"'Twas something more than nothing which one dayMade one and t'other worthy bailiff bray."
"'Twas something more than nothing which one dayMade one and t'other worthy bailiff bray."
"'Twas something more than nothing which one dayMade one and t'other worthy bailiff bray."
Don Quixote drew this inference from the motto, that those were the inhabitants of the braying town; and he acquainted Sancho with what he had observed, giving him also to understand, that the man who told them the story of the two braying aldermen was apparently in the wrong; since, according to the verses on the standard, they were two bailiffs, and not two aldermen. "It matters not one rush what you call them," quoth Sancho; "for those very aldermen that brayed might in time come to be made bailiffs of the town; and so both those titles might have been given them well enough. But what is it to you or me, or the story, whether the two brayers were aldermen or bailiffs, so they but brayed as we are told? As if a bailiff were not as likely to bray as an alderman!"
In short, both master and man plainly understood that the men who were thus up in arms were those that were jeered for braying, got together to fight the people of another town, who had indeed abused them more than was the part of good neighbours; thereupon Don Quixote advanced towards them, to Sancho's great grief, who had no manner of liking to such kind of adventures. The multitude soon got about the knight, taking him for some champion, who was come to their assistance. But Don Quixote, lifting up his vizor, with a graceful deportment rode up to the standard, and there all the chief leaders of the army got together about him, in order to take a survey of his person, no less amazed at this strange appearance than the rest. Don Quixote seeing them look so earnestly on him, and no man offer so much as a word or question, took occasion from their silence to break his own; and raising his voice, "Good gentlemen," cried he, "I beseech you with all the endearments imaginable, to give no interruption to the discourse I am now delivering to you, unless you find it distasteful or tedious; which, if I am unhappy enough to occasion, at the least hint you shall give me, I will put a seal on my lips and a padlock on my tongue." They all cried that he might speak what he pleased, and they would hear him with all their hearts. Having this license, Don Quixote proceeded:
"Gentlemen," said he, "I am a knight-errant; and my profession is to shew favour to those that are in necessity, and to give assistance to those that are in distress. I am no stranger tothe cause of your uneasiness, which excites you to take arms against your insulting neighbours; and having often reflected upon the motives which have brought you together, I have drawn this inference; that according to the laws of arms, you really injure yourselves in thinking yourselves affronted; for no particular person can give an affront to a whole town and society of men, except it be by accusing them all of high treason in general, for want of knowing on which of them to fix some treasonable action, of which he supposes some of them to be guilty. Taking it for granted, then, that no particular person can affront a whole kingdom, province, city, commonwealth, or body politic, it is but just to conclude, that it is needless to revenge such a pretended affront; since such an abuse is no sufficient provocation, and, indeed, positively no affront. It would be a pretty piece of wisdom, truly, should those out of the town of Reloxa sally out every day on those who spend their ill-natured breaths, miscalling them every where. It would be a fine business, indeed, if the inhabitants of those several famous towns that are nick-named by our rabble, and called the one cheesemongers, the other costermongers, these fishmongers, and those soapboilers, should know no better than to think themselves dishonoured, and in revenge be always drawing out their swords at the least word, for every idle insignificant quarrel. No, no, Heaven forbid! men of sagacity and wisdom, and well-governed commonwealths, are never induced to take up arms, nor endanger their persons and estates, but on the four following occasions. In the first place, to defend the holy Catholic faith. Secondly, for the security of their lives, which they are commanded to preserve by the laws of God and nature. Thirdly, the preservation of their good name, the reputation of their family, and the conservation of their estates. Fourthly, the service due to their prince in a just war; and, if we please, we may add a fifth, which, indeed, may be referred to the second: the defence of our country. To these five capital causes may be subjoined several others, which may induce men to vindicate themselves, and have recourse even to the way of arms; but to take them up for mere trifles, and such occasions as rather challenge our mirth and contemptuous laughter than revenge, shews the person who is guilty of such proceedings to labour under a scarcity of sense. Besides, to seek after an unjust revenge (and indeed no human revenge can be just) is directly against the holy law we profess, which commands us to forgive our enemies, and to do good to those that hate us: an injunction, which though it seems difficult in the implicit obedience we should pay to it, yet is only so to those who have less of heaven than of the world, and more of the flesh than of the spirit. For the Redeemer of mankind, whose words never could deceive, said 'that his yoke was easy, and his burden light;' and according to that, he could prescribe nothing to our practice which was impossible to be done.Therefore, gentlemen, since reason and religion recommend love and peace to you, I hope you will not render yourselves obnoxious to all laws, both human and divine, by a breach of the public tranquillity."
"Verily," quoth Sancho to himself, "this master of mine must have been bred a parson; if not, he is as like one as one egg is like another." Don Quixote paused a while, to take breath; and, perceiving his auditory still willing to give him attention, had proceeded in his harangue, had not Sancho's good opinion of his parts made him lay hold on this opportunity to talk in his turn. "Gentlemen," quoth he, "my master, Don Quixote de la Mancha, once called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, and now the Knight of the Lions, is a very judicious gentleman, and talks Latin and his own mother-tongue as well as any of your 'varsity-doctors. Whatever discourse he takes in hand, he speaks to the purpose; he has all the laws and rules of punctilio and honour at his fingers' end; so that you have no more to do but to do as he says, and if in taking his counsel you ever tread awry, let the blame be laid on my shoulders. And, indeed, as you have already been told, it is a very silly fancy to be ashamed to hear one bray; for I remember when I was a boy, I could bray as often as I listed, and nobody went about to hinder me; and I could do it so rarely, and to the life, without vanity be it spoken, that all the asses in our town would fall a braying when they heard me bray; yet for all this, I was an honest body's child, and came of good parentage, do ye see; it is true, indeed, four of the best young men in our parish envied me for this great ability of mine; but I cared not a rush for their spite. Now, that you may not think I tell you a story, do but hear me, and then judge; for this rare art is like swimming, which, when once learned, is never to be forgotten!"
