Don Quixote
by
Miqeul de Cervantes [Saavedra]
Part 4 out of 21
threads of the brightest gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the
sun himself: her breath, which no doubt smelt of yesterday's stale
salad, seemed to him to diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her
mouth; and, in short, he drew her portrait in his imagination with the
same features and in the same style as that which he had seen in his
books of the other princesses who, smitten by love, came with all
the adornments that are here set down, to see the sorely wounded
knight; and so great was the poor gentleman's blindness that neither
touch, nor smell, nor anything else about the good lass that would
have made any but a carrier vomit, were enough to undeceive him; on
the contrary, he was persuaded he had the goddess of beauty in his
arms, and holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say in low,
tender voice:
"Would that found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position
to repay such a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great
beauty, have granted me; but fortune, which is never weary of
persecuting the good, has chosen to place me upon this bed, where I
lie so bruised and broken that though my inclination would gladly
comply with yours it is impossible; besides, to this impossibility
another yet greater is to be added, which is the faith that I have
pledged to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most
secret thoughts; and were it not that this stood in the way I should
not be so insensible a knight as to miss the happy opportunity which
your great goodness has offered me."
Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held so fast
by Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the words he
addressed to her, she strove without speaking to free herself. The
worthy carrier, whose unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his
doxy the moment she entered the door, and was listening attentively to
all Don Quixote said; and jealous that the Asturian should have broken
her word with him for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote's bed and
stood still to see what would come of this talk which he could not
understand; but when he perceived the wench struggling to get free and
Don Quixote striving to hold her, not relishing the joke he raised his
arm and delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the amorous
knight that be bathed all his mouth in blood, and not content with
this he mounted on his ribs and with his feet tramped all over them at
a pace rather smarter than a trot. The bed which was somewhat crazy
and not very firm on its feet, unable to support the additional weight
of the carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of this
the innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be some brawl
of Maritornes', because after calling loudly to her he got no
answer. With this suspicion he got up, and lighting a lamp hastened to
the quarter where he had heard the disturbance. The wench, seeing that
her master was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible,
frightened and panic-stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who
still slept, and crouching upon it made a ball of herself.
The innkeeper came in exclaiming, "Where art thou, strumpet? Of
course this is some of thy work." At this Sancho awoke, and feeling
this mass almost on top of him fancied he had the nightmare and
began to distribute fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share
fell upon Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain and flinging
modesty aside, paid back so many in return to Sancho that she woke him
up in spite of himself. He then, finding himself so handled, by whom
he knew not, raising himself up as well as he could, grappled with
Maritornes, and he and she between them began the bitterest and
drollest scrimmage in the world. The carrier, however, perceiving by
the light of the innkeeper candle how it fared with his ladylove,
quitting Don Quixote, ran to bring her the help she needed; and the
innkeeper did the same but with a different intention, for his was
to chastise the lass, as he believed that beyond a doubt she alone was
the cause of all the harmony. And so, as the saying is, cat to rat,
rat to rope, rope to stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the
lass, she him, and the innkeeper her, and all worked away so briskly
that they did not give themselves a moment's rest; and the best of
it was that the innkeeper's lamp went out, and as they were left in
the dark they all laid on one upon the other in a mass so unmercifully
that there was not a sound spot left where a hand could light.
It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a
caudrillero of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, who,
also hearing the extraordinary noise of the conflict, seized his staff
and the tin case with his warrants, and made his way in the dark
into the room crying: "Hold! in the name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in
the name of the Holy Brotherhood!"
The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixote, who lay
stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down bed, and, his
hand falling on the beard as he felt about, he continued to cry, "Help
for the Jurisdiction!" but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold of
did not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and that those
in the room were his murderers, and with this suspicion he raised
his voice still higher, calling out, "Shut the inn gate; see that no
one goes out; they have killed a man here!" This cry startled them
all, and each dropped the contest at the point at which the voice
reached him. The innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his
pack-saddles, the lass to her crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho
alone were unable to move from where they were. The cuadrillero on
this let go Don Quixote's beard, and went out to look for a light to
search for and apprehend the culprits; but not finding one, as the
innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lantern on retreating to
his room, he was compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where after
much time and trouble he lit another lamp.
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE
DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH
TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the
same tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before
when he lay stretched "in the vale of the stakes," he began calling to
him now, "Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend
Sancho?"
"How can I sleep, curses on it!" returned Sancho discontentedly
and bitterly, "when it is plain that all the devils have been at me
this night?"
"Thou mayest well believe that," answered Don Quixote, "because,
either I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know-
but this that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep
secret until after my death."
"I swear it," answered Sancho.
"I say so," continued Don Quixote, "because I hate taking away
anyone's good name."
"I say," replied Sancho, "that I swear to hold my tongue about it
till the end of your worship's days, and God grant I may be able to
let it out tomorrow."
"Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou
wouldst see me dead so soon?"
"It is not for that," replied Sancho, "but because I hate keeping
things long, and I don't want them to grow rotten with me from
over-keeping."
"At any rate," said Don Quixote, "I have more confidence in thy
affection and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this
night there befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could
describe, and to relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a
little while ago the daughter of the lord of this castle came to me,
and that she is the most elegant and beautiful damsel that could be
found in the wide world. What I could tell thee of the charms of her
person! of her lively wit! of other secret matters which, to
preserve the fealty I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass
over unnoticed and in silence! I will only tell thee that, either fate
being envious of so great a boon placed in my hands by good fortune,
or perhaps (and this is more probable) this castle being, as I have
already said, enchanted, at the time when I was engaged in the
sweetest and most amorous discourse with her, there came, without my
seeing or knowing whence it came, a hand attached to some arm of
some huge giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have
them all bathed in blood, and then pummelled me in such a way that I
am in a worse plight than yesterday when the carriers, on account of
Rocinante's misbehaviour, inflicted on us the injury thou knowest
of; whence conjecture that there must be some enchanted Moor
guarding the treasure of this damsel's beauty, and that it is not
for me."
"Not for me either," said Sancho, "for more than four hundred
Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes
and fancy-bread to it. But tell me, senor, what do you call this
excellent and rare adventure that has left us as we are left now?
Though your worship was not so badly off, having in your arms that
incomparable beauty you spoke of; but I, what did I have, except the
heaviest whacks I think I had in all my life? Unlucky me and the
mother that bore me! for I am not a knight-errant and never expect
to be one, and of all the mishaps, the greater part falls to my
share."
"Then thou hast been thrashed too?" said Don Quixote.
"Didn't I say so? worse luck to my line!" said Sancho.
"Be not distressed, friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will now
make the precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the
twinkling of an eye."
By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lamp, and
came in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as
Sancho caught sight of him at the door, seeing him coming in his
shirt, with a cloth on his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very
forbidding countenance, he said to his master, "Senor, can it be
that this is the enchanted Moor coming back to give us more
castigation if there be anything still left in the ink-bottle?"
"It cannot be the Moor," answered Don Quixote, "for those under
enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone."
"If they don't let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt,"
said Sancho; "if not, let my shoulders speak to the point."
"Mine could speak too," said Don Quixote, "but that is not a
sufficient reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted
Moor."
The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful
conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still
lay on his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters.
The officer turned to him and said, "Well, how goes it, good man?"
"I would speak more politely if I were you," replied Don Quixote;
"is it the way of this country to address knights-errant in that
style, you booby?"
The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a
sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full
of oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave
him a badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went out, and
Sancho Panza said, "That is certainly the enchanted Moor, Senor, and
he keeps the treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and
lamp-whacks."
"That is the truth," answered Don Quixote, "and there is no use in
troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or
vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find
no one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if
thou canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give
me a little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous
balsam, for indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am
losing much blood from the wound that phantom gave me."
Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after the
innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was looking to see
what had become of his enemy, he said to him, "Senor, whoever you are,
do us the favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt,
and wine, for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on
earth, who lies on yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted
Moor that is in this inn."
