Chapter XXXIV: Book I (6)

Don Diego, upon hearing this declaration, looked about him every where, but could discover nothing, except a carriage coming towards them, with two or three flying flags, by which he guessed the carriage might be loaded with some of the king’s money, and mentioned this observation to Don Quixote, who minded not what he said, his brain wandering so upon adventures, that every thing must be one, and nothing but a series of one adventure upon the back of another; he therefore answered the gentleman to this effect; ‘Sir, forewarned and fore-armed is half the day; I am not now to learn that I have enemies of all kinds, visible and invisible, neither know I the time, the place, the hour, nor under what appearance they will attack me.’ With these words, turning about, he demanded his helmet of Sancho; who not having time to disengage the curds from it, was obliged to deliver it, with that lining in the inside, to his master, who took it, and without farther examination, clapped it in a great hurry upon his head, which pressing and squeezing the curds, the whey began to ooze down his beard; and this circumstance so startled him, that he called out to Sancho, ‘What can this mean? Is my skull softening, or my brains melting, or do I sweat from head to foot? Surely, this I can say, that if I do sweat, it is not through fear, though I am fully persuaded this will prove a most terrible adventure. If you have got any thing, let me have it to wipe me; for this deluge of sweat blinds my eyes.’ Sancho replied not, but gave him a cloth, and with it sent up his thanks to the Almighty, that his master had not found out what it was. Don Quixote, after rubbing himself, took off his helmet, to see what it was that sat so cool upon his head, and, perceiving something white and clotted, put it to his nose, and snuffed at it; ‘By the life of my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,’ cried he, ‘thou hast put curds into my helmet, thou traitor, thou ill-bred squire!’ To which apostrophe, Sancho answered with great unconcern and tranquillity, ‘If they are curds, let me have them to eat; but the devil ought rather to eat them, for I am sure it must be he who put them there. I offer to defile your worship’s helmet! in good troth, I can perceive, by the help of that understanding God has given me, that I am not without my inchanters too, who are at me, as a sort of member and limb of your worship; and I’ll be sworn, have put that nastiness there, to instigate your worship to wrath against me, and stir up your worship to anoint my ribs in the manner your worship was wont to do. But this time they have missed their aim I trow, as I can depend upon the just sentence of my master, who will easily weigh with himself, that I had neither curds, cream, nor any such stuff; and that, if I had, it was more likely I should have crammed them into my own guts than put them into his worship’s helmet.’—‘All this is possible,’ cried Don Quixote: and all this the other gentleman saw, and saw with astonishment, more especially when our hero, after having cleaned his head, beard, chops, and helmet, clapped the latter upon his skull, and fixing himself in his seat, tried whether or not his sword could be easily drawn; then grasping his spear, ‘Now,’ cried he, ‘happen what will happen, here am I, determined for the combat, should the prince of the evil spirits set himself in battle array against me.’

By this time the carriage with the streamers was come up, attended only by the driver (who rode one of the mules) and a man who sat upon the fore-part of it. Don Quixote wedged himself directly in their way, and called out, ‘Whither, my brethren, are you bound? what carriage is this? what does it contain? what ensigns are those displayed?’ To which interrogations the waggoner replied, ‘The carriage itself belongs to me, and within are two savage lions, which the general of Oran sends to court to his majesty: the streamers are the ensigns of our lord the king, to shew that what is here contained belongs to the crown.’—‘Are these lions large?’ answered Don Quixote.—‘So large,’ replied the man, who sat on the fore-part of the waggon, ‘that lions of a more monstrous size never came from Barbary into this kingdom. I am their keeper, and have had several under my charge before now, but never any so big as they: there is a male and female; the he is in the first cage, and the female in the other; they are now ravenous with hunger, having had no food to-day, and therefore I must entreat you to get out of the way, as we must make haste to the place where they are to be fed.’ To which intreaty, Don Quixote answered with a half smile, ‘What are your lion whelps to me, and at this time of day too! are lion whelps brought against me! I’ll make those who sent them hither—yes, by the holy God! I’ll make them see whether I am a man to be scared by lions. Come, honest friend, get off; and as you are their keeper, open the cages and turn them out; for, in the midst of this plain, will I make the savage beasts of the wilderness know who Don Quixote de La Mancha is, in defiance of the inchanters who have sent them against me.’

‘Aha!’ said Don Diego to himself, ‘I think our Knight of the Rueful Countenance has now given us a pretty incontestable sample of what he is; these curds have certainly soaked his skull, and suppurated his brains.’ Then Sancho came up to Diego, and said, ‘For God’s sake, Signior, take care that my master’s worship does not encounter these lions, or belike we shall all of us be tore to pieces.’—‘What!’ answered he, ‘is your master then really so much out of his wits, that you believe and dread he will engage these savage monsters?’—‘He is not out of his wits,’ replied Sancho, ‘but prodigious bold.’

