To this welcome the knight answered not a word. When they had pulled him

up, they perceived his eyes were shut, and that, to all appearance, he

was fast asleep; then he was laid upon the ground, and untied, but still

he did not awake: however, by dint of turning, jogging, shaking, and

moving, they, after some time, brought him to himself, when yawning

hideously as if he had awoke from a profound and heavy sleep, he looked

around with amazement, and pronounced, ‘God forgive you, friends, for

having withdrawn me from the most delightful prospect and agreeable life

that ever mortal saw or enjoyed: in effect, I am now fully convinced,

that all the pleasures of this life fleet away like a shadow or dream,

or fade like the flowers of the field. O unfortunate Montesinos! O

deeply wounded Durandarte! O hapless Belerma! O weeping Guadiana! and

you forlorn daughters of Ruydera, who by your waters shew the copious

floods of tears that fall from your beauteous eyes!’

The scholar and Sancho hearing these words, which Don Quixote seemed to

heave with immense pain from his very entrails, begged he would explain

the meaning of what he had said, and inform them of what he had seen in

that infernal gulph. ‘Infernal, call you it?’ said the knight; ‘pray

give it a better epithet, for that it surely does deserve, as you will

presently perceive.’ Then he desired they would give him something to

eat, for he was excessively hungry; and they, spreading the carpet upon

the grass, produced the buttery of their bags, when all three sitting

around them, in love and good fellowship, made one meal serve for supper

and afternoon’s luncheon, which being finished, and the cloth taken

away, ‘My sons,’ said Don Quixote, ‘let no man stir, but listen with

your whole attention to that which I am going to rehearse.’

CHAP. VI.

OF THE WONDERFUL INCIDENTS RECOUNTED BY THE EXTRAVAGANT DON QUIXOTE,

WHO PRETENDED TO HAVE SEEN THEM IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS;

FROM THE GREATNESS AND IMPOSSIBILITY OF WHICH

THIS ADVENTURE HAS BEEN DEEMED APOCRYPHAL.

It might be about four o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun retiring

behind a cloud, so as to emit a scanty light and temperate rays, gave

Don Quixote an opportunity of relating coolly and comfortably to his two

illustrious hearers the particulars he had seen in the cave of

Montesinos; and he accordingly began to recite what follows.

‘About twelve or fourteen fathoms below the mouth of this dungeon, there

is a concavity on the right hand, wide enough to contain a large waggon

with its cattle, and illuminated by a small stream of light that

descends through corresponding cracks and crannies, which open at a

distance on the surface of the earth: this spacious cavity I perceived,

when I was tired and out of humour at finding myself hanging and

descending by a rope, through that dark and dreary dungeon, without

knowing any certain and determined way; I therefore resolved to enter

it, and repose myself a little, and called to you to leave off lowering

the rope, until I should give you farther notice; but I suppose you did

not hear me, so that I gathered up the cord you let down, and making it

into an heap or coil, sat down upon it in a very pensive mood, to

consider how I should descend to the bottom, having no person to support

my weight. While I sat musing on this misfortune, I was all of a sudden

overpowered by a most profound sleep, and without dreaming of the

matter, or knowing how, or wherefore, I awoke, and found myself in the

midst of the most beautiful, charming and delightful meadow that nature

could create, or the most fertile imagination conceive. I rubbed and

wiped my eyes, so as to see that far from sleeping I was broad awake:

nevertheless, I felt my head, and fumbled in my bosom, in order to be

assured, whether it was really my identical self or some unsubstantial

phantom and counterfeit; but the touch, the reflection, and connected

discourse I held with myself, concurred to convince me, that I was the

same at that time as I find myself at present. Then was my view regaled

with a sumptuous palace or castle, with walls and battlements of clear,

transparent chrystal, and two large folding gates, which, opening, there

came forth, advancing towards me, a venerable old man, clad in a long

cloak of purple baize, that trailed upon the ground: his shoulders and

breast were girded with a collegiate scarf of green sattin; his head was

covered with a black Milan cap; and his beard, white as the drifted

snow, descended to his middle. He wore no arms, but held in his hand a

rosary of beads as large as walnuts; though the tens were as big as

ostrich-eggs; and his deportment, air, gravity, and dignified presence,

filled me with surprize and veneration. Coming up to me, the first thing

he did was to hug me closely in his arms; then he said, “Long, very

long, most valiant knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, have we, who are

inchanted in these solitudes, expected thy arrival, that thou mayest

inform the world of what is contained and concealed in this profound

cavern, which is called the cave of Montesinos; an adventure hitherto

reserved on purpose to be atchieved by thy invincible heart and most

stupendous courage. Follow me, illustrious Signior, and I will shew thee

the wonders that lie hid in this transparent castle, of which I am

governor and perpetual warder, as being that identical Montesinos, from

whom the cavern takes its name.” No sooner had he told me who he was,

than I asked if it was true, what the world above related of him,

namely, that he had, with a small dagger, cut out the heart of his great

friend Durandarte, and carried it to the Lady Belerma, according to his

own desire, while he was in the agonies of death. He answered, every

circumstance was true, except that of the dagger; for it was neither a

dagger, nor small in its dimensions, but a polished poignard as sharp as

an awl.’

Here Sancho interposing, observed, that such a poignard must have been

made by Raymond de Hozes of Seville. ‘I do not know who was the maker,’

said the knight, ‘but it could not be that sword-cutler; for Raymond de

Hozes was living t’other day; whereas many years are elapsed since the

battle of Roncesvalles, where that misfortune happened; but this enquiry

is of no importance; nor does it disturb or alter the truth and evidence

of the story.’—‘No, surely,’ cried the scholar, ‘pray good your worship

Don Quixote proceed; for I listen to your narration with infinite

pleasure.’—‘And I feel no less in recounting it,’ answered the knight.

‘Well, then, the venerable Montesinos led me into the chrystalline

palace, where, in a low hall, cool beyond conception, and lined with

alabaster, stood a monument of marble of exquisite workmanship, upon

which I perceived a knight lying at full length, I do not mean a statue

of bronze, marble, or jasper, such as we commonly see on other tombs,

but a man of real flesh and bones; he held his right-hand, which being

muscular and hairy, denoted the great strength of the owner, over the

region of the heart; and before I had time to ask any questions,

Montesinos seeing me astonished, and gazing attentively at the

sepulchre, “This is my friend Durandarte,” said he, “the flower and

mirrour of all the valiant and enamoured knights of his time: here he is

kept inchanted as well as myself, and many others of both sexes, by

Merlin, that French inchanter, who is said to have been begotten by the

devil; though, for my own part, I believe he is not really the devil’s

son, but that, according to the proverb, He knows one point more than

the devil. How, or for what reason he inchanted us, nobody knows, but

time will discover the mystery; and, in my opinion, that time is not far

off: what surprizes me is, I know as certainly as the sun shines, that

Durandarte breathed his last in my arms, and after he was dead, I with

my own individual hands took out his heart, which must certainly have

weighed a couple of pounds; for, according to the observation of

naturalists, the man who has a large heart is endowed with more valour

than he whose heart is of smaller dimensions: this being the case, and

the knight certainly dead, how comes he, even at this day, to sigh and

complain, from time to time, as if he was actually alive?”

‘He had no sooner pronounced these words, than the wretched Durandarte

cried, in a loud voice, “O cousin Montesinos! the last favour I

requested of you, was, that when my soul should quit my body, you would

extract my heart either with poignard or dagger, and carry it to

Belerma.” The venerable Montesinos, hearing this apostrophe, kneeled

before the piteous knight, and with tears in his eyes, replied,

“Already, Signior Durandarte, my dearest cousin! already have I executed

what you commanded me to perform, on that unlucky day of our defeat: I

extracted your heart as well as I could, without leaving the smallest

particle of it in your breast; I wiped it with a laced handkerchief, and

set out with it full gallop for France, after having first committed you

to the bosom of the earth with such a flood of tears as was sufficient

to bathe and wash my hands of the blood they had contracted by raking in

your bowels; and as a surer token, dear cousin of my soul! at the first

place I reached, in my way from Roncesvalles, I sprinkled your heart

with a little salt, that it might not acquire a bad smell, and continue,

if not quite fresh, at least tolerably sweet, until it could be

presented to the Lady Belerma, who, together with you and me, and your

squire Guadiana, the duenna Ruydera, her seven daughters, and two

nieces, and many others of your friends and acquaintance, have been long

inchanted in this place by the sage Merlin; and although five hundred

years are elapsed, not one of us is dead; though we have lost Ruydera

with her daughters and nieces, who, by weeping, are, through the

compassion of Merlin, converted into so many lakes, which, in the world

above, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of

Ruydera; the Seven Sisters belong to the king of Spain, and the Two

Nieces to the knights of a very holy order, called St. John. Your squire

Guadiana bewailing likewise your misfortune, was changed into a river of

the same name, which, when it reached the surface of the earth, and saw

the sun of the other sky, was so grieved at the thoughts of leaving you,

that he sunk down into the bowels of the globe; but, as it was not

possible for him to resist his natural current, he from time to time

rises up, shewing himself to the sun, and to the nations: he receives a

reinforcement from the waters of the forementioned lakes, with which,

and many others that join his stream, he enters Portugal in majesty and

pomp. Nevertheless, wheresoever he runs, he discovers a sullen

melancholy, and does not pique himself upon breeding within his channel

fish of dainty relish and esteem; but only such as are coarse and

unsavoury, and widely different from those of the golden Tagus. What I

now say, my dear cousin, I have often expressed, and as you make no

reply, I conclude you either do not hear or do not give credit to my

words: a circumstance which, as Heaven doth know, overwhelms me with

affliction. I will at present make you acquainted with one piece of

news, which, if it does not alleviate your sorrow, can surely, in no

shape, tend to its augmentation. Know then, here stands in your presence

(open your eyes and behold him) that great knight of whom so many things

have been prophesied by the sage Merlin; that Don Quixote de La Mancha,

I say, who has renewed, and, with greater advantages than in times past,

raised again from oblivion the long forgotten chivalry, by the means and

favour of whom, perhaps, we ourselves may be disenchanted; for great men

such great achievements are reserved.”—“And if that should not be the

case,” replied the afflicted Durandarte, in a faint and languid tone;

“and if that should not be the case, cousin, I say, patience, and

shuffle the cards.” Then turning himself upon one side, he relapsed into

his usual silence, without speaking another word.

‘At that instant, hearing a great noise of shrieks and lamentations,

accompanied by doleful sighing and dismal sobbing, I turned about, and

saw through the chrystal walls into another apartment, through which a

procession passed, consisting of two flies of most beautiful damsels in

mourning, with white turbans on their heads, in the Turkish manner; in

the rear of these came a lady, for such, by her stately demeanour, she

seemed to be, cloathed like the rest in black, with a veil so full and

long that it kissed the ground: her turban was twice as large as the

largest of the others, her eye brows met above her nose, which was

flattish; her mouth was large, but her lips retained the colour of

vermillion; her teeth, which she sometimes disclosed, were thin and

ill-set, though white as blanched almonds; and in her hand she held a

fine linen cloth, in which, as near as I could guess, was an heart so

dried and shrivelled, that it seemed to be of perfect mummy. Montesinos

gave me to understand, that all those of the procession were domesticks

of Durandarte and Belarma, inchanted in that place, together with their

lord and lady; and that the last who carried the heart in the napkin,

was Belerma herself, who, with her damsels, never failed to appear in

that procession four days in the week, and sung, or rather howl, dirges

over the body, and the woeful heart of his cousin: and that, if she now

seemed a little homely, or not quite so beautiful as fame reported her,

the change proceeded from the bad nights and worse days she passed in

that state of inchantment, as I might perceive in her large wrinkles and

wan complexion; nor did that yellowness and those furrows proceed from

any irregularity in the monthly disorder incident to women; for many

months and even years had passed since she had the least shew of any

such evacuation; but solely from the anguish of her heart, occasioned by

that which she holds incessantly in her hand, and which renews and

recalls to her memory the misfortune of her ill-fated lover: had it not

been for that mischance, scarce would she have been equalled in beauty,

sprightliness, and grace, even by the fair Dulcinea del Toboso,

celebrated as she is not only in this country, but also through the

whole universe.

