‘Ah! woe is me!’ cried the cousin, ‘my uncle is a poet too! he knows every thing, and can do every thing: I’ll lay a wager, if he should turn bricklayer, he could build a house like any cage.’—‘I do assure thee, niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘if those knightly sentiments did not wholly engross my attention, there is not a thing on earth that I could not make, nor a curiosity that should not go through my hands, especially bird-cages and tooth-picks.’
Here the conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the gate; which, as they found upon enquiry, was made by Sancho; whose presence was no sooner intimated, than the housekeeper ran away to hide herself that she might avoid the sight of him whom she abhorred: the niece, therefore, opened the door, and his master came out to receive him with open arms; then, shutting themselves up together, another dialogue passed, no ways inferior to the former.
The housekeeper seeing that her master and Sancho were locked up together, immediately guessed the subject of the conversation; and imagining, that the result of this confutation would be a third sally, she put on her veil, and full of trouble and anxiety, went in quest of the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, thinking, that as he was a well spoken man, and her master’s new friend, he might persuade him to lay aside such an extravagant design: accordingly, she found him taking a turn in his own yard, and fell upon her knees before him, in a cold sweat, occasioned by her vexation. Carrasco seeing her appear with such marks of sorrow and consternation, said, ‘What is the matter, Mrs. Housekeeper? what hath befallen you? something seems to have harrowed up your very soul!’—‘Nothing at all, dear Mr. Sampson,’ cried the housekeeper, ‘only my master is breaking out; he is certainly breaking out!’—‘How breaking out?’ said Sampson; ‘is any part of his body unsound?’—‘Where should it break out,’ replied the other, ‘but through the gate of his madness? My meaning, dear batchelor of my soul! is, that he is going to make another sally, (and that will be the third) searching up and down the world for what he calls adventures, though I cannot imagine why they should have that name[147]: the first time, he returned so battered and bruised, that they were fain to lay him across an ass, like a sack of oats, because he could not sit upright; the second time, he was brought home in a waggon, stretched and cooped up in a cage, in which he imagined himself inchanted, in such a woeful plight, that he could scarce be known by the mother that bore him, so lank and meagre, with his eyes sunk into the lowest pit of his brain; so that before I could bring him into any tolerable degree of strength, I expended more than six hundred new-laid eggs, as God and all the world know, as well as my hens, that will not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘That I verily believe,’ said the batchelor; ‘your hens are so good, plump, and well bred, that they would rather burst than say one thing, and mean another. Well, then, Mrs. Housekeeper, nothing else hath happened, neither have you met with any other misfortune, but the apprehension of what your master Don Quixote will do?’—‘Nothing else,’ said she. ‘Give yourself no trouble then,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘but go home a-God’s name, and get ready something hot for my breakfast; and in your way, repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer, if you can; I will follow in a little time, and then you shall see wonders.’—‘Dear heart!’ cried the housekeeper, ‘St. Apollonia’s prayer, say you? that I should repeat if my master had the tooth-ach; but, lack-a-day! his distemper lies in his skull.’—‘I know what I say,’ answered Sampson: ‘take my advice, Mrs. Housekeeper, and do not pretend to dispute with me; for I would have thee to know that I am a batchelor of Salamanca; there’s no higher batcheleering than that.’ She accordingly moved homeward, while Sampson went to communicate to the curate that which will be in due time disclosed.
While Don Quixote and Sancho were closeted together, there passed between them a conversation which the history recounts with great punctuality and truth. ‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘I have at length traduced my wife to consent that I shall attend your worship wheresoever you please to carry me.’-‘Say reduced, and not traduced, Sancho,’ replied the knight. ‘I have once or twice, if my memory serves me,’ said Sancho, ‘intreated your worship not to correct my words, if you understand my meaning; and when you can’t make it out, I desire you would say, “Sancho,” or “devil, I don’t understand thee:” then if I fail in explaining myself, you may correct me as much as you please; for I am so fossile.’—‘I do not understand thee now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘nor can I comprehend what thou wouldst be at, in saying I am so fossile.’—‘So fossile!’ said the squire; ‘that is, whereby as how I am just so.’—‘Nay, now thou art more and more unintelligible,’ replied the knight. ‘If your worship does not understand me now,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know not how to express it; for I am already at my wit’s end, and Lord have mercy upon me.’—‘O! now I conceive thy meaning,’ said the knight; ‘thou wouldst say thou art so docile, gentle, and tractable, as to comprehend every thing I say, and retain whatsoever I shall teach thee.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said the squire, ‘that from the beginning, you knew my meaning by my mumping, but wanted to confound me by leading me into a thousand more blunders.’—‘It may be so,’ said the knight; ‘but in reality, what says Teresa?’—‘Teresa,’ answered Sancho, ‘says I must be sharp with your worship. Fast bind, fast find; He that shuffles does not always cut; and that, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush: now I know that A wife’s counsel is bad, but he that will not take it is mad.’—‘So say I,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘proceed, friend Sancho, you speak like an oracle to-day.’—‘Why then the case is this,’ resumed Sancho; ‘your worship very well knows we are all mortal, here to-day, and gone to-morrow; for the lamb goes as fast as the dam; and no man in this world can promise himself more hours of life than God is pleased to grant him; because death is deaf, and when he knocks at the door of life is always in a hurry, and will not be detained either by fair means or force, by sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often heard it declared from the pulpit.’—‘All this is very true,’ said the knight; ‘but I cannot guess what you drive at.’