Part 1 / Book 3 — BOOK III. (continued 2)

Thus dismissed, the batchelor pursued his way; and the knight asked what had induced Sancho, now, rather than at any other time, to stile him the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. ‘Truly,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have been looking at you some time by the light of that torch the unfortunate traveller held in his hand; and in good faith, your worship cuts the most dismal figure I have almost ever seen; and it must certainly be occasioned either by the fatigue you have undergone in this battle, or by the want of your teeth.’—‘That is not the case,’ replied his master; ‘but the sage who is destined to write the history of my exploits, hath thought proper that I should assume some appellation, by the example of former knights, one of whom took the title of the Flaming Sword; another of the Unicorn; a third of the Ladies; a fourth of the Phœnix; a fifth of the Griffin; a sixth called himself the Knight of Death; and by these epithets and symbols they were known all over the face of the earth; and therefore I say, that the forementioned sage hath now put it into thy thoughts, and directed thy tongue to call me the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; an appellation that henceforward I adopt; and 99that it may suit me the better, I am resolved to have a most woeful figure painted upon my shield, with the first opportunity.’—‘There is no occasion,’ said Sancho, ‘to throw away time and money on such a device; your worship has nothing more to do but uncover your face; and I’ll warrant those who behold it will call it a rueful one, without your having recourse to pictures and shields to explain your meaning; and you may believe I tell you nothing but the truth, when I maintain, though it be but in jest, that hunger and want of teeth makes your worship look so ill-favouredly, that we may very well save the expence of a rueful picture.’

Don Quixote could not help laughing at the pleasantry of Sancho, though he actually determined to assume that name, and have his shield and target painted according to his fancy, ‘I know, Sancho,’ said he, ‘that I have incurred the sentence of excommunication, for having laid violent hands on consecrated things, according to the canon; “Si quis suadente diabolo, &c.” yet you know I touched them not with my hands, but with my lance; and even then never dreamed of injuring priests, or of giving the smallest offence to the church, which I respect and adore, like a faithful catholick and Christian as I am; but, on the contrary, took them for phantoms and beings of another world: but the case being as it is, I remember what happened to the Cid Ruy Diaz, who broke to pieces the chair of a certain king’s ambassador, in presence of his holiness the pope; for which outrage he was excommunicated; and that very day the worthy Rodrigo de Vivar behaved like a valiant and honourable knight.’

The batchelor being gone, as we have observed, without answering one word, Don Quixote expressed a desire of examining the litter, to see if it really contained a corpse; but Sancho would by no means consent to this enquiry, saying, ‘Your worship has already finished this perilous adventure with less damage to yourself than I have seen you receive in any other; but the people whom you have conquered and overthrown, may chance to recollect that they were vanquished by a single man, and be so much ashamed and confounded at their own cowardice as to rally, and if they find us, give us our belly-full. Dapple is at present very comfortably furnished; there is an uninhabited mountain hard by, hunger is craving, we have nothing to do but retreat thither at a gentle trot; and, as the saying is, “The dead to the bier, and the living to good cheer.”’ With these words he took the lead with his ass, and the knight thinking there was a good deal of reason in what he said, followed him very peaceably, without making any reply.

When they had travelled a little way between two hills, they found themselves in a spacious and retired valley, where they alighted; Sancho unloaded the ass, they sat down on the green turf, and with hunger for their sauce, dispatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon, and supper, at one meal; solacing their stomachs out of more than one basket, which the ecclesiastical attendants of the defunct, who seldom neglect these things, had brought along with them on their sumpter-mule: but another misfortune befel them, which, in Sancho’s opinion, was the worst that could happen: they had not one drop of wine to drink, nor indeed of water to cool their throats, so that they were parched with thirst; then the squire, perceiving the meadow where they sat was overgrown with green and tender grass, made the proposal which may be seen in the following chapter.

CHAP. VI. OF THE UNSEEN AND UNHEARD OF ADVENTURE ATCHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, WITH LESS HAZARD THAN EVER ATTENDED ANY EXPLOIT PERFORMED BY THE MOST RENOWNED KNIGHT ON EARTH.

‘This grass, my good master, proves beyond all contradiction, that there must be some spring or rivulet hereabouts by which it is watered; and therefore we had better proceed a little farther, until we find wherewith to allay this terrible thirst, which is more painful and fatiguing than hunger alone.’ This advice appearing rational to Don Quixote, he took hold of Rozinante’s bridle, and Sancho leading Dapple by the halter, 100after he had loaded him again with the fragments of their supper, they began to move farther into the meadow, at a venture; for the night was so dark, they could not distinguish one object from another: but they had not gone two hundred paces, when their ears were saluted with a prodigious noise of water, that seemed to rush down from some huge and lofty rocks; they were infinitely rejoiced at the sound, when halting to listen, that they might know whence it came, they were all of a sudden surprized with another kind of noise, that soon damped the pleasure occasioned by the water, especially in Sancho, who was naturally fearful and faint-hearted; I say they heard the sound of regular strokes, accompanied with strange clanking of iron chains, which, added to the dreadful din of the cataract, would have smote the heart of any other but Don Quixote with fear and consternation.

The night, as we have already observed, was dark; our travellers happened at this time to be in a grove of tall trees, whose leaves, moving gently by the wind, yielded a sort of dreary whisper: so that the solitude of the place, the darkness of the night, the noise of the water, and rustling of the leaves, concurred to inspire them with horror and dismay; the more so, as the strokes were continued, the wind sighed on, and the morning was far off; and all these circumstances were aggravated by their ignorance of the place in which they were. But Don Quixote, encouraged by his own intrepid heart, mounted Rozinante, braced his shield, and brandishing his lance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ cried he, ‘know that I was born by Heaven’s appointment in these iron times to revive the age of gold, or, as it is usually called, the golden age. I am he for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved! I am he, I say, ordained to re-establish the Knights of the Round-table, the Twelve Peers of France, with the Nine Worthies! He whose feats shall bury, in oblivion the Platirs, Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, the Febuses and Belianises, together with the whole tribe of knights-errant who lived in former times; performing such mighty and amazing deeds of arms, as will eclipse their most renowned acts! Consider well, thou true and loyal squire, the darkness and the solemn stillness of this night, the indistinct and hollow whispering of these trees, the dreadful din of that water we came to seek, which seems to rush and rumble down from the lofty mountains of the moon; together with these incessant strokes that strike and wound our ears: all those circumstances united, or each singly by itself, is sufficient to infuse fear, terror, and dismay, into the breast of Mars himself; much more in him who is altogether unaccustomed to such adventures and events. Yet all I have described are only incentives that awaken my courage, and already cause my heart to rebound within my breast, with desire to atchieve this adventure, howsoever difficult it may appear to be! Therefore straiten Rozinante’s girth, recommend thyself to God, and wait for me in this place, three days at farthest; within which time, if I come not back, thou mayest return to our village; and, as the last favour and service done to me, go from thence to Toboso, and inform my incomparable mistress, Dulcinea, that her captive knight died in attempting things that might render him worthy to be called her lover.’

When Sancho heard these last words of his master, he began to blubber with incredible tenderness. ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘why your worship should attempt such a terrible adventure: it is now dark, and nobody sees us; therefore we may turn out of this road and avoid the danger, though we should not taste liquor these three days; and if nobody sees us, we run no risk of being accused of cowardice; besides, I have heard the curate of our town, whom your worship knows very well, remark in his preaching, “He that seeketh danger perisheth therein;” therefore it must be a sin to tempt God by engaging in this rash exploit, from whence there is no escaping without a miracle; and Heaven hath wrought enow of them already, in preserving you from being blanketed as I was, and bringing you off conqueror, and sound wind and limb, from the midst of so many adversaries as accompanied the dead man: and if all this will not move you, nor soften your rugged heart, sure you will relent, when you consider and 101are assured that your worship will be scarce gone from hence, when I shall I through pure fear yield my life to any thing that may chuse to take it. I left my habitation, wife and children, to come and serve your worship, believing it would be the better, not the worse for me so to do; but as greediness bursts the bag, so is the bag of my hopes bursten; for when they are at the highest pitch, in expectation of that curst unlucky island your worship has promised me so often, I find in lieu of that, you want to make me amends by leaving me in this desart, removed from all human footsteps: for the love of God, dear master, do me not such wrong; or if your worship is resolved to attempt this atchievement at any rate, at least delay it till morning, which, according to the signs I learned when I was a shepherd, will appear in less than three hours; for the muzzle of the bear is at the top of his head^[63], and shews midnight in the line of the left paw.’

‘How canst thou perceive,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that line, or head, or muzzle, thou talked of, when the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen?’—‘It is so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but fear hath many eyes; and I can at present behold things that are hid within the bowels of the earth; much more those that appear in the firmament above: a man of sound judgment, like me, can easily foretel that it will soon be day.’—‘Let it come when it will,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘it shall not be said of me, either now or at any other time, that I was diverted by tears and intreaties from doing what I owed to the customs of chivalry; I therefore beseech thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace; for God, who hath put it in my heart to attempt this dreadful and unseen adventure, will doubtless take care of my safety, and comfort thee in thy affliction: thy business at present is to gird fast Rozinante, and remain in this place, for dead or alive I will soon return.’

