Chapter XXX: Book I (2)

‘Mr. Sampson,’ answered the squire, ‘I am not in an humour at present to give accounts and reckonings of that affair; for I feel a certain qualmishness in my stomach, and if I don’t recruit it with a couple of draughts of old stingo, I shall be in most grievous taking[136]; I have the cordial at home, and my dame waits for me; but when I have filled my belly, I will return and satisfy your worship, and all the world, in whatever they shall desire to ask, both with regard to the loss of my beast, and the spending of the hundred crowns.’ So, without expecting a reply, or speaking another word, he hied him home, while Don Quixote desired and intreated the batchelor to stay and do penance with him. The batchelor accepted the invitation, and stayed; a pair of pigeons was added to the knight’s ordinary; he talked of nothing but chivalry at table, and Carrasco encouraged the discourse. The repast ended, they took their afternoon’s nap, Sancho returned, and the former conversation was renewed.

Footnote 131:

_Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for tartuffles in the
sea; a proverb applicable to those who are too sanguine in their
expectations, and unreasonable in their desires.

Footnote 132:

_Aun ay sol en las bardas._ There is still sun-shine on the wall, i.
e. It is not yet too late.

Footnote 133:

Finding it impossible to translate the original pun or blunder, I have
substituted another in its room, on the word Grammatical, which I
think has at least an equally good effect.

Footnote 134:

The original is, ‘_De paja, y di beno, el jergonelleno_;’ i. e. ‘The
bed is filled, though it be with hay and straw.’

Footnote 135:

Alphonsus Tostatus, bishop of Avila, was said to have known every
thing that could be known. He made a figure at the council of Basil;
wrote twenty-seven volumes; and dying in the fortieth year of his age,
was interred in the church of Avila, with this epitaph:——_Hic stupor
est mundi, qui scibile discutit omne._

Footnote 136:

In Spanish, _Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_; i. e. ‘Will put
me on St. Lucia’s thorn:’ applicable to any uneasy situation.

CHAP. IV.
IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE DOUBTS,
AND ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS OF BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO;
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE RECITED AND KNOWN.

Sancho returning to his master’s house, resumed the former conversation, to gratify Mr. Sampson, who said he wanted to know when, in what manner, and by whom his ass had been stolen; ‘You must know, then,’ said he, ‘that very night we fled from the holy brotherhood, and got into the Brown Mountain, after the misventuresome adventure of the galley-slaves, and the corpse that was carrying to Segovia, we took up our quarters in a thicket, where my master and I, being both fatigued, and sorely bruised in the frays we had just finished, went to rest, he leaning upon his lance, and I lolling upon Dapple, as if we had been stretched upon four feather-beds; I, in particular, slept so sound, that the thief, whosoever he was, had an opportunity of coming and propping me up with four stakes, fixed under the corner of my pannel, on which I was left astride; so that he slipped Dapple from under me, without my perceiving it in the least.’—‘And this is no difficult matter, nor new device,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege of Albraca, where, by this contrivance, his horse was stolen from between his legs by the famous robber Brunelo[137].’—‘When morning came,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘I no sooner began to stretch myself, than the stakes gave way, and down I came to the ground with a vengeance; I looked for my beast, and finding he was gone, the tears gushed from my eyes, and I set up a lamentation, which, if the author of our history has not set down, you may depend upon it, he hath neglected a very excellent circumstance; a good many days after this mischance, as I chanced to be travelling with my lady the Princess Micomicona, descrying a person riding towards me in the habit of a gypsy, I immediately knew my own ass, and discovered the rider to be Gines de Passamonte, that impostor and notorious malefactor, whom my master and I delivered from the galley-chain.’

‘The error lies not in that part of the history,’ replied the batchelor, ‘but consists in the author’s saying that Sancho rode on the same ass, before it appears that he had retrieved him.’—‘As so that affair,’ said the squire, ‘I can give you no satisfactory answer; perhaps it was an oversight in the historian, or owing to the carelessness of the printer.’—‘Doubtless it was so,’ replied Sampson; ‘but what became of those hundred crowns? were they laid up or laid out?’—‘I laid them out,’ answered Sancho, ‘in necessaries for my own person, my wife, and children; and those crowns were the cause of my gossip’s bearing patiently my ramblings and rovings in the service of my lord and master Don Quixote; for if, after such a long absence, I had come home without my ass, and never a cross in my pocket, I might have expected a welcome the wrong way. Now, if you have any thing else to ask, here I am ready to answer the king in person; and it matters not to any person, whether I did or did not bring them home, or whether I spent them or lent them; for if the blows I have received in our peregrinations were to be repaid with money, rated at no more than four maravedis a piece, another hundred crowns would not quit one half of the score; therefore, let every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not pretend to mistake an hawk for a hand-saw[138]; for we are all as God made us, and a great many of us much worse.’