‘I’ll make him give over,’ answered the other; then going up to Don Quixote, who was pressing the keeper to open the cages, he said, ‘Signior, gentlemen of the order of knights-errant ought to go upon adventures that have a probability of success, not such as are quite desperate; for that courage which is almost temerity, savours rather of madness than true fortitude. Besides, these lions do not come with any hostile design against you; no, they think of nothing less; they are going to be presented to the king, and as they are on their way to court, I think they should not be stopped in their journey.’—‘Pray, good Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you will please to get away from hence, and look after your ferrets and decoy-partridges, do, and leave every one to mind his own business: this is my business, and it behoves me to know whether or not these lions come against me.’ Then turning to the keeper, ‘Sirrah,’ said he, ‘if you do not immediately open the cages, I swear by the living God, I will this instant pin you to the place where you sit.’

The carter seeing the obstinate resolution of this armed phantom, who addressed him, begged for the sake of charity, he would let him take off his mules, and get with them out of danger, before the lions were uncaged, ‘For should my cattle be slain,’ said he, ‘I am undone for ever, having nothing to depend upon for bread but this cart and these mules.’—‘Man of little faith,’ said Don Quixote, ‘alight; take off thy mules, and do what thou wilt; but thou shalt quickly see thou hast laboured in vain, and that thou mightest have spared thyself this unnecessary trouble.’

The carter then got off, and unharnessed in great hurry, and the keeper spoke aloud, ‘I call all present to witness that I am forced against my will, to open the cages, and let loose the lions; and I here declare, that this gentleman is chargeable with, and answerable for, all the harm they shall do, as also for my salary and perquisites over and above. And now, gentlemen, pray take care of yourselves, and get out of the way; for, as to me, I know they will do me no harm.’ Don Diego again urged him to forbear attempting so extravagant an action, alledging it was tempting of God, to think of going about such a desperate undertaking. The other replied, that he knew what he did, and Don Diego once more desired him to think well of what he was about, as he was certain that he deceived himself. ‘Signior,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if you do not care to be a spectator of what you think will be a tragical adventure, set spurs to your mare, and provide for your own safety.’ Sancho, upon this intimation, fell a blubbering, and earnestly besought him not to think of entering upon this adventure; ‘For, in companion of this,’ said he, ‘the windmills, the terrible adventure of the fulling-mill hammers, nay, all the exploits your worship has performed during the course of your life, are but custards and puff-paste. Consider, Sir,’ continued he, ‘that there can be no inchantment in this cage; I myself have peeped through the cage, and there I saw the claw of a real living lion; and sure I am, that the beast that owns such a claw must be bigger than a mountain.’—‘Be he large or small,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘thy fear would magnify him to the bigness of one half of the globe. Be gone, leave me: if I die, you know our old agreement; repair to Dulcinea. I say no more!’ He spoke several other things, which shewed he was determined on what he was about, and that all attempts to dissuade him were in vain.

Don Diego would willingly have stopped him; but had neither weapons nor armour equal to the other’s, and, besides, did not think it prudent to engage with a man who was frantick; for, by this time, he was convinced that Don Quixote was so in all respects; who still pressing the keeper, and repeating his threats, Don Diego clapped spurs to his mare, Sancho applied his heels to Dapple, the carter put forward his mules, and all endeavoured to get as fast out of the way as they could, before the beasts were let loose. Sancho deplored the fate of his master, who he believed was just going to be sacrificed by the lions: he bewailed his own hard fortune, and cursed the hour when he thought of serving him again; however, amidst the intenseness of his grief, he ceased not to punch and jog on his ass, that he might get from the cart as fast as possible. The keeper seeing that these runaways were now safe at a sufficient distance, renewed his expostulations with Don Quixote, who said, ‘I hear you, friend; but give yourself no more trouble with arguments or entreaties, it will all signify nothing; and therefore I desire you will make haste.’

While the keeper protracted the time in opening the first grate, Don Quixote considered with himself, whether he had best alight for the combat, or continue on the back of Rozinante; and determined, at last, to fight on foot, lest his steed might take fright at the sight of the lions. Accordingly, he leaped upon the ground, threw away his lance, braced his shield, and drew his sword; in which attitude, approaching with great steadiness, he placed himself just before the cart, recommending himself, with great devotion, first to the protection of the Almighty, and then to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso.