Sancho finding this was the final resolution of his master, and how little all his tears, advice, and intreaties availed, determined, to make use of stratagem to detain the knight, if possible, till morning: with this purpose, under pretence of adjusting the girth of Rozinante, he fair and softly, without being perceived, tied two of the horse’s feet together with the halter of his ass, in such a manner, that when Don Quixote attempted to depart, he found it impossible, because his steed could move no otherwise than by leaps. The squire perceiving the success of his invention, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you may see that Heaven, melted by my tears and prayers, hath ordained that Rozinante shall not stir; and if you obstinately persist in spurring and driving him on, you will only give offence to Providence, and, as the saying is, “Kick against the pricks.”’

The knight actually despaired of making him go forward, because the more he goaded his horse, the less was he inclined to stir; and therefore, without guessing a tittle of the ligature, thought proper to submit and wait with patience, either till morning, or such time as Rozinante should recover the use of his limbs; believing for certain, that his disappointment was owing to another cause than the craft of his squire, to whom he said, ‘Since Rozinante is incapable of moving, I am content to wait for the dawn, though I cannot help lamenting its delay.’—‘You shall have no cause for lamentation,’ answered Sancho; ‘I will entertain your worship with telling stories till day, unless you chuse to alight, and take a nap on the soft grass according to the custom of knights-errant, that you may find yourself refreshed when day breaks, and ready to undertake the unconscionable adventure that awaits you.’—‘Talk not to me of alighting or sleeping,’ said Don Quixote; ‘dost thou imagine me to be one of those knights who seek their repose in times of danger? Sleep thou who wast born to sleep, or follow thy own inclinations; for my own part, I will behave as becomes a person of my pretensions.’—‘Let not your worship be offended; for that was not my intention when I spoke;’ answered Sancho; who coming close to him, laid hold of the saddle before and behind, and stood embracing his master’s left thigh, without daring to stir a finger’s breadth from the spot; such was his consternation, inspired 102by the strokes, which all this time sounded alternately in his ears.

Then Don Quixote claiming his promise of entertaining him with some story; ‘I would with all my heart,’ said Sancho, ‘if the dread of what I hear would allow me; but nevertheless I will try to force out one story, which if I hit it aright, without letting it slip through my hands, is the best tale that ever was told; therefore I would have your worship be attentive, for thus I begin.

‘There was, so there was; the good that shall fall, betide us all; and he that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil. Your worship may take notice, that the beginning of ancient tales is not just what came into the head of the teller: no, they always began with some saying of Cato the censor of Rome, like this of, “He that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil.” And truly it comes as pat to the purpose as the ring to my finger, in order to persuade your worship to remain where you are, without going in search of evil in any manner of way; or else to turn into another road, since we are not bound to follow this in which we have been surprized with fear and terror.’—‘Follow thy story, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and as to the road we have to follow, leave the care of that to me.’—‘To proceed, then,’ said Sancho; ‘in a certain village of Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd; I mean, one that kept goats; and this shepherd or goatherd, as the story goes, was called Lope Ruyz; and it came to pass, that this Lope Ruyz fell in love with a shepherdess whose name was Torralva; which shepherdess, whose name was Torralva, was the daughter of a rich herdsman; and this rich herdsman—’

‘If thou telleth thy tale in this manner,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘repeating every circumstance twice over, it will not be finished these two days: proceed therefore connectedly, and rehearse it like a man of understanding; otherwise thou hadst better hold thy tongue.’—‘In my country,’ answered Sancho, ‘all the old stories are told in this manner; neither can I tell it in any other; nor is it civil in your worship to desire I should change the custom.’—‘Take thy own way,’ said the knight; ‘and since it is the will of fate that I should hear thee, pray go on.’

‘Well, then, good master of mine,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same shepherd, as I have already remarked, fell in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a thick, brawny wench, a little coy, and somewhat masculine; for she wore a sort of mustachios: methinks I see her now for all the world.’—‘Then thou knewest her?’ said the knight. ‘Not I,’ answered the squire; ‘but the person who told me the story, said it was so true and certain, that if ever I should chance to tell it again, I might affirm upon oath that I had seen it with my own eyes—And so, in process of time, the devil, who never sleeps, but wants to have a finger in every pye, managed matters in such a manner, that the shepherd’s love for the shepherdess was turned into malice and deadly hate: and the cause, according to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of small jealousies she gave him, exceeding all bounds of measure. And such was the abhorrence the shepherd conceived for her, from that good day forward, that, in order to avoid the sight of her, he resolved to absent himself from his own country, and go where he should never set eyes on her again. Torralva, finding herself despised by Lope, began to love him more than ever.’—‘That is the natural disposition of the sex,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to disdain those who adore them, and love those by whom they are abhorred: but proceed, Sancho.’

‘It so fell out,’ said Sancho, ‘that the shepherd put his resolution in practice, and driving his goats before him, travelled through the plains of Estremadura, towards the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, having got an inkling of his design, was soon at his heels, following him on foot, aye, and barefoot too, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand, and a wallet at her back, in which, as the report goes, she carried a bit of a looking-glass, a broken comb, and a kind of phial of wash for her complexion: but howsomever, whether she carried these things or not, I shall not at present take upon me to aver; but only say what is recorded, that the shepherd came with his flock to the river Guadiana, which at that time was very high, having almost forsaken its channel; and finding at the place neither boat nor bark to carry himself and his flock to the 103other side, he was very much in the dumps, because he saw Torralva behind him, and knew what he must suffer from her tears and complaints: but looking about, he at last perceived hard by him a fisherman in a boat, that was so small as to contain only one person and one goat: nevertheless, they struck up a bargain, by which the man was to ferry over the shepherd with his three hundred goats. Accordingly the fisherman took one goat into the boat, and carried it over; then he returned and carried over another, then he returned again to fetch another. Pray, good your worship, keep an exact account of the goats, as the fisherman ferried them over; for, if one only should be lost in the reckoning, the story will break off, and it will be impossible for me to relate one word more. To be short, then, I say, the landing-place on the other side being full of mud and slippery, was a great hindrance to the fisherman in his going and coming; but however he returned for the other goat, and then for some more, and then for another.’

‘Suppose them all passed over at once,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for if thou goest backwards and forwards in this manner, thou wilt not have them all ferried over in a year.’—‘How many have already passed?’ said the squire. ‘How the devil should I know?’ answered the knight. ‘Did not I tell you to keep a good account?’ said Sancho; ‘now, before God, the tale is ended, and it is impossible to proceed!’—‘How can that be?’ replied Don Quixote; ‘is it so essential to the story to know the number of goats as they passed, so precisely, that if I misreckon one, thou canst not proceed?’—‘Certainly, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘I can proceed in no manner of way: for when I desired your worship to tell me what number of goats had passed, and you answered you did not know; at that instant the whole of the story that remained untold, vanished from my remembrance; and, upon my conscience! it was very curious and entertaining.’—‘At that rate, then, the story is at an end?’ said Don Quixote. ‘As much at an end,’ replied the squire, ‘as the mother that bore me.’

‘In good sooth,’ resumed the knight, ‘thou hast related the strangest fable, tale, or story, that ever was invented; and finished thy relation in such a manner as never was or will be heard again in this world; but nothing else was to be expected from thy sound judgment; and indeed it is a matter of no admiration with me, because I take it for granted, that these incessant strokes have disordered thy understanding.’—‘Not unlikely,’ said Sancho; ‘but this I know, that there is no more to be said of the tale, which ended in that place where the mistake began about the passage of the goats.’—‘In good time end it according to thy own pleasure,’ replied the knight, ‘and now let us see if Rozinante will move.’ So saying, he began again to spur, and the horse to leap without moving from his station, so effectually had Sancho fettered him.