This said, he clapped both the palms of his hands to his nose, and fell a braying so obstreperously, that it made the neighbouring valleys ring again. But while he was thus braying, one of those that stood next to him, believing he did it to mock them, gave him such a hearty blow with a quarter-staff on his back, that he brought him to the ground.
Don Quixote, seeing what a rough entertainment had been given to his squire, moved with his lance in a threatening posture towards the man that had used poor Sancho thus; but the crowd thrust themselves in such a manner between them, that the knight found it impracticable to pursue the revenge he designed. At the same time, finding that a shower of stones began to rain about his ears, and a great number of cross-bows and muskets were getting ready for his reception, he turned Rozinante's reins, and galloped from them as fast as four legs would carry him, at the same time expecting at every step that he should be shot through the back, and have the bullet come out at his breast.But the country battalion were satisfied with seeing him fly, and did not offer to shoot at him.
As for Sancho, he was set upon his ass before he had well recovered his senses, and then they suffered him to move off; not that the poor fellow had strength enough to guide him, but Dapple naturally followed Rozinante of his own accord. The Don being at a good distance from the armed multitude, faced about, and seeing Sancho pacing after him without any troublesome attendants, stayed for his coming up. As for the rabble, they kept their posts till it grew dark, and their enemies not having taken the field to give them battle, they marched home, so overjoyed to have shewn their courage, without danger, that, had they been so well bred as to have known the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have erected a trophy in that place.
Of some things which he that reads shall know, if he reads them with attention.
Whenthe valiant man flies, he must have discovered some foul play, and it is the part of prudent persons to reserve themselves for more favourable opportunities. This truth is verified in Don Quixote; who, rather than expose himself to the fury of an incensed and ill-designing multitude, prudently took himself out of their reach. Sancho came after him, as already narrated, laid across his ass, and having recovered his senses, overtook him at last, and let himself drop from his pack-saddle at Rozinante's feet, all battered and bruised, and in a sorrowful condition. Don Quixote presently dismounted to search his wounds, and finding no bones broken, but his skin whole from head to feet, "You must bray," cried he angrily; "you must bray, must you! It is a piece of excellent discretion to talk of halters in the house of a man whose father was hanged. What counter-part could you expect to your music, blockhead, but a thorough-bass of bastinadoes? Thank Providence, sirrah, that as they gave you a dry benediction with a quarter-staff, they did not cross you with a cutlass." "I havn't breath to answer you at present," quoth Sancho, "but my back and shoulders speak enough for me. Pray let us make the best of our way from this cursed place, and whene'er I bray again, may I be as well punished for it. Yet I cannot help saying, that your knights-errant can betake themselves to their heels, and yet leave their trusty squires to be beaten like stock-fish in the midst of their enemies." "A retreat is not to be accounted a flight," replied Don Quixote; "forknow, Sancho, that courage which has not wisdom for its guide falls under the name of temerity; and the rash man's successful actions are rather owing to his good fortune than to his bravery. I own I did retire, but I deny that I fled; and in such a retreat I did but imitate many valiant men, who, not to hazard their persons indiscreetly, reserved themselves for a more fortunate hour. Histories are full of examples of this nature, which I do not care to relate at present, because they would be more tedious to me than profitable to thee."
By this time Don Quixote had helped Sancho to bestride his ass; and being himself mounted on Rozinante, they paced softly along, and got into a grove of poplar-trees, about a quarter of a league from the place where they mounted. Yet as softly as they rode, Sancho could not help now and then heaving up deep sighs and lamentable groans. Don Quixote asked him why he made such a heavy moan? Sancho told him, that from his neck to his back-bone he felt such grievous pains that he was ready to sink. "Without doubt," said Don Quixote, "that is by reason that the staff by which thou wert struck was broad and long; and so, having fallen on those parts of thy back, caused a contusion there, and affects them all with pain; and had it been of a greater magnitude, thy grievances had been so much the greater."
"Truly," quoth Sancho, "you have cleared that in very pithy words, of which nobody made any doubt. Was the cause of my ailing so hard to be guessed, that you must tell me that so much of me was sore as was hit by the weapon? But I find you are like all the world, that lay to heart nobody's harms but their own. I find whereabouts we are, and what I am like to get by you; for even as you left me now in the lurch, to be belaboured, and the other day to dance the caper-galliard in the blanket you wot of, so I must expect a hundred and a hundred more of these good things in your service; and as the mischief has now lighted on my shoulders, next time it may fly at my eyes. Would it not be better for me to trudge home to my wife and children, and look after my house, with that little wit that Heaven has given me, without galloping after your tail, high and low, through crossroads and by-ways, eating ill, and drinking worse? Then, after a man has tired himself off his legs, when he would be glad of a good bed, to have a master cry, 'Here, are you sleepy? lie down, Mr. Squire, your bed is made: take six feet of good hard ground, and measure your body there; and if that won't serve you, take as much more, and welcome.'"
"I durst lay a wager," said Don Quixote, interrupting him, "that now thou art suffered to prate without interruption, thou feelest no manner of pain in thy whole body. Prithee talk on, my child; say anything that comes uppermost to thy mouth, or is burdensome to thy brain; so it but alleviates thy pain, thy impertinences will rather please than offend me; and if thou hastsuch a longing desire to be at home with thy wife and children, Heaven forbid I should be against it. Thou hast money of mine in thy hands: see how long it is since we sallied out last from home, and cast up thy wages by the month, and pay thyself."
"An' it like your worship," quoth Sancho, "when I served my master Carrasco, father to the bachelor, your worship's acquaintance, I had two ducats a-month, besides my victuals: I don't know what you'll give me; though I am sure there is more trouble in being squire to a knight-errant than in being servant to a farmer; for truly, we that go to plough and cart in a farmer's service, though we moil and sweat so a-days as not to have a dry thread to our backs, let the worst come to the worst, are sure of a supper from the pot, and to sleep soundly in a bed. But I don't know when I have had a good meal's meat, or a good night's rest, in all your service, unless it were that short time when we were at Don Diego's house, and when I made a feast on the savoury skimming of Camacho's cauldron, and eat, drank, and slept at Mr. Basil's."