‘“Softly, Signior Don Montesinos,” said I, interrupting him at the

period, “be so good as to tell your story as it ought to be told; for

you know all comparisons are odious, and therefore there is no occasion

to compare any person with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is

what she is, and the Lady Donna Belerma is likewise what she is and has

been, and there let the matter rest.” To this remonstrance he replied,

“Pardon me, Signior Don Quixote; I confess I have been to blame, and

egregiously erred, in saying, the Lady Dulcinea would scarce equal the

Lady Belerma; seeing, my having known by certain guesses that your

worship is the knight of Dulcinea, was sufficient to have induced me to

bite off my tongue, rather than compare her with any thing but Heaven

itself.” Such satisfaction from the great Montesinos allayed the disgust

that my heart received in hearing Belerma compared with my mistress.’

‘I marvel much,’ said Sancho, ‘that your worship did not fall upon the

old hunks, and break every bone in his skin; aye, and pull his beard in

such a manner as not to leave one single hair.’—‘By no means, friend

Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘it would not have become me to behave in

that manner; for we are all obliged to respect our seniors, although

they are not knights; but more especially those who are really of that

quality, and besides in a state of inchantment. This I know full well,

that there was nothing left unpaid on either side, in the course of the

questions and answers that passed between us.’

Here the scholar, interposing, ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘Signior

Don Quixote, how your worship, in such a short time as that you have

spent below, could see so many things, and ask and answer such a number

of questions.’—‘How long is it since I descended?’ said the knight.

‘Little more than an hour,’ replied the squire. ‘That’s impossible,’

resumed Don Quixote; ‘for night fell, and morning dawned, and darkness

and light succeeded each other three times; so that, by my reckoning, I

must have remained three days in those sequestered shades, which are

hidden from our view.’—‘My master must be in the right,’ said Sancho,

‘for as all those things have happened by inchantment, perhaps what

appeared but one hour to us, might seem three days and nights to your

worship.’—‘It may be so,’ answered the knight. Then the student asking

if his worship had eaten any thing in all that time, ‘I have not tasted

one mouthful,’ said he, ‘nor had I the least sensation of hunger.’—‘And

do those who are inchanted, eat?’ resumed the scholar, ‘They do not

eat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘nor do they void the larger excrements,

though, it is supposed, that their nails, beards, and hair, are always

growing.’

Here Sancho desired to know, if ever those inchanted gentry enjoyed the

benefit of sleep. To which interrogation his master replied, ‘No,

surely; at least, in those three days that I passed among them, neither

they nor myself once closed an eye.’—‘Here then,’ said the squire, ‘we

may conveniently trust in the proverb, Tell me your company, and I’ll

tell you your manners. While your worship keeps company with inchanted

people, who are always fasting and watching, it is no great wonder if

you neither eat nor sleep while you are among them; but really, Signior,

your worship must forgive me, if I say, that of all you have told us,

God take me, I was going to say the devil, if I believe one

circumstance.’—‘How!’ cried the scholar, ‘then Signior Don Quixote must

have lyed: who even if we could entertain such a supposition, has not

had time to compose and contrive such a number of fables.’—‘I do not

believe that my master tells lies,’ answered Sancho. ‘What, then, is thy

conception?’ said the knight. ‘I conceive,’ replied Sancho, ‘that

Merlin, or those magicians who have inchanted the whole rabble which

your worship hath seen and discoursed with below, have likewise stuffed

your noddle or memory with all that nonsense which you have already

recounted, as well as what you have left untold.’—‘That might be the

case,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but I assure you it is not so at present; for

what I have recounted I saw with my own eyes, and touched with my own

hands. But, what wilt thou say, when I now tell thee, that among an

infinite number of other wonderful things, which I shall relate

hereafter in the course of our travels, as they do not all belong to

this place, Montesinos shewed me three country-wenches, leaping and

skipping like so many goats through those delightful plains; and scarce

had I set eyes on them, when I recognize them to be the peerless

Dulcinea, and those two individual young women, with whom we spoke in

the neighbourhood of Toboso. When I asked Montesinos if he knew them, he

answered in the negative, but said he took them to be some inchanted

ladies of quality; for they had appeared but a few days in that meadow;

nor ought I to wonder at that circumstance, forasmuch as in the same

place there were many ladies of the past and present age, inchanted in

different and strange forms; among whom he recollected Queen Ginebra and

her duenna Quintanona, who was skinker to Lancelot, when he came from

Britain.’ Sancho, hearing his master talk in this manner, was ready to

run distracted, or burst with laughing; for, knowing the truth of the

feigned inchantment of Dulcinea, of which indeed he himself had been the

author and evidence, he was convinced beyond all doubt, that his master

was stark-staring mad; and in that persuasion exclaimed, ‘In evil hour,

accursed season, and unlucky day, my dear master, did your worship go

down to the other world; and in a mischievous moment did you meet with

Signior Montesinos, who has sent you back in such a woeful condition.

Well was your worship here above, in your sound judgment, such as God

had bestowed upon you, saying sentences, and giving counsel at every

turn, and not as at present, venting a heap of the greatest nonsense,

that was ever conceived.’—‘I know thee too well, Sancho,’ answered Don

Quixote, ‘to mind what thou sayest.’—‘And I, in like manner,’ replied

the squire, ‘know you too well to regard what you say: wound me, or

confound me, or kill me if you will, for what I have said, and what I

mean to say, if your worship does not mend and correct your own

speeches; but, now we are at peace, pray tell me how or by what token

you came to know our lady mistress, and if you spoke to her, what answer

she made?’

‘I knew her again,’ replied the knight, ‘by the same cloaths she wore

when thou thyself didst shew her to my astonished eyes; I likewise

addressed myself to her, but she answered not a syllable; on the

contrary, she turned about, and fled so swiftly, that an arrow would not

have overtaken her: nevertheless, I wished to follow, and would

certainly have pursued her, had not Montesinos advised me not to fatigue

myself; for it would be to no purpose, and besides, it was time for me

to return to the light above. He likewise told me, that, in process of

time, he would give me notice in what manner he, Durandarte, Belerma,

and all the rest, in those sequestered shades, were to be disenchanted.

But what of all I saw and observed gave me the greatest pain was this;

while I was engaged in this conversation with Montesinos, one of the

hapless Dulcinea’s companions came up to me, unperceived, and with tears

in her eyes, thus accosted me, in a low and whimpering voice: “My Lady

Dulcinea Del Toboso kisses your worship’s hands, and begs your worship

will be pleased to let her know how your worship does; moreover, being

in great necessity, she supplicates your worship, in the most earnest

manner, to be pleased to lend her, upon this her new cotton under

petticoat, half a dozen rials, or any small matter your worship can

spare, which upon her honest word, shall be restored in a very short

time.” This message filled me with surprize and concern; and turning to

the sage, “Is it possible, Signior Montesinos,” said I, “that people of

condition are exposed to necessity, in a state of inchantment?” To this

question he replied, “Take my word for it, Signior Don Quixote de La

Mancha, that which we call necessity is known in all states, extending

to all conditions, prevailing among every class of people, and not even

sparing those who are inchanted; and since Signora Dulcinea Del Toboso

sends to beg these six rials, and the pledge seems to be well worth the

money, you had better let her have them; for she must certainly be in

great trouble.”—“The pledge I will not touch,” said I, “nor indeed can I

comply with her request; for I have not above four rials!” which I gave

her; and these were the very individual pieces which I received from

thee, Sancho, t’other day, in order to give away in charity to the poor

I might meet with on the road, “Sweet-heart,” said I, “tell your lady

that her distress affects me to the very soul, and I wish I were as rich

as Fouckar[158] to remove it; let her know, that I neither can, nor will

enjoy health while deprived of her agreeable presence and improving

conversation; and that I fervently and earnestly beg her goodness will

be pleased to indulge with her company, this her captive servant and

afflicted knight. Tell her also, that, when least she dreams of any such

matter, she shall hear that I have made a vow, like that which was sworn

by the Marquis of Mantua, to revenge his cousin Valdovinos; when he

found him at the last gasp, in the middle of the mountain; namely, that

he would not eat from off a table-cloth, together with some whimsical

additions, until he should have revenged his death; and, in like manner,

I will swear never to be quiet, but traverse the seven divisions of the

globe, more punctually than did the infant Don Pedro of Portugal[159],

until she be restored to the upper world.”—“All that and much more you

owe to my lady,” said the damsel; who, taking the rials instead of

curtseying, cut a caper in the air two yards high.’

‘O holy God!’ cried Sancho, with a loud voice, ‘is it possible that

those inchanters and enchantments should have such power to change the

good sense of my master into such nonsensical madness! O Signior,

Signior! for the love of God, look to yourself, have some respect for

your own honour, and give no credit to those vanities, which have

diminished and disturbed your senses.’—‘Thy regard for me, Sancho, makes

thee talk in that manner,’ answered the knight: ‘and as thou art not

experienced in the events of this world, every thing that is uncommon,

to thee seems impossible; but the time will come, as I have already

observed, when I shall recount some circumstances which I saw below,

that will compel thee to believe what I have now related, the truth of

which neither admits of dispute or reply.’

Footnote 158:

Fouckar was a very rich merchant of Augsburg, and a great favourite of

Charles V. who owed him a very considerable sum. It is reported of

him, that when the emperor lodged at his house, in his return from

Tunis, the fire in his chamber was of cinnamon, and his landlord

lighted it with his imperial majesty’s own obligation, thereby

cancelling an immense debt. The wealth of these traders, for there

were two brothers, became proverbial, and it was usual to say of any

very opulent person, ‘He is as rich as a Fouckar.’

Footnote 159:

This was the great patron of the Portuguese discoveries along the

coast of Africa to the Cape of Good Hope.

CHAP. VII.

IN WHICH ARE RECOUNTED A THOUSAND FOOLERIES,

EQUALLY IMPERTINENT,

AND NECESSARY TO THE TRUE UNDERSTANDING OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

He who translated this sublime history from the original, composed by

its first author Cid Hamet Benengeli, says, that coming to the chapter

which treats of the adventure of the cave, he found this observation

written on the margin in the handwriting of the said Hamet.

‘I cannot conceive or persuade myself that the valiant Don Quixote

literally saw and heard all that is recounted in the foregoing chapter,

for this reason: all the adventures in which he has hitherto been

engaged, are feasible and likely to have happened; but this of the cave

I can by no means believe true, in any circumstance, because it is so

wide of all reason and probability; then to suppose that Don Quixote

would tell lyes, he that was the truest gentleman and most noble knight

of his time! it is not possible! He certainly would have suffered

himself to be shot to death, rather than deviate one tittle from the

truth; besides, I consider that he explained and recounted the adventure

so circumstantially, that he could not be supposed to have contrived

extempore such a large concatenation of extravagances; but, after all,

should the adventure seem apocryphal, the blame cannot be laid to my

door, and therefore I give it to the publick without affirming it either

to be true or false. Reader, if thou hast discernment, thou mayest judge

for thyself; for it is neither my duty, nor is it in my power to do

more: though it is held for certain, that the knight, on his death-bed,

retracted the whole, saying he had invented the story because it seemed

to agree and quadrate with those adventures he had read in his books.’

