Chapter XXXIX: Book II (5)

So saying, he leaped on board, whither he was followed by Sancho, and the fastening being cut, the boat edged gently off from the bank. The squire seeing himself about two fathoms from the shore, began to tremble, in the apprehension of perishing; but nothing gave him more pain than hearing Dapple raise his voice, and seeing Rozinante struggle for his freedom. ‘Now, Dapple,’ said he to his master, ‘brays for grief at our departure; and Rozinante strives to get loose, that he may throw himself into the water and swim after us!—Farewel, my dearly beloved friends, peace be with you, and may the madness that parts us be converted and undeceived, that we may be restored to your agreeable company.’

Then he began to weep so bitterly, that the knight exclaimed, in a tone of rage and vexation, ‘Of what art thou afraid, cowardly miscreant! wherefore dost thou weep, thou heart of butter! who persecutes, who molests thee, thou soul of a garret-mouse! or what wants dost thou suffer, beggarly wretch, rolling as thou art in the very bowels of abundance! art thou, peradventure, travelling, barefoot over the Riphean mountains! No: seated like an archduke upon a convenient bench, thou art softly conveyed by the gentle current of this delicious river, from which in a little time we shall launch into the wide and extended ocean: but, indeed, we must have already entered the open sea; aye, and sailed at least seven or eight hundred leagues; and, if I had here an astrolabe to take the elevation of the pole, I would tell thee exactly what way we have made; though either I have little skill, or we have already passed, or will pass in a very little time, the equinoctial line, that divides the globe into two equal parts.’—‘And how far shall we have gone when we come to that same line your worship mentions?’ said Sancho. ‘A great way,’ replied the knight; ‘for, of three hundred and sixty degrees, comprehending the whole terraqueous globe, according to the computation of Ptolemy, who was the greatest cosmographer ever known, we shall have traversed one half when we reach the equinoctial line.’—‘’Fore God!’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship has brought a set of rare witnesses to prove the truth of what you say, Copulation and Kiss-me-gaffer, with the addition of Tool-i’me, or some such name[164].’ Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s blunders, upon the computation of the cosmographer Ptolemy; adding, ‘You must know, Sancho, that one of the signs by which those who embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, know they have passed the equinoctial, is the total destruction of vermin among the passengers and seamen: so that not one louse remains alive, or can be had in the whole ship, even though you should give its weight in gold; thou mayest therefore slip thy hand along thy thigh, Sancho, and if thou canst catch any thing alive, our doubt will be resolved; but if there is nothing to be found, we must certainly have passed the line.’—‘I can hardly believe it,’ answered the squire; ‘but, however, I will do as your worship desires; though there is no necessity for trying those experiments; for I can see with my own eyes, that we have not moved five yards from the bank, no, nor have we driven two yards below the cattle; for there stand Rozinante and Dapple, in the very spot where they were left; and taking aim as I do now, I vow to God, we do not move or go at the pace of a pismire.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘perform the investigation I have mentioned, and give thyself no trouble about any other circumstance; for thou dost not know the meaning of colours, lines, parallels, zodiacks, eclipticks, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets, constellations, points, and measures, that compose the spheres celestial and terrestrial. Wert thou acquainted with these, or even a part of them, thou wouldst distinctly perceive what parallels we have crossed, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we have left, and are now leaving behind us. I therefore repeat my request, that thou wouldst examine and go afishing upon thyself; for I am persuaded thou art clean and smooth as a sheet of white paper.’

Sancho, in compliance with his desire, slipped down his hand softly, and felt about his left ham; then raising his head, and looking at his master, ‘Either the experiment is false,’ said he; ‘or we have not reached the place your worship mentioned, by many leagues.’—‘What!’ said the knight, ‘hast thou found something?’—‘Aye, more than one something,’ answered the squire: who snapped his fingers, and afterwards washed them in the river, along the current of which the boat glided softly, without the assistance of any secret power, or concealed inchanter, being conveyed by nothing but the stream, which then ran with a smooth and gentle course.

In this manner they proceeded, when they discovered some large mills, built in the middle of the river, which Don Quixote no sooner perceived, than he addressed himself to Sancho, in an exalted voice: ‘Behold, my friend, yonder appears the city, castle, or fortress, that contains some oppressed knight-errant, queen, infanta, or princess in distress, for whose relief I am brought hither.’—‘What the devil does your worship mean by a city, fortress, or castle!’ cried the squire; ‘don’t you see these are mills, built in the river, for grinding wheat?’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘although they appear to be mills, they are in reality edifices of a very different nature: I have already told thee, that all things are transformed and changed by the power of inchantment; I do not mean that they are really changed in any circumstance but appearance, as we have been taught by woeful experience in the transformation of Dulcinea, the sole refuge of my hope.’

By this time, the boat being sucked into the middle of the stream, so as to move considerably faster than at first, was perceived by the millers, who seeing it advancing to the indraught of the wheels, came suddenly out in a body, with long poles, to stop its motion; and as their faces and cloaths were be-powdered with meal, they made a frightful figure, while they exclaimed, with great vociferation, ‘You devils of men! where are you going: are you mad; to come and drown yourselves, or be ground to pieces by the wheels?’

