IT was no doubt a good thing for Master Pedro of the puppet-show that neither Sancho nor Don Quixote recognized in him the thief who stole the squire's donkey, when he was asleep; for he it was. None other than the galley-slave Gines de Pasamonte, or Don Ginesillo de Paropilla, as Don Quixote would have it. It was in the guise of a showman, with only one eye and a part of his face visible, that he found it an easy matter to evade being caught by the servants of the law, who had been hunting for him ever since he was liberated through the generosity and bravery of Don Quixote. The ape he had bought from some captives who had returned from Barbary; and he had soon taught him the tricks which made people think he was really divining things. Before entering a village the clever galley-slave would learn all he could about its inhabitants; and being blessed with a remarkable memory, he seldom had any difficulty in making the ape's feat seem impressive to the masses.
Now, when Don Quixote left the inn, it suddenly occurred to him that he ought to visit the banks of the Ebrobefore steering towards Saragossa. So he kept on the road for two days, and on the third day as he was mounting a hill he was suddenly aroused by hearing a tremendous din of drums, mixed with the sound of trumpets and musket-shots. In as few instants as it took to make his charger ascend to the top of the hill, he was there; and he saw several hundred men, armed with weapons of every imaginable sort. There were flags, of various descriptions, and among them one in particular attracted his attention: it was a large standard in white, on which was painted a donkey, and also an inscription, reading thus:
They did not bray in vain,Our alcaldes twain.
They did not bray in vain,Our alcaldes twain.
This made Don Quixote believe the warriors must be from the braying town, and he remarked to Sancho that the man to whom they had talked at the inn must have been misinformed, for evidently the two had not been magistrates but alcaldes, according to the sign. To this Sancho replied that having once been a magistrate should not exclude any one from becoming an alcalde; besides, somebody must have brayed, and whether it was an alcalde or a magistrate mattered little, he thought. Don Quixote, however, was in a quandary as to what to do that he might best live up to the laws of knight-errantry.
He finally went to the braying ones, and, having begged their leave to address them, he began a stirring discourse on war and peace that lasted a considerable time. He flayed those who would go into battle for trifling matters; but just when he seemed to be about to win the brayingones over to his way of thinking, he had to pause for breath.
Sancho thought it his duty to interrupt the silence and take up the broken thread here, so he continued in his own way, keeping more or less to the same subject. He started in by praising his master—the Knight of the Lions!—his bravery, his generosity, his knowledge of Latin (which Sancho unfortunately did not understand), and all his other virtues, and suddenly he bellowed out that they were fools to take offense at hearing some one bray. Then he became reminiscent and related how he as a boy used to like to go about braying, and told how envious every one in his village was because of his great gift in that direction. "Wait a bit and listen!" said he. "I'll show you!" And before his master had a chance to stop him, he had pinched his nose and brayed—had brayed such a bray that all the valleys and dales gave echo.
When some of the men heard the braying they thought he had come there to mock them, and they set upon him with such fury and force that Don Quixote, though he did his best to defend him, had to spur Rocinante into retreat, in order to save his own life. But Sancho was both stoned and pummeled into insensibility, and then he was put on his donkey and tied there; and when he came to, he had to put his trust in Dapple, who was forced to smell his way back to Rocinante.
The braying troops remained in the field until evening, but since no opposing army appeared, they returned to their village after dark.
WHEN Dapple reached his faithful playmate, Rocinante, Sancho fell from his back and rolled at his master's feet. There he lay; but Don Quixote was angry and showed no compassion.
"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?"
Having thus reprimanded his squire, the good knight looked to his wounds, which Sancho complained of, but found him only discolored.
"I feel as if I was speaking through my shoulders," wailed Sancho; and then he begged his master to hasten away from such evil premises. Of course, he also had to say something scornful about Don Quixote's having abandoned him in the heat of battle; but the knight begged him to consider that there was a difference between flying and retiring.
Don Quixote succeeded in making Sancho mount and remain on the donkey's back, and then they set off toward a grove which they sighted in the distance. Sancho's back pained him fearfully, but he was much relieved when helearned from his master—who had seen the accident—that it was caused by his having been smitten by a man armed with a staff. The cause being removed as it were, Sancho was jubilant, although his heart and courage fell as soon as he, in the course of his usual chattering, touched upon the subject of knight-errantry. While bewailing his fate, he forgot his pain; therefore Don Quixote was generous and Christian enough to beg him to keep on talking to himself. Sancho suddenly was reminded of his island, and in turn reminded his master of his promise concerning it.
This impertinence was rewarded by the knight's demanding of him: "Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised thee an island?"
And Sancho retorted innocently: "If I remember rightly, it must be over twenty years, three days more or less."
Don Quixote then had to laugh, for it would have been ridiculous not to do so. His wrath was aroused, however, when Sancho again showed his covetousness—his one really great failing, Don Quixote thought—and he told him to keep all the money he had, and betake himself back to his Teresa.
Sancho was moved to tears by his master's wrath, and he confessed in a broken voice that if he had only had a tail he would have been a complete ass himself. But, he said, if his master should care to attach one to him, he would willingly wear one, and serve him all his life as an ass. Then he asked on bended knees to be forgiven, saying that if he talked much it was less from malice than from ignorance, and finished up his harangue with a proverb that had nothing whatever to do with the rest of his discourse.
So Don Quixote forgave his squire, and by that time they had reached the grove, and they spent the night there under the trees: Don Quixote in soliloquies and meditation, Sancho in pain and restlessness. In the morning they continued on their way to find the river Ebro.
IT took them two days to reach the river. The very first thing that struck the knight's eye when he got there, was a boat without oars, tied to a tree. Immediately Don Quixote insisted that the boat had been sent by magic tofetch him to some great knight or other person in need of his help; and all Sancho's contradictions were fruitless.
