Finding it therefore impossible to move, he was fain to have recourse to his usual remedy, which was to amuse his imagination with some passages of the books he had read; and his madness immediately recalled to his memory that of Valdovinos and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the mountain; a piece of history that every body knows, that every young man is acquainted with, and which is celebrated, nay more, believed, by old age itself, though it be as apocryphal as the miracles of Mahomet: nevertheless, it occurred to him as an occasion expressly adapted to his present situation. Therefore, with marks of extreme affliction, he began to roll about upon the ground, and with a languid voice, exclaim, in the words of the wounded knight of the wood—
In this manner he went on repeating the romance until he came to these lines:
Before he could repeat the whole couplet, a peasant who was a neighbour of his own, and lived in the same village, chanced to pass, in his way from the mill where he had been with a load of wheat. This honest countryman seeing a man lying stretched upon the ground, came up, and asked him who he was, and the reason of his lamenting so piteously. Don Quixote doubtless believed that this was his uncle the Marquis of Mantua, and made no other reply but the continuation of his romance, in which he gave an account of his own misfortune, occasioned by the amour betwixt his wife and the emperor’s son, exactly as it is related in the book. The peasant, astonished at such a rhapsody, took off his beaver, which had been beaten to pieces by the mule-driver, and wiping his face, which was covered with dust, immediately knew the unfortunate knight. ‘Signior Quixada,’ said he, (for so he was called before he had lost his senses, and was transformed from a sober country gentleman into a knight-errant) ‘who has left your worship in such a woeful condition?’ But he, without minding the question that was put to him, proceeded, as before, with his romance; which the honest man perceiving, went to work, and took off his back and breast-plates, to see if he had received any wound, but he could perceive neither blood nor scar upon his body. He then raised him upon his legs, and with infinite difficulty mounted him upon his own beast, which appeared to him a safer carriage than the knight’s steed.
Having gathered up his armour, even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them upon Rozinante, and taking hold of the reins, together with the halter of his own ass, jogged on towards the village, not a little concerned to hear the mad exclamations of Don Quixote, who did not find himself extremely easy; for he was so battered and bruised, that he could not sit upright upon the beast, but from time to time vented such dismal groans, as obliged the peasant to ask again what was the matter with him. Indeed, one would have thought, that the devil had assisted his memory in supplying him with tales accommodated to the circumstances of his own situation; for at that instant, forgetting Valdovinos, he recollected the story of Abindar-raez the Moor, whom Rodrigo de Narvaez, governor of Antequera, took prisoner, and carried into captivity to the place of his residence; so that when the countryman repeated his desire of knowing where he had been, and what was the matter with him, he answered to the purpose, nay, indeed, in the very words, used by the captive Abencerraje to the said Rodrigo de Narvaez, as may be seen in the Diana of George Monte-major, which he had read, and so well-adapted for his purpose, that the countryman hearing such a composition of folly, wished them both at the devil.
It was then he discovered that his neighbour was mad; and therefore made all the haste he could to the village, that he might be the sooner rid of his uneasiness at the unaccountable harangue of Don Quixote; who had no sooner finished this exclamation, than he accosted his conductor in these words—‘Know, then, valiant Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this same beautiful Xarifa, whom I have mentioned, is no other than the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have performed, undertake, and will atchieve, the most renowned exploits, that ever were, are, or will be seen on earth.’ To this address the countryman replied with great simplicity—‘How your worship talks! As I am a sinner, I am neither Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonzo, your neighbour; nor is your worship either Valdovinos, or Abindar-raez, but the worthy gentleman Signior Quixada.’—‘I know very well who I am,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and that it is possible for me to be not only those whom I have mentioned, but also the whole Twelve Peers of France, and even the Nine Worthies, seeing that my atchievements will excel not only those of each of them singly, but even the exploits of them all joined together.’
Discoursing in this manner, they arrived at the village about twilight; but the peasant staid till it was quite dark, that the poor rib-roasted knight might not be seen in such a woeful condition. Then he conducted Don Quixote to his own house, which was all in confusion. When he arrived, the curate and the barber of the village, two of his best friends and companions, were present, and his housekeeper was just saying with a woeful countenance, ‘Mr. Licentiate Pero Perez,’ that was the curate’s name, ‘some misfortune must certainly have happened to my master; for six days, both he and his horse, together with the target, lance, and armour, have been missing[38]: as I am a sinner, it is just come into my head, and it is certainly as true as that every one is born to die, those hellish books of knight-errantry, which he used to read with so much pleasure, have turned his brain; for now I remember to have heard him say to himself more than once, that he longed to be a knight-errant, and stroll about in quest of adventures. May the devil and Barrabas lay hold of such legends, which have perverted one of the soundest understandings in all La Mancha!’
To this remark the niece assented, saying—‘Moreover, you must know, Mr. Nicolas,’ this was the name of the barber, ‘my uncle would frequently, after having been reading in these profane books of misadventures, for two whole days and nights together, start up, throw the book upon the ground, and drawing his sword, fence with the walls till he was quite fatigued, then affirm that he had killed four giants as big as steeples, and swear that the sweat of his brows, occasioned by this violent exercise, was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; then he would drink of a large pitcher of cold water, and remain quiet and refreshed, saying, that the water was a most precious beverage, with which he was supplied by the sage Isquife, a mighty inchanter and friend of his; but I take the whole blame to myself, for not having informed your worship of my dear uncle’s extravagancies, that some remedy might have been applied before they had proceeded to such excess; and that you might have burnt all those excommunicated books, which deserve the fire as much as if they were crammed with heresy.’
