game of various sorts suspended from the
branches that the air might keep them cool. Sancho counted more than sixty
wine skins of over six gallons each, and all filled, as it proved
afterwards, with generous wines. There were, besides, piles of the whitest
bread, like the heaps of corn one sees on the threshing-floors. There was
a wall made of cheeses arranged like open brick-work, and two cauldrons
full of oil, bigger than those of a dyer’s shop, served for cooking
fritters, which when fried were taken out with two mighty shovels, and
plunged into another cauldron of prepared honey that stood close by. Of
cooks and cook-maids there were over fifty, all clean, brisk, and blithe.
In the capacious belly of the ox were a dozen soft little sucking-pigs,
which, sewn up there, served to give it tenderness and flavour. The spices
of different kinds did not seem to have been bought by the pound but by
the quarter, and all lay open to view in a great chest. In short, all the
preparations made for the wedding were in rustic style, but abundant
enough to feed an army.

Sancho observed all, contemplated all, and everything won his heart. The
first to captivate and take his fancy were the pots, out of which he would
have very gladly helped himself to a moderate pipkinful; then the wine
skins secured his affections; and lastly, the produce of the frying-pans,
if, indeed, such imposing cauldrons may be called frying-pans; and unable
to control himself or bear it any longer, he approached one of the busy
cooks and civilly but hungrily begged permission to soak a scrap of bread
in one of the pots; to which the cook made answer, “Brother, this is
not a day on which hunger is to have any sway, thanks to the rich Camacho;
get down and look about for a ladle and skim off a hen or two, and much
good may they do you.”

“I don’t see one,” said Sancho.

“Wait a bit,” said the cook; “sinner that I am! how
particular and bashful you are!” and so saying, he seized a bucket
and plunging it into one of the half jars took up three hens and a couple
of geese, and said to Sancho, “Fall to, friend, and take the edge
off your appetite with these skimmings until dinner-time comes.”

“I have nothing to put them in,” said Sancho.

“Well then,” said the cook, “take spoon and all; for
Camacho’s wealth and happiness furnish everything.”

While Sancho fared thus, Don Quixote was watching the entrance, at one end
of the arcade, of some twelve peasants, all in holiday and gala dress,
mounted on twelve beautiful mares with rich handsome field trappings and a
number of little bells attached to their petrals, who, marshalled in
regular order, ran not one but several courses over the meadow, with
jubilant shouts and cries of “Long live Camacho and Quiteria! he as
rich as she is fair; and she the fairest on earth!”

Hearing this, Don Quixote said to himself, “It is easy to see these
folk have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; for if they had they would be
more moderate in their praises of this Quiteria of theirs.”

Shortly after this, several bands of dancers of various sorts began to
enter the arcade at different points, and among them one of sword-dancers
composed of some four-and-twenty lads of gallant and high-spirited mien,
clad in the finest and whitest of linen, and with handkerchiefs
embroidered in various colours with fine silk; and one of those on the
mares asked an active youth who led them if any of the dancers had been
wounded. “As yet, thank God, no one has been wounded,” said
he, “we are all safe and sound;” and he at once began to
execute complicated figures with the rest of his comrades, with so many
turns and so great dexterity, that although Don Quixote was well used to
see dances of the same kind, he thought he had never seen any so good as
this. He also admired another that came in composed of fair young maidens,
none of whom seemed to be under fourteen or over eighteen years of age,
all clad in green stuff, with their locks partly braided, partly flowing
loose, but all of such bright gold as to vie with the sunbeams, and over
them they wore garlands of jessamine, roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. At
their head were a venerable old man and an ancient dame, more brisk and
active, however, than might have been expected from their years. The notes
of a Zamora bagpipe accompanied them, and with modesty in their
countenances and in their eyes, and lightness in their feet, they looked
the best dancers in the world.

Following these there came an artistic dance of the sort they call “speaking
dances.” It was composed of eight nymphs in two files, with the god
Cupid leading one and Interest the other, the former furnished with wings,
bow, quiver and arrows, the latter in a rich dress of gold and silk of
divers colours. The nymphs that followed Love bore their names written on
white parchment in large letters on their backs. “Poetry” was
the name of the first, “Wit” of the second, “Birth”
of the third, and “Valour” of the fourth. Those that followed
Interest were distinguished in the same way; the badge of the first
announced “Liberality,” that of the second “Largess,”
the third “Treasure,” and the fourth “Peaceful
Possession.” In front of them all came a wooden castle drawn by four
wild men, all clad in ivy and hemp stained green, and looking so natural
that they nearly terrified Sancho. On the front of the castle and on each
of the four sides of its frame it bore the inscription “Castle of
Caution.” Four skillful tabor and flute players accompanied them,
and the dance having been opened, Cupid, after executing two figures,
raised his eyes and bent his bow against a damsel who stood between the
turrets of the castle, and thus addressed her:

Having concluded the stanza he discharged an arrow at the top of the
castle, and went back to his place. Interest then came forward and went
through two more figures, and as soon as the tabors ceased, he said:

Interest retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she had gone through
her figures like the others, fixing her eyes on the damsel of the castle,
she said:

Poetry withdrew, and on the side of Interest Liberality advanced, and
after having gone through her figures, said:

In the same manner all the characters of the two bands advanced and
retired, and each executed its figures, and delivered its verses, some of
them graceful, some burlesque, but Don Quixote’s memory (though he
had an excellent one) only carried away those that have been just quoted.
All then mingled together, forming chains and breaking off again with
graceful, unconstrained gaiety; and whenever Love passed in front of the
castle he shot his arrows up at it, while Interest broke gilded pellets
against it. At length, after they had danced a good while, Interest drew
out a great purse, made of the skin of a large brindled cat and to all
appearance full of money, and flung it at the castle, and with the force
of the blow the boards fell asunder and tumbled down, leaving the damsel
exposed and unprotected. Interest and the characters of his band advanced,
and throwing a great chain of gold over her neck pretended to take her and
lead her away captive, on seeing which, Love and his supporters made as
though they would release her, the whole action being to the accompaniment
of the tabors and in the form of a regular dance. The wild men made peace
between them, and with great dexterity readjusted and fixed the boards of
the castle, and the damsel once more ensconced herself within; and with
this the dance wound up, to the great enjoyment of the beholders.

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who it was that had composed and
arranged it. She replied that it was a beneficiary of the town who had a
nice taste in devising things of the sort. “I will lay a wager,”
said Don Quixote, “that the same bachelor or beneficiary is a
greater friend of Camacho’s than of Basilio’s, and that he is
better at satire than at vespers; he has introduced the accomplishments of
Basilio and the riches of Camacho very neatly into the dance.”
Sancho Panza, who was listening to all this, exclaimed, “The king is
my cock; I stick to Camacho.” “It is easy to see thou art a
clown, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and one of that sort that
cry ‘Long life to the conqueror.’”

“I don’t know of what sort I am,” returned Sancho,
“but I know very well I’ll never get such elegant skimmings
off Basilio’s pots as these I have got off Camacho’s;”
and he showed him the bucketful of geese and hens, and seizing one began
to eat with great gaiety and appetite, saying, “A fig for the
accomplishments of Basilio! As much as thou hast so much art thou worth,
and as much as thou art worth so much hast thou. As a grandmother of mine
used to say, there are only two families in the world, the Haves and the
Haven’ts; and she stuck to the Haves; and to this day, Señor Don
Quixote, people would sooner feel the pulse of ‘Have,’ than of
‘Know;’ an ass covered with gold looks better than a horse
with a pack-saddle. So once more I say I stick to Camacho, the bountiful
skimmings of whose pots are geese and hens, hares and rabbits; but of
Basilio’s, if any ever come to hand, or even to foot, they’ll
be only rinsings.”

“Hast thou finished thy harangue, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“Of course I have finished it,” replied Sancho, “because
I see your worship takes offence at it; but if it was not for that, there
was work enough cut out for three days.”

“God grant I may see thee dumb before I die, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote.

“At the rate we are going,” said Sancho, “I’ll be
chewing clay before your worship dies; and then, maybe, I’ll be so
dumb that I’ll not say a word until the end of the world, or, at
least, till the day of judgment.”

“Even should that happen, O Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thy
silence will never come up to all thou hast talked, art talking, and wilt
talk all thy life; moreover, it naturally stands to reason, that my death
will come before thine; so I never expect to see thee dumb, not even when
thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the utmost I can say.”

“In good faith, señor,” replied Sancho, “there’s
no trusting that fleshless one, I mean Death, who devours the lamb as soon
as the sheep, and, as I have heard our curate say, treads with equal foot
upon the lofty towers of kings and the lowly huts of the poor. That lady
is more mighty than dainty, she is in no way squeamish, she devours all and
is ready for all, and fills her alforjas with people of all sorts, ages,
and ranks. She is no reaper that sleeps out the noontide; at all times she
is reaping and cutting down, as well the dry grass as the green; she never
seems to chew, but bolts and swallows all that is put before her, for she
has a canine appetite that is never satisfied; and though she has no
belly, she shows she has a dropsy and is athirst to drink the lives of all
that live, as one would drink a jug of cold water.”

“Say no more, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this; “don’t
try to better it, and risk a fall; for in truth what thou hast said about
death in thy rustic phrase is what a good preacher might have said. I tell
thee, Sancho, if thou hadst discretion equal to thy mother wit, thou
mightst take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine
sermons.” “He preaches well who lives well,” said
Sancho, “and I know no more theology than that.”

“Nor needst thou,” said Don Quixote, “but I cannot
conceive or make out how it is that, the fear of God being the beginning
of wisdom, thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of him, knowest so
much.”

“Pass judgment on your chivalries, señor,” returned Sancho,
“and don’t set yourself up to judge of other men’s fears
or braveries, for I am as good a fearer of God as my neighbours; but leave
me to despatch these skimmings, for all the rest is only idle talk that we
shall be called to account for in the other world;” and so saying,
he began a fresh attack on the bucket, with such a hearty appetite that he
aroused Don Quixote’s, who no doubt would have helped him had he not
been prevented by what must be told farther on.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH CAMACHO’S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL
INCIDENTS

While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set forth the
last chapter, they heard loud shouts and a great noise, which were uttered
and made by the men on the mares as they went at full gallop, shouting, to
receive the bride and bridegroom, who were approaching with musical
instruments and pageantry of all sorts around them, and accompanied by the
priest and the relatives of both, and all the most distinguished people of
the surrounding villages. When Sancho saw the bride, he exclaimed, “By
my faith, she is not dressed like a country girl, but like some fine court
lady; egad, as well as I can make out, the patena she wears rich coral,
and her green Cuenca stuff is thirty-pile velvet; and then the white linen
trimming—by my oath, but it’s satin! Look at her hands—jet
rings on them! May I never have luck if they’re not gold rings, and
real gold, and set with pearls as white as a curdled milk, and every one
of them worth an eye of one’s head! Whoreson baggage, what hair she
has! if it’s not a wig, I never saw longer or fairer all the days of
my life. See how bravely she bears herself—and her shape! Wouldn’t
you say she was like a walking palm tree loaded with clusters of dates?
for the trinkets she has hanging from her hair and neck look just like
them. I swear in my heart she is a brave lass, and fit ‘to pass over
the banks of Flanders.’”

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s boorish eulogies and thought that,
saving his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he had never seen a more beautiful
woman. The fair Quiteria appeared somewhat pale, which was, no doubt,
because of the bad night brides always pass dressing themselves out for
their wedding on the morrow. They advanced towards a theatre that stood on
one side of the meadow decked with carpets and boughs, where they were to
plight their troth, and from which they were to behold the dances and
plays; but at the moment of their arrival at the spot they heard a loud
outcry behind them, and a voice exclaiming, “Wait a little, ye, as
inconsiderate as ye are hasty!” At these words all turned round, and
perceived that the speaker was a man clad in what seemed to be a loose
black coat garnished with crimson patches like flames. He was crowned (as
was presently seen) with a crown of gloomy cypress, and in his hand he
held a long staff. As he approached he was recognised by everyone as the
gay Basilio, and all waited anxiously to see what would come of his words,
in dread of some catastrophe in consequence of his appearance at such a
moment. He came up at last weary and breathless, and planting himself in
front of the bridal pair, drove his staff, which had a steel spike at the
end, into the ground, and, with a pale face and eyes fixed on Quiteria, he
thus addressed her in a hoarse, trembling voice:

“Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the
holy law we acknowledge, so long as live thou canst take no husband; nor
art thou ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own exertions
would improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe the respect due
to thy honour; but thou, casting behind thee all thou owest to my true
love, wouldst surrender what is mine to another whose wealth serves to
bring him not only good fortune but supreme happiness; and now to complete
it (not that I think he deserves it, but inasmuch as heaven is pleased to
bestow it upon him), I will, with my own hands, do away with the obstacle
that may interfere with it, and remove myself from between you. Long live
the rich Camacho! many a happy year may he live with the ungrateful
Quiteria! and let the poor Basilio die, Basilio whose poverty clipped the
wings of his happiness, and brought him to the grave!”

And so saying, he seized the staff he had driven into the ground, and
leaving one half of it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath that
concealed a tolerably long rapier; and, what may be called its hilt being
planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately threw himself
upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half the steel blade
appeared at his back, the unhappy man falling to the earth bathed in his
blood, and transfixed by his own weapon.

His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his misery and
sad fate, and Don Quixote, dismounting from Rocinante, hastened to support
him, and took him in his arms, and found he had not yet ceased to breathe.
They were about to draw out the rapier, but the priest who was standing by
objected to its being withdrawn before he had confessed him, as the
instant of its withdrawal would be that of this death. Basilio, however,
reviving slightly, said in a weak voice, as though in pain, “If thou
wouldst consent, cruel Quiteria, to give me thy hand as my bride in this
last fatal moment, I might still hope that my rashness would find pardon,
as by its means I attained the bliss of being thine.”

Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his soul rather
than of the cravings of the body, and in all earnestness implore God’s
pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve; to which Basilio replied
that he was determined not to confess unless Quiteria first gave him her
hand in marriage, for that happiness would compose his mind and give him
courage to make his confession.

Don Quixote hearing the wounded man’s entreaty, exclaimed aloud that
what Basilio asked was just and reasonable, and moreover a request that
might be easily complied with; and that it would be as much to Señor
Camacho’s honour to receive the lady Quiteria as the widow of the
brave Basilio as if he received her direct from her father.

“In this case,” said he, “it will be only to say ‘yes,’
and no consequences can follow the utterance of the word, for the nuptial
couch of this marriage must be the grave.”

Camacho was listening to all this, perplexed and bewildered and not
knowing what to say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of Basilio’s
friends, imploring him to allow Quiteria to give him her hand, so that his
soul, quitting this life in despair, should not be lost, that they moved,
nay, forced him, to say that if Quiteria were willing to give it he was
satisfied, as it was only putting off the fulfillment of his wishes for a
moment. At once all assailed Quiteria and pressed her, some with prayers,
and others with tears, and others with persuasive arguments, to give her
hand to poor Basilio; but she, harder than marble and more unmoved than
any statue, seemed unable or unwilling to utter a word, nor would she have
given any reply had not the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant
to do, as Basilio now had his soul at his teeth, and there was no time for
hesitation.

On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grieved, and
repentant, advanced without a word to where Basilio lay, his eyes already
turned in his head, his breathing short and painful, murmuring the name of
Quiteria between his teeth, and apparently about to die like a heathen and
not like a Christian. Quiteria approached him, and kneeling, demanded his
hand by signs without speaking. Basilio opened his eyes and gazing fixedly
at her, said, “O Quiteria, why hast thou turned compassionate at a
moment when thy compassion will serve as a dagger to rob me of life, for I
have not now the strength left either to bear the happiness thou givest me
in accepting me as thine, or to suppress the pain that is rapidly drawing
the dread shadow of death over my eyes? What I entreat of thee, O thou
fatal star to me, is that the hand thou demandest of me and wouldst give
me, be not given out of complaisance or to deceive me afresh, but that
thou confess and declare that without any constraint upon thy will thou
givest it to me as to thy lawful husband; for it is not meet that thou
shouldst trifle with me at such a moment as this, or have recourse to
falsehoods with one who has dealt so truly by thee.”