Finally the proverb, "Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to table with him," had its effect on Sancho, and, although certain he was about to give up his life, he tied the beasts to a tree on the bank, and seated himself in the boat, trembling like a leaf. Then the knight cut the rope, and they started to drift out into the stream, while Dapple was braying and Rocinante was trying to break away and plunge in after them. Seeing this, Sancho began to weep convulsively, but his master had no patience with him, and told him to control himself.
Soon they had reached midstream, and Don Quixote, much to Sancho's perplexity, began to talk about cosmography, the three hundred and sixty degrees of the globe,and the equinoctial line, which, the knight said, they were just then passing. A sure sign by which all seafaring Spaniards determined the passing of this latitude, Don Quixote went on, was that all lice died on everybody on board ship. So, in accordance with this custom, he asked his squire to take the test. Sancho let his hand creep stealthily into the hollow of his left knee, and he promptly told his master that either was the test not to be relied upon, or they had not passed the line that had just been mentioned by name.
"Why, how so?" asked Don Quixote; "hast thou come upon aught?"
"Ay, and aughts," replied Sancho, and in replying he let the stream wash his fingers.
Just then they came in view of some large floating mills, moored in midstream. At once Don Quixote became excited, crying to Sancho that there must be some fair princess or high-born lady in captivity in this castle.
Sancho did his best to make his master believe they were not castles but only mills that ground corn; but to no avail. Don Quixote insisted that either his squire or the mills were enchanted. They came closer and closer to them, and soon shouts were heard from some of the millers, who realized the danger of the boat's being upset by the suction of the water, and dragged into the mill wheels.
The men quickly got hold of some sticks and poles, and tried to stave off the boat, and when Don Quixote saw their white, flour-covered faces he turned to Sancho and begged him to take a good look at the monsters that hadbeen sent to oppose him. The men were all the time crying out, unable to fathom such dare-deviltry or folly: "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?"
In reply to these well-meant exclamations, Don Quixote stood up in the boat and began to swing his sword in a ferocious manner, calling them evil rabble, and demanding that they set free the princess who was imprisoned in the fortress; while Sancho said all the prayers he could think of, crawling on the bottom of the swaying boat, which was now close to the rushing water.
At last the millers caught the boat with their hooks, but in so doing Don Quixote and his squire both fell into the river. Don Quixote in his heavy armor made two trips to the bottom, but both he and Sancho were rescued, thanks to the devils in white. As soon as they had come ashore, Sancho sank upon his knees and thanked the Lord for having been saved from such a death as that from drinking too much water, and prayed that he should be delivered from all future temptations to risk his life in any more foolish causes.
As this moment the fishermen who owned the boat came running up, claiming damages for the wrecked craft, and after having failed to strike a bargain with this rabble for the delivery of the enchanted fair maiden in the castle, Don Quixote, wearied by their stupidity, paid them fifty reals for the boat, exclaiming: "God help us, this world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with the other! I can do no more." Then, turning toward the water mills, he burst out into lamentations, confessingto the imagined captive princess his inability to set her free at this time; while the fishermen stood by, wondering what it was all about.
Having ceased his lamentations, Don Quixote and Sancho joined their faithful beasts, and set out to find new adventures.
SANCHO left the river Ebro with no regrets, except for the fifty reals just paid to the fishermen. He was seriously considering in his own mind the foolishness of remaining a squire to such a mad master as his. But late the following afternoon they approached a field, and suddenly Don Quixote discovered in the distance a number of people, and as they came closer they found it was a hawking party.
Seeing in the party a lady with a hawk on her left hand, and dressed so richly that Sancho said he had never seen anything so fine in his life, Don Quixote decided that she must be some lady of great distinction. Therefore he dispatched his squire with a message to her, asking her for permission to kiss her hand in person. He instructed Sancho to be particularly careful not to dispense any of his proverbs to the lady; but Sancho said he could do without this warning, for had he not carried messages beforeto the exalted Dulcinea, the highest lady of them all?
Soon Don Quixote saw his squire kneeling before the lady. Having given her his life's history and told her his name, Sancho proceeded with the message of his master, the valiant Knight of the Lions, formerly the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, explicitly explaining his master's modest desire. The lady, who was no other than a duchess, at once was interested, as she had read and laughed over the first volume of "The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote of La Mancha"; and she immediately asked Sancho to return to his master and say that she would be delighted beyond words to have the worthy knight and his squire come and be her and the Duke's guests at a country place they had there.
Sancho was so flattered that the Duchess had recognized him from having read the book, and so pleased with the reception she had given him, as well as so taken by her great charm and beauty that he could not get back to his master quickly enough to tell him the good news. With his best manner and bearing Don Quixote, attended by his faithful one, rode into the presence of the august lady, and kissed her hand.
But while Sancho was on his way to his master with the Duchess' message, she had sent for the Duke, and they had arranged, both being gifted with a remarkable sense of humor, to receive and entertain the hero in true knight-errant fashion. Having read all the tales of chivalry, they knew exactly what to do.
Don Quixote was about to dismount, when he had kissed the Duchess' hand; and Sancho, as was his custom, wantedto get off Dapple in a hurry and hold his stirrup, as soon as he perceived his master's intention. But luck would have it that one of his legs caught in the trappings, and he fell head first towards the ground. There the poor squire hung, unable to get up or down, caught by the foot. Now, when Don Quixote, his eyes fixedly and courteously on the Duchess, thought that his squire was there with the stirrup, he pressed downward with all his weight, and knight and saddle both flew high in the air off Rocinante. When Don Quixote had reached earth, he lay there, writhing in pain and cursing and swearing at his stupid squire, who was still hanging by his foot.