About this time, whether it was owing to the coolness of the morning that approached, or to his having supped upon something that was laxative; or, which is more probable, to the operation of nature; Sancho was seized with an inclination and desire of doing that which could not be performed by proxy; but such was the terror that had taken possession of his soul, that he durst not move the breadth of a nail-pairing from his master’s side; at the same time it was as impossible for him to resist the motion of his bowels; and therefore, to compromise the matter, he slipped his right-hand from the hinder part of the saddle, and without any noise softly undid the slip-knot by which his breeches were kept up; upon which they of themselves fell down to his heels, where they remained like a pair of shackles; he then gathered up his shirt behind as well as he could, and exposed his posteriors, which were none of the smallest, to the open air: this being done, and he imagined it was the chief step he could take to deliver himself from the pressing occasion and dilemma in which he was, another difficulty still greater occurred, namely, that he should not be able to disincumber himself without noise; he therefore began to fix his teeth close, shrug up his shoulders, and hold in his breath with all his might. But, notwithstanding these precautions, he was so unlucky in the issue, as to produce a rumbling sound very different from that which had terrified him so much. It did not escape the ears of 104Don Quixote, who immediately cried, ‘What noise is that, Sancho?’—‘I know not, Sir,’ said the squire; ‘it must be some new affair, for adventures and misventures never begin with trifles.’ He tried his fortune a second time; and, without any more noise or disorder, freed himself from the load which had given him so much uneasiness. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smelling was altogether as acute as that of his hearing, and Sancho stood so close to him that the vapours ascended towards him almost in a direct line, he could not exclude some of them from paying a visit to his nose. No sooner was he sensible of the first salutation, than, in his own defence, he pressed his nose between his finger and thumb, and, in a snuffling tone, pronounced, ‘Sancho, thou seemest to be in great fear.’—‘I am so,’ answered the squire; ‘but how comes your worship to perceive my fears now more than ever?’—‘Because at present thou smellest more than ever, and that not of amber,’ replied the knight. ‘That may be,’ said Sancho; ‘but I am not so much to blame as your worship, who drags me at such unseasonable hours into these uninhabited places.’—‘Retire three or four steps farther off, friend,’ resumed Don Quixote, stopping his nose all the time, ‘and henceforth take more heed of thy own person, and remember what thou owest to mine; for I find the frequent conversation I maintain with thee, hath engendered this disrespect.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship thinks I have been doing something I ought not to have done.’—‘The more you stir it, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘the more it will stink.’

In this and other such discourse, the master and his squire passed the night; but Sancho perceiving the day begin to break apace, with great care and secresy unbound Rozinante, and tied up his breeches. The beast, which was naturally none of the briskest, seemed to rejoice at his freedom, and began to paw the ground; for as to curvetting, with his leave be it spoken, he knew nothing of the matter. Don Quixote, finding him so mettlesome, conceived a good omen from his eagerness, believing it a certain presage of his success in the dreadful adventure he was about to atchieve. Aurora now disclosed herself, and objects appearing distinctly, Don Quixote found himself in a grove of tall chesnut-trees, which formed a very thick shade. The strokes still continuing, though he could not conceive the meaning of them, he, without farther delay, made Rozinante feel the spur; then turning to take leave of Sancho, commanded him to wait three days at farthest, as he had directed before; and if he should not return before that time was expired, he might take it for granted that God had been pleased to put a period to his life in that perilous adventure; he again recommended to him the embassy and message he should carry from him to his mistress Dulcinea, and bade him give himself no uneasiness about his wages; for he had made a will before he quitted his family, in which he should find his services repaid, by a salary proportioned to the time of his attendance: but if Heaven should be pleased to bring him off from that danger, safe, sound, and free, he might, beyond all question, lay his account with the government of the island he had promised him. Sancho, hearing these dismal expressions of his worthy master repeated, began to blubber afresh, and resolved not to leave him until the last circumstance and issue of the affair.

From these tears, and this honourable determination of Sancho Panza, the author of this history concludes, that he must have been a gentleman born, or an old Christian at least. His master himself was melted a little at this testimony of his affection, but not so much as to discover the least weakness: on the contrary, disguising his sentiments, he rode forward towards the place from whence the noise of the strokes and water seemed to come; Sancho followed on foot, and according to custom, leading by the halter his ass, which was the constant companion of his good and evil fortune. Having travelled a good way among those shady chesnut-trees, they arrived in a small meadow lying at the foot of a huge rock, over which a stream of water rushed down with vast impetuosity. Below appeared a few wretched huts, that looked more like ruins than houses; and they observed that from them proceeded the horrible din of the strokes, which had not yet ceased.

105Rozinante being startled at the dreadful noise of the strokes and water, Don Quixote endeavoured to soothe him, and advanced by little and little towards the huts, recommending himself in the most earnest manner to his mistress, whose favour he implored in the atchievement of that fearful enterprize: neither did he omit praying to God for his protection. Sancho, who never stirred from his side, thrust his neck as far as he could between the legs of Rozinante, in order to discover the objects that kept him in such terror and suspence; and when they had proceeded about a hundred paces farther, at the doubling of a corner, stood fully disclosed to view the very individual and undoubted cause of this tremendous sound and terrible noise, which had filled them with such doubts and consternation all night long.

This was no other, (be not offended, gentle reader) than six fulling-hammers, which, by their alternate strokes, produced that amazing din. Don Quixote was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight; Sancho looked at him, and found his head hanging down upon his breast, and other manifest signs of his being out of countenance. The knight, in his turn, looked at the squire, and saw his mouth shut, his cheeks puffed up, with other symptoms of his being ready to burst with laughing. This comical situation of the squire, in spite of all his own melancholy, obliged the master to begin; and Sancho no sooner beheld the severity of the knight’s features relaxed, than he opened the flood-gates of his mirth, which broke forth with such violence, that he was under the necessity of supporting his sides with both fists, that they might not be rent to pieces by the convulsion. Four times did he exhaust, and as often renew the laugh with the same impetuosity as at first; for which Don Quixote already wished him at the devil, more especially when he heard him pronounce, by way of sneer, ‘Know, friend Sancho, that I was born by Heaven’s appointment, in these iron times, to revive the age of gold, or the Golden Age! I am he for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved!’ And in this manner he proceeded, repeating all, or the greater part of the knight’s exclamation, when they first heard the terrible noise.

Don Quixote finding that Sancho made a jest of him, was so much ashamed and provoked, that, lifting up his lance, he bestowed upon him two or three thwacks, which, had they fallen upon his head, as they lighted on his shoulders, would have saved his master the trouble of paying his salary, unless it might be to his heirs. Sancho feeling his joke turned into such disagreeable earnest, which he was afraid might not be as yet over, addressed himself to his master with great humility, saying, ‘Good your worship, forbear; before God, I was only in jest.’—‘Though you was in jest,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I was not quite so merrily disposed: come hither, Mr. Joker; don’t you think, that if, instead of fulling-hammers, these had been some very dangerous adventure, I have shewn courage enough to undertake and atchieve it? Am I, who am a knight, obliged, for sooth, to distinguish sounds, and know which proceed from fulling-mills, and which do not? especially as it may be the case, and it really is so, that I never saw one before; though it is otherwise with thee, base plebeian as thou art, who was born and bred up among them: but see if thou canst metamorphose these six hammers into so many giants, and bring them within arm’s length of me, one by one, or all together; and if I don’t make them lie with their heels uppermost, make a jest of me as much as you please.’

‘Enough, dear master,’ replied Sancho, ‘I confess I have exceeded a little in my pleasantry; but, pray tell me now, that we are at peace again, as God shall deliver your worship from all succeeding adventures as safe and sound as you have been extricated from this, is not the terror with which we were seized, a thing to be laughed at and repeated? I mean, my own terror; for, as to your worship, I know you are an utter stranger to terror and dismay!’—‘I do not deny,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that what hath happened to us is ridiculous enough; but, nevertheless, it ought not to be repeated; because every body has not discretion to take things by the right handle.’—‘I am sure,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship knows how to handle your lance, with which, while you wanted to handle my head, you happened to salute my shoulders; thanks be to 106God, and my own activity, in avoiding the blow: but all that, when it is dry, will rub out; and I have often heard it said, “He that loves thee well, will often make thee cry.” Nay, it is a common thing for your gentry, when they have said a harsh thing to a servant, to make it up with him by giving him a pair of cast breeches; though I don’t know what they used to give after having beaten him, unless it be the practice of knights-errant, after blows, to give islands, or kingdoms on the main land.’

‘Who knows,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the dice may run that way, and all that thou hast mentioned come to pass. I ask pardon for what is past, since you are resolved to be more discreet for the future; and as the first emotions are not in a man’s own power, I must apprize thee henceforward to be more reserved, and abstain from speaking so freely to me; for in all the books of chivalry I have read, and they are almost infinite, I never found that any squire talked so much to his master as thou hast talked to thine: and really both you and I are very much to blame; thou, in regarding me so little; and I, in not making myself regarded more. Was not Gandalin, squire of Amadis de Gaul, count of the Firm Island? and yet we read of him, that he always spoke to his master cap in hand, with an inclination of his head, and his body bent in the Turkish manner. What need I mention Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who was so reserved, that, in order to express the excellence of his surprizing silence, his name is mentioned but once in the whole course of that equally vast and true history. From what I have said, Sancho, thou art to draw this inference, that there is a necessity for maintaining some distinction between the master and his man, the gentleman and his servant, and the knight and his squire: wherefore, from this day forward, we are to be treated with more respect and less provocation; for if ever I am incensed by you again, in any shape whatever, the pitcher will pay for all. The favours and benefits I have promised will come in due time; and if they should fail, your wages at least will be forthcoming, as I have already informed you.’