"I grant all this, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "then how much more dost thou expect from me than thou hadst from thy master Carrasco?" "Why, truly," quoth Sancho, "if your worship will pay me twelvepence a-month more than Thomas Carrasco gave me, I shall think it very fair, and tolerable wages; but then, instead of the island which, you know, you promised me, I think you cannot in conscience give me less than six-and-thirty pence a-month more, which will make in all thirty reals, neither more nor less." "Very well," said Don Quixote, "let us see then; it is now twenty-five days since we set out from home—reckon what this comes to, according to the wages thou hast allowed thyself, and be thy own paymaster." "Ah, but," quoth Sancho, "we are quite out in our account; for as to the governor of an island's place, which you promised to help me to, we ought to reckon from the time you made the promise to this very day." "Well, and pray how long is it?" asked Don Quixote. "If I remember rightly," quoth Sancho, "it is about some twenty years ago, two or three days more or less."
With that Don Quixote fell a-laughing heartily. "Why," cried he, "all my sallies, including the time I spent in the Sierra Morena, have hardly taken up two months; and hast thou the impudence to affirm it is twenty years since I promised the grant of the island? I am now convinced thou hast a mind to make all the money which thou hast of mine in thy keeping go for the payment of thy wages. If this be thy meaning, well and good; e'en take it, and much good may it do thee; for rather than be troubled any longer with such a varlet, I would contentedly see myself without a penny. Away, then, pack off with thy ass this moment, and get thee home; for thou shalt never stay in my service any longer. Oh, how much bread, how many promises, haveI now ill bestowed on thee! Vile grovelling wretch, thou hast more of the beast than of the man! when I was just going to prefer thee to such a post, that in spite of thy wife thou hadst been called my lord, thou sneakest away from me. Well mightest thou say, indeed, that honey is not for the mouth of an ass. Thou art indeed a very ass; an ass thou wilt live, and an ass thou wilt die; for I dare say, thou wilt never have sense enough while thou livest to know thou art a brute."
While Don Quixote thus upbraided and railed at Sancho, the poor fellow, all dismayed, and touched to the quick, beheld him with a wistful look; and the tears standing in his eyes for grief, "Good sir," cried he, with a doleful voice, "I confess I want nothing but a tail to be a perfect ass; if your worship will be pleased but to put on one, I shall deem it well set on, and be your most faithful ass all the days of my life: but forgive me, I beseech you, and take pity on my youth. Consider I have but a dull head-piece of my own; and if tongue runs at random sometimes, it is because I am more fool than knave, sir:
'He who errs and mends,To heaven himself commends.'
'He who errs and mends,To heaven himself commends.'
'He who errs and mends,To heaven himself commends.'
"I should wonder much," said Don Quixote, "if thou shouldst not interlard thy discourse with some pretty proverb. Well, I will pardon thee this once, provided thou correct those imperfections, and shewest thyself of a less craving temper. Take heart, then, and let the hopes which thou mayest entertain of the performance of my promise raise in thee a nobler spirit."
Matters being thus amicably adjusted, they put into the grove, where the Don laid himself at the foot of an elm, and his squire at the foot of a beech; for every one of those trees, and such others, has always a foot, though never a hand. Sancho had but an ill night's rest of it, for his bruises made his bones more than ordinarily sensible of the cold. As for Don Quixote, he entertained himself with his usual imaginations. However, they both slept, and by break of day were ready to continue their journey.
What happened to Don Quixote with the fair Huntress.
Ithappened that the next day about sunset, as they were coming out of the wood, Don Quixote cast his eyes on a verdant meadow, and at the farther end of it descried a company, whom, upon a nearer view, he judged to be persons of quality taking the diversion of hawking. Approaching nearer yet, he observedamong them a fine lady, upon a white steed in green trappings, and a saddle of cloth-of-silver. She rode with a gosshawk on her left hand, by which Don Quixote judged her to be of quality, and mistress of the train that attended; as, indeed, she was. Calling to his squire, "Sancho," cried he, "run and tell that lady on the palfrey that I, the Knight of the Lions, humbly salute her highness; and that if she pleases to give me leave, I should be proud to have the honour of waiting on her, and kissing her fair hands. But take special care, Sancho, how thou deliverest thy message; and be sure not to lard my compliments with any of thy proverbs."
Sancho moved on, forcing Dapple from his old pace to a gallop; and approaching the fair huntress, he alighted, and, falling on his knees, "Fair lady," quoth he, "that knight yonder, called the Knight of the Lions, is my master; I am his squire, Sancho Panza by name. This same Knight of the Lions, who but the other day was called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, has sent me to tell you, that so please your worship's grace to give him leave, with your good liking, to do as he has a mind, which, as he says, and as I believe, is only to serve your high-flown beauty, and be your eternal vassal, you may chance to do a thing that would be for your own good, and he would take it for a huge kindness at your hands."
"Indeed, honest squire," said the lady, "you have acquitted yourself of your charge with all the grace which such an embassy requires. Rise, I pray; for it is by no means fit that the squire to so great a knight (to whose name and merit we are no strangers) should remain on his knees. Rise, and desire your master by all means to honour us with his company, that my lord duke and I may pay him our respects at a mansion we have hard by."
Sancho, overjoyed with this gracious answer, returned to his master, to whom he repeated all that the great lady had said to him; praising to the skies, in his clownish phrase, her great beauty and courteous nature.
Don Quixote, pleased with this good beginning, seated himself handsomely in the saddle, fixed his toes in his stirrups, set the beaver of his helmet as he thought best became his face, roused up Rozinante's mettle, and with a graceful assurance moved forwards to kiss the duchess's hand. As soon as Sancho went from her, she sent for the duke, her husband, and gave him an account of Don Quixote's embassy. Thereupon they both attended his coming with a pleasant impatience; for, having read the first part of his history, they were no less desirous to be acquainted with his person; and resolved, as long as he stayed with them, to give him his own way, and humour him in all things, treating him with all the forms essential to the entertainment of a knight-errant; which they were the better able to do, having been much conversant with books of that kind.