—‘What I drive at,’ answered Sancho, ‘is, that your worship would appoint me a certain monthly salary for the time I shall serve you, to be paid out of your estate; for I do not chuse to depend upon recompences that come late, or low, or never. God will protect me with my own. In short, I would know what I have to trust to, whether little or much; for, The hen clucks though but on one egg; Many littles make a mickle; and, He that is getting aught, is losing nought. True it is, if it should happen, which I neither believe nor expect, that your worship can give me that island you have promised me so long; I am not so greedy or ungrateful, but that I will suffer my rent to be appraised, and my salary deducted in due portion[148]’.—‘To be sure, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘all portions ought to be proportioned.’—‘I understand you,’ replied the squire, ‘I should have said proportion instead of portion; but that is of no signification, since my meaning is comprehended by your worship.’—‘Aye, and so thoroughly comprehended,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that I have penetrated into the inmost recesses of thy thoughts, and perceive the mark at which those innumerable shafts of thy proverbs are aimed. Look you, Sancho, I would appoint thee a salary, if I could find in any history of knights-errant, one precedent, by which I might discover, or have the least glimpse of what they used to give monthly or yearly; but I have carefully perused all, or the greatest part or those histories, and cannot remember to have read, that any knight-errant ever paid a certain salary to his squire. I only know that all of them trusted to favour, and when it was least in their thoughts, provided their masters chanced to be fortunate, they found themselves rewarded with an island or something equivalent, and at least were honoured with rank and title. If with these hopes and expectations, you are willing to return to my service, do it a-God’s name; but if you think I will unhinge and deviate from the ancient customs of chivalry, you are grievously mistaken: wherefore, friend Sancho, you may go home again, and declare my intention to your wife Teresa; and if she is pleased, and you are willing to depend upon my favour, bene quidem; if not, let us shake hands and part: while there are peas in the dove-house, I shall never want pigeons; and remember, my child, that it is better to be rich in hope than poor in possession; and that a good claim is preferable to bad pay. I talk in this manner, Sancho, to show that I can pour forth a volley of proverbs as well as you; and finally, I must and will give you to understand, that if you do not chuse to serve me on those terms, and share my fortune, whatsoever it may be, I pray God may prosper and make a saint of you; for my part, I shall not want squires more obedient and careful, though less troublesome and talkative than your worship.’
When Sancho heard this firm resolution of his master, the sky began to lour, and down flagged the wings of his heart in a moment: for he had believed that the knight would not set out without him for all the wealth in the world. While he thus remained pensive and dejected, in came Sampson Carrasco, followed by the niece, who was very desirous to hear with what arguments he would dissuade her uncle from going again in quest of adventures. Sampson, who was a notable wag, no sooner entered, than embracing the knight, as at first, he pronounced with an audible voice, ‘O flower of knight-errantry, resplendent sun of arms, thou glory and mirrour of the Spanish nation! may it please the Almighty, of his infinite power, that if any person or persons shall raise any impediment to obstruct thy third sally, they may never extricate themselves from the labyrinth of their desires, or accomplish what they so unjustly wish!’ Then turning to the duenna, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper,’ said he, ‘you need not now repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer; for I know it is the precise determination of the stars, that Signior Don Quixote shall again execute his new and lofty plan: and I should greatly burden my confidence if I forbore to intimate, and desire, that this knight will no longer withold and detain the force of his valiant arm, and the virtue of his heroick soul; because, by his delay he retards the righting of wrongs, the protection of orphans, the honour of maidens, the favour of widows, the support of wives, with many other things of that nature, which regard, concern, depend upon, and appertain, to the order of knight-errantry. Courage! Signior Don Quixote, beautiful and brave; may your worship and grandeur set out before to morrow morning; and if any thing be wanting to forward your expedition, here am I, ready to make it good with my person and fortune; and, if need be, to serve your magnificence in quality of squire; an office in the execution of which I should think myself extremely happy.’
Don Quixote hearing this proffer, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘Did not I tell thee, Sancho, that I should not want for squires? Take notice who it is that offers to attend me; who, but the unheard of batchelor Sampson Carrasco; the perpetual darling and delight of the court-yards belonging to the Salamancan schools; sound of body, strong of limb, a silent sufferer of heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and endued with all those qualifications which are requisite in the squire of a knight-errant: but Heaven will not permit me, for my own satisfaction, to break and demolish this pillar of learning, this urn of sciences, and to hew down such an eminent branch of the liberal arts. No, let this new Sampson stay at home, and honour the place of his nativity, together with the grey hairs of his ancient parents; while I make shift with any sort of squire, since Sancho will not vouchsafe to go along with me.’
‘Y—yes, I do vouchsafe!’ cried Sancho, blubbering; ‘it shall never be said of me, dear master, that when the victuals were eaten up, the company sneaked off; I am not come of such an ungrateful stock; for all the world, and especially my own townsmen, know what sort of people the Panzas were, of whom I am descended; besides, I have perceived, and am sensible, by many good works, and more good words, that your worship is actually inclined to do for me; and if I have haggled more than enough about my wages, it was to please my wife, who, if she once takes in hand to persuade me to any thing, no cooper’s adze drives the hoops of a barrel as she drives at her purpose, until she hath gained it; but, after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman: now I being a man every inch of me, when or wheresoever I please to shew myself, (that I cannot deny) I am resolved to be master in my own house, in spite of the devil, the world, and the flesh; and therefore your worship has no more to do but prepare your will, with the codicil, so as that it cannot be rebuked; and then let us take our departure, that we may not endanger the soul of Mr. Sampson, whose conscience, he says, prompts him to persuade your worship to make a third sally through the world; and here I promise again to serve your worship faithfully and lawfully, as well as, and better than, all the squires that ever attended the knights-errant, either in past or present time.’