Don Quixote, hearing this address, ‘Did not I tell thee, Sancho,’ said he, ‘that we had arrived at the scene in which I must exert the prowess of mine arm? Behold, what felons and assassins come forth to try my valour; behold what a number of hobgoblins range themselves against me; behold, I say, what horrid physiognomies appear to scare and overawe us; but you shall presently see what will happen. Ye ruffians!’ Then, starting up, he began to threaten and revile them, exclaiming aloud, ‘Ye scum, ye scoundrels, ill-intentioned and worse-advised! release, I charge you, and restore to the full fruition of freedom, the person whom ye keep confined and oppressed in that fortress or gaol, let him be high or low, or of what rank and quality soever he may be; for I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise intitled the Knight of the Lions, destined by the appointment of Heaven above, to bring this adventure to an happy issue.’

So saying, he unsheathed his sword, and brandished it in the air, in defiance of the millers, who hearing this rhapsody without understanding it, began to employ their poles, in order to turn aside the boat, which by this time had entered the current and canal of the wheels. As for Sancho, he fell upon his knees, and prayed devoutly that Heaven would deliver him from such imminent danger; and his deliverance was accordingly effected by the alertness and dexterity of the millers, who pushed back the boat with their poles; yet not without oversetting the vessel; so as that the knight and his squire were soused over head and ears in the water. It was well for Don Quixote that he could swim like a goose; nevertheless, the weight of his armour sunk him twice to the bottom, and had not the millers thrown themselves into the river, and weighed them up by main strength, it might have been said, ‘Here Troy once stood[165].’

They were no sooner dragged ashore, rather drenched than dead of drought, than the squire, humbling himself upon his knees, again clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes to Heaven, uttered a very fervent petition to God, that he might be from thenceforward delivered from the frantick projects and mad attempts of his master. This ejaculation was scarce finished, when they were joined by the fishermen who were owners of the boat, which was crushed to pieces by the mill-wheels; and they perceiving the wreck, began to strip Sancho, and demand indemnification of his master, who, with great tranquillity, as if nothing at all had happened told the millers and fishermen that he would pay for the bark with the utmost chearfulness, on condition that they would release, without ransom or security, the person or persons whom they detained in durance and oppression within the castle.

‘What does the madman mean by persons and castles?’ answered one of the millers; ‘wouldst thou carry off the customers that bring grist to our mills, forsooth?’—‘Enough,’ said Don Quixote within himself, ‘I might as well preach to the desart, as attempt, by intreaties, to prevail upon such miscreants to do any virtuous action. In this adventure there must certainly be two powerful inchanters engaged on opposite sides, one of whom baffles the designs of the other; by one I was provided with a bark, and his antagonist overturned me in the water. Lord mend us! the world is nothing but a continual warfare of opposite machinations and deceit; for my own part, I can do no more.’ Then raising his voice, and fixing his eyes upon the mills, ‘Friends,’ cried he, ‘whosoever you are who lie confined within that prison, forgive me, that for my misfortune, as well as yours, it is not in my power to extricate you from your distress; for some other knight the adventure must be reserved.’ Having pronounced this apostrophe, he compounded with the fishermen, for whose boat he paid fifty rials, which Sancho disbursed with great reluctance, saying, ‘Two such boatfuls will sink our whole stock to the bottom.’

The fishermen and millers gazed with admiration at those two figures, so different in appearance from other men; and as they could by no means understand the meaning and tendency of Don Quixote’s discourse, and the questions he asked, they looked upon them as madmen, and went away. The millers retreated to their mills; the fishermen betook themselves to their cottage; the knight and squire, like beasts, returned to their beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

Footnote 164:

As it is altogether impossible, in a translation, literally to
preserve the low humour arising from blunders upon words or sounds, I
have been obliged to substitute an equivalent jingle, in the room of
_puto_, _gafo_ and _meon_, which are Spanish words, signifying, a a
_whore_, a _catamite_, and a _piss-a-bed_: so that Sancho, deceived by
the affinity of these sounds to _computo_, _cosmographa_, and
_Ptolemeo_, thought he had reason to say his master had produced a
fair set of evidences.

Footnote 165:

In allusion to the speech that Virgil puts in the mouth of Panthus
Othryades, who says to Æneas,

——_fuit Ilium, et ingens_
_Gloria Teucrorum!_

CHAP. XIII.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND A FAIR HUNTRESS.

In a melancholy plight did the knight and squire reach the place where their cattle stood; indeed, they were both sufficiently out of humour, especially Sancho, who was cut to the soul by the incroachment upon their capital, which to him was as precious as the apple of his eye. At length, they mounted, in the most profound silence, and departed from the banks of that famous river; Don Quixote buried as it were amidst the meditations of his love, and Sancho immersed in those of his preferment, which at that time seemed to be at a weary distance; for maugre all his simplicity and folly, he could easily perceive that all, or the greatest part of his master’s actions, proceeded from frenzy and distraction; he therefore resolved to take an opportunity of retreating abruptly to his own house, without expostulation, or the ceremony of taking leave. But fortune ordained that things should fall out quite contrary to his apprehensions.