‘I will take care,’ said Carrasco, ‘to apprize the author of the history, that if it should come to another edition, he may not forget to insert what honest Sancho observes, as it will not a little contribute to raise the value of the work.’—‘Mr. Batchelor,’ said the knight, ‘did you, in reading it, perceive any thing else that ought to be amended?’—‘There might be some things altered for the better,’ replied Carrasco; ‘but none of such consequence as those already mentioned.’—‘And pray,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘does the author promise a second part?’—‘Yes,’ said Sampson, ‘but he says he has not yet found it, nor does he know in whose possession it is; so that we are still in doubt, whether or not it will see the light: on that account, therefore, and likewise because some people say, that second parts are never good, while others observe, that too much already hath been written concerning Don Quixote, it is believed that there will be no second part; though there is a a third sort more jovial than wise, who cry, “Quixote for ever! let the knight engage, and Sancho Panza harangue; come what will, we shall be satisfied.”’—‘And how does the author seem inclined?’ said the knight. ‘How?’ answered Carrasco, ‘to set the press a-going, as soon as he can find the history, for which he is now searching with all imaginable diligence; thereto swayed by interest, more than by any motive of praise.’—‘Since the author keeps interest and money in his eye,’ said Sancho, ‘it will be a wonder if he succeeds; for he’ll do nothing but hurry, hurry, like a taylor on Easter-eve; and your works that are trumped up in a haste, are never finished with that perfection they require; I would have Mr. Moor take care, and consider what he is about; for my master and I will furnish him with materials, in point of adventures and different events, sufficient to compose not only one, but a hundred second parts. What! I suppose the honest man thinks we are now sleeping among straw; but let him lift up our feet, and then he will see which of them wants to be shod; all that I shall say is, if my master had taken my advice, we might have been already in the fields, redressing grievances, and righting wrongs, according to the use and custom of true knights-errant.’

Scarce had Sancho pronounced these last words, when their ears were saluted by the neighing of Rozinante, which Don Quixote considered as a most happy omen, and determined in three or four days to set out on his third expedition; accordingly, he declared his intention to the batchelor, whose advice he asked with regard to the route he should take. Sampson said, that in his opinion, he ought to direct his course towards the kingdom of Arragon, and go to Saragossa, where, in a few days, was to be held a most solemn tournament on the festival of St. George; there he would have an opportunity of winning the palm from the Arragonian knights, which would raise his reputation above that of all the champions upon earth: he applauded his design as a most valiant and honourable determination, and begged he would be more cautious in encountering dangers, because his life was not his own, but the property of all those who had occasion for protection and succour in distress.

‘That is the very thing I repose, Mr. Sampson,’ said the squire; ‘for my master thinks no more of attacking a hundred men in arms, than a hungry boy would think of swallowing half a dozen pippins[139]. Body of the universe! Mr. Batchelor, if there are times for attacking, there are also seasons for retreating; the cry must not always be “St. Jago! charge, Spain[140]!” especially as I have heard, and, if I remember aright, my master himself has often observed, that valour lies in the middle, between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; this being the case, I would not have him fly without good reason, nor give the assault when he is likely to be overpowered by numbers; but, above all things, I give my master notice, that if he carries me along with him, it shall be on condition that he fight all the battles himself, and I be obliged to do nothing, but tend his person, that is, take care of his belly, and keep him sweet and clean; in which case, I will jig it away with pleasure[141]; but to think that I will put hand to sword, even against base-born plebeians with cap and hatchet, is a wild imagination: for my own part, Mr. Sampson, I do not pretend to the reputation of being valiant, but of being the best and loyalest squire that ever served a knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my great and faithful services, shall be pleased to bestow upon me one of those many islands which his worship says will fall in his way, I shall very thankfully receive the favour; and even if he should not keep his word, here stand I, simple as I am, and one man must not depend upon another, but trust in God alone; besides, the bread I eat, without a government, mayhap will relish better than the dainties of a governor; and how do I know but the devil may, in these governments, raise some stumbling-block, over which I shall fall and beat out my grinders? Sancho I was born, and Sancho will I die; but, nevertheless, if by the favour of Providence, I could fairly and softly, without much risk or anxiety, obtain an island, or some such matter, I am not such a ninny as to throw it away; for, as the saying is, When the heifer is offered, be ready with the rope; and, When good fortune comes to thy door, be sure to bid it welcome.’

‘Brother Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘you have spoke like a professor; but for all that, put your trust in God, and Signior Don Quixote, who instead of an island, will give you a whole kingdom.’—‘The one as likely as the other,’ answered Sancho; ‘though I dare venture to assure Signior Carrasco, that the kingdom, which my master shall bestow upon me, will not be put into a rotten sack; for I have felt my own pulse, and find myself in health sufficient to rule kingdoms and govern islands, as I have, upon many other occasions, hinted to my master.’—‘Consider, Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘that honours often change the disposition; and, perhaps, when you come to be governor, you will not know the mother that bore you.’—‘That may be the case,’ answered the squire, ‘with those who were born among mallows; but not with me, who have got four inches of old christian suet on my ribs; then if you come to consider my disposition, you will find I am incapable of behaving ungratefully to any person whatever.’—‘God grant it to be so,’ said the knight; ‘but this will appear when you arrive at the government, which methinks I have already in mine eye.’