The batchelor was astonished at hearing the manner and conclusion of Sancho’s speech; for although he had read the first part of his master’s history, he never believed him so diverting as he is there represented; but now, hearing him talk of the will and codicil that could not be rebuked, instead of revoked, he was convinced of the truth of what he had read, and confirmed in the opinion of his being one of the most solemn simpletons of the present age; saying, within himself, two such madmen as the master and his squire are not to be paralleled upon earth. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho were reconciled, and embraced each other; and, in consequence of the opinion and assent of the great Carrasco, whom they looked upon as an oracle, it was determined that they should depart in three days, during which they would have time to provide themselves with necessaries for the journey, and find a compleat helmet for the knight, who insisted upon carrying one along with him into the field. Sampson, accordingly, undertook to accommodate him, saying he could command an helmet that was in possession of a friend of his; though the brightness of the metal was not a little obscured by the rust and mould which it had contracted.
Innumerable were the curses which were vented against the batchelor by the housekeeper and niece, who tore their hair, and scratched their faces; and like the hired mourners, formerly in use, lamented the departure, as if it had been the death of their master. But Sampson’s view in persuading him to another sally, was to execute a design which he had concerted with the curate and barber, as will appear in the sequel. In short, during those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho furnished themselves with every thing they thought they should have occasion for; the squire pacified his wife, the knight appeased his niece and housekeeper; and on the evening of the fourth day, without being perceived by any living soul but the batchelor, who insisted upon accompanying them half a league out of town, they set out, and took the road to Toboso; Don Quixote mounted on his trusty Rozinante, and Sancho throned upon his old friend Dapple, with a pair of bags well lined with belly-timber, and a purse of money, which his master deposited in his hands, in case of accidents in their expedition.
Sampson, embracing the knight, intreated him to write an account of his good or evil fortune, that he might congratulate or sympathize with him, as the laws of friendship require. Don Quixote assured him, he would comply with his request; the batchelor returned to the village, and the other two pursued their way towards the great city of Toboso.
‘Blessed be the Almighty Ala,’ saith Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the beginning of this chapter; and this benediction he repeats three times, in consequence of finding Don Quixote and Sancho in the field again; observing, that the readers of this agreeable history may assure themselves that, from this period, the exploits of the knight and his squire begin. He therefore persuades them to forget the former adventures of our sage hero, and fix their attention upon those which are to come; and which now begin in the road to Toboso, as the others took their origin in the field of Montiel; and truly his demand is but reasonable, considering the fair promise he makes. Thus, therefore, he proceeds.
Scarce had Sampson left Don Quixote and Sancho by themselves, when Rozinante began to neigh, and Dapple to bray most melodiously; a circumstance which was looked upon by both our adventurers as a fortunate signal and most happy omen; though, to deal candidly with the reader, the brayings of the ass exceeded in number the neighings of the horse; from whence Sancho concluded, his fortune would surmount and overtop that of his master. But whether or not he founded his belief on his knowledge in judicial astrology, I cannot determine, the history being silent on that subject; yet certain it is he had been heard to say when he stumbled or fell, that he wished he had not stirred over his own threshold; for nothing was to be got by a stumble or fall but a torn shoe, or broken bone; and truly, simple as he was, he had some reason for making that observation.
‘Friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the night is so far advanced, that we shall not be able to reach Toboso by day-light; yet thither I am determined to go, before I engage in any other adventure, that I may receive the benediction and good leave of the peerless Dulcinea, by the help of which I shall certainly atchieve, and happily perform, the most perilous exploits; for nothing in this life exalts the valour of knights-errant so much as the favour of their mistresses.’—‘I am of the same way of thinking,’ replied the squire; ‘but I believe your worship will find some difficulty in seeing her in a proper place for courtship, or indeed for receiving her blessing, unless she throws it over the pales of the yard through which I saw her for the first time, when I carried the letter that gave an account of the folly and mad pranks I left your worship committing in the heart of the brown mountain.’—‘Didst thou then actually imagine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that those were the pales of a yard, over or through which thou sawest that paragon of gentleness and beauty? Certainly they could be no other than galleries, arcades, or corridores, such as belong to rich and royal palaces.’—‘It may be so,’ answered Sancho, ‘but either my memory fails me very much, or to me they seemed no better than the pales of a farmer’s yard.’—‘Be that as it will,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘thither we will go, and at any rate get sight of her; for be it through pales, windows, crannies, or the rails of a garden, so the least ray of that sun of beauty reach mine eyes, it will enlighten my understanding, and fortify my heart in such a manner, that I shall remain the unequalled phœnix of valour and discretion.’—‘Truly, Sir,’ said the squire, ‘when I saw that same sun of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not so bright as to send forth any rays at all; but the case was, the wheat that her ladyship was winnowing, as I told you before, raised such a cloud of dust about her, as quite darkened her countenance.’