Next day, at sun-set, as they came out of a wood, Don Quixote extending his view over a delightful green meadow, perceived some people at the farther end of it; and as he proceeded, saw they were hawkers: approaching still nearer, he observed among them a gay lady, mounted upon a palfrey or beautiful pad as white as the driven snow, adorned with green furniture and a saddle of silver; the lady was likewise dressed in a rich habit of the same colour, as fine as finery itself. On her left-hand she carried a hawk, a circumstance from which the knight concluded she was some lady of high rank, and mistress of all the rest; nor was he mistaken. On this supposition, therefore, he said to his squire, ‘Make haste, son Sancho, go and tell that lady of the palfrey and hawk, that I, the Knight of the Lions, send my respects to her exceeding beauty; and that, with her good leave, I will go and pay my compliments in person, and make her a tender of my service to the utmost of my power, in whatever she shall please to command; but keep a guard upon your tongue, Sancho, and beware of thrusting in some of your proverbs, while you deliver my embassy.’—‘To be sure, you have found me a deadly thruster,’ answered the squire, ‘that you give me such warning! as if this were the first time in my life, that I have carried embassies to ladies of high rank and augmentation.’—‘Except that which you carried to the Lady Dulcinea,’ said the knight, ‘I do not know that ever you carried another; at least while in my service.’—‘That’s true,’ replied Sancho, ‘but a good paymaster never wants bail; and a dinner is easily got, where there is plenty of meat for the pot: what I mean is, that there is no occasion to tell me or advertise me of any thing; for I am never out, and have a sort of a smack of every thing.’—‘I believe it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘go in peace, and God be your guide.’

The squire setting out accordingly, at a good rate, and spurring Dapple beyond his natural pace, came up with the fair huntress; then alighting and kneeling before her, ‘Beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘yonder knight, called the Knight of the Lions, is my master, and I am this squire, known at my own home by the name of Sancho Panza; and that same Knight of the Lions, though formerly of the Rueful Countenance, sends me to beg your grandeur would be pleased to allow him purposely, courteously, and consentingly, to come and gratify his desire, which is no other, as he says, and I believe, than to serve your exalted beauty and hawkingship; and in so doing, your excellency will do a thing that will redound to your own advantage, and from which he will receive the most notorious honour and satisfaction.’

‘Worthy squire,’ replied the lady, ‘assuredly you have delivered your embassy with all the circumstances that such embassies require; pray rise, for it is not reasonable, that the squire of such a great knight-errant as he of the Rueful Countenance, whose character is well known in these parts, should remain in that posture; rise, friend, and go tell your master, that he shall be extremely welcome to command the services of me and the duke my husband, at our country-house in the neighbourhood.’ Sancho arose, equally astonished at the beauty, good-breeding, and affability, of this worthy lady: but he was still more surprized at what she said concerning the well-known character of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; for if she did not give him the appellation of the Lions, it was because he had but lately assumed that epithet. ‘Pray, tell me, brother squire,’ said the duchess, whose title is not known, ‘is not your master the person whose history is printed under the name of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha, who professes himself the admirer of one Dulcinea del Toboso?’—‘The very same, my lady,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I myself am that very squire of his who is mentioned, or ought to be mentioned, in that history, by the name of Sancho Panza, unless they have changed me in the cradle, I mean, in the press.’—‘I am extremely glad to hear it,’ replied the duchess; ‘go, brother Sancho, and tell your master, that he is well met, and welcome to my estate; and that nothing could give me more pleasure than his arrival.’

Sancho, in an excess of joy, occasioned by this agreeable answer, returned, and recounted to his master all that this lady of rank had said, extolling to the skies, in his rustick phrase, her exceeding beauty, good-humour, and politeness. The knight chose one of his genteelest attitudes, fixed himself well in his stirrups, adjusted his vizor, quickened Rozinante, and with an agreeable air, advanced to pay his respects to the duchess; who, while he approached, ordered her husband to be called, and communicated the curious embassy. As they had read the first part of the history, from which they learned the extravagant humour of Don Quixote, they waited with infinite pleasure, and the most eager desire of being acquainted with the original, fully determined to gratify his humour in every thing, and treat him all the time he should stay with them, as a real knight-errant; that is, with all the ceremonies described in those books of chivalry they had read, and to which, indeed, they were greatly attached. Meanwhile, Don Quixote approaching with his beaver up, made a motion to alight, and Sancho made haste to hold the stirrup; but he was so unfortunate, that in dismounting from Dapple, he slipped his foot through the noose of the stirrup rope, in such a manner, that he could not possibly disentangle himself, but continued hanging with his face and part of his body on the ground. The knight, who never alighted without his assistance, imagining that Sancho, as usual, held the stirrup, threw himself off with a swing, and the saddle, which must have been very ill girted, and he, came to the ground together; not without great disgrace, and a thousand curses which he muttered between his teeth against the unfortunate Sancho, whose leg was still in the stocks.