And now Don Quixote drew nigh with his vizor up; and Sancho, seeing him offer to alight, made all the haste he could to be ready to hold his stirrup. But as ill-luck would have it, as he was throwing his leg over his pack-saddle to get off, he entangled his foot so strangely in the rope that served him instead of a stirrup, that, not being able to get it out, he hung by the heel with his nose to the ground. On the other side, Don Quixote, who was used to have his stirrup held when he dismounted, thinking Sancho had hold of it already, lifted up his right leg over the saddle to alight; but as it happened to be ill girt, down it came with him to the ground; while he, confounded with shame, bestowed many a severe reproach on his poor squire, who was all the while held fast with his foot in the stocks. The duke seeing them in that condition, ordered some of his people to help them; and they raised Don Quixote, who was in no very good case with his fall. However, limping as well as he could, he went to pay his duty to the lady, and would have fallen on his knees at her horse's feet; but the duke alighting, would by no means permit it; and embracing Don Quixote, "I am sorry," said he, "sir knight, that such a mischance should happen to you at your first appearance in my territories; but the negligence of squires is often the cause of worse accidents." "Most generous prince," said Don Quixote, "I can think nothing bad that could befall me here, since I have had the happiness of seeing your grace; for though I had fallen ever so low, the glory of this interview would raise me up again. My squire, indeed, is much more apt to set loose his saucy tongue than to gird a saddle well; but prostrate or erect, on horseback or on foot, in any posture, I shall always be at your grace's command, and no less at her grace's, your worthy consort. Worthy did I say? yes, she is worthy to be called the Queen of Beauty, and Sovereign Lady of all Courtesy." "Pardon me there," said the duke, "noble Don Quixote de la Mancha; where the peerless Dulcinea is remembered, the praise of all other beauties ought to be forgotten."
Sancho was now got clear of the noose, and standing near the duchess. "An't please your worship's highness," quoth he, before his master could answer, "it cannot be denied, nay, I dare vouch it in any ground in Spain, that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is woundy handsome and fair. But 'where we least think, there starts the hare;' and 'he that makes one handsome pipkin may make two or three hundred;' and so, do ye see, you may understand by this, that my Lady Duchess here does not a jot come short of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso." Don Quixote, upon this, addressing himself to the duchess, "Your grace must know," said he, "that no knight-errant ever had such an eternal babbler, such a bundle of conceit for a squire, as I have; and if I have the honour to continue for some time in your service, yourgrace will find it true." "I am glad," answered the duchess, "that honest Sancho has his conceits, which is a sign he is wise; for merry conceits, you know, sir, are not the offspring of a dull brain; and therefore, if Sancho be merry and jocose, I will warrant him also a man of sense. But, not to lose our time here, come on, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure——" "Knight of the Lions, your highness should say," quoth Sancho; "the Sorrowful Figure is out of date; and so pray let the Lions come in play." "Well, then," said the duke, "I entreat the Knight of the Lions to vouchsafe us his presence at a castle I have hard by, where he shall find such entertainment as is justly due to so eminent a personage, such honours as the duchess and myself are wont to pay to knights-errant that travel this way."
Sancho having by this time got Rozinante ready, and girded the saddle tight, Don Quixote mounted his steed, and the duke a stately horse of his own, and the duchess riding between them both, they moved towards the castle. She desired that Sancho might always attend near her; for she was extremely taken with his notable sayings. Sancho was not hard to be entreated, but crowded in between them, and made a fourth in their conversation, to the great satisfaction both of the duke and duchess, who esteemed themselves very fortunate in having an opportunity to entertain at their castle such a knight-errant and such an erring squire.
Which treats of many and great matters.
Sanchowas overjoyed to find himself so much in the duchess's favour, flattering himself that he should fare no worse at her castle than he had done at Don Diego's and Basil's houses; for he was ever a cordial friend to a plentiful way of living, and therefore never failed to take such opportunities by the forelock wherever he met them. Now before they got to the castle, the duke rode away from them, to instruct his servants how to behave themselves toward Don Quixote; so that no sooner did the knight come near the gates, than he was met by two of the duke's lackeys, in long vests of fine crimson satin, who, suddenly taking him in their arms, lifted him from his horse without any further ceremony.
And now, being entered into a large court-yard, there came two damsels, who threw a long mantle of fine scarlet over Don Quixote's shoulders. In an instant, all the galleries about the court-yard were crowded with men and women, the domestics of the duke, who cried out, "Welcome, the flower and cream ofknight-errantry!" Then they sprinkled bottles of scented water upon Don Quixote, the duke, and the duchess; all which agreeably surprised the Don, and persuaded him his knight-errantry was indeed more than mere fancy; for he found himself treated just as he had read that the brothers of the order were entertained in former ages.
They were now led up a stately staircase, and then into a noble hall, sumptuously hung with rich gold brocade. Here his armour was taken off by six young damsels, that served him instead of pages, all of them fully instructed by the duke and duchess how to behave themselves towards Don Quixote so, that he might look on his entertainment as conformable to those which the famous knights-errant received of old.
Don Quixote then retired and dressed himself, put on his belt and sword, threw his scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and clapped on a cap of green velvet, which had been left him by the damsels. Thus accoutred, he was led with great pomp, some of the attendants walking before and some behind, into the supper-apartment, where a table was magnificently set out for four people.
As soon as he approached, the duke and the duchess came as far as the door to receive him, and with them a grave ecclesiastic, one of those that live in and govern great men's houses.
After a thousand courtly compliments on all sides, Don Quixote at last approached the table, between the duke and the duchess; and here arose a contest; for the knight, being offered the upper end of the table, thought himself obliged to decline it. However, he could not withstand the duke's pressing importunities, but was forced at last to comply. The parson sat right against him, and the duke and the duchess on each side.