‘I am of the same opinion,’ said the curate; ‘and assure you, before another day shall pass, they shall undergo a severe trial, and be condemned to the flames, that they may not induce other readers to follow the same path which I am afraid my good friend has taken.’ Every syllable of this conversation was overheard by Don Quixote and his guide, which last had now no longer any doubt about his neighbour’s infirmity, and therefore pronounced with a loud voice—‘Open your gates to the valiant Valdovinos, and the great Marquis of Mantua, who comes home wounded from the field together with the Moor Abindar-raez, who drags in captivity the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, governor of Antequera.’
Alarmed at these words, they came all to the door, and perceiving who it was, the barber and curate went to receive their friend, and the women ran to embrace their master and kinsman; who, though he had not as yet alighted, for indeed it was not in his power, proclaimed aloud—‘Let the whole world take notice, that the wounds I have received were owing to the fault of my horse alone; carry me therefore to bed, and send if possible for the sage Urganda[39], to search and cure them.’—‘See now, in an evil hour,’ cried the housekeeper, hearing these words, ‘if I did not truly foretel of what leg my master was lame!—Your worship shall understand, in good time, that without the assistance of that same Urganda, we know how to cure the hurts you have received; and cursed, I say, nay a hundred and a hundred times cursed, be those books of chivalry, which have so disordered your honour’s brain!’ Having carried him to his bed, they began to search for his wounds, but could find none; and he told them that his whole body was one continued bruise, occasioned by the fall of his horse Rozinante, during his engagement with ten of the most insolent and outrageous giants that ever appeared upon the face of the earth. ‘Ah, ha!’ cried the curate, ‘have we got giants too in the dance! Now, by the faith of my function, I will reduce them all to ashes before to-morrow night!’
A thousand questions did they ask of the knight, who made no other answer, but desired them to bring him some food, and leave him to his repose, which indeed was what he had most occasion for. They complied with his request, and the curate informed himself at large of the manner in which he had been found by the countryman, who gave him full satisfaction in that particular, and repeated all the nonsense he had uttered when he first found him, as well as what he afterwards spoke in their way home. This information confirmed the licentiate in his resolution, which was executed next day, when he brought his friend master Nicolas the barber along with him to Don Quixote’s house.
While the knight was asleep, his friends came and demanded of his niece the key of the closet in which those books, the authors of his misfortune, were kept; and she delivering it with great chearfulness, they went into it in a body, housekeeper and all, and found upwards of a hundred volumes, great and small, extremely well bound; which were no sooner perceived by the governante, than she ran out with great eagerness, and immediately returned with a porringer of holy water, and a sprig of hyssop, saying—‘Here, Master Licentiate, pray take and sprinkle the closet, lest some one of the many inchanters contained in these books should exercise his art upon us, as a punishment for our burning and banishing them from the face of the earth.’
The licentiate, smiling at the old housekeeper’s simplicity, desired the barber to hand him the books one by one, that he might see of what subjects they treated, because they might possibly find some that did not deserve to be purged by fire. ‘There is not one of them,’ replied the niece, ‘which deserves the least mercy, for they are all full of mischief and deceit. You had better, therefore, throw them out of the window into the court-yard, and there set fire to them in a heap: or let them be carried into the back-yard, where the bonfire may be made, and the smoke will offend nobody.’ The housekeeper assented to this proposal, so eager were they both to destroy those innocents; but the curate would by no means encourage such barbarity, without reading first, if possible, the title-pages.
The first that Master Nicolas delivered into his hand, were the four volumes of Amadis de Gaul. ‘There is,’ said the good man, ‘something mysterious in this circumstance; for, as I have heard, that was the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, from which all the rest have derived their origin and plan; and therefore, in my opinion, we ought to condemn him to the fire, without hesitation, as the law-giver of such a pernicious sect.’—‘By no means,’ cried the barber; ‘for I have also heard, that this is the best book of the kind that was ever composed; and therefore ought to be pardoned, as an original and model in its way.’—‘Right,’ said the curate; ‘and for that reason he shall be spared for the present. Let us see that author who stands next to him.’—‘This,’ says the barber, ‘contains the atchievements of Esplandian, the lawful son of Amadis de Gaul.’—‘Truly, then,’ said the curate, ‘the virtues of the father shall not avail the son. Here, Mrs Housekeeper, open that window, and toss him into the yard, where he shall serve as a foundation for the bonfire we intend to make.’
This talk the housekeeper performed with infinite satisfaction; and the worthy Esplandian took his flight into the yard, to wait in patience for the fire with which he was threatened. ‘Proceed,’ cried the curate. ‘This that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is Amadis of Greece; and I believe all the authors on this shelf are of the same family.’—‘To the yard, then, with all of them,’ replied the curate; ‘for rather than not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, together with the unintelligible and bedevilled discourses of his author; I would even consume the father who begat me, should he appear in the figure of a knight-errant.’—‘I am of your opinion,’ said the barber. ‘And I,’ cried the niece. ‘Since that is the case,’ said the housekeeper, ‘to the yard with them immediately.’ Accordingly, they delivered a number into her hands; and she, out of tenderness for the stair-case, sent them all out of the window.
‘Who may that tun-like author be?’ said the curate. ‘This here,’ answered the barber, ‘is Don Olivante de Laura.’—‘The very same,’ replied the curate, ‘who composed the Garden of Flowers; and truly it is hard to determine, which of his two books is the most true, or rather which of them is least false: all that I know is, that he shall go to the pile for his arrogance and folly.’—‘He that follows,’ says the barber, ‘is Florismarte of Hircania.’—‘What, Signior Florismarte?’ replied the curate: ‘in faith, then he must prepare for his fate; notwithstanding his surprizing birth, and mighty adventures, and the unparalleled stiffness and sterility of his stile.—Down with him, Mistress Housekeeper! and take this other along with you also.’—‘With all my heart, dear Sir!’ replied the governante; who executed his commands with vast alacrity.