The duke, seeing their distress, ordered his huntsman to assist the knight and squire; and they lifted up Don Quixote, who was very much bruised by the fall; nevertheless, he advanced as well as he could, with a limping pace, and kneeled before this noble pair: but the duke would by no means allow him to remain in that posture; on the contrary, alighting from his horse, he ran to embrace the knight, saying, ‘I am heartily sorry, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that the first time you touch my ground, you should be so unlucky; but the carelessness of squires is often the cause of greater misfortunes.’—‘This accident, valiant prince,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘cannot possibly be deemed a misfortune, though I had been plunged into the profound abyss; for even from thence should I have been raised and extricated by the glory of seeing your grace. My squire, whom God confound! is more ready at untying his tongue, in order to utter malicious insinuations, than at tying and securing the girth of a saddle; but whether fallen or exalted, afoot or on horseback, I shall always be devoted to your service, and that of my Lady Duchess, your grace’s worthy consort, the dignified queen of beauty, and universal princess of politeness’—‘Softly, my good Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha,’ said the duke, ‘where my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso reigns, no other beauty deserves applause.’

By this time Sancho Panza had disentangled himself and come up, and interposing in the discourse, before his master could make any reply, ‘It cannot be denied,’ said he, ‘but must always be affirmed, that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is extremely beautiful: but the hare starts where she is least expected; for I have heard it said, that the power called Nature is like a potter, who, if he can make one beautiful vessel, can in like manner make two, three, aye, and a hundred; this, I observe, because, in good faith, my Lady Duchess comes not a whit behind my Lady Mistress Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’ Don Quixote turning to the duchess, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that no knight-errant upon earth has such a prattling and free-spoken squire as mine; and he will certainly verify my words, if your highness shall be pleased to make use of my service for a few days.’—‘I have the better opinion of honest Sancho, for his being free-spoken,’ answered the duchess: ‘that is a sign of his discretion; for pleasantry and wit, Signior Don Quixote, as your worship very well knows, do not love to dwell in a reserved disposition; and therefore, since honest Sancho is frank and free-spoken, I from henceforth set him down as a man of discretion.’—‘And loquacity,’ added the knight. ‘So much the better,’ said the duke; ‘for a great deal of wit cannot be expressed in a few words; and that we may not spend more time in them, come, renowned Knight of the Rueful Countenance——’ ‘Of the Lions, your highness must call him,’ cried Sancho; ‘the Rueful Countenance is no more.’—‘Of the Lions let it be then,’ continued the duke; ‘I say, come, Sir Knight of the Lions, to a castle I have in this neighbourhood, where you shall meet with that reception which is due to a person of your fame and character, and that respect which I and the duchess always pay to the knights-errant who favour us with their company.’

By this time Sancho having replaced and secured Rozinante’s saddle, Don Quixote bestrode that famous steed; and the duke mounting a beautiful courser, they rode towards the castle, on each side of the duchess, who desired Sancho to keep close to her; for she took infinite pleasure in hearing his conceits. Indeed, the squire did not need intreaty, but mingling among the three, made a fourth in the conversation, to the unspeakable satisfaction of their graces, who thought themselves extremely fortunate in having an opportunity of entertaining, at their castle, such a knight-errant, and such an erring squire.

CHAP. XIV.
WHICH TREATS OF MANIFOLD IMPORTANT SUBJECTS.

Sancho rejoiced exceedingly at seeing himself, as he thought, a favourite with the duchess; for being a staunch well-wisher to good cheer, he imagined he should find the same abundance in the castle, which prevailed in the houses of Don Diego and Basilius, and always took by the forelock every occasion of living at his ease. The history then relates, that before they reached the castle or pleasure-house, the duke riding on before, directed his servants how to behave to Don Quixote; who no sooner arrived at the gate with the duchess, than two lacquies or grooms came forth, clad in long trailing morning-gowns of fine crimson sattin, and lifting him off, said, without being heard or perceived, ‘Your highness must go and help my Lady Duchess to dismount.’ The knight took the hint, and a dispute of compliments passed between them on the subject; but, at length, the obstinacy of the duchess prevailed; for she would not quit her palfrey, or alight, except in the arms of the duke, saying, she was not worthy to load such an excellent knight with such an useless burden; at last, the duke came out to perform the office, and when they entered the court-yard, they were met by two beautiful damsels, who threw a mantle of the finest scarlet over Don Quixote’s shoulders, and the corridores were instantly crouded with servants of both sexes, who exclaimed aloud, ‘Welcome, thou flower and cream of knights-errant!’ while all, or the greatest part of them, emptied bottles of sweet water upon him and their graces, to the admiration of Don Quixote, who now, for the first time, was sure and satisfied of his being a real, and not a fantastick knight-errant, because he saw himself treated as the knights of former ages whose histories he had read.