While uttering these words he showed such weakness that the bystanders
expected each return of faintness would take his life with it. Then
Quiteria, overcome with modesty and shame, holding in her right hand the
hand of Basilio, said, “No force would bend my will; as freely,
therefore, as it is possible for me to do so, I give thee the hand of a
lawful wife, and take thine if thou givest it to me of thine own free
will, untroubled and unaffected by the calamity thy hasty act has brought
upon thee.”

“Yes, I give it,” said Basilio, “not agitated or
distracted, but with unclouded reason that heaven is pleased to grant me,
thus do I give myself to be thy husband.”

“And I give myself to be thy wife,” said Quiteria, “whether
thou livest many years, or they carry thee from my arms to the grave.”

“For one so badly wounded,” observed Sancho at this point,
“this young man has a great deal to say; they should make him leave
off billing and cooing, and attend to his soul; for to my thinking he has
it more on his tongue than at his teeth.”

Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined hands, the priest, deeply moved
and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the blessing upon them, and
implored heaven to grant an easy passage to the soul of the newly wedded
man, who, the instant he received the blessing, started nimbly to his feet
and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the rapier that had been
sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were astounded, and some, more
simple than inquiring, began shouting, “A miracle, a miracle!”
But Basilio replied, “No miracle, no miracle; only a trick, a trick!”
The priest, perplexed and amazed, made haste to examine the wound with
both hands, and found that the blade had passed, not through Basilio’s
flesh and ribs, but through a hollow iron tube full of blood, which he had
adroitly fixed at the place, the blood, as was afterwards ascertained,
having been so prepared as not to congeal. In short, the priest and
Camacho and most of those present saw they were tricked and made fools of.
The bride showed no signs of displeasure at the deception; on the
contrary, hearing them say that the marriage, being fraudulent, would not
be valid, she said that she confirmed it afresh, whence they all concluded
that the affair had been planned by agreement and understanding between
the pair, whereat Camacho and his supporters were so mortified that they
proceeded to revenge themselves by violence, and a great number of them
drawing their swords attacked Basilio, in whose protection as many more
swords were in an instant unsheathed, while Don Quixote taking the lead on
horseback, with his lance over his arm and well covered with his shield,
made all give way before him. Sancho, who never found any pleasure or
enjoyment in such doings, retreated to the wine-jars from which he had
taken his delectable skimmings, considering that, as a holy place, that
spot would be respected.

“Hold, sirs, hold!” cried Don Quixote in a loud voice; “we
have no right to take vengeance for wrongs that love may do to us:
remember love and war are the same thing, and as in war it is allowable
and common to make use of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so
in the contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices employed to
attain the desired end are justifiable, provided they be not to the
discredit or dishonour of the loved object. Quiteria belonged to Basilio
and Basilio to Quiteria by the just and beneficent disposal of heaven.
Camacho is rich, and can purchase his pleasure when, where, and as it
pleases him. Basilio has but this ewe-lamb, and no one, however powerful
he may be, shall take her from him; these two whom God hath joined man
cannot separate; and he who attempts it must first pass the point of this
lance;” and so saying he brandished it so stoutly and dexterously
that he overawed all who did not know him.

But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria made on Camacho’s
mind that it banished her at once from his thoughts; and so the counsels
of the priest, who was a wise and kindly disposed man, prevailed with him,
and by their means he and his partisans were pacified and tranquillised,
and to prove it put up their swords again, inveighing against the pliancy
of Quiteria rather than the craftiness of Basilio; Camacho maintaining
that, if Quiteria as a maiden had such a love for Basilio, she would have
loved him too as a married woman, and that he ought to thank heaven more
for having taken her than for having given her.

Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled and
pacified, those on Basilio’s side were appeased; and the rich
Camacho, to show that he felt no resentment for the trick, and did not
care about it, desired the festival to go on just as if he were married in
reality. Neither Basilio, however, nor his bride, nor their followers
would take any part in it, and they withdrew to Basilio’s village;
for the poor, if they are persons of virtue and good sense, have those who
follow, honour, and uphold them, just as the rich have those who flatter
and dance attendance on them. With them they carried Don Quixote,
regarding him as a man of worth and a stout one. Sancho alone had a cloud
on his soul, for he found himself debarred from waiting for Camacho’s
splendid feast and festival, which lasted until night; and thus dragged
away, he moodily followed his master, who accompanied Basilio’s
party, and left behind him the flesh-pots of Egypt; though in his heart he
took them with him, and their now nearly finished skimmings that he
carried in the bucket conjured up visions before his eyes of the glory and
abundance of the good cheer he was losing. And so, vexed and dejected
though not hungry, without dismounting from Dapple he followed in the
footsteps of Rocinante.

CHAPTER XXII.

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE
HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY
TERMINATION

Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly
married couple, who felt themselves under an obligation to him for coming
forward in defence of their cause; and they exalted his wisdom to the same
level with his courage, rating him as a Cid in arms, and a Cicero in
eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for three days at the expense of
the pair, from whom they learned that the sham wound was not a scheme
arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a device of Basilio’s, who
counted on exactly the result they had seen; he confessed, it is true,
that he had confided his idea to some of his friends, so that at the
proper time they might aid him in his purpose and insure the success of
the deception.

“That,” said Don Quixote, “is not and ought not to be
called deception which aims at virtuous ends;” and the marriage of
lovers he maintained to be a most excellent end, reminding them, however,
that love has no greater enemy than hunger and constant want; for love is
all gaiety, enjoyment, and happiness, especially when the lover is in the
possession of the object of his love, and poverty and want are the
declared enemies of all these; which he said to urge Señor Basilio to
abandon the practice of those accomplishments he was skilled in, for
though they brought him fame, they brought him no money, and apply himself
to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate industry, which will never fail
those who are prudent and persevering. The poor man who is a man of honour
(if indeed a poor man can be a man of honour) has a jewel when he has a
fair wife, and if she is taken from him, his honour is taken from him and
slain. The fair woman who is a woman of honour, and whose husband is poor,
deserves to be crowned with the laurels and crowns of victory and triumph.
Beauty by itself attracts the desires of all who behold it, and the royal
eagles and birds of towering flight stoop on it as on a dainty lure; but
if beauty be accompanied by want and penury, then the ravens and the kites
and other birds of prey assail it, and she who stands firm against such
attacks well deserves to be called the crown of her husband. “Remember,
O prudent Basilio,” added Don Quixote, “it was the opinion of
a certain sage, I know not whom, that there was not more than one good
woman in the whole world; and his advice was that each one should think
and believe that this one good woman was his own wife, and in this way he
would live happy. I myself am not married, nor, so far, has it ever
entered my thoughts to be so; nevertheless I would venture to give advice
to anyone who might ask it, as to the mode in which he should seek a wife
such as he would be content to marry. The first thing I would recommend
him, would be to look to good name rather than to wealth, for a good woman
does not win a good name merely by being good, but by letting it be seen
that she is so, and open looseness and freedom do much more damage to a
woman’s honour than secret depravity. If you take a good woman into
your house it will be an easy matter to keep her good, and even to make
her still better; but if you take a bad one you will find it hard work to
mend her, for it is no very easy matter to pass from one extreme to
another. I do not say it is impossible, but I look upon it as difficult.”

Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, “This master of
mine, when I say anything that has weight and substance, says I might take
a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine sermons; but I say
of him that, when he begins stringing maxims together and giving advice
not only might he take a pulpit in hand, but two on each finger, and go
into the market-places to his heart’s content. Devil take you for a
knight-errant, what a lot of things you know! I used to think in my heart
that the only thing he knew was what belonged to his chivalry; but there
is nothing he won’t have a finger in.”

Sancho muttered this somewhat aloud, and his master overheard him, and
asked, “What art thou muttering there, Sancho?”

“I’m not saying anything or muttering anything,” said
Sancho; “I was only saying to myself that I wish I had heard what
your worship has said just now before I married; perhaps I’d say
now, ‘The ox that’s loose licks himself well.’”

“Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?”

“She is not very bad,” replied Sancho; “but she is not
very good; at least she is not as good as I could wish.”

“Thou dost wrong, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “to speak
ill of thy wife; for after all she is the mother of thy children.”
“We are quits,” returned Sancho; “for she speaks ill of
me whenever she takes it into her head, especially when she is jealous;
and Satan himself could not put up with her then.”

In fine, they remained three days with the newly married couple, by whom
they were entertained and treated like kings. Don Quixote begged the
fencing licentiate to find him a guide to show him the way to the cave of
Montesinos, as he had a great desire to enter it and see with his own eyes
if the wonderful tales that were told of it all over the country were
true. The licentiate said he would get him a cousin of his own, a famous
scholar, and one very much given to reading books of chivalry, who would
have great pleasure in conducting him to the mouth of the very cave, and
would show him the lakes of Ruidera, which were likewise famous all over
La Mancha, and even all over Spain; and he assured him he would find him
entertaining, for he was a youth who could write books good enough to be
printed and dedicated to princes. The cousin arrived at last, leading an
ass in foal, with a pack-saddle covered with a parti-coloured carpet or
sackcloth; Sancho saddled Rocinante, got Dapple ready, and stocked his
alforjas, along with which went those of the cousin, likewise well filled;
and so, commending themselves to God and bidding farewell to all, they set
out, taking the road for the famous cave of Montesinos.

On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character his
pursuits, avocations, and studies were, to which he replied that he was by
profession a humanist, and that his pursuits and studies were making books
for the press, all of great utility and no less entertainment to the
nation. One was called “The Book of Liveries,” in which he
described seven hundred and three liveries, with their colours, mottoes,
and ciphers, from which gentlemen of the court might pick and choose any
they fancied for festivals and revels, without having to go a-begging for
them from anyone, or puzzling their brains, as the saying is, to have them
appropriate to their objects and purposes; “for,” said he,
“I give the jealous, the rejected, the forgotten, the absent, what
will suit them, and fit them without fail. I have another book, too, which
I shall call ‘Metamorphoses, or the Spanish Ovid,’ one of rare
and original invention, for imitating Ovid in burlesque style, I show in
it who the Giralda of Seville and the Angel of the Magdalena were, what
the sewer of Vecinguerra at Cordova was, what the bulls of Guisando, the
Sierra Morena, the Leganitos and Lavapies fountains at Madrid, not
forgetting those of the Piojo, of the Cano Dorado, and of the Priora; and
all with their allegories, metaphors, and changes, so that they are
amusing, interesting, and instructive, all at once. Another book I have
which I call ‘The Supplement to Polydore Vergil,’ which treats
of the invention of things, and is a work of great erudition and research,
for I establish and elucidate elegantly some things of great importance
which Polydore omitted to mention. He forgot to tell us who was the first
man in the world that had a cold in his head, and who was the first to try
salivation for the French disease, but I give it accurately set forth, and
quote more than five-and-twenty authors in proof of it, so you may
perceive I have laboured to good purpose and that the book will be of
service to the whole world.”

Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin’s words, said to
him, “Tell me, señor—and God give you luck in printing your
books—can you tell me (for of course you know, as you know
everything) who was the first man that scratched his head? For to my
thinking it must have been our father Adam.”

“So it must,” replied the cousin; “for there is no doubt
but Adam had a head and hair; and being the first man in the world he
would have scratched himself sometimes.”

“So I think,” said Sancho; “but now tell me, who was the
first tumbler in the world?”

“Really, brother,” answered the cousin, “I could not at
this moment say positively without having investigated it; I will look it
up when I go back to where I have my books, and will satisfy you the next
time we meet, for this will not be the last time.”

“Look here, señor,” said Sancho, “don’t give
yourself any trouble about it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I
asked you. The first tumbler in the world, you must know, was Lucifer,
when they cast or pitched him out of heaven; for he came tumbling into the
bottomless pit.”

“You are right, friend,” said the cousin; and said Don
Quixote, “Sancho, that question and answer are not thine own; thou
hast heard them from some one else.”

“Hold your peace, señor,” said Sancho; “faith, if I take
to asking questions and answering, I’ll go on from this till
to-morrow morning. Nay! to ask foolish things and answer nonsense I needn’t
go looking for help from my neighbours.”

“Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote; “for there are some who weary themselves out in learning
and proving things that, after they are known and proved, are not worth a
farthing to the understanding or memory.”

In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and that night
they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not more than two leagues to
the cave of Montesinos, so the cousin told Don Quixote, adding, that if he
was bent upon entering it, it would be requisite for him to provide
himself with ropes, so that he might be tied and lowered into its depths.
Don Quixote said that even if it reached to the bottomless pit he meant to
see where it went to; so they bought about a hundred fathoms of rope, and
next day at two in the afternoon they arrived at the cave, the mouth of
which is spacious and wide, but full of thorn and wild-fig bushes and
brambles and briars, so thick and matted that they completely close it up
and cover it over.

On coming within sight of it the cousin, Sancho, and Don Quixote
dismounted, and the first two immediately tied the latter very firmly with
the ropes, and as they were girding and swathing him Sancho said to him,
“Mind what you are about, master mine; don’t go burying
yourself alive, or putting yourself where you’ll be like a bottle
put to cool in a well; it’s no affair or business of your worship’s
to become the explorer of this, which must be worse than a Moorish
dungeon.”

“Tie me and hold thy peace,” said Don Quixote, “for an
emprise like this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me;” and said the
guide, “I beg of you, Señor Don Quixote, to observe carefully and
examine with a hundred eyes everything that is within there; perhaps there
may be some things for me to put into my book of ‘Transformations.’”

“The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well enough,”
said Sancho Panza.

When he had said this and finished the tying (which was not over the
armour but only over the doublet) Don Quixote observed, “It was
careless of us not to have provided ourselves with a small cattle-bell to
be tied on the rope close to me, the sound of which would show that I was
still descending and alive; but as that is out of the question now, in God’s
hand be it to guide me;” and forthwith he fell on his knees and in a
low voice offered up a prayer to heaven, imploring God to aid him and
grant him success in this to all appearance perilous and untried
adventure, and then exclaimed aloud, “O mistress of my actions and
movements, illustrious and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, if so be the
prayers and supplications of this fortunate lover can reach thy ears, by
thy incomparable beauty I entreat thee to listen to them, for they but ask
thee not to refuse me thy favour and protection now that I stand in such
need of them. I am about to precipitate, to sink, to plunge myself into
the abyss that is here before me, only to let the world know that while
thou dost favour me there is no impossibility I will not attempt and
accomplish.” With these words he approached the cavern, and
perceived that it was impossible to let himself down or effect an entrance
except by sheer force or cleaving a passage; so drawing his sword he began
to demolish and cut away the brambles at the mouth of the cave, at the
noise of which a vast multitude of crows and choughs flew out of it so
thick and so fast that they knocked Don Quixote down; and if he had been
as much of a believer in augury as he was a Catholic Christian he would
have taken it as a bad omen and declined to bury himself in such a place.
He got up, however, and as there came no more crows, or night-birds like
the bats that flew out at the same time with the crows, the cousin and
Sancho giving him rope, he lowered himself into the depths of the dread
cavern; and as he entered it Sancho sent his blessing after him, making a
thousand crosses over him and saying, “God, and the Pena de Francia,
and the Trinity of Gaeta guide thee, flower and cream of knights-errant.
There thou goest, thou dare-devil of the earth, heart of steel, arm of
brass; once more, God guide thee and send thee back safe, sound, and
unhurt to the light of this world thou art leaving to bury thyself in the
darkness thou art seeking there;” and the cousin offered up almost
the same prayers and supplications.

Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and more rope, and they
gave it out little by little, and by the time the calls, which came out of
the cave as out of a pipe, ceased to be heard they had let down the
hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don Quixote up again,
as they could give him no more rope; however, they waited about half an
hour, at the end of which time they began to gather in the rope again with
great ease and without feeling any weight, which made them fancy Don
Quixote was remaining below; and persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept
bitterly, and hauled away in great haste in order to settle the question.
When, however, they had come to, as it seemed, rather more than eighty
fathoms they felt a weight, at which they were greatly delighted; and at
last, at ten fathoms more, they saw Don Quixote distinctly, and Sancho
called out to him, saying, “Welcome back, señor, for we had begun to
think you were going to stop there to found a family.” But Don
Quixote answered not a word, and drawing him out entirely they perceived
he had his eyes shut and every appearance of being fast asleep.