The Duke and the Duchess, unable to constrain themselves at the amusing scene, finally were able through their laughter to order their huntsmen to their help; and, limping, the knight advanced to do homage to the Duke and his consort on his damaged knees. The Duke, however, nobly refused such honor, and instead, embraced the knight. He then regretted in a few well chosen words the knight's accident; but Don Quixote replied with an exalted speech, saying that if he had fallen to the depths of the bottomless pit, the glory of having seen such a noble and worthy pair would have lifted him up. Then, of course, he said something uncomplimentary about his squire, who did not know how to tighten the girths of a saddle, although he could not help giving him credit for having a loose tongue.
But when the knight began to praise the beauty of the Duchess, the Duke asked him courteously whether there were not others to praise, as, for instance, his own Lady Dulcinea. At this Don Quixote offered the Duchess hisservices for a few days, together with those of his squire, Sancho Panza, whom he now took pity on and praised as being the drollest squire in the world. Whereupon the Duchess flattered Sancho, saying that if he were droll, she was sure he was shrewd as well; but Don Quixote broke in and added that he was talkative. When the knight, having heard himself addressed as the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, begged to correct it to the Knight of the Lions, the Duke asked him to relate the episode that thus changed his title. And then he invited all to come to the castle to be present at a reception that he would give to their great and distinguished guest.
With the Duchess in the middle, flanked by Don Quixote and the Duke, the whole company headed for the castle; but it was not long before the Duchess found her desire for conversation with the droll and amusing Sancho irresistible. As soon as the Duchess' wish was made known to him, the squire eagerly wedged his way between the horses and chattered his way into the lady's good graces.
THE reception tendered Don Quixote was arranged in true knight-errant fashion by the Duke, who had ridden ahead and given full instructions to the servants. So when Don Quixote arrived, he received a welcome that surpassed anything he had ever read or dreamt of.
The staircases and the galleries of the court were lined with servants, who greeted him with the exclamation: "Welcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry!" At the same time they cast pellets with scented water over him.
Sancho was taken aback at the sight of all this glory. He had followed the Duchess, but once in the castle, the absence of his Dapple made him feel worried. So he turned to one of the duennas, a dignified woman, named Doña Rodriguez de Grijalba, and asked her whether she would not favor him by going outside and seeing that his poor little Dapple was well taken care of. Doña Rodriguez was greatly incensed at his ordering a duenna of the ducal household to do things of that sort, and called him a garlic-stuffed scoundrel. Don Quixote, overhearing their conversation, reprimanded his misbehaving servant, and Sancho blamed it all on his love for his donkey.
After this, Don Quixote was escorted into a hall the walls of which were covered with cloth of gold and rich tapestries, and here he was stripped of his armor by six fair damsels. These maidens could scarcely control their laughter when they saw him stand there, thin, emaciated, tall and bony, dressed in his chamois doublet and tight-fitting breeches. They begged him to permit them to put a clean shirt on him, but that he refused with many assurances of his modesty, asking them instead to give it to Sancho. The two were taken to a room, where Don Quixote, alone with his squire, undressed and put on the shirt, while he gave Sancho admonitions galore, as to how to behave, begging him never again to have any quarrels withany duennas, for that only tended to lessen the respect for the master, who was always judged by his squire's behavior and actions.
Then Don Quixote returned to the hall, where he was attired in a rich baldric and a scarlet mantle, with a sword and a gorgeous montera of green satin. As he passed through the halls and chambers on his way to the state dining room, he was escorted by the seneschal and twelve pages; and the sides of each room, as well as the aisles, were lined with servants in pompous liveries.
Only four covers were laid. Besides Don Quixote and his noble hosts the confessor of the ducal household, a cold and austere churchman, occupied a seat at the heavily laden table, to which our knight was ushered ceremoniously by the Duke himself. But the dinner had not even begun when Sancho unloosened his tongue and began with his proverbs, much to the distress and mortification of his master, although to the great enjoyment of the Duchess. Sancho had been standing by Don Quixote, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at everything that was taking place, for he had never in his life seen anything so sumptuous and ceremonious. The exchange of courtesies between the Duke and our Knight, when the latter finally was induced to accept the seat of honor at the head of the table, impressed the squire considerably; and it was then he thought the time ripe for the introduction of a story about this matter of seats. The Duchess told him by all means to let them hear it, and he began, telling it in the most roundabout way, with twists and curves, and expeditions here and there to places and matters that had asmuch to do with the story as had the proverbs that he stuffed it with.
Don Quixote was beside himself, and the confessor interrupted the poor squire impatiently again and again; but on he went. All the while the Duchess was laughing so heartily that she could scarcely sit up straight in the chair. And while the Duke engaged himself with Don Quixote, she carried on a confidential conversation with Sancho, who told her how he had tricked his master into believing that his Lady Dulcinea was enchanted, saying she was as much enchanted as his father.
When the confessor heard the sacrilegious conversation the Duchess was having with Sancho, discussing giants and enchantments, he severely reprimanded her and warned her that she would have to answer to God for whatever this man did and said. Then, addressing the Duke, whom he had forbidden to read the book about Don Quixote's adventures, he said: "This Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is, cannot be such a blockhead as your Excellency would have him, holding out encouragement to him to go on with his vagaries and follies." And then he turned to Don Quixote and told him to be on his way, and go home and bring up his children, if he had any; and he called him a numbskull, and other names, and a fool for believing that there were knights-errant in the world and Dulcineas and other such silly things.
Don Quixote sat still and never moved a muscle while the churchman was speaking, but as soon as he had said all he had to say, he sprang up from his seat, trembling in his whole body, his face contorted with rage.
HAD Don Quixote not been where he was and had the man who thus assailed him not been of the church, it is safe to say that Don Quixote would have made his defamer retract his words at the point of his sword. But instead he calmed himself, and began a long discourse on the virtues of knight-errantry, finishing it with an avowal of his intentions which, he swore, were to do good to all and evil to none. As for his deserving to be called a fool, he would leave that to the judgment of the Duke and the Duchess. But their worships never got a chance to utter a word before Sancho broke in with the most stupendous praise of his master's speech.