‘He that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is the knight Platir.’—‘That is an old book,’ said the clergyman; ‘but as I can find nothing in him that deserves the least regard, he must e’en keep the rest company.’ He was accordingly doomed to the flames, without farther question. The next book they opened was intituled, The Knight of the Cross; which the curate having read, ‘The ignorance of this author,’ said he, ‘might be pardoned, on account of his holy title; but according to the proverb, “The devil skulks behind the cross;” and therefore let him descend into the fire.’ Master Nicolas taking up another book, found it was the Mirror of Chivalry. ‘Oh, ho!’ cried the curate, ‘I have the honour to know his worship. Away with Signior Rinaldo de Mont-alban, with his friends and companions, who were greater thieves than Cacus; not forgetting the Twelve Peers, together with Turpin, their candid historian. Though, truly, in my opinion, their punishment ought not to exceed perpetual banishment, because they contain some part of the invention of the renowned Matteo Boyardo, on which was weaved the ingenious web of the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto; to whom, should I find him here speaking in any other language than his own, I would pay no regard; but, if he talks in his own idiom, I will place him on my head, in token of respect.’—‘I have got him at home,’ said the barber, ‘in Italian, but I don’t understand that language.’—‘Nor is it necessary you should,’ replied the curate: ‘and here let us pray Heaven to forgive the captain, who has impoverished him so much, by translating him into Spanish, and making him a Castilian. And, indeed, the same thing will happen to all those who pretend to translate books of poetry into a foreign language; for, in spite of all their care and ability, they will find it impossible to give the translation the same energy which is found in the original. In short, I sentence this book, and all those which we shall find treating of French matters, to be thrown and deposited in a dry well, until we can determine at more leisure what fate they must undergo, except Bernardo del Carpio, and another called Roncesvalles, which if they fall into my hands, shall pass into those of the housekeeper, and thence into the fire, without any mitigation.’
This was approved of as an equitable decision, and accordingly confirmed by the barber, who knew the curate to be such a good Christian, and so much a friend to truth, that he would not be guilty of an equivocation for the whole universe. The next volume he opened was Palmerin D’Oliva; and hard by him stood another, called Palmerin of England; which was no sooner perceived by the licentiate, than he cried, ‘Let that Oliva be hewn in pieces, and burned; so as not so much as a cinder of him shall remain; but let the English Palmerin be defended, and preferred as an inestimable jewel, and such another casket be made for him as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius, and destined as a case for the works of Homer. That book, neighbour, is venerable for two reasons, first, because it is in itself excellent; and, secondly, because it is said to have been composed by an ingenious king of Portugal. All the adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are incomparable, and contrived with infinite art; the language perspicuous and elegant, and the characters supported with great propriety of sentiment and decorum. I propose, Mr. Nicolas, saving your better judgment, to exempt this book and Amadis de Gaul from the flames, and let all the rest perish without farther enquiry.’
‘Pardon me, neighbour,’ replied the barber, ‘I have here got in my hand the renowned Don Bellianis.’—‘Even he,’ answered the priest, ‘with the second, third, and fourth parts, stands very much in need of a little rhubarb to purge his excessive choler, and ought to be pruned of that whole Castle of Fame, and other more important impertinences. For which reason, let the sentence be changed into transportation; and, according as he reforms he shall be treated with lenity and justice. In the mean time, friend Nicolas, keep him safe in your house, out of the reach of every reader.’—‘With all my soul!’ answered the barber; and without giving themselves the trouble of reading any more titles, they ordered the housekeeper to dismiss all the large books into the yard.
This direction was not given to a person who was either doating or deaf, but to one who was much more inclined to perform that office than to compose the largest and finest web that ever was seen. Taking up, therefore, seven or eight at a time, she heaved them out of the window, with incredible dispatch. While she was thus endeavouring to lift a good many together, one of them chanced to fall at the feet of the barber, who being seized with an inclination of knowing the contents, found upon examination, that it was called the History of the famous Knight Tirante the White. ‘Heaven be praised!’ cried the curate, aloud, ‘that we have discovered Tirante the White in this place: pray give it me, neighbour; for in this book I reckon I have found a treasure of satisfaction, and a rich mine of amusement. Here is the famous Godamercy[40], of Mont-alban, and his brother Thomas of Mont-alban, and the knight Fonseca, as also an account of the battle fought between Alano and the valiant Detriante, together with the Witticisms of the Young Lady, Joy of my Life, with the amorous stratagems of the Widow Quiet, and her highness the Empress who was enamoured of her Squire Hippolito. I do assure you, upon my word, Mr. Nicolas, that, in point of stile, this is the best book that ever was written. Here the knights eat, sleep, and die, in their beds, after having made their wills, with many circumstances that are wanting in other books of the same kind. Notwithstanding, the author who composed it certainly deserved to be sent to the gallies for life, for having spent his time in writing so much nonsense. Take and read him at home, and you shall find what I say to be true.’—‘Very like,’ replied the barber: ‘what shall we do with these small books that remain?’