When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a man
out of his senses, and as day was now beginning to break, he opened
the inn gate, and calling the host, he told him what this good man
wanted. The host furnished him with what he required, and Sancho
brought it to Don Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was
bewailing the pain of the blow of the lamp, which had done him no more
harm than raising a couple of rather large lumps, and what he
fancied blood was only the sweat that flowed from him in his
sufferings during the late storm. To be brief, he took the
materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them all and boiling
them a good while until it seemed to him they had come to
perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it into, and as
there was not one in the inn, he decided on putting it into a tin
oil-bottle or flask of which the host made him a free gift; and over
the flask he repeated more than eighty paternosters and as many more
ave-marias, salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a cross by
way of benediction, at all which there were present Sancho, the
innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now peacefully
engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules.
This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on
the spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he considered
it, and so he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the
flask and remained in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but
scarcely had he done drinking when he began to vomit in such a way
that nothing was left in his stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of
vomiting he broke into a profuse sweat, on account of which he bade
them cover him up and leave him alone. They did so, and he lay
sleeping more than three hours, at the end of which he awoke and
felt very great bodily relief and so much ease from his bruises that
he thought himself quite cured, and verily believed he had hit upon
the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he might
thenceforward, without any fear, face any kind of destruction, battle,
or combat, however perilous it might be.
Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as
miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which
was no small quantity. Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with
both hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped down and
drained off very little less than his master. But the fact is, that
the stomach of poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of
his master, and so, before vomiting, he was seized with such
gripings and retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and
truly be believed his last hour had come, and finding himself so
racked and tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given
it to him.
Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, "It is my belief, Sancho,
that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am
persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so."
"If your worship knew that," returned Sancho- "woe betide me and all
my kindred!- why did you let me taste it?"
At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to
discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had
thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for
nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and
convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end
had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at
the end of which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and
exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has
been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his
departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed to him that all
the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the world and those in
it who stood in need of his help and protection, all the more when
he had the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so,
urged by this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the
pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom likewise he helped to dress
and mount the ass; after which he mounted his horse and turning to a
corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve
him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who were more than
twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was
likewise observing him, and he too never took his eyes off her, and
from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the
depths of his bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain he
felt in his ribs; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the
night before thought so.
As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called
to the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, "Many and
great are the favours, Senor Alcaide, that I have received in this
castle of yours, and I remain under the deepest obligation to be
grateful to you for them all the days of my life; if I can repay
them in avenging you of any arrogant foe who may have wronged you,
know that my calling is no other than to aid the weak, to avenge those
who suffer wrong, and to chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and
if you find anything of this kind you need only tell me of it, and I
promise you by the order of knighthood which I have received to
procure you satisfaction and reparation to the utmost of your desire."
The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, "Sir Knight, I
do not want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any
is done me I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only
thing I want is that you pay me the score that you have run up in
the inn last night, as well for the straw and barley for your two
beasts, as for supper and beds."
"Then this is an inn?" said Don Quixote.
"And a very respectable one," said the innkeeper.
"I have been under a mistake all this time," answered Don Quixote,
"for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but
since it appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be
done now is that you should excuse the payment, for I cannot
contravene the rule of knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and
up to the present I have read nothing to the contrary) that they never
paid for lodging or anything else in the inn where they might be;
for any hospitality that might be offered them is their due by law and
right in return for the insufferable toil they endure in seeking
adventures by night and by day, in summer and in winter, on foot and
on horseback, in hunger and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all
the inclemencies of heaven and all the hardships of earth."
"I have little to do with that," replied the innkeeper; "pay me what
you owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care
about is to get my money."
"You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper," said Don Quixote, and
putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he
rode out of the inn before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some
distance without looking to see if his squire was following him.
The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get
payment of Sancho, who said that as his master would not pay neither
would he, because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same
rule and reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not
paying anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed
very wroth, and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way
that he would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of
chivalry his master had received he would not pay a rap, though it
cost him his life; for the excellent and ancient usage of
knights-errant was not going to be violated by him, nor should the
squires of such as were yet to come into the world ever complain of
him or reproach him with breaking so just a privilege.
The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among
the company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segovia, three
needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the
Fair of Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and
playful, who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse,
made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them
went in for the blanket of the host's bed; but on flinging him into it
they looked up, and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower what
they required for their work, they decided upon going out into the
yard, which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the
middle of the blanket, they began to raise him high, making sport with
him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide.
The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they
reached the ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively,
was persuaded that some new adventure was coming, until he clearly
perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he
came up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went
round it to see if he could find some way of getting in; but as soon
as he came to the wall of the yard, which was not very high, he
discovered the game that was being played with his squire. He saw
him rising and falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness that,
had his rage allowed him, it is my belief he would have laughed. He
tried to climb from his horse on to the top of the wall, but he was so
bruised and battered that he could not even dismount; and so from
the back of his horse he began to utter such maledictions and
objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be
impossible to write down accurately: they, however, did not stay their
laughter or their work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his
lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to
little purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left
off. They then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they
put his jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing him
so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and that
it might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took
it, and as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the
cries of his master exclaiming, "Sancho, my son, drink not water;
drink it not, my son, for it will kill thee; see, here I have the
blessed balsam (and he held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking
two drops of it thou wilt certainly be restored."
At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still louder
voice said, "Can it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a
knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have
left after last night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils,
and leave me to myself!" and at one and the same instant he left off
talking and began drinking; but as at the first sup he perceived it
was water he did not care to go on with it, and begged Maritornes to
fetch him some wine, which she did with right good will, and paid
for it with her own money; for indeed they say of her that, though she
was in that line of life, there was some faint and distant resemblance
to a Christian about her. When Sancho had done drinking he dug his
heels into his ass, and the gate of the inn being thrown open he
passed out very well pleased at having paid nothing and carried his
point, though it had been at the expense of his usual sureties, his
shoulders. It is true that the innkeeper detained his alforjas in
payment of what was owing to him, but Sancho took his departure in
such a flurry that he never missed them. The innkeeper, as soon as
he saw him off, wanted to bar the gate close, but the blanketers would
not agree to it, for they were fellows who would not have cared two
farthings for Don Quixote, even had he been really one of the
knights-errant of the Round Table.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER,
DON QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING
Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge
on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, "I
have now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or
inn is beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously
diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings
of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that
when I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad
tragedy, it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even
dismount from Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I
swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to
climb up or dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that
those braggart thieves would have remembered their freak for ever,
even though in so doing I knew that I contravened the laws of
chivalry, which, as I have often told thee, do not permit a knight
to lay hands on him who is not one, save in case of urgent and great
necessity in defence of his own life and person."
"I would have avenged myself too if I could," said Sancho,
"whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though
for my part I am persuaded those who amused themselves with me were
not phantoms or enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of
flesh and bone like ourselves; and they all had their names, for I
heard them name them when they were tossing me, and one was called
Pedro Martinez, and another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I
heard, was called Juan Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, senor, your
not being able to leap over the wall of the yard or dismount from your
horse came of something else besides enchantments; and what I make out
clearly from all this is, that these adventures we go seeking will
in the end lead us into such misadventures that we shall not know
which is our right foot; and that the best and wisest thing, according
to my small wits, would be for us to return home, now that it is
harvest-time, and attend to our business, and give over wandering from
Zeca to Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is."
"How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho," replied Don
Quixote; "hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when
thou shalt see with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to
wander in the pursuit of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater
pleasure can there be in the world, or what delight can equal that
of winning a battle, and triumphing over one's enemy? None, beyond all
doubt."
"Very likely," answered Sancho, "though I do not know it; all I know
is that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has
been one (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable
a number) we have never won any battle except the one with the
Biscayan, and even out of that your worship car-ne with half an ear
and half a helmet the less; and from that till now it has been all
cudgellings and more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting
the blanketing over and above, and falling in with enchanted persons
on whom I cannot avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your
worship calls it, of conquering an enemy is like."
"That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho," replied
Don Quixote; "but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some
sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take
effect upon him who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune
may procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was called
'The Knight of the Burning Sword,' which was one of the best swords
that ever knight in the world possessed, for, besides having the
said virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armour, however
strong and enchanted it might be, that could resist it."
"Such is my luck," said Sancho, "that even if that happened and your
worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out
serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the
squires, they might sup sorrow."
"Fear not that, Sancho," said Don Quixote: "Heaven will deal
better by thee."
Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when,
on the road they were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching
them a large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to
Sancho and said:
"This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my
fortune is reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as
much as on any other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on
which I shall do deeds that shall remain written in the book of fame
for all ages to come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises
yonder? Well, then, all that is churned up by a vast army composed
of various and countless nations that comes marching there."