Sancho stood by all the while, gaping with wonder to see the honour done his master; and observing how many ceremonies passed, and what entreaties the duke used to prevail with him to sit at the upper end of the table, "With your worship's good leave," quoth he, "I will tell you what happened once in our town, in reference to this stir and ado that you have had now about places." The words were scarce out of his mouth, when Don Quixote began to tremble, as having reason to believe he was about to say some impertinent thing or other. Sancho had his eyes upon him, and, presently understanding his motions, "Sir," quoth he, "don't fear; I won't be unmannerly, I warrant you. I will speak nothing but what shall be to the purpose; I havn't so soon forgot the lesson you gave me about talking sense or nonsense, little or much." "I don't know what thou meanest," said Don Quixote; "say what thou wilt, so thou do it quickly." "Well," quoth Sancho, turning to the duke, "what I am going to tell you is every tittle true. Should I trip never so little in my story, my master is here to take me up, and give me the lie." "Prithee," said Don Quixote, "trip as much as thou wiltfor me; I won't be thy hindrance; but take heed, however, what thou sayest." "Nay, nay," quoth Sancho, "let me alone for that; I have heeded it and reheeded it over and over, and that you shall see, I warrant you." "Truly, my lord," said Don Quixote, "it were convenient that your grace should order this fellow to be turned out of the room, for he will plague you with a thousand impertinences." "Oh! as for that, you must excuse us," said the duchess; "Sancho must not stir a step; I'll engage for him, he shall say nothing but what is proper." "Many and many proper years," quoth Sancho, "may your grace live, madam duchess, for your good opinion of me, though it is more your goodness than my desert. Now then for my tale.
"Once on a time a gentleman, of a good estate and family, for he was of the blood of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married one Donna Mencia de Quinones, who was the daughter of Don Alonzo de Maranon, a knight of the order of St. Jago, the very same that was drowned in the Herradura, about whom that quarrel happened formerly in our town, in which I heard say, that my master, Don Quixote was embroiled, and little Tom, the mad-cap, who was the son of old Balvastro the farrier, happened to be sorely hurt——Is not all this true now, master? Speak the truth, that their worships' graces may know that I am neither a prater nor a liar." "Thus far," said the clergyman, "I think thou art the first rather than the latter; I can't tell what I shall make of thee by and by." "Thou producest so many witnesses, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and mentionest so many circumstances, that I must needs own I believe what thou sayest to be true. But go on, and shorten thy story; for as thou beginnest, I'm afraid thou'lt not have done these two days." "Pray, don't let him shorten it," said the duchess; "let him go on his own way, though he were not to make an end of it these six days; I shall hear him with pleasure, and think the time pleasantly employed." "This same gentleman, then," continued Sancho, "I know him as well as I know my right hand from my left, for it is not a bow-shot from my house to his; this gentleman, I say, invited a husbandman to dine with him, who was a poor man, but main honest"——
"On, friend," said the chaplain; "at the rate you proceed, your tale won't reach its end before you reach the other world." "A little more of your Christian patience, good doctor," quoth Sancho. "Now this same husbandman, as I said before, coming to this same gentleman's house, who had given him the invitation,—Heaven rest his soul, poor heart! for he is now dead and gone; and more than that, they say he died the death of an angel. For my part, I was not by him when he died, for I was gone to harvest-work at that very time, to a place called Temblique." "Prithee, honest friend," said the clergyman, "leave your harvest-work, and come back quickly from Temblique, without stayingto bury the gentleman, unless you have a mind to occasion more funerals; therefore, pray make an end of your story." "You must know then," quoth Sancho, "that as they two were ready to sit down at table,—I mean the husbandman and the gentleman——Methinks I see them now before my eyes plainer than ever I did in my born days,—The husbandman would not sit till the gentleman had taken his place; but the gentleman made him a sign to put himself at the upper end. 'By no means, sir,' quoth the husbandman. 'Sit down,' said the other. 'Good your worship,' quoth the husbandman. 'Sit where I bid thee,' said the gentleman. Still the other excused himself and would not; and the gentleman told him he should, as meaning to be master in his own house. But the over-mannerly looby, fancying he should be hugely well bred and civil in it, scraped, and cringed, and refused, till at last the gentleman, in a great passion, even took him by the shoulders, and forced him into the chair. 'Sit there, clodpate,' cried he; 'for let me sit wherever I will, that still will be the upper end, and the place of worship to thee.' And now you have my tale, and I think I have spoke nothing but what is to the purpose."
Don Quixote's face was flushed with anger and shame, so that the duke and duchess were obliged to check their mirth when they perceived Sancho's roguery, that Don Quixote might not be put too much out of countenance. And therefore to turn the discourse, that Sancho might not run into other fooleries, the duchess asked Don Quixote what news he had of the Lady Dulcinea, and how long it was since he had sent her any giants or robbers for a present, not doubting but that he had lately subdued many such. "Alas! madam," answered he, "my misfortunes have had a beginning, but I fear will never have an end. I have vanquished giants, elves, and cut-throats, and sent them to the mistress of my soul, but where shall they find her? She is enchanted, madam, and transformed to the ugliest piece of rusticity that can be imagined." "I don't know, sir," quoth Sancho; "when I saw her last, she seemed to be the finest creature in the varsal world; thus far, at least, I can safely vouch for her upon my own knowledge, that for activity of body and leaping, the best tumbler of them all does not go beyond her. Upon my honest word, madam duchess, she will vault from the ground upon her ass like a cat." "Have you seen her enchanted?" said the duke. "Seen her!" quoth Sancho; "and who was the first that hit upon this trick of her enchantment, think you, but I? She is as much enchanted as my father."