He then intreated the batchelor, if he was a poet, to favour him with a copy of verses on his intended parting from his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, and desired that every line might begin with a letter of her name, so that the initials being joined together, might make Dulcinea del Toboso. Carrasco, though he owned he was not one of the famous poets of Spain, who were said to be but three and a half[142], promised to compose such an acrostick as he desired, which, by the bye, he foresaw would be no easy task, because the name consisted of seventeen letters, and if he should make four stanzas of four lines each, one must be left out; or should they be composed of five, called decimas or roundelays, three letters would be wanting to compleat the number; however, he would endeavour to sink one letter as much as he could, so that in four stanzas the name Dulcinea del Toboso should be included. ‘That must be done, at all events,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for if the name be not plain and manifest, no woman will believe that she was the subject of the poem.’ This affair being thus settled, as also the time of their departure, which was fixed at the distance of eight days, Don Quixote charged the batchelor to keep it secret, especially from the curate, Mr. Nicholas, his niece, and housekeeper, that they might not obstruct his honourable and valiant determination. Carrasco, having promised to observe this caution, took his leave of the knight, whom he begged to favour him on every occasion, with an account of his good or evil fortune; and Sancho went home, to provide every thing necessary for their expedition.

Footnote 137:

As related in the famous poem of Orlando Inamorato, composed by
Boyardo, of which the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto is the continuation.

Footnote 138:

In the original, ‘Black for white.’

Footnote 139:

Literally, _badeas_, a kind of water melon.

Footnote 140:

This is the cry uttered by the Spaniards when they charge in battle.

Footnote 141:

_Baylar el agua delante_, is a phrase applicable to those who do their
duty with alacrity, taken from the practice of watering the courts in
Spain, an office which the maids perform with a motion that resembles
dancing.

Footnote 142:

Alonzo de Ercilla, author of the Auraucana; Juan Rufo de Cordova,
author of the Austriada; Christopher Verves de Valentia, author of the
Monserratte; and as for the half, Cervantes in all probability meant
himself.

CHAP. V.
OF THE SAGE AND PLEASANT DIALOGUE BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA
AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA,
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE MOST HAPPILY RECORDED.

The translator says he looks upon this chapter as apocryphal, because it represents Sancho Panza speaking in a stile quite different from that which might be expected from his shallow understanding, and making such ingenious observations, as he thinks it impossible he should know; but he would not leave it out, that he might punctually perform the duty of a faithful translator, and therefore proceeds in these words.

Sancho returned to his own house in such high spirits, that his wife perceived his gaiety at the distance of a bow shot, and could not help saying, ‘What is the matter, friend Sancho, that you seem so joyful?’ To this question the squire answered, ‘An it pleased God, wife, I should be very glad if I were not so joyful as I seem to be.’—‘Truly, husband,’ replied Teresa[143], ‘I don’t understand you; and cannot conceive what you mean, by saying you should be very glad, an it pleased God, you were not so joyful; for, simple though I be, I am always glad with what makes me joyful.’—‘Mark me, Teresa,’ said the squire, ‘I am rejoiced, because it is determined that I shall return to the service of my master Don Quixote, who is going to make a third sally in quest of adventures, and I must accompany him in his expedition; for so my destiny will have it, together with the comfortable and lively hope of finding another hundred crowns like those I have expended: on the other hand, sorry am I to part with thee and my children; and if God would permit me to eat my bread dry-shod at home, without dragging me over clifts and cross-paths; (and this might be done at a small expence, if he would only say the word) it is plain that my joy would be more firm and perfect; whereas that which I feel at present, is mingled with the melancholy thoughts of leaving thee, my duck; wherefore I justly said I should be glad, an it pleased God, I were less joyful.’—‘Verily, Sancho,’ said his wife, ‘ever since you made yourself a member of knight-errantry, you talk in such a round-about manner, that there is no understanding what you say.’—‘Let it suffice,’ answered the squire, ‘that I am understood by God, who is the understander of all things; and there let it rest: meanwhile, take notice, gossip, it will be convenient for you to tend Dapple for these two or three days with special care; let his allowance be doubled, that he may be enabled to carry arms; and look out for the pannel and the red of the tackle, for we are not going to a wedding, but to traverse the globe, and give and take dry blows with your giants, dragons, and hobgoblins, and hear nothing but hissing, roaring, bellowing, and bleating; and all this would be but flowers of lavender, were it not our doom to encounter with Yanguesians and inchanted Moors.’—‘I very well believe that squires-errant do not eat the bread of idleness,’ replied Teresa; ‘and therefore, husband, I shall continually pray to our Lord, to deliver you from such misfortunes.’—‘I tell thee, wife,’ said Sancho, ‘if I did not expect to see myself in a little time governor of an island, I should drop down dead upon the spot.’—‘By no means, dear husband,’ cried Teresa, ‘Let the hen live, though she have the pip; and I hope you will live, though the devil run away with all the governments upon earth; without a government did you come from your mother’s womb; without a government have you lived to this good hour; and without a government shall you go or be carried to your grave, in God’s own time: there are many in the world who have no governments, and yet, for all that, they live and are numbered among the people. Hunger is the best sauce, and as that is never wanting among the poor, they always relish what they eat; but take care, Sancho, if you come to a government, that you do not forget me and your children: consider, Sanchico has already fifteen good years over his head, and that it is time for him to go to school, if in case his uncle the abbot has a mind to breed him to the church: consider too, that your daughter Mary Sancha, will not break her heart if we marry her, for I am much mistaken if she does not long for a husband, as much as you do for a government; and the short and long of it is, you had better have your daughter ill buckled as a wife, than well kept as a concubine.’

‘Take my word for it,’ answered Sancho, ‘if by the blessing of God I come to any sort of government, I intend, my dear, to match Mary Sancha so high, that nobody shall come near her, without calling her, _your ladyship_.’—‘Never think of that, Sancho!’ cried Teresa, ‘match her with her equal, which will be more prudent than to raise her from clogs to pattens, from good fourteen-penny hoyden grey, to farthingales and petticoats of silk, and from _Molly_ and _thou_, to _Donna_ and _my lady such-a-one_; the girl’s head would be quite turned, and she would be continually falling into some blunder, that would discover the coarse thread of her home-spun breeding.’—‘Shut that foolish mouth of thine,’ said Sancho; ‘in two or three years practice, quality and politeness will become quite familiar to her; or, if they should not, what does it signify? Let her first be a lady, and then happen what will.’—‘Meddle, Sancho, with those of your own station,’ replied Teresa, ‘and seek not to lift your head too high; but remember the proverb that says, When your neighbour’s son comes to the door, wipe his nose, and take him in. It would be a fine thing, truly, to match our Mary with a great count or cavalier, who would, when he should take it in his head, look upon her as a monster, and call her country wench, and clod-breaker’s and hemp-spinner’s brat; that shall never happen in my life time, husband; it was not for that I brought up my child; do you find a portion, and as to her marriage, leave that to my care; there is Lope Tocho, old John Tocho’s son, a jolly young fellow, stout and wholesome, whom we all know, and I can perceive that he has no dislike to the girl; besides, he being our equal, she will be very well matched with him; for we shall always have them under our eye, and the two families will live together, parents and children, sons-in-law and grandsons, and the peace and blessing of God will dwell amongst us; wherefore you shall not match me her in your courts and grand palaces, where she will neither understand nor be understood.’—‘Hark ye, you beast and yoke-fellow for Barrabas!’ replied Sancho, ‘why wouldst thou now, without rhime or reason, prevent me from matching my daughter, so as that my grand-children shall be persons of quality? remember, Teresa, I have often heard my elders and betters observe, He that’s coy when fortune’s kind, may after seek but never find. And should not I be to blame, if, now that she knocks at my door, I should bolt it against her? Let us, therefore, take the advantage of the favourable gale that blows.’

It was this uncommon stile, with what Sancho says below, that induced the translator to pronounce the whole chapter apocryphal.

‘Can’t you perceive, animal, with half an eye,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine to some beneficial government that will lift us out of the dirt, and enable me to match Mary Sancha according to my own good pleasure: then wilt thou hear thyself called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated at church upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite and defiance of all the small gentry in the parish; and not be always in the same moping circumstances, without increase or diminution, like a picture in the hangings: but no more of this; Sanchica shall be a countess, though thou shouldst cry thy heart out.’—‘Look before you leap, husband,’ answered Teresa: ‘after all, I wish to God this quality of my daughter may not be the cause of her perdition; take your own way, and make her dutchess or princess, or what you please, but I’ll assure you, it shall never be with my consent or good will; I was always a lover of equality, my dear, and can’t bear to see people hold their heads high without reason. Teresa was I christened, a bare and simple name, without the addition, garniture, and embroidery of Don or Donna; my father’s name is Cascajo, and mine, as being your spouse, Teresa Panza, though by rights I should be called Teresa Cascajo: but as the king minds, the law binds; and with that name am I contented, though it be not burdened with a Don, which weighs so heavy, that I should not be able to bear it; neither will I put it in the power of those who see me dressed like a countess or governor’s lady, to say, “Mind Mrs. Porkfeeder; how proud she looks! it was but yesterday she toiled hard at the distaff, and went to mass with the tail of her gown about her head, instead of a veil: but now, forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales and jewels, and holds up her head as if we did not know her.” If God preserve me in my seven or five senses, or as many as they be, I shall never bring myself into such a quandary: as for your part, spouse, you may go to your governments and islands, and be as proud as a peacock; but as for my daughter and me, by the life of my father! we will not stir one step from the village; for, The wife that deserves a good name, stays at home as if she were lame; and, The maid must be still a doing, that hopes to see the men come a wooing. You and Don Quixote may therefore go to your adventures, and leave us to our misventures; for God will better our condition, if we deserve his mercy; though truly I cannot imagine who made him a Don; I am sure, neither his father nor grandfather had any such title.’—‘I tell thee, wife,’ replied the squire, ‘thou hast certainly got some devil in that carcase of thine; the Lord watch over thee, woman! what a deal of stuff hast thou been tacking together, without either head or tail? What the devil has your Cascajos, jewels, proverbs, and pride, to do with what I have been saying? Heark ye, you ignorant beast, for such I may call thee, as thou hast neither capacity to understand my discourse, nor prudence to make sure of good fortune when it lies in thy way, were I to say, that my daughter shall throw herself from the top of a steeple, or go strolling about the world, like the Infanta Donna Uraca, thou wouldst have reason to contradict my pleasure; but if, in two turnings of a ball and one twinkling of an eye, our good fortune should lay a title across our shoulders, and raising thee from the stubble, set thee in a chair of state, under a canopy, or lay thee upon a sofa, consisting of more velvet almohadas[144], than there are Moors in all the family of the Almohadas in Morocco; wherefore wouldst not thou consent, and with me enjoy the good-luck that falls?’—‘I’ll tell thee wherefore, husband,’ replied Teresa, ‘because, as the saying is, What covers, discovers thee; the eyes of people always run slightly over the poor, but make an halt to examine the rich; and if a person so examined was once poor, then comes the grumbling and the slandering; and he is persecuted by back-biters, who swarm in our streets like bees.’