Then the Arabian proceeds in his history to this effect.

The scholar was equally astonished at the presumption of Sancho Panza

and the forbearance of his master, and concluded that the satisfaction

he derived from having seen his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, even

though inchanted, had produced that milkiness of temper, which was now

so remarkable; had not this been the case, Sancho’s freedom and remarks

were such as would have brought a wooden shower upon his shoulders; for

he was downright impertinent to his master, to whom the student thus

addressed himself: ‘For my own part, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, I

look upon this as the happiest journey I ever performed; for, in the

course of it, I have made four valuable acquisitions. In the first

place, I have gained the acquaintance of your worship, which I deem a

piece of singular felicity. Secondly, I have been made acquainted with

what is locked up and contained in the cave of Montesinos, together with

the Metamorphoses of Guadiana, and the Lakes of Ruydera; transmutations

that will aptly fill a place in the Spanish Ovid which I have in hand.

Thirdly, I have discovered the antiquity of card-playing, which, at

least, must be as old as the time of Charlemagne, as may be gathered

from the words which your worship heard Durandarte pronounce, when, at

the end of that long harangue of Montesinos, he awoke and said,

“Patience, and shuffle the cards.” For that phrase and manner of

speaking he could not have learned during his inchantment; but

certainly, when he was alive and well in France, during the reign of the

said Charlemagne: and this investigation comes pat to the purpose, for

the other book which I am composing; I mean, the Supplement to Polydore

Virgil, on the invention of antiquities; for I take it for granted, he

has forgot to insert in his book the discovery of card-playing, which I

will now explain, and doubtless it will be a very material circumstance,

especially when confirmed by such a grave and authentick evidence as

Signior Durandarte. Fourthly and lastly, I have now ascertained the

source of the Guadiana, hitherto unknown among the nations.’

‘You have indeed good reason to be satisfied,’ replied the knight; ‘but

I should be glad to know, if, by God’s assistance, you should obtain a

licence for printing those books, (which is a matter of doubt with me)

to what patron you intend they should be dedicated?’—‘There are plenty

of lords and grandees in Spain,’ answered the scholar, ‘to whom they may

be dedicated.’—‘But a very few,’ said Don Quixote; ‘not but that a great

many deserve dedications, but because few will receive them, that they

may not lay themselves under the obligation of making such a recompence

as may seem due to the labour and courtesy of authors: one prince,

indeed, I know, who supplies the defect of the rest with such

advantages, that if I durst presume to describe them, I might perhaps

excite envy in many noble hearts. But let that circumstance rest till a

more convenient season; and, in the mean time, let us endeavour to find

some place where we may procure a night’s lodging.’—‘Not far from

hence,’ replied the student, ‘is an hermitage where lives an anchorite,

who is said to have been a soldier, and bears the character of being a

good Christian, and moreover a very discreet and charitable man:

adjoining to the hermitage is a little house, built by the labour of his

own hands, which, though narrow, is large enough to receive

travellers.’—‘Can that same hermitage produce any poultry?’ said Sancho.

‘There are few hermitages destitute of that provision,’ answered the

knight; ‘for the anchorites of these days are not like those who dwelt

in the desarts of Egypt, cloathing themselves with palm-leaves, and

subsisting on the roots of the earth. And here I would not be understood

to extol one sort, in order to depreciate another; for the penance now

in use does not come up to the rigour and austerity of those times.

Nevertheless, they are all good, at least, so I suppose them to be be;

and even should the stream run foul, the hypocrite, who cloaks his

knavery, is less dangerous to the commonwealth than he who transgresses

in the face of day.’

This conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a man coming

towards them on foot, walking fast, and switching a mule loaded with

lances and halberts: when he came up he saluted them, and passed on at a

good pace, and Don Quixote perceiving his hurry, ‘Honest friend,’ said

he, ‘pray stop a little, for you seem to go faster than your mule could

wish.’—‘Signior,’ answered the man, ‘I cannot tarry at present, because

these arms of which I have the charge, are to be used to-morrow morning,

so that I cannot possibly stay, therefore adieu: but if you desire to

know for what purpose they were procured, at the inn which is beyond the

hermitage I have some thoughts of taking my night’s lodging, and if you

are travelling the same road, there you will find me, and there you

shall hear strange tidings; so, once more I bid you farewel.’ So saying,

he whipped up the mule in such a manner, that Don Quixote had not time

to ask another question concerning those strange tidings which he

promised to relate; but, being extremely curious, and continually

fatigued with the desire of learning novelties, he ordered his company

to set off that instant, and proceed to the inn, without touching at the

hermitage, where the scholar wished to pass the evening. In compliance

with the knight’s desire, all three mounted their beasts, and followed

the direct road to the inn, which they reached a little before the

twilight. The student, however, proposed that they should call and take

a draught at the hermitage. Sancho Panza, hearing this proposal,

immediately turned Dapple’s head towards it, being followed by Don

Quixote and the scholar: but his ill luck seemed to have ordained, that

the hermit should not be at home, as they were told by an under-hermit,

whom they found in the place. When the squire demanded a flask of his

best and dearest, he answered, that his master had no wine, but if he

chose a pitcher of his cheapest water, he should have it with all his

heart. ‘If I had chosen water,’ said Sancho, ‘there is plenty of wells

upon the road, from which I might have quenched my thirst. O the wedding

of Camacho! and the abundance of Don Diego’s house! how often shall I

lament the loss of you?’

When he had uttered this ejaculation, they quitted the hermitage, and

pushed on towards the inn; and having rode forwards a little way, they

overtook a lad who travelled the same road at his own leisure: he

carried a sword over his shoulder, that supported a bundle of cloaths,

which seemed to consist of trousers, a cloak, and shirt; for he wore a

velvet jacket with some slips of sattin, and the shirt hanging out; he

had silk stockings, and square-toed shoes in the court fashion; his age

seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen; he had a sprightly countenance,

and an agility in his person; he amused himself in singing couplets to

beguile the fatigue of travelling, and when they overtook him, had just

finished one, which the student remembered to have run in this strain.

‘To the wars my necessity drags me away,

But if I had money at home I would stay.’

The first who accosted him was Don Quixote, saying, ‘You travel very

light, young gentleman; pray, good now, whither may you be going?’ To

this interrogation the youth replied, ‘I travel so light on account of

poverty, and the heat of the weather; and I am going to the wars.’—‘The

heat may be a very good reason,’ resumed the knight; ‘but how should

poverty be the cause of your travelling in that manner?’—‘Signior,’

answered the youth, ‘I carry in this bundle a pair of velvet

trunk-breeches, fellows to this jacket, which if I wear out in the

country, they will do me no credit in town, and I have not wherewithal

to purchase a reinforcement; for this reason, therefore, and the benefit

of the free air, I travel as you see me, until I get up with some

companies of foot, which are quartered at a town about twelve leagues

from hence; there I shall inlist among them, and there will not be

wanting some baggage-waggon, in which I may proceed to the place of

embarkation, which they say is to be Carthagena; and I would much rather

have the king for my lord and master, and serve him in his wars, than be

the lacquey of some scoundrel at court.’—‘And have you obtained any

post?’ said the scholar. ‘Had I served a grandee of Spain, or some

person of quality,’ replied the youth, ‘I should certainly have got

something of that kind; for this is the advantage of being in good

service, that a man is frequently preferred from the back of his

master’s chair to a pair of colours, a company, or some handsome

provision: but it was my unhappy fate to be always in the service of

poor idle rascals, or foreigners, who give such a miserable and

consumptive allowance of board-wages, that one half was expended in the

starching of a ruff; and it would be looked upon as a miracle, if any

such page adventurer should obtain a tolerable provision.’—‘And pray,

friend,’ said Don Quixote, ‘is is possible, that during all the years

you have been in service, you never had a livery?’—‘Yes,’ answered the

page, ‘I have had two; but, as he who quits a convent before he

professes, is stripped of his habit, and obliged to resume his own

cloaths, so was I served by my masters, who, after having transacted the

business that brought them to court, returned to their own homes, and

took back the liveries, which they had given me out of mere

ostentation.’

‘A very scandalous espilocheria[160], indeed, as the Italians call it,’

said Don Quixote; ‘but, notwithstanding, you may think yourself very

happy in having left the court with such a laudable intention; for there

is nothing upon earth more productive of honour and profit, next to the

service of God, than the service of the king, our natural lord and

master; especially in the exercise of arms, by which more honour, if not

more wealth, is acquired than by learning itself; for, as I have divers

and sundry times observed, although a greater number of families has

been raised by learning than by arms, yet those founded upon arms rise,

I don’t know how, above their fellows, with a kind of natural splendor,

by which all others are outshone; and what I am now going to say, I

desire you will lay up in your remembrance, for it will be of much

comfort and utility to you, in the midst of all your sufferings: never

entertain a thought of what adversity may happen, for the worst is

death; and provided it comes with honour, it is the greatest happiness

to die. Julius Cæsar, that valiant emperor of Rome, being asked which

was the most agreeable death, answered, “That which is sudden,

unexpected, and unforeseen:” and though this reply savoured of the

pagan, ignorant of the knowledge of the true God, nevertheless, with

regard to his being freed from the pangs of human infirmity, he said

well; for supposing you should be slain in the first action or skirmish,

either by a cannon ball, or the explosion of a mine, what does it

signify? we must all die, and there is an end to the whole; and,

according to Terence, a dead soldier, who falls in battle, makes a much

nobler appearance than one who lives by running away: the good soldier

acquires reputation in proportion to the obedience he pays to his

captain, or those who have a right to command him; and pray, take

notice, child, a soldier had much better smell of gunpowder than of

civet; and if old age overtake you in that noble employment, though you

should be covered over with wounds, paralytick, or lame, it can never

overtake you without such honour as poverty cannot diminish; especially

now, that provision is to be made for the maintenance and relief of old

disabled soldiers; for it is not reasonable that they should be treated

like negro slaves, to whom, when they are old and incapable of service,

their masters often give their freedom, driving them from their houses,

and under the title of liberty, leaving them still slaves to hunger,

which nothing but death can dispel. This is all I have to say at

present; therefore get up and ride behind me to the inn, where I shall

treat you with a supper, and in the morning you may pursue your journey,

which I pray God may be as fortunate as your intention is good.’

The page excused himself from riding behind the knight, though he

embraced his invitation to supper at the inn; and Sancho said within

himself, ‘Lord comfort thee for a master! Is it possible that a man who

can utter so many good things, should affirm that he has seen all that

impossible nonsense which he has told of the cave of Montesinos! But,

time is the trier of all things.’

In such discourse they arrived at the inn, just as it grew dark, and

Sancho was not a little rejoiced to find that his master took it to be a

real inn, and not a castle, according to his usual whims. They had

scarcely entered, when Don Quixote enquired of the landlord about the

man with the lances and halberts, and understood he was in the stable,

providing for the accommodation of his beast; an example which was

followed by the student and Sancho, who preferred Rozinante to the best

manger and stall of the whole stable.

Footnote 160:

A knavish trick.

CHAP. VIII.

IN WHICH IS SET FORTH THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DIVERTING

ATCHIEVEMENT OF THE PUPPETS, WITH THE MEMORABLE RESPONSES OF THE

DIVINING APE.