The churchman wanted to know whether he was the Sancho Panza of the book he had seen in print, to which Sancho replied that he most certainly was, and corroborated it with a string of proverbs, ending his long-winded reply to the confessor's question with a wish for long life for his master and himself, saying that neither one of them would be in any want of empires or islands to rule. Whereupon the Duke at once said he conferred upon Sancho this very moment the government of one of his islands; and hearing this Don Quixote whispered to Sancho—whocould not believe his own ears—to go down on his knees and thank the Duke for his kindness.
The ecclesiastic could stand this impudence no longer, and he rose from his seat and left the room in disgust and ill-temper. The Duke wanted to call him back, but he was in such hysterics from hearing Sancho's proverbial nonsense that he could not speak. After the churchman's departure Don Quixote again took to discoursing, and delivered a tirade on the subject of giving and taking offense, comparing the confessor's rebuke to the offense of a woman, whose only weapon was her tongue and who therefore could not be punished by the sword. They marveled at his knowledge and at the quality of his language, however amusing he himself appeared; but it was Sancho who particularly took their fancy, for the ducal pair thought they had never met any one quite so amusing and droll in all their life. And when Don Quixote had ended his discourse, Sancho himself burst out regarding the priest: "By my faith, I am certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan had heard the little man's words, he would have given him such a spank on the mouth that he would not have spoken for the next three years."
The dinner was now over, and four maidens entered: one carrying a silver basin, another one a jug, also of silver, a third one towels, while the fourth had her sleeves rolled up, and, approaching Don Quixote, began to soap his face and beard. Don Quixote thought this must be a custom after all ducal meals, so he submitted in amazement and stretched out his legs comfortably, that he should not appear out of place in such surroundings. When his facewas all lathered, the barber maiden pretended there was no more water in the jug; and by this time the lather had worked its way into the knight's eyes, and he sat there making the most fierce and ludicrous faces until the water finally arrived. Then the Duke, in order that Don Quixote should have no suspicions, ordered the maiden to wash his face and beard as well. But the one who really was crying for and needing such a washing was Sancho. He at last got up sufficient courage to ask the Duchess that he might share in the ceremony, and she promised him that if necessary the maidens would even put him in the bathtub. This kind offer Sancho declined—with many thanks, however—saying he would be just as grateful for having only his beard washed.
While Sancho went with the seneschal to have this attended to, Don Quixote lingered at the table with the Duke and the Duchess. The latter was anxious to have the hero tell her something about his Lady Dulcinea; and Don Quixote became reminiscent and began to sigh, telling her in exalted and flowery language of his great platonic love for this lady, who was now enchanted by some evil sage. When the Duchess asked Don Quixote if it were true that she was only an imaginary figure, he replied meekly that there was a good deal to be said on that point; still, he thought, one must not go to extreme lengths in asking for proof. They discussed many other things, not forgetting Sancho, whom his master praised for his drollery and criticised for being a booby.
Suddenly a great noise was heard and the next momentSancho burst into the room trembling with rage. He was followed by some of the servants in the kitchen. Round his neck was a straining cloth, and dirty lather was splashed in various places over his person. He presented an appearance that at once made the Duchess scream with laughter. He proceeded to tell how he had been set upon by the kitchen-boy, who had been appointed barber by the rest, and how the lad had attempted to lather his face with kitchen soap and dishwater, applied with a scrubbing-brush. Don Quixote thought it best here to make the servants understand that he would tolerate no such jokes on his squire, so he addressed them in severe fashion and then ordered them back to the kitchen, with the Duchess' kind consent.
When the servants had left Sancho thought it a duty to himself and his master—in order to uphold their mutual dignity and for the sake of freeing himself from any untoward suspicion—to speak on his own behalf: "Let them bring a comb here and curry this beard of mine, and if they get anything out of it that offends against cleanliness, let them clip me to the skin." And when the Duchess had acknowledged her faith in Sancho and his virtues, the poor squire's happiness knew no bounds. He offered to serve her for the rest of his life. He wished that he might soon be dubbed a knight that he might carry out his desire on that point. She thanked him for expressing such a friendly feeling for her, and told him that she could plainly judge by his courteous offer to her that he had been reared in no other school than that of the great knight Don Quixote ofLa Mancha. And she assured him that the Duke would not forget the island he had promised him: she would see to that.
Don Quixote was now feeling the necessity for his mid-day nap, and begged to be permitted to retire. Sancho wanted to do the same, and remarked to the Duchess that he usually slept about four or five hours in the middle of a warm summer day; but upon her earnest request he promised her to try to wake up after an hour and come and visit with her and her duennas.
AS soon as Sancho had eaten his dinner, he decided to have no sleep that afternoon, but to hasten to the Duchess' chambers that he might talk to her the whole afternoon. The Duchess asked him innumerable questions about his master and the Lady Dulcinea, and about Teresa Panza and every one concerned in the book about Don Quixote; and Sancho managed to keep the Duchess and her duennas in an uncommonly good humor for the rest of the day. They soon drifted to Sancho's government, and the squire expressed the belief that perhaps after afortnight he would be as well versed in the affairs of government as he was in the farm labor he had been doing all his life.
"Let them only put me into this government and they will see wonders," he said; "for one who has been a good squire will be a good governor."
And then he took leave of the high lady, who suggested that he go home and sleep for the rest of the afternoon. He promised that he would, and entreated her to see to it that good care was taken of his Dapple. When he had explained to the Duchess that Dapple was his faithful donkey, and told her of the incident with Doña Rodriguez, she assured him that Dapple would want for nothing in her stable. She suggested that when he had his government in hand, he ought to pension Dapple off and let him quit working; and Sancho thought that was by no means a bad idea, for, he said, he would not be the first ass to be so pensioned.
The Duchess, when he had left, hastened to tell the Duke of her amusing conversation with Sancho; and again they put their heads together, trying to invent new ways and plots whereby they might derive amusement from the presence of Don Quixote and his squire.
WHEN the Duke and the Duchess had hit upon a plan they proceeded to make preparations for its being carried out, and on the sixth day they invited Don Quixote to go hunting with them. There was an array of huntsmen and beaters, as great a retinue as the Duke could possibly get together. Both Don Quixote and his squire had been presented with splendid hunting suits; but Don Quixote did not accept his, saying that he would soon have to return to the hard pursuits of his calling, and that it would only be a burden to carry it along.
Sancho did not know that his beautiful suit was destined to be torn that very day. A wild boar came along, and Sancho deserted his Dapple and climbed quickly up into the tallest tree he could find; but fate would have it that the branch gave way, and Sancho fell onto a branch below, where he hung suspended by a great rent in his breeches, screaming with all his might that he would be devoured by the boar; but the boar fell in the next moment, pierced by many spears, and Sancho was helped to the ground by his master.
The boar was taken to some tents nearby, where dinnersoon was ready and being served for the hunters. Sancho could not refrain then from showing the Duchess what had befallen him in the tree-top, expressing to her his opinion of hunts of that kind, involving so much risk. Much better, he thought, it would be to hunt hares and other little animals. And then he went on at a tremendous speed, repeating proverb after proverb, one minute telling the Duchess how he would govern his island, and the next minute talking about something in his home village.
Night fell as they were talking. It was a very dark night, which helped to make the Duke's plan seem more likely of success. They had all left the tents and gone into the wood, when suddenly it seemed as if the whole space was afire in one blazing red mass of flames; then there came the sound of trumpets, numberless ones it seemed, and of hoofs, as if hordes of horses had passed through the wood, and of drums, and of battle-cries in Moorish. It was one long, tremendous, indescribable confusion. The Duke and the Duchess were seemingly taken aback; Don Quixote did not know what to think or do; and Sancho was absolutely panic-stricken. It was a din so overwhelming that even those who had arranged it were aghast and afraid.
Then there came a sudden lull, and a messenger—dressed like a demon and blowing a horn that sounded a weird and sickly note—appeared before their eyes, apparently in great haste. The Duke called to him and asked him where he was going; and he replied in a coarse voice that he was the Devil and was looking for Don Quixote of La Mancha. He pointed to the on-riding troops, and said that they were enchanters who were bringing the famous LadyDulcinea del Toboso and the great Frenchman Montesinos on a triumphal car to seek their disenchantment through the only one who could accomplish it, the Knight of the Lions.
On hearing this, Don Quixote said: "If you are the Devil, you ought to know that I am Don Quixote!"
Whereupon the Devil exclaimed in surprise that he had not noticed the knight at all because he was so preoccupied with so many other things that he had almost forgotten what he was there for. Judging the Devil by his remark Sancho decided he was a very honest fellow and a good Christian; otherwise he would not have sworn—as Sancho did—by God and his conscience. After that the squire concluded that even hell had its quota of souls.
The Devil asked Don Quixote to communicate with Montesinos that he might receive instructions as to how to carry out the disenchantment of Lady Dulcinea; and then he turned around his horse and was gone. The whole thing had happened so suddenly that even Don Quixote was perplexed and seemed as if he did not know whether to believe what he had seen and heard. Sancho was dumbfounded and frightened out of his wits.
As Don Quixote made no move to follow the Devil's advice, the Duke turned to him and asked whether he intended to remain where he was. He answered that he would even if all the devils from hell should attack him. Scarcely had he vowed this when he had to gather all his courage in order not to give way to fear, for again there broke out a noise and din that surpassed anything that he had ever heard: shots of cannon and muskets, shouts andscreams from all sides, and the terrific sound of all the trumpets, horns, drums, bugles and clarions; and then came the heavy creaking noise of carts, coming through the wood and all brightly lighted with rows of tapers.
It was too much for poor Sancho. He fell fainting on the Duchess' skirt. She ordered her servants to fan him and to throw water in his face, and he regained consciousness just as one of the carts was passing. It was drawn by four oxen, completely covered with black cloth, and attached to each horn was a lighted wax taper. Leading the oxen were two demons with such horrible, frightful faces that Sancho shut his eyes tightly after having got one glance of them. An old, worthy-looking man with a long, snow-white beard sat on a raised seat on the cart; and when he passed Don Quixote he said in a deep voice: "I am the sage Lirgandeo." And the cart continued. Then followed other carts, with other sages, and Sancho's face suddenly lighted up, for he heard sweet music in the distance, and he said to the Duchess: "Señora, where there is music, there can be no mischief."
But Don Quixote would not commit himself, for all he remarked was: "That remains to be seen."
AS the sound of the music came closer, they distinguished a triumphal car, several times larger than the other ones, and on it were seated two figures, surrounded by a great many penitents, robed in white, and with lighted wax tapers in their hands. One of the figures was a young maiden in the costume of a nymph. She was very beautiful. The other one was dressed in a robe of state and had her head covered with a black veil.
As the car reached the spot where the Duke and Duchess and Don Quixote were standing, the music suddenly ceased, and the figure in the long robe rose and removed both the robe and the veil. All were astonished to find themselves face to face with Death. Sancho was frightened; Don Quixote felt ill at ease; and even the Duke and the Duchess seemed uncomfortable.
Then Death began to declaim a long poem which ended with the announcement that the Lady Dulcinea was enchanted by himself, the sage Merlin, here in the guise of Death, and that she could be redeemed in but one way: by three thousand three hundred lashes administered on Don Quixote's squire Sancho.
When Sancho heard this he exclaimed that he wouldrather stab himself than take the lashes, for he failed to see what he had to do with the enchantment of the Lady Dulcinea. This talk infuriated Don Quixote, who threatened to tie him to a tree and lay on the lashes himself, if his faithful squire had so little respect for his beloved one that he would not sacrifice himself to such an extent. But Merlin said that would have no effect, for the worthy Sancho must do the sacrifice of his own free will, or the disenchantment could not be accomplished.
Sancho, however, was as stubborn as a mule, and it was not until the Duke himself took a hand in the matter and threatened him with the loss of his governorship that he gave in; and then a compromise was made whereby Sancho promised to inflict the three thousand three hundred lashes upon himself. Merlin assured him, however, that if he should make any mistake in counting them, it would soon be known; for the moment all the lashes had been dealt, the Lady Dulcinea would be released—neither one lash before, nor one lash after—and she would at once come to thank and reward him for his sacrifice.
As soon as Sancho had testified his willingness to serve his master and his master's lady, Don Quixote fell on his squire's neck and kissed him. The Duke and the Duchess praised him for his unselfishness. And the music played again. Then the car moved on, Lady Dulcinea bowed to Sancho and the ducal pair, and dawn appeared with its glowing smile. The muskets were again heard; and all was calm.
The Duke was pleased beyond measure with his idea, which had been so effectively carried out. The hunt wasat an end, and all returned happy and content—all except Sancho, who could not help thinking of the pain he was to give himself. But the Duke was bent on hitting upon new schemes whereby he should be able to continue the gaiety that Sancho and his master caused.
THE Duke's majordomo had played the part of Merlin, and he it was who induced a page to appear as Dulcinea. This majordomo was a fellow full of pranks and good humor, and it was he who had written the verses he recited, too. To him the Duke now turned, and they contrived together another amusing scheme.
The next day Sancho was asked by the Duchess how many lashes he had given himself; and he replied meekly that he had commenced with five. After a moment's inquisition, however, the squire admitted that it had not been with lashes but slaps that he had done penance. The Duchess said she was certain that the sage Merlin would not tolerate any such false pretense. She suggested that he make a scourge with claws or knotted cords so that he would be sure to feel what he was doing to himself, andwhen the Duchess offered to bring him such a scourge in the morning, he had to promise to accept it. Then he told her that he had written a letter to his wife, Teresa Panza, in the governor style; and begged her to read it, which she did. The Duchess derived so much amusement from it that she hastened to show it to the Duke. And when Sancho was asked whether he had written the letter himself, he said that he only dictated it, since he could neither read nor write.
After dinner the Duke and the Duchess were sitting in the garden talking with Don Quixote and Sancho, when suddenly there was heard the sound of a deep doleful voice. They all turned quickly to see who was speaking, and there they saw approaching them a man with a snow-white beard that reached almost to the ground. He said he was Trifaldin, of the White Beard, squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Distressed Duenna, and that he had come in search of the valiant knight Don Quixote who he had heard was visiting at the castle. His mistress, he said, in order to find this knight had traveled all the way from the kingdom of Kandy without breaking her fast, and now he begged that Don Quixote would receive the lady, that she herself might tell him her misfortunes.
Don Quixote at once bade the squire go and fetch the Countess; at the same time he uttered a desire to the Duke that the confessor who did not believe in knights errant might have been present to see how appreciated and famed his achievements had become throughout the world.
THE Countess soon arrived, escorted by twelve duennas, who formed a lane through which she passed into the Duke's presence. On seeing so distinguished a guest, he went to receive her with all the honors due to her rank. When she had curtsied, she asked the Duke if it were true that the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha was present in the company. The import of her question was heightened by the way she expressed it, for these were her words spoken in a deep and coarse voice: "Are there present here that knight immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de la Manchissima, and his squirissimus Panza?"
Before Don Quixote or any one else had had an opportunity to reply, Sancho opened his mouth and burst out: "The Panza is here, and Don Quixottissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duennissima, you may say what you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any servissimus."
Then Don Quixote stepped forward and begged the duenna to give him an account of her distress that he might know how to relieve it. The duenna became emotional almost beyond bounds. She thrust herself before DonQuixote and embraced his legs, imploring his and his squire's help, and then began to tell her story of misery.
All the while the Duke and the Duchess were in paroxysms of laughter, so well did the duenna act her part. And their enjoyment was further heightened by the remarks and questions that Sancho interspersed here and there, always at the wrong moment and much to his master's chagrin.
The weeping duenna went on to tell how she had been the ranking duenna at the court of the dowager-queen of Kandy; how she had been entrusted with the care and the bringing up of the Princess Antonomasia, the young heiress of the kingdom, and how she had permitted a young gentleman at the court, who was enamored of the Princess, to gain her favor in such a degree that marriage followed. The young Don had captivated both the Princess and the duenna with his accomplishments, for not only did he play the guitar and write poetry, and dance, but he could as well make bird-cages. But when the Queen learned of her daughter's marriage to one so much beneath her in rank, her heart broke in twain and she collapsed and was buried in three days, the duenna declared, tears streaming down her face all the while.
Sancho was curious at once, and wanted to have a doubt settled. "She died, no doubt?" he asked; and the duenna assured him that they did not bury the living in Kandy, only the dead. But Sancho thought it was a very stupid thing for the Old Queen to go and die thus; he said he could see no reason why she should have taken the whole thing so to heart, for the Princess might have married apage. That, in Sancho's opinion, might have been an excuse for dying; but the Don was such an accomplished man, and a gentleman at that, who could even make bird-cages. Dying was too absurd!
Then the duenna resumed, and now came the worst of her story. She told how the two lovers, upon the Queen's death, had become enchanted by the giant Malambruno, the Queen's first cousin, who had sworn that they would not regain their right shapes until the famous and valiant knight of La Mancha had met him in single combat. Having sentenced them thus, he summoned all the duennas in the castle, charging them with the responsibility of the evil match, and saying that since he did not wish them to suffer death, he would punish them in some other way. Scarcely had the giant uttered these words before their faces began to sting, their pores opened, and when the duennas put their hands to their faces, they felt themselves punished in a most horrifying manner.