The churchman hearing them talk of giants, elves, and enchantments, began to suspect this was Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose history the duke so often used to read, though he had several times reprehended him for it, telling him it was a folly to read such follies. Being confirmed in his suspicion, he addressedhimself very angrily to the duke. "My lord," said he, "your grace will have a large account to give one day for encouraging this poor man's follies. I suppose this same Don Quixote, or Don Quite Sot, or whatever you are pleased to call him, cannot be quite so besotted as you endeavour to make him, by giving him such opportunities to run on in his fantastical humours?" Then directing his discourse to Don Quixote, "Hark ye," said he, "Sigñor Addlepate. Who has put it into your head that you are a knight-errant, and that you vanquish giants and robbers? Go, go, get you home again, look after your children, if you have any, and what honest business you have to do, and leave wandering about the world, building castles in the air, and making yourself a laughing-stock to all that know you, or know you not. Where have you found that there ever has been, or are now, any such things as knights-errant? Where will you meet with giants in Spain, or monsters in La Mancha? Where shall one find your enchanted Dulcineas, and all those legions of whimsies and chimeras that are talked of in your account, but in your own empty skull?"
Don Quixote gave this reverend person a hearing with great patience. But at last, seeing him silent, without minding his respect to the duke and duchess, up he started with indignation and fury in his looks, and said——But his answer deserves a chapter by itself.
Don Quixote's answer to his reprover; with other grave and merry accidents.
Don Quixotehaving thus suddenly got up, with his whole frame agitated with indignation, cast an angry look on his indiscreet censor, and thus spake: "This place, the presence of these noble persons, and the respect I have always had for your function, check my just resentment, and tie up my hands from taking the satisfaction of a gentleman. For these reasons, and since every one knows that you gown-men, as well as women, use no other weapons but your tongues, I will fairly engage you upon equal terms, and combat you at your own weapon. I should rather have expected sober admonitions from a man of your cloth, than infamous reproaches. Charitable and wholesome correction ought to be managed at another rate, and with more moderation. The least that can be said of this reproof, which you have given me here so bitterly and in public, is, that it has exceeded the bounds of Christian correction, and a gentle one had been much more becoming. Is it fit that without any insight into the offencewhich you reprove, you should, without any more ado, call the offender fool, sot, and addlepate? Pray, sir, what foolish action have you seen me do, that should provoke you to give me such ill language, and bid me so magisterially go home to look after my wife and children, before you know whether I have any? Don't you think those deserve as severe a censure who screw themselves into other men's houses, and pretend to rule the master? A fine world it is truly, when a poor pedant, who has seen no more of it than lies within twenty or thirty leagues about him, shall take upon him to prescribe laws to knight-errantry, and judge of those who profess it! You, forsooth, esteem it an idle undertaking, and time lost, to wander through the world, though scorning its pleasures and sharing the hardships and toils of it, by which the virtuous aspire to the high seat of immortality. If persons of honour, knights, lords, gentlemen, or men of any birth, should take me for a fool or a coxcomb, I should think it an irreparable affront. But for mere scholars, that never trode the path of chivalry, to think me mad, I despise and laugh at it. I am a knight, and a knight will I die, if so it please Omnipotence. Some choose the high road of haughty ambition; others the low ways of base servile flattery; a third sort take the crooked path of deceitful hypocrisy; and a few, very few, that of true religion. I, for my own part, follow the narrow track of knight-errantry; and for the exercise of it I despise riches, but not honour. I have redressed grievances, and righted the injured, chastised the insolent, vanquished giants, and trod elves and hobgoblins under my feet. I am in love, but no more than the profession of knight-errantry obliges me to be. My intentions are all directed to virtuous ends, and to do no man wrong, but good to all the world. And now let your graces judge, most excellent duke and duchess, whether a person who makes it his only study to practise all this deserves to be upbraided for a fool."
"Well said, truly," quoth Sancho; "say no more for yourself, my good lord and master; stop when you are well; for there is not the least matter to be added more on your side. Besides, since Mr. Parson has had the face to say, point-blank, as one may say, that there neither are, nor ever were, any knights-errant in the world, no marvel he does not know what he says." "What!" said the clergyman, "I warrant you are that Sancho Panza to whom they say your master has promised an island?" "Ay, marry am I," answered Sancho; "and I am he that deserves it as well as another body; and I am one of those of whom they say, 'Keep with good men and thou shalt be one of them;' and of those of whom it is said again, 'Not with whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou hast fed;' as also, 'Lean against a good tree, and it will shelter thee.' I have leaned and stuck close to my good master, and kept him company this many a month;and now he and I are all one; and I must be as he is; and so he live, and I live, he will not want kingdoms to rule, nor shall I want islands to govern."
"That thou shalt not, honest Sancho," said the duke; "for I, on the great Don Quixote's account, will now give thee the government of an odd one of my own of no small consequence." "Down, down on thy knees, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "and kiss his grace's feet for this favour." Sancho did accordingly; but when the clergyman saw it, he got up in a great heat. "By the habit which I wear," cried he, "I can scarce forbear telling your grace, that you are as mad as these sinful wretches. Well may they be mad, when such wise men as you humour and authorise their frenzy. You may keep them here, and stay with them yourself, if your grace pleases; but for my part, I will leave you and go home, to save myself the labour of reprehending what I can't mend." With that, leaving the rest of his dinner behind him, away he flung, the duke and the duchess not being able to pacify him; though, indeed, the duke could not say much to him for laughing at his impertinent passion.
When he had done laughing, "Sir Knight of the Lions," said he, "you have answered so well, that you need no farther satisfaction of the angry clergyman; especially if you consider that whatever he might say, it was not in his power to fix an affront on a person of your character, since women and churchmen cannot give an affront." "Very true, my lord," said Don Quixote; "and I ought not to have any resentment for what that good man said, neither, indeed, have I any. I only wish he would have stayed a little longer, that I might have convinced him of his error in believing there were never any knights-errant in the world. Had Amadis, or any one of his innumerable race, but heard him say any thing like this, I can assure his reverence it would have gone hard with him."