Don Quixote would not stay till his bread was baked, as the saying is,

so impatient was he to hear and know the strange tidings that were

promised by the arms-carrier, in quest of whom he forthwith went to the

place where the landlord said he was; and having found him, desired he

would by all means gratify him with a circumstantial account of those

things he had mentioned on the road. ‘The account of my strange

tidings,’ answered the man, ‘I shall give when I am more at leisure, and

not at work as I am at present: if your worship will give me time to

take care of my beast, I will tell you such things as you will be

surprized to hear.’—‘They shall not be delayed on that account,’ said

the knight, ‘for I myself will lend you an helping hand.’ He accordingly

winnowed the corn and cleaned the manger; so that the man, induced by

his humility, could do no less than grant his request, with good will:

sitting down, therefore, in a hollow of the wall, close by Don Quixote,

who, with the scholar, page, Sancho Panza, and the inn-keeper, composed

his council and audience, he began to relate what follows.

‘You must know, gentlemen, that in a village at the distance of four

leagues and a half from this inn, it came to pass, that a certain

alderman, through the craft and malice of a servant wench, which I have

not time to explain, lost an ass; and though the said alderman used all

possible means to find him, he found it impossible to succeed: fifteen

days had the ass been missing, according to publick fame and report,

when the owner was, in the market-place, accosted by another alderman of

the same town, who said, “Hansel me for my good news, neighbour; your

beast has appeared.”—“That I will, neighbour, and heartily,” answered

the other; “but let us know where he has appeared.”—“Upon the mountain,”

replied the finder: “I saw him this morning, without pack-saddle or any

sort of furniture; and so lean, that it was piteous to behold him. I

would have driven him before me, and brought him home; but he is so wild

and shy, that when I went near him, he took to his heels, and ran into

the most concealed part of the mountain: if you chuse it, we two will go

in quest of him; stay till I house my own beast, and I’ll return

presently.”—“I shall be much obliged to you,” said he of the strayed

ass; “and I shall endeavour to repay you in the same coin.” With these

very circumstances, and in the self-same manner that I relate the affair

to you, it is told and related by all those who have entered into the

true spirit of the case.

‘In conclusion, the two aldermen walked hand in hand to the mountain,

and coming to the place and spot where they expected to find the ass,

they found him not; nor could they get one glimpse of him, although they

searched all about, over and over. Perceiving that he was not likely to

appear, “Heark ye, neighbour,” said the alderman who had seen him,

“there is a contrivance come into my head, by which we shall certainly

discover this animal, even though he should be concealed in the bowels

of the earth, much more if he is in this mountain; and that is this, I

have a marvellous knack at braying, and if you have any turn that way,

you may conclude the business is done.”—“Any turn, neighbour!” cried the

other: “by the Lord! I will not yield in point of braying to the best

man alive, not even to an identical ass,”—“We shall see presently,”

answered the second alderman; “for my intention is that you should go to

one side of the mountain, and I to the other, so as to walk round it

quite, and every now and then you shall bray, and I will bray; and it

cannot be but that the ass will hear, and answer, if he is on this

mountain.” To this proposal the owner replied, “Neighbour, it is an

excellent scheme, and worthy your great genius.” So parting, according

to agreement, it came to pass that both brayed almost at the same time,

and each being deceived by the other’s braying ran forward in hopes of

finding the ass; when perceiving their mistake, “Neighbour,” said the

loser, “is it possible that was not my ass which brayed just now?”—“No:

it was I,” answered the other. “Agad, then,” cried the owner, “there is

not the least difference, in point of braying, between you and an ass!

for in my life did I never hear or see such a resemblance.”—“That

compliment and approbation,” answered the contriver, “would be much

better bestowed upon yourself than upon me, neighbour; for by the God

that made me, you would give two heats of advantage to the biggest and

best brayer in Christendom; for the sound you produce is deep, sonorous,

within proper time and compass, and the falls frequent and sharp; in a

word, I own myself overcome, and yield you the palm and banner of that

rare talent.”—“By the mass!” said the owner, “I will from henceforward

have a higher opinion of my own ability, and believe I know something,

since I really possess such a gift; for although I always thought I

brayed tolerably well, I never imagined I excelled so much as you say I

do.”—“I therefore tell you,” replied the other, “that many rare talents

are lost in this world; and that they are ill-bestowed on those who

cannot turn them to advantage.”—“Ours,” said the owner, “except in such

cases as this, that we have now in hand, can be but of little service,

and even in this God grant it may turn to account.”

‘After these mutual compliments they parted a second time, and began to

bray again; but still they were deceived, and met as before, until, by

way of counter-signal, from which they might know one another, they

agreed to bray twice in a breath: accordingly they doubled their

brayings, and encompassed the whole mountain, without being favoured

with the least answer or sign from the strayed ass; and, indeed, no

wonder, the poor unfortunate animal did not answer; for they found him

in the remotest part of the wood, almost devoured by the wolves. The

owner seeing him in this plight, “I marvelled much,” said he, “that he

did not answer, for had he been alive and heard you, he must have brayed

again, else he had been no ass; but as I have had the pleasure of

hearing you bray so melodiously, neighbour, I think my trouble well

bestowed, even although I have found him dead.”—“’Tis in good hands,

neighbour,” replied the other; “for in chanting the clerk is not a whit

inferior to the curate.”

‘Having made these mutual remarks, they returned to the village, equally

hoarse and disconsolate, and recounted to their friends, neighbours, and

acquaintance, what had happened to them, in their searching for the ass,

extolling one another to the skies for the talent of braying; so that

every circumstance of the story was related among the neighbouring

villages; and the devil, who is never at rest, but always glad of an

opportunity to sow discord and scatter quarrels, raising lyes in the

wind, and huge chimeras from little or no foundation, so ordered

matters, that the people of the other villages, when they saw any person

belonging to our town, began to bray, as if to hit him in the teeth with

the braying of our aldermen. The story was taken up by the boys, which

was all one as if he had fallen into the hands and mouths of all the

devils in hell, and the braying was circulated from one town to another

in such a manner, that the natives of the village of Braywick are as

well known and distinguished as a Blackmore from a Spaniard; and this

joke has become so serious, that our townsmen have frequently gone forth

in arms and regular order to give battle to the jokers, without any

regard to king or rook, or fear or shame; I believe that tomorrow or

next day, the men of Braywick will take the field once more against the

people of another village within two leagues of us, who are our chief

persecutors; and that we may be well provided for the occasion, I have

purchased the lances and halberts, you have seen. Now these are the

strange tidings which I said I would relate; and if you do not think

them so, I have no other worth your hearing.’

Thus the honest man concluded his story; and at that instant came into

the house, a man cloathed in a doublet, breeches, and hose of

shamoy-leather, who said with a loud voice, ‘So ho, Mr. Landlord! have

you got any lodging for the fortune-telling ape, and the puppet-shew of

the deliverance of Melisendra?’—‘Odd’s bodikins!’ cried the inn-keeper,

‘Master Peter here! we shall have rare doings i’faith.’ We forgot to

observe that the left-eye, and half of the cheek of this Master Peter

was covered with a patch of green silk, from whence it was supposed all

that side of the face laboured under some infirmity. Be that as it will,

the innkeeper proceeded, saying, ‘Welcome, good Master Peter; but where

is the ape and the puppet-shew? for I see neither.’—‘They are at hand,’

answered the owner of the shamoy-suit; ‘but I came before to know

whether or not we could have lodging.’—‘The Duke D’Alva himself should

be turned out to make room for Master Peter,’ said the landlord; ‘bring

hither your ape and your shew, for there is company in the house that

will pay for a sight of them.’—‘In good time, then,’ replied the wearer

of the patch. ‘I will lower the price, and think myself well paid, if

they defray the expence of my lodging; meanwhile, I’ll go and lead

hither the cart that contains my puppets and my ape.’

So saying, he went out; and Don Quixote enquiring who this Master Peter

was, with the puppet-shew and ape, the landlord replied, ‘This is a

famous puppet-shew man, who had long travelled through La Mancha and

Arragon, representing the story of Melisendra, who was delivered by the

famous Don Gayferos, one of the most entertaining and best represented

histories which have been for many years seen in this kingdom; he

likewise carries along with him an ape of the rarest talent that ever

was known among apes, or conceived among men: for if you ask any

question, it listens attentively to what you say, then leaping upon his

master’s shoulders, and clapping its mouth to his ear, it gives an

answer, which Master Peter immediately explains. Of things that are past

it says much more than of those that are to come, and though it does not

hit the truth exactly in every thing, it errs but seldom; so that we are

inclined to believe it is inspired by the devil. Every question costs a

couple of rials, provided the ape answers; I mean, supposing the master

answers for the ape, after it has whispered in his ear; wherefore,

Master Peter is thought to be woundy rich: indeed, he is a gallant man,

as they say in Italy, an excellent companion, and lives the pleasantest

life in the world; he talks as much as any six, and drinks more than a

dozen, and all at the expence of his tongue, his ape, and his

puppet-shew.’

Just as he spoke these words, Master Peter returned with the cart that

contained the puppets and the ape, which was a very large animal,

without a tail; his buttocks were like felt, but not ugly withal; and

Don Quixote no sooner beheld him than he asked, ‘Pray, Mr.

Fortune-teller, what have we got in the net? what fortune awaits us?

Behold, here are my two rials.’ So saying, he ordered Sancho to give

them to Mr. Peter; who answered in the name of the ape, ‘Signior, this

animal gives no response or intelligence concerning what is to come; he

is only acquainted with the past, and knows something of the

present.’—‘Rabbit it!’ cried Sancho, ‘I would not give a doit to be told

of the past; for who knows that better than myself; and to pay for being

informed of what I know, would be downright folly; but since he knows

the present, here are my two rials; and tell me, good your apeship, how

my wife Teresa Panza is at present employed?’ Master Peter refused to

take the money; saying, ‘I will not receive a premium per advance, until

it is preceded by service.’ Then clapping his hand twice upon his left

shoulder, the ape with one skip, leaped upon it, and laying its mouth to

his ear, began to mow and chatter with great eagerness; having made this

motion, which continued as long time as one would take in repeating the

creed, with another skip he leaped upon the ground. Immediately Master

Peter, with infinite hurry, threw himself on his knees before Don

Quixote, and hugging his shins, exclaimed, ‘These legs I embrace, as I

would embrace the pillars of Hercules, O thou celebrated reviver of the

already forgotten order of knight-errantry! thou never enough to be

applauded cavalier Don Quixote de La Mancha; the soul of the dejected,

the prop of the falling, the shield of those that are fallen, the staff

and comfort of all the unhappy!’ Don Quixote was alarmed, Sancho

thunderstruck; the scholar surprized, the page confounded, the Braywick

carrier amazed, the landlord astonished, and, in a word, admiration

prevailed among all those who heard the words of the shewman; while he

proceeded, saying, ‘And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the best squire of

the bravest knight in the universe, be merry and rejoice; for thine

agreeable helpmate Teresa is in good health, and this very moment

employed in dressing a pound of flax; by the same token, there stands at

her right-hand a broken mouthed pitcher, containing a good sup of wine,

with which she comforts herself while she is at work.’—‘That I can

easily believe,’ answered Sancho; ‘for she is a rare one, and if she was

not a little given to jealousy, I would not exchange her for the

giantess Andandona, who, as my master says, was a very proper and

compleat housewife; and truly my Teresa is one of those who will live to

their heart’s content, even though their heirs pay for it.’