—‘Wilt thou still persist, Sancho,’ replied the errant, ‘in saying, thinking, believing, and affirming, that my mistress Dulcinea was employed in such a mean office, so wide of all that is or ought to be practised by persons of rank, who are created and reserved for other exercises and amusements, that denote their quality at the distance of a bow-shot. Thou seemest to forget, O Sancho! those verses of our poet, in which he paints the labours that in their chrystal bowers engrossed the four nymphs, who, raising their heads above the waves of their beloved Tagus, sat down to work in the verdant meadow those rich and silken webs, which, as the ingenious poet describes, were with gold and pearls adorned and interweaved. In this manner my mistress must have been employed when thou sawest her; but some wicked inchanter, envious of my happiness and fame, converts and perverts every thing that yields me pleasure, into shapes and figures different from its real appearance; and in that history of my atchievements which they say is printed, if the author be some sage who is an enemy to my success, I am afraid he hath confounded one thing with another, and clogged every fact with a thousand falsehoods; straying from his subject, to recount actions quite foreign to the skilful detail of a true history! O envy! thou root of infinite mischief, and canker-worm of virtue! The commission of all other vices, Sancho, is attended with some sort of delight; but envy produces nothing in the heart that harbours it but rage, rancour, and disgust.’—‘So say I, master,’ answered Sancho: ‘and I suppose, in this legend or history of us, which Batchelor Carrasco says he has seen, my reputation goes like a jolting hackney-coach, and is tossed about, as the saying is, like a tennis-ball; though in good faith, I never spoke an ill word of any inchanter whatsoever; nor am I rich enough to stir up envy in any living soul: true it is I am a little waggish, and have a small spice of knavery at bottom; but all this is crowned and covered with the broad cloak of my simplicity, which is always natural and never affected; and if there was nothing else but my believing, as I always do firmly and sincerely, in God, as well as in all that is owned and believed by the holy Roman catholick church; and my being a mortal enemy, as I certainly am, to the Jews, the historians ought to have mercy upon me, and use me tenderly in their writings: but let them say what they will, I naked was born, and naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain: though, provided I see myself mentioned in a book, and circulate through the world from hand to hand, I don’t value what they can say of me a fig’s end.’
‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘puts me in mind of what happened to a famous poet of this age, who having composed a severe satire against the court ladies, omitted to insert one in particular, by name, so that it was doubtful whether or not she was implied in any part of the performance. The lady, thus neglected, complained to the poet, asking what he had seen in her character unworthy of being described among the rest, and desiring him to enlarge the satire, that she might be included in the supplement, or look to himself. The author complied with her request, lashing her in terms not fit to be named; and she was perfectly well satisfied with the fame of being infamous. Of a piece with this ambition was that reported of the shepherd, who set fire to the celebrated temple of Diana, reckoned one of the wonders of the world, with no other view than to render his name immortal; and although there was a severe edict, prohibiting all persons whatever from making mention of his name, either by word or writing, that he might not accomplish his aim, it is very well known at this day, that his name was Erostratus. This likewise bears an affinity to that occurrence which passed at Rome, between that great emperor Charles the Fifth, and a certain knight. The emperor went to visit the famous temple of the Rotunda, which was of old called the Pantheon, but is now more happily named the Church of All-Saints, the most entire edifice that remains of heathen Rome, and which most of all evinces the grandeur and magnificence of its founders. It is built in the shape of half an orange, of a vast extent, and very well lighted, though it has but one window, or rather a round lanthorn at its top, from whence the emperor considered the inside of the structure, being attended by a Roman knight, who described the excellence and ingenious contrivance of that vast and memorable work; and, after they had descended, said to him, “Sacred Sir, a thousand times was I seized with an inclination to clasp your majesty in my arms, and throw myself down from the lanthorn, in order to eternize my name.”—“I thank you,” replied the emperor, “for having resisted such a wicked suggestion, and henceforward will never give you an opportunity of repeating such a proof of your loyalty; avoid my presence, and never presume to speak to me again.” But, notwithstanding this severe command, he conferred upon him some extraordinary favour. My meaning, Sancho, is, that the desire of fame is a most active principle in the human breast. What dost thou imagine was the motive that prevailed on Horatius to throw himself from the bridge, armed at all points, into the depth of the river Tyber? what induced Mutius to burn his hand and arm? what impelled Curtius to dart himself into the flaming gulph which opened in the midst of Rome? what prompted Cæsar to pass the Rubicon, in spite of all the unfavourable omens that appeared? and, to give you a more modern instance, what consideration bore the ships, and left on shore, encompassed with enemies, those valiant Spaniards in the new world, under the conduct of the most courteous Cortez? All these, and many other great and various exploits, are, were, and shall be performed, in consequence of that desire of fame, which flatters mortals with a share of that immortality which they deem the merited reward of their renowned atchievements: although we catholick Christian knights-errant ought to pay greater attention to that glory which is to come, and eternally survives within the etherial and celestial mansions, than to the vanity of that same, which is obtained in this present perishable state, and which, considered in its longest duration, must end at length with the world itself, which hath its appointed period. Wherefore, Sancho, our works must not exceed the limits prescribed by the Christian religion which we profess. We must, in slaying giants, extirpate pride; get the better of envy by benevolence and virtue; resist anger with patience and forbearance; conquer gluttony and sloth by temperance and watchfulness; luxury and lewdness by our fidelity to those whom we constitute mistresses of our inclination; and idleness by travelling through all parts of the world in quest of opportunities to evince ourselves not only Christians, but, moreover, renowned knights. Thus, Sancho, thou seest the means of acquiring that superlative praise which produces fame and reputation.’