They stretched him on the ground and untied him, but still he did not
awake; however, they rolled him back and forwards and shook and pulled him
about, so that after some time he came to himself, stretching himself just
as if he were waking up from a deep and sound sleep, and looking about him
he said, “God forgive you, friends; ye have taken me away from the
sweetest and most delightful existence and spectacle that ever human being
enjoyed or beheld. Now indeed do I know that all the pleasures of this
life pass away like a shadow and a dream, or fade like the flower of the
field. O ill-fated Montesinos! O sore-wounded Durandarte! O unhappy
Belerma! O tearful Guadiana, and ye O hapless daughters of Ruidera who
show in your waves the tears that flowed from your beauteous eyes!”

The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention to the words of
Don Quixote, who uttered them as though with immense pain he drew them up
from his very bowels. They begged of him to explain himself, and tell them
what he had seen in that hell down there.

“Hell do you call it?” said Don Quixote; “call it by no
such name, for it does not deserve it, as ye shall soon see.”

He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he was very hungry.
They spread the cousin’s sackcloth on the grass, and put the stores
of the alforjas into requisition, and all three sitting down lovingly and
sociably, they made a luncheon and a supper of it all in one; and when the
sackcloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha said, “Let no one
rise, and attend to me, my sons, both of you.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE
PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH
CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL

It was about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in clouds, with
subdued light and tempered beams, enabled Don Quixote to relate, without
heat or inconvenience, what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos to his
two illustrious hearers, and he began as follows:

“A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man’s height down
in this pit, on the right-hand side, there is a recess or space, roomy
enough to contain a large cart with its mules. A little light reaches it
through some chinks or crevices, communicating with it and open to the
surface of the earth. This recess or space I perceived when I was already
growing weary and disgusted at finding myself hanging suspended by the
rope, travelling downwards into that dark region without any certainty or
knowledge of where I was going, so I resolved to enter it and rest myself
for a while. I called out, telling you not to let out more rope until I
bade you, but you cannot have heard me. I then gathered in the rope you
were sending me, and making a coil or pile of it I seated myself upon it,
ruminating and considering what I was to do to lower myself to the bottom,
having no one to hold me up; and as I was thus deep in thought and
perplexity, suddenly and without provocation a profound sleep fell upon
me, and when I least expected it, I know not how, I awoke and found myself
in the midst of the most beautiful, delightful meadow that nature could
produce or the most lively human imagination conceive. I opened my eyes, I
rubbed them, and found I was not asleep but thoroughly awake.
Nevertheless, I felt my head and breast to satisfy myself whether it was I
myself who was there or some empty delusive phantom; but touch, feeling,
the collected thoughts that passed through my mind, all convinced me that
I was the same then and there that I am this moment. Next there presented
itself to my sight a stately royal palace or castle, with walls that
seemed built of clear transparent crystal; and through two great doors
that opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and advancing towards me a
venerable old man, clad in a long gown of mulberry-coloured serge that
trailed upon the ground. On his shoulders and breast he had a green satin
collegiate hood, and covering his head a black Milanese bonnet, and his
snow-white beard fell below his girdle. He carried no arms whatever,
nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than fair-sized filberts, each tenth
bead being like a moderate ostrich egg; his bearing, his gait, his dignity
and imposing presence held me spellbound and wondering. He approached me,
and the first thing he did was to embrace me closely, and then he said to
me, ‘For a long time now, O valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha,
we who are here enchanted in these solitudes have been hoping to see thee,
that thou mayest make known to the world what is shut up and concealed in
this deep cave, called the cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered, an
achievement reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous courage alone
to attempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and I will show thee the
marvels hidden within this transparent castle, whereof I am the alcaide
and perpetual warden; for I am Montesinos himself, from whom the cave
takes its name.’

“The instant he told me he was Montesinos, I asked him if the story
they told in the world above here was true, that he had taken out the
heart of his great friend Durandarte from his breast with a little dagger,
and carried it to the lady Belerma, as his friend when at the point of
death had commanded him. He said in reply that they spoke the truth in
every respect except as to the dagger, for it was not a dagger, nor
little, but a burnished poniard sharper than an awl.”

“That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces the Sevillian,”
said Sancho.

“I do not know,” said Don Quixote; “it could not have
been by that poniard maker, however, because Ramon de Hoces was a man of
yesterday, and the affair of Roncesvalles, where this mishap occurred, was
long ago; but the question is of no great importance, nor does it affect
or make any alteration in the truth or substance of the story.”

“That is true,” said the cousin; “continue, Señor Don
Quixote, for I am listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the
world.”

“And with no less do I tell the tale,” said Don Quixote;
“and so, to proceed—the venerable Montesinos led me into the
palace of crystal, where, in a lower chamber, strangely cool and entirely
of alabaster, was an elaborately wrought marble tomb, upon which I beheld,
stretched at full length, a knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper,
as are seen on other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right hand
(which seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign of great strength in
its owner) lay on the side of his heart; but before I could put any
question to Montesinos, he, seeing me gazing at the tomb in amazement,
said to me, ‘This is my friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the
true lovers and valiant knights of his time. He is held enchanted here, as
I myself and many others are, by that French enchanter Merlin, who, they
say, was the devil’s son; but my belief is, not that he was the
devil’s son, but that he knew, as the saying is, a point more than
the devil. How or why he enchanted us, no one knows, but time will tell,
and I suspect that time is not far off. What I marvel at is, that I know
it to be as sure as that it is now day, that Durandarte ended his life in
my arms, and that, after his death, I took out his heart with my own
hands; and indeed it must have weighed more than two pounds, for,
according to naturalists, he who has a large heart is more largely endowed
with valour than he who has a small one. Then, as this is the case, and as
the knight did really die, how comes it that he now moans and sighs from
time to time, as if he were still alive?’

“As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice:

“On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before
the unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, ‘Long since,
Señor Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since have I done what you bade
me on that sad day when I lost you; I took out your heart as well as I
could, not leaving an atom of it in your breast, I wiped it with a lace
handkerchief, and I took the road to France with it, having first laid you
in the bosom of the earth with tears enough to wash and cleanse my hands
of the blood that covered them after wandering among your bowels; and more
by token, O cousin of my soul, at the first village I came to after
leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a little salt upon your heart to keep it
sweet, and bring it, if not fresh, at least pickled, into the presence of
the lady Belerma, whom, together with you, myself, Guadiana your squire,
the duenna Ruidera and her seven daughters and two nieces, and many more
of your friends and acquaintances, the sage Merlin has been keeping
enchanted here these many years; and although more than five hundred have
gone by, not one of us has died; Ruidera and her daughters and nieces
alone are missing, and these, because of the tears they shed, Merlin, out
of the compassion he seems to have felt for them, changed into so many
lakes, which to this day in the world of the living, and in the province
of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of Ruidera. The seven daughters belong
to the kings of Spain and the two nieces to the knights of a very holy
order called the Order of St. John. Guadiana your squire, likewise
bewailing your fate, was changed into a river of his own name, but when he
came to the surface and beheld the sun of another heaven, so great was his
grief at finding he was leaving you, that he plunged into the bowels of
the earth; however, as he cannot help following his natural course, he
from time to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and the world.
The lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with these, and others that
come to him, he makes a grand and imposing entrance into Portugal; but for
all that, go where he may, he shows his melancholy and sadness, and takes
no pride in breeding dainty choice fish, only coarse and tasteless sorts,
very different from those of the golden Tagus. All this that I tell you
now, O cousin mine, I have told you many times before, and as you make no
answer, I fear that either you believe me not, or do not hear me, whereat
I feel God knows what grief. I have now news to give you, which, if it
serves not to alleviate your sufferings, will not in any wise increase
them. Know that you have here before you (open your eyes and you will see)
that great knight of whom the sage Merlin has prophesied such great
things; that Don Quixote of La Mancha I mean, who has again, and to better
purpose than in past times, revived in these days knight-errantry, long
since forgotten, and by whose intervention and aid it may be we shall be
disenchanted; for great deeds are reserved for great men.’

“‘And if that may not be,’ said the wretched Durandarte
in a low and feeble voice, ‘if that may not be, then, my cousin, I
say “patience and shuffle;”’ and turning over on his
side, he relapsed into his former silence without uttering another word.

“And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompanied
by deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystal
wall I saw passing through another chamber a procession of two lines of
fair damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans of Turkish
fashion on their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there came a lady,
for so from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in black, with a white
veil so long and ample that it swept the ground. Her turban was twice as
large as the largest of any of the others; her eyebrows met, her nose was
rather flat, her mouth was large but with ruddy lips, and her teeth, of
which at times she allowed a glimpse, were seen to be sparse and ill-set,
though as white as peeled almonds. She carried in her hands a fine cloth,
and in it, as well as I could make out, a heart that had been mummied, so
parched and dried was it. Montesinos told me that all those forming the
procession were the attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were
enchanted there with their master and mistress, and that the last, she who
carried the heart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her
damsels, four days in the week went in procession singing, or rather
weeping, dirges over the body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that
if she appeared to me somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as fame
reported her, it was because of the bad nights and worse days that she
passed in that enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circles round
her eyes, and her sickly complexion; ‘her sallowness, and the rings
round her eyes,’ said he, ‘are not caused by the periodical
ailment usual with women, for it is many months and even years since she
has had any, but by the grief her own heart suffers because of that which
she holds in her hand perpetually, and which recalls and brings back to
her memory the sad fate of her lost lover; were it not for this, hardly
would the great Dulcinea del Toboso, so celebrated in all these parts, and
even in the world, come up to her for beauty, grace, and gaiety.’

“‘Hold hard!’ said I at this, ‘tell your story as
you ought, Señor Don Montesinos, for you know very well that all
comparisons are odious, and there is no occasion to compare one person
with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the
lady Dona Belerma is what she is and has been, and that’s enough.’
To which he made answer, ‘Forgive me, Señor Don Quixote; I own I was
wrong and spoke unadvisedly in saying that the lady Dulcinea could
scarcely come up to the lady Belerma; for it were enough for me to have
learned, by what means I know not, that you are her knight, to make me
bite my tongue out before I compared her to anything save heaven itself.’
After this apology which the great Montesinos made me, my heart recovered
itself from the shock I had received in hearing my lady compared with
Belerma.”

“Still I wonder,” said Sancho, “that your worship did
not get upon the old fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and
pluck his beard until you didn’t leave a hair in it.”

“Nay, Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “it would
not have been right in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect
to the aged, even though they be not knights, but especially to those who
are, and who are enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as he brought
in the many other questions and answers we exchanged.”

“I cannot understand, Señor Don Quixote,” remarked the cousin
here, “how it is that your worship, in such a short space of time as
you have been below there, could have seen so many things, and said and
answered so much.”

“How long is it since I went down?” asked Don Quixote.

“Little better than an hour,” replied Sancho.

“That cannot be,” returned Don Quixote, “because night
overtook me while I was there, and day came, and it was night again and
day again three times; so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days in
those remote regions beyond our ken.”

“My master must be right,” replied Sancho; “for as
everything that has happened to him is by enchantment, maybe what seems to
us an hour would seem three days and nights there.”

“That’s it,” said Don Quixote.

“And did your worship eat anything all that time, señor?”
asked the cousin.

“I never touched a morsel,” answered Don Quixote, “nor
did I feel hunger, or think of it.”

“And do the enchanted eat?” said the cousin.

“They neither eat,” said Don Quixote; “nor are they
subject to the greater excrements, though it is thought that their nails,
beards, and hair grow.”

“And do the enchanted sleep, now, señor?” asked Sancho.

“Certainly not,” replied Don Quixote; “at least, during
those three days I was with them not one of them closed an eye, nor did I
either.”

“The proverb, ‘Tell me what company thou keepest and I’ll
tell thee what thou art,’ is to the point here,” said Sancho;
“your worship keeps company with enchanted people that are always
fasting and watching; what wonder is it, then, that you neither eat nor
sleep while you are with them? But forgive me, señor, if I say that of all
this you have told us now, may God take me—I was just going to say
the devil—if I believe a single particle.”

“What!” said the cousin, “has Señor Don Quixote, then,
been lying? Why, even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and
put together such a host of lies.”

“I don’t believe my master lies,” said Sancho.

“If not, what dost thou believe?” asked Don Quixote.

“I believe,” replied Sancho, “that this Merlin, or those
enchanters who enchanted the whole crew your worship says you saw and
discoursed with down there, stuffed your imagination or your mind with all
this rigmarole you have been treating us to, and all that is still to
come.”

“All that might be, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “but
it is not so, for everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyes,
and touched with my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now
how, among the countless other marvellous things Montesinos showed me (of
which at leisure and at the proper time I will give thee an account in the
course of our journey, for they would not be all in place here), he showed
me three country girls who went skipping and capering like goats over the
pleasant fields there, and the instant I beheld them I knew one to be the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and the other two those same country girls
that were with her and that we spoke to on the road from El Toboso! I
asked Montesinos if he knew them, and he told me he did not, but he
thought they must be some enchanted ladies of distinction, for it was only
a few days before that they had made their appearance in those meadows;
but I was not to be surprised at that, because there were a great many
other ladies there of times past and present, enchanted in various strange
shapes, and among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere and her dame
Quintanona, she who poured out the wine for Lancelot when he came from
Britain.”

When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to take leave of
his senses, or die with laughter; for, as he knew the real truth about the
pretended enchantment of Dulcinea, in which he himself had been the
enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he made up his mind at last
that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of his wits and stark mad, so
he said to him, “It was an evil hour, a worse season, and a
sorrowful day, when your worship, dear master mine, went down to the other
world, and an unlucky moment when you met with Señor Montesinos, who has
sent you back to us like this. You were well enough here above in your
full senses, such as God had given you, delivering maxims and giving
advice at every turn, and not as you are now, talking the greatest
nonsense that can be imagined.”

“As I know thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “I heed not
thy words.”

“Nor I your worship’s,” said Sancho, “whether you
beat me or kill me for those I have spoken, and will speak if you don’t
correct and mend your own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how
or by what did you recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to
her, what did you say, and what did she answer?”

“I recognised her,” said Don Quixote, “by her wearing
the same garments she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to
her, but she did not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned
her back on me and took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt could
not have overtaken her. I wished to follow her, and would have done so had
not Montesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as it would be
useless, particularly as the time was drawing near when it would be
necessary for me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover, that in course
of time he would let me know how he and Belerma, and Durandarte, and all
who were there, were to be disenchanted. But of all I saw and observed
down there, what gave me most pain was, that while Montesinos was speaking
to me, one of the two companions of the hapless Dulcinea approached me on
one without my having seen her coming, and with tears in her eyes said to
me, in a low, agitated voice, ‘My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses
your worship’s hands, and entreats you to do her the favour of
letting her know how you are; and, being in great need, she also entreats
your worship as earnestly as she can to be so good as to lend her half a
dozen reals, or as much as you may have about you, on this new dimity
petticoat that I have here; and she promises to repay them very speedily.’
I was amazed and taken aback by such a message, and turning to Señor
Montesinos I asked him, ‘Is it possible, Señor Montesinos, that
persons of distinction under enchantment can be in need?’ To which
he replied, ‘Believe me, Señor Don Quixote, that which is called
need is to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all quarters and reaches
everyone, and does not spare even the enchanted; and as the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, and the pledge is to all
appearance a good one, there is nothing for it but to give them to her,
for no doubt she must be in some great strait.’ ‘I will take
no pledge of her,’ I replied, ‘nor yet can I give her what she
asks, for all I have is four reals; which I gave (they were those which
thou, Sancho, gavest me the other day to bestow in alms upon the poor I
met along the road), and I said, ‘Tell your mistress, my dear, that
I am grieved to the heart because of her distresses, and wish I was a
Fucar to remedy them, and that I would have her know that I cannot be, and
ought not be, in health while deprived of the happiness of seeing her and
enjoying her discreet conversation, and that I implore her as earnestly as
I can, to allow herself to be seen and addressed by this her captive
servant and forlorn knight. Tell her, too, that when she least expects it
she will hear it announced that I have made an oath and vow after the
fashion of that which the Marquis of Mantua made to avenge his nephew
Baldwin, when he found him at the point of death in the heart of the
mountains, which was, not to eat bread off a tablecloth, and other
trifling matters which he added, until he had avenged him; and I will make
the same to take no rest, and to roam the seven regions of the earth more
thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal ever roamed them, until
I have disenchanted her.’ ‘All that and more, you owe my lady,’
the damsel’s answer to me, and taking the four reals, instead of
making me a curtsey she cut a caper, springing two full yards into the
air.”