"I will answer for it, it would," quoth Sancho; "they would have undone him as you would undo an oyster, and have cleft him from head to foot as one would slice a pomegranate, or a ripe muskmelon. They were a parcel of tough blades, and would not have swallowed such a pill. I verily believe, had Rinaldo of Montalban but heard the poor man talk at this rate, he would have given him such a gag as would have secured him from prating these three years. Ay, ay, if he had fallen into their clutches, see how he would have got out again." The duchess was ready to die with laughing at Sancho, whom she thought a more pleasant fool and a greater madman than his master; and she was not the only person at that time of this opinion.
The duchess now took an opportunity to desire the knight to give a particular description of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso's beauty and accomplishments, not doubting but that his good memory would enable him to do it well; adding withal, that accordingto the voice of fame, she must needs be the finest creature in the whole world, and consequently in La Mancha.
With that, Don Quixote, fetching a deep sigh, "Madam," said he, "could I pluck out my heart, and expose it to your grace's view, I might save my tongue the labour of attempting that which it cannot express, and you can scarce believe; for there your grace would see her beauty depainted to the life. But why should I undertake to delineate and copy one by one each several perfection of the peerless Dulcinea? That task were worthy of the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, or the graving-tools of Lysippus. The hands of the best painters and statuaries should indeed be employed to give in speaking paint, in marble and Corinthian brass, an exact copy of her beauties; while Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence laboured to reach the praise of her endowments." "Pray, sir," asked the duchess, "what do you mean by that word Demosthenian?" "Demosthenian eloquence, madam," said Don Quixote, "is as much as to say, the eloquence of Demosthenes; and the Ciceronian, that of Cicero; the two greatest orators that ever were in the world." "It is true," said the duke; "and you but shewed your ignorance, my dear, in asking such a question. Yet the noble Don Quixote would highly oblige us, if he would but be pleased to attempt her picture now; for even in a rude draught of her lineaments, I question not but she will appear so charming, as to deserve the envy of the brightest of her sex." "Ah, my lord," said Don Quixote, "it would be so indeed, if the misfortune which not long since befell her had not in a manner razed her idea out of the seat of my memory; and as it is, I ought rather to bewail her change than describe her person: for your grace must know that as I lately went to kiss her hands, and obtain her benediction and leave for my intended absence in quest of new adventures, I found her quite another creature than I expected. I found her enchanted—transformed from a princess to a country-wench, from beauty to ugliness, from courtliness to rusticity, from a reserved lady to a jumping Joan; in short, from Dulcinea del Toboso to a peasantess of Sayago." "Bless us!" cried the duke with a loud voice, "what villain has done the world such an injury? Who has robbed it not only of the beauty that was its ornament, but of those charming graces that were its delight, and that virtue which was its living honour?" "Who should it be," replied Don Quixote, "but one of those cursed magicians who have persecuted me, and will continue to do so, till they have sunk me and my lofty deeds of chivalry into the profound abyss of oblivion. Yes, they wound me in that part which they well know is most sensible; aware, that to deprive a knight-errant of his lady, is to rob him of the eyes with which he sees, of the sun that enlightens him, and of the food that sustains him. For, as I have often said, a knight-errant without a lady is like a treewithout leaves, a building without mortar, or a shadow without a body that causes it."
"I grant all this," said the duchess; "yet if we may believe the history of your life, which was lately published with universal applause, it seems to imply, to the best of my remembrance, that you never saw the Lady Dulcinea, and that there is no such lady in the world; but rather that she is a mere notional creature, proceeding from your own fancy, and there endowed with all the charms and good qualifications which you are pleased to ascribe to her."
"Much may be said upon this point," said Don Quixote; "Heaven knows whether there be a Dulcinea in the world or not, and whether she be a notional creature or not. These are mysteries not to be so narrowly inquired into. I do indeed make her the object of my contemplations, and, as I ought, look on her as a lady endowed with all those qualifications that may raise the character of a person to universal fame. She is to me beautiful without blemish, reserved without pride, amorous with modesty, agreeable for her courteous temper, and courteous as an effect of her generous education, and, in short, of an illustrious parentage. For beauty displays its lustre to a higher degree of perfection when joined with noble blood than it can in those that are meanly descended."
"The observation is just," said the duke; "but give me leave, sir, to propose to you a doubt, which the reading of that history hath started in my mind. It is, that, allowing there be a Dulcinea at Toboso, or elsewhere, and as beautiful as you describe her, yet I do not find she can any way equal in greatness of birth the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, the Madasimas, and a thousand others, of whom we read in those histories with which you have been so conversant." "To this," said Don Quixote, "I answer, that Dulcinea is the daughter of her own actions, and that virtue ennobles the blood. A virtuous man of mean condition is more to be esteemed than a vicious person of quality. Besides, Dulcinea is possessed of those other endowments that may entitle her to crowns and sceptres, since beauty alone has raised many of her sex to a throne." "I must own, sir," said the duchess, "that in all your discourse, you, as we say, proceed with the plummet of reason, and fathom all the depths of controversy. Therefore I submit; and from this time I am resolved to believe, and will make all my domestics, nay my husband too, if there be occasion, believe and maintain, that there is a Dulcinea del Toboso extant, and living at this day; that she is beautiful and of good extraction; and to sum up all in a word, altogether deserving the services of so great a knight as the noble Don Quixote; which I think is the highest commendation I can bestow on her. But yet I must confess there is still one scruple that makes me uneasy, and causes me to have an ill opinion of Sancho. It is that thehistory tells us, that when Sancho Panza carried your letter to the Lady Dulcinea, he found her winnowing a sack of corn; by the same token, that it was the worst sort of wheat, which makes me much doubt her quality."
"Your grace must know," answered Don Quixote, "that almost every thing that relates to me is managed quite contrary to what the affairs of other knights-errant used to be. Whether the unfathomable will of destiny, or the implacable malice of envious enchanters, orders it so or no, I cannot tell. But I have good reason to believe that these magicians, finding they cannot work their wicked ends directly on me, revenge themselves on what I most esteem, and endeavour to take away my life by persecuting that of Dulcinea, in whom and for whom I live. And therefore the unfortunate lady must be thus enchanted, misused, disfigured, chopped, and changed. My enemies, wreaking their malice on her, have revenged themselves on me, which makes me abandon myself to sorrow, till she be restored to her former perfections.