‘These,’ said the curate, ‘cannot be books of chivalry, but must be poems.’ Accordingly, opening one, he found it was the Diana of George de Monte-major, and taking it for granted that all the rest were of the same kind, said, ‘These books do not deserve to be burnt with the rest; for they neither are nor ever will be guilty of so much mischief, as those of chivalry have done; being books of entertainment, and no ways prejudicial to religion.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the niece, ‘be so good as to order these to be burnt with the rest; for my uncle will no sooner be cured of his knight-errantry, than by reading these, he will turn shepherd, and wander about the groves and meadows, piping and singing. Nay, what is worse, perhaps turn poet, which they say is an infectious and incurable distemper.’—‘The young woman is in the right,’ said the curate; ‘and therefore it won’t be amiss to remove this temptation and stumbling block out of our friend’s way. Since we have therefore begun with the Diana of Monte-major, I am of opinion that we should not burn him, but only expunge what relates to the sage Felicia, and the inchanted water, together with all the larger poems, and leave to him, a God’s name, all the prose, and the honour of being the ring-leader of the writers of that class.’
‘This that follows,’ said the barber, ‘is called Diana the Second of Salmantino, and this other that bears the same name, is written by Gil Polo.’—‘Let Salmantino,’ replied the curate, ‘increase the number of those that are already condemned to the yard; but let Gil Polo be preserved as carefully as if it was the production of Apollo himself. Proceed, friend Nicolas, and let us dispatch, for it grows late.’—‘This here book,’ said the barber, opening the next, ‘is called the ten books of the Fortune of Love, the production of Antonio Lofrasco, a Sardinian poet.’—‘By my holy orders,’ cried the curate, ‘since Phœbus was Apollo, the Muses the daughters of Jove, and bards delighted in poetry, there never was such a pleasant and comical performance composed as this, which is the best and most original of the kind which ever saw the light; and he who has not read it may assure himself, that he has never read any thing of taste: reach it me, neighbour; it gives me more pleasure to have found this, than if I had received a cassock of Florence silk.’
Accordingly, he laid it carefully by with infinite pleasure, and the barber proceeded in his talk, saying; ‘Those that come next are the Shepherd of Iberia, the Nymphs of Henares, and the Undeceptions of Jealousy.’—‘Then there is no more to do,’ said the priest, ‘but to deliver them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper; and do not ask me why, else we shall never have done.’—‘Here comes the Shepherd of Filida.’—‘He is no shepherd,’ cried the curate, ‘but a very elegant courtier, and therefore preserve him as a precious jewel.’ Then the barber laid hold of a very large volume, which was entitled, The Treasure of Poetry. ‘If there was not so much of him, he would be more esteemed,’ said the licentiate, ‘that book ought to be weeded and cleared of certain meannesses, which have crept into the midst of its excellencies: take care of it, for the author is my friend, and deserves regard for some other more heroick and elevated works, which he has composed.’—‘And this,’ continued the barber, ‘is a Collection of Songs, by Lopez Maldonado.’—‘That author is my very good friend also,’ replied the curate; ‘and his own verses out of his own mouth are the admiration of every body; for he chants them with so sweet a voice, that the hearers are inchanted. His eclogues are indeed a little diffuse, but there cannot be too much of a good thing. Let them be preserved among the elect: but, pray what book is that next to it?’ When the barber told him it was the Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes; ‘That same Cervantes,’ said he, ‘has been an intimate friend of mine these many years, and is to my certain knowledge more conversant with misfortunes than poetry. There is a good vein of invention in his book, which proposes something, though it concludes nothing. We must wait for the second part, which he promises, and then perhaps his amendment may deserve a full pardon, which is now denied: until that happens, let him be close confined in your closet.’
‘With all my heart,’ replied the barber; ‘but here come three more together, the Araucana of Don Alonzo de Ercilla, the Austriada of Juan Ruso Jurado de Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christoval de Virues, a Valentian poet.’—‘These three books,’ said the curate, ‘are the best epic poems in the Castilian language, and may be compared with the most renowned performances of Italy. Let them be kept as the inestimable pledges of Spanish poetry.’ The curate grew tired of examining more books, and would have condemned all the rest, contents unknown, if the barber had not already opened another, which was called the Tears of Angelica. ‘I should have shed tears for my rashness,’ said the curate, hearing the name, ‘if I had ordered that book to be burned: for its author was one of the most celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of the whole world; and, in particular, extremely successful in translating some of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.’
While they were busied in this manner, Don Quixote began to cry aloud, ‘This way, this way, ye valiant knights! now is the time to shew the strength of your invincible arms, that the courtiers may not carry off the honour of the tournament.’ The scrutiny of the books that remained was deserted by the curate and barber, who hastened to the author of this noisy exclamation, and it is believed that all were committed to the flames, unseen, unheard, not even excepting the Carolea, and Lyon of Spain, together with the exploits of the emperor, composed by Don Louis D’Avila; which were, doubtless, among those committed to the fire; though, perhaps, had the curate seen them, they would not have undergone so severe a sentence.
When they arrived in Don Quixote’s chamber, they found him on the floor, proceeding with his rhapsody, and fencing with the walls, as broad awake as if he had never felt the influence of sleep. Laying hold on him, by force they re-conveyed him to his bed; where, after having rested a little, he returned to his ravings, and addressed himself to the curate in these words: ‘Certainly, my Lord Archbishop Turpin, we, who are called the Twelve Peers of France, will be greatly disgraced, if we allow the court-knights to win the victory in this tournament, after we, the adventurers, have gained the prize in the three preceding days.’—‘Give yourself no trouble about that consideration, my worthy friend,’ said the curate; ‘for Providence may turn the scale, and what is lost to-day may be retrieved to-morrow. In the mean time, have a reverend care of your health, for you seem to be excessively fatigued, if not wounded grievously.’—‘I am not wounded,’ replied the knight: ‘but that I am battered and bruised, there is no manner of doubt; for the bastard Don Orlando has mauled me to mummy with the trunk of an oak, and all out of mere envy, because he saw that I alone withstood his valour. But may I no longer deserve the name of Reynaldos de Montalban, if, when I rise from this bed, I do not repay him in his own coin, in spite of all his inchantments! Meanwhile, bring me some food, which is what I chiefly want at present, and let me alone to take vengeance for the injury I have received.’