‘Give ear, Teresa, and listen to what I am going to say,’ answered Sancho: ‘for mayhap thou hast never heard such a thing in all the days of thy life; and I do not now pretend to speak from my own reflection, but to repeat the remarks of the good father who preached last Lent in our village. He said, if I right remember, that all objects present to the view, exist, and are impressed upon the imagination, with much greater energy and force, than those which we only remember to have seen.’ (The arguments here used by Sancho, contributed also to make the translator believe this chapter apocryphal; because they seem to exceed the capacity of the squire, who proceeded thus:) ‘From whence it happens, that when we see any person magnificently dressed, and surrounded with the pomp of servants, we find ourselves invited, and, as it were, compelled to pay him respect; although the memory should, at that instant, represent to us some mean circumstances of his former life; because that defect, whether in point of family or fortune, is already past and removed, and we only regard what is present to our view; and if the person, whom fortune hath thus raised from the lowness of oblivion to the height of prosperity, be well-bred, liberal, and courteous, without pretending to vie with the ancient nobility, you may take it for granted, Teresa, that nobody will remember what he was, but reverence what he now is, except the children of Envy, from whom no thriving person is secure.’—‘I really do not understand you,’ said Teresa: ‘you may do what you will; but seek not to distract my brain with your rhetorick and harranguing, for if you be revolved to do what you say—’ ‘You must call it resolved, woman, and not revolved,’ cried Sancho. ‘Never plague yourself to dispute with me, husband,’ answered Teresa: ‘I speak as God pleases, and meddle not with other people’s concerns. If you are obstinately bent upon this same government, I desire you will carry your son Sancho along with you, and from this hour teach him the art of that profession; for it is but reasonable that the sons should inherit and learn the trade of their fathers.’—‘As soon as I have obtained my government,’ said Sancho, ‘I will send the money for him by the post, as by that time I shall have plenty; for there are always people in abundance that will lend to a governor who has no money of his own; and be sure you cloath him in such a manner as to disguise his present condition, and make him appear like what he is to be.’—‘Send you the money,’ answered Teresa, ‘and I will dress him up like any branch of palm[145].’—‘Well, then,’ said Sancho, ‘we are agreed about making our daughter a countess——’ ‘That day I behold her a countess,’ cried the wife, ‘I shall reckon her dead and buried; but, I tell you again, you may use your pleasure: for we women are born to be obedient to our husbands, though they are no better than blocks.’

So saying, she began to weep as bitterly as if she had actually seen her daughter laid in her grave. Sancho consoled her, by saying, that although she must be a countess, he would defer her promotion as long as he could. Thus ended the conversation, and the squire went back to Don Quixote to concert measures for their speedy departure.

Footnote 143:

Sancho’s wife has already been mentioned under the names of Juana and
Mary, and now she is called Teresa.

Footnote 144:

Almohada signifies a cushion.

Footnote 145:

Alluding to the bough that is adorned and carried in procession on
Palm Sunday.

CHAP. VI.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,
HIS NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER,
BEING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS OF THE WHOLE HISTORY.