“O blessed God!” exclaimed Sancho aloud at this, “is it
possible that such things can be in the world, and that enchanters and
enchantments can have such power in it as to have changed my master’s
right senses into a craze so full of absurdity! O señor, señor, for God’s
sake, consider yourself, have a care for your honour, and give no credit
to this silly stuff that has left you scant and short of wits.”

“Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho,”
said Don Quixote; “and not being experienced in the things of the
world, everything that has some difficulty about it seems to thee
impossible; but time will pass, as I said before, and I will tell thee
some of the things I saw down there which will make thee believe what I
have related now, the truth of which admits of neither reply nor question.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE
NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

He who translated this great history from the original written by its
first author, Cide Hamete Benengeli, says that on coming to the chapter
giving the adventures of the cave of Montesinos he found written on the
margin of it, in Hamete’s own hand, these exact words:

“I cannot convince or persuade myself that everything that is
written in the preceding chapter could have precisely happened to the
valiant Don Quixote; and for this reason, that all the adventures that
have occurred up to the present have been possible and probable; but as
for this one of the cave, I see no way of accepting it as true, as it
passes all reasonable bounds. For me to believe that Don Quixote could
lie, he being the most truthful gentleman and the noblest knight of his
time, is impossible; he would not have told a lie though he were shot to
death with arrows. On the other hand, I reflect that he related and told
the story with all the circumstances detailed, and that he could not in so
short a space have fabricated such a vast complication of absurdities; if,
then, this adventure seems apocryphal, it is no fault of mine; and so,
without affirming its falsehood or its truth, I write it down. Decide for
thyself in thy wisdom, reader; for I am not bound, nor is it in my power,
to do more; though certain it is they say that at the time of his death he
retracted, and said he had invented it, thinking it matched and tallied
with the adventures he had read of in his histories.” And then he
goes on to say:

The cousin was amazed as well at Sancho’s boldness as at the
patience of his master, and concluded that the good temper the latter
displayed arose from the happiness he felt at having seen his lady
Dulcinea, even enchanted as she was; because otherwise the words and
language Sancho had addressed to him deserved a thrashing; for indeed he
seemed to him to have been rather impudent to his master, to whom he now
observed, “I, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, look upon the time I
have spent in travelling with your worship as very well employed, for I
have gained four things in the course of it; the first is that I have made
your acquaintance, which I consider great good fortune; the second, that I
have learned what the cave of Montesinos contains, together with the
transformations of Guadiana and of the lakes of Ruidera; which will be of
use to me for the Spanish Ovid that I have in hand; the third, to have
discovered the antiquity of cards, that they were in use at least in the
time of Charlemagne, as may be inferred from the words you say Durandarte
uttered when, at the end of that long spell while Montesinos was talking
to him, he woke up and said, ‘Patience and shuffle.’ This
phrase and expression he could not have learned while he was enchanted,
but only before he had become so, in France, and in the time of the
aforesaid emperor Charlemagne. And this demonstration is just the thing
for me for that other book I am writing, the ‘Supplement to Polydore
Vergil on the Invention of Antiquities;’ for I believe he never
thought of inserting that of cards in his book, as I mean to do in mine,
and it will be a matter of great importance, particularly when I can cite
so grave and veracious an authority as Señor Durandarte. And the fourth
thing is, that I have ascertained the source of the river Guadiana,
heretofore unknown to mankind.”

“You are right,” said Don Quixote; “but I should like to
know, if by God’s favour they grant you a licence to print those
books of yours—which I doubt—to whom do you mean to dedicate
them?”

“There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can be
dedicated,” said the cousin.

“Not many,” said Don Quixote; “not that they are
unworthy of it, but because they do not care to accept books and incur the
obligation of making the return that seems due to the author’s
labour and courtesy. One prince I know who makes up for all the rest, and
more—how much more, if I ventured to say, perhaps I should stir up
envy in many a noble breast; but let this stand over for some more
convenient time, and let us go and look for some place to shelter
ourselves in to-night.”

“Not far from this,” said the cousin, “there is a
hermitage, where there lives a hermit, who they say was a soldier, and who
has the reputation of being a good Christian and a very intelligent and
charitable man. Close to the hermitage he has a small house which he built
at his own cost, but though small it is large enough for the reception of
guests.”

“Has this hermit any hens, do you think?” asked Sancho.

“Few hermits are without them,” said Don Quixote; “for
those we see now-a-days are not like the hermits of the Egyptian deserts
who were clad in palm-leaves, and lived on the roots of the earth. But do
not think that by praising these I am disparaging the others; all I mean
to say is that the penances of those of the present day do not come up to
the asceticism and austerity of former times; but it does not follow from
this that they are not all worthy; at least I think them so; and at the
worst the hypocrite who pretends to be good does less harm than the open
sinner.”

At this point they saw approaching the spot where they stood a man on
foot, proceeding at a rapid pace, and beating a mule loaded with lances
and halberds. When he came up to them, he saluted them and passed on
without stopping. Don Quixote called to him, “Stay, good fellow; you
seem to be making more haste than suits that mule.”

“I cannot stop, señor,” answered the man; “for the arms
you see I carry here are to be used to-morrow, so I must not delay; God be
with you. But if you want to know what I am carrying them for, I mean to
lodge to-night at the inn that is beyond the hermitage, and if you be
going the same road you will find me there, and I will tell you some
curious things; once more God be with you;” and he urged on his mule
at such a pace that Don Quixote had no time to ask him what these curious
things were that he meant to tell them; and as he was somewhat
inquisitive, and always tortured by his anxiety to learn something new, he
decided to set out at once, and go and pass the night at the inn instead
of stopping at the hermitage, where the cousin would have had them halt.
Accordingly they mounted and all three took the direct road for the inn,
which they reached a little before nightfall. On the road the cousin
proposed they should go up to the hermitage to drink a sup. The instant
Sancho heard this he steered his Dapple towards it, and Don Quixote and
the cousin did the same; but it seems Sancho’s bad luck so ordered
it that the hermit was not at home, for so a sub-hermit they found in the
hermitage told them. They called for some of the best. She replied that
her master had none, but that if they liked cheap water she would give it
with great pleasure.

“If I found any in water,” said Sancho, “there are wells
along the road where I could have had enough of it. Ah, Camacho’s
wedding, and plentiful house of Don Diego, how often do I miss you!”

Leaving the hermitage, they pushed on towards the inn, and a little
farther they came upon a youth who was pacing along in front of them at no
great speed, so that they overtook him. He carried a sword over his
shoulder, and slung on it a budget or bundle of his clothes apparently,
probably his breeches or pantaloons, and his cloak and a shirt or two; for
he had on a short jacket of velvet with a gloss like satin on it in
places, and had his shirt out; his stockings were of silk, and his shoes
square-toed as they wear them at court. His age might have been eighteen
or nineteen; he was of a merry countenance, and to all appearance of an
active habit, and he went along singing seguidillas to beguile the
wearisomeness of the road. As they came up with him he was just finishing
one, which the cousin got by heart and they say ran thus—

The first to address him was Don Quixote, who said, “You travel very
airily, sir gallant; whither bound, may we ask, if it is your pleasure to
tell us?”

To which the youth replied, “The heat and my poverty are the reason
of my travelling so airily, and it is to the wars that I am bound.”

“How poverty?” asked Don Quixote; “the heat one can
understand.”

“Señor,” replied the youth, “in this bundle I carry
velvet pantaloons to match this jacket; if I wear them out on the road, I
shall not be able to make a decent appearance in them in the city, and I
have not the wherewithal to buy others; and so for this reason, as well as
to keep myself cool, I am making my way in this fashion to overtake some
companies of infantry that are not twelve leagues off, in which I shall
enlist, and there will be no want of baggage trains to travel with after
that to the place of embarkation, which they say will be Carthagena; I
would rather have the King for a master, and serve him in the wars, than
serve a court pauper.”

“And did you get any bounty, now?” asked the cousin.

“If I had been in the service of some grandee of Spain or personage
of distinction,” replied the youth, “I should have been safe
to get it; for that is the advantage of serving good masters, that out of
the servants’ hall men come to be ancients or captains, or get a
good pension. But I, to my misfortune, always served place-hunters and
adventurers, whose keep and wages were so miserable and scanty that half
went in paying for the starching of one’s collars; it would be a
miracle indeed if a page volunteer ever got anything like a reasonable
bounty.”

“And tell me, for heaven’s sake,” asked Don Quixote,
“is it possible, my friend, that all the time you served you never
got any livery?”

“They gave me two,” replied the page; “but just as when
one quits a religious community before making profession, they strip him
of the dress of the order and give him back his own clothes, so did my
masters return me mine; for as soon as the business on which they came to
court was finished, they went home and took back the liveries they had
given merely for show.”

“What spilorceria!—as an Italian would say,” said Don
Quixote; “but for all that, consider yourself happy in having left
court with as worthy an object as you have, for there is nothing on earth
more honourable or profitable than serving, first of all God, and then one’s
king and natural lord, particularly in the profession of arms, by which,
if not more wealth, at least more honour is to be won than by letters, as
I have said many a time; for though letters may have founded more great
houses than arms, still those founded by arms have I know not what
superiority over those founded by letters, and a certain splendour
belonging to them that distinguishes them above all. And bear in mind what
I am now about to say to you, for it will be of great use and comfort to
you in time of trouble; it is, not to let your mind dwell on the adverse
chances that may befall you; for the worst of all is death, and if it be a
good death, the best of all is to die. They asked Julius Caesar, the
valiant Roman emperor, what was the best death. He answered, that which is
unexpected, which comes suddenly and unforeseen; and though he answered
like a pagan, and one without the knowledge of the true God, yet, as far
as sparing our feelings is concerned, he was right; for suppose you are
killed in the first engagement or skirmish, whether by a cannon ball or
blown up by mine, what matters it? It is only dying, and all is over; and
according to Terence, a soldier shows better dead in battle, than alive
and safe in flight; and the good soldier wins fame in proportion as he is
obedient to his captains and those in command over him. And remember, my
son, that it is better for the soldier to smell of gunpowder than of
civet, and that if old age should come upon you in this honourable
calling, though you may be covered with wounds and crippled and lame, it
will not come upon you without honour, and that such as poverty cannot
lessen; especially now that provisions are being made for supporting and
relieving old and disabled soldiers; for it is not right to deal with them
after the fashion of those who set free and get rid of their black slaves
when they are old and useless, and, turning them out of their houses under
the pretence of making them free, make them slaves to hunger, from which
they cannot expect to be released except by death. But for the present I
won’t say more than get ye up behind me on my horse as far as the
inn, and sup with me there, and to-morrow you shall pursue your journey,
and God give you as good speed as your intentions deserve.”

The page did not accept the invitation to mount, though he did that to
supper at the inn; and here they say Sancho said to himself, “God be
with you for a master; is it possible that a man who can say things so
many and so good as he has said just now, can say that he saw the
impossible absurdities he reports about the cave of Montesinos? Well,
well, we shall see.”

And now, just as night was falling, they reached the inn, and it was not
without satisfaction that Sancho perceived his master took it for a real
inn, and not for a castle as usual. The instant they entered Don Quixote
asked the landlord after the man with the lances and halberds, and was
told that he was in the stable seeing to his mule; which was what Sancho
and the cousin proceeded to do for their beasts, giving the best manger
and the best place in the stable to Rocinante.

CHAPTER XXV.

WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE
PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING
APE

Don Quixote’s bread would not bake, as the common saying is, until
he had heard and learned the curious things promised by the man who
carried the arms. He went to seek him where the innkeeper said he was and
having found him, bade him say now at any rate what he had to say in
answer to the question he had asked him on the road. “The tale of my
wonders must be taken more leisurely and not standing,” said the
man; “let me finish foddering my beast, good sir; and then I’ll
tell you things that will astonish you.”

“Don’t wait for that,” said Don Quixote; “I’ll
help you in everything,” and so he did, sifting the barley for him
and cleaning out the manger; a degree of humility which made the other
feel bound to tell him with a good grace what he had asked; so seating
himself on a bench, with Don Quixote beside him, and the cousin, the page,
Sancho Panza, and the landlord, for a senate and an audience, he began his
story in this way:

“You must know that in a village four leagues and a half from this
inn, it so happened that one of the regidors, by the tricks and roguery of
a servant girl of his (it’s too long a tale to tell), lost an ass;
and though he did all he possibly could to find it, it was all to no
purpose. A fortnight might have gone by, so the story goes, since the ass
had been missing, when, as the regidor who had lost it was standing in the
plaza, another regidor of the same town said to him, ‘Pay me for
good news, gossip; your ass has turned up.’ ‘That I will, and
well, gossip,’ said the other; ‘but tell us, where has he
turned up?’ ‘In the forest,’ said the finder; ‘I
saw him this morning without pack-saddle or harness of any sort, and so
lean that it went to one’s heart to see him. I tried to drive him
before me and bring him to you, but he is already so wild and shy that
when I went near him he made off into the thickest part of the forest. If
you have a mind that we two should go back and look for him, let me put up
this she-ass at my house and I’ll be back at once.’ ‘You
will be doing me a great kindness,’ said the owner of the ass,
‘and I’ll try to pay it back in the same coin.’ It is
with all these circumstances, and in the very same way I am telling it
now, that those who know all about the matter tell the story. Well then,
the two regidors set off on foot, arm in arm, for the forest, and coming
to the place where they hoped to find the ass they could not find him, nor
was he to be seen anywhere about, search as they might. Seeing, then, that
there was no sign of him, the regidor who had seen him said to the other,
‘Look here, gossip; a plan has occurred to me, by which, beyond a
doubt, we shall manage to discover the animal, even if he is stowed away
in the bowels of the earth, not to say the forest. Here it is. I can bray
to perfection, and if you can ever so little, the thing’s as good as
done.’ ‘Ever so little did you say, gossip?’ said the
other; ‘by God, I’ll not give in to anybody, not even to the
asses themselves.’ ‘We’ll soon see,’ said the
second regidor, ‘for my plan is that you should go one side of the
forest, and I the other, so as to go all round about it; and every now and
then you will bray and I will bray; and it cannot be but that the ass will
hear us, and answer us if he is in the forest.’ To which the owner
of the ass replied, ‘It’s an excellent plan, I declare,
gossip, and worthy of your great genius;’ and the two separating as
agreed, it so fell out that they brayed almost at the same moment, and
each, deceived by the braying of the other, ran to look, fancying the ass
had turned up at last. When they came in sight of one another, said the
loser, ‘Is it possible, gossip, that it was not my ass that brayed?’
‘No, it was I,’ said the other. ‘Well then, I can tell
you, gossip,’ said the ass’s owner, ‘that between you
and an ass there is not an atom of difference as far as braying goes, for
I never in all my life saw or heard anything more natural.’ ‘Those
praises and compliments belong to you more justly than to me, gossip,’
said the inventor of the plan; ‘for, by the God that made me, you
might give a couple of brays odds to the best and most finished brayer in
the world; the tone you have got is deep, your voice is well kept up as to
time and pitch, and your finishing notes come thick and fast; in fact, I
own myself beaten, and yield the palm to you, and give in to you in this
rare accomplishment.’ ‘Well then,’ said the owner,
‘I’ll set a higher value on myself for the future, and
consider that I know something, as I have an excellence of some sort; for
though I always thought I brayed well, I never supposed I came up to the
pitch of perfection you say.’ ‘And I say too,’ said the
second, ‘that there are rare gifts going to loss in the world, and
that they are ill bestowed upon those who don’t know how to make use
of them.’ ‘Ours,’ said the owner of the ass, ‘unless
it is in cases like this we have now in hand, cannot be of any service to
us, and even in this God grant they may be of some use.’ So saying
they separated, and took to their braying once more, but every instant
they were deceiving one another, and coming to meet one another again,
until they arranged by way of countersign, so as to know that it was they
and not the ass, to give two brays, one after the other. In this way,
doubling the brays at every step, they made the complete circuit of the
forest, but the lost ass never gave them an answer or even the sign of
one. How could the poor ill-starred brute have answered, when, in the
thickest part of the forest, they found him devoured by wolves? As soon as
he saw him his owner said, ‘I was wondering he did not answer, for
if he wasn’t dead he’d have brayed when he heard us, or he’d
have been no ass; but for the sake of having heard you bray to such
perfection, gossip, I count the trouble I have taken to look for him well
bestowed, even though I have found him dead.’ ‘It’s in a
good hand, gossip,’ said the other; ‘if the abbot sings well,
the acolyte is not much behind him.’ So they returned disconsolate
and hoarse to their village, where they told their friends, neighbours,
and acquaintances what had befallen them in their search for the ass, each
crying up the other’s perfection in braying. The whole story came to
be known and spread abroad through the villages of the neighbourhood; and
the devil, who never sleeps, with his love for sowing dissensions and
scattering discord everywhere, blowing mischief about and making quarrels
out of nothing, contrived to make the people of the other towns fall to
braying whenever they saw anyone from our village, as if to throw the
braying of our regidors in our teeth. Then the boys took to it, which was
the same thing for it as getting into the hands and mouths of all the
devils of hell; and braying spread from one town to another in such a way
that the men of the braying town are as easy to be known as blacks are to
be known from whites, and the unlucky joke has gone so far that several
times the scoffed have come out in arms and in a body to do battle with
the scoffers, and neither king nor rook, fear nor shame, can mend matters.
To-morrow or the day after, I believe, the men of my town, that is, of the
braying town, are going to take the field against another village two
leagues away from ours, one of those that persecute us most; and that we
may turn out well prepared I have bought these lances and halberds you
have seen. These are the curious things I told you I had to tell, and if
you don’t think them so, I have got no others;” and with this
the worthy fellow brought his story to a close.