"According to that there must be two," said Sancho, "for on this
opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of dust."
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing
exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage
and encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and
seasons his fancy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures,
crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of
chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to
such things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great
droves of sheep coming along the same road in opposite directions,
which, because of the dust, did not become visible until they drew
near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies
that Sancho was led to believe it and say, "Well, and what are we to
do, senor?"
"What?" said Don Quixote: "give aid and assistance to the weak and
those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes
opposite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron,
lord of the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me
is that of his enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the
Bare Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare."
"But why are these two lords such enemies?"
"They are at enmity," replied Don Quixote, "because this Alifanfaron
is a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who
is a very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and
her father is unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he
first abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts
his own."
"By my beard," said Sancho, "but Pentapolin does quite right, and
I will help him as much as I can."
"In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho," said Don Quixote;
"for to engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a
dubbed knight."
"That I can well understand," answered Sancho; "but where shall we
put this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is
over? for I believe it has not been the custom so far to go into
battle on a beast of this kind."
"That is true," said Don Quixote, "and what you had best do with him
is to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for
the horses we shall have when we come out victors will be so many that
even Rocinante will run a risk of being changed for another. But
attend to me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of
the chief knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest
the better see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises
yonder, whence both armies may be seen."
They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the
two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly
seen if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and
blinded the sight; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did
not see and what did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice:
"That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon
his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the
valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour
with flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on
an azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia;
that other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless
Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour
wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to
tradition, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the
ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his enemies. But
turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and
in the van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished
Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with
arms quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield
a cat or on a field tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the
beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the
peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the
other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger
and bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any
device, is a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by
name, lord of the baronies of Utrique; that other, who with
iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble parti-coloured
zebra, and for arms bears azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia,
Espartafilardo del Bosque, who bears for device on his shield an
asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that says, Rastrea mi
suerte." And so he went on naming a number of knights of one
squadron or the other out of his imagination, and to all he assigned
off-hand their arms, colours, devices, and mottoes, carried away by
the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and without a pause, he
continued, "People of divers nations compose this squadron in front;
here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus,
those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that sift the
pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool
banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various ways
divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless in
their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the Parthians and
the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever shift their
dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the Ethiopians
with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose features I
recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In this
other squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams of
the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances
with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice
in the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the
Tartesian plains abounding in pasture, those that take their
pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans
crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of
the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its
gentle current, those that feed their herds along the spreading
pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for its hidden course, those
that tremble with the cold of the pineclad Pyrenees or the dazzling
snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as many as all Europe includes
and contains."
Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to
each its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and
saturated with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza
hung upon his words without speaking, and from time to time turned
to try if he could see the knights and giants his master was
describing, and as he could not make out one of them he said to him:
"Senor, devil take it if there's a sign of any man you talk of,
knight or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it's all enchantment,
like the phantoms last night."
"How canst thou say that!" answered Don Quixote; "dost thou not hear
the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of
the drums?"
"I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep," said
Sancho; which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come
close.
"The fear thou art in, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "prevents thee
from seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to
derange the senses and make things appear different from what they
are; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to
myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I
shall give my aid;" and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and
putting the lance in rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt.
Sancho shouted after him, crying, "Come back, Senor Don Quixote; I vow
to God they are sheep and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky
the father that begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no
giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole,
nor vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am
before God!" But not for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn
back; on the contrary he went on shouting out, "Ho, knights, ye who
follow and fight under the banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin
of the Bare Arm, follow me all; ye shall see how easily I shall give
him his revenge over his enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana."
So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and
began spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he
were transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and
drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was
no use, they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with
stones as big as one's fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones,
but, letting drive right and left kept saying:
"Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single
knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee
yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant
Pentapolin Garamanta." Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that
struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body.
Feeling himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded
for certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out his flask, and
putting it to his mouth began to pour the contents into his stomach;
but ere he had succeeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough,
there came another almond which struck him on the hand and on the
flask so fairly that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four
teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing
two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of
the second, that the poor knight in spite of himself came down
backwards off his horse. The shepherds came up, and felt sure they had
killed him; so in all haste they collected their flock together,
took up the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, and made
off without waiting to ascertain anything further.
All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats
his master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the
hour and the occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him.
Seeing him, then, brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had
taken themselves off, he ran to him and found him in very bad case,
though not unconscious; and said he:
"Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don Quixote; and that what
you were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?"
"That's how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify
things," answered Don Quixote; "thou must know, Sancho, that it is a
very easy matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they
choose; and this malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the
glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of
the enemy into droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of
thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true;
mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when
they have gone some little distance from this they will return to
their original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become men in all
respects as I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet,
for I want thy help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of
my teeth and grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not
one left in my mouth."
Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now
just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don
Quixote, so, at the very instant when Sancho came to examine his
mouth, he discharged all its contents with more force than a musket,
and full into the beard of the compassionate squire.
"Holy Mary!" cried Sancho, "what is this that has happened me?
Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the
mouth;" but considering the matter a little more closely he
perceived by the colour, taste, and smell, that it was not blood but
the balsam from the flask which he had seen him drink; and he was
taken with such a loathing that his stomach turned, and he vomited
up his inside over his very master, and both were left in a precious
state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something wherewith to clean
himself, and relieve his master, out of his alforjas; but not
finding them, he well-nigh took leave of his senses, and cursed
himself anew, and in his heart resolved to quit his master and
return home, even though he forfeited the wages of his service and all
hopes of the promised island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep
his teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold
of the bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master's
side- so loyal and well-behaved was he- and betook himself to where
the squire stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek, like
one in deep dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don
Quixote said to him:
"Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another,
unless he does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us
are signs that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go
well with us, for it is impossible for good or evil to last for
ever; and hence it follows that the evil having lasted long, the
good must be now nigh at hand; so thou must not distress thyself at
the misfortunes which happen to me, since thou hast no share in them."
"How have I not?" replied Sancho; "was he whom they blanketed
yesterday perchance any other than my father's son? and the alforjas
that are missing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to
any other but myself?"
"What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
"Yes, they are missing," answered Sancho.
"In that case we have nothing to eat to-day," replied Don Quixote.
"It would be so," answered Sancho, "if there were none of the
herbs your worship says you know in these meadows, those with which
knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like
shortcomings."
"For all that," answered Don Quixote, "I would rather have just
now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards' heads,
than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna's
notes. Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along
with me, for God, who provides for all things, will not fail us
(more especially when we are so active in his service as we are),
since he fails not the midges of the air, nor the grubs of the
earth, nor the tadpoles of the water, and is so merciful that he
maketh his sun to rise on the good and on the evil, and sendeth rain
on the unjust and on the just."
"Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant," said
Sancho.
"Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; "for there were knights-errant in former times as well
qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an
encampment, as if they had graduated in the University of Paris;
whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pen, nor the
pen the lance."
"Well, be it as your worship says," replied Sancho; "let us be off
now and find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may
be somewhere where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor
phantoms, nor enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil take
the whole concern."
"Ask that of God, my son," said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on
where thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice;
but reach me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how
many of my teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of
the upper jaw, for it is there I feel the pain."
Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, "How many
grinders used your worship have on this side?"
"Four," replied Don Quixote, "besides the back-tooth, all whole
and quite sound."
"Mind what you are saying, senor."
"I say four, if not five," answered Don Quixote, "for never in my
life have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been
destroyed by any decay or rheum."
"Well, then," said Sancho, "in this lower side your worship has no
more than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor
any at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand."
"Luckless that I am!" said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his
squire gave him; "I had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were
not the sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is
like a mill without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized
than a diamond; but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are
liable to all this. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow
thee at whatever pace thou wilt."
Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which
he thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road,
which was there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a
slow pace- for the pain in Don Quixote's jaws kept him uneasy and
ill-disposed for speed- Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him
by talk of some kind, and among the things he said to him was that
which will be told in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XIX
OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF
THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
NOTABLE OCCURRENCES
"It seems to me, senor, that all these mishaps that have befallen us
of late have been without any doubt a punishment for the offence
committed by your worship against the order of chivalry in not keeping
the oath you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth or embrace the
queen, and all the rest of it that your worship swore to observe until
you had taken that helmet of Malandrino's, or whatever the Moor is
called, for I do not very well remember."