‘I am now convinced,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that he who reads and travels

much, will see and learn a great deal. This observation I make, because

no arguments would have been sufficient to persuade me, that there are

apes in the world endowed with the gift of divination, as I have this

day seen with my own eyes; for I am the very Don Quixote named by that

good animal, which, however, has expatiated rather too much in my

praise; but be that as it may, I give thanks to God, who bestowed upon

me a mild and compassionate disposition, ever inclined to do good to all

mankind, and harm to no person whatever.’—‘If I had money,’ said the

page, ‘I would ask Signior Ape, what will be the success of my present

perigrination?’ To this hint, Master Peter, who had rose from his

prostration, replied, ‘I have already told you, that this creature does

not answer for what is to come; if he did, your want of money would be

no objection; for, in order to to serve Don Quixote here present, I

would willingly forfeit all the interested views in the world; and now,

as in duty bound, I will, for his amusement, set up my shew, and divert

all the people in the house, without fee or reward.’ The landlord,

hearing this declaration, was rejoiced beyond measure, and pointed out a

proper place for the exhibition of his entertainment, which was prepared

in a twinkling.

Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape,

as he did not think it natural for such an animal to divine, in things

either past, present, or to come; and, therefore, while Master Peter was

busy in setting up his shew, he retired, with his squire, to a corner of

the stable, where they could confer together without being overheard,

and spoke to this effect: ‘Hark ye, Sancho, I have considered this

wonderful talent of the ape; and, according to my notion, this same

Master Peter, its owner, must certainly have made a secret or express

pact with the devil.’—‘Nay, if it be the devil’s pack,’ answered Sancho,

‘it must be a very dirty pack; but what signifies such a pack to Master

Peter?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘you do not understand my meaning;

what I would say is, that he must certainly have made some concert with

the devil who hath infused this talent into the ape, by which he gains

his livelihood; and when he becomes rich, he must yield him his soul,

which is the aim of that universal enemy of mankind; and what confirms

me in this opinion, is, that the ape answers no questions but such as

regard the past and present time: now, the devil’s understanding reaches

no farther; what is to come he knows only by conjecture, and that not

always; for it is the attribute of God alone to know times and seasons;

to him there is neither past nor future, but all things are ever present

to his eyes. This being the case, as doubtless it is, the ape certainly

speaks from the inspiration of the devil; and I am surprized it hath not

been accused and examined by the holy office, which would soon discover

by virtue of whom it presumes to divine; for surely this ape is no

astrologer, nor did he or his master ever raise, or were capable of

raising, those figures called judicial, which are now so common in

Spain, that every pitiful little hussy, page, and even cobler, has the

impudence to raise an horoscope, as readily as a knave of trumps, from

the ground, ruining and disgracing, by their ignorance and falsities,

the wonderful truth of that noble science. One lady I myself know, who

having enquired of one of those pretenders, whether a little bitch she

had would have puppies, how many, and of what colour they would be; Mr.

Astrologer, after having raised his figure, replied, that the bitch

would bring forth three puppies, one of a green, another of carnation,

and a third of a mixed colour, provided the bitch would take the dog

between the hours of eleven and twelve at noon or night, on Saturday or

Monday. Notwithstanding this prediction, the bitch died in three days of

a surfeit; and yet Mr. Figure-caster was still esteemed in the place a

most infallible astrologer, as almost all those fellows

are.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered Sancho, ‘I wish your worship would desire

Master Peter to ask his ape, if what happened to your worship in the

cave of Montesinos is really true; as for my own part, begging your

worship’s pardon, I cannot for the blood of me help thinking it was all

a flam and a lye, or at least no better than a dream.’—‘It may be so,’

replied Don Quixote: ‘But I will take thy advice; for truly, I myself

have some sort of scruples about the matter.’

Here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Peter, who came to tell

him that the shew was ready, and invite him to come and see it; for it

would be well worth his trouble. Then the knight imparted his

sentiments, desiring he would ask the ape whether or not certain

incidents that happened in the cave of Montesinos, were dreams or

realities, for to him the whole seemed to be a mixture of both, Master

Peter, without answering one word, went and brought the ape into the

presence of Don Quixote and Sancho, and thus accosted it: ‘Look ye, Mr.

Ape, this knight wants to know, whether certain things that happened to

him in a place called the cave of Montesinos be true or false.’ Then

making the usual signal, the creature leaped upon his left-shoulder, and

seemingly whispered something in his ear. In consequence of this

communication, ‘The ape,’ said Master Peter, ‘declares, that part of

what your worship saw and underwent in that same cave is false, and part

is likely to be true; and this, and nothing else, is all he knows

touching that interrogation: but if your worship desires to be farther

informed he will next Friday answer all the questions you can ask; at

present his virtue has left him, and will not return till Friday, as I

have already observed.’—‘Signior,’ said Sancho to his master, ‘did not I

always affirm your worship should never make me believe that all, or

even the half of those accidents you pretended to have met with in the

cave was true?’—‘The event will shew,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for there

is nothing that time, the discoverer of all things, will not bring to

light, even though it should be hidden in the bowels of the earth. Let

that suffice for the present; and now we will go and see the puppet-shew

of honest Master Peter, which I really believe will be productive of

some novelty.’—‘Of some!’ cried master Peter: ‘my shew is productive of

sixty thousand. Why, I tell your worship, Signior Don Quixote, there is

nothing equal to it in the whole world; but, _Operibus credite & non

verbis_: let us begin presently; for it grows late, and we have a great

deal to do, to say, and to shew.’

In consequence of this request, Don Quixote and Sancho repaired to the

place where the puppet-shew was set up, and set forth with a great

number of little wax-lights, which made a most resplendent appearance.

Master Peter withdrew within the curtain, in order to play the figures

of the piece; and on the outside sat a boy, who was his servant, to

interpret and explain the mysteries of the shew, holding a wand, with

which he pointed out the puppets as they entered. All the people of the

inn being seated, some fronting the stage, and Don Quixote with Sancho,

the page and the scholar, accommodated with the best places, the

dragoman began to pronounce that which will be heard and seen by those

who will take the trouble to read or peruse the following chapter.

CHAP. IX.

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE DIVERTING ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHEW;

WITH OTHER MATTERS REALLY ENTERTAINING ENOUGH.

Universal silence prevailed among Tyrians as well as Trojans; that is,

all the spectators of the shew sat in silent expectation, suspended as

it were on the mouth of him who was appointed to expound the wonders of

the piece; when their ears were saluted with the sound of attabals,

trumpets, and artillery, that issued from behind the scene; and this

noise being soon over, the boy thus began in an audible voice: ‘This

true history, which will now be represented before the honourable

company, is literally extracted from the French chronicles and Spanish

ballads, which may be heard every day repeated in the streets by man,

woman, and child. It exhibits the manner in which Signior Don Gayferos

accomplished the deliverance of his spouse Melisendra, who was a captive

in Spain, detained by the Moors in the city of Sansuenna, which was

formerly the name given to what we now call Saragossa; and pray,

gentlemen, take notice, Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to

the old song:

‘“Now Gayferos, at tables playing,

Of Melisendra thinks no more.”

‘And that personage who next appears, with a crown on his head and a

sceptre in his hand, is the emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of

Melisendra, who, vexed at the indolence and carelessness of his

son-in-law, comes forth to chide him; and observe with what vehemence

and keenness he seems to scold; one would imagine he intended to give

him half a dozen raps on the pate with his sceptre; nay, some authors

say that he actually did bestow them, aye, and that with very good-will:

after having said abundance of things concerning the risk his honour

would run, if he did not effect the deliverance of his spouse, he is

reported to have added these words, “I have said enough, look to it.”

Behold, gentlemen, how the emperor turns about and walks off, leaving

Don Gayferos in a fume, who, in the impatience of his anger, throws away

the tablet and pieces, and calls hastily for his armour, desiring his

cousin Orlando to lend him his sword Durindana. Don Orlando will not

comply with his request; but offers to attend him in his difficult

enterprize: however, the provoked hero will not accept of his offer; on

the contrary, he says his own single arm is sufficient to deliver his

wife, even though she were concealed in the profoundest centre of the

earth. So saying, he goes in to arm, that he may be able to set out with

all expedition. Gentlemen, turn your eyes to the tower that appears

yonder, and suppose it one of the towers belonging to the castle of

Saragossa, now called Aljaferia. That lady who stands in the balcony in

the Moorish dress is the peerless Melisendra, who from thence hath often

cast her longing eyes towards the road to France, and consoled herself

in her captivity, by thinking on the city of Paris and her valiant lord.

Observe likewise a new incident, the like of which perhaps you have

never seen before: don’t you see that Moor stealing along silently and

softly, step by step, with his finger on his mouth, behind Melisendra?

Now mind how he prints a kiss in the very middle of her lips, and with

what eagerness she spits, and wipes them with the sleeves of her shift,

lamenting aloud, and tearing, for anger, her beautiful hair, as if it

had been guilty of the transgression. Behold, now, that venerable Moor

in yon gallery; he is Marsilius, the king of Sansuenna, who, having

perceived the insolence of the Moor, although he was his own relation,

and a great favourite, orders him to be apprehended, and carried through

the principal streets of the city, with the criers before, and the rods

behind, with which he is to receive two hundred stripes; and here you

shall see the sentence executed, almost as soon as the crime is

committed; for among the Moors there is no copy of a writ, trial, or

delay, as in our courts of justice.’

Here Don Quixote interposing, said, with a loud voice, ‘Boy, boy, follow

your story in a right line, without falling into curves and crosses; for

there is not so much proof and counter-proof required to bring truth to

light.’—‘Sirrah,’ cried Mr. Peter, from the curtain, ‘none of your

vagaries, but follow that gentleman’s counsel, which is good and

wholesome; sing your plain song, without counterpoints; for you may spin

your thread so fine as to break it.’—‘I shall obey your orders,’

answered the boy, who proceeded, saying—

‘That there figure a horseback, wrapped up in a cloak of Gascony, is the

very individual Don Gayferos, to whom his only lady, by this time

revenged of the presumptuous and enamoured Moor, talks with more seeming

composure from the battlements of the tower, supposing him to be some

traveller, and between the two passeth the whole discourse and

conversation, recorded in the ballad, which says,

‘“Sir knight, if you to France do go,

For Gayferos enquire:”

‘together with what follows, which I shall not at present repeat,

because prolixity engenders disgust. Let it suffice that you see how

Gayferos discovers himself, and that we learn from the joyful gestures

of Melisendra, that she recognizes her husband; especially as we now see

her let herself down from the balcony, in order to get a-horseback

behind her loving spouse; but as ill luck would have it, the border of

her under petticoat has caught hold of one of the iron spikes of the

balcony, and there she hangs dangling, without being able to reach the

ground: but you see how compassionate Heaven brings relief in the most

pressing emergencies; for Don Gayferos comes to her assistance, and

without minding whether or not the rich petticoat may be torn, seizes

his lady, and by main force brings her to the ground; then with one

jerk, sets her upon the crupper of his horse, astride like a man,

bidding her hold fast, and throw her arms around his neck, so as to

cross them on his breast, that she may be in no danger of falling; for

my Lady Melisendra was not used to ride in that manner: you likewise

perceive how the horse, by his neighing, expresses the satisfaction he

feels in carrying the valiant and beautiful burden of his lord and

mistress. You see how they turn about, and quitting the city, take the

road to Paris, with equal eagerness and joy. Go in peace, ye peerless

pair of faithful lovers; may you arrive in safety at your desired

country, without fortune’s raising any obstruction to your happy

journey; and may the eyes of your friends and kindred behold you enjoy

in peace all the days of your life, which I hope will exceed the age of

Nestor!’ Here Mr. Peter interposing again, called aloud, ‘None of your

flourishes, sirrah; seek not to entangle yourself, for all affectation

is naught.’ The interpreter, without answering a syllable, went on in

this manner. ‘There were not wanting some idle eyes which nothing can

escape, and they, perceiving the descent and flight of Melisendra, gave

notice of it to king Marsilio, who straight gave orders for sounding to

arms: and behold the hurry and commotion of the city, occasioned by the

sound of bells that ring in every minaret.’

