Chapter XXIX: Book I (1)

CHAP. I.
OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CURATE AND BARBER,
WITH REGARD TO DON QUIXOTE’S INFIRMITY.

Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the second part of this history, containing the third sally of Don Quixote, relates that the curate and barber forbore to visit him for a whole month, that they might not revive and recal to his imagination the remembrance of things past; but, during all that time, they frequently went to see the housekeeper and niece, on whom they laid strong injunctions to cherish the knight with great care and tenderness, and treat him with such comfortable food as should be most agreeable to his stomach and brain, in which they reasonably supposed that his whole disorder lay. The ladies assured them it was their chief study, which they would prosecute with all imaginable care and satisfaction; for they began to perceive that their master, at certain intervals, gave tokens of being in his right wits. This information afforded great pleasure to the two friends, who now concluded they had acted wisely in bringing him home on the inchanted waggon, as hath been recounted in the last chapter of the first part of this sublime and punctual history; and determined to pay him a visit, that they might be convinced of his amendment, which they deemed almost impossible; though they agreed to avoid, with great care, the subject of chivalry, that they might run no risk of ripping up the wound so lately closed.

In short, they entered his chamber, and found him sitting upon his bed, in a waistcoat of green baize, and a red Toledan night-cap, so meagre, shrunk, and withered, that he looked like an Egyptian mummy; he received them very courteously, and when they enquired into the state of his health, spoke of his indisposition and himself with great judgment and elocution. The conversation happening to turn on what is called reasons of state, and modes of administration, they amended certain abuses, and condemned others, reforming one custom, and banishing another; as if each of the three had been a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or regenerated Solon; and in such a manner did they furbish up the common-wealth, that one would have imagined they had committed it to a forge, and brought out another quite different from that which they put in. Don Quixote spoke on every subject that was handled, with such discretion, as actually convinced the two examiners, that he was quite sound, and had recovered the right exercise of his judgment; while the niece and housekeeper, who were present all the time, thought they could never be thankful enough to God, when they heard their master talk so sensibly. But the curate altering his first resolution, which was to avoid the subject of chivalry, now determined to make an experiment, by which he should be thoroughly satisfied, whether the knight’s cure was real or imaginary; with this view, he from one thing to another came to mention some news from court; and among other pieces of intelligence, said he was certainly informed that the Turk had taken the sea, with a powerful armament, though his design was not known, nor could it be guessed where the expected storm would burst; but that these preparations, which keep us almost constantly in arms, had alarmed all Christendom; and that his majesty had ordered the coasts of Naples and Sicily, with the island of Malta, to be provided against all attempts. To this intimation Don Quixote replied, ‘His majesty has acted like a most prudent warrior, in providing for the safety of his dominions, that the enemy may not find them unprepared; but, if he would take my advice, I would furnish him with an expedient, which I believe our sovereign at present little thinks of.’

The curate no sooner heard these words, than he said within himself, ‘Lord have mercy upon thee, poor Don Quixote! if I am not mistaken, thou art just going to cast thyself headlong from the highest pinnacle of madness, into the profound abyss of thy folly.’ But the barber, who immediately adopted the same suspicion, asked the knight what that expedient was, which he thought should be put in practice by way of prevention; observing, that it was, perhaps, such a scheme as deserved to be inserted in the list of those impertinent advices usually offered to crowned heads. ‘Mine, Mr. Shaver,’ said Don Quixote, ‘will be pertinent, not impertinent.’—‘I don’t say otherwise,’ replied the barber; ‘I only made that observation, because experience hath shewn that all, or the greatest part of those projects which have been offered to his majesty, are either impossible, extravagant, or prejudicial to the state.’—‘My scheme,’ answered the knight, ‘is neither impossible nor extravagant; but, on the contrary, the most easy, just, brief, and expeditious, that ever projector conceived.’—‘Methinks your worship is very slow in delivering it, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the priest. ‘I should not chuse,’ answered the knight, ‘to have what I say here carried by to-morrow morning, to the ears of the lords of the council; by which means, another may reap the credit and reward of my labour.’—‘For my own part,’ cried the barber, ‘I here give my word, before God! never to disclose what your worship shall impart, either to king or knave, or any mortal man; an oath I learned in the romance of the Curate, who, in the preface, gives the king notice of the robber that stole his hundred ducats, and ambling mule.’—‘I am not acquainted with the story,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the oath is a good oath, because I am convinced that Mr. Nicholas is an honest man.’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied the curate, ‘I will be bound for him, and undertake, that with regard to this affair, he shall speak no more than if he was actually dumb, on pain of whatever penalty you shall think proper to inflict.’—‘And who will be security for you, Mr. Curate?’ said the knight. ‘My profession,’ answered the priest, ‘by which I am bound to keep secrets.’—‘Body of me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘his majesty has nothing to do, but to issue a proclamation, commanding all the knights-errant in Spain to assemble at his court, by such a day; and although not more than half a dozen should come, among these one may be found, who is alone sufficient to overthrow the whole Turkish power. Pray, gentlemen, give attention, and take me along with you; is it such a new thing, for a single knight to cut in pieces a whole army of two hundred thousand men, as if they had but one common throat, or were made of ginger-bread? How many histories are there, think you, filled with such marvellous exploits? Unfortunate it is for me, (I will not say, for any other) that the renowned Don Belianis is not now alive, or some knight of the innumerable race of Amadis de Gaul; for if any one of them was now living, to confront the Turks, in good sooth, I should not chuse to farm their conquests; but God will provide for his own people, and produce some champion, who, if not equal in valour to former knights-errant, at least will be inferior to none of them in point of courage[129]; Heaven knows my meaning; I will say no more.’—‘Lack-a-day!’ cried the niece, when she heard this insinuation, ‘I’ll be hanged, if my uncle is not resolved to turn knight errant again.’—‘A knight-errant,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will live and die; and the Turks may make their descents or ascents, when they will, with all the power they are masters of. I say again, Heaven knows my meaning.’ Here the barber interposing, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I beg you will give me leave to tell a short story of what happened at Seville; it comes so pat to the purpose, that I have a strong inclination to relate it.’ Don Quixote and the curate granted his request, and the rest yielded him attention, when he began in these words.