"I have been the more large in this particular, that nobody might insist on what Sancho said of her sifting of corn; for if she appeared changed to me, what wonder is it if she seemed so to him? In short, Dulcinea is both illustrious and well-born, being descended of the most ancient and best families in Toboso, of whose blood I am positive she has no small share in her veins; and now that town will be no less famous in after ages for being the place of her nativity than Troy for Helen, though on a more honourable account.
"As for Sancho Panza's part, I assure your grace he is one of the most pleasant squires that ever waited on a knight-errant. Sometimes he comes out with such sharp simplicities, that one is pleasantly puzzled to judge whether he be more knave or fool. The varlet, indeed, is full of roguery enough to be thought a knave; but then he has yet more ignorance, and may better be thought a fool. He doubts of every thing, yet believes every thing; and when one would think he had entangled himself in a piece of downright folly beyond recovery, he brings himself off of a sudden so cleverly that he is applauded to the skies. In short, I would not change him for the best squire that wears a head, though I might have a city to boot; and therefore I do not know whether I had best let him go to the government which your grace has been pleased to promise him. Though I must confess his talents seem to lie pretty much that way; for, give never so little a whet to his understanding, he will manage his government as well as the king does his customs. Then experience convinces us that neither learning, nor any other abilities, are very material to a governor. Have we not a hundred of them that can scarce read a letter, and yet they govern as sharp as so many hawks? Their main business is only to mean well, and to be resolved to do theirbest; for they cannot want able counsellors to instruct them. Thus those governors who are men of the sword, and no scholars, have their assessors on the bench to direct them. My counsel to Sancho shall be, that he neither take bribes nor lose his privileges; with some other little instructions, which I have in my head for him, and which at a proper time I will communicate, both for his private advantage and the public good of the island he is to govern."
Here the conversation ceased, and Don Quixote went to take his afternoon's sleep; but the duchess desired Sancho, if he were not very sleepy, to pass the afternoon with her and her women in a cool room. Sancho told her grace, that indeed he did use to take a good sound nap, some four or five hours long, in a summer's afternoon; but to do her good honour a kindness, he would break an old custom for once, and do his best to hold up that day, and wait on her worship.
Containing ways and means for disenchanting the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, being one of the most famous adventures in the whole book.
Theduke and duchess were extremely diverted with the humours of their guests. Resolving, therefore, to improve their sport by carrying on some pleasant design that might bear the appearance of an adventure, they took the hint from Don Quixote's account of Montesinos' cave, as a subject from which they might raise an extraordinary entertainment; the rather, since, to the duchess's amazement, Sancho was so foolish as to believe that Dulcinea del Toboso was really enchanted, though he himself had been the first contriver of the story, and her only enchanter.
Accordingly, having given directions to their servants that nothing might be wanting, and proposed a day for hunting the wild boar, in five or six days they were ready to set out with a train of huntsmen and other attendants not unbecoming the greatest prince. They presented Don Quixote with a hunting-suit, but he refused it, alleging it superfluous, since he was in a short time to return to the hard exercise of arms, and could carry no sumpters nor wardrobes along with him; but Sancho readily accepted one of fine green cloth, designing to sell it the first opportunity.
The day appointed being come, Don Quixote armed, and Sancho equipped himself in his new suit, and mounting his ass, which he would not quit for a good horse that was offered him, he crowded among the train of sportsmen. The duchess also made one of the company. The knight, who was courtesy itself, verygallantly would hold the reins of her palfrey, though the duke seemed very unwilling to let him. In short, they came to the scene of their sport, which was in a wood between two high mountains, where alighting, and taking their several stands, the duchess, with a pointed javelin in her hand, attended by the duke and Don Quixote, took her stand in a place where they knew the boars were used to pass through.
And now the chase began with full cry, the dogs opened, the horns sounded, and the huntsmen hollowed in so loud a concert, that there was no hearing one another. Soon after, a hideous boar, of a monstrous size, came on; and being baited hard by the dogs, and followed close by the huntsmen, made furiously towards the pass which Don Quixote had taken; whereupon the knight, grasping his shield and drawing his sword, moved forward to receive the raging beast. The duke joined him with a boar-spear, and the duchess would have been foremost, had not the duke prevented her. Sancho alone, seeing the furious animal, resolved to shift for himself; and away he ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, towards a high oak, to the top of which he endeavoured to clamber; but, as he was getting up, one of the boughs unluckily broke, and he was tumbling down, when a stump of another bough caught hold of his new coat, and stopped his fall, slinging him in the air by the middle, so that he could neither get up nor down. His fine green coat was torn; and he fancied every moment the wild boar was running that way, with foaming mouth and dreadful tusks, to tear him to pieces; which so disturbed him, that he roared and bellowed for help, as if some wild beast had been devouring him in good earnest.
At last the tusky boar was laid at his length, with a number of pointed spears fixed in him; and Don Quixote, being alarmed by Sancho's noise, which he could distinguish easily, looked about, and discovered him swinging from the tree with his head downwards, and close by him poor Dapple, who, like a true friend, never forsook him in his adversity. Don Quixote went and took down his squire, who, as soon as he was at liberty, began to examine the damage his fine hunting-suit had received, which grieved him to the soul; for he prized it as much as if it had made him heir to an estate.
Meanwhile, the boar, being laid across a large mule, and covered with branches of rosemary and myrtle, was carried in triumph by the victorious huntsmen to a large field-tent, pitched in the middle of the wood, where an excellent entertainment was provided, suitable to the magnificence of the founder.
Sancho drew near the duchess, and shewing her his torn coat, "Had we been hunting the hare now, or catching sparrows," quoth he, "my coat might have slept in a whole skin. For my part, I wonder what pleasure there can be in beating the bushesfor a beast which, if it does but come at you, may be the death of you. I have not forgotten an old song to this purpose: