Chapter XVII: Book IV (2)

Cardenio and the curate saw every thing that passed, from behind some bushes where they were hid, and could fall upon no method of joining them conveniently, until the priest, who was an excellent schemer, thought of an expedient for the purpose; having a pair of scissars about him, he cut off the beard of Cardenio with infinite dispatch, and giving him a grey jacket, with his own black cloak, he himself remaining in his doublet and hose, the tattered cavalier was so much altered in point of appearance, that he would scarce have known himself had he looked in a glass. Although the others were jogging on, while they disguised themselves in this manner, they easily reached the highway, before the knight and his company, whose beasts were retarded by the bushes and rockiness of the ground; and taking their station just at the mouth of the entrance to the mountain, no sooner perceived the knight and his attendants come forth, than the curate looked earnestly at him a good while, as if he had been recollecting a person whom he knew, then ran to him with open arms, crying aloud, ‘Blessed be this meeting with the mirror of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote de La Mancha, the flower and cream of gentility, the protector and physician of the distressed, and quintessence of knights-errant!’ So saying, he embraced the left-knee of Don Quixote; who being astonished at the words and action of the man, began to consider his features with great attention, and at length, recollecting him, was struck dumb with admiration, at seeing him in that place, and made many efforts to alight; which when the priest opposed, ‘Give me leave, Mr. Licentiate,’ said he, ‘it is not seemly that I should remain on horseback, when such a reverend person as you travels on foot.’—‘I will by no means,’ answered the curate, ‘consent to your alighting; since, on horseback, your mighty arm hath atchieved the greatest exploits and adventures that this age hath seen; it shall suffice for me, who am but an unworthy priest, to get up, with permission, behind this gentleman who travels in your worship’s company; and then I shall imagine myself mounted upon Pegasus, a zebra, or that fiery courser that carried the famous Moor Muzaraque, who still lies inchanted in the vast mountain Zulema, at a little distance from the great Compluto.’—‘I did not think of that expedient, Mr. Licentiate,’ resumed the knight; ‘but I know that my lady the princess will, out of regard to me, be pleased to order her squire to accommodate you with the saddle of his mule, and he himself may ride upon the crupper, if the beast will carry double.’—‘I believe she will,’ said the princess; ‘and I am sure, there will be no occasion to lay my commands upon my squire who is too courteous and polite, to suffer an ecclesiastick to travel on foot, when it is in his power to provide him with a beast.’—‘Your majesty is in the right,’ answered the barber; who instantly alighting, complimented the curate with the saddle, which was accepted without much intreaty.

But the misfortune was, when the squire attempted to get up behind, the mule, which was an hireling, consequently mischievous, lifted up her hind legs, and kicked with such fury, that had they lighted on the head or breast of Mr. Nicholas, he would have had reason to curse the hour on which he set out in quest of Don Quixote: such, however, was his confusion, that he came to the ground, and his beard being neglected, fell off; so that he could find no other method to prevent a discovery, than to clap both hands to his face, with great expedition, and roar out that his teeth were demolished. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of beard torn from the jaw, without blood, and lying at a good distance from the squire’s face, ‘Good Heavens!’ cried he, ‘what a wonderful phænomenon is this! The beard is taken off and shaved as clean by the heel of the mule, as if it had been done by the hand of a barber.’ The curate, seeing the risk he ran of being detected in his scheme, snatched up the tail, and running with it to Mr. Nicholas, who still lay bellowing for help, pulled his head to his breast with one jerk, and clapping it on again, muttered some words, which he said were an infallible charm for fixing on beards, as they should presently see; accordingly, when the affair was adjusted, he quitted the squire, who now seemed as well bearded and as sound as ever; a circumstance that, above measure, surprized the knight, who begged that the curate, at a proper opportunity, would impart to him the charm, which he imagined must contain more virtues than that of cementing beards, because it was plain, that where the hair was torn off, the skin and flesh must be lacerated and hurt, and if the application could heal those wounded parts, it was good for something more than mere mustachios. The curate confirmed his conjecture, and promised to disclose the secret to him, with the first proper opportunity; then it was agreed, that the priest should mount the mule by himself, and, with the other two, ride her by turns, until they should arrive at the inn, which was about two leagues off.

Don Quixote, the princess, and the curate, being thus mounted, and Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza following on foot, the knight told the damsel, that her highness might conduct him whithersoever she pleased; but, before she could make any reply, the priest interposed, saying, ‘Towards what kingdom is your majesty journeying? I am much mistaken in my notions of kingdoms, if you are not bound for Micomicon?’ She, who had been well instructed in her cue, concluding that the must answer in the affirmative, said, ‘Yes, Signior, that is the place of my destination.’—‘Then you must pass through our village,’ answered the curate, ‘and take your route to Carthagena, where your highness may happily embark; and if you meet with no hurricane, but be favoured with a fair wind and smooth sea, in something less than nine years, you may get sight of that vast Lake Meona, I mean, Meotis, which is a little more than one hundred days journey from your majesty’s kingdom.’—‘Your worship must be mistaken,’ said the princess, ‘for two years are not yet elapsed since I set out from thence; and though the weather has always been bad, I have already obtained what I so much longed after, namely, the sight of Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose fame reached my ears as soon as I landed in Spain, and induced me to come in quest of him, that I might solicit his courtesy, and trust my righteous cause to the valour of his invincible arm.’—‘Enough, Madam,’ said Don Quixote; ‘spare your encomiums; for I am an utter enemy to all sorts of adulation; and, although you are not to be suspected of flattery, my chaste ears are always offended at that kind of discourse. What I can safely affirm, is this; whether I have valour or not, here is he, valiant or pusillanimous, who will exert himself to the last drop of his blood in the service of your highness. But, this apart——Pray, Mr. Licentiate, what cause hath brought you hither alone, where I am really astonished to find you so ill attended, and so slightly cloathed?’

‘In that particular you shall soon be satisfied,’ answered the curate: ‘your worship must know that I and our friend Mr. Nicholas the barber, set out for Seville, to recover a sum of money, which was lent to me by a relation of mine that went to the Indies, a good many years ago; no less than sixty thousand pieces of eight in good silver, which make no inconsiderable sum: and yesterday, passing through this place, we were set upon by four highwaymen, who stripped us even to our very whiskers, and that in such a manner as obliged the barber to wear artificial ones; and you may see,’ pointing to Cardenio, ‘how they have despoiled the face of this young man who accompanied us; and the cream of the story is, that, according to the publick report, which prevails in this neighbourhood, those who robbed us were galley-slaves, that, almost in this very place, were set at liberty by a man so valiant, as to let them all loose, in spite of the commissary and his guards. Without all doubt he must have been deprived of his senses, or as great a villain as any of those he freed, or some person void of all conscience and feeling, who could thus turn loose the wolf among the lambs, the fox among the poultry, and the flies among the honey-pots; defrauding justice, and rebelling against his king and rightful sovereign, by acting contrary to his just commands, in depriving the gallies of their hands, and putting in confusion the holy brotherhood, which have continued so many years in undisturbed repose: in short, he hath done a deed that may tend to the perdition of his own soul as well as body.’

Sancho had before recounted to them the adventure of the galley-slaves, which he had atchieved with so much glory; and therefore the curate urged it home, in order to observe the behaviour of Don Quixote, who changed colour at every word, without daring to own himself the deliverer of that worthy crew. ‘Those,’ added the priest, ‘were the persons who rifled us; and God of his infinite mercy forgive the man who prevented the punishment they so richly deserved!’

Footnote 85:

As if he had said Ape-land, _mico_ signifying an ape.

Footnote 86:

When a knight had once granted a boon in this manner, it was
impossible for him to retract, let the request be never so
extravagant. We are told by Joinville, that the queen of St. Lewis,
being big with child, and in the utmost terror of falling alive into
the hands of the infidels at Damietta in Egypt, fell upon her knees
before an old knight turned of fourscore, and conjured him to grant
her boon: the old man having promised to comply, on the faith of his
knighthood, she told him the favour she so pressingly solicited, was,
that he would cut off her head before she should fall into the hands
of the enemy, provided the Saracens should become masters of the town.
The senior answered without hesitation, that she might depend upon his
sword; and owned he had taken that resolution even before she
signified her request.

CHAP. III.
THE PLEASANT ARTIFICE PRACTISED TO EXTRICATE OUR ENAMOURED KNIGHT
FROM THE MOST RIGOROUS PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF.

Scarce had the curate pronounced this apostrophe, when Sancho blundered out—‘Then, in good faith, Mr. Licentiate, he who performed this exploit, was no other than my master; not that I neglected to tell and advise him beforehand, to consider what he was about, and think what a sin it would be to let loose those who were going to the gallies for the most grievous enormities.’—‘You blockhead,’ cried Don Quixote, incensed, ‘it neither concerns, nor belongs to knights-errant, to examine whether the afflicted, the enslaved, and oppressed, whom they meet on the highway, are reduced, to these wretched circumstances by their crimes, or their misfortunes; our business is only to assist them in their distress, having an eye to their sufferings, and not to their demerits. I chanced to light upon a string of miserable and discontented objects, in behalf of whom I acted according to the dictates of my religion, without minding the consequence; and he who takes umbrage at what I have done, saving the sacred character and honourable person of Mr. Licentiate, is, I insist upon it, utterly ignorant of chivalry, and lyes like the base-born son of a whore; and this assertion I will make good with my sword, in the most ample manner.’ So saying, he fixed himself in the stirrups, and cocked his beaver; the barber’s bason, which he mistook for Mambrino’s helmet, hanging useless at the saddle-bow, until the damage it received from the galley-slaves could be repaired.

Dorothea, who was equally prudent and witty, understanding that every body present, except Sancho, diverted themselves with the extravagant humour of Don Quixote, was willing to have her share of the entertainment; and accordingly, perceiving that his indignation was raised, ‘Sir knight,’ said she, ‘I hope your worship will remember your promise to me, by which you are restricted from engaging in any other adventure, howsoever pressing it may be. Subdue your resentment therefore, and be assured, that had Mr. Licentiate known the galley-slaves were set at liberty by that invincible arm, he would have taken three stitches in his mouth, and bit his tongue three times, rather than have uttered one word that should redound to the prejudice of your worship.’—‘That I swear I would have done,’ said the curate; ‘aye, and have plucked off one of my whiskers to boot.’—‘Madam,’ answered the knight, ‘I am silent. I will restrain the just indignation which begins to rise within me, and proceed in the utmost peace and quiet, until I shall have fulfilled the boon I promised to your highness; but, in recompence for this my kind intention, I beseech you, if it be not too much trouble, to make me acquainted with the nature of your misfortune; and tell me the number, quality, and condition of those persons on whom I am to take just satisfaction and full vengeance, in your behalf.’—‘With all my heart,’ answered Dorothea; ‘though I am afraid of tiring you with a recital of woes and misfortunes.’ The knight assured her that would be impossible; and she resumed, ‘Well then, be so good as to favour me with your attention.’

At these words, Cardenio and the barber went up close to her, in order to hear what story she, in her discretion, would invent; and Sancho Panza, who was as much deceived as his master, followed their example. After she had seated herself firmly in the saddle, cleared her pipes with a hem or two, and made other preliminary gestures, she with great sprightliness thus began:

‘In the first place, gentlemen, you must know that my name is ——’ Here she made a full stop, having forgot how the curate had christened her: but this defect was soon remedied; for, immediately conceiving the cause of her hesitation, he said, ‘It is no wonder, Madam, that your highness is disturbed and disordered at the recollection of your misfortunes, which are often so great, as to impair the memory to such a degree, that the afflicted cannot even remember their own names: this effect they have had upon you, Madam, who have forgot that you are the Princess Micomicona, legitimate heiress of the great kingdom of Micomicon. With the assistance of this hint, your highness will easily recal the whole thread of your story to your sorrowful remembrance.’—‘You are in the right,’ replied the damsel; ‘and I believe I shall be able to bring my true narrative to a happy conclusion without farther prompting.

‘The king, my father, whose name was Tinacrio the sage, foresaw, by his profound skill in magick, that my mother, who was called Queen Zaramilla, would die before him; and that, as he himself must quit this life soon after, I should be left an helpless orphan; but this consideration, he said, did not give him so much pain and confusion, as the certain foreknowledge that a monstrous giant, lord of a great island that bordered on our kingdom, called Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect: (for, it is affirmed, that although his eyes are, like any other person’s, placed in the middle of his face, he always looks askance, as if he squinted; and this obliquity the malicious tyrant practises, in order to surprize and intimidate those who behold him;) I say, my father foresaw by his art, that this giant, informed of my being an orphan, would invade me with a great army, and deprive me of my whole kingdom, without leaving so much as a village for my retreat; and that nothing could prevent this my ruin and misfortune, unless I would consent to marry him; though, so far as he could learn, it would never come into my thoughts to make such an unequal match; and truly his conjecture was well founded; for, it never entered into my head, to wed this giant, or any other person, howsoever tall and unmeasurable he might be. My father, therefore, advised me, that when, after his death, I should get notice that Pandafilando was beginning to invade my kingdom, I should not stay to put myself in a posture of defence, which would prove my destruction, but freely leave him the possession of my realms, if I was resolved to avoid my own death, and to prevent the total destruction of my good and faithful subjects; for it would be impossible to defend myself against the infernal force of the giant: but, that I should immediately set out for Spain, where I would find a remedy for all my misfortunes, in the person of a certain knight-errant, whose fame would be at that time spread over the whole kingdom, and whose name, if I right remember, would be Don Hackfot, or Kickfot.’—‘Don Quixote your ladyship would say,’ cried Sancho, interposing, ‘alias the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’—‘The very same,’ replied Dorothea: ‘he told me, moreover, that this knight would be a tall man, with a long meagre visage, and have on his right-side, below his left-shoulder, or thereabouts, a grey mole garnished with hairs, which bear some resemblance to a hog’s bristles.’

Don Quixote hearing this circumstance, said to his squire, ‘Come hither, son Sancho, and help me to strip; for I want to see if I am actually the knight of whom that sage king foretold.’—‘Why should your worship strip?’ said Dorothea. ‘In order to satisfy myself about that mole which your royal father mentioned.’—‘You need not give yourself the trouble,’ said Sancho; ‘I know your worship hath just such a mole on the middle of your back-bone, which is a sign of strength.’—‘That assurance is sufficient,’ resumed Dorothea, ‘for, among friends, we ought not to stand upon trifles; and it is of very little consequence whether the mole be upon the shoulder or the back bone; provided there is really such a mark on any part of your body, which is all composed of the same flesh. Without doubt my worthy father was right in every thing he prognosticated; and I have exactly followed his directions, in recommending my cause to the protection of Signior Don Quixote, who is certainly the individual knight my father described; since his features correspond with his fame, which fills not only Spain, but likewise the whole province of La Mancha[87]; for scarce had I landed at Ossuna, than hearing of his vast exploits, my mind suggested that he must be the very person I came in quest of.’—‘How could your highness,’ said Don Quixote, ‘land at Ossuna, which is not a sea-port?’

Before she had time to make a reply, the curate took the task upon himself, saying, ‘The princess must mean, that after she landed at Malaga, Ossuna was the first place in which she heard of your worship.’—‘That was my meaning,’ said Dorothea. ‘There is nothing more plain,’ answered the priest; ‘and now your majesty may proceed.’—‘I have nothing more to say,’ resumed the princess, ‘but that, at length, destiny has been so favourable to me, in my finding Don Quixote, I reckon and look upon myself as queen again, and mistress of my whole realms, since out of his great courtesy and magnificence, he hath promised, in consequence of the boon I asked, to go with me whithersoever I shall conduct him; and my intention is no other than to bring him face to face with Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect, that he may, by putting him to death, restore me to the possession of that which he so unjustly usurps; and all this will literally happen, as it was prophesied by my worthy father Tinacrio the Sage, who hath also left it written in Chaldean or Greek characters, for I cannot read them, that if the knight mentioned in the prophecy should, after having cut off the giant’s head, demand me in marriage, I must instantly accept of him as my lawful husband, without the least hesitation, and give him immediate possession of my person and throne.’

Don Quixote hearing this circumstance, cried, ‘What do you think now, friend Sancho? do you hear what passes? and did not I tell thee as much? Observe now, whether or not we have not a queen to marry, and a kingdom to govern.’—‘Adzookers, it is even so!’ cried the squire; ‘and plague upon the son of a whore who refuses to marry her, as soon as Mr. Pandahiladoe’s weazond is cut; then, what a delicate morsel the queen is! odd, I wish all the fleas in my bed were such as she!’ So saying, he cut a brace of capers, with marks of infinite satisfaction; then running up, and taking hold of the bridle of Dorothea’s mule, made her halt, while he, falling down on his knees before her, besought the princess to let him kiss her hand, in token of his receiving her as his queen and mistress. Which of the company could behold the madness of the master, and the simplicity of the man, without laughing! Dorothea actually gave him her hand, and promised to make him a grandee, as soon as, by the favour of Heaven, she should be restored to the possession of her kingdom; and he thanked her in terms which redoubled the mirth of all present.

‘This, gentlemen,’ added the damsel, ‘is my story, and nothing now remains but to tell you, that of all the people who attended me when I left my own country, not one survives, except this well-bearded squire; all the rest having perished in a dreadful storm that overtook us after we were within sight of land: he and I miraculously floated to the shore on two planks; and indeed the whole course of my life, as you may have observed in my narration, hath been full of mystery and wonder. If I have in any thing exceeded the bounds of credibility, or been less accurate than I ought, I hope you will impute it to that cause assigned by the licentiate, in the beginning of my story; namely, the continual and extraordinary affliction, that often impairs the memory of the unfortunate.’—‘But, mine shall not be impaired, most high and virtuous lady!’ said Don Quixote, ‘by all the misfortunes I shall undergo in your service, let them be never so great and unprecedented: therefore I again confirm the boon I have promised, and swear to attend you even to the world’s end, until I get sight of that ferocious adversary of yours, whose proud head I hope to slice off, with the assistance of God, my own arm, and the edge of this (I will not say good) sword; thanks to Gines de Passamonte who run away with my own[88].’ This last apostrophe he muttered between his teeth, and then proceeded aloud, saying—‘and after I shall have deprived him of his head, and put you in peaceable possession of your throne, you shall be at free liberty to dispose of your person, according to your own will and pleasure; for, while my memory is engrossed, my will enslaved, and my understanding subjected to her who——I say no more; but, that it is impossible I should incline, or have the least thought towards marrying any other person, though she were a perfect phœnix.’

Sancho was so much disgusted at this last declaration of his master, refusing the marriage, that raising his voice, he cried with great indignation, ‘Signior Don Quixote, I vow and swear your worship is crazy, else you would never boggle at marrying such a high-born princess as this! Do you imagine that fortune will offer such good luck at every turn, as she now presents? or pray, do you think my Lady Dulcinea more handsome than the princess? I am sure she is not half so beautiful, and will even venture to say, that she is not worthy to tie her majesty’s shoe-strings. How the plague shall I ever obtain the earldom I expect, if your worship goes thus a-fishing for mushrooms at sea? Marry her, marry her, in the devil’s name, without much ado; lay hold on this kingdom that drops, as it were, into your hand; and, after your coronation, make me a marquis or lord-lieutenant, and then the devil, if he will, may run away with the rest.’

Don Quixote was enraged, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against his mistress Dulcinea, and lifting up his lance, without speaking a syllable, or giving the least notice of his intention, discharged two such hearty blows upon the squire, as brought him instantly to the ground; and had not Dorothea called aloud, and begged of him to forbear, would certainly have murdered poor Sancho on the spot. ‘Do you think,’ said he, after some pause, ‘you plebeian scoundrel, that I will always stand with my hands in my pockets; and that there is nothing to be done, but for you to misbehave, and for me to forgive you? I’ll teach you better manners, you excommunicated rascal; for such to be sure you are, else you would not wag your tongue against the peerless Dulcinea. Don’t you know, you grovelling beggarly villain, that were it not for the valour with which she inspires this arm, I should not have enough to kill a flea? Tell me, you viperish scoffer, what you think hath won this kingdom, cut off the giant’s head, and made you a marquis, for all this I look upon as already done and determined? Is it not the valour of Dulcinea that makes use of my arm as the instrument of her exploits? In me she fights and overcomes; in her I live, breathe, and have my being. O thou whoreson, ungrateful ruffian, who seest thyself raised from the dust of the earth to the rank of nobility, and repayest the obligation by slandering thy benefactress.’

Sancho was not so roughly handled but he heard every syllable that his master spoke; and, starting up as nimbly as he could, ran behind Dorothea’s palfrey, from whence he said to the knight, ‘Pray, Sir, if your worship is determined against marrying this great princess, is it not plain, that the kingdom cannot be yours; and if that be the case, what favours can you bestow upon me? This is what I complain of. I would your worship would, once for all, marry this queen, who is, as it were, rained down from Heaven upon us; and then you may converse with my Lady Dulcinea, according to the custom of some kings who keep concubines. As to the affair of beauty, I will not intermeddle; but, if the truth may be told, I like them both very well, though I never saw my Lady Dulcinea in my life.’—‘How! not seen her, blasphemous traitor!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘have you not just brought a message from her?’—‘I say,’ answered Sancho, ‘that when I saw her, I had not an opportunity of examining the particulars of her beauty and good qualities one by one; but all together she pleased me very much.’—‘Now, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I exculpate thee, and thou must forgive what I did in my wrath; for no man can command the first emotions of his passion.’—‘That I can plainly perceive,’ answered the squire, ‘and therefore, the desire of speaking is always the first motion in me; and truly, when once my tongue begins to itch, I cannot for my blood keep it within my teeth.’—‘For all that, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I would have you consider before you speak; for, though the pitcher goes often to the well—I need not mention what follows.’—‘In good time,’ replied the squire, ‘there is a God above, who sees the snare, and will judge which of us is the more to blame; I in speaking, or your worship in doing evil.’—‘Let there be no more of this, Sancho,’ said Dorothea, ‘but run and kiss your master’s hand, and beg his pardon; and henceforth set a better guard upon your praise and disparagement; above all things, beware of saying any thing to the prejudice of that Lady Toboso, whom I know by nothing else than my inclination to serve her: and if you put your trust in God, you will not fail of acquiring some estate, by which you will live like a prince.’

Sancho took her advice, and, hanging his head, went to beg a kiss of his master’s hand, which was granted with great solemnity of deportment; nay, the knight gave him his blessing also, desiring he would attend him while he rode on a little before the rest of the company, that he might have a better opportunity of asking a few questions, and conversing with him about affairs of the utmost importance. Sancho obeyed the order; and the two having advanced a good way before the rest, ‘Since thy return,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I have had neither time nor convenience, to enquire about many particular circumstances of thy embassy, with the answer thou hast brought: and now that fortune favours us with a fit opportunity, thou must not deny me the pleasure I shall receive from thy agreeable information.’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘may ask as many questions as you please: I shall make every thing come out as clear as it went in; but I intreat your worship, dear Sir, not to be so revengeful for the future.’—‘Why dost thou call me revengeful?’ said the knight. ‘Because,’ resumed the squire, ‘those blows I was just now honoured with, were more owing to the quarrel the devil picked between us, t’other night, than to any thing I said against my Lady Dulcinea, whom I love and reverence as a relick, though she be not one, merely, because she appertains to your worship.’—‘No more of these reflections, on thy life,’ said Don Quixote; ‘else thou wilt give me fresh umbrage: I freely forgave thee at that time, and thou knowest, that, according to the common observation, Every new fault deserves a new penance.’

While this conversation passed between them, they perceived a man riding towards them on an ass; and, when he came a little nearer, discerned him to be a gypsie; but Sancho Panza, who sent his soul abroad with his eyes, to examine every ass that appeared, no sooner beheld the rider, than he recognized Gines de Passamonte, and by the thread of the gypsie discovered the clue of his own ass; for it was actually Dapple that carried Passamonte, who, for the better convenience of selling the beast, had disguised himself in the dress of a gypsie, whose language, with many others, he could speak as fluently as his mother-tongue. Sancho saw and recollected him, and no sooner had he seen and recollected him, than he bellowed forth, ‘Ah, villain, Ginesillo! restore my goods! give me back the comfort of my life! rob me not of my heart’s content! give me my ass! give me my darling! Fly, thief! skip, robber; and seek not to preserve that which is none of thy own.’

There was no need of all this exclamation and reproach; for Gines leaped off at the first word, and at a pretty round trot, which might have passed for a gallop, made the best of his way, and vanished in a twinkling. Sancho running to his ass, embraced it with great affection, saying, ‘How hast thou been, my dear Dapple? my trusty companion and joy of my eyes!’ Then kissed and caressed it as if it had been a Christian; while Dapple very peaceably received these demonstrations of love and kindness, without answering one word. The whole company wished him joy of his recovery; particularly Don Quixote, who assured him, that although he had retrieved Dapple, the promise of the three colts should not be annulled; and Sancho thanked him for his generosity.

While the master and man were conversing by themselves, the curate told Dorothea, that she had behaved with great discretion in her story, both with regard to the matter and brevity of it, as well as the resemblance it bore to those legends that are found in books of chivalry. She observed that she had employed a good part of her leisure time in reading such romances; but, being ignorant of the situation of different provinces and sea-ports, she had spoke at random, when she mentioned her landing at Ossuna.’—‘I thought so,’ resumed the priest, ‘and made all haste to adjust matters by what I said; but, is it not very strange, to see with what facility this poor unfortunate gentleman swallows all those lyes and fictions, merely, because they are delivered in the stile and manner of his nonsensical books?’—‘So very strange and singular,’ said Cardenio, ‘that I question if there be any genius whatever, so fertile as to frame such a character by the mere force of invention.’—‘And what is a very remarkable circumstance,’ replied the curate, ‘waving those extravagancies which this worthy gentleman utters upon the subject of his disorder, he can discourse upon other topicks with surprizing ability, and appears to be a man of great knowledge and intellects; so that, if you do not touch upon chivalry, his hearers must look upon him as a person of excellent understanding.’

While they were engaged in this conversation, Don Quixote proceeded in his with Sancho; to whom he said, ‘Come, friend Panza, let us forget what is past, with regard to animosity, and tell me, without any ingredient of rancour and resentment, where and how you found Dulcinea? What was she doing? What did she say? What answer did she make? How did she look when she read my letter? Who transcribed it for her perusal? These particulars, and every other circumstance of the affair, which you think worthy to be known, asked, and answered, I expect you will explain, without seeking to increase my pleasure with false additions, much less to diminish it by malicious omission.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho, ‘if the truth must be told, nobody transcribed the letter; because I had no letter to be transcribed.’—‘That is very true,’ replied the knight; ‘for, two days after thy departure, I found the pocket-book in which it was written; a circumstance that gave me infinite pain, as I could not conceive what thou wouldst do when the mistake should appear; indeed I always imagined thou wouldst have returned hither immediately upon the discovery.’—‘That would certainly have been the case,’ said the squire, ‘if, when your worship read it to me, I had not retained it in my memory, so perfect as to be able to dictate it to a parish clerk, who, as I repeated, transcribed it so exactly, that he said, in all the days of his life, though he had read many letters of excommunication, he had never seen such a clever letter as yours.’—‘And dost thou still retain it?’ said Don Quixote. ‘No, Sir’ replied Sancho, ‘For, after I had put it into her hand, I thought there was no farther occasion to retain it, and therefore let it slip out of my remembrance; or, if any part remains, it is that of the subterrene, I mean sovereign lady, and the conclusion Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; with about three hundred souls, and lives, and pigsnies, which I set down in the middle.’

Footnote 87:

This is a diverting example of the Bathos, not unlike that anticlimax
repeated in the art of sinking.

Nor Alps, nor Apennines could keep us out,
Nor fortified redoubt!

Footnote 88:

If the knight was robbed of his own sword by Gines, where did he find
that which he wore on this occasion?

CHAP. IV.
THE SAVOURY CONVERSATION
THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA,
WITH MANY OTHER INCIDENTS.

‘All this is pretty well; proceed!’ said Don Quixote: ‘how was that queen of beauty employed, when you arrived? I dare say, you found her stringing pearls, or embroidering some device for this her captive knight, with threads of gold.’—‘No, truly,’ answered the squire; ‘I found her winnowing two bushels of wheat in the yard.’—‘Then you may depend upon it,’ resumed the knight, ‘the grains of that wheat were converted into pearls by the touch of her hand; and didst thou observe, my friend, whether it was of the finer or common sort?’—‘Why, neither!’ said Sancho; ‘it seemed to be, as it were, red wheat.’—‘But, since it was winnowed by her fair hands,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I dare affirm, it will make the whitest bread in Spain. Go on with thy information. When the letter was delivered, did she not kiss it, and place it on the crown of her head, in token of respect? Did she not perform some ceremony worthy of such a letter? Pray, how did she receive it?’—‘When I presented the letter,’ answered Sancho, ‘she was in a main hurry, winnowing a large heap of wheat that was in her sieve; and said to me, “Friend, lay down the letter on that sack; for I cannot pretend to read it, until I have made an end of my work.”’—‘Discreet lady!’ cried the knight; ‘her intention certainly was to read it at her leisure, that she might recreate herself with the contents. Proceed, Sancho; and while she was thus employed, what conversation passed between you? what questions did she ask concerning me? and what answers didst thou make? Recount the whole, without leaving one syllable untold.’

‘She asked me no questions,’ replied the squire; ‘but I told her, how I had left your worship doing penance for love of her, skipping among those rocks, naked from the waist upwards, like a mere savage, sleeping on the bare ground; neglecting to eat your food like a Christian, or to comb your beard like a decent man; but whining, and weeping, and cursing your fortune.’—‘If you said I cursed my fortune, you misrepresented me,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for I bless my fate, and will bless it all the days of my life, for having made me worthy to aspire to the love of such an high lady as Dulcinea del Toboso.’—‘High indeed!’ answered Sancho, ‘for, in faith, she is a good hand taller than I am.’—‘How hast thou been measured with her, Sancho?’ said the knight. ‘I’ll tell you how,’ answered the squire; ‘while I was helping to lay a load of corn upon an ass, we came so close together, that I could easily perceive she over-topped me by a full hand.’—‘That may be true,’ said Don Quixote; ‘though her tallness is accompanied and adorned by a myriad of mental graces. But this you will not deny, Sancho, that while you was so near her, your nostrils were regaled by a Sabæan odour, an aromatick fragrance, a certain delicious sensation, for which there is no name. I mean, a scent, a perfume, such as fills the shop of some curious glover.’—‘All that I can say,’ answered Sancho, ‘is, that I was sensible of a sort of rammish smell, which I believe was owing to her being in a muck sweat with hard work.’—‘That is impossible,’ cried the knight; ‘thy sense must have been depraved, or that smell must have proceeded from thy own body; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the odour of that rose among briars, that lily of the valley, that liquid amber.’—‘It may be so,’ said Sancho: ‘I have often known such smells come from myself, as then seemed to come from my Lady Dulcinea: but that is not to be wondered at; because, as the saying is, every fiend may stink of brimstone.’—‘Well, then,’ added Don Quixote, ‘she hath now winnowed the wheat and sent it to the mill; how did she behave after she had read my letter?’—‘The letter,’ answered Sancho, ‘was not read at all; for, as she could neither read nor write, she chose to rend and tear it to pieces, rather than give it to any body who might publish her secrets in the village, saying, she was very well satisfied with the information I gave her by word of mouth, concerning your worship’s love for her, and the extraordinary penance I left you doing on her account. Finally, she bade me tell you, that she kissed your worship’s hands, being much more desirous of seeing than writing to you; and therefore she entreated and commanded your worship, by these presents, to quit this desart, and leave off playing the fool, and forthwith set out on your journey to Toboso, provided that something else of greater importance should not happen, for she longed very much for a sight of your worship, and laughed heartily when I told her, that you had taken the name of the Knight with the Rueful Countenance. When I asked if the Biscayan had been lately with her, she answered, “Yes;” and that he was very much of a gentleman; but, when I enquired about the galley-slaves, she said she had as yet seen none of them.’

‘Hitherto all goes well,’ said the knight, ‘but pray tell me what jewel she gave you at parting, for the news you had brought of me her lover; for, it is an ancient practice and custom among knights-errant and their mistresses, to bestow upon their squires, damsels, or dwarfs, who bring them news of each other, some rich jewel, as a reward and acknowledgment for the message.’—‘It may be so,’ said Sancho; ‘and I think it an excellent custom, but that must have been in time past; for in this age it is customary to give nothing but a piece of bread and cheese, which was all the present I received from my Lady Dulcinea, who reached it over the yard wall, when I took my leave; by this token, that the cheese was made of ewe’s milk.’—‘She is liberal to excess,’ said the knight; ‘and if she omitted giving thee a jewel, it must certainly have been owing to her not having any by her; but all in good time[89]; I shall see her soon, and then every thing will be set to rights. Yet there is one thing, Sancho, which overwhelms me with astonishment. You seem to have travelled through the air; for you have spent little more than three days in your journey; though Toboso is more than thirty leagues distant from hence. From this extraordinary expedition, I conjecture, that the sage, who is my friend, and interests himself in my affairs, and such there certainly is, and must be, else I should be no true knight-errant; I say, this inchanter must have assisted thee in thy journey, though thou didst not perceive it; for some there are of that class, who will take up a knight-errant while he is asleep in his bed, and without his knowing any thing of the matter, he shall awake next morning in some place more than a thousand leagues from the house where he took up his lodging the night before; and without such sudden transportations, it would be impossible for knights to succour each other in distress, as they frequently do. A knight errant, for example, happens to be fighting in the desarts of Armenia, with some fierce dragon, dreadful goblin, or rival knight; and being worsted, and just at the point of being slain, behold, when he least expects it, there suddenly appears in a cloud or fiery chariot, another knight, a friend of his, who but a minute before resided in England, and who assists and delivers him from death; and that same night, he finds himself supping at his ease at his own house, which is often two or three thousand leagues from the field of battle; and all this is effected by the industry and art of sage inchanters, who take those valiant knights under their protection.

‘Wherefore, friend Sancho, I can easily believe that thou hast in so little time travelled from hence to Toboso and back again; because, as I have already observed, some friendly sage must have carried thee through the air, though thou didst not perceive it.’—‘Not unlikely,’ replied the squire, ‘for, in good faith, Rozinante went like a gypsy’s ass, with quicksilver in his ears.’—‘With quicksilver,’ cried the knight; ‘ay, and a legion of dæmons to boot, who are beings that travel themselves, and make other people travel as fast as they please, without tiring.

‘But, waving this subject, how doest thou think I ought to regulate my conduct, now that my mistress commands me to appear in her presence! for, although I find myself obliged to comply with her orders, I am utterly incapacitated by the boon I have granted to this princess: and I am bound by the laws of chivalry to fulfil my promise, before I indulge my inclination. On one hand, I am persecuted and harrassed by the desire of seeing Dulcinea; on the other, I am incited and invited by my honour and the glory I shall acquire in this enterprize. I am therefore determined to travel with all expedition, until I arrive at the place where the giant resides; and, when I shall have restored the princess to the peaceful possession of her kingdom, after having shortened the usurper by the head, I will return to the rays of that beauty which enlightens my thoughts, and excuse myself in such a manner as to obtain her forgiveness, as she will plainly perceive that my delay tended to the increase of her glory and fame; seeing all my reputation in arms, past, present, or to come, proceeds from her favour and inspiration.’—‘Lord!’ cried Sancho ‘how your worship is concerned about a parcel of potsherds. Pray tell me, Sir, do you intend to make this journey for nothing, and to let such a rich and noble marriage as this slip through your fingers; while the dowry is no less than a kingdom, which I have actually heard is more than twenty thousand leagues round, plentifully stored with every thing that is needful for the sustenance of mortal man, and larger than Portugal and Castile put together? Hold your tongue, a God’s name, and take shame to yourself, for what you have said; pardon my freedom, take my advice, and marry in the first place where we can find a curate, or make use of our friend the licentiate, who will buckle you handsomely. Take notice, therefore, that I am of an age to give good counsel, and this that I offer will fit you to a hair, for a bird in hand is worth two in the bush; and, as the saying is, He that hath good in his view, and yet will not evil eschew, his folly deserveth to rue.’

‘Sancho,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘if thou advisest me to marry, with a view of seeing me king, after I shall have killed the giant, that I may have an opportunity of rewarding thee with what I have promised, thou must know that I can easily gratify thy wishes, without wedding the princess; for, before I engage in the combat, I will covenant, that, provided I come off conqueror, and decline the marriage, I shall have it in my power to dispose of one part of the kingdom, as I shall think proper; and to whom should I give it but to thee?’—‘That is very plain,’ replied the squire; ‘but I beseech your worship to make choice of the sea-coast, because if I should happen to dislike the country, I may ship off my black slaves, and sell them, as I have already hinted. Wherefore, without troubling yourself at present, about my Lady Dulcinea, I would have you go and slay the giant, and conclude that affair from which, before God! we shall certainly reap much honour and advantage.’—‘I tell thee, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art in the right, and I will follow thy advice, so far as it regards my attendance upon the princess, before I visit Dulcinea. But say not a word to any body, even those of our company not excepted, of this conversation; for, as she is so reserved and careful of concealing her sentiments, it would be inexcusable in me, if I, or any other through my means, should disclose them.’—‘Since this is the case,’ said the squire, ‘why does your worship command all those that are vanquished by your arm to go and present themselves before my Lady Dulcinea? you may as well give it under your hand, that you are her true and trusty lover; for, if you compel them to fall upon their knees before her, and say they are sent by your worship to pay homage to her, how is it possible that the sentiments of either you or her can be concealed?’

‘What an ignorant and simple fellow thou art!’ resumed the knight; ‘canst thou not see that all this redounds to her praise and exaltation? Thou must know, that in our stile of chivalry, it is deemed a great honour for a lady to be admired by a great many knights, whose wishes extend no farther than to the desire of serving her for her own sake, without expecting any other reward for their great and manifold services, than the glory of being admitted into the number of her knights.’—‘In like manner,’ said Sancho, ‘I have heard a priest in the pulpit observe, that we must love our Saviour for his own sake, without being moved thereto, by any fear of punishment or hopes of applause, though, for my own part, I am inclined to love and serve him on account of his power.’—‘Now, the devil take the clown!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘he sometimes makes such shrewd observations that one would think he had actually studied!’—‘And yet, upon my conscience,’ answered the squire, ‘I know not so much as my letters.’ At that instant Master Nicholas calling aloud to them to stop a little, that the rest might have time to drink at a spring which they found in the way; Don Quixote turned back, to the no small satisfaction of Sancho, who was already tired with telling lyes, and afraid of being detected by his master; for, although he knew that Dulcinea was the daughter of a peasant at Toboso, he had never seen her in his life. By this time Cardenio had put on the cloaths which Dorothea wore when they found her; and, though they were none of the most elegant, he made a much better figure than with his tattered dress, which he now threw away. The whole company sat down, by the spring, where, while they appeased the keen hunger that possessed them all, with what the curate had brought from the inn, a lad chanced to pass that way, who, looking earnestly at the whole company, at length run up to Don Quixote, and embracing his knees, began to blubber most heartily, saying, ‘Ah! Signior, don’t you know me? look at me again; I am that same individual young man called Andrew, whom your worship delivered from the tree to which I was tied.’ The knight recollected his features, and taking him by the hand, addressed himself to the company in these words.

‘That you may see of what importance knight-errantry is, to redress the wrongs and grievances which are daily committed by the insolent and wicked wretches who live upon this earth; know, that as I passed by a wood some time ago, I heard the screams and woeful cries of some afflicted creature in the utmost distress: and in consequence of my oath and obligation, riding towards the place from which the lamentation seemed to come, I found this very young man tied to an oak tree; and I am glad from my soul that he is here in person, to bear witness to the truth. I say, he was bound to an oak, naked, from the waist upwards; and a peasant, who I afterwards understood was his master, stood scourging him with the reins of a bridle. When I enquired into the cause of this barbarous treatment, the rustick answered, that he only whipped his own servant for being guilty of some neglect that savoured more of knavishness than simplicity. The boy protested he had done nothing but asked his wages: to this affirmation the master replied, by some asseverations which I have forgot; but though I heard his excuses, I would not admit of them. In short, I ordered the peasant to untie the youth, and made him swear that he would carry him home and pay him his wages in ready cash, nay, and pay him in rials that should be perfumed. Is not this literally true, son Andrew? Didst thou not observe with what authority I commanded, and with what humility he promised to comply with every thing that I imposed, suggested, and desired? Answer without perturbation or doubt, and tell this honourable company what passed, that they may see and be convinced of what use it is, as I said, to have knights-errant continually upon duty.’