‘There was in the mad-house at Seville, a certain lunatick, whom his relations had sent thither on account of the defect in his judgment; he had taken his degrees in the canon law, at Ossuna; and many were of opinion, that if he had acquired them at Salamanca, he would not have been a bit the wiser; this graduate, having been confined some years, took it in his head, that he was quite well, and restored to his right wits; and in this imagination, wrote to the archbishop, earnestly entreating him, with many sensible arguments, to give order that he should be extricated from the misery in which he lived; since, through the mercy of God, he had recovered his lost judgment, though his relations kept him still in confinement, that they might enjoy his estate, and, in despite of truth, were resolved that he should be mad to the day of his death. The archbishop, persuaded by the many sensible and pathetick letters he received, ordered one of his chaplains to go to the rector of the mad-house, and enquire into the truth of what the licentiate alledged, and even to talk with himself, that, if he should find him quite recovered, he might bring him away, and set him at liberty. The chaplain obeyed the command of his grace, and the rector assured him that the man was still mad; for although he would very often talk like a person of excellent understanding, at the long run he commonly broke out into folly and nonsense, as absurd as the first part of his discourse was rational and discreet; however, he himself might make the experiment, by conversing with the licentiate. The chaplain accordingly went to his apartment, and talked with him a whole hour and more, during which time the lunatick did not utter one vague or incoherent sentence; but, on the contrary, spoke so judiciously, that the chaplain could not help believing him quite sound of intellect; among other things, he told him the rector was his enemy, and pronounced him still distracted, though with lucid intervals, that he might not lose the presents which he received from his relations; so that the greatest cause of his misfortune was no other than his own affluent estate, which to enjoy, his adversaries craftily pretended to doubt of the mercy which the Lord had vouchsafed him, in re-converting him from a beast into a man; in short, he talked so effectually as to render the rector suspected, to prove his relations covetous and unnatural, and himself so discreet, that the chaplain determined to carry him forthwith to the archbishop, that his grace might be personally satisfied of the truth. With this laudable intention, he desired the rector to order the licentiate to be dressed with the cloaths in which he entered the house: the rector again advised him to consider what he was about; for the licentiate was, without all question, still distracted. But these cautions and counsels had no effect in dissuading the chaplain from carrying him off, and the rector seeing the archbishop’s order, was obliged to obey; so that the licentiate received his own cloaths, which were decent and new. Seeing himself thus diverted of the badge of his disorder, and habited again like a person of sound intellects, he besought the chaplain, that he would be so charitable as to allow him to go and take leave of his companions in affliction; the other granted his request, and said he would accompany him, in order to see the patients; upon which they went up stairs, followed by several persons who chanced to be then present. The licentiate, going to the gate of a cell, in which there was a furious madman, though at that time he was calm and quiet, said to him, “Brother, have you any commands for me? I am going to my own house, for God of his infinite goodness and mercy, without any desert of mine, hath been pleased to restore unto me the use of my reason, and I am now perfectly recovered; so that there is nothing impossible to the power of the Almighty; put, therefore, your hope and trust in him, who, as he hath restored me to my former state, will grant the same indulgence to you, if you confide in his protection. I will take care to send you some cordial food, and be sure, at all events, to eat it; for, you must know, I conclude from experience, that all our disorder proceeds from an empty stomach, and the brain’s being filled with wind. Take heart, brother, take heart; for despondence under misfortune consumes the constitution, and hastens the stroke of death.” This discourse being overheard by another lunatick, who was confined in a cell opposite to that of the furious patient, he started up stark naked from an old mat on which he lay, and roared aloud, “Who is that going away so sober and so sound?” The licentiate replied, “’Tis I, brother, who am going home, being under no necessity of tarrying longer in this place; thanks be to Heaven for the signal favour I have received!”—“Take care what you say, Mr. Licentiate, and let not the devil deceive you,” answered the madman: “halt a little, stay where you are, and spare yourself the trouble of being brought back.”—“I know that I am perfectly recovered,” said the licentiate, “and shall, have no farther occasion to visit the Stations[130].”—“You recovered!” cried the other, “good! we shall see—adieu—but, I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that, for the transgression this day committed in Seville, by discharging you from the house, as a person of sound judgment, I will take such vengeance as shall be a monument of wrath for ever and ever, amen. Do’st thou not know, pitiful licentiate, that all this is in my power, being, as I have already observed, Jove the thunderer, who wield the flaming bolts, with which I use to threaten, and can destroy the universe? But with one evil only will I chastise this ignorant people; I will not suffer one drop of rain to fall upon the city, nor its confines, nor indeed in any part of this district, for the space of three whole years, reckoning from the day and minute in which this dreadful menace is made. Thou free! thou sound! thou recovered! and I mad! I distracted and confined! I will sooner hang myself than rain one spoonful.” The by-standers were very attentive to the vociferous exclamations of this madman, when our licentiate turning to the chaplain, and taking him by the hand, said, “Dear Sir, give yourself no uneasiness or concern about what he says; for if he who is Jupiter, witholds refreshing showers from the earth, I who am Neptune, the father and god of waters, will rain as often as I please, should there be occasion for it, in consequence of the privilege I possess.” To this promise the chaplain replied, “Nevertheless, Signior Neptune, it will not be politick to incense Signior Jupiter; therefore, your worship will be so good as to stay where you are, till some other day, when we may have more leisure and convenience to remove you.” The rector and the rest of the company could not help laughing, the chaplain was out of countenance, the licentiate was stripped, and sent back to his cell; and so ends my story.’

‘And this is the story, Mr. Barber,’ said Don Quixote, ‘which came so pat to the purpose, that you could not help relating it? Ah, Mr. Shaver! Mr. Shaver! he must be blind indeed, that cannot see through the bottom of a sieve. Is it possible your worship does not know that comparisons in point of genius, virtue, beauty, and descent, are always odious and ill received? I, Mr. Barber, am not Neptune, god of waters; neither do I set up for being thought a wise man, knowing that I am not so: the sole end of my labours is to convince the world of its error, in not seeking to renew those most happy times when the order of knight-errantry exerted itself in full perfection; but this depraved age of ours is unworthy of tasting that felicity which was enjoyed by those ages, when knights-errant undertook the charge, and burdened their shoulders with the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the relief of wards and orphans, the chastisement of the proud, and the promotion of the humble. The greatest part of your modern knights rustle in damasks, brocades, and other rich and splendid attire, instead of rattling in coats of mail; no knight now sleeps in the open field, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, armed at all points cap-a-pee; no warrior, in this degenerate age, sits on horseback, and without disengaging his feet from the stirrups, but leaning upon his lance, endeavours to take as it were a snatch of sleep, after the example of former knights-errant; no champion, now-a-days, coming out of some dreary wood, immediately enters another rocky wilderness, through which he reaches the barren and deserted coast of the rough and stormy sea, where, finding in some creek, a crazy boat without oars, sails, mast, or tackle, he intrepidly throws himself into it, and launches out upon the implacable billows that whirl him aloft to heaven, and then sink him to the profound abyss, while his unshaken soul defies the storm; then, when he dreams of no such matter, he finds himself three thousand leagues and more from the place where he embarked, and leaping ashore on some remote and unknown country, achieves adventures worthy to be written, not on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over activity, idleness over toil, vice over virtue, arrogance over valour, and the theory over the practice of arms, which obtained and shone resplendent in those golden ages that produced knights-errant. Pray, tell me, who could be more honourable and valiant than the famous Amadis de Gaul? who more discreet than Palmerin of England? who more insinuating and pliant than Tirante the White? who more gallant than Lifuarte of Greece? who more hacked and hacking than Don Belianis? who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? or, who more daring than Felixmarte of Hircania? who more sincere than Esplandian? who more desperate than Cirongilio of Thrace? who more brave than Rodamont? who more prudent than King Sobrino? who more bold than Reynaldo? who more invincible than Roldan? and who more gallant and courteous than Rugero? from whom (according to Turpin, in his Cosmographia) the present Dukes of Ferrara are descended. All these, with many more which I could name, Mr. Curate, were knights-errant, and the very light and glory of chivalry; these, or such as these, are the champions proposed by my scheme, which, should it take place, would effectually serve his majesty’s purpose, spare an infinite expence, and the Turk would even tear his own beard in despair; in that case I would tarry where I am, since the chaplain would not think fit to enlarge me; and if Jupiter, as the barber said, would not rain, here am I ready to frustrate his intent; this I mention, that Mr. Bason, there, may know I understand his meaning.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Mr. Nicholas, ‘I meant no harm, so help me God! my intention was good, and therefore your worship ought not to be displeased.’—‘Whether I am displeased or not,’ replied the knight, ‘I myself know best.’

Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Though I have hitherto scarce opened my mouth, I cannot be easy under a scruple which tears and gnaws my conscience, and which arose from what Signior Don Quixote hath just now asserted.’—‘In greater matters, Mr. Curate may command me,’ answered the knight; ‘out with your scruple, then; for scruples of conscience are very uncomfortable companions.’—‘With your good permission,’ replied the priest, ‘this it is: I can by no means persuade myself that the whole tribe of knights-errant, whom your worship have named, were really and truly earthly persons of flesh and blood; on the contrary, I imagine all these things are fictions, fables, and lying dreams, recounted by men who are awake, or rather by those who are half asleep.’—‘That,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is another error incident to many people, who do not believe that any such knights ever existed; and I have, on divers and sundry occasions, endeavoured to dissipate that almost general mistake by the light of truth. Sometimes, indeed, I have not succeeded in my attempts; however, I have frequently gained my point, by supporting it on the shoulders of demonstration; and truly the case is so clear, that I could almost affirm I have with my own eyes beheld Amadis de Gaul, who was a tall man, of a fair complexion, well furnished with a black beard, his aspect something between mild and severe, concise of speech, slow to anger, and soon appeased. In the same manner, methinks, I could delineate and paint all the knights-errant that ever were recorded in history; for, according to the ideas formed by reading these histories, and by comparing their exploits and dispositions, sound philosophy may discover their lineaments, statures, and complexions.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘how large do you think the giant Morgante must have been?’—‘As to the affair of giants,’ answered the knight, ‘there are different opinions; some affirming, and others denying, the existence of any such beings: but the Holy Scriptures, which surely cannot fail one atom in point of truth, put that affair beyond all dispute, in relating the story of that Philistine Goliath, who was seven cubits and an half in height; a most amazing stature! Besides, in the island of Sicily, several thigh and shoulder-bones have been dug up, so large as to manifest, that the persons to whom they belonged must have been huge giants, as tall as high towers; and this can be proved by mathematical demonstration; but, nevertheless, I will not pretend to ascertain the size of Morgante; though I believe he was not very tall, because I find in the history which gives a particular account of his exploits, that he often slept under a roof: now, if there was any house capacious enough to receive him, his magnitude could not be very extraordinary.’—‘No, surely,’ said the curate: who, being diverted with his extravagant assertions, asked his opinion concerning the looks and persons of Reynaldo de Montalban, Don Orlando, and the rest of the Twelve Peers of France, who were all knights-errant. ‘With regard to Reynaldo,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I will venture to say, he was broad visaged, and of a ruddy complexion, with large rolling eyes, full of punctilio, excessively cholerick, and a friend to robbers and vagabonds. As for Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando, (for he is mentioned in history by all these names) it is my opinion, and I affirm, that he was of a middling stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat bandy-legged, of a dark complexion and carrotty beard, hairy all over, with a frowning aspect, sparing of speech, though very affable and well bred.’—‘If Roldan was not more comely than you have represented him,’ replied the curate, ‘I do not wonder that Angelica the Fair disdained and deserted him, for the gallantry, mirth, and pleasantry of the little smock-faced Moor, to whose embraces she yielded; and, surely, she was in the right, to prefer the smoothness of Medoro to the roughness of Roldan.’—‘That same Angelica, Mr. Curate,’ said the knight, ‘was an unsettled rambling young woman, that longed after novelties, and left the world as full of her impertinent actions as of the fame of her beauty. She undervalued a thousand noblemen, a thousand valiant and discreet admirers, and contented herself with a yellow haired page, who had neither fortune nor reputation, but that of being grateful to his friend. The renowned Ariosto, who sung the praises of her beauty, either not daring or not designing to rehearse what happened to her after her base intrigue, because he deemed it a theme not extremely honourable for his muse, dropped her at these lines:

‘“Another bard may sing, in loftier lay,
How he obtain’d the sceptre of Cathay.”

‘And truly this was a sort of prophecy, for the poets are also called _vates_, which in Latin signifies _diviners_, and it was plainly verified in the event, an Andalusian bard having since that time sung in verse her tears and lamentation, as the most famous and sublime genius of Castile hath celebrated her beauty.’

‘Pray tell me, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘among all those authors who have written in her praise, hath not some one or other composed a satire against my Lady Angelica?’—‘I firmly believe,’ replied the knight, ‘that if Sacripante or Roldan had been bards, they would have made the damsel smart severely, it being natural and peculiar to poets, who are disdained and rejected by their false mistresses, whether real or imaginary, to revenge themselves by satires and lampoons; a resentment altogether unworthy of generous breasts; but hitherto I have not met with any such defamatory verses against the Lady Angelica, though she made strange confusion in the world.’—‘That is a wonder, indeed!’ said the curate.—When hearing the housekeeper and niece, who had some time before quitted the company, bawling aloud in the yard, they ran out to see what was the occasion of such noise.

Footnote 129:

Ridiculous as this scheme may seem to be, such an expedient has
actually succeeded in practice. During the captivity of John King of
France, his dominions were ravaged by above one hundred thousand
peasants, who, under the name of Jacquieers, assembled in arms to
exterminate the noblesse; and among other horrid outrages, murdered
every gentleman that fell in their way. The Duchess of Normandy and
Orleans, together with three hundred ladies of rank, retired for
protection to Meaux, where they were surrounded, and would have
actually perished by the swords of these banditti, had they not been
rescued by the Count de Foix, and the captal of Buch; who, hearing of
their distress, hastened to their relief with no more than sixty
knights; and, without hesitation, attacked that furious multitude with
such bravery and vigour, that they were soon routed and dispersed.

Footnote 130:

A certain number of churches through which they made circuits,
uttering an appointed prayer at each.

CHAP. II.
THE NOTABLE FRAY THAT HAPPENED
BETWEEN SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER—WITH OTHER
DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

The history relates, that the noise which Don Quixote, the curate, and barber heard, was occasioned by the niece and housekeeper scolding at Sancho, who struggled to get in and see his master, while they defended the door. ‘What does the swag-bellied lurcher want in this house?’ said the housekeeper: ‘get you home, brother; it was you, and none but you, that turned my poor master’s brain, enticing him from his own home, to stroll about the highways.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied, ‘Housekeeper of Satan! ’tis my brain that’s turned; ’twas I that was enticed to stroll about the highways, and not thy master, for he carried me a rambling; so that you have reckoned without your host. ’Twas he that wheedled me from my own house, with the promise of an island, which I expect to this good hour.’—‘Devil choak thee with islands, thou cursed cormorant!’ cried the niece: ‘and pray what is an island; is it any thing to eat, thou gorbellied glutton, ha?’—‘No, not to eat, but to govern,’ answered Sancho, ‘and a fat government it is. Better than four cities, or the places of any four of the king’s alcades.’—‘Be that as it will,’ said the housekeeper, ‘thou shan’t set foot in this house, thou bag of mischief, and bundle of malice! go and look after thy own family, fatten thy hogs, and let us hear no more of these islands or oil-lands.’

The curate and barber were highly entertained with this dialogue; but Don Quixote fearing that Sancho would open his budget, and disburden himself of some mischievous load of folly, by blabbing things not much to his credit, called him in, bidding the women hold their tongues, and give him entrance. Sancho being accordingly admitted, the curate and barber took their leave of Don Quixote, whose recovery they despaired of, seeing him so unalterably fixed in his folly, and so wholly possessed with the frantick spirit of knight-errantry. ‘You shall see, neighbour,’ said the curate to the barber, ‘that when we least think of it, this poor gentleman will make another sally.’—‘That I make no doubt of,’ answered the barber, ‘but I don’t wonder so much at the madness of the knight, as at the simplicity of the squire, who believes so devoutly in this island, that I think all the invention of man could not extract it from his skull.’—‘God mend them!’ replied the curate: ‘meanwhile, let us keep a strict eye over their behaviour, and observe the operation of their joint extravagance; for the madness of the master seems to have been cast in the same mould with the foolishness of the man, and in my opinion, the one without the other would not be worth a farthing.’—‘True,’ said the barber; ‘and I should be glad to know what they are now talking of.’—‘I dare say,’ replied the curate, ‘the niece and house-keeper will give us a good account of their conversation; for they are none of those who can resist the opportunity of listening.’

In the mean time, Don Quixote having shut himself up in his apartment with Sancho, said, ‘It gives me much concern, Sancho, to hear thee say, as thou dost, that I enticed thee from thy cottage, when thou knowest that I, at the same time, quitted my own house; together we set out, lived and travelled together; sharing the same fortune and the same fate. If thou hast been once tossed in a blanket, I have been bruised an hundred times; and this is the only pre-eminence I enjoyed.’—‘And that’s but reasonable,’ replied Sancho, ‘according to your worship’s own remark, that misfortune belongs more to knights-errant than to their squires.’—‘There you are mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the Latin adage says, _Quando caput dolet, &c._’—‘Nay,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I understand no lingo but my mother-tongue.’—‘The meaning,’ said the master, ‘is, When the head aches, all the members are affected. I, therefore, as thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, as my servant, are a part of me; so that whatever mischief has happened, or may happen to me, ought to extend to thee likewise, in the same manner as I bear a share in all thy sufferings.’—‘So it ought to be,’ said Sancho, ‘but when I, as a member, was tossed in a blanket, my head sat peaceably on the other side of the wall, and beheld me vaulting in the air, without feeling the least uneasiness; and since the members are obliged to ache with the head, I think it is but just that the head should ache with the members.’—‘How canst thou affirm, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I felt no pain while thou was tossed in the blanket? Say, or think so no more; for I was, at that time, more afflicted in mind than thou in body.

‘But let us wave this subject for the present, and time will, no doubt, offer an opportunity of considering it more maturely, and of setting every thing to rights: and tell me, friend Sancho, how I am spoke of in this place? What say the vulgar? What character do I bear among the gentry? and how am I treated by the knights? What is their opinion of my valour, exploits, and courteous behaviour? and how do they relish the design I have undertaken of raising and restoring to the world the long-forgotten order of knight-errantry? In short, Sancho, I desire that thou wilt inform me of every thing thou hast heard on this subject, without adding to the good, or subtracting from the evil; it being the duty of faithful servants to represent the truth to their masters in its own native form, neither exaggerated by adulation, nor diminished by any other vain respect: and let me tell thee, Sancho, if the naked truth was always conveyed to the ears of princes, undisguised by flattery, we should see better days, and other æras would deserve the name of the iron age more than the present, which would be justly looked upon as the age of gold. Remember this advice, Sancho, and inform me with honesty and discretion, of all that thou knowest in regard to what I have asked.’—‘That I will with all my heart, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘on condition that your worship won’t be offended with the truth, since you desire to see it in its nakedness, just as it came to my knowledge.’—‘I shall not be offended in the least,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘speak therefore freely, without going about the bush.’

‘Well, then,’ said the squire, ‘in the first place, you must know that the common people think your worship a stark-staring madman, and me a most notorious fool: the better sort say, that, scorning the rank of a private gentleman, you have put Don before your name, and dubbed yourself knight, with a small garden, a few acres of land, and a doublet clouted on both sides. The knights, forsooth, are affronted that your small gentry should pretend to vie with them, especially those needy squires who sole their own shoes, and darn their black hose with green silk.’—‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘cannot affect me; for I always wear good cloaths, and never appear patched. My doublet may, indeed, be torn, but then it is by my armour, not by time.’—‘Touching the valour, courtesy, adventures, and design of your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘there are different opinions. Some say, he is mad, but a diverting madman; others allow that he is valiant, but unlucky; a third set observe that he is courteous, but impertinent; and in this manner we are handled so severely, that neither your worship nor I have a whole bone left.’—‘You see, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that whenever virtue shines in an eminent degree, she always meets with persecution. Few or none of the celebrated heroes of antiquity could escape the calumnies of malice: Julius Cæsar, a most daring, wise, and valiant general, was accused of being ambitious, and not over-cleanly in his customs or apparel; Alexander, who by his atchievements acquired the name of Great, was said to be a drunkard; and Hercules, renowned for his labours, reported to have been lewd and effeminate; Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul, was grumbled at for being excessively quarrelsome; and Amadis himself ridiculed as an arrant whiner. Therefore, son Sancho, among so many aspersions thrown upon such great men, I may well overlook what is said against me; since it is no worse than what thou hast repeated.’—‘That’s the very thing, body of my father!’ replied Sancho. ‘What, is there any thing more!’ said his master. ‘More!’ cried the squire, ‘the tail is yet unfleaed. What you have heard is but cakes and gingerbread; but, if your worship would know all the backbitings we suffer, I will this moment bring hither one who can inform you of every circumstance, without losing a crumb; for, last night, the son of Bartholomew Carrasco arrived from Salamanca, where he has been at his studies, and got a batchelor’s degree; and when I went to welcome him home, he told me there was a printed book of your worship’s history, in which you go by the name of The Ingenious Squire Don Quixote de La Mancha; and that I am mentioned in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, as well as my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with other things that passed between you and me only; at hearing of which I crossed myself through fear, wondering how they should come to the knowledge of the historian.’—‘You may depend upon it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the author of our history must be some sage inchanter; for nothing is hid from writers of that class.’—‘How can he be a sage inchanter,’ said Sancho, ‘when batchelor Sampson Carrasco (for that’s the name of him who told me) says the author of our history is called Cid Hamet Bean-and-jelly?’—‘That name is Moorish,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Very like,’ said the squire; ‘for I have often heard, that the Moors are very fond of beans and jellies.’—‘Thou must certainly be mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in the surname of that Cid, which, in Arabick, signifies Signior.’—‘Very possible,’ answered the squire; ‘but if your worship desires to see the batchelor, I will bring him hither in a twinkling.’—‘Thou wilt oblige me very much, my friend,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for what thou hast told me has bred such doubts and suspense within me, that I cannot eat a morsel with any satisfaction, until I am informed of the whole affair.’—‘Then I’ll go seek him,’ replied Sancho: who, leaving his master, went in quest of the batchelor, with whom he returned in a little time, and a most pleasant dialogue ensued.

CHAP. III.
THE LUDICROUS CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO
PANZA, AND THE BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO.

Don Quixote remained extremely pensive, in expectation of the Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear news of himself, in print, according to Sancho’s information; though he could hardly persuade himself that there could be such a history extant; the blood of his enemies whom he had slain, being scarce, as yet, dry upon the blade of his sword, and yet they would have his high atchievements already recorded in printed books. He therefore imagined that some sage, either friend or foe, had cast them off, by the power of inchantment: if a friend, in order to aggrandize and extol them above the most distinguished exploits of knight-errantry; if an enemy, to annihilate and depress them beneath the meanest actions that ever were recorded of any squire. ‘Although,’ said he, within himself, ‘the deeds of squires are never committed to writing; and if my history actually exists, seeing it treats of a knight-errant, it must, of necessity, be pompous, sublime, surprizing, magnificent, and true.’ This reflection consoled him a little; but he became uneasy again, when he recollected that his author was a Moor, as appeared by the name of Cid; and that no truth was to be expected from that people, who are all false, deceitful, and chimerical. He was afraid that his amours were treated with some indecency, that might impair and prejudice the honour of his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, wishing for nothing more than a true representation of his fidelity, and the decorum he always preserved, in refusing queens, empresses, and damsels of all ranks, thus keeping the impulse of his passions under the rein. Tossed, therefore, and fluctuating on these and many other fancies, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom the knight received with great courtesy.

The batchelor, though his name was Sampson, was not very big, but a great wag, of a pale complexion and excellent understanding; he was about the age of four and twenty; had a round visage, flat nose, and capacious mouth, all symptoms of a mischievous disposition, addicted to jokes and raillery; as appeared when he approached Don Quixote, before whom he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Permit me to kiss your most puissant hand, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; for by the habit of St. Peter, which I wear, though I have received no other orders than the first four, your worship is one of the most famous knights-errant that ever were, or ever will be, within the circumference of the globe! Blessed be Cid Hamet Benengeli, who wrote the history of your greatness! and thrice blessed that curious person who took care to have it translated from the Arabick into our mother-tongue, for the entertainment of mankind!’ Don Quixote, raising him up, said, ‘’Tis true, then, that there is a history of me, and that the sage who composed it is a Moor.’—‘So true, Signior,’ said Sampson, ‘that, to my certain knowledge, there are twelve thousand volumes of it this day in print; let Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they were printed, contradict me if they can. It is even reported to be now in the press at Antwerp; and I can easily perceive, that there is scarce a nation or language into which it will not be translated.’—‘One of the things,’ said Don Quixote on this occasion, ‘which ought to afford the greatest satisfaction to a virtuous and eminent man, is to live and see himself celebrated in different languages, and his actions recorded in print, with universal approbation; I say, with approbation; because, to be represented otherwise, is worse than the worst of deaths.’—‘In point of reputation and renown,’ said the batchelor, ‘your worship alone bears away the palm from all other knights-errant; for the Moor in Arabick, and the Christian in his language, have been careful in painting the gallantry of your worship to the life; your vast courage in encountering dangers, your patience in adversity, your fortitude in the midst of wounds and mischance, together with the honour and chastity of your platonick love for my Lady Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’

Here Sancho interposing, said, ‘I never heard my lady called Donna Dulcinea, but simply the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so that there the history is wrong.’—‘That is no material objection,’ answered Carrasco. ‘No, sure,’ replied the knight. ‘But tell me, Mr. Batchelor, which of my exploits is most esteemed in this history.’—‘As to that particular,’ said the batchelor, ‘there are as many different opinions as there are different tastes. Some stick to the adventure of the wind-mills, which to your worship appeared monstrous giants; others, to that of the fulling-mills; this reader, to the description of the two armies, which were afterwards metamorphosed into flocks of sheep; while another magnifies that of the dead body, which was carrying to the place of interment at Segovia: one says, that the deliverance of the galley-slaves excels all the rest; and a second affirms, that none of them equals the adventure of the Benedictine giants, and your battle with the valiant Biscayner.’

Here Sancho interrupting him again, said, ‘Tell me, Mr. Batchelor, is the adventure of the Yanguesians mentioned, when our modest Rozinante longed for green peas in December[131].’—‘Nothing,’ replied Sampson, ‘has escaped the pen of the sage author, who relates every thing most minutely, even to the capers which honest Sancho cut in the blanket.’—‘I cut no capers in the blanket,’ answered Sancho; ‘but in the air, I grant you, I performed more than I desired.’—‘In my opinion,’ said Don Quixote, ‘there is no human history that does not contain reverses of fortune, especially those that treat of chivalry, which cannot always be attended with success.’—‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘some who have read your history, say they should not have been sorry, had the author forgot a few of those infinite drubbings which, in different encounters, were bestowed on the great Don Quixote.’—‘But in this consists the truth of history,’ said the squire.

Don Quixote observed, that they might as well have omitted them; for those incidents, which neither change nor affect the truth of the story, ought to be left out, if they tend to depreciate the chief character. ‘Take my word for it,’ said he, ‘Æneas was not so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is exhibited by Homer,’—‘True,’ said Sampson; ‘but it is one thing to compose as a poet, and another to record as an historian: the poet may relate or rehearse things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; whereas an historian must transmit them, not as they ought to have been, but exactly as they were; without adding to, or subtracting the least tittle from the truth.’—‘Since this Moorish gentleman has told all the truth,’ said Sancho, ‘I don’t doubt that, among the drubbings of my master, he has mentioned mine also; for they never took the measure of his shoulders, without crossing my whole body: but at this I ought not to wonder, since, as he observes, when the head aches, the members ought to have their share of the pain.’—‘You are a sly rogue, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and I find you don’t want memory, when you think proper to use it.’—‘If I had all the mind in the world,’ said Sancho, ‘to forget the blows I have received, the marks, which are still fresh upon my carcase, would by no means allow me.’

‘Hold your peace, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘and don’t interrupt Mr. Batchelor, whom I intreat to proceed; and let me know what more is said of me in this same history.’—‘Aye, and of me too,’ cried Sancho; ‘who, they say, am one of the principal personages of it.’—‘You mean persons, and not personages, friend Sancho,’ said Sampson. ‘What! have we got another reprimander of words?’ said the squire; ‘since it is come to this, we shall never have done.’—‘Plague light on me! Sancho!’ replied the batchelor, ‘if you are not the second person of the history; and there are many who would rather hear you speak than the first character in the book; though some there be also, who say you are excessively credulous, in believing there could be any foundation for the government of that island, which was promised to you by Signior Don Quixote, here present.’—‘There is no time lost[132],’ said Don Quixote; ‘while thou art advancing in years, Sancho, age will bring experience; and then thou wilt be more qualified and fit to govern than thou art at present.’—‘’Fore God! Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘the island which I cannot govern with these years, I shall never govern, were I as old as Methusalem: the mischief is, that this same island is delayed I don’t know how; not that I want noddle to govern it.’—‘Recommend it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to the direction of Heaven, which does all for the best, and may, perhaps, exceed your expectation; for not a leaf can move upon a tree, without the permission of God.’—‘True,’ said Sampson, ‘if it be the will of God, Sancho shall not want a thousand islands, much less one, to govern.’—‘I have seen governors in my time,’ quoth Sancho, ‘who, to my thinking, did not come up to the sole of my shoe, and yet they were called your lordship, and served in plate.’—‘Those were not governors of islands,’ replied Sampson, ‘but of other governments more easily managed; for such as govern islands ought at least to have some grammatical knowledge.’—‘I know very well how to cram[133],’ said Sancho; ‘but as to the matted cawl, I will neither meddle nor make, because I don’t understand it; but leaving this government in the hands of God, who will dispose of me the best for his own service, I am, Mr. Batchelor, Sampson Carrasco, infinitely pleased and rejoiced that the author of our history has spoke of me in such a manner as not to give offence; for, by the faith of a good squire! if he had said any thing of me, that did not become an old Christian, as I am, the deaf should have heard of it.’—‘That were a miracle, indeed!’ answered Sampson. ‘Miracle or no miracle,’ said Sancho, ‘let every man take care how he speaks or writes of honest people, and not set down at a venture the first thing that comes into his jolter-head.’

‘One of the faults that are found with the history,’ added the batchelor, ‘is, that the author has inserted in it a novel, intitled, The Impertinent Curiosity. Not that the thing itself is bad, or poorly executed, but because it is unseasonable, and has nothing to do with the story of his worship Signior Don Quixote.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ cried Sancho, ‘that this son of a cur has made a strange hodge-podge of the whole.’—‘Now I find,’ said the knight, ‘that the author of my history is no sage, but some ignorant prater, who, without either judgment or premeditation, has undertaken to write it at random, like Orbaneja the painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he painted, answered, “Just as it happens;” and when he would sometimes scrawl out a misshapen cock, was fain to write under it in Gothick letters, “This is a cock;” and my history being of the same kind, will need a commentary to make it intelligible.’—‘Not at all,’ answered Sampson, ‘it is already so plain, that there is not the least ambiguity in it; the very children handle it, boys read it, men understand, and old people applaud it: in short, it is so thumbed, so read, so well known by every body, that no sooner a meagre horse appears, than they say, “There goes Rozinante!”, but those who peruse it most, are your pages; you cannot go into a nobleman’s antichamber where you won’t find a Don Quixote, which is no sooner laid down by one, than another takes it up, some struggling, and some intreating for a sight of it; in fine, this history is the most delightful and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was seen; for in the whole book there is not the least shadow of a dishonourable word, nor one thought unworthy of a good Catholick.’—‘To write otherwise,’ said Don Quixote, ‘were not to publish truth, but to propagate lyes; and those historians who deal in such, ought to be burnt like coiners of false money; but I cannot imagine what induced the author to avail himself of novels and stories that did not belong to the subject, when he had such a fund of my adventures to relate: he, doubtless, stuck to the proverb, So the gizzard is crammed, it matters not how[134]; for truly, had he confined himself to the manifestation of my reveries, my sighs, my tears, my benevolence, and undertakings, he might have compiled a volume larger, or as large, as all the works of Tostatus bound together[135]. Really, Mr. Batchelor, according to my comprehension, it requires great judgment, and a ripe understanding, to compose histories, or indeed any books whatever; for to write with elegance and wit, is the province of great geniuses only. The wittiest person in the comedy is he that plays the fool; for he must be no simpleton who can exhibit a diverting representation of folly. History is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is truth; and where truth is, there the divinity will reside: yet there are some who compose and cast off books, as if they were tossing up a dish of pancakes.’

‘There is no book so bad,’ said the batchelor, ‘but you may find something good in it.’—‘Doubtless,’ replied the knight; ‘but it frequently happens, that those who have deservedly purchased and acquired great reputation by their writings, lose it all, or at least forfeit a part of it, in printing them.’—‘The reason,’ said Sampson, ‘is, that printed works are perused with leisure, consequently their faults easily observed; and the greater the reputation of the author is, the more severely are they scrutinized: men celebrated for their genius, great poets, and illustrious historians, are, for the most part, if not always, envied by those whose pleasure and particular entertainment consists in criticising the works of others, without having obliged the world with any thing of their own.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for there are many theologists who make but a poor figure in the pulpit, and yet are excellent in discerning the faults and superfluities of those who preach well.’—‘That is all true, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Carrasco; ‘and I could wish that those censurers were either a little more compassionate, or something less scrupulous, than to insist upon such blemishes of the work they decry, as may be compared to little spots in the sun, and as _aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus_, consider how long the author watched, in order to display the light of his performance, with as little shade as possible. Perhaps, too, those things which disgust them are no other than moles, that sometimes add to the beauty of the face on which they grow; and therefore I affirm, that he who publishes a book runs an immense risk; because it is absolutely impossible to compose such an one as will please and entertain every reader.’—‘I believe few will relish that which treats of me,’ said the knight. ‘Quite the contrary,’ answered Sampson; ‘for, as _stultorum infinitus est numerus_, the number of those who are delighted with your history is infinite; though some accuse the author’s memory as false or faulty, because he has forgot to tell who the thief was that stole Sancho’s Dapple, of whom there was not a word mentioned: we can only infer from the history, that he was stolen; and by-and-by we find the squire mounted on the same beast, without knowing how he was retrieved. They say, likewise, that he has omitted telling what Sancho did with those hundred crowns which he found in the portmanteau, in Sierra Morena; and which are never mentioned though many people desire to know what use he made of them; and this is one of the chief defects in the work.’