"Thou art very right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but to tell the
truth, it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest rely upon it
that the affair of the blanket happened to thee because of thy fault
in not reminding me of it in time; but I will make amends, for there
are ways of compounding for everything in the order of chivalry."
"Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?" said Sancho.
"It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath," said Don
Quixote; "suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of
complicity; and whether or no, it will not be ill done to provide
ourselves with a remedy."
"In that case," said Sancho, "mind that your worship does not forget
this as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take it into
their heads to amuse themselves once more with me; or even with your
worship if they see you so obstinate."
While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them on the
road before they had reached or discovered any place of shelter; and
what made it still worse was that they were dying of hunger, for
with the loss of the alforjas they had lost their entire larder and
commissariat; and to complete the misfortune they met with an
adventure which without any invention had really the appearance of
one. It so happened that the night closed in somewhat darkly, but
for all that they pushed on, Sancho feeling sure that as the road
was the king's highway they might reasonably expect to find some inn
within a league or two. Going along, then, in this way, the night
dark, the squire hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards
them on the road they were travelling a great number of lights which
looked exactly like stars in motion. Sancho was taken aback at the
sight of them, nor did Don Quixote altogether relish them: the one
pulled up his ass by the halter, the other his hack by the bridle, and
they stood still, watching anxiously to see what all this would turn
out to be, and found that the lights were approaching them, and the
nearer they came the greater they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho
began to shake like a man dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote's hair
stood on end; he, however, plucking up spirit a little, said:
"This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous
adventure, in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my
valour and resolution."
"Unlucky me!" answered Sancho; "if this adventure happens to be
one of phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, where shall I
find the ribs to bear it?"
"Be they phantoms ever so much," said Don Quixote, "I will not
permit them to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they played
tricks with thee the time before, it was because I was unable to
leap the walls of the yard; but now we are on a wide plain, where I
shall be able to wield my sword as I please."
"And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last time,"
said Sancho, "what difference will it make being on the open plain
or not?"
"For all that," replied Don Quixote, "I entreat thee, Sancho, to
keep a good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine is."
"I will, please God," answered Sancho, and the two retiring to one
side of the road set themselves to observe closely what all these
moving lights might be; and very soon afterwards they made out some
twenty encamisados, all on horseback, with lighted torches in their
hands, the awe-inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the
courage of Sancho, who began to chatter with his teeth like one in the
cold fit of an ague; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered
still more when they perceived distinctly that behind them there
came a litter covered over with black and followed by six more mounted
figures in mourning down to the very feet of their mules- for they
could perceive plainly they were not horses by the easy pace at
which they went. And as the encamisados came along they muttered to
themselves in a low plaintive tone. This strange spectacle at such
an hour and in such a solitary place was quite enough to strike terror
into Sancho's heart, and even into his master's; and (save in Don
Quixote's case) did so, for all Sancho's resolution had now broken
down. It was just the opposite with his master, whose imagination
immediately conjured up all this to him vividly as one of the
adventures of his books.
He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which was
borne some sorely wounded or slain knight, to avenge whom was a task
reserved for him alone; and without any further reasoning he laid
his lance in rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with
gallant spirit and bearing took up his position in the middle of the
road where the encamisados must of necessity pass; and as soon as he
saw them near at hand he raised his voice and said:
"Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who
ye are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is ye carry upon that
bier, for, to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong
or some wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary
that I should know, either that I may chastise you for the evil ye
have done, or else that I may avenge you for the injury that has
been inflicted upon you."
"We are in haste," answered one of the encamisados, "and the inn
is far off, and we cannot stop to render you such an account as you
demand;" and spurring his mule he moved on.
Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and seizing the
mule by the bridle he said, "Halt, and be more mannerly, and render an
account of what I have asked of you; else, take my defiance to combat,
all of you."
The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being seized
that rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over her haunches.
An attendant who was on foot, seeing the encamisado fall, began to
abuse Don Quixote, who now moved to anger, without any more ado,
laying his lance in rest charged one of the men in mourning and
brought him badly wounded to the ground, and as he wheeled round
upon the others the agility with which he attacked and routed them was
a sight to see, for it seemed just as if wings had that instant
grown upon Rocinante, so lightly and proudly did he bear himself.
The encamisados were all timid folk and unarmed, so they speedily made
their escape from the fray and set off at a run across the plain
with their lighted torches, looking exactly like maskers running on
some gala or festival night. The mourners, too, enveloped and
swathed in their skirts and gowns, were unable to bestir themselves,
and so with entire safety to himself Don Quixote belaboured them all
and drove them off against their will, for they all thought it was
no man but a devil from hell come to carry away the dead body they had
in the litter.
Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of his
lord, and said to himself, "Clearly this master of mine is as bold and
valiant as he says he is."
A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom the mule
had thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote perceived him, and
coming up to him he presented the point of the lance to his face,
calling on him to yield himself prisoner, or else he would kill him;
to which the prostrate man replied, "I am prisoner enough as it is;
I cannot stir, for one of my legs is broken: I entreat you, if you
be a Christian gentleman, not to kill me, which will be committing
grave sacrilege, for I am a licentiate and I hold first orders."
"Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?" said
Don Quixote.
"What, senor?" said the other. "My bad luck."
"Then still worse awaits you," said Don Quixote, "if you do not
satisfy me as to all I asked you at first."
"You shall be soon satisfied," said the licentiate; "you must
know, then, that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I am
only a bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of
Alcobendas, I come from the city of Baeza with eleven others, priests,
the same who fled with the torches, and we are going to the city of
Segovia accompanying a dead body which is in that litter, and is
that of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was interred; and now,
as I said, we are taking his bones to their burial-place, which is
in Segovia, where he was born."
"And who killed him?" asked Don Quixote.
"God, by means of a malignant fever that took him," answered the
bachelor.
"In that case," said Don Quixote, "the Lord has relieved me of the
task of avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he who slew
him having slain him, there is nothing for it but to be silent, and
shrug one's shoulders; I should do the same were he to slay myself;
and I would have your reverence know that I am a knight of La
Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and it is my business and calling to roam
the world righting wrongs and redressing injuries."
"I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be," said the
bachelor, "for from straight you have made me crooked, leaving me with
a broken leg that will never see itself straight again all the days of
its life; and the injury you have redressed in my case has been to
leave me injured in such a way that I shall remain injured for ever;
and the height of misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in
search of adventures."
"Things do not all happen in the same way," answered Don Quixote;
"it all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going, as you did, by
night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying,
covered with mourning, so that naturally you looked like something
evil and of the other world; and so I could not avoid doing my duty in
attacking you, and I should have attacked you even had I known
positively that you were the very devils of hell, for such I certainly
believed and took you to be."
"As my fate has so willed it," said the bachelor, "I entreat you,
sir knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one for me, to
help me to get from under this mule that holds one of my legs caught
between the stirrup and the saddle."
"I would have talked on till to-morrow," said Don Quixote; "how long
were you going to wait before telling me of your distress?"
He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to come, as
he was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, well laden
with provender, which these worthy gentlemen had brought with them.
Sancho made a bag of his coat, and, getting together as much as he
could, and as the bag would hold, he loaded his beast, and then
hastened to obey his master's call, and helped him to remove the
bachelor from under the mule; then putting him on her back he gave him
the torch, and Don Quixote bade him follow the track of his
companions, and beg pardon of them on his part for the wrong which
he could not help doing them.
And said Sancho, "If by chance these gentlemen should want to know
who was the hero that served them so, your worship may tell them
that he is the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
The bachelor then took his departure.
I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote,
"Remember that you stand excommunicated for having laid violent
hands on a holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo."
"I do not understand that Latin," answered Don Quixote, "but I
know well I did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not
think I was committing an assault upon priests or things of the
Church, which, like a Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I
respect and revere, but upon phantoms and spectres of the other world;
but even so, I remember how it fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke
the chair of the ambassador of that king before his Holiness the Pope,
who excommunicated him for the same; and yet the good Roderick of
Vivar bore himself that day like a very noble and valiant knight."
On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has been said,
without making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had
induced him to call him the "Knight of the Rueful Countenance" more
then than at any other time.