‘All that your worship hath hitherto said,’ replied the squire, ‘I understand perfectly well; but, for all that, I wish you would dissolve me one doubt, which hath this moment struck me in the noddle.’—‘Thy meaning is resolve, Sancho,’ said the knight: ‘in good time, out with it, and I will give thee satisfaction, as far as my own knowledge extends.’—‘Tell me, then, Signior,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘where now are all those Julys and Augusts, and adventuresome knights who died so long ago?’—‘The Heathens,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘are doubtless in hell; and the Christians, if they were good catholicks, either in purgatory or in heaven.’—‘Right,’ said the squire; ‘let us next enquire, if the tombs that contain the bodies of that sort of gentry are lighted with silver lamps; or the walls of their chapels adorned with crutches, winding sheets, periwigs, legs, and eyes, made of wax; if not, pray in what manner are they adorned?’ To this question Don Quixote answered, that the sepulchres of the heathen heroes were, for the most part, sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Cæsar were placed upon the top of a stone pyramid, of vast dimensions, still to be seen at Rome, under the name of St. Peter’s obelisk; the emperor Adrian’s tomb was a building as large as a good village, formerly called Moles Adriani, but at present the Castle of St. Angelo; and Queen Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a monument, that was accounted one of the seven wonders of the world; but none of these sepulchres, nor any other belonging to the heathens, were adorned with shrouds, offerings, or marks, to denote the sanctity of the persons there buried. ‘So I perceive,’ said Sancho; ‘and now tell me, whether it be more meritorious to slay a giant, or raise up the dead to life again?’—‘The answer is plain,’ replied the knight; ‘it is more meritorious to re-animate the dead.’—‘Then I have caught you fairly,’ cried the squire; ‘he who revives the dead, restores sight to the blind, straightens the crooked, heals the sick; before whose tomb the lamps continually burn, whose chapels are filled with devout people who adore his relicks upon their knees; I say, he shall have more fame in this world, and that which is to come, than all the heathen emperors and knights-errant that ever lived have left or will leave behind them.’—‘I am very sensible of the truth of what you alledge,’ answered the knight. ‘Now this same, this grace, this prerogative, or what you call it,’ resumed the squire, ‘is veiled in the bodies and relicks of the saints; and with the approbation and licence of our holy mother church, they have their lamps, tapers, shrouds, crutches, pictures, periwigs, eyes, and legs, whereby the devotion of the people is increased, and their own Christian fame promulgated; the bodies and relicks of saints are carried upon the shoulders of kings, who kiss the very fragments of their bones, with which they enrich and adorn their most precious altars and oratories.’—‘What wouldst thou have me infer from all this?’ said Don Quixote. ‘My meaning,’ replied Sancho, ‘is, that we should turn saints immediately, and so with the greater dispatch acquire that fame which we are in search of; and pray take notice, Signior, it was but yesterday, or t’other day, as one may say in comparison, that they canonized and beatified two bare-footed friars; and people now think it a great happiness to be allowed to touch and kiss the iron chains with which they girded and tormented their poor bodies; and which are in greater esteem than the sword of Orlando, which, as the report goes, is kept in the armoury of our lord the king, whom God in Heaven bless: wherefore, dear master, it is better to be an humble friar of any order whatever, than the most valiant knight that ever breathed; for, with God, two dozen of disciplines will more avail than as many thousand back-strokes, whether they be bestowed on giants, dragons, or hobgoblins.’—‘All this is very true,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we cannot all be friars; and various are the paths by which God conducts the good to Heaven. Chivalry itself is a religious order, and some that were knights are now saints in glory.’—‘True,’ resumed the squire, ‘but I have often heard it observed, that there are more friars than knights in Heaven.’—‘The reason,’ said the knight, ‘is, because there is a greater number of monks than of the other order.’—‘And yet there are many knights-errant,’ replied the squire. ‘There is, indeed, a good number,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but very few that deserve the name.’
In this, and other such discourse, they passed that night and the following day, without encountering any thing worthy of being mentioned; a circumstance that chagrined our knight not a little. Next day, however, in the twilight, they descried the great city of Toboso; at sight of which Don Quixote’s spirits were exhilarated, and Sancho’s depressed, because he did not know where to find the house of Dulcinea, whom he had never seen, neither had his master ever beheld this peerless princess; so that the one suffered perturbation from the desire of seeing her, and the other because he had not seen her; and, indeed, Sancho could not contrive how to manage the affair, when his master should send him to Toboso. In fine, Don Quixote resolved to enter the city in the dark; and with this view they tarried in a grove of oaks, not far from the gate, till the night was advanced; then entered the town, where they met with things which amount to things indeed.