Sancho quitted Dapple, and betaking himself to the duchess, entered the castle; where, however, his confidence upbraiding him for having left his beast alone, he made up to a reverend duenna, who with others had come out to receive the duchess, and accosting her in a soft voice, ‘Signora Gonçalez,’ said he, ‘or what’s your name, Madam?’—‘My name is Duenna Rodrigues de Grijalva,’ answered the gentlewoman; ‘what are your commands, brother?’—‘I wish you would do me the favour, good Madam,’ replied the squire, ‘to go to the castle-gate, where you will find a dapple ass of mine, and be so good as either to send or lead him to the stable; for the poor creature is a little timorous, and cannot bear to be alone, by any manner of means.’—‘If the master be as wise as the man,’ cried the duenna, ‘we have brought our pigs to a fine market; get you gone, brother, with a vengeance to you, and those who brought you hither, and take care of your ass with your own hands; the duennas of this house are not used to such employment.’—‘But, for all that,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard my master, who is a perfect mine of history, tell us how, when Lancelot came from Britain, ladies tended his own person, and duennas took care of his horse; now, with respect to my ass, I declare I would not exchange him for Signior Lancelot’s courser.’—‘Hark ye, friend,’ replied the duenna, ‘if you are a jack-pudding, keep your jokes for a proper place, where they may turn to account; from me you’ll get nothing but a fig for them.’—‘Very well,’ said the squire, ‘I’ll answer for its ripeness; your worship won’t lose your game by a short reckoning.’—‘You whoreson,’ cried the duenna, in a violent rage, ‘whether I am old or not, I must render an account to God, and not to such a garlick-eating rascal as you.’

This address she pronounced in such an audible voice, that she was overheard by the duchess; who, turning about, and seeing her woman in such wrath and trepidation, asked, with whom she was in such passion. ‘With this honest fellow, here,’ answered the duenna; ‘who has earnestly desired me to go and house an ass of his, that stands at the castle-gate, telling me, forsooth, as an example, that the same employment was undertaken by some ladies, who took care of one Lancelot, while the duennas looked after his horse; and to crown the compliment, he tells me I am old.’—‘I, myself,’ said the duchess, ‘would construe that into the greatest affront that could be given.—Take notice, friend Sancho, that Donna Rodriguez is in the prime of her youth; and that the veil she wears is more for authority and custom, than on account of her years.’—‘Accursed be those I have to live,’ cried the squire, ‘if I spoke to her for that reason; but, only for the great affection I bear to my ass, whom I thought I could not recommend to a more charitable person than Signora Donna Rodriguez.’ Don Quixote overhearing all that passed, ‘Is that proper discourse for this place, Sancho?’ said he. ‘Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘every man must speak of his wants where he finds them; here I thought of Dapple, and here I talked of him; and if he had come into my head in the stable, there too he should have been honourably mentioned.’ Here the duke interposing, ‘Sancho is very much in the right,’ said he, ‘and must not be blamed for what he has said; Dapple shall have no more to do but ask and have as much provender as he can eat; for that Sancho may be quite easy in that respect, for his beast shall be treated like his own person.’

This conversation, which was extremely agreeable to all, except Don Quixote, brought them to the top of the stair-case: and the knight being conducted into an apartment, hung with the richest tissue and brocade, was unarmed, and attended by six sprightly damsels, well instructed by the duke and duchess in the particulars of behaviour which they were to observe towards Don Quixote, in order to convince him that he was treated in all respects like a knight-errant. Thus disarmed, he remained in his strait breeches and shamoy doublet, so long, so lank, so lean, with his lanthorn jaws kissing each other, that if the damsels had not been very careful in preserving their gravity, according to the precise orders they had received, they must certainly have burst with laughing at sight of such an uncouth figure. They desired he would allow them to undress and shift him; but he would not assent to this proposal, saying that knights-errant ought to be as remarkable for decency as for valour: he therefore bade them deliver the shirt to Sancho, with whom shutting himself up in a chamber, furnished with a magnificent bed, he was immediately undressed and shifted. Then being alone with his squire, ‘Tell me,’ said he, ‘thou modern buffoon and ancient blockhead! was it thy province to dishonour and affront a venerable duenna, so worthy of reverence and respect! Was that a time to think of Dapple? or couldst thou imagine those noble persons would neglect the cattle belonging to guests whom they treated with such elegance? For the love of God, Sancho; set a guard upon thy tongue, and behave so as that people may not discover, by the thread, the coarse country web of which thou art woven: consider, sinner as thou art, that the matter is respected in proportion to the discretion and good-breeding of his servants; and this is one of the great advantages which noblemen have over people of inferior rank: dost thou not consider, thou plague to thyself, and vexation to me! that if they perceive thee to be a base-bred clown or blundering fool, they will take me for some cheating impostor or knight of the post! No, no, Sancho, shun and avoid those inconveniences; for he who sets up for a merry-andrew, falls at the first stumble into a disgraced buffoon: bridle thy tongue, therefore, consider and ruminate well, before the words issue from thy mouth; and remember that we are now arrived at a place from whence by the favour of God, and the valour of mine arm, we shall depart, bettered three, nay, five-fold, both in fortune and in fame.’ Sancho promised, with repeated assurances, that he would rather stitch up his mouth, or bite off his tongue, than utter one word that should not be pat to the purpose, and well considered, according to his command; and that he might make himself perfectly easy on that score, for by him it should never be discovered who they were.