"I will tell you," answered Sancho; "it was because I have been
looking at you for some time by the light of the torch held by that
unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of late the most
ill-favoured countenance I ever saw: it must be either owing to the
fatigue of this combat, or else to the want of teeth and grinders."
"It is not that," replied Don Quixote, "but because the sage whose
duty it will be to write the history of my achievements must have
thought it proper that I should take some distinctive name as all
knights of yore did; one being 'He of the Burning Sword,' another
'He of the Unicorn,' this one 'He of the Damsels,' that 'He of the
Phoenix,' another 'The Knight of the Griffin,' and another 'He of
the Death,' and by these names and designations they were known all
the world round; and so I say that the sage aforesaid must have put it
into your mouth and mind just now to call me 'The Knight of the Rueful
Countenance,' as I intend to call myself from this day forward; and
that the said name may fit me better, I mean, when the opportunity
offers, to have a very rueful countenance painted on my shield."
"There is no occasion, senor, for wasting time or money on making
that countenance," said Sancho; "for all that need be done is for your
worship to show your own, face to face, to those who look at you,
and without anything more, either image or shield, they will call
you 'Him of the Rueful Countenance' and believe me I am telling you
the truth, for I assure you, senor (and in good part be it said),
hunger and the loss of your grinders have given you such an
ill-favoured face that, as I say, the rueful picture may be very
well spared."
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved
to call himself by that name, and have his shield or buckler painted
as he had devised.
Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in the
litter were bones or not, but Sancho would not have it, saying:
"Senor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely for
yourself than any of those I have seen: perhaps these people, though
beaten and routed, may bethink themselves that it is a single man that
has beaten them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart and
come in search of us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in
proper trim, the mountains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have
nothing more to do but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is,
the dead to the grave and the living to the loaf."
And driving his ass before him he begged his master to follow,
who, feeling that Sancho was right, did so without replying; and after
proceeding some little distance between two hills they found
themselves in a wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and
Sancho unloaded his beast, and stretched upon the green grass, with
hunger for sauce, they breakfasted, dined, lunched, and supped all
at once, satisfying their appetites with more than one store of cold
meat which the dead man's clerical gentlemen (who seldom put
themselves on short allowance) had brought with them on their
sumpter mule. But another piece of ill-luck befell them, which
Sancho held the worst of all, and that was that they had no wine to
drink, nor even water to moisten their lips; and as thirst tormented
them, Sancho, observing that the meadow where they were was full of
green and tender grass, said what will be told in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XX
OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER
ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD
"It cannot be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that there must
be hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be
well to move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we
may quench this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a
doubt is more distressing than hunger."
The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading Rocinante
by the bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, after he had packed
away upon him the remains of the supper, they advanced the meadow
feeling their way, for the darkness of the night made it impossible to
see anything; but they had not gone two hundred paces when a loud
noise of water, as if falling from great rocks, struck their ears. The
sound cheered them greatly; but halting to make out by listening
from what quarter it came they heard unseasonably another noise
which spoiled the satisfaction the sound of the water gave them,
especially for Sancho, who was by nature timid and faint-hearted. They
heard, I say, strokes falling with a measured beat, and a certain
rattling of iron and chains that, together with the furious din of the
water, would have struck terror into any heart but Don Quixote's.
The night was, as has been said, dark, and they had happened to
reach a spot in among some tall trees, whose leaves stirred by a
gentle breeze made a low ominous sound; so that, what with the
solitude, the place, the darkness, the noise of the water, and the
rustling of the leaves, everything inspired awe and dread; more
especially as they perceived that the strokes did not cease, nor the
wind lull, nor morning approach; to all which might be added their
ignorance as to where they were. But Don Quixote, supported by his
intrepid heart, leaped on Rocinante, and bracing his buckler on his
arm, brought his pike to the slope, and said, "Friend Sancho, know
that I by Heaven's will have been born in this our iron age to
revive revive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it is called;
I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds are
reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights of the
Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies; and he who is
to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes and
Tirantes, the Phoebuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of
famous knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in which
I live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure
their brightest deeds. Thou dost mark well, faithful and trusty
squire, the gloom of this night, its strange silence, the dull
confused murmur of those trees, the awful sound of that water in quest
of which we came, that seems as though it were precipitating and
dashing itself down from the lofty mountains of the Moon, and that
incessant hammering that wounds and pains our ears; which things all
together and each of itself are enough to instil fear, dread, and
dismay into the breast of Mars himself, much more into one not used to
hazards and adventures of the kind. Well, then, all this that I put
before thee is but an incentive and stimulant to my spirit, making
my heart burst in my bosom through eagerness to engage in this
adventure, arduous as it promises to be; therefore tighten Rocinante's
girths a little, and God be with thee; wait for me here three days and
no more, and if in that time I come not back, thou canst return to our
village, and thence, to do me a favour and a service, thou wilt go
to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable lady Dulcinea
that her captive knight hath died in attempting things that might make
him worthy of being called hers."
When Sancho heard his master's words he began to weep in the most
pathetic way, saying:
"Senor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this so
dreadful adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can
easily turn about and take ourselves out of danger, even if we don't
drink for three days to come; and as there is no one to see us, all
the less will there be anyone to set us down as cowards; besides, I
have many a time heard the curate of our village, whom your worship
knows well, preach that he who seeks danger perishes in it; so it is
not right to tempt God by trying so tremendous a feat from which there
can be no escape save by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of
them for your worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was,
and bringing you out victorious and safe and sound from among all
those enemies that were with the dead man; and if all this does not
move or soften that hard heart, let this thought and reflection move
it, that you will have hardly quitted this spot when from pure fear
I shall yield my soul up to anyone that will take it. I left home
and wife and children to come and serve your worship, trusting to do
better and not worse; but as covetousness bursts the bag, it has
rent my hopes asunder, for just as I had them highest about getting
that wretched unlucky island your worship has so often promised me,
I see that instead and in lieu of it you mean to desert me now in a
place so far from human reach: for God's sake, master mine, deal not
so unjustly by me, and if your worship will not entirely give up
attempting this feat, at least put it off till morning, for by what
the lore I learned when I was a shepherd tells me it cannot want three
hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn is overhead and makes
midnight in the line of the left arm."
"How canst thou see, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "where it makes that
line, or where this mouth or this occiput is that thou talkest of,
when the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen in the
whole heaven?"
"That's true," said Sancho, "but fear has sharp eyes, and sees
things underground, much more above in heavens; besides, there is good
reason to show that it now wants but little of day."
"Let it want what it may," replied Don Quixote, "it shall not be
said of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties turned me aside
from doing what was in accordance with knightly usage; and so I beg of
thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart
to undertake now this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will
take care to watch over my safety and console thy sorrow; what thou
hast to do is to tighten Rocinante's girths well, and wait here, for I
shall come back shortly, alive or dead."
Sancho perceiving it his master's final resolve, and how little
his tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, determined
to have recourse to his own ingenuity and compel him, if he could,
to wait till daylight; and so, while tightening the girths of the
horse, he quietly and without being felt, with his ass' halter tied
both Rocinante's legs, so that when Don Quixote strove to go he was
unable as the horse could only move by jumps. Seeing the success of
his trick, Sancho Panza said:
"See there, senor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so
ordered it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be obstinate,
and spur and strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as
they say, against the pricks."
Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove his
heels into the horse, the less he stirred him; and not having any
suspicion of the tying, he was fain to resign himself and wait till
daybreak or until Rocinante could move, firmly persuaded that all this
came of something other than Sancho's ingenuity. So he said to him,
"As it is so, Sancho, and as Rocinante cannot move, I am content to
wait till dawn smiles upon us, even though I weep while it delays
its coming."
"There is no need to weep," answered Sancho, "for I will amuse
your worship by telling stories from this till daylight, unless indeed
you like to dismount and lie down to sleep a little on the green grass
after the fashion of knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day
comes and the moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary
adventure you are looking forward to."
"What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?" said
Don Quixote. "Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights that take
their rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who art born to
sleep, or do as thou wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent
with my character."
"Be not angry, master mine," replied Sancho, "I did not mean to
say that;" and coming close to him he laid one hand on the pommel of
the saddle and the other on the cantle so that he held his master's
left thigh in his embrace, not daring to separate a finger's width
from him; so much afraid was he of the strokes which still resounded
with a regular beat. Don Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him
as he had proposed, to which Sancho replied that he would if his dread
of what he heard would let him; "Still," said he, "I will strive to
tell a story which, if I can manage to relate it, and nobody
interferes with the telling, is the best of stories, and let your
worship give me your attention, for here I begin. What was, was; and
may the good that is to come be for all, and the evil for him who goes
to look for it -your worship must know that the beginning the old folk
used to put to their tales was not just as each one pleased; it was
a maxim of Cato Zonzorino the Roman, that says 'the evil for him
that goes to look for it,' and it comes as pat to the purpose now as
ring to finger, to show that your worship should keep quiet and not go
looking for evil in any quarter, and that we should go back by some
other road, since nobody forces us to follow this in which so many
terrors affright us."
"Go on with thy story, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and leave the
choice of our road to my care."
"I say then," continued Sancho, "that in a village of Estremadura
there was a goat-shepherd -that is to say, one who tended goats- which
shepherd or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this
Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which
shepherdess called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and
this rich grazier-"
"If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not have
done these two days; go straight on with it, and tell it like a
reasonable man, or else say nothing."
"Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am telling
this," answered Sancho, "and I cannot tell it in any other, nor is
it right of your worship to ask me to make new customs."
"Tell it as thou wilt," replied Don Quixote; "and as fate will
have it that I cannot help listening to thee, go on."
"And so, lord of my soul," continued Sancho, as I have said, this
shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, who was a wild
buxom lass with something of the look of a man about her, for she
had little moustaches; I fancy I see her now."
"Then you knew her?" said Don Quixote.
"I did not know her," said Sancho, "but he who told me the story
said it was so true and certain that when I told it to another I might
safely declare and swear I had seen it all myself. And so in course of
time, the devil, who never sleeps and puts everything in confusion,
contrived that the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned
into hatred and ill-will, and the reason, according to evil tongues,
was some little jealousy she caused him that crossed the line and
trespassed on forbidden ground; and so much did the shepherd hate
her from that time forward that, in order to escape from her, he
determined to quit the country and go where he should never set eyes
on her again. Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope, was
immediately smitten with love for him, though she had never loved
him before."
"That is the natural way of women," said Don Quixote, "to scorn
the one that loves them, and love the one that hates them: go on,
Sancho."
"It came to pass," said Sancho, "that the shepherd carried out his
intention, and driving his goats before him took his way across the
plains of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom of Portugal.
Torralva, who knew of it, went after him, and on foot and barefoot
followed him at a distance, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand and a
scrip round her neck, in which she carried, it is said, a bit of
looking-glass and a piece of a comb and some little pot or other of
paint for her face; but let her carry what she did, I am not going
to trouble myself to prove it; all I say is, that the shepherd, they
say, came with his flock to cross over the river Guadiana, which was
at that time swollen and almost overflowing its banks, and at the spot
he came to there was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or
his flock to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he
perceived that Torralva was approaching and would give him great
annoyance with her tears and entreaties; however, he went looking
about so closely that he discovered a fisherman who had alongside of
him a boat so small that it could only hold one person and one goat;
but for all that he spoke to him and agreed with him to carry
himself and his three hundred goats across. The fisherman got into the
boat and carried one goat over; he came back and carried another over;
he came back again, and again brought over another- let your worship
keep count of the goats the fisherman is taking across, for if one
escapes the memory there will be an end of the story, and it will be
impossible to tell another word of it. To proceed, I must tell you the
landing place on the other side was miry and slippery, and the
fisherman lost a great deal of time in going and coming; still he
returned for another goat, and another, and another."
"Take it for granted he brought them all across," said Don
Quixote, "and don't keep going and coming in this way, or thou wilt
not make an end of bringing them over this twelvemonth."
"How many have gone across so far?" said Sancho.
"How the devil do I know?" replied Don Quixote.
"There it is," said Sancho, "what I told you, that you must keep a
good count; well then, by God, there is an end of the story, for there
is no going any farther."
"How can that be?" said Don Quixote; "is it so essential to the
story to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed over, that if
there be a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou canst not go on
with it?"
"No, senor, not a bit," replied Sancho; "for when I asked your
worship to tell me how many goats had crossed, and you answered you
did not know, at that very instant all I had to say passed away out of
my memory, and, faith, there was much virtue in it, and
entertainment."
"So, then," said Don Quixote, "the story has come to an end?"
"As much as my mother has," said Sancho.
"In truth," said Don Quixote, "thou hast told one of the rarest
stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have
imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending it was never seen
nor will be in a lifetime; though I expected nothing else from thy
excellent understanding. But I do not wonder, for perhaps those
ceaseless strokes may have confused thy wits."
"All that may be," replied Sancho, "but I know that as to my
story, all that can be said is that it ends there where the mistake in
the count of the passage of the goats begins."
"Let it end where it will, well and good," said Don Quixote, "and
let us see if Rocinante can go;" and again he spurred him, and again
Rocinante made jumps and remained where he was, so well tied was he.
Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was now
approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at supper, or
that it was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho felt a desire
to do what no one could do for him; but so great was the fear that had
penetrated his heart, he dared not separate himself from his master by
as much as the black of his nail; to escape doing what he wanted
was, however, also impossible; so what he did for peace's sake was
to remove his right hand, which held the back of the saddle, and
with it to untie gently and silently the running string which alone
held up his breeches, so that on loosening it they at once fell down
round his feet like fetters; he then raised his shirt as well as he
could and bared his hind quarters, no slim ones. But, this
accomplished, which he fancied was all he had to do to get out of this
terrible strait and embarrassment, another still greater difficulty
presented itself, for it seemed to him impossible to relieve himself
without making some noise, and he ground his teeth and squeezed his
shoulders together, holding his breath as much as he could; but in
spite of his precautions he was unlucky enough after all to make a
little noise, very different from that which was causing him so much
fear.
Don Quixote, hearing it, said, "What noise is that, Sancho?"
"I don't know, senor," said he; "it must be something new, for
adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle." Once more
he tried his luck, and succeeded so well, that without any further
noise or disturbance he found himself relieved of the burden that
had given him so much discomfort. But as Don Quixote's sense of
smell was as acute as his hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked
with him that the fumes rose almost in a straight line, it could not
be but that some should reach his nose, and as soon as they did he
came to its relief by compressing it between his fingers, saying in
a rather snuffing tone, "Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great
fear."
"I am," answered Sancho; "but how does your worship perceive it
now more than ever?"
"Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not of
ambergris," answered Don Quixote.
"Very likely," said Sancho, "but that's not my fault, but your
worship's, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at such
unwonted paces."
"Then go back three or four, my friend," said Don Quixote, all the
time with his fingers to his nose; "and for the future pay more
attention to thy person and to what thou owest to mine; for it is my
great familiarity with thee that has bred this contempt."
"I'll bet," replied Sancho, "that your worship thinks I have done
something I ought not with my person."
"It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho," returned Don Quixote.
With this and other talk of the same sort master and man passed
the night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was coming on
apace, very cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up his breeches. As
soon as Rocinante found himself free, though by nature he was not at
all mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively and began pawing- for as to
capering, begging his pardon, he knew not what it meant. Don
Quixote, then, observing that Rocinante could move, took it as a
good sign and a signal that he should attempt the dread adventure.
By this time day had fully broken and everything showed distinctly,
and Don Quixote saw that he was among some tall trees, chestnuts,
which cast a very deep shade; he perceived likewise that the sound
of the strokes did not cease, but could not discover what caused it,
and so without any further delay he let Rocinante feel the spur, and
once more taking leave of Sancho, he told him to wait for him there
three days at most, as he had said before, and if he should not have
returned by that time, he might feel sure it had been God's will
that he should end his days in that perilous adventure. He again
repeated the message and commission with which he was to go on his
behalf to his lady Dulcinea, and said he was not to be uneasy as to
the payment of his services, for before leaving home he had made his
will, in which he would find himself fully recompensed in the matter
of wages in due proportion to the time he had served; but if God
delivered him safe, sound, and unhurt out of that danger, he might
look upon the promised island as much more than certain. Sancho
began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting words of his
good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final issue and
end of the business. From these tears and this honourable resolve of
Sancho Panza's the author of this history infers that he must have
been of good birth and at least an old Christian; and the feeling he
displayed touched his but not so much as to make him show any
weakness; on the contrary, hiding what he felt as well as he could, he
began to move towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and
of the strokes seemed to come.
Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his custom
was, his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or adversity; and
advancing some distance through the shady chestnut trees they came
upon a little meadow at the foot of some high rocks, down which a
mighty rush of water flung itself. At the foot of the rocks were
some rudely constructed houses looking more like ruins than houses,
from among which came, they perceived, the din and clatter of blows,
which still continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at
the noise of the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don
Quixote advanced step by step towards the houses, commending himself
with all his heart to his lady, imploring her support in that dread
pass and enterprise, and on the way commending himself to God, too,
not to forget him. Sancho who never quitted his side, stretched his
neck as far as he could and peered between the legs of Rocinante to
see if he could now discover what it was that caused him such fear and
apprehension. They went it might be a hundred paces farther, when on
turning a corner the true cause, beyond the possibility of any
mistake, of that dread-sounding and to them awe-inspiring noise that
had kept them all the night in such fear and perplexity, appeared
plain and obvious; and it was (if, reader, thou art not disgusted
and disappointed) six fulling hammers which by their alternate strokes
made all the din.
When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck dumb and rigid
from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and saw him with his head
bent down upon his breast in manifest mortification; and Don Quixote
glanced at Sancho and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth
full of laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite
of his vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and
when Sancho saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had
to hold his sides with both hands to keep himself from bursting with
laughter. Four times he stopped, and as many times did his laughter
break out afresh with the same violence as at first, whereat Don
Quixote grew furious, above all when he heard him say mockingly, "Thou
must know, friend Sancho, that of Heaven's will I was born in this our
iron age to revive in it the golden or age of gold; I am he for whom
are reserved perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds;" and here
he went on repeating the words that Don Quixote uttered the first time
they heard the awful strokes.
Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into ridicule,
was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike and smote him
two such blows that if, instead of catching them on his shoulders,
he had caught them on his head there would have been no wages to
pay, unless indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting
an awkward return in earnest for his jest, and fearing his master
might carry it still further, said to him very humbly, "Calm yourself,
sir, for by God I am only joking."
"Well, then, if you are joking I am not," replied Don Quixote. "Look
here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead of being fulling hammers,
had been some perilous adventure, have I not, think you, shown the
courage required for the attempt and achievement? Am I, perchance,
being, as I am, a gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds
and tell whether they come from fulling mills or not; and that, when
perhaps, as is the case, I have never in my life seen any as you have,
low boor as you are, that have been born and bred among them? But turn
me these six hammers into six giants, and bring them to beard me,
one by one or all together, and if I do not knock them head over
heels, then make what mockery you like of me."
"No more of that, senor," returned Sancho; "I own I went a little
too far with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now that peace is
made between us (and may God bring you out of all the adventures
that may befall you as safe and sound as he has brought you out of
this one), was it not a thing to laugh at, and is it not a good story,
the great fear we were in?- at least that I was in; for as to your
worship I see now that you neither know nor understand what either
fear or dismay is."
"I do not deny," said Don Quixote, "that what happened to us may
be worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story about, for it
is not everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the right point of a
thing."
"At any rate," said Sancho, "your worship knew how to hit the
right point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting me on the
shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness in dodging it. But
let that pass; all will come out in the scouring; for I have heard say
'he loves thee well that makes thee weep;' and moreover that it is the
way with great lords after any hard words they give a servant to
give him a pair of breeches; though I do not know what they give after
blows, unless it be that knights-errant after blows give islands, or
kingdoms on the mainland."
"It may be on the dice," said Don Quixote, "that all thou sayest
will come true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd enough to
know that our first movements are not in our own control; and one
thing for the future bear in mind, that thou curb and restrain thy
loquacity in my company; for in all the books of chivalry that I
have read, and they are innumerable, I never met with a squire who
talked so much to his lord as thou dost to thine; and in fact I feel
it to be a great fault of thine and of mine: of thine, that thou
hast so little respect for me; of mine, that I do not make myself more
respected. There was Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that
was Count of the Insula Firme, and we read of him that he always
addressed his lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and
his body bent double, more turquesco. And then, what shall we say of
Gasabal, the squire of Galaor, who was so silent that in order to
indicate to us the greatness of his marvellous taciturnity his name is
only once mentioned in the whole of that history, as long as it is
truthful? From all I have said thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there
must be a difference between master and man, between lord and
lackey, between knight and squire: so that from this day forward in
our intercourse we must observe more respect and take less
liberties, for in whatever way I may be provoked with you it will be
bad for the pitcher. The favours and benefits that I have promised you
will come in due time, and if they do not your wages at least will not
be lost, as I have already told you."
"All that your worship says is very well," said Sancho, "but I
should like to know (in case the time of favours should not come,
and it might be necessary to fall back upon wages) how much did the
squire of a knight-errant get in those days, and did they agree by the
month, or by the day like bricklayers?"
"I do not believe," replied Don Quixote, "that such squires were
ever on wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I have now
mentioned thine in the sealed will I have left at home, it was with
a view to what may happen; for as yet I know not how chivalry will
turn out in these wretched times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to
suffer for trifles in the other world; for I would have thee know,
Sancho, that in this there is no condition more hazardous than that of
adventurers."
"That is true," said Sancho, "since the mere noise of the hammers of
a fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such a valiant
errant adventurer as your worship; but you may be sure I will not open
my lips henceforward to make light of anything of your worship's,
but only to honour you as my master and natural lord."
"By so doing," replied Don Quixote, "shalt thou live long on the
face of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be respected as
though they were parents."
CHAPTER XXI
WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S
HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE
KNIGHT
It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the
fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on
account of the late joke that he would not enter them on any
account; so turning aside to right they came upon another road,
different from that which they had taken the night before. Shortly
afterwards Don Quixote perceived a man on horseback who wore on his
head something that shone like gold, and the moment he saw him he
turned to Sancho and said:
"I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being
maxims drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences,
especially that one that says, 'Where one door shuts, another
opens.' I say so because if last night fortune shut the door of the
adventure we were looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling
mills, it now opens wide another one for another better and more
certain adventure, and if I do not contrive to enter it, it will be my
own fault, and I cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or
the darkness of the night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there
comes towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino,
concerning which I took the oath thou rememberest."
"Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do,"
said Sancho, "for I don't want any more fulling mills to finish off
fulling and knocking our senses out."
"The devil take thee, man," said Don Quixote; "what has a helmet
to do with fulling mills?"
"I don't know," replied Sancho, "but, faith, if I might speak as I
used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see
you were mistaken in what you say."
"How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?" returned
Don Quixote; "tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards
us on a dappled grey steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?"
"What I see and make out," answered Sancho, "is only a man on a grey
ass like my own, who has something that shines on his head."
"Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino," said Don Quixote; "stand
to one side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without
saying a word, to save time, I shall bring this adventure to an
issue and possess myself of the helmet I have so longed for."
"I will take care to stand aside," said Sancho; "but God grant, I
say once more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills."
"I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling
mills to me again," said Don Quixote, "or I vow- and I say no more-
I'll full the soul out of you."
Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out
the vow he had hurled like a bowl at him.
The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that
Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood there were two
villages, one of them so small that it had neither apothecary's shop
nor barber, which the other that was close to it had, so the barber of
the larger served the smaller, and in it there was a sick man who
required to be bled and another man who wanted to be shaved, and on
this errand the barber was going, carrying with him a brass basin; but
as luck would have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and
not to spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin
on his head, and being clean it glittered at half a league's distance.
He rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it
seem to Don Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and a
golden helmet; for everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy
chivalry and ill-errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight
draw near, without entering into any parley with him, at Rocinante's
top speed he bore down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully
determined to run him through and through, and as he reached him,
without checking the fury of his charge, he cried to him:
"Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord
that which is so reasonably my due."
The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw
this apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving
himself from the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his
ass; and no sooner had he touched the ground than he sprang up more
nimbly than a deer and sped away across the plain faster than the
wind.
He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented
himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated
the beaver, which finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts
off with its teeth that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows
it is pursued.
He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his
hands said:
"By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it
is worth a maravedis," and handed it to his master, who immediately
put it on his head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in
search of fitment, and not finding it he said, "Clearly the pagan to
whose measure this famous head-piece was first forged must have had
a very large head; but the worst of it is half of it is wanting."