It was midnight, or thereabout, when Don Quixote and Sancho, leaving their covert, entered the city of Toboso, which was then in profound silence, all its inhabitants being asleep, and lying with outstretched legs, as the saying is. The night was clear, though Sancho wished it otherwise, that in the darkness he might find an excuse for his imposition; and nothing was heard in the whole town but the barking of dogs, which thundered in Don Quixote’s ears, and very much disturbed the heart of Sancho; yet, from time to time, they were saluted by the braying of asses, the grunting of hogs, and the mewing of cats; which different notes being augmented by the stillness of the night, were considered as ill omens by the enamoured knight, who nevertheless said to his squire, ‘Son Sancho, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, whom, perhaps, we shall find awake.’—‘Body of the sun!’ cried Sancho, ‘what palace should I lead to? when I saw her highness she was in a very small cottage.’—‘Then she must have been retired,’ answered the knight, ‘to some small apartment of her castle, to divert herself with her damsels, according to the use and custom of princesses and ladies of rank.’—‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘since your worship, in spite of all that I can say, will have my Lady Dulcinea’s house to be a castle, is this an hour to find the gate open? and will it be decent for us to throw the whole family into confusion and uproar, by making a racket, and demanding entrance, at this time of night? Do you think we are going to a bawdy-house, like your fornicators, who rap and knock, and enter at any hour of the four and twenty?’—‘First of all, let us fairly find the castle,’ replied the knight, ‘and then I will tell thee what is to be done; and take notice, Sancho, for either mine eye-sight fails me, or that great shadowy building before us is the palace of Dulcinea.’—‘Advance, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘perhaps it may be so; and yet, though I should see it with mine eyes, and touch it with my hands, I will believe it as much as I believe it is now twelve o’clock at noon.’
Don Quixote, however, proceeded; and having gone about two hundred paces, came up with the building that produced the shadow, and perceiving it an high steeple, found it was no castle, but in reality the principal church in town. ‘We are arrived at the cathedral, Sancho,’ said he. ‘So I perceive,’ replied the squire, ‘and God grant we be not arrived at our graves! for it is no good sign to be strolling about church-yards at these hours: besides, I have already told your worship, (if my memory serves me right) that my lady’s house stands in a blind alley.’—‘The curse of God light on thee, for a blockhead as thou art!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘where didst thou ever hear of castles and royal palaces, built in blind alleys?’—‘Signior,’ answered Sancho, ‘every country has its own customs; and perhaps it is the custom here, in Toboso, to raise palaces and grand edifices in blind alleys; I therefore humbly beseech your worship to let me search all the streets and alleys I shall meet with; and who knows but in some corner I may light on this same castle, which I wish the dogs had devoured, before it had brought us to such perplexity and confusion?’—‘Talk respectfully, Sancho, of those things that appertain to my mistress,’ said the knight; ‘let us spend our holiday in peace, and not throw the helve after the hatchet.’—‘Well, I will be pacified,’ answered the squire; ‘though how can I endure your worship should expect that I who have seen my lady’s house but once, should know it always, and even find it out in the middle of the night, when you yourself are at a loss, though you must have seen it a thousand times?’—‘You distract me, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote; ‘heark ye, heretick, have not I told you a thousand times, that in all the days of my life, I never saw the peerless Dulcinea, nor ever crossed the threshold of her palace, being only enamoured by hearsay, and the great reputation of her beauty and discretion?’—‘I hear your worship say so now,’ replied Sancho; ‘and tell you in my turn, that if you have not seen her, no more have I.’—‘That is impossible,’ resumed the knight; ‘at least, you told me you had seen her winnowing wheat, when you brought back an answer to the letter with which I sent you to her habitation.’—‘Truly, Signior, you must not depend upon that,’ answered Sancho; ‘for you must know, my seeing her, and bringing back the answer, was also upon hearsay; and I am as incapable of giving any account of the Lady Dulcinea, as I am of pulling the moon by the nose.’ ‘Sancho! Sancho!’ said Don Quixote, ‘there is a time for jesting, and a time when jokes are very unseasonable; though I say I have never seen or spoke with the mistress of my soul, there is no reason for thy making the same declaration, which thou knowest is so contrary to the truth.’
While they thus conversed together, they perceived a person passing that way with a couple of mules; and by the noise of a plough-share, which they dragged along, justly concluded that he was a peasant who had risen before day to go to labour: they were not mistaken; it was actually a labourer, who went along singing the ballad of Ronscevalles[149]; which the knight no sooner heard, than he exclaimed, ‘Let me die, Sancho! if any thing lucky will befal us to-night; don’t you hear what that peasant is singing?’—‘Yes,’ said Sancho; ‘but what has the defeat at Ronscevalles to do with our affair? If he had sung the ballad of Calaynos, it would have been the same thing with regard to our good or evil fortune.’
Don Quixote said to the peasant, who was by this time come-up, ‘Can you tell me, honest friend, and the blessing of God attend you, in what part of this city stands the palace of the peerless princess Donna Dulcinea del Toboso?’—‘Signor,’ answered the young man, ‘I am a stranger, and have been but a few days in town, in the service of a rich farmer, whose lands I till; but in that house that fronts you live the curate and sexton of the parish, and either or both can give your worship an account of that same princess, for they keep a register of all the inhabitants of Toboso, though I believe, there is no such thing as a princess in the whole place: there are, indeed, many ladies of fashion, and every one may be a princess in her own house.’—‘She whom I ask for must be one of these,’ said the knight. ‘It may be so,’ answered the peasant; ‘but I shall be overtaken by the morning.’ So saying, he drove on his mules, without waiting for any more questions.
Sancho, seeing his matter in suspence, and over and above dissatisfied, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘day begins to break, and it will not be altogether convenient to let the sun find us here in the street: we had better quit the city, and look out for some wood in the neighbourhood, where your worship may enjoy the cool shade; and I will return by day, and search every hole and cranny in Toboso for this house, castle, or palace of my lady, and it will be very unfortunate, indeed, if I cannot find it; and if I have the good luck, to meet with her ladyship, I will tell her where and how I have left your worship, in expectation of her contriving some means whereby you may visit her, without any prejudice to her honour and reputation.’—‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast uttered a thousand sentences within the compass of a few words: the counsel thou hast given me I relish, and most willingly receive. Come, my son, let us go in quest of some thicket, where I may embower myself, while thou shalt return to seek, see, and talk with my mistress, from whose courtesy and discretion I hope to receive more than miraculous favours.’