While this impertinent conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Cascajo, Don Quixote’s niece and housekeeper were not idle; for, collecting from a thousand symptoms that their master wanted to give them the slip a third time, and return to the exercise of his unlucky knight-errantry, they endeavoured, by all possible means, to divert him from his extravagant design; but all they could say was like preaching to the desart, or hammering cold iron. However, among many other arguments, the housekeeper said to him, ‘As I hope to be saved, dear master, if your worship will not settle at home in your own house, but are resolved to stray about the mountains and vallies, like a troubled ghost, in quest of what you term adventures, but what I call mischances, I will complain in person, and raise up my voice to God and the king, that they may apply some remedy to your disorder.’ To this declaration, the knight replied, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper, how God will accept of thy complaints I know not; neither can I guess in what manner his majesty will answer thy petition: this only I know, that if I were king, I would excuse myself from answering that infinite number of impertinent memorials which are daily presented; for one of the greatest of the many fatigues that attend royalty, is that of being obliged to listen and reply to all petitions; therefore I would not have his majesty troubled with any affair of mine.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the housekeeper, ‘are there no knights at court?’—‘Yes, there are many,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and it is reasonable, that there should be always a good number in attendance to adorn the court, and support the pomp and magnificence of majesty.’—‘Would it not be better, then, for your worship,’ replied the matron, ‘to be one of that number, and serve your king and master quietly and safely at court?’—‘You must know, good woman,’ said Don Quixote, ‘all knights cannot be courtiers; neither can or ought all courtiers to be knights errant: there ought to be plenty of both; and though we are all knights, there is a great difference between the one sort and the other; your courtiers, without crossing the thresholds of their own apartments, travel over the world, in maps, gratis, and never know what it is to suffer either heat, cold, hunger, or thirst, in their journey; whereas, we real knights-errant measure the whole globe with our own footsteps, exposed night and day, on horse-back and a-foot, to the summer’s sun and winter’s cold, and all the inclemencies of the weather; we not only seek to see the picture, but the person of our foe, and on all emergencies and occasions attack him, without paying any regard to the trifling rules of challenges; whether, for example, his sword and lance be shorter or longer than our own; whether he wears about him any relick or secret coat of mail; or whether the sun and wind be equally divided; with other ceremonies of that nature, which are usually observed in duelling, and which, though I know them punctually, thou art little acquainted with: thou must also know, that a good knight-errant, though he sees ten giants, whose heads not only touch, but overtop the clouds, with legs like lofty steeples, and arms resembling the masts of vast and warlike ships; while each eye, as large as a mill-wheel, beams and burns like a glass furnace, is by no means confounded or abashed; but, on the contrary, with genteel demeanour, and intrepid heart, approaches, assaults, and, if possible, vanquishes and overthrows them in a twinkling, though they are armed with the shell of a certain fish, said to be harder than adamant; and instead of a sword, use a keen scymitar of damasked steel, or a huge club, armed with a point of the same metal, as I have seen on a dozen different occasions. All this I have mentioned, good woman, that thou mayest see what difference there is between knights of different orders; and every prince ought, in reason, to pay greater respect to his second, or rather this first species of knights-errant, among whom, as we read in history, there have been some who were the bulwarks not only of one, but of many kingdoms.’

‘Ah, dear Sir,’ cried the niece, interrupting him, ‘consider that all those stories of knights-errant are nothing but lyes and invention; and every one of the books that contain them deserves, if not to be burnt, at least to wear a _san benito_[146], or some other badge, by which it may be known for an infamous perverter of virtue and good sense.’—‘By the God that protects me!’ cried the knight, ‘wert thou not undoubtedly my niece, as being my own sister’s child, I would chastise thee in such a manner, for the blasphemy thou hast uttered, that the whole world would resound with the example. How! shall a pert baggage, who has scarce capacity enough to manage a dozen lace bobbins, dare to wag her tongue in censuring the histories of knights-errant? What would Signior Amadis say to such presumption? But, surely, he would forgive thy arrogance; for he was the most humble and courteous knight of his time, and besides the particular champion and protector of damsels: but thou mightest have been heard by another who would not treat thee so gently; for all are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary, some there are extremely brutal and impolite. All those who call themselves knights, are not entitled to that distinction; some being of pure gold, and others of baser metal, notwithstanding the denomination they assume. But these last cannot stand the touchstone of truth: there are many plebeians, who sweat and struggle to maintain the appearance of gentlemen; and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of rank who seem industrious to appear mean and degenerate; the one sort raise themselves either by ambition or virtue, while the other abase themselves by viciousness or sloth; so that we must avail ourselves of our understanding and discernment, in distinguishing those persons, who, though they bear the same appellation, are yet so different in point of character.’—‘Good God!’ said the niece, ‘that your worship should be so learned, that even, if need were, you might mount the pulpit, or go a preaching in the streets, and yet remain in such woeful blindness and palpable folly, as to persuade the world that you are a valiant and vigorous righter of wrongs, when you are old, feeble, and almost crippled with age; but, above all things, to give yourself out for a knight, when you are no such thing; for, though rich gentlemen may be knighted, poor gentlemen, like you, seldom are.’