When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to
restrain his laughter, but remembering his master's wrath he checked
himself in the midst of it.
"What art thou laughing at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
"I am laughing," said he, "to think of the great head the pagan must
have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular
barber's basin."
"Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?" said Don Quixote; "that
this wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange
accident have come into the hands of some one who was unable to
recognise or realise its value, and who, not knowing what he did,
and seeing it to be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half
for the sake of what it might be worth, and of the other made this
which is like a barber's basin as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to
me who recognise it, its transformation makes no difference, for I
will set it to rights at the first village where there is a
blacksmith, and in such style that that helmet the god of smithies
forged for the god of battles shall not surpass it or even come up
to it; and in the meantime I will wear it as well as I can, for
something is better than nothing; all the more as it will be quite
enough to protect me from any chance blow of a stone."
"That is," said Sancho, "if it is not shot with a sling as they were
in the battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your
worship's grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught
that made me vomit my bowels up."
"It does not grieve me much to have lost it," said Don Quixote, "for
thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory."
"So have I," answered Sancho, "but if ever I make it, or try it
again as long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no
intention of putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with
all my five senses, to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding
anyone: as to being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to
prevent mishaps of that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it
but to squeeze our shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes,
and let ourselves go where luck and the blanket may send us."
"Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho," said Don Quixote on hearing
this, "for once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it:
but know that it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to
attach importance to trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it,
what broken rib, what cracked head, that thou canst not forget that
jest? For jest and sport it was, properly regarded, and had I not seen
it in that light I would have returned and done more mischief in
revenging thee than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if
she were alive now, or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend
upon it she would not be so famous for her beauty as she is;" and here
he heaved a sigh and sent it aloft; and said Sancho, "Let it pass
for a jest as it cannot be revenged in earnest, but I know what sort
of jest and earnest it was, and I know it will never be rubbed out
of my memory any more than off my shoulders. But putting that aside,
will your worship tell me what are we to do with this dapple-grey
steed that looks like a grey ass, which that Martino that your worship
overthrew has left deserted here? for, from the way he took to his
heels and bolted, he is not likely ever to come back for it; and by my
beard but the grey is a good one."
"I have never been in the habit," said Don Quixote, "of taking spoil
of those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take
away their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be
that the victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is
lawful to take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war;
therefore, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt
have it to be; for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back
for it."
"God knows I should like to take it," returned Sancho, "or at
least to change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a
one: verily the laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be
stretched to let one ass be changed for another; I should like to know
if I might at least change trappings."
"On that head I am not quite certain," answered Don Quixote, "and
the matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou
mayest change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them."
"So urgent is it," answered Sancho, "that if they were for my own
person I could not want them more;" and forthwith, fortified by this
licence, he effected the mutatio capparum, rigging out his beast to
the ninety-nines and making quite another thing of it. This done, they
broke their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered from
the sumpter mule, and drank of the brook that flowed from the
fulling mills, without casting a look in that direction, in such
loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused them; and,
all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking any
fixed road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true
knights-errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante's will, which
carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the
ass, which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably;
nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a
venture without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master,
"Senor, would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For
since you laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things
have gone to rot in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip
of my tongue that I don't want to be spoiled."
"Say, on, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and be brief in thy discourse,
for there is no pleasure in one that is long."
"Well then, senor," returned Sancho, "I say that for some days
past I have been considering how little is got or gained by going in
search of these adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds
and cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous are victoriously
achieved, there is no one to see or know of them, and so they must
be left untold for ever, to the loss of your worship's object and
the credit they deserve; therefore it seems to me it would be better
(saving your worship's better judgment) if we were to go and serve
some emperor or other great prince who may have some war on hand, in
whose service your worship may prove the worth of your person, your
great might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord
in whose service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each
according to his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for
some one to set down your achievements in writing so as to preserve
their memory for ever. Of my own I say nothing, as they will not go
beyond squirely limits, though I make bold to say that, if it be the
practice in chivalry to write the achievements of squires, I think
mine must not be left out."
"Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "but before
that point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on
probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some,
name and fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to
the court of some great monarch the knight may be already known by his
deeds, and that the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of
the city, may all follow him and surround him, crying, 'This is the
Knight of the Sun'-or the Serpent, or any other title under which he
may have achieved great deeds. 'This,' they will say, 'is he who
vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty
strength; he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of the
long enchantment under which he had been for almost nine hundred
years.' So from one to another they will go proclaiming his
achievements; and presently at the tumult of the boys and the others
the king of that kingdom will appear at the windows of his royal
palace, and as soon as he beholds the knight, recognising him by his
arms and the device on his shield, he will as a matter of course
say, 'What ho! Forth all ye, the knights of my court, to receive the
flower of chivalry who cometh hither!' At which command all will issue
forth, and he himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will
embrace him closely, and salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and
will then lead him to the queen's chamber, where the knight will
find her with the princess her daughter, who will be one of the most
beautiful and accomplished damsels that could with the utmost pains be
discovered anywhere in the known world. Straightway it will come to
pass that she will fix her eyes upon the knight and he his upon her,
and each will seem to the other something more divine than human, and,
without knowing how or why they will be taken and entangled in the
inextricable toils of love, and sorely distressed in their hearts
not to see any way of making their pains and sufferings known by
speech. Thence they will lead him, no doubt, to some richly adorned
chamber of the palace, where, having removed his armour, they will
bring him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself, and if
he looked noble in his armour he will look still more so in a doublet.
When night comes he will sup with the king, queen, and princess; and
all the time he will never take his eyes off her, stealing stealthy
glances, unnoticed by those present, and she will do the same, and
with equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a damsel of great
discretion. The tables being removed, suddenly through the door of the
hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive dwarf followed by a
fair dame, between two giants, who comes with a certain adventure, the
work of an ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it shall be deemed
the best knight in the world.
"The king will then command all those present to essay it, and
none will bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger
knight, to the great enhancement of his fame, whereat the princess
will be overjoyed and will esteem herself happy and fortunate in
having fixed and placed her thoughts so high. And the best of it is
that this king, or prince, or whatever he is, is engaged in a very
bitter war with another as powerful as himself, and the stranger
knight, after having been some days at his court, requests leave
from him to go and serve him in the said war. The king will grant it
very readily, and the knight will courteously kiss his hands for the
favour done to him; and that night he will take leave of his lady
the princess at the grating of the chamber where she sleeps, which
looks upon a garden, and at which he has already many times
conversed with her, the go-between and confidante in the matter
being a damsel much trusted by the princess. He will sigh, she will
swoon, the damsel will fetch water, much distressed because morning
approaches, and for the honour of her lady he would not that they were
discovered; at last the princess will come to herself and will present
her white hands through the grating to the knight, who will kiss
them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing them with his tears.
It will be arranged between them how they are to inform each other
of their good or evil fortunes, and the princess will entreat him to
make his absence as short as possible, which he will promise to do
with many oaths; once more he kisses her hands, and takes his leave in
such grief that he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes him thence to
his chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for sorrow at
parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the king,
queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair, it is
told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a visit;
the knight thinks it is from grief at his departure, his heart is
pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from showing his pain. The
confidante is present, observes all, goes to tell her mistress, who
listens with tears and says that one of her greatest distresses is not
knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or
not; the damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and
gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any
save one who was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus
relieved, and she strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite
suspicion in her parents, and at the end of two days she appears in
public. Meanwhile the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the
war, conquers the king's enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many
battles, returns to the court, sees his lady where he was wont to
see her, and it is agreed that he shall demand her in marriage of
her parents as the reward of his services; the king is unwilling to
give her, as he knows not who he is, but nevertheless, whether carried
off or in whatever other way it may be, the princess comes to be his
bride, and her father comes to regard it as very good fortune; for
it so happens that this knight is proved to be the son of a valiant
king of some kingdom, I know not what, for I fancy it is not likely to
be on the map. The father dies, the princess inherits, and in two
words the knight becomes king. And here comes in at once the
bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all who have aided him in
rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his squire to a damsel of
the princess's, who will be, no doubt, the one who was confidante in
their amour, and is daughter of a very great duke."
"That's what I want, and no mistake about it!" said Sancho.
"That's what I'm waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store
for your worship under the title of the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance."
"Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "for in the
same manner, and by the same steps as I have described here,
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