‘It cannot be,’ cried Don Quixote. ‘In what regards the bells, Mr. Peter

is guilty of an impropriety; for the Moors use no bells, but attabals or

kettle-drums, and a kind of dulcimers, like those belonging to our

waits; so that the circumstance of ringing bells in Sansuenna is a

downright absurdity.’ Mr. Peter hearing this observation, left off

ringing and answered, ‘Signior Don Quixote, your worship must not mind

such trifles, nor seek for that perfection which is not to be found. How

many plays do you see every day represented, full of impropriety and

absurdities? yet they happily run their career, and are heard, not

simply with applause, but even with universal admiration. Proceed, boy,

and let people talk; for, provided I fill my pocket, I don’t care if

there should be more improprieties than there are atoms in the

sun.’—‘You are in the right,’ replied the knight; and thus the boy went

on:

‘Behold what a number of resplendent cavalry marches out of the city in

pursuit of the two catholick lovers: what a sound of trumpets, tinkling

of dulcimers, and rattling of drums and kettle-drums! I am afraid they

will overtake and bring them back tied to their horse’s tail, and that

would be a most dismal spectacle.’

Don Quixote seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing this uproar,

thought it was incumbent upon him to assist the fugitives; and therefore

starting up, he pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Never, while I breathe,

will I consent that such an injury should be done in my presence to a

knight so famous, daring, and enamoured, as is Don Gayferos: desist, ye

base-born plebeians; seek not to follow and punish him, but face me in

battle, if you dare.’ With these words and actions he unsheathed his

sword, and springing up to the puppet shew, began with incredible

agility and fury to lay about him among the Moorish puppets, demolishing

some, beheading others, maiming this, and hacking that; and in the

course of this exercise, he fetched such a back-stroke, that had not Mr.

Peter stooped and squatted down with great expedition, he would have

sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of ginger-bread.

This unfortunate shew-man exalting his voice, ‘Hold, for the love of

God! Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘and take notice, that those whom

you overthrow, kill and destroy, are not real Moors, but poor, harmless,

little figures of paste; consider, sinner that I am! you are ruining me,

by depriving me of my livelihood.’ Notwithstanding this remonstrance,

the knight continued to play away in a perfect shower of back-strokes,

fore strokes, outside and inside, that fell as thick as hail; so that in

less than a couple of credos, he brought the whole shew to the ground,

all the tackle and figures being hewed down and dismembered; king

Marsilio himself sorely wounded, and the crown, together with the head

of the emperor, cleft in twain. The whole audience was involved in

confusion; the ape fled to the roof of the house, the scholar trembled,

the page was seized with consternation, and Sancho Panza himself

overwhelmed with terror and dismay; for, as he swore after the hurricane

subsided, he had never before seen his master in such a frantick rage.

The puppet-shew being thus entirely demolished, Don Quixote became a

little more composed, saying, ‘I wish I had before me, at this very

moment, those who either do not, or will not believe that knights-errant

are of any benefit or service to mankind, that they might see what would

have become of the worthy Don Gayferos, and the beautiful Melisendra,

had not I been present on this occasion; certainly, by this time, they

would have been overtaken by these dogs, who would have done them some

grievous injury: let knight-errantry, therefore, live and flourish above

all things upon the face of the earth.’—‘In a happy hour let it live,’

cried Mr. Peter in a languid tone, ‘and let me die, who am so

unfortunate, that I may say with king Rodrigo, “Yesterday I was lord of

Spain, and now there is not one battlement I can call my own.” Half an

hour, yea not half a minute is elapsed, since I saw myself in possession

of kings and emperors; my stables, coffers, and bags, were filled with

an infinite number of horses and other gay particulars, and now I find

myself quite desolate and abased, poor and beggarly, and, which is worst

of all, deprived of my ape, who in good faith will make my teeth sweat,

before he returns to me his lawful master; and all this misfortune I

have suffered from this here Sir Knight, who is said to protect orphans,

rectify wrongs, and perform other charitable actions; but, in me alone,

his generous intention has failed; blessed and praised be the highest

Heavens above! In a word, the Knight of the Rueful Figure is he by whom

I and mine are disfigured and undone.’

Sancho Panza melted at this piteous lamentation: ‘Do not weep, Mr.

Peter,’ said he, ‘do not whine so piteously, or thou’lt break my heart,

for I’d have thee know, my master Don Quixote is such a catholick and

scrupulous Christian, that provided he be convinced of having done thee

wrong, he knows how to make amends, and will satisfy and repay thee with

double interest.’—‘If Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the shew-man, ‘will

make some atonement for the deeds by which he has undone me, I shall

rest satisfied, and his worship’s conscience will be at peace; for that

man cannot expect salvation who withholds the effects of his neighbour

against his will, and refuses to make restitution.’—‘You are in the

right,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but as yet I do not know that I withhold any

of your effects, Mr. Peter.’—‘How! none of mine?’ cried the shew-man,

‘and these unfortunate remains that lie extended on the hard and barren

pavement, were they not thus scattered and annihilated by the invincible

force of that redoubted arm? to whom but me did their unhappy bodies

belong? and with what but them did I procure a comfortable

subsistence?’—‘Now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘I am fully convinced of what I

have on divers occasions believed; namely, that those inchanters, by

whom I am persecuted, take pleasure in presenting realities to my view,

and then changing and metamorphosing them into such figures and forms as

they chuse to bestow: believe me, gentlemen, to me every thing that has

passed appeared a true and literal concurrence of real facts; and the

figures represented seemed to be really and truly the very individual

persons of Melisendra, Don Gayferos, Marsilio, and Charlemagne: in

consequence of that belief, my wrath was provoked; and, in order to

fulfil the function of a knight-errant, I resolved to favour and assist

the fair fugitive; in the execution of which resolve, I have done what

you see. If the exploit has turned out contrary to my expectation, the

blame ought not to lie with me, but with those miscreants, by whom I am

persecuted: nevertheless, as I have committed an error, although it did

not proceed from malice aforethought, I stand by my own award condemned

in costs; let Mr. Peter make out his own bill of the figures that are

demolished, and I promise it shall be paid on the spot, in good and

lawful current coin of this kingdom.’ The shew-man hearing this

declaration, made a profound bow, saying, ‘I expected no less from the

unheard-of Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, the

unflinching auxiliary and support of the whole tribe of needy and

forlorn vagabonds: Mr. Landlord and the great Sancho shall act as

moderators and appraisers between your worship and me, with regard to

what the injured figures are or might be worth.’

The innkeeper and squire having undertaken this office, Mr. Peter lifted

up the headless Marsilio king of Saragossa, saying, ‘You see how

impossible it is to reinstate the king in his former situation; and,

therefore, with submission to better judgments, I think I must be

allowed four rials and an half, on account of his death and final

perdition.’ The knight desiring him to proceed, ‘Then,’ said he, ‘for

this dreadful gash from top to bottom,’ (taking up the cloven emperor

Charlemagne) ‘I cannot be thought exorbitant, if I demand five rials and

a quarter.’—‘That’s no small matter,’ said Sancho. ‘Nor a great deal too

much,’ replied the landlord. ‘Split the difference, and set him down at

five rials.’—‘Let him have the whole five and a quarter,’ said Don

Quixote; ‘for in such a notable misfortune, a quarter more or less is a

mere trifle. And pray, dispatch, Mr. Peter, for it is now supper-time,

and I begin to feel some symptoms of a keen appetite.’—‘For that figure

without a nose, and deprived of one eye, which is the beautiful

Melisendra,’ proceeded Peter, ‘I demand two rials and twelve

maravedis.’—‘The devil’s in’t,’ cried the knight, ‘if Melisendra is not

by this time, with her husband, at least upon the frontiers of France;

for the horse on which they were mounted, seemed to fly rather than

tread the ground; so that there is no reason for your selling me a cat

instead of a coney; that is, in presenting me with a noseless

Melisendra, when, in all probability, that lady is now enjoying herself

at leisure with her husband in France. God give every man joy of his

own, Mr. Peter, and let us all endeavour to walk tightly and rightly!

and now you may proceed.’ Mr. Peter perceiving Don Quixote beginning to

warp and return to his old bias, resolved to be even with him, and with

that view said, ‘This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of her

waiting-women, for whom I shall think myself very well paid, and rest

satisfied with threescore maravedis.’ In the same manner did he set

prices on many other maimed figures, so that, after they were moderated

by the two arbitrators to the satisfaction of both parties, the whole

sum amounted to forty rials and three quarters, which being disbursed by

Sancho, Mr. Peter demanded another brace of rials for the trouble he

should have in catching the ape. ‘Let him have them, Sancho,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘not for catching the ape but the juice of the grape[161]; and

I would now give two hundred as a reward to any person who would certify

that the Lady Donna Melisendra, and her lord Don Gayferos, are now safe

among their friends in France.’—‘No person upon earth can resolve that

question sooner or better than my ape,’ replied Mr. Peter; ‘but the

devil himself cannot catch him at present, though I imagine hunger and

affection will compel him to return to me some time to-night; and if God

will send us a new day, we shall see what can be done.’ In time, the

hurricane of the puppet-shew being quite blown over, the whole company

supped together in peace and good fellowship, at the expence of Don

Quixote, who was liberal to excess.

Before day-break, the lance and halbert carrier set out for his village,

and early in the morning the scholar and the page came to take their

leave of Don Quixote, the first intending to return to his own home, and

the other to pursue his journey, for the comfort of which the knight

made him a present of a dozen rials. Mr. Peter, having no inclination to

re-involve himself in any sort of dispute with Don Quixote, to whose

disposition he was no stranger, arose before the sun, and packing up the

remains of his puppets, together with his ape, sallied forth also in

quest of farther adventures. The innkeeper, who knew not Don Quixote,

was equally astonished at his madness and liberality. Finally, Sancho

paid him handsomely, by his master’s order, and the two bidding him

farewel about eight o’clock in the morning, left the inn, and betook

themselves to the road, in which we will leave them, having now a proper

opportunity to recount other incidents appertaining and necessary to the

illustration of this famous history.

Footnote 161:

In the original there is a miserable pun upon the words Mono and Mona,

the first of which signifies an ape, and the other drunkenness.

CHAP. X.

IN WHICH THE READER WILL DISCOVER WHO

MR. PETER AND HIS APE WERE—TOGETHER WITH

DON QUIXOTE’S BAD SUCCESS IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE,

WHICH DID NOT AT ALL TURN OUT ACCORDING TO HIS WISH AND EXPECTATION.