We must observe, that at this place the author of this history breaks out into pathetick exclamations, expressing himself to this purpose: O Don Quixote de La Mancha! renowned for fortitude, brave beyond human expression; thou mirrour, in which all heroes of the earth may contemplate their own perfections! thou second and other Don Manual de Leon, glory and ornament of Spanish knights! how shall I find words worthy to relate this matchless atchievement: by what power of argument shall I make it gain credit among future generations? for what encomiums ever so exalted, even beyond the hyperbole, can there be but what thou deservest? On foot thou stood’st, collected within thy magnanimous self, with a sword far from being sharp, with a shield far from bright and shining; there, I say, didst thou stand waiting and expecting two of the fiercest lions that were ever yet engendered in the dens of Libya. I want words wherewithal to embellish thy great atchievements: let thy own exploits, then, be the harbinger of thy praises, O heroick Manchegan!

The author here breaks off his exclamation, and proceeds in the recital of the history, saying,—

The keeper seeing Don Quixote fixed in this posture, and finding himself under a necessity of letting loose the he-lion, to avoid the resentment of this enraged and intrepid hero, flung the door of the first cage open, where the lion appeared lying, of a monstrous bigness and terrifying aspect: he immediately turned himself round in the cage, put out one of his paws, and stretching himself at full length yawned and gaped with great composure, and then, with a tongue of about half a yard long, cleaned his face and eyes; after which he thrust his head out of the cage, and stared around him with eyes like firebrands; a sight sufficient to have struck a damp into the most intrepid heart: but Don Quixote only fixed his eyes attentively upon him, wishing for the minute he would leap out of the cart, that he might engage and cut him in pieces; to such an unaccountable degree had his frenzy worked up his disturbed imagination. But the lion, naturally generous, and more inclinable to be gentle than rough, heeded not his bravadoes or flourishing: on the contrary, after having looked around him, as we have observed, turned about, and shewing our hero his backside, with great composure and tranquillity, laid himself down again to rest; which circumstance Don Quixote perceiving, ordered the keeper to rouze him by blows, and oblige him to come forth. ‘Nay, that I wont,’ answered he; ‘for, should I enrage him, he would immediately tear me to pieces: come, Sir Knight, be contented with what you have done, which is all that can be expected from any man’s courage, and give over tempting fortune any more. The door of his cage is open, and he may come forth, or not, as he pleases; but as he has not come out now, he will not all day. The intrepidity of your worship’s valour is sufficiently vouched; I apprehend the bravery of no combatant needs do more than challenge his adversary, and await him in the field; and if the enemy won’t meet him, the imputation of cowardice lies with him, and the crown of victory devolves upon the other.’—‘You say true,’ said Don Quixote; ‘shut the door, my friend, and let me have, under your hand, in the best manner you are able to draw it, a certificate of what you have now seen; for I think it is highly fitting mankind should know that you opened the lion’s cage; that I waited for him, and he came not out; and that I waited for him again, and he came not out, and that again he laid himself down. I am not bound to do any more; so inchantments avaunt, and God prosper truth, justice, and noble chivalry! shut the door therefore, and I will wave a signal for those who have run off to return, and have an account of this action from your own mouth.’

The keeper obeyed; and Don Quixote clapping upon the point of his lance the cloth Sancho had given him to wipe off the curds, called out to them who were still pursuing their flight, and at every step, all in a body, turning about their heads, and Don Diego leading them on; but Sancho chancing to espy the signal of the linen cloth, ‘I’ll be bound to be crucified,’ said he, ‘if my master has not got the better of the lions; for he now calls to us.’ They all stopped, and perceived it was Don Quixote who made the sign; upon which the violence of their terrors somewhat abated, and they approached nearer and nearer by degrees, till they could distinctly hear the voice of Don Quixote calling to them; at last they came back to the cart, and Don Quixote said to the carter, ‘Harness your mules again, my friend, and go on in your journey; and, Sancho, give him and the keeper two crowns of gold, as a recompence for the time I have detained them.’—‘That I will most willingly do; but where are the lions, dead or alive?’ Then the keeper very circumstantially, and dividing his discourse with great propriety, gave an account of the issue of this adventure, exaggerating with all his might, and all the power of rhetorick he could muster up, the courage of Don Quixote: ‘At sight of whom,’ said he, ‘the lion, overawed, would not, or rather durst not, venture out of the cage, though I held the door open a considerable time; and that, upon remonstrating to the great knight, that it was tempting of God to provoke the lion so far as to oblige him to come out by force, as he wanted him to have done, and was going to make him do whether he would or not, his honour had suffered the cage-door to be shut.’—‘Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what dost thou think now; can inchantments avail aught against true courage? they may, indeed, and with ease, stand in the way of my good fortune; but of valour and resolution they never can deprive me.’ Sancho gave the crowns to the people; the carter harnessed his mules, and the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hand for his liberality, and promised, when he arrived at court, he would give an account of this heroick atchievement to his majesty himself. ‘Should the king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘perchance enquire who performed it, tell him it was the Knight of the Lions; for I am determined, that, from this time forward, the title I have been hitherto distinguished by, of Knight of the Rueful Countenance, shall be changed, bartered, and sunk, into that of Knight of the Lions; and in this alteration I imitate the example of knights-errant of old, who, as they pleased, altered their designations as it best suited their purposes.’