In compliance with his desire they brought him something to eat, and left him again to his repose, not without admiration of his madness and extravagance. That very night the housekeeper set fire to, and consumed, not only all the books that were in the yard, but also every one she could find in the house; and no doubt many were burned, which deserved to have been kept as perpetual archives. But this their destiny, and the laziness of the inquisitors, would not allow; so that in them was fulfilled the old proverb, a saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner. Another remedy which the curate and barber prescribed for the distemper of their friend, was to alter and block up the closet where his books had been kept; that upon his getting up, he should not find them, and the cause being taken away, the effect might cease; and that, upon his inquiry, they should tell him an inchanter had carried them off, closet and all; this resolution was executed with all imaginable dispatch, during the two days that Don Quixote kept his bed.
The first thing he did when he got up, was to go and visit his books, and not finding the apartment where he had left it, he went from one corner of the house to the other in quest of his study. Coming to the place where the door stood, he endeavoured but in vain to get in, and cast his eyes all around without uttering one syllable; but after he had spent some time in this sort of examination, he inquired of his housekeeper whereabouts he might find his book-closet. She being well instructed, readily answered, ‘What closet, or what nothing is your worship in search of? There are neither books nor closet in this house; for the devil himself has run away with both.’—‘It was not the devil,’ cried the niece, ‘but an inchanter that conveyed himself hither in a cloud, one night after your worship’s departure, and alighting from a dragon on which he was mounted, entered the closet, where I know not what he did, but having staid a very little while, he came flying through the roof, leaving the whole house full of smoke. And when we went to see what he had done, we could neither find books nor closet; only the housekeeper and I can very well remember, that when the old wicked conjuror went away, he cried in a loud voice, that for the hatred he bore to the master of those books and closet, he had done that mischief, which would afterwards appear: he said also, that his name was the sage Munaton.’—‘You mean Freston,’ said Don Quixote. ‘I do not know,’ answered the housekeeper, ‘whether it was Freston or Friton; but this I am certain of, that his name ended in ton.’—‘The case then is plain,’ said the knight; ‘that same sage inchanter is one of my greatest enemies; who bears me a grudge, because he knows, by the mystery of his art, that the time will come when I shall fight and vanquish in single battle a certain knight, whom he favours, in spite of all he can do to prevent my success; and for this reason, he endeavours to give me every mortification in his power; but let me tell him he won’t find it an easy matter to contradict or evade what Heaven has decreed.’—‘Who ever doubted that?’ said the niece; ‘but what business have you, dear uncle, with these quarrels? Would it not be better to live in peace at home, than to stray up and down the world in search of superfine bread, without considering that many a one goes out for wool, and comes home quite shorn.’—‘My dear niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘you are altogether out of your reckoning. Before I be shorn, I will pull and pluck off the beards of all those who pretend to touch a single hair of my mustacho.’
The two women did not chuse to make any farther answer, because they perceived that his choler was very much inflamed. After this transaction, however, he staid at home fifteen days in great tranquillity, without giving the least sign or inclination to repeat his folly; during which time, many infinitely diverting conversations passed between him and his friends, the curate and the barber; wherein he observed, that the world was in want of nothing so much as of knights-errant, and that in him this honourable order was revived. The clergyman sometimes contradicted him, and sometimes assented to what he said, because, without this artful conduct, he would have had no chance of bringing him to reason.
About this time, too, the knight tampered with a peasant in the neighbourhood, a very honest fellow, if a poor man may deserve that title, but one who had a very small quantity of brains in his skull. In short, he said so much, used so many arguments to persuade, and promised him such mountains of wealth, that this poor simpleton determined to follow and serve him in quality of squire. Among other things, that he might be disposed to engage chearfully, the knight told him that an adventure might one day happen, in which he should win some island in the twinkling of an eye, and appoint him governor of his conquest. Intoxicated with these and other such promises, Sancho Panza (so was the countryman called) deserted his wife and children, and listed himself as his neighbour’s squire.
Thus far successful, Don Quixote took measures for supplying himself with money; and what by selling one thing, mortgaging another, and making a great many very bad bargains, he raised a tolerable sum. At the same time accommodating himself with a target, which he borrowed of a friend, and patching up the remains of his vizor as well as he could, he advertised his squire Sancho of the day and hour in which he resolved to set out, that he might provide himself with those things which he thought most necessary for the occasion; above all things, charging him to purchase a wallet. Sancho promised to obey his orders; and moreover said he was resolved to carry along with him an excellent ass which he had, as he was not designed by nature to travel far on foot.
With regard to the ass, Don Quixote demurred a little, endeavouring to recollect some knight-errant who had entertained a squire mounted on an ass; but as no such instance occurred to his memory, he was nevertheless determined to allow it on this occasion, on a supposition that he should be able to accommodate him with a more honourable carriage, by dismounting the first discourteous knight he should meet with. He also laid in a store of linen, and every thing else in his power, conformable to the advice of the innkeeper.
Every thing being thus settled and fulfilled, Panza, without taking leave of his children and wife; and Don Quixote, without bidding adieu to his niece and housekeeper, sallied forth from the village one night, unperceived by any living soul, and travelled so hard, that before dawn they found themselves secure from all search, if any such had been made: Sancho Panza journeying upon his ass like a venerable patriarch, with his wallet and leathern bottle, longing extremely to see himself settled in the government of that island which was promised to him by his master.