Don Quixote having dressed himself, girded on his sword, thrown the scarlet mantle over his shoulders, and covered his head with a cap of green velvet, which he received from the damsels, came forth thus equipped, into the great hall, where he found the maidens placed in two equal rows, furnished with the implements for hands-washing, which they administered with profound respect and abundance of ceremony: then came the major-domo, attended by twelve pages, to conduct him to the table where their graces waited for him; he was accordingly surrounded by these domesticks, and led with great pomp and majesty into another hall, in which appeared a table, nobly decorated, with four covers. The duke and duchess came to the door to receive him, attended by one of those grave ecclesiasticks who govern the families of noblemen; who being of no birth themselves, know not how to direct those who are; who seek to measure the grandeur of the great by the narrowness of their own souls; and, in attempting to make their pupils œconomists, convert them into downright misers: such, I say, was the grave clergyman who came out to receive Don Quixote, with the duke and duchess. After a thousand courteous compliments, they walked on each side of him to the table, where the duke complimented him with the upper end; and though he refused that honour, they importuned him so much, that he was obliged to comply; the clergyman sitting opposite to him, and the duke and duchess taking their places at the sides.

Sancho, who was present at all this ceremony, being confounded and astonished at the honours which were paid to his master, and perceiving the formality and entreaties that passed between his grace and Don Quixote, about sitting at the head of the table, intruded himself, as usual, into the discourse, saying, ‘With your honour’s leave, I’ll tell you a story of what happened in our village, with respect to the upper-hand in sitting.’

Scarce had he pronounced these words, when the knight began to tremble with apprehensions that he was going to utter some absurdity; but the squire seeing and understanding the cause of his matter’s trepidation, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘Your worship needs not be afraid that I shall misbehave, or say, something that is not to the matter in hand; for I have not forgot the advice I just now received from your worship, about speaking a little or a great deal, to the purpose, and not to the purpose.’—‘I know nothing at all of the matter,’ answered the knight; ‘say what thou wilt, so thou sayest it quickly.’—‘Well then,’ replied Sancho, ‘what I am going to say, is true, for my master Don Quixote, here present, would not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘As for me,’ said Don Quixote, ‘you may lye as much as you please, without lett or molestation: but I advise you to consider well what you are about to say.’—‘I have it so well considered and reconsidered, that I am as safe as he that has the repique in hand, as will appear in the performance.’—‘Your graces will do well,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to order the servants to turn out this madman, who will commit a thousand blunders.’—‘By the life of the duke!’ cried the duchess, ‘I will not part with my good friend Sancho, for whom I have a very great respect, because I know him to be a person of wit and pleasantry.’—‘Pleasant may all the days of your holiness be, for your good opinion, of my deserts,’ said the squire; ‘though God knows, they are but slender enough: however, my story is this.

‘There was an invitation given by a gentleman of our town, who was both rich and well born, as being come of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Donna Mencia de Quinones, daughter of Don Alonzo de Maranon, Knight of the Order of St. Jago, who was drowned in the Herradura, and occasioned a quarrel some years ago in our village, in which, if I am not mistaken, my master Don Quixote was concerned; but this I know, mad Tom, the son of old Balvastro the blacksmith, was hurt on that occasion.—Now, Sir Master of mine, is not this God’s truth; speak upon your worship’s honour, that these noble persons may not look upon me as a chattering lyar?’—‘Hitherto,’ said the clergyman, ‘I take you to be a chatterer rather than a lyar; but I know not what I shall take you for in the sequel.’—‘Thou hast produced so many witnesses and tokens,’ replied the knight, ‘that I cannot but say thy story looks like truth; proceed, however, and shorten thy tale, for thou art in the way of lengthening it out for the space of two whole days.’—‘He shall not shorten it,’ said the duchess, ‘if he consults my entertainment; but, on the contrary, tell it in his own way, though it should not be finished in six days; for should it hold out so long, they will be some of the pleasantest I ever passed.’

‘Well, then, my masters,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same gentleman, whom I know as well as I know these two hands, for it is not above a bow-shot from his house to mine; invited a farmer, who, though not rich, was a very honest man.’—‘Dispatch, brother,’ cried the priest, interposing, ‘for at this rate, your story will reach to the other world.’—‘It will hardly go half so far, an it please God,’ answered the squire; who thus proceeded: ‘So, as I was saying, the farmer going to the house of the gentleman inviter, who is now dead, God rest his soul! by the same token they say he died like an angel; for my own part, I was not present at his death, having gone a reaping to Tembleque.’—‘As you hope to live, son,’ cried the ecclesiastick, ‘return quickly from Tembleque, and finish your story, without staying to inter the gentleman, unless you have a mind to bury us all?’—‘Well, to come to the point,’ replied Sancho; ‘when the two came to be seated at table. Methinks I see them now more than ever.’ The duke and duchess were infinitely pleased with the disgust which the reverend ecclesiastick expressed at the tedious and circumstantial manner in which the squire related his story, while Don Quixote was almost consumed by shame and indignation. ‘I say, moreover,’ resumed Sancho, ‘that the two, as I have already observed, coming to sit down at the table, the farmer obstinately refused to take the upper-end, according to the desire of the entertainer; while the gentleman on the other hand as obstinately insisted upon his compliance, alledging that he ought to be master in his own house; but the farmer, who piqued himself upon his politeness and good-breeding, still persisted in his refusal, until the gentleman, growing angry, took him by the shoulders, and thrust him into the seat, saying, “Know, Mr. Chaff-thresher, that wheresoever I sit, I shall always be at the head of the table.” Now this is my tale, and I really believe it was brought in pretty pat to the purpose.’