Cid Hamet, author of this sublime history, begins this chapter with

these words: ‘I swear, as a Catholick Christian:’ and upon this

occasion, the translator observes, that Cid Hamet being a Moor, as he

certainly was, in swearing as a Catholick Christian, means no more than

that, as a Catholick Christian, when he makes oath, swears he will speak

the truth, and nothing but the truth, in like manner he would adhere to

it, as a Catholick Christian adheres to his oath, in what he intended to

write concerning Don Quixote, especially in disclosing the mystery of

Mr. Peter and the fortune-telling ape, whose talent attracted the

admiration of all that country. He then proceeds to observe, that he who

has read the first part of this history, cannot but remember that same

Gines de Passamonte, whom, together with his fellow-slaves, Don Quixote

set at liberty near the Brown Mountain; a benefit for which he was ill

thanked, and worse requited, by that mischievous and immoral crew. This

Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote called Ginesillo de Parapilla, was

the very thief who stole Sancho’s Dapple; and as, through the fault of

the printers, neither the time nor the manner of that conveyance is

described, in the first part of the book, many people ascribed this

error of the press to want of memory in the author: but, in short,

stolen he was, by Gines, even while Sancho was sitting sleeping on his

back, by means of the same contrivance and expedient that was used by

Brunelo, who, while Sacripante lay at Albraça, withdrew his horse from

between his legs; and Sancho afterwards retrieved him, as we have

already related. Gines, then, afraid of being overtaken by justice, that

was in quest of him, to chastise him for his numberless tricks and

transgressions, which were so manifold and remarkable as to fill a large

volume of his own composing, resolved to remove himself into the kingdom

of Arragon, to cover his left eye with a patch, and profess the

occupation of playing puppets, and performing tricks of legerdemain,

which he understood to great perfection; he afterwards happened to fall

in company with some Christians just delivered from bondage in Barbary,

of whom he purchased that ape, which he taught to leap upon his

shoulder, at a certain signal, and whisper, or seem to whisper in his

ear. Having so far succeeded, before he entered any place with his

puppet-shew and ape, he took care to inform himself at the next village,

or of any person whom he could conveniently pump, of the particular

accidents that had happened at that place, with all their circumstances,

which he retained by dint of a tenacious memory. The first thing he did,

was to represent his puppet-shew, the subject of which he extracted

sometimes from one story, and sometimes from another; but it was always

full of mirth and entertainment, and well known; and this being ended,

he propounded the talents of his ape; telling the audience that he could

disclose the past and present; but with regard to the future, he

pretended to no knowledge: for every response he demanded two rials,

though sometimes he afforded them cheaper, just as he felt the pulse of

his consulters; and as he sometimes came to families, the anecdotes of

which he knew, even though they would spend no money upon questions, he

would make the signal to the ape, and then say he had communicated this

and that circumstance, which tallied exactly with what had really

happened. By these means he acquired the credit of infallibility, and

drew the whole country after him; at other times, as he had abundance of

cunning and penetration, he would answer in such a manner, that the

responses agreed perfectly well with the questions; and there being

nobody to hamper him, by enquiring and sifting into the bottom of this

pretended divination of the monkey, he found means to make monkeys of

all his followers, and fill his bags at the same time. As soon as he

entered the inn, he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and this recognition

enabled him to excite the admiration of the knight, squire, and all the

by-standers: but his art would have cost him dear, had Don Quixote

lowered his hand a little, when he decapitated king Marsilio, and

destroyed his whole cavalry, as we have related that adventure in the

preceding chapter.

[Illustration: Don Quixote Meets the Soldiers.]

So much for Mr. Peter and his ape; and now returning to Don Quixote de

La Mancha, we must observe, that after having departed from the inn, he

resolved, in the first place, to visit the banks of the river Ebro, and

all the circumjacent country, before he should enter the city of

Saragossa, as the length of time between this period and the tournaments

permitted him to make such an excursion. With this resolution he

proceeded in the road, through which he travelled two days, without

encountering any thing worth relating, until on the third, as he

ascended a rising ground, his ears were saluted with a mighty noise of

kettle-drums, trumpets, and muskets, which he at first imagined might

proceed from some company of soldiers marching that way; in order,

therefore, to view them, he spurred up Rozinante, and when he reached

the top of the rising ground, saw below, as near as he could guess,

above two hundred men, equipped with different kinds of arms, such as

lances, cross-bows, partisans, halberts, pikes, a few muskets, and a

great number of targets. He rode down the hill, and drew so near this

squadron, that he could distinguish their colours, and observe their

devices, particularly a banner or pendant of white sattin, on which was

painted to the life, an ass of the small Sardinian breed, with his head

raised, his mouth open, and his tongue lolling out as if in the very act

and attitude of braying, and surrounded by this motto, in capital

letters—

‘It is no children’s play,

When brother bailiffs bray.’

From this symbol Don Quixote gathered, that those people belonged to the

village of Braywick; and this discovery he communicated to Sancho, whom

he likewise made acquainted with the motto of the standard; observing,

at the same time, that he, by whom they were informed of the adventure,

had committed a mistake, in saying the brayers were aldermen; for,

according to this couplet, they must have been bailiffs. To this

observation, Sancho replied, ‘Signior, in that circumstance, there is

nothing to be mended; for those who were aldermen when they brayed,

might very well in time come to be bailiffs of the corporation,

consequently they may be mentioned with both titles; especially as it is

of small signification to the truth of the story, whether the brayers

were aldermen or bailiffs, provided they really conjunctly and severally

did bray, for a bailiff is as likely to bray as an alderman.’

Finally, conjecturing and understanding that the people who were

ridiculed had come forth to fight those who had ridiculed them, and

carried the joke beyond the bounds of reason and good neighbourhood, Don

Quixote approached their line of battle, to the no small chagrin of

Sancho, who was never fond of interposing on such occasions; and they

were immediately received by the whole squadron, who believed the knight

was come to espouse their quarrel. Then Don Quixote lifting up his

visor, with graceful ease and courteous demeanour, advanced to the

standard of the ass, where he was environed by the chiefs of the army,

who gazed at him with that admiration incident to all those who beheld

him for the first time. The knight perceiving them looking at him so

attentively, without speaking or asking any question, resolved to take

advantage of their silence, and breaking his own, began in this manner,

with an audible voice, ‘Worthy gentlemen, I beg, in the most earnest

manner, that you will not interrupt a discourse I intend to make until

you perceive it becomes insipid and disgusting; in which case, I will,

upon the least sign, put a seal upon my lips, and a gag upon my tongue.’

All the spectators assured him, he might say what he pleased, and they

would willingly give him the hearing; so that, thus licensed, he

proceeded to this effect: ‘I, gentlemen, am a knight-errant, whose

exercise is that of arms, and whose profession is to assist the needy,

and favour those who want favour and protection. Some days ago I was

informed of your disgrace, and the motives which have induced you to arm

at every turn, in order to take vengeance on your enemies: and having

once and again revolved your affairs in my mind, I find that, according

to the laws of duel, you are in the wrong to suppose yourselves

affronted: for no individual can affront a whole community, unless they

are accused of treason by the lump, because the person guilty of the

said treason is not known, consequently cannot be challenged by himself.

Of this practice, we have an instance in Don Diego Ordonnez de Lara, who

challenged the whole town of Zamorano, because he did not know that

Velido Dolfos alone was the traitor who had slain his king; he therefore

defied the whole body of inhabitants, and to the whole body of them did

the answer and revenge belong: though, indeed, Signior Don Diego

bordered upon extravagance, and exceeded the bounds of defiance; for he

had not sufficient reason to challenge the dead, the water and the

bread, or those who were yet unborn, as well as other minute matters

therein set forth: but let that pass. When choler once is born, the

tongue all curb doth scorn[162]; I mean, a bridle to restrain it. This

being the case, then, that one single person cannot affront an entire

kingdom, province, city, society, or corporation, it plainly appears,

that you have no just cause to come forth, in order to take vengeance

for that which was not really an affront: for it would be a good joke,

indeed, if the inhabitants of a town called Clockwell, should take it in

their heads, at every turn, to slay every person that might ask, “What

is’t o’clock[163]?” Or if the cheesemongers, fruiterers,

whalebone-sellers, soap-boilers, and those of other names and

appellations that are in the mouth of every boy, and hacknied among the

vulgar; I say, it would surely be a good joke, if all those people, who

are distinguished by their different callings, should be ashamed and

incensed at such simple provocations, and be always making sacbuts of

their swords, in every trifling quarrel: no, no; God neither likes, nor

will suffer such unjustifiable revenge. Prudent men, and well-ordered

commonwealths, ought to take up arms, unsheathe their swords, and risque

their persons, lives, and fortunes, for four causes only: Firstly, to

defend the Catholick faith; secondly, in self-defence, which is

justified by the laws of God and nature; thirdly, in behalf of one’s

honour, family, and fortune; and fourthly, in the service of his

majesty, when he is engaged in a just war: and if we should add a fifth

cause (which, indeed, ought to be ranked as a second) it is the defence

of one’s country. To these principle causes may be annexed some others,

both just and reasonable, which may oblige us to have recourse to arms;

but to take them up for childish trifles, and things that are rather

subjects of laughter and diversion than of serious revenge, seems to

denote a total defect of reason and discretion; especially as unjust

vengeance (and surely no vengeance can be just) is diametrically

opposite to that holy law we profess, by which we are enjoined to do

good to our enemies, and love those by whom we are abhorred: a command

which, though seemingly difficult, is not really hard to be observed,

except by those who have less of God than of this world, and more of the

flesh than of the Spirit; for Jesus Christ, the true God and true man,

who never lyed, who neither was nor is capable of falshood, as being our

eternal Lawgiver, tells us, that his yoke is easy, and his burden is

light: therefore, he would not impose a command which we could not

possibly fulfil; and consequently, good gentlemen, you are obliged by

laws divine and human, to be appeased.’

At his period, Sancho said within himself, ‘The devil run away with me,

if this master of mine is not a downright theologister! at least, if he

is not, no two eggs were ever more alike.’ Don Quixote having taken

breath a little, and finding the audience still attentive, was inclined

to prosecute his harangue, and would certainly have pursued the subject,

had not he been prevented by the archness of Sancho, who, during his

master’s pause, took it in hand, saying, ‘My master, Don Quixote de La

Mancha, who, at one time, went by the name of the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance, but is at present called the Knight of the Lions, is a very

learned gentleman, that understands Latin and Castilian like a perfect

batchelor of arts. In all his sermons and exhortations, he proceeds like

a very able soldier, as having all the laws and ordinances of what you

call duel, at his finger’s end; therefore, you have no more to do but

let yourselves be guided by his counsel; and if you go wrong, the blame

shall lie upon my shoulders; especially, as he hath already told you

that it is mere madness to be angry without any cause but that of a

man’s braying. I remember, when I was a boy, I brayed whensoever and

wheresoever I pleased, without lett or molestation; aye, and so prettily

and naturally, that I was always answered by all the asses of the

common; yet, for all that, I did not cease to be the son of my parents,

who were most worthy people; and though, for this talent, I was envied

by more than enow of the gravest folks in the parish, I valued not their

envy two farthings: and, that you may see I speak nothing but the truth,

wait a little, and give me the hearing; for the art of braying is like

that of swimming, which, when once learned, is never forgot.’

So saying, he clapped his fingers to his nostrils, and began to bray so

stoutly, that all the neighbouring vallies re-echoed the sound. But one

of those who stood next him, supposing the squire made himself merry at

their expence, lifted up a pole that was in his hand, and bestowed it

upon him with such good will, that Sancho, in spite of his efforts, came

to the ground.

Don Quixote, seeing his squire so roughly handled, attacked the

aggressor lance in hand; but such a number of people interposed, that he

found it impossible to take vengeance: on the contrary, perceiving a

cloud of stones ready to pour upon him, and being threatened by a vast

number of presented cross-bows and muskets, he wheeled Rozinante about,

and galloped off as fast as the steed could carry him; recommending

himself heartily to the protection of God, that he might be delivered

from that danger; and in the apprehension that some ball would enter at

his shoulder, and make its exit through his breast, he held in his

breath, at every step, in order to know whether or not he was wounded.