Here the thirteen duennas raised their veils, and the Duke and his company were amazed to see that all the women were bearded. The Distressed Duenna raised a wail, and assured those present that had it not been that she had cried so much that she had no tears left, she would now shed them copiously, and she exclaimed: "Where, I ask, can a duenna with a beard go? What father or mother will pity her? Who will help her? For, if even when she has a smooth skin and a face tortured by a thousand kinds of cosmetics, she can hardly get anybody to love her, what will she do when she shows a countenance turned into a thicket? O duennas! It was an unluckymoment when we were born and when our fathers begot us!"
As the unhappy duenna spoke these words, it seemed as if she were about to faint. With a deep and distressing moan, she covered her face with her hands.
THE one who was most impressed by this sad story and enchantment was Sancho, who thought it a dastardly trick for any giant to do. Did not the enchanter know that it cost money to shave? In Sancho's opinion, it would have been infinitely better to have taken off a part of their noses, even if it would have given them an impediment of speech. The duennas replied that some of them had tried sticking-plaster in order to spare themselves the expense of shaving, but to jerk it off their faces, was a painful procedure, they said.
Don Quixote interrupted and declared that they would have to follow no such course, for he would rid them of their beards or he would pluck out his own in the land of the Moors. Such a noble declaration seemed to revive the Distressed Duenna. She came up to Don Quixote and told him that the giant Malambruno had been courteous enough to offer to send the famous wooden steed that the valiant Pierres used. Merlin had made it. This horse could gothrough the air with a speed that carried its rider to the ends of the world overnight. It was steered by a peg in his forehead, she said, and this peg also served as a bridle. Furthermore, there was room for two—one in the saddle, and one on the croup.
"I should like to see him," said Sancho; "but to fancy that I am going to mount him, either in the saddle or on the croup, is to ask pears of an elm-tree. Let each one shave himself as best he can; I am not going to be bruised to get rid of any one's beard."
But Countess Trifaldi insisted that Panza was indispensable to the shaving of the duennas; and when the Duchess had pleaded with him and he saw the Distressed Duenna's eyes fill with tears, he could hardly keep his own back. He bent to their will and resigned himself to his fate and the adventure of riding through the air on the croup of the mighty wooden steed.
DON QUIXOTE was in a state of anxiety during the whole day for fear that Malambruno should not send the steed, but soon after nightfall there arrived in the garden four wild-men, clad in ivy, and carrying on their shoulders a large wooden horse. Don Quixote was summoned by the Distressed Duenna and he mounted the horse at once, not even putting on his spurs. By this time,however, Sancho had changed his mind and decided that he was not going to fly through the air like a witch. But upon the earnest and courteous solicitations of the Duke, Sancho at last consented to ride with his master.
Don Quixote begged Sancho to give himself five hundred lashes on behalf of his enchanted Dulcinea before they set off; but this request struck the squire as the absurdest one he had ever heard. How could his master expect him to sit on a hard wooden horse while he was all bruised and sore from the lashes? He did promise solemnly, however, that as soon as the duennas had been shaved he would turn to the fulfilling of the other debt.
The Distressed Duenna blindfolded them, saying that doing so would prevent them from getting dizzy when they rose to great heights; and Sancho, trembling and tearful, complained that the croup was too hard and begged for a cushion. But the duenna answered him that the magic steed permitted no trappings of any kind, and she suggested that he place himself sideways like a woman, for no doubt he would feel the hardness less in that position.
Sancho did so; and then he uncovered his eyes and looked in a tender fashion on those he was leaving behind, and began to cry piteously. Don Quixote told him sharply to cover his eyes again and not to act like a fool and a coward; and his squire did as he was bidden, after having commended himself to God and begged the duennas to pray all the paternosters and ave-marias they could for him. They in turn admonished him to stick tight to the croup and not to lose hold of it, warning him that if he fell,he would fall like a planet and be blinded by all the stars he would meet on his way down to Earth.
Sobbing, Sancho clung to his master, embracing him with his fat arms so tightly that Don Quixote came near being upset. The knight took a firm grip on the steering peg, and reprimanded his squire for squeezing him. He told him there was nothing to worry about, for it seemed to him he had never in his life ridden a steed that was so easy-going: one would hardly think they had budged from their original place, he said. When Sancho had calmed himself, he concurred in this opinion. He had never heard that there were people living in the air, and did he not hear voices quite close to his ears? Don Quixote then had to explain that affairs of this sort were not of the every-day kind, and that whenever one went on a trip like this, the voices from the Earth would reach thousands of leagues away.
Scarcely had Don Quixote said this, before a gust of wind came that threatened to unseat both the knight and his squire. (The fact was that it was the draught from a tremendous pair of bellows which the Duke had had unearthed for the occasion.) Sancho was shaking in his seat, and Don Quixote warned him again to sit still, for they were in danger of having a runaway straight into the regions of air and thunder, and then into the region of fire. He feared he might not get the steed to turn before it was too late, he said; for it seemed as if the machinery of the peg were rather intricate, and did not work quickly.
Suddenly Sancho began to yell that they were already lost in the flames, and would be burned to death. (Hefelt his beard being singed by a torch. It was one of a great number that the majordomo had provided.) Don Quixote, too, felt his face warm up. But he would not permit Sancho to uncover his eyes; if he did, the knight said he would only be seized with giddiness and both of them would fall off their horse. Besides, he comforted Sancho with the thought that the journey would last only a few moments longer, and that they were now passing a final test before landing in the kingdom of Kandy. Don Quixote added that the distance they had traveled must have been tremendous, and Sancho replied: "All I know is that if the Señora Magallanes or Magalona was satisfied with this croup, she could not have been very tender of flesh."