‘All that your worship observes is very just,’ said Sancho; ‘but I should be glad to know, since if the benefits come not in time, I must be fain to put up with the wages, what was the hire of a knight-errant’s squire in those days; and whether they agreed by the month or the day, like common labourers?’—‘I do not believe,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that they were retained for hire, but depended altogether on favour; and though I have bequeathed a sum to thee in my will, which I have left signed and sealed at home, it was done in case of the worst; for one does not know how chivalry may succeed in these calamitous times: and I would not have my soul punished in the other world for so small a matter; for, let me tell thee, Sancho, in this there is not a more dangerous course than that of adventures.’—‘That I know to be true,’ answered the squire, ‘since the noise of a fulling-mill could daunt and disturb the heart of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship: but this I assure you of, that from this good hour, my lips shall never give umbrage to your worship in turning your affairs to jest again; but, on the contrary, honour you as my natural lord and master.’—‘In so doing,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘thou shalt live long upon the face of the earth; for, after your father and mother, you ought to respect your master as another parent.’

CHAP. VII. OF THE SUBLIME ADVENTURE AND SHINING ACQUISITION OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET—WITH OTHER ACCIDENTS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT.

About this time some rain beginning to fall, Sancho proposed that they should shelter themselves in the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such abhorrence for it on account of what was past, that he would by no means set foot within its walls; wherefore, turning to the right-hand, they chanced to fall in with a road different from that in which they had travelled 107the day before: they had not gone far, when the knight discovered a man riding with something on his head, that glittered like polished gold; and scarce had he descried this phænomenon, when turning to Sancho, ‘I find,’ said he, ‘that every proverb is strictly true; indeed all of them are apothegms dictated by Experience herself, the mother of all science; more especially that which says, “Shut one door, and another will soon open:” this I mention, because if last night Fortune shut against us the door we sought to enter, by deceiving us with the fulling-hammers; to-day another stands wide open, in profering to us another greater and more certain adventure, by which if I fail to enter, it shall be my own fault, and not imputed to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or the darkness of the night. This I take upon me to say, because, if I am not egregiously mistaken, the person who comes towards us, wears upon his head the very helmet of Mambrino, about which I swore the oath which thou mayest remember.’

‘Consider well what your worship says, and better still what you do!’ said Sancho. ‘I should not chuse to meet with more fulling-mills to mill us and maul us altogether out of our senses.’—‘The devil take the fellow,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what affinity is there between a fulling-mill and a helmet?’—‘Truly, I know not,’ answered the squire; ‘but in good faith, if I were permitted to speak freely, as usual, I could perhaps give such reasons as would convince your worship, that you are mistaken in what you say.’—‘How can I be mistaken, scrupulous traitor?’ replied Don Quixote: ‘seest thou not yonder knight who rides this way upon a dapple steed with a golden helmet on his head?’—‘What I perceive and discern,’ said Sancho, ‘is no other than a man upon a grey ass, like my own, with something that glitters on his head.’—‘And that is the very helmet of Mambrino,’ replied the knight: ‘stand aside, and leave me alone to deal with him: thou shalt see, that without speaking a syllable, in order to spare time, this adventure will be concluded by my acquisition of the helmet I have longed for so much.’—‘Yes, I will take care to get out of the way,’ answered Sancho; ‘and God grant,’ cried he, as he went off, ‘that this may turn out a melon rather than a milling^[64].’—‘I have already warned thee, brother,’ said the knight, ‘not to mention, nor even so much as think of the mill again: else, by Heaven! I’ll say no more, but mill the soul out of thy body.’

Sancho was fain to hold his tongue, dreading the performance of his master’s oath, which had already struck him all of a heap. The whole affair of the helmet, steed, and knight, which Don Quixote saw, was no more than this: in that neighbourhood were two villages, one of them so poor and small, that it had neither shop nor barber: for which reason, the trimmer of the larger that was hard by, served the lesser also, in which, at that time, there was a sick person to be blooded, and another to be shaved; so that this barber was going thither with his brass bason under his arm; but, as it chanced to rain while he was on the road, that he might not spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he sheltered his head under the bason, which being clean scoured, made a flaming appearance, at the distance of half a league; and, as Sancho had observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which gave occasion to Don Quixote to believe he was some knight with a helmet of gold, mounted upon a dapple steed; for he accommodated every thing he saw, with incredible facility, to the extravagant ravings of his disordered judgment. When he, therefore, saw this unlucky knight approach, without the least expostulation, he put Rozinante to full speed, and couching his lance in the rest, resolved to run him through the body at once; but, when he was almost up with him, without checking the impetuosity of his career, he cried aloud, ‘Defend thyself, wretched caitiff, or voluntarily yield what so justly belongs to me.’

The poor barber, who neither dreaded nor dreamed of any such demand, seeing this phantom coming full speed upon him, could find no other means to defend himself from the stroke of the 108lance, than to throw himself down over the buttocks of his ass: then getting up, before he had scarce touched the ground, with the nimbleness of a stag, he began to fly across the plain so swift, that the wind itself could not overtake him: but he left his bason upon the spot, with which Don Quixote was satisfied, saying, ‘The pagan hath acted with discretion, in imitating the beaver, which, seeing itself chaced by the hunters, tears off with its teeth, by natural instinct, these parts for which it is pursued.’ Then, he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet, which the squire having examined all round, ‘Egad!’ said he, ‘it is a special good bason, well worth a piece of eight, if it be worth a farthing!’ and gave it to his master, who putting it on his head, and turning it round and round, without being able to find the vizor, said, ‘Without doubt, the pagan for whom this renowned helmet was first forged, must have had a most capacious head: but the worst of it is, that one half is wanting.’

When Sancho heard him call the bason a helmet, he could not refrain from laughing; but, remembering the indignation of his master, checked his mirth all of a sudden; and when Don Quixote asked what he laughed at, replied, ‘I cannot help laughing when I think of the huge head of the pagan who owned that helmet, which looks for all the world like a barber’s bason.’—‘Why, truly Sancho,’ said he, ‘I imagine that this very individual inchanted helmet, by some strange accident or other, must have fallen into the hands of somebody who did not know its inestimable value, but seeing it was made of the purest gold, melted down one half of it for sale, and left the other in this shape, resembling, as thou sayest, a barber’s bason: but be that as it may, since I am satisfied of its real worth and identity, the transmutation is of small consequence; for I will order it to be repaired in the first village where we can find a blacksmith, in such a manner as to be unexcelled, nay even unequalled by that which Vulcan forged and finished for the god of war; meanwhile, I will wear it in this manner, for it is still better than nothing at all, and will be sufficient to defend me from any shower of stones that may chance to fall.’

‘Yes, if they come not out of slings, as was the case in the skirmish between the two armies, when they demolished your worship’s grinders, and broke the cruse which contained that blessed balsam, which made me vomit up my liver and lights!’—‘That loss gives me not much uneasiness,’ answered the knight, ‘because thou knowest, Sancho, I retain the receipt of it in my memory.’—‘So do I,’ replied the squire. ‘But, Lord, let me never stir from the place where I now stand, if ever I either make or meddle with it for the future; especially as I hope I never shall have occasion for it again, being resolved, with the assistance of my five senses, to avoid being hurt myself, and also to refrain from hurting any person whatsoever. As to another bout of blanketing, I have little to say: such misfortunes are not easily prevented; but when they happen, there is nothing else to be done, but to shrug up our shoulders, hold in our breath, shut our eyes, and leave ourselves to the determination of chance and the blanket.’

‘Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, when he heard these words; ‘for once you receive an injury, you never forget it; but know it is peculiar to noble and generous minds to overlook such trifles: hast thou got a leg lamed, a rib fractured, or thy head broke in the prosecution of that jest, that thou canst not forget it? for the affair, when duly considered, was no more than jest and pastime; had I not understood it so, I should have returned ere now, and done more mischief in revenging thy quarrel, than the Grecians did for the rape of Helen; who, it she had lived in this age, or if my Dulcinea had flourished in her time, would not have been so renowned for beauty.’ Here he fetched a profound sigh, and sent it to the clouds. ‘Let it pass, then, for a joke,’ said Sancho, ‘since there is no likelihood of its being revenged in earnest: but I know what sort of jokes and earnests those are; and I believe they will scarce slip out of my memory, while they remain engraven on my shoulders. But, setting this aside, I wish your worship would tell me what 109I shall do with this dapple steed so like a grey ass, which was abandoned by that caitiff, whom your worship overthrew; for by the swiftness of his heels, when he ran away, he seems to have no thoughts of returning; and by my whiskers ’tis an excellent beast!’

‘It is never my custom,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to plunder those I overcome; neither is it according to the laws of chivalry, to take them from their horses and leave them on foot, unless the conqueror hath lost his own during the engagement; in which case we are allowed to take the horse of the vanquished as the lawful spoils of war: wherefore, Sancho, leave that horse or ass, or what thou wilt, where he now stands, and perhaps his master, perceiving we are gone, will return and find him.’—‘God is my witness,’ answered Sancho, ‘I should be glad to carry him off, or at least exchange him for my own, which seems to be the worst of the two: truly the laws of chivalry are too confined; and since they do not extend to the exchange of one ass for another, I would fain know if they allow me to change the furniture of the one for that of the other?’—‘I am not quite clear in that particular,’ replied the knight; ‘and in such a dubious case, till such time as we can get better information, I think thou mayest exchange the furniture, if the necessity for so doing be extreme.’—‘It is so extreme,’ said Sancho, ‘that if it were for my own particular wearing, I could not want it more.’ Thus provided with a licence, he made the exchange of caparisons, and equipped his beast with such finery, that he looked ten per cent. the better.

This exploit being performed, they went to breakfast on the remains of what they had plundered from the sumpter-mule, and quenched their thirst with the water from the fulling-mills, without turning their heads that way, so much did they abhor them on account of the dread which they had inspired. The rage of hunger and anxiety being thus appeased, they mounted, and without following any determined course, (for it is the practice of true knights-errant to keep no certain road) they left the choice of their route to the will and pleasure of Rozinante, which was always a rule to his master, as well as to the ass, that followed whithersoever he led, like a trusty friend and companion. In consequence, therefore, of his determination, they returned into the high-road, in which they travelled at random without any particular scheme.

While they thus jogged on, ‘Sir,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘I wish your worship would allow me to confer a little with you; for, since you imposed that severe command of silence upon me, divers things have perished in my stomach; and this moment I have somewhat at my tongue’s end, which I would not for the world have miscarry.’—‘Speak then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and be concise in thy discourse; for nothing that is prolix can relish well.’—‘I say, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘that for some days past I have been considering how little is to be got and saved by going in quest of those adventures your worship hunts after, through these cross-paths and desarts, where, though you conquer and atchieve the most perilous exploits, there is nobody present to be witness of your prowess; so that it may remain in everlasting silence, contrary to the intention, and prejudicial to the merits of your worship; wherefore, in my opinion, with submission to your better judgment, our wisest course would be to go into the service of some emperor or great prince, who hath a war upon his hands, in whose service your worship may have occasion to shew your personal valour, your great strength, and greater understanding; which being perceived by the king we serve, he cannot chuse but reward each of us according to his deserts; neither will there be wanting some person to write the history of your worship’s exploits, for a perpetual memorial: I shall not mention my own, because they cannot exceed the bounds of a squire’s province; though this I will venture to say, that if it was customary in chivalry to recount the atchievements of our fraternity, I don’t think but mine might be inferred between the lines of the book.’

‘Thou art not much in the wrong,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but before it comes to that issue, a knight must travel up and down the world as a probationer in quest of adventures, until by his repeated atchievements he 110shall have acquired a sufficient stock of fame; so that when he arrives at the court of some mighty monarch, he may be immediately known by his works. In that case, as soon as he shall be seen to enter the gates of the city, all the boys will surround and follow him, shouting and crying, “Behold the knight of the sun,” or the serpent, or of any other badge under which he hath performed his great exploits. “Behold,” they will say, “the man who vanquished in single combat the mighty giant Brocarbruno, and delivered the great Mamaluke of Persia from the strange inchantment that prevailed over him for the space of nine hundred years.” Thus shall they proceed, recounting his exploits from mouth to mouth; until, surprized at the noise of the children and populace, the king of that country shall appear at one of the palace-windows; and no sooner behold the knight, than knowing him immediately by his armour, or the device upon his shield, he will certainly exclaim, “So ho, there! let all the knights belonging to my court go forth and receive the flower of chivalry that comes yonder.”

‘At this command all of them will come out, and the king himself advance to meet him on the middle of the stair-case, where he will embrace him most affectionately, giving him the kiss of friendship and welcome; then taking him by the hand, will he conduct him to the queen’s closet, where he will find her majesty with the princess her daughter, who is one of the most beautiful and accomplished young ladies that ever was seen in the known world. In this interview she will immediately fix her eyes upon the knight, who at that instant shall be gazing at her, and each will appear to the other something supernatural; without knowing how or wherefore, they will find themselves presently caught and intangled in the inextricable net of love, and be infinitely concerned because they have no opportunity of conversing together, and of disclosing the reciprocal anxiety of their thoughts. After this audience, he will, doubtless, be carried to some apartment of the palace richly furnished, where, after they shall have taken off his armour, they will clothe him in a rich scarlet robe brought for the purpose; and if he made a fine appearance in armour, he will look infinitely more genteel in his doublet. At night he will sup at the same table with the king, queen, and infanta, upon whom he will fix his eyes as often as he can, without being perceived by the by-standers; while she will practise the same expedient with equal sagacity: for, as I have already observed, she must be a young lady of vast discretion.

‘The table being uncovered, there will enter at midnight through the hall-door, a little deformed dwarf, followed by a beautiful lady, guarded by two giants; and he will propose a certain adventure, contrived by a most ancient sage, which whosoever shall finish, will be deemed the most valiant knight in the whole world: then the king will order every warrior in waiting to attempt it; but all of them shall fail except the strange knight, who will perform and accomplish it very much to his own credit, as well as to the satisfaction of the princess, who will think herself extremely happy, and well requited, for having placed her affections so worthily. What is better still, this king or prince, or whatever he is, being at that time engaged in a most obstinate war with a potentate of equal strength, his guest, after having staid a few days at court, begs leave to go and serve him in the field; and the king granting his request with pleasure, the knight most politely kisses his hand for the great honour he hath done him; that same night he goes to take his leave of his mistress the infanta, through the rails of a garden adjoining to the chamber in which she lies; where they have already at different times enjoyed each other’s conversation, by the means of a damsel, who being the infanta’s confidante, is privy to the whole amour: on this occasion he will sigh most piteously, she will actually faint away; the damsel will run for water, and the knight will be extremely concerned, because the day begins to break, and he would not for the world be discovered to the prejudice of the lady’s reputation. In fine, the princess recovers, and reaches her fair hand through the rails to the knight, who kisses it a thousand 111times, and bathes it with his tears; then is concerted between them some method by which he is to inform her of his good or bad success, and the infanta intreats him to return as soon as possible: he swears solemnly to comply with her request, kisses her hand again, and bids her farewel with such affliction as well-nigh deprives him of life: from thence he retreats to his chamber, throws himself upon the bed, but cannot sleep, so grieved is he at parting; he rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the king, queen, and infanta; their majesties accordingly bid him farewel, after having informed him that the princess is indisposed, and cannot see company; the knight imputing her disorder to her sorrow for his departure, is pierced to the soul, and well-nigh betrays his own anxiety. The confidante being present all the while, takes notice of every circumstance, which she imparts to her lady, who listens with tears in her eyes, and observes that nothing gives so much uneasiness as her ignorance of the knight’s pedigree, and her impatience to know whether or not he is of royal extraction: the damsel assures her, that so much politeness, gentility, and valour as he possessed, could never be united except in a dignified and royal disposition; the afflicted infanta consoles herself with this observation, and endeavouring to regain her serenity, that she may not give cause of suspicion to her parents, in two days appears again in publick.

‘The knight having set out for the army, comes to battle, overcomes the king’s adversary, takes many towns, makes divers conquests, returns to court, visits his mistress in the usual manner, and the affair being concerted between them, demands her in marriage, as the reward of his service; her father refuses to grant the boon, on pretence of not knowing who this hero is: but, nevertheless, either by stealth, or some other way, the infanta becomes his wife; and at last the king is overjoyed at his good fortune, when this knight proves to be the son of a valiant monarch of some unknown country, for I suppose it could not be found in the map. The father dies, the infanta succeeds, and in two words the knight becomes king; this, then, is the time to reward his squire, and all those who helped him to ascend the throne. The squire accordingly is married to a damsel belonging to the infanta, who doubtless must be she that was privy to her amour, and daughter of some powerful duke.’

‘This is what I want,’ cried Sancho, ‘and what with fair play I shall obtain; for all that you have mentioned will exactly happen to your worship, under the title of The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’—‘Never doubt it, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘for in the same manner, and by the same steps I have recounted, knights errant rise, and have risen to the rank of kings and emperors. Our only business now is to look out for some Christian or Pagan king who is at war, and hath a beautiful daughter; but there will be time to think of that, since, as I have already told thee, renown must be acquired elsewhere, before we repair to court; nay, another difficulty occurs, namely, that though we should find a king at war who has a beautiful daughter, after I shall have acquired incredible glory through the whole universe; I do not know how it can be proved that I am of royal extraction, or even second cousin to an emperor; and no king will grant his daughter to me in marriage, until he is first thoroughly satisfied in that particular, though my famous exploits should merit a much more valuable reward; wherefore, on account of this defect, I am afraid I shall lose that which the prowess of my arm may well deserve. True it is, I am a gentleman of an ancient and honourable family, not without property, possession, and a title to the revenge of the five hundred sueldos^[65]; and it is not impossible, that the sage ordained to write my history, may furnish up my parentage and pedigree in such a manner, as to prove me descended in the fifteenth or sixteenth 112generation from a king; for I must tell thee, Sancho, there are two sorts of pedigree in the world; one that brings and derives its original from princes and monarchs, which time hath defaced by little and little, till at last it ends in a point like a pyramid; the other owes its beginning to people of mean degree, and increases gradually to nobility and power; so that the difference is, the one was once something, but is now nothing; and the other was once nothing, but is now something! perhaps, therefore, I may be one of the first mentioned division; and my origin, upon enquiry, be found high and mighty; a circumstance that ought to satisfy the king, who is to be my father-in-law; and if it should not have that effect, the infanta will be so enamoured of me, that in spite of her father, she will receive me as her lord and husband, even though she were certain of my being the son of a porter; but should she be shy, then is the time to carry her away by force, to any corner of the earth I shall chuse for my residence, until time or death shall put an end to the resentment of her parents.’

‘And here,’ cried Sancho, ‘nothing can be more pat to the purpose, than what some of your unconscionable fellows often say, “Who would beg a benison, that for the taking may have venison^[66]?” though it would still be more proper, if they had said, “Better thieve than grieve^[67].” This I observe, that in case the king, your worship’s father-in-law, should not prevail upon himself to give you the infanta his daughter, you may, as your worship says, steal and convey her off by main force; but the misfortune is, that while the peace is on the anvil, and before you come to the peaceable enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire may chew his cud in expectation of his recompense, unless that confidante damsel, who is to be his spouse, should make her escape with the princess, and be content to join her evil fortune to his, until such time as Heaven shall ordain it otherwise; for I believe his master may very safely give her away in lawful marriage.’—‘That thou mayest depend upon,’ said Don Quixote. ‘Since it is so, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘we have nothing to do but recommend ourselves to God, and let fortune take its own course.’—‘The Lord conduct it,’ replied the knight, ‘according to my desires and my necessity; and small be his grace, who counts himself base.’—‘A God’s name be it so,’ said Sancho; ‘for my own part I am an old Christian, and therefore fit to be a lord.’—‘Aye, to be greater than a lord,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and even if thou wast not so well qualified, it would be of no signification^[68], because I being king, can confer nobility upon thee, without putting thee to the expence of purchasing, or of subjecting thyself to any kind of servitude; for, in creating thee an earl, behold thou art a gentleman at once; and let people say what they will, in good faith, they must call thee your lordship, if it should make their hearts ache.’—‘And do you reckon that I should not know how to give authority to the portent?’ said the squire. ‘Patent, thou wouldst say, and not portent,’ replied the knight. ‘It may be so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but I insist upon it, that I should demean myself very decently; for once in my life-time I was beadle of a corporation, and the gown became me so well, that every body said I had the presence of a warden: then what shall I be when I am clothed in a ducal-robe, all glittering with pearls like a foreign count? Upon my conscience, I believe people will come a hundred leagues on purpose to see me.’—‘You will make a very good appearance,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but thou must take care to keep thy beard close shaved; for it is so thick, matted, and unseemly, that unless thou hast recourse to the razor, every second day at least, they will see what 113thou art a gun-shot off.’—‘What else have I to do,’ said the squire, ‘but to hire a barber, and keep him constantly in the house; and if I find occasion for it, even make him follow me as a master of the horse follows one of your grandees.’

‘How do’st thou know,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that our grandees are attended by their masters of horse?’—‘That you shall be satisfied in,’ answered the squire: ‘heretofore I was a whole month at court, where I saw a very little gentleman, who they told me was a very great lord, passing to and fro, and a man following him a horseback, turning ever and anon as he turned, as if he had been the nobleman’s own tail: when I asked why the man did not overtake the other, but always kept behind him; they answered, that he was his master of horse, and that it was a fashion among the great, for each to be attended by an officer of that name. Ever since that time I have remembered their office so distinctly, that I believe I shall never forget it.’—‘I think thou art much in the right,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in resolving to carry thy barber along with thee; for customs come not all together, because they were not invented all at once; therefore thou mayest be the first earl that ever went attended by a shaver; and truly it is an office of greater confidence to trim the beard than to saddle the horse.’—‘Leave that affair of the barber to my management,’ said Sancho, ‘and be it your care to make yourself a king, and me an earl, with all convenient speed.’—‘That shall be done,’ replied the knight; who lifting up his eyes, perceived that which shall be recounted in the succeeding chapter.

CHAP. VIII. DON QUIXOTE SETS AT LIBERTY A NUMBER OF UNFORTUNATE PEOPLE, WHO, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILLS, WERE GOING ON A JOURNEY THAT WAS NOT AT ALL TO THEIR LIKING.

Cid Hamet Benengeli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, recounts in this solemn, sublime, minute, pleasant, and fanciful history, that the conversation between the renowned Don Quixote, and his squire Sancho Panza, as related in the foregoing chapter, was no sooner concluded, than the knight lifting up his eyes, beheld upon the road before him about twelve men on foot, strung together like beads, with a great iron chain fastened to their necks, and he perceived shackles upon the arms of each. They were conducted by two men on horseback, and the like number on foot: the horsemen armed with firelocks, and the foot with javelins and swords. Sancho seeing them advance, ‘That,’ said he, ‘is the chain of slaves compelled by the king to work in the gallies.’—‘How, compelled!’ cried the knight; ‘is it possible the king compels people into his service?’—‘I don’t say so,’ answered Sancho; ‘those people are condemned for their crimes to serve in the king’s gallies on compulsion.’—‘In short,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘be that as it will, they go not voluntarily, but are driven by force.’—‘Certainly,’ said Sancho. ‘Since that is the case,’ resumed his master, ‘here the execution of my office is concerned, to annul force, and bring succour to the miserable.’—‘Pray, good your worship, take notice that justice, which is the king himself, never uses violence nor severity to such people, except as a punishment for their crimes.’

By this time the chain of galley-slaves being come up, Don Quixote, with much courtesy, desired the guards would be pleased to inform him of the cause or causes for which those people were treated in that manner: one of the horsemen replied, that they were slaves belonging to his majesty going to the gallies, and that was all he could say, or the enquirer had occasion to know of the matter. ‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the knight, ‘I am desirous of knowing from each in particular the occasion of his misfortune.’ To these be added other such courteous entreaties to induce them to satisfy his desire, that the other man on horseback said, ‘Though we have got along with us the register and certificate of the sentence of each of those malefactors, we have no time at present to take it out and give you the reading of it; but if you have a mind to go and question themselves, they will answer every thing you ask, to the best of their knowledge; for they are a set of miscreants, who delight in 114recounting as well as in acting their roguery.’

With this permission, which he would have taken if they had not granted it, Don Quixote approached the chain and asked of the foremost, for what offence he travelled in that equipage. ‘Only for being in love,’ answered the criminal. ‘For that only!’ replied the knight. ‘If they condemn people for being in love, I might have been tugging in the gallies long ago.’—‘But my love,’ answered the slave, ‘was quite different from what your worship imagines. I fell deeply in love with a basket crammed full of white linen, and locked it so fast in my embrace, that if justice had not tore it from my arms by force, I should not have quitted it willingly to this good hour: the thing being flagrant, there was no room for putting me to the torture, and therefore the cause was soon discussed; my shoulders were accommodated with a cool hundred, I was advised to divert myself three years in the gurapas, and so the business ended.’—‘Pray what are the gurapas?’ said Don Quixote. ‘The gurapas are the gallies,’ answered the thief; who was a young fellow, about twenty years of age, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.

The knight put the same question to the second, who seemed so overwhelmed with grief and melancholy, that he could not answer one word; but the first saved him the trouble, by saying, ‘This man, Sir, goes to the gallies for being a canary bird; I mean, for his skill in vocal musick.’—‘What!’ said the knight, ‘are people sentenced to the gallies for their skill in musick.’—‘Yes, Sir,’ answered the other, ‘for nothing is worse than to sing in the heart-ache.’—‘On the contrary,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I have always heard it observed, that musick and play will fright sorrow away.’—‘But here,’ replied the slave, ‘the case is quite different; for he that sings but once will have cause to weep for ever.’ Don Quixote saying he could not comprehend his meaning, one of the guards explained it. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘to sing in the heart-ache, is a term used by these miscreants to express a criminal who confesses under the torture; and it hath been applied to that delinquent, he owned his crime, which was horse-stealing; accordingly, having received two hundred lashes he was condemned for six years to the gallies, and he appears always pensive and sad, because his brother-rogues who keep him company, continually maltreat, upbraid, despise, and scoff at him, for having confessed out of pure pusillanimity. “For,” say they, “No contains as many letters as Ay: an offender is very lucky, when his life or death depends upon his own tongue, and not upon the evidence of witnesses;” and truly I think they are not far mistaken.’