Sancho burned with impatience to see his master fairly out of town, that he might not detect the falshood of the answer which he pretended to bring from Dulcinea, while he remained in the Brown Mountain: he therefore pressed him to depart, and about two miles from the city they found a thicket or wood, where Don Quixote took up his residence, while Sancho went back to commune with Dulcinea; and, in the course of his embassy, met with adventures that demand new credit and fresh attention.
The author of this stupendous history, when he comes to relate what is contained in this chapter, says, he would have willingly passed it over in silence, because he was afraid that it would not be believed; for here the madness of Don Quixote soars to the highest pitch of extravagance that can be imagined, and even by two bow shots, at least, exceeds all credit and conception: yet, notwithstanding this jealousy and apprehension, he has recounted it in the same manner as it happened, without adding to the history, or detracting one tittle from the truth, undervaluing the risk he runs of being deemed apocryphal: and surely he was in the right; for truth may bend, but will never break, and always surmounts falshood, as oil floats above water. Wherefore he proceeds in the narrative, saying—
Don Quixote having taken his station in the forest, grove, or wood, near to the great city of Toboso, ordered Sancho to go back to town, and not return to his presence before he should have spoken to his mistress, and begged, in his name, that she would be pleased to grant an interview to her captive knight, and deign to bestow upon him her blessing, through which he might expect the most happy issue to all his attempts and enterprizes.
The squire, having undertaken to execute this command, and to bring back as favourable an answer as he had brought the first time; ‘Go, my son,’ said the knight, ‘and be not confounded when you find yourself beamed upon by that resplendent sun of beauty, which is the object of your enquiry: happy thou, above all the squires that ever lived! Be sure to retain in thy memory every circumstance of thy reception; observe if she changes colour, while thou art delivering my message; if she is discomposed, and under confusion at the mention of my name; whether she sinks upon her cushion, or happens at the time to be seated under the rich canopy of her authority; if she be standing, take notice whether or not she sometimes supports herself on one foot, sometimes on the other; and if she repeats her answer more than once, changing it from kind to harsh, from sour to amorous; and if she lifts up her hand to adjust her hair, although it be not disorderd; finally, son, mark all her gestures and emotions; and if thou bringest me an exact detail of them, I shall be able to divine her most abstruse sentiments, touching the concerns of my passion: for know, Sancho, if thou art still to learn, among lovers, the least gesticulation in their external behaviour, while the conversation turns upon their amours, is, as it were, a messenger that brings a most certain account of what passes within the soul. Go, friend, and enjoy thy fate, so much more favourable than thy master’s; and return with much more success than that which I dread and expect in this cruel solitude, where I now remain.’—‘I go,’ replied Sancho, ‘and will return in a twinkling; therefore, good your worship, do encourage that little heart of yours, which, at present, must be no bigger than a hazle-nut; and consider, as the saying is, A stout heart flings misfortune; Where you meet with no hooks, you need expect no bacon; and again, The hare often starts, where the hunter leasts expects her. This I observe, because, though we did not find the palace and castle of my lady in the night; now that it is day, I hope to stumble upon it, when I least expect to see it; and if so be I once catch it, let me alone with her.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘God grant me better fortune in my desires than you have in the application of the proverbs you utter.’
This was no sooner said, than Sancho switching Dapple, quitted the knight, who remained on horseback, resting his legs upon his stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, his imagination being engrossed by the most melancholy suggestions. Here let us leave him, and proceed with Sancho Panza; who, parting from his master, in equal perplexity and confusion, no sooner found himself clear of the wood, than looking back, and perceiving that Don Quixote was not in sight, he alighted from his ass, and sitting down at the root of a tree, began to catechise himself in these words: ‘Brother Sancho, be so good as to let us know, where your worship is going? Are you in search of some stray beast?—No, truly!—What then is your errand?—Why, really, I am going in search of a thing of nought, a princess, God wot! and in her, the sun and the whole heaven of beauty. And, pray, where may you expect to meet with this that you mention, Sancho?—Where, but in the great city of Toboso.—Well, and by whose order are you going upon this enquiry?—By order of the renowned knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, the righter of wrongs, who gives thirst to the hungry, and food to those that are dry.—All this is mighty well; but do you know the house, Sancho?—My master says, it must be some royal palace, or stately castle.—But have you never once seen this same princess?—Neither I nor he ever set eyes on her.—And do you think it will be well bestowed, if the inhabitants of Toboso, getting notice that you are come with an intention to wheedle away their princesses, and disturb their dames, should break every bone of your skin, and grind your ribs to a paste, with pure cudgelling?—Verily they would not be much to blame, unless they considered, that I do nothing but execute my master’s command, and being only a messenger, am not in fault.—Never trust to that, Sancho; for the Manchegans are as cholerick as honourable, and will not suffer themselves to be tickled by any person whatever. Ecod! if you are once smoked, you will come but scurvily off.—Bodikins! since that be the case, why should I plague myself, seeking a cat with three legs, for another man’s pleasure?—Besides, you may as well seek for a magpye in Rabena, or a batchelor in Salamanca, as for Dulcinea in Toboso.—The devil, and none but the devil, has sent me on this fool’s errand!’