Just at this moment there came in at the gate of the inn a man entirely
clad in chamois leather, hose, breeches, and doublet, who said in a loud
voice, “Señor host, have you room? Here’s the divining ape and
the show of the Release of Melisendra just coming.”

“Ods body!” said the landlord, “why, it’s Master
Pedro! We’re in for a grand night!” I forgot to mention that
the said Master Pedro had his left eye and nearly half his cheek covered
with a patch of green taffety, showing that something ailed all that side.
“Your worship is welcome, Master Pedro,” continued the
landlord; “but where are the ape and the show, for I don’t see
them?” “They are close at hand,” said he in the chamois
leather, “but I came on first to know if there was any room.”
“I’d make the Duke of Alva himself clear out to make room for
Master Pedro,” said the landlord; “bring in the ape and the
show; there’s company in the inn to-night that will pay to see that
and the cleverness of the ape.” “So be it by all means,”
said the man with the patch; “I’ll lower the price, and be
well satisfied if I only pay my expenses; and now I’ll go back and
hurry on the cart with the ape and the show;” and with this he went
out of the inn.

Don Quixote at once asked the landlord what this Master Pedro was, and
what was the show and what was the ape he had with him; which the landlord
replied, “This is a famous puppet-showman, who for some time past
has been going about this Mancha de Aragon, exhibiting a show of the
release of Melisendra by the famous Don Gaiferos, one of the best and
best-represented stories that have been seen in this part of the kingdom
for many a year; he has also with him an ape with the most extraordinary
gift ever seen in an ape or imagined in a human being; for if you ask him
anything, he listens attentively to the question, and then jumps on his
master’s shoulder, and pressing close to his ear tells him the
answer which Master Pedro then delivers. He says a great deal more about
things past than about things to come; and though he does not always hit
the truth in every case, most times he is not far wrong, so that he makes
us fancy he has got the devil in him. He gets two reals for every question
if the ape answers; I mean if his master answers for him after he has
whispered into his ear; and so it is believed that this same Master Pedro
is very rich. He is a ‘gallant man’ as they say in Italy, and
good company, and leads the finest life in the world; talks more than six,
drinks more than a dozen, and all by his tongue, and his ape, and his
show.”

Master Pedro now came back, and in a cart followed the show and the ape—a
big one, without a tail and with buttocks as bare as felt, but not
vicious-looking. As soon as Don Quixote saw him, he asked him, “Can
you tell me, sir fortune-teller, what fish do we catch, and how will it be
with us? See, here are my two reals,” and he bade Sancho give them
to Master Pedro; but he answered for the ape and said, “Señor, this
animal does not give any answer or information touching things that are to
come; of things past he knows something, and more or less of things
present.”

“Gad,” said Sancho, “I would not give a farthing to be
told what’s past with me, for who knows that better than I do
myself? And to pay for being told what I know would be mighty foolish. But
as you know things present, here are my two reals, and tell me, most
excellent sir ape, what is my wife Teresa Panza doing now, and what is she
diverting herself with?”

Master Pedro refused to take the money, saying, “I will not receive
payment in advance or until the service has been first rendered;”
and then with his right hand he gave a couple of slaps on his left
shoulder, and with one spring the ape perched himself upon it, and putting
his mouth to his master’s ear began chattering his teeth rapidly;
and having kept this up as long as one would be saying a credo, with
another spring he brought himself to the ground, and the same instant
Master Pedro ran in great haste and fell upon his knees before Don
Quixote, and embracing his legs exclaimed, “These legs do I embrace
as I would embrace the two pillars of Hercules, O illustrious reviver of
knight-errantry, so long consigned to oblivion! O never yet duly extolled
knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha, courage of the faint-hearted, prop of
the tottering, arm of the fallen, staff and counsel of all who are
unfortunate!”

Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho astounded, the cousin staggered, the
page astonished, the man from the braying town agape, the landlord in
perplexity, and, in short, everyone amazed at the words of the
puppet-showman, who went on to say, “And thou, worthy Sancho Panza,
the best squire and squire to the best knight in the world! Be of good
cheer, for thy good wife Teresa is well, and she is at this moment
hackling a pound of flax; and more by token she has at her left hand a jug
with a broken spout that holds a good drop of wine, with which she solaces
herself at her work.”

“That I can well believe,” said Sancho. “She is a lucky
one, and if it was not for her jealousy I would not change her for the
giantess Andandona, who by my master’s account was a very clever and
worthy woman; my Teresa is one of those that won’t let themselves
want for anything, though their heirs may have to pay for it.”

“Now I declare,” said Don Quixote, “he who reads much
and travels much sees and knows a great deal. I say so because what amount
of persuasion could have persuaded me that there are apes in the world
that can divine as I have seen now with my own eyes? For I am that very
Don Quixote of La Mancha this worthy animal refers to, though he has gone
rather too far in my praise; but whatever I may be, I thank heaven that it
has endowed me with a tender and compassionate heart, always disposed to
do good to all and harm to none.”

“If I had money,” said the page, “I would ask señor ape
what will happen to me in the peregrination I am making.”

To this Master Pedro, who had by this time risen from Don Quixote’s
feet, replied, “I have already said that this little beast gives no
answer as to the future; but if he did, not having money would be of no
consequence, for to oblige Señor Don Quixote, here present, I would give
up all the profits in the world. And now, because I have promised it, and
to afford him pleasure, I will set up my show and offer entertainment to
all who are in the inn, without any charge whatever.” As soon as he
heard this, the landlord, delighted beyond measure, pointed out a place
where the show might be fixed, which was done at once.

Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape,
as he did not think it proper that an ape should divine anything, either
past or future; so while Master Pedro was arranging the show, he retired
with Sancho into a corner of the stable, where, without being overheard by
anyone, he said to him, “Look here, Sancho, I have been seriously
thinking over this ape’s extraordinary gift, and have come to the
conclusion that beyond doubt this Master Pedro, his master, has a pact,
tacit or express, with the devil.”

“If the packet is express from the devil,” said Sancho,
“it must be a very dirty packet no doubt; but what good can it do
Master Pedro to have such packets?”

“Thou dost not understand me, Sancho,” said Don Quixote;
“I only mean he must have made some compact with the devil to infuse
this power into the ape, that he may get his living, and after he has
grown rich he will give him his soul, which is what the enemy of mankind
wants; this I am led to believe by observing that the ape only answers
about things past or present, and the devil’s knowledge extends no
further; for the future he knows only by guesswork, and that not always;
for it is reserved for God alone to know the times and the seasons, and
for him there is neither past nor future; all is present. This being as it
is, it is clear that this ape speaks by the spirit of the devil; and I am
astonished they have not denounced him to the Holy Office, and put him to
the question, and forced it out of him by whose virtue it is that he
divines; because it is certain this ape is not an astrologer; neither his
master nor he sets up, or knows how to set up, those figures they call
judiciary, which are now so common in Spain that there is not a jade, or
page, or old cobbler, that will not undertake to set up a figure as
readily as pick up a knave of cards from the ground, bringing to nought
the marvellous truth of the science by their lies and ignorance. I know of
a lady who asked one of these figure schemers whether her little lap-dog
would be in pup and would breed, and how many and of what colour the
little pups would be. To which señor astrologer, after having set up his
figure, made answer that the bitch would be in pup, and would drop three
pups, one green, another bright red, and the third parti-coloured,
provided she conceived between eleven and twelve either of the day or
night, and on a Monday or Saturday; but as things turned out, two days
after this the bitch died of a surfeit, and señor planet-ruler had the
credit all over the place of being a most profound astrologer, as most of
these planet-rulers have.”

“Still,” said Sancho, “I would be glad if your worship
would make Master Pedro ask his ape whether what happened your worship in
the cave of Montesinos is true; for, begging your worship’s pardon,
I, for my part, take it to have been all flam and lies, or at any rate
something you dreamt.”

“That may be,” replied Don Quixote; “however, I will do
what you suggest; though I have my own scruples about it.”

At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixote, to tell him
the show was now ready and to come and see it, for it was worth seeing.
Don Quixote explained his wish, and begged him to ask his ape at once to
tell him whether certain things which had happened to him in the cave of
Montesinos were dreams or realities, for to him they appeared to partake
of both. Upon this Master Pedro, without answering, went back to fetch the
ape, and, having placed it in front of Don Quixote and Sancho, said:
“See here, señor ape, this gentleman wishes to know whether certain
things which happened to him in the cave called the cave of Montesinos
were false or true.” On his making the usual sign the ape mounted on
his left shoulder and seemed to whisper in his ear, and Master Pedro said
at once, “The ape says that the things you saw or that happened to
you in that cave are, part of them false, part true; and that he only
knows this and no more as regards this question; but if your worship
wishes to know more, on Friday next he will answer all that may be asked
him, for his virtue is at present exhausted, and will not return to him
till Friday, as he has said.”

“Did I not say, señor,” said Sancho, “that I could not
bring myself to believe that all your worship said about the adventures in
the cave was true, or even the half of it?”

“The course of events will tell, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote;
“time, that discloses all things, leaves nothing that it does not
drag into the light of day, though it be buried in the bosom of the earth.
But enough of that for the present; let us go and see Master Pedro’s
show, for I am sure there must be something novel in it.”

“Something!” said Master Pedro; “this show of mine has
sixty thousand novel things in it; let me tell you, Señor Don Quixote, it
is one of the best-worth-seeing things in the world this day; but operibus
credite et non verbis, and now let’s get to work, for it is growing
late, and we have a great deal to do and to say and show.”

Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed him and went to where the show was already
put up and uncovered, set all around with lighted wax tapers which made it
look splendid and bright. When they came to it Master Pedro ensconced
himself inside it, for it was he who had to work the puppets, and a boy, a
servant of his, posted himself outside to act as showman and explain the
mysteries of the exhibition, having a wand in his hand to point to the
figures as they came out. And so, all who were in the inn being arranged
in front of the show, some of them standing, and Don Quixote, Sancho, the
page, and cousin, accommodated with the best places, the interpreter began
to say what he will hear or see who reads or hears the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXVI.

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD

All were silent, Tyrians and Trojans; I mean all who were watching the
show were hanging on the lips of the interpreter of its wonders, when
drums and trumpets were heard to sound inside it and cannon to go off. The
noise was soon over, and then the boy lifted up his voice and said,
“This true story which is here represented to your worships is taken
word for word from the French chronicles and from the Spanish ballads that
are in everybody’s mouth, and in the mouth of the boys about the
streets. Its subject is the release by Señor Don Gaiferos of his wife
Melisendra, when a captive in Spain at the hands of the Moors in the city
of Sansuena, for so they called then what is now called Saragossa; and
there you may see how Don Gaiferos is playing at the tables, just as they
sing it—

At tables playing Don Gaiferos sits,
For Melisendra is forgotten now.

And that personage who appears there with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand is the Emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of
Melisendra, who, angered to see his son-in-law’s inaction and
unconcern, comes in to chide him; and observe with what vehemence and
energy he chides him, so that you would fancy he was going to give him
half a dozen raps with his sceptre; and indeed there are authors who say
he did give them, and sound ones too; and after having said a great deal
to him about imperilling his honour by not effecting the release of his
wife, he said, so the tale runs,

Enough I’ve said, see to it now.

Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don Gaiferos fuming;
and you see now how in a burst of anger, he flings the table and the board
far from him and calls in haste for his armour, and asks his cousin Don
Roland for the loan of his sword, Durindana, and how Don Roland refuses to
lend it, offering him his company in the difficult enterprise he is
undertaking; but he, in his valour and anger, will not accept it, and says
that he alone will suffice to rescue his wife, even though she were
imprisoned deep in the centre of the earth, and with this he retires to
arm himself and set out on his journey at once. Now let your worships turn
your eyes to that tower that appears there, which is supposed to be one of
the towers of the alcazar of Saragossa, now called the Aljaferia; that
lady who appears on that balcony dressed in Moorish fashion is the
peerless Melisendra, for many a time she used to gaze from thence upon the
road to France, and seek consolation in her captivity by thinking of Paris
and her husband. Observe, too, a new incident which now occurs, such as,
perhaps, never was seen. Do you not see that Moor, who silently and
stealthily, with his finger on his lip, approaches Melisendra from behind?
Observe now how he prints a kiss upon her lips, and what a hurry she is in
to spit, and wipe them with the white sleeve of her smock, and how she
bewails herself, and tears her fair hair as though it were to blame for
the wrong. Observe, too, that the stately Moor who is in that corridor is
King Marsilio of Sansuena, who, having seen the Moor’s insolence, at
once orders him (though his kinsman and a great favourite of his) to be
seized and given two hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of
the city according to custom, with criers going before him and officers of
justice behind; and here you see them come out to execute the sentence,
although the offence has been scarcely committed; for among the Moors
there are no indictments nor remands as with us.”

Here Don Quixote called out, “Child, child, go straight on with your
story, and don’t run into curves and slants, for to establish a fact
clearly there is need of a great deal of proof and confirmation;”
and said Master Pedro from within, “Boy, stick to your text and do
as the gentleman bids you; it’s the best plan; keep to your plain
song, and don’t attempt harmonies, for they are apt to break down
from being over fine.”

“I will,” said the boy, and he went on to say, “This
figure that you see here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is Don
Gaiferos himself, whom his wife, now avenged of the insult of the amorous
Moor, and taking her stand on the balcony of the tower with a calmer and
more tranquil countenance, has perceived without recognising him; and she
addresses her husband, supposing him to be some traveller, and holds with
him all that conversation and colloquy in the ballad that runs—

which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust; suffice it to
observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and that by her joyful
gestures Melisendra shows us she has recognised him; and what is more, we
now see she lowers herself from the balcony to place herself on the
haunches of her good husband’s horse. But ah! unhappy lady, the edge
of her petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the balcony and she is
left hanging in the air, unable to reach the ground. But you see how
compassionate heaven sends aid in our sorest need; Don Gaiferos advances,
and without minding whether the rich petticoat is torn or not, he seizes
her and by force brings her to the ground, and then with one jerk places
her on the haunches of his horse, astraddle like a man, and bids her hold
on tight and clasp her arms round his neck, crossing them on his breast so
as not to fall, for the lady Melisendra was not used to that style of
riding. You see, too, how the neighing of the horse shows his satisfaction
with the gallant and beautiful burden he bears in his lord and lady. You
see how they wheel round and quit the city, and in joy and gladness take
the road to Paris. Go in peace, O peerless pair of true lovers! May you
reach your longed-for fatherland in safety, and may fortune interpose no
impediment to your prosperous journey; may the eyes of your friends and
kinsmen behold you enjoying in peace and tranquillity the remaining days
of your life—and that they may be as many as those of Nestor!”