The carriage went forward, Don Quixote, Sancho, and the traveller in green, pursued their journey; and during all this time, Don Diego de Miranda was so attentive to remark and observe the actions of Don Quixote, that he had not opened his mouth; but looked upon him as a man whose good sense was blended with a strange sort of madness: the reason was, he knew as yet nothing of the first part of his history; had he read that, his amazement at the knight’s words and actions would have vanished, as it would have cleared up to him the nature of his frenzy; but as he knew not that, he was at times divided in his opinion, sometimes believing him in his senses, and at other times thinking him frantick; because what he spoke was sensible, consistent, and genteelly expressed; but his actions discovered all the symptoms of wildness, folly, and temerity. ‘For what greater sign of disorder,’ said he to himself, ‘can there be, than for a man to clap on a helmet full of curds, and then take it into his head that some magician had liquified his skull; and what more certain proof of foolhardiness and wild frenzy, than for a person, in spite of all that can be said to him, to resolve to engage lions?’

Don Quixote interrupted these reflections and soliloquy of his fellow-traveller, by saying, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, I don’t doubt but that in your judgment I must pass for an extravagant madman; and, indeed, no wonder; for, to be sure, my actions would seem to declare me such: but, at the same time, I must beg leave to say to you, that I am not so disordered, or so bereft of understanding, as to you I may have seemed. The gay cavalier, who in burnished armour, before the ladies, prances over the lists, makes a gallant appearance! the adventurous knight too shews off to great advantage, when in the midst of the spacious square, in view of his prince, he transfixes the furious bull. And a noble appearance make those knights, who, in military exercises, or such like, are the life, spirit, and even honour of their prince’s court. But a much more noble figure than all these makes the knight-errant, who, in the solitudes of the desart, through the almost impervious passages of the forest, and over the craggy mountains, goes in quest of perilous adventures, to bring them to a successful issue, and that only to obtain glory, honour, and an immortal name. A knight-errant, I say, makes a more glorious appearance, when he assists the widow in some solitary plain, than the courtier knight, when he lavishes his gallantry on a town-lady. All cavaliers have their different spheres, in which they act; let the courtier pay his attendance to the ladies, adorn the court of his prince with the splendor of his equipage, entertain gentlemen of inferior fortunes with the hospitality of his sumptuous table; let him propose matches of different exercise, and direct the justs and tournaments; let him shew himself splendid, liberal, and munificent; and, above all, approve himself a good Christian: in acting thus, he will discharge the duties that belong to him. But for the knight-errant, let him explore the most hidden recesses of the universe, plunge into the perplexities of the labyrinths; let him, at all times, not be afraid of even impossibilities; in the barren, wasteful wilderness, let him defy the scorching rays of the solstitial sun, and the piercing chillings of the nipping frost. Lions must not frighten him, phantoms must not terrify him, nor dragons dismay him; for, in searching after such, engaging with and getting the better of all difficulties, consists his true and proper occupation. It being my fortune, then, to be of this last order, I cannot, consistent with that, avoid engaging in whatever I deem to be part of the duty of my calling; and for these reasons, though I knew, that encountering the lions was in itself an act of the greatest temerity, yet it immediately belonged to my profession: I am very sensible that true fortitude is placed between the two extremes of cowardice and fool-hardiness; but then, it is better valour should mount even to an over-daring hardiness, than be debased to pusillanimity; for, as the prodigal is more likely to become truly generous than the miser, so will the over-courageous sooner be brought to true valour, than the coward to be courageous at all; and in undertaking adventures, I assure you, Don Diego, it is much better to overdo than underdo, and much better does it sound in the ear of him to whom it is related, that a knight is daring and presumptuous, than that he is pusillanimous and faint-hearted.’

‘Signior Don Quixote,’ answered Diego, ‘I think all you have said is consonant to the rule of right reason; and I am of opinion, that if the laws and statutes of true chivalry were lost, they would be found deposited and faithfully recorded in your breast: but if you please, we will put on, for it grows late; let us get towards my house and village, that you may have some rest, and taste of some refreshment after your late fatigue, which, if it does not weary the body, must be heavy upon the mind, the labours of which often affect the body likewise.’—‘I accept of your invitation, Don Diego,’ said the other, ‘as a favour and mark of politeness.’ And hastening forward a little quicker than they had done before, they arrived about two in the afternoon at the habitation of Diego, on whom Don Quixote bestowed the appellation of the Knight of the Green Surtout.

END OF BOOK I. PART II.