Don Quixote’s brown face was speckled with a thousand different colours at this recital: and their graces restrained their laughter, that he might not be quite abashed at the sarcastick insinuation of his squire. To change the discourse, therefore, and prevent Sancho from uttering any other such dangerous contents, the duchess addressing herself to the knight, asked, when he had heard from the Lady Dulcinea; and if he had lately sent her any presents from the great number of giants and robbers whom he must have vanquished. To this interrogation the knight replied, ‘My misfortunes, Madam, though they had a beginning, will never have an end. Giants I have vanquished; felons and robbers I have sent; but where must they find her, inchanted and transformed as she is, into the most homely country wench that can be imagined!’—‘This I know,’ said Sancho Panza: ‘to me she seemed the most beautiful creature in the whole world; at least, in point of nimbleness and leaping, she would get the better of a professed rope-dancer.—In good faith, my Lady Duchess, she skipped from the ground upon her ass, like a perfect cat.’—‘What! have you seen her inchanted, Sancho?’ said the duke. ‘How! I seen her?’ replied the squire: ‘who the devil but I was the first that fell upon the plot of the inchantment: to be sure she was as much inchanted as my father.’

The ecclesiastick hearing them talk of giants, felons, and inchantments, began to imagine that this must be the Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose history the duke took such delight in reading, that he had often reprehended his grace for being so mad as to read such nonsense; and being now confirmed in his suspicion, he said to the duke, in a very cholerick tone, ‘Signior, your excellency is accountable to Heaven for the actions of that poor man. That Don Quixote, or Don Driveller, or what’s his name, would not, I imagine, be such a fool, if your excellency did not administer fuel and encouragement to his madness and folly.’ Then addressing himself to the knight, ‘And pray, Mr. Wiseacre,’ said he, ‘who has stuffed your brain with the ridiculous conceit of your being a knight-errant, conquering giants, and apprehending robbers? Return, in good hour, (for in good hour I advise you) return to your own house, educate your children, if you have any, take care of your own concerns, and leave off strolling about the country, sucking the wind, and exposing yourself to the laughter of those who do, and those who do not, know your infirmity. Where, in evil hour, did you find that there are, or ever were, knights-errant? Where did you ever see giants in Spain, caitiffs in La Mancha, or inchanted Dulcineas, with all that tribe of absurdities that are recounted as your adventures?’

Don Quixote, who listened attentively to the discourse of this venerable person, no sooner perceived he had left off speaking, than forgetting the respect he owed the duke and duchess, he started up, and with ireful aspect and glowing visage, replied——But the reply deserves a chapter for itself.

CHAP. XV.
CONTAINING DON QUIXOTE’S REPLY TO HIS REPROVER;
WITH OTHER SERIOUS AND DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

Don Quixote starting up, and trembling from head to foot, like quicksilver, thus accosted the ecclesiastick, with an eager, yet faultering tongue: ‘The place and presence in which I am, and the respect which I always had and still have for the function you profess, withold and tie up the hands of my just resentment; for these reasons, as well as because I know what all the world knows, that gownmen and women make use of no weapons but their tongues, I will, with mine, fairly engage your reverence, of whom I might have expected good advice, rather than infamous reproach; as wholesome and well-meant reproof requires far other circumstances, and ought to be conveyed in gentler terms: at least, a rebuke in publick, delivered with such asperity, has exceeded all the bounds of Christian reprehension, the beginning of which ought to be mild rather than severe; nor is it just to call the delinquent in plain terms, a wiseacre and a fool, without knowing the nature of the fault for which he is reprehensible. But, pray tell me, reverend Signior, for which of the absurdities you have noted in my behaviour, do you condemn and reproach me, bidding me return to my own house, to take care of my family, my wife and children, without knowing whether I have either wife or children? What then! is there nothing required but to enter a house at random, in order to lead the master by the nose; and shall a narrow-minded pedant, on the strength of having taught a few pupils to read Latin, though he has seen no more of the world than what may be contained in twenty or thirty leagues of district, presume abruptly, without permission, to give laws to chivalry, and judge of knights-errant? Is it a vain undertaking then, or is the time misspent, which we employ in travelling about the world, not in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend the throne of immortality? Had I been counted a fool by knights, or people of fashion, birth, or generosity, I should have deemed myself irreparably affronted; but my being regarded as a madman by book-worms who never entered or trod the paths of chivalry, I value not a farthing; a knight I am, and a knight I shall die according to the pleasure of the Almighty. Some chuse the spacious field of proud ambition; others take that of base and servile adulation; a third set follow the paths of deceitful hypocrisy; and a fourth proceed in that of true religion; but I, by the influence of my stars, pursue the narrow track of knight-errantry, for the exercise of which, I undervalue fortune in the chace of honour. I have assisted the aggrieved, redressed wrongs, chastised the insolent, overcome giants, and overthrown hobgoblins. I am enamoured, for no other reason but because it is necessary that knights-errant should be in love; and this being the case, I am not a vicious libertine, but a chaste platonick admirer. My intention I always direct to a worthy aim, namely, to do good unto all men, and harm to no creature.—Whether or not he who thinks, acts, and speaks in this manner, deserves to be called a fool, let your graces determine?’