Here Master Pedro called out again and said, “Simplicity, boy! None
of your high flights; all affectation is bad.”

The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, “There was no
want of idle eyes, that see everything, to see Melisendra come down and
mount, and word was brought to King Marsilio, who at once gave orders to
sound the alarm; and see what a stir there is, and how the city is drowned
with the sound of the bells pealing in the towers of all the mosques.”

“Nay, nay,” said Don Quixote at this; “on that point of
the bells Master Pedro is very inaccurate, for bells are not in use among
the Moors; only kettledrums, and a kind of small trumpet somewhat like our
clarion; to ring bells this way in Sansuena is unquestionably a great
absurdity.”

On hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, “Don’t
look into trifles, Señor Don Quixote, or want to have things up to a pitch
of perfection that is out of reach. Are there not almost every day a
thousand comedies represented all round us full of thousands of
inaccuracies and absurdities, and, for all that, they have a successful
run, and are listened to not only with applause, but with admiration and
all the rest of it? Go on, boy, and don’t mind; for so long as I
fill my pouch, no matter if I show as many inaccuracies as there are motes
in a sunbeam.”

“True enough,” said Don Quixote; and the boy went on: “See
what a numerous and glittering crowd of horsemen issues from the city in
pursuit of the two faithful lovers, what a blowing of trumpets there is,
what sounding of horns, what beating of drums and tabors; I fear me they
will overtake them and bring them back tied to the tail of their own
horse, which would be a dreadful sight.”

Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing such a din,
thought it would be right to aid the fugitives, and standing up he
exclaimed in a loud voice, “Never, while I live, will I permit foul
play to be practised in my presence on such a famous knight and fearless
lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble, follow him not nor pursue
him, or ye will have to reckon with me in battle!” and suiting the
action to the word, he drew his sword, and with one bound placed himself
close to the show, and with unexampled rapidity and fury began to shower
down blows on the puppet troop of Moors, knocking over some, decapitating
others, maiming this one and demolishing that; and among many more he
delivered one down stroke which, if Master Pedro had not ducked, made
himself small, and got out of the way, would have sliced off his head as
easily as if it had been made of almond-paste. Master Pedro kept shouting,
“Hold hard! Señor Don Quixote! can’t you see they’re not
real Moors you’re knocking down and killing and destroying, but only
little pasteboard figures! Look—sinner that I am!—how you’re
wrecking and ruining all that I’m worth!” But in spite of
this, Don Quixote did not leave off discharging a continuous rain of cuts,
slashes, downstrokes, and backstrokes, and at length, in less than the
space of two credos, he brought the whole show to the ground, with all its
fittings and figures shivered and knocked to pieces, King Marsilio badly
wounded, and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown and head split in two.
The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the ape fled to the roof of
the inn, the cousin was frightened, and even Sancho Panza himself was in
mighty fear, for, as he swore after the storm was over, he had never seen
his master in such a furious passion.

The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplished, Don Quixote
became a little calmer, said, “I wish I had here before me now all
those who do not or will not believe how useful knights-errant are in the
world; just think, if I had not been here present, what would have become
of the brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra! Depend upon it, by this
time those dogs would have overtaken them and inflicted some outrage upon
them. So, then, long live knight-errantry beyond everything living on
earth this day!”

“Let it live, and welcome,” said Master Pedro at this in a
feeble voice, “and let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I can
say with King Don Rodrigo—

Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord of kings and
emperors, with my stables filled with countless horses, and my trunks and
bags with gay dresses unnumbered; and now I find myself ruined and laid
low, destitute and a beggar, and above all without my ape, for, by my
faith, my teeth will have to sweat for it before I have him caught; and
all through the reckless fury of sir knight here, who, they say, protects
the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and does other charitable deeds; but
whose generous intentions have been found wanting in my case only, blessed
and praised be the highest heavens! Verily, knight of the rueful figure he
must be to have disfigured mine.”

Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro’s words, and said to him,
“Don’t weep and lament, Master Pedro; you break my heart; let
me tell you my master, Don Quixote, is so catholic and scrupulous a
Christian that, if he can make out that he has done you any wrong, he will
own it, and be willing to pay for it and make it good, and something over
and above.”

“Only let Señor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the work he has
destroyed,” said Master Pedro, “and I would be content, and
his worship would ease his conscience, for he cannot be saved who keeps
what is another’s against the owner’s will, and makes no
restitution.”

“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “but at present I am
not aware that I have got anything of yours, Master Pedro.”

“What!” returned Master Pedro; “and these relics lying
here on the bare hard ground—what scattered and shattered them but
the invincible strength of that mighty arm? And whose were the bodies they
belonged to but mine? And what did I get my living by but by them?”

“Now am I fully convinced,” said Don Quixote, “of what I
had many a time before believed; that the enchanters who persecute me do
nothing more than put figures like these before my eyes, and then change
and turn them into what they please. In truth and earnest, I assure you
gentlemen who now hear me, that to me everything that has taken place here
seemed to take place literally, that Melisendra was Melisendra, Don
Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and Charlemagne Charlemagne.
That was why my anger was roused; and to be faithful to my calling as a
knight-errant I sought to give aid and protection to those who fled, and
with this good intention I did what you have seen. If the result has been
the opposite of what I intended, it is no fault of mine, but of those
wicked beings that persecute me; but, for all that, I am willing to
condemn myself in costs for this error of mine, though it did not proceed
from malice; let Master Pedro see what he wants for the spoiled figures,
for I agree to pay it at once in good and current money of Castile.”

Master Pedro made him a bow, saying, “I expected no less of the rare
Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true helper and
protector of all destitute and needy vagabonds; master landlord here and
the great Sancho Panza shall be the arbitrators and appraisers between
your worship and me of what these dilapidated figures are worth or may be
worth.”

The landlord and Sancho consented, and then Master Pedro picked up from
the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head off, and said, “Here
you see how impossible it is to restore this king to his former state, so
I think, saving your better judgments, that for his death, decease, and
demise, four reals and a half may be given me.”

“Proceed,” said Don Quixote.

“Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom,” continued
Master Pedro, taking up the split Emperor Charlemagne, “it would not
be much if I were to ask five reals and a quarter.”

“It’s not little,” said Sancho.

“Nor is it much,” said the landlord; “make it even, and
say five reals.”

“Let him have the whole five and a quarter,” said Don Quixote;
“for the sum total of this notable disaster does not stand on a
quarter more or less; and make an end of it quickly, Master Pedro, for it’s
getting on to supper-time, and I have some hints of hunger.”

“For this figure,” said Master Pedro, “that is without a
nose, and wants an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and I am
reasonable in my charge, two reals and twelve maravedis.”

“The very devil must be in it,” said Don Quixote, “if
Melisendra and her husband are not by this time at least on the French
border, for the horse they rode on seemed to me to fly rather than gallop;
so you needn’t try to sell me the cat for the hare, showing me here
a noseless Melisendra when she is now, may be, enjoying herself at her
ease with her husband in France. God help every one to his own, Master
Pedro, and let us all proceed fairly and honestly; and now go on.”

Master Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander, and
return to his original fancy, was not disposed to let him escape, so he
said to him, “This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of the
damsels that waited on her; so if I’m given sixty maravedis for her,
I’ll be content and sufficiently paid.”

And so he went on, putting values on ever so many more smashed figures,
which, after the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the satisfaction of
both parties, came to forty reals and three-quarters; and over and above
this sum, which Sancho at once disbursed, Master Pedro asked for two reals
for his trouble in catching the ape.

“Let him have them, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “not to
catch the ape, but to get drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute
for the good news, to anyone who could tell me positively, that the lady
Dona Melisandra and Señor Don Gaiferos were now in France and with their
own people.”

“No one could tell us that better than my ape,” said Master
Pedro; “but there’s no devil that could catch him now; I
suspect, however, that affection and hunger will drive him to come looking
for me to-night; but to-morrow will soon be here and we shall see.”

In short, the puppet-show storm passed off, and all supped in peace and
good fellowship at Don Quixote’s expense, for he was the height of
generosity. Before it was daylight the man with the lances and halberds
took his departure, and soon after daybreak the cousin and the page came
to bid Don Quixote farewell, the former returning home, the latter
resuming his journey, towards which, to help him, Don Quixote gave him
twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage in any more palaver with
Don Quixote, whom he knew right well; so he rose before the sun, and
having got together the remains of his show and caught his ape, he too
went off to seek his adventures. The landlord, who did not know Don
Quixote, was as much astonished at his mad freaks as at his generosity. To
conclude, Sancho, by his master’s orders, paid him very liberally,
and taking leave of him they quitted the inn at about eight in the morning
and took to the road, where we will leave them to pursue their journey,
for this is necessary in order to allow certain other matters to be set
forth, which are required to clear up this famous history.

CHAPTER XXVII.

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE
MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE
AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED

Cide Hamete, the chronicler of this great history, begins this chapter
with these words, “I swear as a Catholic Christian;” with
regard to which his translator says that Cide Hamete’s swearing as a
Catholic Christian, he being—as no doubt he was—a Moor, only
meant that, just as a Catholic Christian taking an oath swears, or ought
to swear, what is true, and tell the truth in what he avers, so he was
telling the truth, as much as if he swore as a Catholic Christian, in all
he chose to write about Quixote, especially in declaring who Master Pedro
was and what was the divining ape that astonished all the villages with
his divinations. He says, then, that he who has read the First Part of
this history will remember well enough the Gines de Pasamonte whom, with
other galley slaves, Don Quixote set free in the Sierra Morena: a kindness
for which he afterwards got poor thanks and worse payment from that
evil-minded, ill-conditioned set. This Gines de Pasamonte—Don
Ginesillo de Parapilla, Don Quixote called him—it was that stole
Dapple from Sancho Panza; which, because by the fault of the printers
neither the how nor the when was stated in the First Part, has been a
puzzle to a good many people, who attribute to the bad memory of the
author what was the error of the press. In fact, however, Gines stole him
while Sancho Panza was asleep on his back, adopting the plan and device
that Brunello had recourse to when he stole Sacripante’s horse from
between his legs at the siege of Albracca; and, as has been told, Sancho
afterwards recovered him. This Gines, then, afraid of being caught by the
officers of justice, who were looking for him to punish him for his
numberless rascalities and offences (which were so many and so great that
he himself wrote a big book giving an account of them), resolved to shift
his quarters into the kingdom of Aragon, and cover up his left eye, and
take up the trade of a puppet-showman; for this, as well as juggling, he
knew how to practise to perfection. From some released Christians
returning from Barbary, it so happened, he bought the ape, which he taught
to mount upon his shoulder on his making a certain sign, and to whisper,
or seem to do so, in his ear. Thus prepared, before entering any village
whither he was bound with his show and his ape, he used to inform himself
at the nearest village, or from the most likely person he could find, as
to what particular things had happened there, and to whom; and bearing
them well in mind, the first thing he did was to exhibit his show,
sometimes one story, sometimes another, but all lively, amusing, and
familiar. As soon as the exhibition was over he brought forward the
accomplishments of his ape, assuring the public that he divined all the
past and the present, but as to the future he had no skill. For each
question answered he asked two reals, and for some he made a reduction,
just as he happened to feel the pulse of the questioners; and when now and
then he came to houses where things that he knew of had happened to the
people living there, even if they did not ask him a question, not caring
to pay for it, he would make the sign to the ape and then declare that it
had said so and so, which fitted the case exactly. In this way he acquired
a prodigious name and all ran after him; on other occasions, being very
crafty, he would answer in such a way that the answers suited the
questions; and as no one cross-questioned him or pressed him to tell how
his ape divined, he made fools of them all and filled his pouch. The
instant he entered the inn he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and with that
knowledge it was easy for him to astonish them and all who were there; but
it would have cost him dear had Don Quixote brought down his hand a little
lower when he cut off King Marsilio’s head and destroyed all his
horsemen, as related in the preceeding chapter.

So much for Master Pedro and his ape; and now to return to Don Quixote of
La Mancha. After he had left the inn he determined to visit, first of all,
the banks of the Ebro and that neighbourhood, before entering the city of
Saragossa, for the ample time there was still to spare before the jousts
left him enough for all. With this object in view he followed the road and
travelled along it for two days, without meeting any adventure worth
committing to writing until on the third day, as he was ascending a hill,
he heard a great noise of drums, trumpets, and musket-shots. At first he
imagined some regiment of soldiers was passing that way, and to see them
he spurred Rocinante and mounted the hill. On reaching the top he saw at
the foot of it over two hundred men, as it seemed to him, armed with
weapons of various sorts, lances, crossbows, partisans, halberds, and
pikes, and a few muskets and a great many bucklers. He descended the slope
and approached the band near enough to see distinctly the flags, make out
the colours and distinguish the devices they bore, especially one on a
standard or ensign of white satin, on which there was painted in a very
life-like style an ass like a little sard, with its head up, its mouth
open and its tongue out, as if it were in the act and attitude of braying;
and round it were inscribed in large characters these two lines—

From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must be from the
braying town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining to him what was written
on the standard. At the same time be observed that the man who had told
them about the matter was wrong in saying that the two who brayed were
regidors, for according to the lines of the standard they were alcaldes.
To which Sancho replied, “Señor, there’s nothing to stick at
in that, for maybe the regidors who brayed then came to be alcaldes of
their town afterwards, and so they may go by both titles; moreover, it has
nothing to do with the truth of the story whether the brayers were
alcaldes or regidors, provided at any rate they did bray; for an alcalde
is just as likely to bray as a regidor.” They perceived, in short,
clearly that the town which had been twitted had turned out to do battle
with some other that had jeered it more than was fair or neighbourly.

Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho’s
uneasiness, for he never relished mixing himself up in expeditions of that
sort. The members of the troop received him into the midst of them, taking
him to be some one who was on their side. Don Quixote, putting up his
visor, advanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to the standard with
the ass, and all the chief men of the army gathered round him to look at
him, staring at him with the usual amazement that everybody felt on seeing
him for the first time. Don Quixote, seeing them examining him so
attentively, and that none of them spoke to him or put any question to
him, determined to take advantage of their silence; so, breaking his own,
he lifted up his voice and said, “Worthy sirs, I entreat you as
earnestly as I can not to interrupt an argument I wish to address to you,
until you find it displeases or wearies you; and if that come to pass, on
the slightest hint you give me I will put a seal upon my lips and a gag
upon my tongue.”

They all bade him say what he liked, for they would listen to him
willingly.

With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, “I, sirs, am a
knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose profession is to
protect those who require protection, and give help to such as stand in
need of it. Some days ago I became acquainted with your misfortune and the
cause which impels you to take up arms again and again to revenge
yourselves upon your enemies; and having many times thought over your
business in my mind, I find that, according to the laws of combat, you are
mistaken in holding yourselves insulted; for a private individual cannot
insult an entire community; unless it be by defying it collectively as a
traitor, because he cannot tell who in particular is guilty of the treason
for which he defies it. Of this we have an example in Don Diego Ordonez de
Lara, who defied the whole town of Zamora, because he did not know that
Vellido Dolfos alone had committed the treachery of slaying his king; and
therefore he defied them all, and the vengeance and the reply concerned
all; though, to be sure, Señor Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very
much beyond the limits of a defiance; for he had no occasion to defy the
dead, or the waters, or the fishes, or those yet unborn, and all the rest
of it as set forth; but let that pass, for when anger breaks out there’s
no father, governor, or bridle to check the tongue. The case being, then,
that no one person can insult a kingdom, province, city, state, or entire
community, it is clear there is no reason for going out to avenge the
defiance of such an insult, inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it
would be if the people of the clock town were to be at loggerheads every
moment with everyone who called them by that name,—or the Cazoleros,
Berengeneros, Ballenatos, Jaboneros, or the bearers of all the other names
and titles that are always in the mouth of the boys and common people! It
would be a nice business indeed if all these illustrious cities were to
take huff and revenge themselves and go about perpetually making trombones
of their swords in every petty quarrel! No, no; God forbid! There are four
things for which sensible men and well-ordered States ought to take up
arms, draw their swords, and risk their persons, lives, and properties.
The first is to defend the Catholic faith; the second, to defend one’s
life, which is in accordance with natural and divine law; the third, in
defence of one’s honour, family, and property; the fourth, in the
service of one’s king in a just war; and if to these we choose to
add a fifth (which may be included in the second), in defence of one’s
country. To these five, as it were capital causes, there may be added some
others that may be just and reasonable, and make it a duty to take up
arms; but to take them up for trifles and things to laugh at and be amused
by rather than offended, looks as though he who did so was altogether
wanting in common sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge (and there
cannot be any just one) is directly opposed to the sacred law that we
acknowledge, wherein we are commanded to do good to our enemies and to
love them that hate us; a command which, though it seems somewhat
difficult to obey, is only so to those who have in them less of God than
of the world, and more of the flesh than of the spirit; for Jesus Christ,
God and true man, who never lied, and could not and cannot lie, said, as
our law-giver, that his yoke was easy and his burden light; he would not,
therefore, have laid any command upon us that it was impossible to obey.
Thus, sirs, you are bound to keep quiet by human and divine law.”