‘I am of the same opinion,’ said Don Quixote; and passing on, repeated his former question to the third, who, with great readiness and alacrity, answered, ‘I am going to pay a visit of five years to Lady Gurapa, for having wanted ten ducats.’—‘I will give twenty with all my soul,’ replied the knight, ‘to ease you of your misfortune.’—‘That,’ resumed the slave, ‘is like giving money to a man perishing with hunger at sea, where there is no food to be bought. I say this, because had I been master in time of those twenty ducats your worship now offers, I would have anointed the secretary’s pen, and quickened my lawyer’s invention with them, to so good purpose, that I should be now standing at liberty in the square of Zocodover in Toledo, and not dragging like a hound to the gallies; but Heaven is above—Patience and—that is enough.’

Don Quixote then advanced to the fourth, who was a man of a venerable aspect, with a long white beard hanging down to his girdle; and he no sooner heard the knight ask the cause of his being in that situation, than he began to weep bitterly, without answering one word; but the fifth criminal lent him his tongue, saying, ‘That honourable gentleman is going to the gallies for four years, after having made his publick appearance on horseback with great solemnity.’—‘That is, I suppose,’ said Sancho, ‘after having been exposed to publick shame^[69].’—‘Even 115so,’ replied the slave, ‘and that punishment was inflicted upon him for being an ear-broker, or rather a broker for the whole body: to be plain with you, the gentleman was convicted of pimping, and giving himself out for a conjurer.’—‘Were it not for the addition of his conjuring scheme,’ said Don Quixote, ‘he is so far from deserving to row in the gallies for pure pimping, that it rather intitles him to the command of them^[70], as general in chief; for if the office of a pander was well regulated, it would be a most honourable and necessary employment in a well-ordered commonwealth, reserved for people of birth and talents, and like the other places of trust, laid under the inspection of proper comptrollers, and limited to a certain number, like the brokers of merchandize: such a regulation would prevent many mischiefs, which are now occasioned by that employment’s being in the hands of idiots or simple wretches, such as silly women, pages, and buffoons, without either age or experience; who, upon the most urgent occasions, when there is need of the most important contrivance, let the morsel freeze between the dish and the mouth, and can scarce distinguish betwixt their right-hands and their left. I could proceed and advance many arguments to prove how advantageous it would be in a commonwealth to make proper distinctions in the choice of those who exercise such a necessary employment; but this is no place to settle that affair in; and one day I may chance to recommend it to the consideration of those who can both discern and provide a suitable remedy for this defect. I shall only at present observe, that the compassion I feel at sight of these grey hairs, and that venerable countenance in distress for having been a pander, is extinguished by the additional crime of sorcery; though I am well apprized there are no conjurers in the world, who can force or alter the will, as some weak minded people imagine: for the inclination is free, and not to be enslaved by any incantation whatsoever. The practice of some simple women, and knavish impostors, is to compose poisonous mixtures, to deprive people of their senses, under pretence of causing them to be beloved; it being a thing impossible, as I have said, to compel the will.’—‘What your honour says is very true,’ replied the good old man; ‘and really, Sir, as to the affair of conjuring, I am not guilty; though I cannot deny that I have been a pimp; but I never thought I was to blame in that capacity, because my whole intention was, that all the world should enjoy themselves, and live in peace and quiet without quarrels and anxiety. Yet the uprightness of my intention was of no service in preventing my being sent to a place from which I shall never return, oppressed as I am with years and a violent strangury, that will not allow me a moment’s rest.’ So saying, he began to weep again, as before; and his tears raised the pity of Sancho to such a degree, that he took a rial out of his bosom, and gave it in charity to the distressed senior.

Then Don Quixote addressed himself to the next, who answered his question, not with less, but infinitely more vivacity than that of the former; saying, ‘I trudge in this manner, for having jested a little extravagantly with two of my female cousins, and with two more, who, though not related to me, were in the same degree of blood to each other: in short, I jested with them so long, that in the end there was such an intricate increase of kindred as no casuist could unravel. Every thing was proved against me, I had neither interest nor money, and ran some risk of having my windpipe stopped; but they only condemned me for six years to the gallies; I submitted to the sentence, as the punishment of my crime: youth is on my side, life may be long, and time brings every thing to bear; if your worship, Sir knight, will part with any small matter for the comfort of poor wretches like us, God will requite you in heaven, and we upon earth will take care to petition him for long life and health to your worship, that you may be as happy as by your goodly appearance you deserve to be.’ The person who spoke in this manner appeared in 116the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he was a great orator and excellent Latin scholar.

After all these came a man of a good mien, about thirty years of age, who squinted so horribly, that his eyes seemed to look at each other: he was equipped in a very different manner from the rest; his foot being loaded with a huge chain that went round his whole body, and his neck adorned with two iron rings, to one of which the chain was fastened; and the other was called a keep-friend, or friend’s-foot; from which descended to his middle a couple of iron bolts fitted with a pair of manacles for his arms, secured by a large padlock, in such a fashion, as to hinder him from lifting up his hands to his mouth, and to disable him from bending his head to his hands. Don Quixote enquiring why that man was more fettered than all the rest, one of the guard answered, ‘Because he is a greater rogue than all the rest put together, and so daring a villain, that although he is shackled in that manner, we are under some apprehension that he will give us the slip.’—‘What crime has he committed,’ said the knight, ‘that deserves no greater punishment than that of going to the gallies?’—‘He goes for ten years,’ replied the guard, ‘which is a kind of civil death; but you need not enquire any farther, when you know that this honest gentleman is the famous Gines de Passamonte, alias Genisello de Parapilla.’—‘Softly, Mr. Commissary,’ said the slave, hearing these words, ‘don’t transmography names and sir-names in that manner. Gines is my name, and not Ginesello, and Passamonte the title of my family; not Parapilla, as your worship says: let every body turn about and look at home, and he will have business enough.’—‘Speak with less insolence, Mr. Thief above sterling,’ replied the commissary, ‘or else I shall make you hold your peace with a vengeance.’—‘It appears by this oppression,’ answered the galley-slave, ‘that God’s will must be done; but one day somebody shall know whether or not my name is Ginesello de Parapilla.’—‘An’t you called so, you lying vagabond?’ said the guard. ‘Yes, yes, I am so called,’ answered Gines; ‘but I will make them change that name, or their skins shall pay for it, if ever I meet them in a place I don’t chuse at present to name.—Sir knight, if you have any thing to bestow, pray let us have it, and the Lord be with you, for you only tire us with enquiring about other people’s affairs; if you want to be informed of my history, know, I am that Gines de Passamonte, whose life is written by these ten fingers.’

‘He tells nothing but the truth,’ said the commissary; ‘for he has actually written his own history, as well as could be desired, and pawned the manuscript in gaol for two hundred rials.’—‘Aye, and I shall redeem it,’ said Gines, ‘if it were for as many ducats.’—‘What! is it so entertaining?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Yes,’ answered Gines, ‘it is so entertaining, that woe be unto Lazarillo de Tormes, and all who have written or shall write in that manner. What I can affirm of mine is, that it contains truths, and such ingenious and savoury truths, as no fiction can equal.’—‘And what is the title of your book?’ said the knight. ‘The Life of Gines de Passamonte,’ replied the other. ‘Is it finished?’ said Don Quixote. ‘How can it be finished,’ answered the author, ‘when my natural life is not yet concluded? I have already written my whole history from my birth till the last time I was sent to the gallies.’—‘You have visited them before now then?’ said the knight. ‘For the service of God, and the good of my country, I have already served in them, during the space of four years, and know the difference between the biscuit and the bull’s pizzle,’ answered the thief; ‘and my journey to them now gives me no great pain, for there I shall have time to finish my book, and set down a great many things I have to say: there being spare time enough in the gallies of Spain for that purpose, which does not require much leisure, as I have every circumstance by heart.’—‘You seem to be an ingenious fellow,’ said Don Quixote. ‘And unfortunate,’ answered Gines; ‘for genius is always attended by evil fortune.’—‘Evil fortune ought to attend villains like you,’ said the guard. ‘I have already desired you, Mr. Commissary, to proceed fair and softly,’ answered Passamonte; ‘your superiors did not give you that 117rod to maltreat us poor wretches, but to conduct and carry us to the place of our destination, according to his majesty’s command: and by the life of—but ’tis no matter. The spots we received in the inn, may one day be rubbed out in washing. Mum’s the word. Let us live while we can, speak while we may, and at present pursue our journey; for this joke has already lasted too long.’