‘Well argued, master!’ cried Sancho: ’‘Fore God! your worship needs say no more in behalf of your own character; for there is no more to be said, thought, or insisted upon; especially as that gentleman denies, and he certainly has denied, that there either are, or ever were, knights-errant in this world; so that he knows nothing at all of the matter!’—‘Brother,’ replied the priest, ‘belike you are that Sancho Panza, to whom they say your master has promised an island?’—‘Yes, I am,’ said the squire, ‘and I hope I deserve it as well as another. I am one of whom you may say, Keep good company, and you’ll learn good manners; and, I ask not where you was hatched, but where you was watched. And again, Well sheltered shall he be, who leans against a sturdy tree. Now I have leaned against a good master, and accompanied him many months, and will learn to be just such another as himself; and if God pleases, and he live and I live, he will not want governments to give, nor I islands to govern.’—‘No, surely, friend Sancho,’ said the duke, ‘for I myself, in the name of Signior Don Quixote, will confer upon you the government of an odd island, and that not inconsiderable, which is in my possession.’—‘Fall upon your knees, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘and kiss his excellency’s feet, for the honour he has done you.’ Sancho did as he was desired: and the ecclesiastick no sooner saw the ceremony performed, than he rose from table in a violent passion, saying, ‘By the habit which I wear, I affirm, that your excellency is as mad as these poor sinners: what wonder that they should be frantick, when people who are in their senses canonize their phrenzy! Your excellency may enjoy their company by yourself; for while they remain in this house, I shall stay in my own, and excuse myself from reproving what I cannot remedy.’ Without farther speech, or eating another mouthful, he went away abruptly, in spite of all their graces could say to detain him. Indeed the duke said not much; for he was hindered by the laughter which the priest’s impertinent indignation had produced; however, as soon as he could resume his gravity, he addressed himself to Don Quixote in these words.

‘Sir Knight of the Lions, your worship has made such an ample reply, that nothing farther remains to be done, by way of satisfaction for that, which though it may seem an affront, falls by no means under that denomination; for neither the female sex nor the clergy, can give affronts, as your worship so very well knows.’—‘Undoubtedly,’ answered the knight; ‘and the reason is, because those persons who cannot receive, are not capable of giving an affront. Women, children, and ecclesiasticks, as they cannot defend themselves when attacked, so neither can they be affronted: for there is this difference between an injury and affront, as your excellency well knows; an affront comes from a person who is capable of giving an affront, and when it is given, maintains it; whereas, an injury may come from any quarter, unattended by an affront. For example, a man walking carelessly in the street, is assaulted and cudgelled by ten armed persons, against whom he draws his sword, and behaves like a man of honour; but he is overpowered by the number of his antagonists, and prevented from executing his intention, which is to revenge the wrong; this man is injured, not affronted. A truth which we will confirm by another example: A man comes and strikes another, whose back is turned, and then betakes himself to his heels; and the other pursues, though he cannot overtake the fugitive. The man so struck received an injury, but no affront, because an affront ought to be maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done by stealth, in a cowardly manner, had drawn his sword, and stood facing the enemy, he who received the blow would have been both injured and affronted: injured, because he was surprized; and affronted, because he who gave the blow maintained it by keeping his ground. And therefore, according to the punctilios of honour, I may be injured but not affronted; for women and children do not feel those things; they can neither fly nor stand their ground: and the same rule holds good with those who are consecrated to the service of religion. Now these three classes of mankind are destitute of offensive and defensive weapons; and though nature obliges them to stand in their own defence, yet they can offend nobody: and albeit I just now said I might be injured, I now affirm it cannot be in any shape; for he who cannot receive, much less can he give an affront. For which reasons I ought not to resent, nor do I resent, the reproaches of that honest man; I only wish he had staid a little, until I should have convinced him of his error, in thinking and saying, there never were, nor are, knights-errant upon the face of the earth; an asseveration which might have turned to his prejudice, had it been overheard by Amadis, or any one of his infinite progeny.’—‘I’ll take my corporal oath,’ cried Sancho, ‘that they would have given a back-stroke that would have laid him open from top to toe, like a pomegranate or ripe melon: they were a rare set to endure such tickling. By my holy-dame! I am well assured, that if Reynaldos of Montalvan had heard this manikin’s discourse, he would have given him such a slap in the mouth, that he should not have spoke another word in three long years. No, no! let him meddle with them, and he’ll see how well he’ll escape out of their clutches.’ The duchess had well-nigh died with laughing at this speech of Sancho; who, in her sentiment, was a more diverting madman than his master, and a great many people at that time were of the same way of thinking.