The result of this soliloquy was another, that broke out in these words: ‘There is a remedy for every thing but death, under whose yoke we must all pass, will we nill we, when this life is at an end. This master of mine, as I have perceived by a thousand instances, is mad enough to be shackled among straw; and truly I am not much behind him in folly; nay, indeed, I am more mad than he, seeing I serve and follow him, if there be any truth in the proverb that says, Tell me your company, and I will tell you your manners: and the other, Not he with whom you was bred, but he by whom you are fed. Now he being, as he certainly is, a madman; aye, and so mad as for the most part to mistake one thing for another, affirming white to be black, and black to be white; as plainly appeared when he took the windmills for giants, the mules of the friars for dromedaries, the flocks of sheep for opposite armies; and a great many other things in the same stile: I say, it will be no difficult matter to make him believe the first country-wench I shall meet with to be his mistress Dulcinea; and if he boggles at swallowing the cheat, I will swear lustily to the truth of what I affirm; and if he swears also, I will swear again; and if he is positive, I will be more positive; so that come what will, my obstinacy shall always exceed his. Perhaps, by this stubborn behaviour, I shall get rid of all such troublesome messages for the future; when he finds what disagreeable answers I bring; or perhaps, which I rather believe, he will think that one of those inchanters, who, he says, bear him a grudge, hath transmographied her shape, in order to vex and disquiet him.’
Sancho having found out this expedient, was quite calm and satisfied in his mind, and thinking he had brought the business to a good bearing, remained where he was till the evening, that Don Quixote might think he had sufficient time to execute his orders, and return. Everything succeeded so well to his wish, that when he got up to mount Dapple, he descried three country wenches riding from Toboso, towards the place where he stood, upon three young he or she asses, for the author does not declare their sex; though in all likelihood they were of the female gender, as your village maidens commonly ride upon she-asses; but this being a circumstance of small importance, we shall not give ourselves any trouble to ascertain it.
In short, Sancho no sooner perceived the wenches, than he rode back at a round trot to his master, whom he found sighing bitterly, and pouring forth a thousand amorous complaints; the knight seeing him arrive, ‘Well, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘is this day to be marked with a white or black stone?’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘had better mark it with red ochre, like the titles on a professor’s chair, that it may be seen the better by those who look at it.’—‘At that rate,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘thou bringest me good news.’—‘So good,’ answered Sancho, ‘that your worship has nothing to do but to mount Rozinante, and gallop into the plain, where you will see my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso and two of her damsels coming this way to pay you a visit.’—‘Gracious God!’ cried the knight, ‘what is that you say, friend Sancho? Take care how you deceive me! endeavouring, by feigned joy, to enliven my real sadness.’—‘What should I get by deceiving your worship?’ said the squire. ‘Besides, you can easily be satisfied of the truth of what I say. Make haste, Signior, come and see our mistress the princess, arrayed and adorned; in short, as she ought to be; her damsels and she are all one flame of gold; all covered with pearls, diamonds, rubies, and brocade, more than ten hands deep; their hair flowing loose about their shoulders, like so many sun-beams waving with the wind; and moreover they are mounted on three pied belfreys, that it would do one’s heart good to see them.’—‘Palfreys, you mean, Sancho,’ said the knight. ‘There is no great difference,’ answered the squire, ‘between palfreys and belfreys; but, be that as it will, they are the finest creatures one would desire to see, especially my Lady Dulcinea, who is enough to stupify the five senses.’—‘Come, then, my son,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and as a gratuity for bringing this piece of news, equally welcome and unexpected, I bestow upon thee the spoils of the first adventure I shall atchieve; and if thou art not satisfied with that recompence, I will give unto thee the foals that shall this year be brought forth by my three mares, which thou knowest we left with young upon our town common.’—‘I stick to the foals,’ cried the squire, ‘for as to the spoils of our first adventure, I question whether or not they will be worth accepting.’
By this time, they were clear of the wood, and in sight of the three country-maidens; when the knight lifting up his eyes, and surveying the whole road to Toboso, without seeing any thing but them, began to be troubled in mind, and asked Sancho if the ladies had got out of town when he left them. ‘Out of town?’ said Sancho. ‘What! are your worship’s eyes in the nape of your neck, that you don’t see them coming towards us, glittering and shining like the sun at noon?’—‘I see nobody,’ replied the knight, ‘but three country-wenches riding upon asses.’—‘God deliver me from the devil!’ cried the squire, ‘is it possible that three belfreys, or how-d’ye-call-ums, white as the driven snow, should appear no better than asses in your worship’s eyes? By the Lord! I’ll give you leave to pluck off every hair of my beard if that be the case.’—‘Then I tell thee, Sancho,’ said his master, ‘they are as certainly he or she-asses as I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza; at least, so they seem to me.’—‘Hold your tongue, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘and never talk in that manner, but snuff your eyes, and go and make your reverence to the mistress of your heart, who is just at hand.’
So saying, he advanced towards the damsels, and alighting from Dapple, seized one of their beasts by the halter; then fell upon his knees before the rider, to whom he addressed himself in this manner: ‘Queen, princess, and duchess of beauty, will your highness and greatness be pleased to receive into grace and favour your captive knight, who sits there stupified to stone, utterly confounded and deprived of pulse, at seeing himself in presence of your magnificence; I am Sancho Panza his squire, and he is the perplexed and down trodden knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, alias the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’