“The devil take me,” said Sancho to himself at this, “but
this master of mine is a theologian; or, if not, faith, he’s as like
one as one egg is like another.”

Don Quixote stopped to take breath, and, observing that silence was still
preserved, had a mind to continue his discourse, and would have done so
had not Sancho interposed with his smartness; for he, seeing his master
pause, took the lead, saying, “My lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, who
once was called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but now is called
the Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman of great discretion who knows
Latin and his mother tongue like a bachelor, and in everything that he
deals with or advises proceeds like a good soldier, and has all the laws
and ordinances of what they call combat at his fingers’ ends; so you
have nothing to do but to let yourselves be guided by what he says, and on
my head be it if it is wrong. Besides which, you have been told that it is
folly to take offence at merely hearing a bray. I remember when I was a
boy I brayed as often as I had a fancy, without anyone hindering me, and
so elegantly and naturally that when I brayed all the asses in the town
would bray; but I was none the less for that the son of my parents who
were greatly respected; and though I was envied because of the gift by
more than one of the high and mighty ones of the town, I did not care two
farthings for it; and that you may see I am telling the truth, wait a bit
and listen, for this art, like swimming, once learnt is never forgotten;”
and then, taking hold of his nose, he began to bray so vigorously that all
the valleys around rang again.

One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was mocking them,
lifted up a long staff he had in his hand and smote him such a blow with
it that Sancho dropped helpless to the ground. Don Quixote, seeing him so
roughly handled, attacked the man who had struck him lance in hand, but so
many thrust themselves between them that he could not avenge him. Far from
it, finding a shower of stones rained upon him, and crossbows and muskets
unnumbered levelled at him, he wheeled Rocinante round and, as fast as his
best gallop could take him, fled from the midst of them, commending
himself to God with all his heart to deliver him out of this peril, in
dread every step of some ball coming in at his back and coming out at his
breast, and every minute drawing his breath to see whether it had gone
from him. The members of the band, however, were satisfied with seeing him
take to flight, and did not fire on him. They put up Sancho, scarcely
restored to his senses, on his ass, and let him go after his master; not
that he was sufficiently in his wits to guide the beast, but Dapple
followed the footsteps of Rocinante, from whom he could not remain a
moment separated. Don Quixote having got some way off looked back, and
seeing Sancho coming, waited for him, as he perceived that no one followed
him. The men of the troop stood their ground till night, and as the enemy
did not come out to battle, they returned to their town exulting; and had
they been aware of the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have
erected a trophy on the spot.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE READS
THEM WITH ATTENTION

When the brave man flees, treachery is manifest and it is for wise men to
reserve themselves for better occasions. This proved to be the case with
Don Quixote, who, giving way before the fury of the townsfolk and the
hostile intentions of the angry troop, took to flight and, without a
thought of Sancho or the danger in which he was leaving him, retreated to
such a distance as he thought made him safe. Sancho, lying across his ass,
followed him, as has been said, and at length came up, having by this time
recovered his senses, and on joining him let himself drop off Dapple at
Rocinante’s feet, sore, bruised, and belaboured. Don Quixote
dismounted to examine his wounds, but finding him whole from head to foot,
he said to him, angrily enough, “In an evil hour didst thou take to
braying, Sancho! Where hast thou learned that it is well done to mention
the rope in the house of the man that has been hanged? To the music of
brays what harmonies couldst thou expect to get but cudgels? Give thanks
to God, Sancho, that they signed the cross on thee just now with a stick,
and did not mark thee per signum crucis with a cutlass.”

“I’m not equal to answering,” said Sancho, “for I
feel as if I was speaking through my shoulders; let us mount and get away
from this; I’ll keep from braying, but not from saying that
knights-errant fly and leave their good squires to be pounded like privet,
or made meal of at the hands of their enemies.”

“He does not fly who retires,” returned Don Quixote; “for
I would have thee know, Sancho, that the valour which is not based upon a
foundation of prudence is called rashness, and the exploits of the rash
man are to be attributed rather to good fortune than to courage; and so I
own that I retired, but not that I fled; and therein I have followed the
example of many valiant men who have reserved themselves for better times;
the histories are full of instances of this, but as it would not be any
good to thee or pleasure to me, I will not recount them to thee now.”

Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don Quixote, who then
himself mounted Rocinante, and at a leisurely pace they proceeded to take
shelter in a grove which was in sight about a quarter of a league off.
Every now and then Sancho gave vent to deep sighs and dismal groans, and
on Don Quixote asking him what caused such acute suffering, he replied
that, from the end of his back-bone up to the nape of his neck, he was so
sore that it nearly drove him out of his senses.

“The cause of that soreness,” said Don Quixote, “will
be, no doubt, that the staff wherewith they smote thee being a very long
one, it caught thee all down the back, where all the parts that are sore
are situated, and had it reached any further thou wouldst be sorer still.”

“By God,” said Sancho, “your worship has relieved me of
a great doubt, and cleared up the point for me in elegant style! Body o’
me! is the cause of my soreness such a mystery that there’s any need
to tell me I am sore everywhere the staff hit me? If it was my ankles that
pained me there might be something in going divining why they did, but it
is not much to divine that I’m sore where they thrashed me. By my
faith, master mine, the ills of others hang by a hair; every day I am
discovering more and more how little I have to hope for from keeping
company with your worship; for if this time you have allowed me to be
drubbed, the next time, or a hundred times more, we’ll have the
blanketings of the other day over again, and all the other pranks which,
if they have fallen on my shoulders now, will be thrown in my teeth
by-and-by. I would do a great deal better (if I was not an ignorant brute
that will never do any good all my life), I would do a great deal better,
I say, to go home to my wife and children and support them and bring them
up on what God may please to give me, instead of following your worship
along roads that lead nowhere and paths that are none at all, with little
to drink and less to eat. And then when it comes to sleeping! Measure out
seven feet on the earth, brother squire, and if that’s not enough
for you, take as many more, for you may have it all your own way and
stretch yourself to your heart’s content. Oh that I could see burnt
and turned to ashes the first man that meddled with knight-errantry or at
any rate the first who chose to be squire to such fools as all the
knights-errant of past times must have been! Of those of the present day I
say nothing, because, as your worship is one of them, I respect them, and
because I know your worship knows a point more than the devil in all you
say and think.”

“I would lay a good wager with you, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“that now that you are talking on without anyone to stop you, you
don’t feel a pain in your whole body. Talk away, my son, say
whatever comes into your head or mouth, for so long as you feel no pain,
the irritation your impertinences give me will be a pleasure to me; and if
you are so anxious to go home to your wife and children, God forbid that I
should prevent you; you have money of mine; see how long it is since we
left our village this third time, and how much you can and ought to earn
every month, and pay yourself out of your own hand.”

“When I worked for Tom Carrasco, the father of the bachelor Samson
Carrasco that your worship knows,” replied Sancho, “I used to
earn two ducats a month besides my food; I can’t tell what I can
earn with your worship, though I know a knight-errant’s squire has
harder times of it than he who works for a farmer; for after all, we who
work for farmers, however much we toil all day, at the worst, at night, we
have our olla supper and sleep in a bed, which I have not slept in since I
have been in your worship’s service, if it wasn’t the short
time we were in Don Diego de Miranda’s house, and the feast I had
with the skimmings I took off Camacho’s pots, and what I ate, drank,
and slept in Basilio’s house; all the rest of the time I have been
sleeping on the hard ground under the open sky, exposed to what they call
the inclemencies of heaven, keeping life in me with scraps of cheese and
crusts of bread, and drinking water either from the brooks or from the
springs we come to on these by-paths we travel.”

“I own, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that all thou sayest
is true; how much, thinkest thou, ought I to give thee over and above what
Tom Carrasco gave thee?”

“I think,” said Sancho, “that if your worship was to add
on two reals a month I’d consider myself well paid; that is, as far
as the wages of my labour go; but to make up to me for your worship’s
pledge and promise to me to give me the government of an island, it would
be fair to add six reals more, making thirty in all.”

“Very good,” said Don Quixote; “it is twenty-five days
since we left our village, so reckon up, Sancho, according to the wages
you have made out for yourself, and see how much I owe you in proportion,
and pay yourself, as I said before, out of your own hand.”

“O body o’ me!” said Sancho, “but your worship is
very much out in that reckoning; for when it comes to the promise of the
island we must count from the day your worship promised it to me to this
present hour we are at now.”

“Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised it to you?”
said Don Quixote.

“If I remember rightly,” said Sancho, “it must be over
twenty years, three days more or less.”

Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to laugh
heartily, and said he, “Why, I have not been wandering, either in
the Sierra Morena or in the whole course of our sallies, but barely two
months, and thou sayest, Sancho, that it is twenty years since I promised
thee the island. I believe now thou wouldst have all the money thou hast
of mine go in thy wages. If so, and if that be thy pleasure, I give it to
thee now, once and for all, and much good may it do thee, for so long as I
see myself rid of such a good-for-nothing squire I’ll be glad to be
left a pauper without a rap. But tell me, thou perverter of the squirely
rules of knight-errantry, where hast thou ever seen or read that any
knight-errant’s squire made terms with his lord, ‘you must
give me so much a month for serving you’? Plunge, scoundrel, rogue,
monster—for such I take thee to be—plunge, I say, into the
mare magnum of their histories; and if thou shalt find that any squire
ever said or thought what thou hast said now, I will let thee nail it on
my forehead, and give me, over and above, four sound slaps in the face.
Turn the rein, or the halter, of thy Dapple, and begone home; for one
single step further thou shalt not make in my company. O bread thanklessly
received! O promises ill-bestowed! O man more beast than human being! Now,
when I was about to raise thee to such a position, that, in spite of thy
wife, they would call thee ‘my lord,’ thou art leaving me?
Thou art going now when I had a firm and fixed intention of making thee
lord of the best island in the world? Well, as thou thyself hast said
before now, honey is not for the mouth of the ass. Ass thou art, ass thou
wilt be, and ass thou wilt end when the course of thy life is run; for I
know it will come to its close before thou dost perceive or discern that
thou art a beast.”

Sancho regarded Don Quixote earnestly while he was giving him this rating,
and was so touched by remorse that the tears came to his eyes, and in a
piteous and broken voice he said to him, “Master mine, I confess
that, to be a complete ass, all I want is a tail; if your worship will
only fix one on to me, I’ll look on it as rightly placed, and I’ll
serve you as an ass all the remaining days of my life. Forgive me and have
pity on my folly, and remember I know but little, and, if I talk much, it’s
more from infirmity than malice; but he who sins and mends commends
himself to God.”

“I should have been surprised, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“if thou hadst not introduced some bit of a proverb into thy speech.
Well, well, I forgive thee, provided thou dost mend and not show thyself
in future so fond of thine own interest, but try to be of good cheer and
take heart, and encourage thyself to look forward to the fulfillment of my
promises, which, by being delayed, does not become impossible.”

Sancho said he would do so, and keep up his heart as best he could. They
then entered the grove, and Don Quixote settled himself at the foot of an
elm, and Sancho at that of a beech, for trees of this kind and others like
them always have feet but no hands. Sancho passed the night in pain, for
with the evening dews the blow of the staff made itself felt all the more.
Don Quixote passed it in his never-failing meditations; but, for all that,
they had some winks of sleep, and with the appearance of daylight they
pursued their journey in quest of the banks of the famous Ebro, where that
befell them which will be told in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XXIX.

OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK

By stages as already described or left undescribed, two days after
quitting the grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the river Ebro, and the
sight of it was a great delight to Don Quixote as he contemplated and
gazed upon the charms of its banks, the clearness of its stream, the
gentleness of its current and the abundance of its crystal waters; and the
pleasant view revived a thousand tender thoughts in his mind. Above all,
he dwelt upon what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; for though
Master Pedro’s ape had told him that of those things part was true,
part false, he clung more to their truth than to their falsehood, the very
reverse of Sancho, who held them all to be downright lies.

As they were thus proceeding, then, they discovered a small boat, without
oars or any other gear, that lay at the water’s edge tied to the
stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don Quixote looked all round, and
seeing nobody, at once, without more ado, dismounted from Rocinante and
bade Sancho get down from Dapple and tie both beasts securely to the trunk
of a poplar or willow that stood there. Sancho asked him the reason of
this sudden dismounting and tying. Don Quixote made answer, “Thou
must know, Sancho, that this bark is plainly, and without the possibility
of any alternative, calling and inviting me to enter it, and in it go to
give aid to some knight or other person of distinction in need of it, who
is no doubt in some sore strait; for this is the way of the books of
chivalry and of the enchanters who figure and speak in them. When a knight
is involved in some difficulty from which he cannot be delivered save by
the hand of another knight, though they may be at a distance of two or
three thousand leagues or more one from the other, they either take him up
on a cloud, or they provide a bark for him to get into, and in less than
the twinkling of an eye they carry him where they will and where his help
is required; and so, Sancho, this bark is placed here for the same
purpose; this is as true as that it is now day, and ere this one passes
tie Dapple and Rocinante together, and then in God’s hand be it to
guide us; for I would not hold back from embarking, though barefooted
friars were to beg me.”

“As that’s the case,” said Sancho, “and your
worship chooses to give in to these—I don’t know if I may call
them absurdities—at every turn, there’s nothing for it but to
obey and bow the head, bearing in mind the proverb, ‘Do as thy
master bids thee, and sit down to table with him;’ but for all that,
for the sake of easing my conscience, I warn your worship that it is my
opinion this bark is no enchanted one, but belongs to some of the
fishermen of the river, for they catch the best shad in the world here.”

As Sancho said this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the care and
protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart. Don Quixote
bade him not be uneasy about deserting the animals, “for he who
would carry themselves over such longinquous roads and regions would take
care to feed them.”

“I don’t understand that logiquous,” said Sancho,
“nor have I ever heard the word all the days of my life.”

“Longinquous,” replied Don Quixote, “means far off; but
it is no wonder thou dost not understand it, for thou art not bound to
know Latin, like some who pretend to know it and don’t.”

“Now they are tied,” said Sancho; “what are we to do
next?”

“What?” said Don Quixote, “cross ourselves and weigh
anchor; I mean, embark and cut the moorings by which the bark is held;”
and the bark began to drift away slowly from the bank. But when Sancho saw
himself somewhere about two yards out in the river, he began to tremble
and give himself up for lost; but nothing distressed him more than hearing
Dapple bray and seeing Rocinante struggling to get loose, and said he to
his master, “Dapple is braying in grief at our leaving him, and
Rocinante is trying to escape and plunge in after us. O dear friends,
peace be with you, and may this madness that is taking us away from you,
turned into sober sense, bring us back to you.” And with this he
fell weeping so bitterly, that Don Quixote said to him, sharply and
angrily, “What art thou afraid of, cowardly creature? What art thou
weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who pursues or molests thee, thou soul
of a tame mouse? What dost thou want, unsatisfied in the very heart of
abundance? Art thou, perchance, tramping barefoot over the Riphaean
mountains, instead of being seated on a bench like an archduke on the
tranquil stream of this pleasant river, from which in a short space we
shall come out upon the broad sea? But we must have already emerged and
gone seven hundred or eight hundred leagues; and if I had here an
astrolabe to take the altitude of the pole, I could tell thee how many we
have travelled, though either I know little, or we have already crossed or
shall shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts the two opposite
poles midway.”

“And when we come to that line your worship speaks of,” said
Sancho, “how far shall we have gone?”