At this moment came the culmination of their journey through the air. A torch was tied to the tail of the steed, which was stuffed with fire-crackers, and suddenly there was a tremendous noise and a flash, and in the next moment Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, both scorched, lay as if thunderstruck on the ground.
When the knight and his squire finally came to, and looked about, they were aghast at what they saw. The ground was strewn with bodies, but the bearded duennas were gone. Planted in the ground they saw a lance, attached to which they found a parchment which proclaimed that the enchantment of the duennas and of the Don and his royal bride was at an end, and that as soon as the squire Sancho Panza deigned to carry out the flogging he was to give himself, the peerless Dulcinea would appear in all her original beauty again.
Now the Duke and the Duchess, who were among the bodies lying on the ground, seemingly dead, lifted up their heads, as if just coming out of a long sleep; and Don Quixote hastened to tell them of the great miracle that had befallen him. They were both convulsed with laughter—which Don Quixote mistook for emotion—and when he had finished telling them about his marvelous adventure, they had all they could do to reply. The Duke finally gathered enough strength to embrace him and tell him that he was no doubt the greatest knight the world had ever known.
The Duchess was curious to know how Sancho had enjoyed the trip; and he confessed that in spite of his master's command he had peered from underneath the kerchief before his eyes, and had seen the earth below, and that the people seemed as little as hazelnuts and the earth itself looked like a grain of mustard-seed; and when he passed through the region of fire he had seen the goats of heaven, he said.
THE heaven-riding adventure had been such a success that the Duke and the Duchess could not rest until they had seen Sancho installed as governor of hisisland; for they felt certain they should derive a great fund of amusement from such an experiment. So Sancho was told to prepare himself.
But Sancho, having seen heaven, seemed less keen to be governor now, since he felt how small humanity really was, particularly in comparison with the goats of the sky which he claimed he had seen, and he replied that he would much rather have a bit of heaven than any island on earth. The Duke, however, told Sancho that, not being the ruler there, it was for God to dispose of such domains. So Sancho promised to come down to earth and be governor, and to attire himself in the regalia befitting the office.
This being done, Don Quixote and Sancho withdrew to the knight's room, and there Don Quixote gave his squire advice about governing. He admonished him to be a champion of virtue always, to strive to know himself and not to puff himself up like a peacock, whose feathers, he bade him remember, were fine, but who had ugly feet. And the advice and instructions that master gave servant were such that no one would have thought it was a madman speaking.
DON QUIXOTE then told his squire to forget neither to cut his nails nor to supply his servants with livery. The latter, he said, must be neat and never showy. If he could do with three servants instead of six,he advised him to clothe three poor men: thus he would have pages for heaven as well as for earth. He must never eat garlic or onions, the knight said, and he begged him to leave out all affectations. When it came to drinking, he asked him always to bear in mind that too much wine kept neither secrets nor promises. Another thing he must not do was to flatter people; Don Quixote considered this a very odious practice. Last, but not least, said Don Quixote, he must remember not to use such quantities of proverbs as he had been wont to.
Here Sancho felt he had to break in and say a word, and he retorted: "God alone can cure that, for I have more proverbs in me than a book, and when I speak they fall to fighting among themselves to get out; that's why my tongue lets fly the first that comes, though it may not be pat to the purpose." And here Sancho in the very face of his master's admonitions, let go a string of proverbs so long that Don Quixote was almost in despair.
"My mother beats me, and I go on with my tricks," said Don Quixote. "I am bidding thee avoid proverbs, and here in a second thou hast shot out a whole litany of them. Those proverbs will bring thee to the gallows some day, I promise thee."
BEFORE Sancho departed for his island—which was in reality a village belonging to his new master's duchy, and surrounded by land on all sides—Don Quixote wrote out carefully the advice he had given him in the morning of the same day. To escort the new governor to the village the Duke had chosen the majordomo, who had played the part of the Countess Trifaldi; and the moment Sancho saw his face and heard him speak, he confided to to his master the resemblance in voice and appearance.
Always suspicious of enchanters, Don Quixote bade his late squire to keep a sharp eye on the man, and to be sure to inform him whether anything happened that confirmed his suspicion.
Then Sancho was dressed in the garb of a lawyer and mounted on a mule. Dapple followed behind with new trappings, and Sancho was so pleased with the appearance of Dapple that he could not help turning around from time to time to look at him. Don Quixote wept when it came to the leave-taking, and Sancho kissed devotedly the hands of the Duchess and the Duke.
But as soon as Sancho had left, Don Quixote felt a great loneliness in his heart; and that night, after having supped with the ducal pair, he begged to be excused earlyand retired to his room, saying he wanted no servant to wait on him.
He undressed at once, and went to bed, leaving the window overlooking the garden open. Soon he heard the voices of two young maidens, and he was surprised to hear that they were speaking of him. One of them he recognized as the fair Altisidora, and, persuaded by the other voice, she commenced to serenade the knight, to whom in her song she bared her aching heart, and the passion that burned there for him.
But the knight could not be moved. His was a love for no one but his Dulcinea. To indicate to the young maiden that he was aware of her intentions and could not be swayed, he rose from his bed, and went to the window and feigned a sneeze. When that was of no avail and neither produced reticence in the maidens nor drove them away from his window, he sighed: "O what an unlucky knight I am that no damsel can set eyes on me but falls in love with me!" And he went on to bewail his fate, crying out in the night that all the empresses in the world were jealous of the love he bore in his heart for the sweet Dulcinea, and saying that he must and would remain hers, pure, courteous, and chaste, in spite of all the magic-working powers on earth.
Then the worthy knight shut his window with a bang, and thrust himself on his bed, entirely out of patience with the enticing and sinful young maidens.