The knight happened to take the same route and follow the same road in which he travelled at his first sally through the field of Montiel, over which he now passed with much less pains than formerly, because it was now early in the morning, the rays of the sun were more oblique, consequently he was less disturbed by the heat. It was hereabouts that Sancho first opened his mouth, saying to his master, ‘Sir knight-errant, I hope your worship will not forget that same island which you have promised me, and which I warrant myself able to govern, let it be as great as it will.’ To this remonstrance Don Quixote replied, ‘You must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was an established custom among the ancient knights-errant, to invest their squires with the government of such islands and kingdoms as they had laid under their subjection; and I am firmly resolved, that such a grateful practice shall never fail in me, who, on the contrary, mean to improve it by my generosity; for they sometimes, nay generally, waited until their squires turned grey-haired, and then, after they were worn out with service, and had endured many dismal days and doleful nights, bestowed upon them the title of count or marquis, at least of some valley or province, more or less; but if Heaven spares thy life and mine, before six days be at an end, I may chance to acquire such a kingdom as shall have others depending upon it, as if expressly designed for thee to be crowned sovereign in one of them. And thou oughtest not to be surprized, that such incidents and accidents happen to knights-errant, by means never before known or conceived, as will enable me even to exceed my promise.’—‘In that case,’ replied Sancho Panza, ‘if I should ever become a king, by any of those miracles which your worship mentions, my duck Juana Gutierez would also be a queen, and each of my daughters an infanta.’—‘Certainly,’ said the knight; ‘who doubts that?’—‘That do I,’ said the squire; ‘for certain I am, that though it were to rain kingdoms upon the earth, not one of them would fit seemly on the head of Mary Gutierez[41]; your worship must know, she is not worth a farthing for a queen; she might do indeed for a countess, with the blessing of God, and good assistance.’—‘Recommend the matter to Providence,’ replied Don Quixote, which will bestow upon thee what will be best adapted to thy capacity; but let not thy soul be so far debased, as to content itself with any thing less than a vice-royalty.’—‘That I will not,’ answered Sancho, ‘especially as I have a powerful master in your worship, who will load me with as much preferment as I can conveniently bear.’
In the midst of this their conversation, they discovered thirty or forty wind-mills all together on the plain, which the knight no sooner perceived, than he said to his squire, ‘Chance has conducted our affairs even better than we could either wish or hope for; look there, friend Sancho, and behold thirty or forty outrageous giants, with whom I intend to engage in battle, and put every soul of them to death, so that we may begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for it is a meritorious warfare, and serviceable both to God and man, to extirpate such a wicked race from the face of the earth.’—‘What giants do you mean?’ said Sancho Panza in amaze. ‘Those you see yonder,’ replied his master, ‘with vast extended arms; some of which are two leagues long.’—‘I would your worship would take notice,’ replied Sancho, ‘that those you see yonder are no giants, but wind-mills; and what seem arms to you, are sails, which being turned with the wind, make the mill-stone work.’—‘It seems very plain,’ said the knight, ‘that you are but a novice in adventures; these I affirm to be giants; and if thou art afraid, get out of the reach of danger, and put up thy prayers for me, while I join with them in fierce and unequal combat.’ So saying, he put spurs to his steed Rozinante, without paying the least regard to the cries of his squire Sancho, who assured him, that those he was going to attack were no giants, but innocent wind-mills: but he was so much possessed with the opinion that they were giants, that he neither heard the advice of his squire Sancho, nor would use the intelligence of his own eyes, though he was very near them; on the contrary, when he approached them, he called aloud, ‘Fly not, ye base and cowardly miscreants, for he is but a single knight who now attacks you.’ At that instant a breeze of wind springing up, the great sails began to turn; which being perceived by Don Quixote, ‘Tho’ you wield,’ said he, ‘more arms than ever belonged to the giant Briareus, I will make you pay for your insolence.’ So saying, and heartily recommending himself to his Lady Dulcinea, whom he implored to succour him in this emergency, bracing on his target, and setting his lance in the rest, he put his Rozinante to full speed, and assaulting the nearest wind-mill, thrust it into one of the sails, which was drove about by the wind with so much fury, that the lance was shivered to pieces, and both knight and steed whirled aloft, and overthrown in very bad plight upon the plain.
Sancho Panza rode as fast as the ass could carry him to his assistance; and when he came up, found him unable to stir, by reason of the bruises which he and Rozinante had received. ‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ said the squire, ‘did not I tell your worship to consider well what you were about? Did not I assure you, they were no other than wind-mills? Indeed, no body could mistake them for any thing else, but one who has wind-mills in his own head!’—‘Pr’ythee, hold thy peace, friend Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘the affairs of war are more than any thing subject to change. How much more so, as I believe, nay, am certain, that the sage Freston, who stole my closet and books, has converted those giants into mills, in order to rob me of the honour of their overthrow; such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end, all his treacherous arts will but little avail against the vigour of my sword.’—‘God’s will be done!’ replied Sancho Panza, who helped him to rise and mount Rozinante that was almost disjointed.