The commissary lifted up his rod, in order to give a proper reply to the threats of Passamonte; but Don Quixote interposing, begged he would not chastise him; because it was not to be wondered at, if one whose limbs were so shackled, should take such liberties with his tongue: then addressing himself to the prisoners, ‘From all that you have told me, dear brethren,’ said he, ‘I clearly perceive, that although you ought to be chastised for your crimes, the punishment you are going to suffer is not much to your liking; on the contrary, you make this journey very much against your inclination; and perhaps, the pusillanimity of one of you under the torture, this man’s want of money, and that others scarcity of friends, and last of all, the partiality of the judge, may have been the cause of your perdition, in depriving you of that justice your several cases entitled you to. Which consideration now operates within me, suggesting, persuading, and even compelling me to shew in your behalf, the end and aim for which Heaven sent me into this world, and made me profess the order of knight-errantry, by which I am bound by oath, to succour the needy and oppressed; but because I know, that one maxim of prudence is, not to do that by foul means which can be accomplished by fair, I beseech Mr. Commissary and the guards to unchain and let you depart in peace. The king will not want people to serve him on better occasions; and I think it is very hard to enslave those whom God and nature have made free. Besides, gentlemen soldiers,’ added the knight, ‘those poor people have committed no offence against you: and every body hath sins to answer for. There is a God in heaven, who will take care to chastise the wicked and reward the righteous: and it is not seemly, that honest men should be the executioners of their fellow-creatures, on account of matters with which they have no concern. This favour I entreat in a mild and peaceable manner; and if you grant my request, will thank you heartily: whereas, if you refuse to do quietly what I desire, this lance and sword, with the valour of my invincible arm, shall make you do it on compulsion.’

‘A fine joke, truly!’ replied the commissary; ‘he has brought his harangue to a very merry conclusion; desiring us to set at liberty the king’s prisoners, as if we had authority to grant, or he to demand, their discharge. I wish your worship would go about your business, and set to rights that bason on your skull, without going in quest of a cat with three feet.’—‘You are a cat, and a rat, and a scoundrel to boot!’ replied the knight, attacking him with such wonderful dispatch, that he had not time to put himself in a posture of defence, so was thrown from his horse, dangerously wounded by a thrust of the knight’s lance. And it happened luckily that this was one of the two who had firelocks. The rest of the guard were at first astonished and confounded at this unexpected assault; but they soon recollected themselves, and the horsemen drawing their swords, while those on foot handled their javelins, set upon Don Quixote in their turn, who waited for them with vast composure; and doubtless he would have fared ill, if the galley-slaves, seeing a fair occasion offered of gaining their liberty, had not made shift to obtain it, by breaking the chain with which they were fettered. Such was the confusion, that the guards, between their endeavours to detain the slaves that were unbound, and their efforts against Don Quixote who assaulted them, could do nothing at all effectual. Sancho, for his part, assisted in disengaging Gines de Passamonte, who being the first that leaped free and disencumbered on the plain, attacked the wounded commissary, and robbed him of his sword and musket, with which pointing at one, and taking aim at another, without firing, however, in a trice there was not one of the guards to be seen; for they made the best of their way, not only from Passamonte’s firelock, but also from the shower of 118stones which was rained upon them by the rest of the slaves, who had by this time disengaged themselves.

Sancho was infinitely grieved at this event, representing to himself, that those who fled would instantly give notice of the affair to the holy brotherhood, which, upon the tolling of a bell, would immediately sally forth in search of the delinquents. This supposition he suggested to his master, whom he entreated to depart forthwith, and conceal himself somewhere in the neighbouring mountain. ‘That may be a very good expedient,’ said the knight; ‘but I know what is proper for me to do at present.’ He then called to the slaves, who were all in confusion, and after they had plundered and stripped the commissary to the skin, they assembled round him in a circle in order to receive his commands, and he accosted them in this manner: ‘It is the duty of honest men to be thankful for benefits received: and one of the sins that gives the greatest offence to God, is ingratitude. This truth I observe, gentlemen, because you must be sensible, by manifest experience, of that which you have received from me; as an acknowledgment for which, it is my will and pleasure, that you set out immediately, loaded with that chain from which I have delivered your neck, and repairing to the city of Toboso; there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and tell her that her Knight of the Rueful Countenance hath sent you to her, with his hearty commendations. You shall also punctually recount to her every circumstance of this famous adventure, even to the granting you that liberty you so ardently wished for: and this duty being performed, you may go a God’s name whithersoever ye list.’

To this command Gines de Passamonte, in the name of all the rest, answered, ‘What your worship commands, most worthy deliverer, is of all impossibilities the most impossible to fulfil. For we must by no means travel in a body, but single and divided, and each by himself endeavour to abscond within the bowels of the earth, in order to avoid the holy brotherhood, which will doubtless come out in search of us. But your worship may, and it is but justice you should, change that service and tribute intended for my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, into a certain number of Ave maria’s and Credo’s, which we will say for your prosperity; and this is a duty we can fulfil by night as well as by day, in motion and at rest, and in peace as well as in war: but to suppose that we will now return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean, to the carriage of our chain, and take the road to Toboso, is to suppose that it is now midnight, though it wants little more than two hours of noon; and indeed, to expect this condescension of us, is like expecting pears from an elm.’

‘Then, by heavens!’ said Don Quixote in a rage, ‘Don Son of a Whore, Don Ginesello de Parapilla, or whatsoever is thy name, you shall go alone, with your tail between your legs, and carry the whole chain upon your own shoulders.’ Passamonte, who was none of the most passive people in the world, having already smoaked the knight’s weak side, from the mad action he had committed in giving them their freedom, and finding himself treated by him in this haughty manner, tipped the wink to his companions; who retiring with him at a little distance, began to shower forth such a number of stones upon their deliverer, that he could not contrive how to cover himself with his shield; and poor Rozinante minded the spur no more than if he had been made of brass. Sancho retired behind his ass, which sheltered him from the storm of hail that descended on them both; but his master could not screen himself so well, as to avoid an infinite number of pebble-shot which took place upon different parts of his body, some of them with such force, that he came tumbling to the ground; and no sooner was he fallen, than the student set upon him, and snatching the bason from his head, made a most furious application of it to the knight’s shoulders, and then dashed it upon the ground with such force, that it went into a thousand pieces. They likewise stripped him of a jacket^[71] he 119wore above his armour; and would even have taken his hose, had not his greaves been in the way: they plundered Sancho of his great coat, leaving him in his doublet and hose; and dividing the spoils of the battle among them, each took his own separate route, more anxious to escape the holy brotherhood, which they dreaded, than to load themselves with the chain again, and go to present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were the only persons remaining on the field. Dapple, with his head hanging down in a pensive attitude, and every now and then shaking his ears, as if he imagined the hurricane of stones that whizzed about them was not yet over; Rozinante lying stretched upon the ground, to which, like his master, he was humbled by a pebble: Sancho, in his doublet, terrified at the thoughts of the holy brotherhood; and Don Quixote excessively out of humour, at seeing himself so ill requited by those people whom he had served in such an essential manner.

CHAP. IX. OF WHAT BEFEL THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE BROWN MOUNTAIN; BEING ONE OF THE MOST SURPRIZING ADVENTURES WHICH IS RECOUNTED IN THIS TRUE HISTORY.

Don Quixote, finding himself so evil entreated, said to his squire, ‘I have always heard it observed, Sancho, that benefits conferred on base-minded people are like drops of water thrown into the sea. Had I taken thy advice, I might have avoided this vexation: but, now the affair is over, we must have recourse to patience, and take warning for the future.’—‘Yes,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship will take warning as sure as I am a Turk; but, since you allow, that if you had taken my advice, you would have avoided this misfortune, take my advice now, and you avoid a greater still! for I give you notice, that all your errantry will stand you in little stead against the holy brotherhood, who don’t value all the knights-errant in the universe three farthings: and, in faith, this minute methinks I hear their arrows buzzing about my ears.’—‘Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘but that thou mayest have no reason to say I am obstinate, and never follow thy counsel, for once thou shalt prevail; I will retreat from the danger thou dreadest so much; but it shall be on condition, that thou shalt never, either in life or death, hint to any person whatsoever, that I retired and avoided this peril through fear, but merely in compliance with thy earned request; for to say otherwise would be to propagate falsehood; and from this hour to that, and from that hour to this, I give thee the lye, and affirm thou lyest, and wilt lye as often as thou shalt say or think any such thing: make no reply, therefore; the very thought of my being supposed to abscond, or retreat from danger, especially from this, as it implies some sort of shadow of fear, inspires me with such courage, that here am I alone, ready to remain, and expect not only the holy brotherhood, which thou hast mentioned with fear and trembling, but also the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, those of the seven Maccabees, with Castor and Pollux, and all the brethren and brotherhoods in the universe.’—‘Sir,’ replied Sancho, ‘to retreat is not to fly; nor is it prudent to tarry when the danger overbalances the hope, and it is always the practice of wise people, to reserve something for to-morrow, without venturing all upon one cast; and you must know, that though I be a rustick and a clown, I have all my life-time had a small share of what is called good conduct; wherefore you need not repent of having taken my advice, but mount Rozinante, if you can; if not, I will lend you my assistance, and follow me; for this noddle of mine tells me, that, at present, we have more need of heels than of hands.’