‘There is a good deal of truth in what thou hast observed, cousin,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and I could tell thee such things, concerning families, as would raise thine admiration; but these I suppress, that I may not seem to mix what’s human with what’s divine. Take notice, however, my friends, and be attentive to what I am going to say: all the families in the world may be reduced to four kinds, which are these; one that, from low beginnings, hath extended and dilated to a pitch of power and greatness; another, that from great beginnings hath continued to preserve and maintain its original importance; a third, that from vast beginnings hath ended in a point, diminishing and decaying from its foundation, into an inconsiderable point like that of a pyramid, which in respect of its base, is next kin to nothing; a fourth, and that the most numerous, had neither a good foundation, nor reasonable superstructure, and therefore sinks into oblivion, unobserved; such are the families of plebeians and ordinary people. The first, that from low beginnings hath mounted to power and greatness, which it preserves to this day, is exemplified in the house of Ottoman, that from an humble shepherd, who gave rise to it, attained that pinnacle of grandeur on which it now stands; the second sort of pedigree, that without augmentation hath preserved its original importance, is exhibited in the persons of many princes, who are such by inheritance; and support their rank without addition or diminution, containing themselves peaceably within the limits of their own dominions; of those who, from illustrious beginnings, have dwindled into a point, there are a thousand examples in the Pharaohs and Ptolemeys of Egypt, the Cæsars of Rome, with all the tribe, if they may be so called, of our Median, Assyrian, Persian, Greek, and Barbarian princes, monarchs, and great men. All these families and states, together with their founders, have ended in a very inconsiderable point; since, at this day, it is impossible to trace out one of their descendants; or, if we could, he would be found in some base and low degree. I have nothing to say of the plebeians, who only serve to increase the number of the living, without deferring any other fame or panegyrick. From what I have said, I would have you infer, my precious wise-acres, that there is a great confusion of pedigrees; and that those only appear grand and illustrious, whole representatives abound with virtue, liberality, and wealth: I say, virtue, liberality, and wealth; because the vicious great man is no more than a great sinner; and the rich man without liberality, a mere covetous beggar; for happiness does not consist in possessing, but in spending riches; and that not in squandering them away, but in knowing how to use them with taste. Now a poor knight has no other way of signalizing his birth, but the practice of virtue, being affable, well-bred, courteous, kind, and obliging; a stranger to pride, arrogance, and slander; and, above all things, charitable; for, by giving two farthings chearfully to the poor, he may shew himself as generous as he that dispenses alms by sound of bell: and whosoever sees him adorned with these virtues, although he should be an utter stranger to his race, will conclude that he is descended of a good family. Indeed, it would be a sort of miracle to find it otherwise; so that praise is always the reward of virtue, and never fails to attend the righteous. There are two paths, my children, that lead to wealth and honour: one is that of learning, the other that of arms; now I am better qualified for the last than for the first; and (as I judge from my inclination to arms) was born under the influence of the planet Mars; so that I am, as it were, obliged to chuse that road, which I will pursue in spite of the whole universe: you will therefore fatigue yourselves to no purpose, in attempting to persuade me from that which Heaven inspires, fortune ordains, reason demands, and, above all things, my own inclination dictates; knowing, as I do, the innumerable toils annexed to knight errantry, I am also well acquainted with the infinite benefits acquired in the exercise of that profession. I know the path of virtue is very strait, while the road of vice is broad and spacious. I know their end and issue is different: the wide extended way of vice conducts the traveller to death; while the narrow toilful path of virtue leads to happiness and life—not that which perisheth, but that which hath no end; and I know, as our great Castilian poet observes—

‘“By these rough paths of toil and pain,
Th’ immortal feats of bliss we gain,
Deny’d to those who heedless stray
In tempting pleasure’s flow’ry way.”’

‘Ah! woe is me!’ cried the cousin, ‘my uncle is a poet too! he knows every thing, and can do every thing: I’ll lay a wager, if he should turn bricklayer, he could build a house like any cage.’—‘I do assure thee, niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘if those knightly sentiments did not wholly engross my attention, there is not a thing on earth that I could not make, nor a curiosity that should not go through my hands, especially bird-cages and tooth-picks.’

Here the conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the gate; which, as they found upon enquiry, was made by Sancho; whose presence was no sooner intimated, than the housekeeper ran away to hide herself that she might avoid the sight of him whom she abhorred: the niece, therefore, opened the door, and his master came out to receive him with open arms; then, shutting themselves up together, another dialogue passed, no ways inferior to the former.

Footnote 146:

A dress put upon convicted hereticks.

CHAP. VII.
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE;
WITH OTHER SURPRIZING INCIDENTS.

The housekeeper seeing that her master and Sancho were locked up together, immediately guessed the subject of the conversation; and imagining, that the result of this confutation would be a third sally, she put on her veil, and full of trouble and anxiety, went in quest of the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, thinking, that as he was a well spoken man, and her master’s new friend, he might persuade him to lay aside such an extravagant design: accordingly, she found him taking a turn in his own yard, and fell upon her knees before him, in a cold sweat, occasioned by her vexation. Carrasco seeing her appear with such marks of sorrow and consternation, said, ‘What is the matter, Mrs. Housekeeper? what hath befallen you? something seems to have harrowed up your very soul!’—‘Nothing at all, dear Mr. Sampson,’ cried the housekeeper, ‘only my master is breaking out; he is certainly breaking out!’—‘How breaking out?’ said Sampson; ‘is any part of his body unsound?’—‘Where should it break out,’ replied the other, ‘but through the gate of his madness? My meaning, dear batchelor of my soul! is, that he is going to make another sally, (and that will be the third) searching up and down the world for what he calls adventures, though I cannot imagine why they should have that name[147]: the first time, he returned so battered and bruised, that they were fain to lay him across an ass, like a sack of oats, because he could not sit upright; the second time, he was brought home in a waggon, stretched and cooped up in a cage, in which he imagined himself inchanted, in such a woeful plight, that he could scarce be known by the mother that bore him, so lank and meagre, with his eyes sunk into the lowest pit of his brain; so that before I could bring him into any tolerable degree of strength, I expended more than six hundred new-laid eggs, as God and all the world know, as well as my hens, that will not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘That I verily believe,’ said the batchelor; ‘your hens are so good, plump, and well bred, that they would rather burst than say one thing, and mean another. Well, then, Mrs. Housekeeper, nothing else hath happened, neither have you met with any other misfortune, but the apprehension of what your master Don Quixote will do?’—‘Nothing else,’ said she. ‘Give yourself no trouble then,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘but go home a-God’s name, and get ready something hot for my breakfast; and in your way, repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer, if you can; I will follow in a little time, and then you shall see wonders.’—‘Dear heart!’ cried the housekeeper, ‘St. Apollonia’s prayer, say you? that I should repeat if my master had the tooth-ach; but, lack-a-day! his distemper lies in his skull.’—‘I know what I say,’ answered Sampson: ‘take my advice, Mrs. Housekeeper, and do not pretend to dispute with me; for I would have thee to know that I am a batchelor of Salamanca; there’s no higher batcheleering than that.’ She accordingly moved homeward, while Sampson went to communicate to the curate that which will be in due time disclosed.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were closeted together, there passed between them a conversation which the history recounts with great punctuality and truth. ‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘I have at length traduced my wife to consent that I shall attend your worship wheresoever you please to carry me.’-‘Say reduced, and not traduced, Sancho,’ replied the knight. ‘I have once or twice, if my memory serves me,’ said Sancho, ‘intreated your worship not to correct my words, if you understand my meaning; and when you can’t make it out, I desire you would say, “Sancho,” or “devil, I don’t understand thee:” then if I fail in explaining myself, you may correct me as much as you please; for I am so fossile.’—‘I do not understand thee now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘nor can I comprehend what thou wouldst be at, in saying I am so fossile.’—‘So fossile!’ said the squire; ‘that is, whereby as how I am just so.’—‘Nay, now thou art more and more unintelligible,’ replied the knight. ‘If your worship does not understand me now,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know not how to express it; for I am already at my wit’s end, and Lord have mercy upon me.’—‘O! now I conceive thy meaning,’ said the knight; ‘thou wouldst say thou art so docile, gentle, and tractable, as to comprehend every thing I say, and retain whatsoever I shall teach thee.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said the squire, ‘that from the beginning, you knew my meaning by my mumping, but wanted to confound me by leading me into a thousand more blunders.’—‘It may be so,’ said the knight; ‘but in reality, what says Teresa?’—‘Teresa,’ answered Sancho, ‘says I must be sharp with your worship. Fast bind, fast find; He that shuffles does not always cut; and that, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush: now I know that A wife’s counsel is bad, but he that will not take it is mad.’—‘So say I,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘proceed, friend Sancho, you speak like an oracle to-day.’—‘Why then the case is this,’ resumed Sancho; ‘your worship very well knows we are all mortal, here to-day, and gone to-morrow; for the lamb goes as fast as the dam; and no man in this world can promise himself more hours of life than God is pleased to grant him; because death is deaf, and when he knocks at the door of life is always in a hurry, and will not be detained either by fair means or force, by sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often heard it declared from the pulpit.’—‘All this is very true,’ said the knight; ‘but I cannot guess what you drive at.’—‘What I drive at,’ answered Sancho, ‘is, that your worship would appoint me a certain monthly salary for the time I shall serve you, to be paid out of your estate; for I do not chuse to depend upon recompences that come late, or low, or never. God will protect me with my own. In short, I would know what I have to trust to, whether little or much; for, The hen clucks though but on one egg; Many littles make a mickle; and, He that is getting aught, is losing nought. True it is, if it should happen, which I neither believe nor expect, that your worship can give me that island you have promised me so long; I am not so greedy or ungrateful, but that I will suffer my rent to be appraised, and my salary deducted in due portion[148]’.—‘To be sure, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘all portions ought to be proportioned.’—‘I understand you,’ replied the squire, ‘I should have said proportion instead of portion; but that is of no signification, since my meaning is comprehended by your worship.’—‘Aye, and so thoroughly comprehended,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that I have penetrated into the inmost recesses of thy thoughts, and perceive the mark at which those innumerable shafts of thy proverbs are aimed. Look you, Sancho, I would appoint thee a salary, if I could find in any history of knights-errant, one precedent, by which I might discover, or have the least glimpse of what they used to give monthly or yearly; but I have carefully perused all, or the greatest part or those histories, and cannot remember to have read, that any knight-errant ever paid a certain salary to his squire. I only know that all of them trusted to favour, and when it was least in their thoughts, provided their masters chanced to be fortunate, they found themselves rewarded with an island or something equivalent, and at least were honoured with rank and title. If with these hopes and expectations, you are willing to return to my service, do it a-God’s name; but if you think I will unhinge and deviate from the ancient customs of chivalry, you are grievously mistaken: wherefore, friend Sancho, you may go home again, and declare my intention to your wife Teresa; and if she is pleased, and you are willing to depend upon my favour, _bene quidem_; if not, let us shake hands and part: while there are peas in the dove-house, I shall never want pigeons; and remember, my child, that it is better to be rich in hope than poor in possession; and that a good claim is preferable to bad pay. I talk in this manner, Sancho, to show that I can pour forth a volley of proverbs as well as you; and finally, I must and will give you to understand, that if you do not chuse to serve me on those terms, and share my fortune, whatsoever it may be, I pray God may prosper and make a saint of you; for my part, I shall not want squires more obedient and careful, though less troublesome and talkative than your worship.’