While they conversed together upon what had happened, they followed the road that leads to the pass of Lapice; for in that, which was a great thoroughfare, as Don Quixote observed, it was impossible but they must meet with many and divers adventures. As he jogged along, a good deal concerned for the loss of his lance, he said to his squire, ‘I remember to have read of a Spanish knight, called Diego Perez de Vargos, who, having broke his sword in battle, tore off a mighty branch or bough from an oak, with which he performed such wonders, and felled so many Moors, that he retained the name of Machuca, or the Feller, and all his descendants from that day forward have gone by the name of Vargos and Machuca. This circumstance I mention to thee, because, from the first ash or oak that I meet with, I am resolved to rend as large and stout a bough as that, with which I expect, and intend to perform such exploits, as thou shalt think thyself extremely happy in being thought worthy to see, and give testimony to feats otherwise incredible.’—‘By God’s help,’ says Sancho, ‘I believe that every thing will happen as your worship says: but pray, Sir, sit a little more upright; for you seem to lean strangely to one side, which must proceed from the bruises you received in your fall.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and if I do not complain of the pain, it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain of any wound they receive, even though their bowels should come out of their bodies.’—‘If that be the case, I have nothing to reply,’ said Sancho; ‘but God knows, I should be glad your worship would complain when any thing gives you pain; this I know, that, for my own part, the smallest prick in the world would make me complain, if that law of not complaining does not reach to the squires as well as the knights.’ Don Quixote could not help smiling at the simplicity of his squire, to whom he gave permission to complain as much and as often as he pleased, whether he had cause or no; for, as yet, he had read nothing to the contrary in the history of knight-errantry.
Then Sancho observing that it was dinner-time, his master told him, that for the present he had no occasion for food; but that he, his squire, might go to victuals when he pleased. With this permission, Sancho adjusted himself as well as he could upon his ass, and taking out the provision with which he had stuffed his wallet, he dropped behind his master a good way, and kept his jaws agoing as he jogged along, lifting the bottle to his head, from time to time, with so much satisfaction, that the most pampered vintner of Malaga might have envied his situation.
While he travelled in this manner, repeating his agreeable draughts, he never thought of the promise which his master had made to him, nor considered it as a toil, but rather as a diversion, to go in quest of adventures, how dangerous soever they might be: in fine, that night they passed under a tuft of trees, from one of which Don Quixote tore a withered branch to serve instead of a lance; and fitted to it the iron head he had taken from that which was broken: all night long the knight closed not an eye, but mused upon his Lady Dulcinea, in order to accommodate himself to what he had read of those errants who had passed many sleepless nights in woods and desarts, entertaining themselves with the remembrance of their mistresses.
This was not the case with Sancho Panza, whose belly being well replenished, and that not with plantane water, made but one nap of the whole night, and even then would not have waked, unless his master had called to him, notwithstanding the sun-beams that played upon his face, and the singing of the birds, which in great numbers, and joyous melody, saluted the approach of the new day. The first thing he did when he got up, was to visit his bottle, which finding considerably more lank than it was the night before, he was grievously afflicted, because in the road that they pursued, he had no hopes of being able in a little time to supply its defect. Don Quixote refusing to breakfast, because, as we have already said, he regaled himself with the savoury remembrance of his mistress, they pursued their journey towards the pass; which, after three days travelling, they discovered. ‘Here,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘here, brother Sancho Panza, we shall be able to dip our hands up to our elbows in what is called adventure; but take notice, although thou seest me beset with the most extreme danger, thou must by no means even so much as lay thy hand upon thy sword, with design to defend me, unless I am assaulted by vulgar and low-born antagonists; in which case thou mayest come to my assistance; but if they are knights, thou art by no means permitted or licensed, by the laws of chivalry, to give me the least succour, until thou thyself hast received the honour of knighthood[42].’—‘As for that matter,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship shall be obeyed to a tittle; for I am a very peaceable man, and not at all fond of meddling with riots and quarrels. True, indeed, in the defence of my own person, I shall not pay much regard to the said laws, seeing every one that is aggrieved is permitted to defend himself by all the laws of God and man.’—‘I say nothing to the contrary,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but in the affair of assisting me against knights, thou must keep thy natural impetuosity under the rein.’—‘That will I,’ answered Sancho, ‘and keep your honour’s command as strictly as I keep the Lord’s day.’
While they were engaged in this conversation, there appeared before them two Benedictine monks mounted upon dromedaries, for their mules were not much less, with their travelling spectacles and umbrellas; after them came a coach, accompanied by four or five people on horseback, and two mule-drivers on foot. In this carriage, it was afterwards known, a Biscayan lady was travelling to Seville to her husband, who was bound to the Indies with a rich cargo.
Don Quixote no sooner perceived the friars, (who though they travelled the same road, were not of her company) than he said to his squire, ‘If I am not very much mistaken, that will be the most famous adventure that ever was known, for those black apparitions on the road must doubtless be inchanters, who are carrying off in that coach some princess they have stolen; and there is a necessity for my exerting my whole power in redressing her wrongs.’—‘This will be worse than the wind-mills,’ cried Sancho: ‘for the love of God! Sir, consider that these are Benedictine friars; and those who are in the coach can be no other than common travellers. Mind what I say, and consider what you do, and let not the devil deceive you.’—‘I have told thee already, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that with regard to adventures, thou art utterly ignorant: what I say is true, and in a moment thou shalt be convinced.’
So saying, he rode forward, and placed himself in the middle of the highway through which the friars were to pass; and when he thought them near enough to hear what he said, he pronounced, in a loud voice, ‘Monstrous and diabolical race! surrender, this instant, those high-born princesses, whom you carry captives in that coach; or prepare to receive immediate death, as a just punishment for your misdeeds.’ The friars immediately stopped short, astonished as much at the figure as at the discourse of Don Quixote: to which they replied, ‘Sir knight, we are neither diabolical nor monstrous, but innocent monks of the order of St. Benedict, who are going this way about our own affairs; neither do we know of any princesses that are carried captives in that coach.’—‘These fawning speeches,’ said Don Quixote, ‘shall not impose upon me, who know too well what a treacherous pack ye are.’ And without waiting for any other reply, he put spurs to Rozinante; and couching his lance, attacked the first friar with such fury and resolution, that if he had not thrown himself from his mule, he would have come to the ground extremely ill-handled, not without some desperate wound, nay, perhaps stone dead. The second monk, who saw how his companion had been treated, clapped spurs to the flanks of his trusty mule, and flew through the field even swifter than the wind.