“Very far,” said Don Quixote, “for of the three hundred
and sixty degrees that this terraqueous globe contains, as computed by
Ptolemy, the greatest cosmographer known, we shall have travelled one-half
when we come to the line I spoke of.”

“By God,” said Sancho, “your worship gives me a nice
authority for what you say, putrid Dolly something transmogrified, or
whatever it is.”

Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon “computed,”
and the name of the cosmographer Ptolemy, and said he, “Thou must
know, Sancho, that with the Spaniards and those who embark at Cadiz for
the East Indies, one of the signs they have to show them when they have
passed the equinoctial line I told thee of, is, that the lice die upon
everybody on board the ship, and not a single one is left, or to be found
in the whole vessel if they gave its weight in gold for it; so, Sancho,
thou mayest as well pass thy hand down thy thigh, and if thou comest upon
anything alive we shall be no longer in doubt; if not, then we have
crossed.”

“I don’t believe a bit of it,” said Sancho; “still,
I’ll do as your worship bids me; though I don’t know what need
there is for trying these experiments, for I can see with my own eyes that
we have not moved five yards away from the bank, or shifted two yards from
where the animals stand, for there are Rocinante and Dapple in the very
same place where we left them; and watching a point, as I do now, I swear
by all that’s good, we are not stirring or moving at the pace of an
ant.”

“Try the test I told thee of, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“and don’t mind any other, for thou knowest nothing about
colures, lines, parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices,
equinoxes, planets, signs, bearings, the measures of which the celestial
and terrestrial spheres are composed; if thou wert acquainted with all
these things, or any portion of them, thou wouldst see clearly how many
parallels we have cut, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we
have left behind and are now leaving behind. But again I tell thee, feel
and hunt, for I am certain thou art cleaner than a sheet of smooth white
paper.”

Sancho felt, and passing his hand gently and carefully down to the hollow
of his left knee, he looked up at his master and said, “Either the
test is a false one, or we have not come to where your worship says, nor
within many leagues of it.”

“Why, how so?” asked Don Quixote; “hast thou come upon
aught?”

“Ay, and aughts,” replied Sancho; and shaking his fingers he
washed his whole hand in the river along which the boat was quietly
gliding in midstream, not moved by any occult intelligence or invisible
enchanter, but simply by the current, just there smooth and gentle.

They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the middle
of the river, and the instant Don Quixote saw them he cried out, “Seest
thou there, my friend? there stands the castle or fortress, where there
is, no doubt, some knight in durance, or ill-used queen, or infanta, or
princess, in whose aid I am brought hither.”

“What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship talking
about, señor?” said Sancho; “don’t you see that those
are mills that stand in the river to grind corn?”

“Hold thy peace, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “though they
look like mills they are not so; I have already told thee that
enchantments transform things and change their proper shapes; I do not
mean to say they really change them from one form into another, but that
it seems as though they did, as experience proved in the transformation of
Dulcinea, sole refuge of my hopes.”

By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the stream, began to
move less slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to the mills, when
they saw the boat coming down the river, and on the point of being sucked
in by the draught of the wheels, ran out in haste, several of them, with
long poles to stop it, and being all mealy, with faces and garments
covered with flour, they presented a sinister appearance. They raised loud
shouts, crying, “Devils of men, where are you going to? Are you mad?
Do you want to drown yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces among these
wheels?”

“Did I not tell thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this,
“that we had reached the place where I am to show what the might of
my arm can do? See what ruffians and villains come out against me; see
what monsters oppose me; see what hideous countenances come to frighten
us! You shall soon see, scoundrels!” And then standing up in the
boat he began in a loud voice to hurl threats at the millers, exclaiming,
“Ill-conditioned and worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and
freedom the person ye hold in durance in this your fortress or prison,
high or low or of whatever rank or quality he be, for I am Don Quixote of
La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by the
disposition of heaven above, it is reserved to give a happy issue to this
adventure;” and so saying he drew his sword and began making passes
in the air at the millers, who, hearing but not understanding all this
nonsense, strove to stop the boat, which was now getting into the rushing
channel of the wheels. Sancho fell upon his knees devoutly appealing to
heaven to deliver him from such imminent peril; which it did by the
activity and quickness of the millers, who, pushing against the boat with
their poles, stopped it, not, however, without upsetting and throwing Don
Quixote and Sancho into the water; and lucky it was for Don Quixote that
he could swim like a goose, though the weight of his armour carried him
twice to the bottom; and had it not been for the millers, who plunged in
and hoisted them both out, it would have been Troy town with the pair of
them. As soon as, more drenched than thirsty, they were landed, Sancho
went down on his knees and with clasped hands and eyes raised to heaven,
prayed a long and fervent prayer to God to deliver him evermore from the
rash projects and attempts of his master. The fishermen, the owners of the
boat, which the mill-wheels had knocked to pieces, now came up, and seeing
it smashed they proceeded to strip Sancho and to demand payment for it
from Don Quixote; but he with great calmness, just as if nothing had
happened him, told the millers and fishermen that he would pay for the
bark most cheerfully, on condition that they delivered up to him, free and
unhurt, the person or persons that were in durance in that castle of
theirs.

“What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman? Art thou
for carrying off the people who come to grind corn in these mills?”

“That’s enough,” said Don Quixote to himself, “it
would be preaching in the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this
rabble to do any virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty enchanters
must have encountered one another, and one frustrates what the other
attempts; one provided the bark for me, and the other upset me; God help
us, this world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with
the other. I can do no more.” And then turning towards the mills he
said aloud, “Friends, whoe’er ye be that are immured in that
prison, forgive me that, to my misfortune and yours, I cannot deliver you
from your misery; this adventure is doubtless reserved and destined for
some other knight.”

So saying he settled with the fishermen, and paid fifty reals for the
boat, which Sancho handed to them very much against the grain, saying,
“With a couple more bark businesses like this we shall have sunk our
whole capital.”

The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at the two
figures, so very different to all appearance from ordinary men, and were
wholly unable to make out the drift of the observations and questions Don
Quixote addressed to them; and coming to the conclusion that they were
madmen, they left them and betook themselves, the millers to their mills,
and the fishermen to their huts. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to their
beasts, and to their life of beasts, and so ended the adventure of the
enchanted bark.

CHAPTER XXX.

OF DON QUIXOTE’S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS

They reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humour enough, knight and
squire, Sancho particularly, for with him what touched the stock of money
touched his heart, and when any was taken from him he felt as if he was
robbed of the apples of his eyes. In fine, without exchanging a word, they
mounted and quitted the famous river, Don Quixote absorbed in thoughts of
his love, Sancho in thinking of his advancement, which just then, it
seemed to him, he was very far from securing; for, fool as he was, he saw
clearly enough that his master’s acts were all or most of them
utterly senseless; and he began to cast about for an opportunity of
retiring from his service and going home some day, without entering into
any explanations or taking any farewell of him. Fortune, however, ordered
matters after a fashion very much the opposite of what he contemplated.

It so happened that the next day towards sunset, on coming out of a wood,
Don Quixote cast his eyes over a green meadow, and at the far end of it
observed some people, and as he drew nearer saw that it was a hawking
party. Coming closer, he distinguished among them a lady of graceful mien,
on a pure white palfrey or hackney caparisoned with green trappings and a
silver-mounted side-saddle. The lady was also in green, and so richly and
splendidly dressed that splendour itself seemed personified in her. On her
left hand she bore a hawk, a proof to Don Quixote’s mind that she
must be some great lady and the mistress of the whole hunting party, which
was the fact; so he said to Sancho, “Run Sancho, my son, and say to
that lady on the palfrey with the hawk that I, the Knight of the Lions,
kiss the hands of her exalted beauty, and if her excellence will grant me
leave I will go and kiss them in person and place myself at her service
for aught that may be in my power and her highness may command; and mind,
Sancho, how thou speakest, and take care not to thrust in any of thy
proverbs into thy message.”

“You’ve got a likely one here to thrust any in!” said
Sancho; “leave me alone for that! Why, this is not the first time in
my life I have carried messages to high and exalted ladies.”

“Except that thou didst carry to the lady Dulcinea,” said Don
Quixote, “I know not that thou hast carried any other, at least in
my service.”

“That is true,” replied Sancho; “but pledges don’t
distress a good payer, and in a house where there’s plenty supper is
soon cooked; I mean there’s no need of telling or warning me about
anything; for I’m ready for everything and know a little of
everything.”

“That I believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “go and good
luck to thee, and God speed thee.”

Sancho went off at top speed, forcing Dapple out of his regular pace, and
came to where the fair huntress was standing, and dismounting knelt before
her and said, “Fair lady, that knight that you see there, the Knight
of the Lions by name, is my master, and I am a squire of his, and at home
they call me Sancho Panza. This same Knight of the Lions, who was called
not long since the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, sends by me to say
may it please your highness to give him leave that, with your permission,
approbation, and consent, he may come and carry out his wishes, which are,
as he says and I believe, to serve your exalted loftiness and beauty; and
if you give it, your ladyship will do a thing which will redound to your
honour, and he will receive a most distinguished favour and happiness.”

“You have indeed, squire,” said the lady, “delivered
your message with all the formalities such messages require; rise up, for
it is not right that the squire of a knight so great as he of the Rueful
Countenance, of whom we have heard a great deal here, should remain on his
knees; rise, my friend, and bid your master welcome to the services of
myself and the duke my husband, in a country house we have here.”

Sancho got up, charmed as much by the beauty of the good lady as by her
high-bred air and her courtesy, but, above all, by what she had said about
having heard of his master, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; for if
she did not call him Knight of the Lions it was no doubt because he had so
lately taken the name. “Tell me, brother squire,” asked the
duchess (whose title, however, is not known), “this master of yours,
is he not one of whom there is a history extant in print, called ‘The
Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha,’ who has for the lady
of his heart a certain Dulcinea del Toboso?”

“He is the same, señora,” replied Sancho; “and that
squire of his who figures, or ought to figure, in the said history under
the name of Sancho Panza, is myself, unless they have changed me in the
cradle, I mean in the press.”

“I am rejoiced at all this,” said the duchess; “go,
brother Panza, and tell your master that he is welcome to my estate, and
that nothing could happen to me that could give me greater pleasure.”

Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this gratifying
answer, and told him all the great lady had said to him, lauding to the
skies, in his rustic phrase, her rare beauty, her graceful gaiety, and her
courtesy. Don Quixote drew himself up briskly in his saddle, fixed himself
in his stirrups, settled his visor, gave Rocinante the spur, and with an
easy bearing advanced to kiss the hands of the duchess, who, having sent
to summon the duke her husband, told him while Don Quixote was approaching
all about the message; and as both of them had read the First Part of this
history, and from it were aware of Don Quixote’s crazy turn, they
awaited him with the greatest delight and anxiety to make his
acquaintance, meaning to fall in with his humour and agree with everything
he said, and, so long as he stayed with them, to treat him as a
knight-errant, with all the ceremonies usual in the books of chivalry they
had read, for they themselves were very fond of them.

Don Quixote now came up with his visor raised, and as he seemed about to
dismount Sancho made haste to go and hold his stirrup for him; but in
getting down off Dapple he was so unlucky as to hitch his foot in one of
the ropes of the pack-saddle in such a way that he was unable to free it,
and was left hanging by it with his face and breast on the ground. Don
Quixote, who was not used to dismount without having the stirrup held,
fancying that Sancho had by this time come to hold it for him, threw
himself off with a lurch and brought Rocinante’s saddle after him,
which was no doubt badly girthed, and saddle and he both came to the
ground; not without discomfiture to him and abundant curses muttered
between his teeth against the unlucky Sancho, who had his foot still in
the shackles. The duke ordered his huntsmen to go to the help of knight
and squire, and they raised Don Quixote, sorely shaken by his fall; and
he, limping, advanced as best he could to kneel before the noble pair.
This, however, the duke would by no means permit; on the contrary,
dismounting from his horse, he went and embraced Don Quixote, saying,
“I am grieved, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that your first
experience on my ground should have been such an unfortunate one as we
have seen; but the carelessness of squires is often the cause of worse
accidents.”

“That which has happened me in meeting you, mighty prince,”
replied Don Quixote, “cannot be unfortunate, even if my fall had not
stopped short of the depths of the bottomless pit, for the glory of having
seen you would have lifted me up and delivered me from it. My squire, God’s
curse upon him, is better at unloosing his tongue in talking impertinence
than in tightening the girths of a saddle to keep it steady; but however I
may be, fallen or raised up, on foot or on horseback, I shall always be at
your service and that of my lady the duchess, your worthy consort, worthy
queen of beauty and paramount princess of courtesy.”

“Gently, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha,” said the duke;
“where my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso is, it is not right that
other beauties should be praised.”

Sancho, by this time released from his entanglement, was standing by, and
before his master could answer he said, “There is no denying, and it
must be maintained, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso is very beautiful;
but the hare jumps up where one least expects it; and I have heard say
that what we call nature is like a potter that makes vessels of clay, and
he who makes one fair vessel can as well make two, or three, or a hundred;
I say so because, by my faith, my lady the duchess is in no way behind my
mistress the lady Dulcinea del Toboso.”

Don Quixote turned to the duchess and said, “Your highness may
conceive that never had knight-errant in this world a more talkative or a
droller squire than I have, and he will prove the truth of what I say, if
your highness is pleased to accept of my services for a few days.”

To which the duchess made answer, “that worthy Sancho is droll I
consider a very good thing, because it is a sign that he is shrewd; for
drollery and sprightliness, Señor Don Quixote, as you very well know, do
not take up their abode with dull wits; and as good Sancho is droll and
sprightly I here set him down as shrewd.”

“And talkative,” added Don Quixote.

“So much the better,” said the duke, “for many droll
things cannot be said in few words; but not to lose time in talking, come,
great Knight of the Rueful Countenance-”

“Of the Lions, your highness must say,” said Sancho, “for
there is no Rueful Countenance nor any such character now.”

“He of the Lions be it,” continued the duke; “I say, let
Sir Knight of the Lions come to a castle of mine close by, where he shall
be given that reception which is due to so exalted a personage, and which
the duchess and I are wont to give to all knights-errant who come there.”

By this time Sancho had fixed and girthed Rocinante’s saddle, and
Don Quixote having got on his back and the duke mounted a fine horse, they
placed the duchess in the middle and set out for the castle. The duchess
desired Sancho to come to her side, for she found infinite enjoyment in
listening to his shrewd remarks. Sancho required no pressing, but pushed
himself in between them and the duke, who thought it rare good fortune to
receive such a knight-errant and such a homely squire in their castle.

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS

Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself, as it
seemed, an established favourite with the duchess, for he looked forward
to finding in her castle what he had found in Don Diego’s house and
in Basilio’s; he was always fond of good living, and always seized
by the forelock any opportunity of feasting himself whenever it presented
itself. The history informs us, then, that before they reached the country
house or castle, the duke went on in advance and instructed all his
servants how they were to treat Don Quixote; and so the instant he came up
to the castle gates with the duchess, two lackeys or equerries, clad in
what they call morning gowns of fine crimson satin reaching to their feet,
hastened out, and catching Don Quixote in their arms before he saw or
heard them, said to him, “Your highness should go and take my lady
the duchess off her horse.”

Don Quixote obeyed, and great bandying of compliments followed between the
two over the matter; but in the end the duchess’s determination
carried the day, and she refused to get down or dismount from her palfrey
except in the arms of the duke, saying she did not consider herself worthy
to impose so unnecessary a burden on so great a knight. At length the duke
came out to take her down, and as they entered a spacious court two fair
damsels came forward and threw over Don Quixote’s shoulders a large
mantle of the finest scarlet cloth, and at the same instant all the
galleries of the court were lined with the men-servants and women-servants
of the household, crying, “Welcome, flower and cream of
knight-errantry!” while all or most of them flung pellets filled
with scented water over Don Quixote and the duke and duchess; at all which
Don Quixote was greatly astonished, and this was the first time that he
thoroughly felt and believed himself to be a knight-errant in reality and
not merely in fancy, now that he saw himself treated in the same way as he
had read of such knights being treated in days of yore.

Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and entered the castle,
but feeling some twinges of conscience at having left the ass alone, he
approached a respectable duenna who had come out with the rest to receive
the duchess, and in a low voice he said to her, “Señora Gonzalez, or
however your grace may be called—”