Sancho Panza seeing the friar on the ground, leaped from his ass with great agility, and beginning to uncase him with the utmost dexterity, two of their servants came up, and asked for what reason he stripped their master. The squire replied, that the cloaths belonged to him, as the spoils that Don Quixote, his lord, had won in battle: but the others, who did not understand raillery, nor knew any thing of spoils and battles, seeing Don Quixote at a good distance, talking with the ladies in the coach, went to loggerheads with Sancho, whom they soon overthrew; and, without leaving one hair of his beard, mauled him so unmercifully, that he lay stretched upon the ground, without sense or motion. Then, with the utmost dispatch, the friar mounted, as pale as a sheet, and almost frightened to death; and no sooner found himself on horseback, than he galloped towards his companion, who tarried at a good distance, to see the issue of this strange adventure. However, being joined again, without waiting for the conclusion of it, they pursued their journey; making as many crosses as if the devil had been at their backs.
Don Quixote, in the mean time, as we have already observed, was engaged in conversation with the lady in the coach, to whom he expressed himself in this manner; ‘Beautiful lady, you may now dispose of your own person according to your pleasure; for the pride of your ravishers lies level with the ground, being overthrown by this my invincible arm; and that you may be at no difficulty in understanding the same of your deliverer, know that I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant, adventurer and captive of the unparalleled and beautiful Donna Dulcinea del Toboso: and the only acknowledgment I expect for the benefit you have received is, that you return to that place, and presenting yourself before my mistress, tell her what I have performed in behalf of your liberty.’ This whole address of the knight was overheard by a Biscayan squire, who accompanied the coach, and who, seeing that he would not allow the carriage to pass forward, but insisted upon their immediate returning to Toboso, rode up to Don Quixote, and laying hold of his lance, spoke to him thus in bad Castilian, and worse Biscayan: ‘Get thee gone, cavalier! go to the devil, I zay! vor, by the God that made her, if thou wilt not let the coach alone, che will kill thee dead, as zure as che was a Biscayan.’ The knight, understanding very well what he said, replied with great composure; ‘If thou wast a gentleman, as thou art not, I would chastise thy insolence and rashness, wretched creature.’—‘I not a gentleman!’ replied the Biscayan in great choler; ‘by God in heaven, thou lyest, as I am a Christian! if thou wilt throw away thy lance, and draw thy sword, che will soon zee which be the better man[43]. Biscayan by land, gentleman by zea, gentleman by devil; and thou liest, look ye, in thy throat, if thou zayest otherwise.’—‘Thou shalt see that presently, as Agragis said,’ replied Don Quixote; who, throwing his lance upon the ground, unsheathing his sword, and bracing on his target, attacked the Biscayan with full resolution to put him to death[44].
His antagonist, who saw him approach, fain would have alighted from his mule, (which being one of the worst that ever was let out for hire, could not much be depended upon;) but he scarce had time to draw his sword; however, being luckily near the coach, he snatched out of it a cushion, which served him as a shield, and then they flew upon each other as two mortal enemies. The rest of the people who were present endeavoured, but in vain, to appease them; for the Biscayan swore, in his uncouth expressions, that if they did not leave him to fight the battle, he would certainly murder his mistress, and every body who should pretend to oppose it. The lady in the coach, surprized and frightened at what she saw, ordered the coachman to drive a little out of the road, to a place from whence she should see at a distance this rigorous engagement. In the course of which, the Biscayan bellowed such a huge stroke upon the shoulder of Don Quixote, that if it had not been for the defence of his buckler, he would have been cleft down to his girdle. The knight feeling the shock of such an unconscionable blow, exclaimed aloud, ‘O Dulcinea! lady of my soul, thou rose of beauty, succour thy knight, who, for the satisfaction of thy excessive goodness, is now involved in this dreadful emergency.’ To pronounce these words, to raise his sword, to secure himself with his target, and attack the Biscayan, was the work of one instant; for he was determined to risk his all upon a single stroke. His antagonist, who saw him advance, and by this time was convinced of his courage by his resolution, determined to follow his example; and covering himself with his cushion, waited his assault, without being able to turn his mule either on one side or the other; for she was already so jaded, and so little accustomed to such pastime, that she would not move one step out of the way.
Don Quixote, then, as we have said, advanced against the cautious Biscayan, his sword lifted up with an intention to cleave him through the middle; the Biscayan waited his attack in the same posture, being shielded with his cushion. The frightened bye-standers stood aloof, intent upon the success of those mighty strokes that threatened each of the combatants; and the lady in the coach, with the rest of her attendants, put up a thousand prayers to Heaven, and vowed an offering to every image, and house of devotion in Spain, provided God would deliver the squire and them from the imminent danger in which they were: but the misfortune is, that in this very critical instant, the author of the history has left this battle in suspence, excusing himself, that he could find no other account of Don Quixote’s exploits, but what has already been related. True it is, that this second author of this work could not believe that such a curious history was consigned to oblivion; nor, that there could be such a scarcity of curious virtuosi in La Mancha, but that some papers relating to this famous knight should be found in their archives or cabinets: and therefore, possessed of this opinion, he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this delightful history, which indeed he very providentially lighted upon, in the manner which will be related in the second book.