But those who composed the squadron, being satisfied with his flight,

did not shoot after him; and as for Sancho, they laid him across upon

his beast, as soon as he recovered the use of his senses, and allowed

him to follow his master; not that he was able to manage the ass; but

Dapple followed the footsteps of Rozinante, from whom he could not bear

to be parted, though but for a moment. The knight having rode a good

way, turned his horse’s head, and seeing Sancho following, waited for

his coming up, as he perceived nobody attempted to pursue him.

The warriors of Braywick kept their ground till night, and as their

adversaries did not think proper to give them battle, returned to their

own town with joy and satisfaction; and had they known the ancient

custom of the Greeks, they would have erected a trophy on the spot.

Footnote 162:

Literally, ‘When choler quits the mother, the tongue has then no

father.’

Footnote 163:

I have ventured to deviate a little from the precise meaning of the

original, which the reader will own to be very insipid when he reads

the literal translation: ‘For it would be good, if the inhabitants of

the town of Reloxa,’ (signifying a watch, or clock) ‘should, at every

turn, slay those that call them so.’

CHAP. XI.

OF THINGS RELATED BY BENENGELI, WHICH HE WHO READS THEM ATTENTIVELY,

WILL KNOW.

When a brave man flies, he must have discovered some odds or foul play;

and it is the business of prudent captains, to reserve themselves for

better occasions. This maxim was verified in Don Quixote, who, by giving

way to popular fury, and the evil intention of that incensed squadron,

took to his heels, and without paying the least regard to Sancho, or the

danger in which he left him, moved off to such a distance as he judged

sufficient for his own security. He was followed by Sancho lying across

the ass, as we have already observed, who, by that time he was brought

up to his master, had just recovered the use of his senses, and fell

from Dapple at the feet of Rozinante, all battered and bruised, and in

an agony of pain.

The knight dismounting to search his wounds, no sooner perceived he was

sound from head to foot, than he thus accosted him in an angry tone: ‘In

evil hour, you must understand braying, sirrah! Where did you learn it

was convenient to talk of halters in the house of a man that was hanged?

To the tenor of braying what bass could you expect but the basting of a

cudgel? You have reason to thank God that, instead of receiving a

benediction with a pole, you have not been crossed with a scymitar.’—‘I

am at present in no condition to answer,’ said Sancho; ‘for methinks I

talk through my shoulders: let us mount and depart from this place, and

I shall make an end of my braying; though I shall never be weary of

telling as how knights-errant run away, and leave their honest squires,

beaten to chaff and pounded to cinders, in the power of their

enemies.’—‘There is a wide difference between flying and retreating,’

answered Don Quixote; ‘for you must know, Sancho, that valour which is

not founded on the base of discretion, is termed temerity or rashness;

and the achievements of a rash person ought to be ascribed rather to

good fortune than courage. I own, therefore, I have retreated, but not

fled; and in so doing have imitated a great number of valiant chiefs,

who reserved themselves for more dignified occasions: and of these

instances histories are full; but I omit rehearsing them at present,

because the recital would be of no advantage to thee, or entertainment

to myself.’

By this time, Sancho being set upon his ass again by Don Quixote, who

likewise mounted Rozinante, they jogged along softly, in order to

shelter themselves in a grove that appeared at the distance of a quarter

of a league; and the squire, every now and then heaving up a most

profound ‘Ah!’ accompanied with piteous groans, his master desired to

know the cause of such bitter ejaculations. To which question the squire

replied, that from the extremity of his rump to the nape of his neck, he

felt such intolerable pain as was like to deprive him of his senses.

‘The cause of that pain,’ said Don Quixote, ‘must doubtless be this; as

the pole or staff by which you have suffered was long and large, it

extended over the whole back, comprehending all those parts that now

give you pain; and if it had reached still farther, the pain would have

been more extensive.’—‘’Fore God,’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship has taken

me out of a huge uncertainty, and resolved the doubt in delicate terms.

Body o’me! was the cause of my pain so mysterious, that there was a

necessity for telling me, I feel pain in those parts that were

cudgelled? Had my shins ached, there might have been some reason for

guessing at the cause of their aching; but, surely, there is no great

witchcraft required to tell me that my back aches, because it was

crossed with a quarter staff! In good faith, Sir Master of mine, Our

neighbour’s care hangs by a hair. Every day I see more and more how the

land lies, and how little I have to expect from keeping your worship’s

company; for if you left me to be cudgelled at this time, we shall, upon

a hundred different occasions, return to our late blankettings and other

such toys; and though this misfortune has fallen upon my shoulders, they

next may light upon my eyes. Abundantly better should I have done, but I

am such a barbarian, that in all the days of my life, I never did well;

I say again, abundantly better should I have done, had I returned to my

house, my wife, and my children, and maintained and brought them up with

what Providence should please to bestow, rather than fag after your

worship in this manner, through roadless roads, and pathless paths,

drinking bad liquor and eating worse food; then, when I come to

sleep—“Brother squire, measure out seven feet of ground; and if you

chuse to be more at your ease, take as much more, for the ladle is in

your own hand, and lay yourself out to your heart’s desire.” Would to

God I could see the first man who meddled with knight-errantry burnt to

a cinder; at least the first booby who chose to be squire to such

wiseacres as all former knights-errant must have been! Of the present, I

say nothing; as your worship is one of the number, I hold them in

respect, because I am sensible, that in speeching and understanding, you

know a point more than the devil himself.’

‘I would venture to lay a good wager, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that

now, while you are permitted to speak without the least hindrance, you

feel no pain in any part of your body. Proceed, child, and out with

every thing that comes into your head, or tarries at your tongue’s end;

for, provided you are free from pain, I shall convert into pleasure that

disgust which proceeds from your folly and impertinence; and if you are

so much bent upon returning to your house, your wife and your family,

God forbid that I should oppose your resolution. You have some of my

money in your hands; recollect how long it is since we set out on this

my third sally; then reckon what you might and should have earned

monthly, and be your own paymaster.’—‘When I worked for Thomas Carrasco,

father of Batchelor Sampson, who is your worship’s acquaintance,’

answered Sancho, ‘I earned two ducats a month, besides my victuals: with

your worship I know not what I can earn; though well I know that the

squire of a knight-errant has a much more troublesome office than that

of a farmer’s servant; for, in fact, we who serve husbandmen, let us

work never so hard through the day, and happen what will, have a hot

supper out of the pot at night, and lie in a good bed, which I have

never enjoyed since I have been in your worship’s service, except for

that short space of time that we stayed in the house of Don Diego de

Miranda; and bating the good cheer I found among the scum of Camacho’s

kettle, and my eating, drinking, and sleeping, at the habitation of

Basilius; all the rest of the time I have slept on the hard ground,

under the cope of heaven, exposed to what you call the inclemencies of

the weather, living upon cheese-pairings and crusts of bread, and

drinking cold water, sometimes from the brooks and sometimes from the

springs we met with in the publick roads through which we travelled.’

‘Allowing,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that all you have mentioned is true, how

much more do you think I ought to give you than that which you received

from Thomas Carrasco?’—‘With the addition of two rials a month,’ replied

Sancho, ‘I shall think myself well paid, that is, with regard to my

wages; but, as to some satisfaction for your worship’s word and promise

of making me a governor of an island, methinks it would be but fair and

honest to add six rials more; and then, altogether will come to

thirty.’—‘Very well reckoned,’ answered the knight; ‘now, according to

the tale of wages you have mentioned, calculate fairly and exactly what

I am indebted to you, for the five and twenty days that are elapsed

since our departure from our own village, and, as I said before, be your

own paymaster.’—‘Body o’me!’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship is quite out in

your reckoning; for in regard to the promise of the island, we must

compute from the day in which your honour made the said promise to this

blessed hour.’—‘How long, then, has that same promise been made?’ said

Don Quixote. ‘If my memory does not fail me,’ answered the squire, ‘it

must be above twenty years, a few days over or under.’ Here, the knight

slapping his forehead with his hand, began to laugh heartily, saying,

‘Why, my stay in the Sierra Morena, with the whole course of our

peregrinations, has scarce employed two months: and wilt thou say I have

promised thee that island these twenty years? Now I perceive thy

intention is to keep, in lieu of wages, all my money that is in thy

hands; and if that be the case, and thou really lookest upon it with an

eye of desire, I give thee the whole sum from this moment, and much good

may it do thee; for, provided I find myself rid of such a wretched

squire, I shall think myself happy, though poor and pennyless. But, tell

me, thou prevaricator of all the squirely ordinances of chivalry! where

hast thou seen or read that any squire of a knight-errant ever presumed

to bargain with his master touching a certain monthly salary for his

service? Launch out, launch out! you ruffian, vagabond, and hobgoblin!

for such you are; launch out, I say, into the _mare magnum_ of chivalry;

and if you find that any squire ever attempted to say, or even to think,

what thou hast here uttered, I will give thee leave to nail the passage

on my forehead, and pinch the sign of the four nipples on my face, by

way of additional mortification. Turn immediately the reins of the

halter of your ass, and return to your house, your wife, and your

family; for one step farther thou shalt not travel with me. O bread

ill-bestowed! O promise misapplied! O wretch that favoured more of the

beast than of the man! At this juncture, when I was on the eve of

raising thee to such a station as would have ennobled thee, even in

spite of thy wife, thou seekest to leave me! Now thou art going away,

when I had firmly and unalterably resolved to make thee lord of the best

island in the universe! In a word, as thou thyself hast observed upon

other occasions, An ass’s mouth was not made for honey, &c. An ass thou

art, an ass wilt thou be; aye, and thou wilt die like an ass, when the

course of thy life is finished; for I am convinced that thy days will

reach their utmost period, before thou shalt learn and know what a beast

thou art!’

Sancho looked woefully at his master, while he poured forth these

reproaches, from which the squire felt such compunction, that the tears

started in his eyes; and he replied in a faint, whimpering tone, ‘My

good master, I confess that, in order to be really and truly an ass, I

want nothing but a tail, which, if your worship will furnish me with, I

shall think it well bestowed, and serve you as a beast of burden all the

days of my life. Good your worship, forgive and look upon my green years

with compassion, and consider that I know very little; and if I speak a

great deal of nonsense, it does not proceed from malice but infirmity;

and Those who sin and kiss the rod, find favour in the sight of God.’—‘I

should have been surprized, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou hadst not

seasoned thy discourse with some proverbial expression. Well, then, for

the present, I forgive thee, in hope of thy amendment, and on condition

that thou wilt not henceforward betray such a sordid and selfish

disposition, but endeavour to enlarge thy heart, fortify and encourage

thy mind, to wait the accomplishment of my promises; which, though it

may not speedily happen, is nevertheless far from being impossible?’

Sancho said he would do his endeavour, and follow his advice, even

though he should gather strength from feebleness.

Then they betook themselves to the covert of the grove, where the knight

accommodated himself at the root of an elm, and the squire retreated to

the foot of a beech; for these and other such trees never want feet,

though they are always destitute of hands. Sancho passed the night in

great trouble; for the cold air augmented the pain of his bruises;

whereas, Don Quixote amused himself with his incessant meditations.

Nevertheless, both master and man gave way to the operations of sleep,

and at the approach of morn, prosecuted their way to the banks of the

renowned Ebro, where they were involved in an adventure that will be

recounted in the succeeding chapter.

CHAP. XII.

OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE INCHANTED BARK.

By dint of travelling at a very deliberate pace for the space of two

days after they quitted the grove, Don Quixote and Sancho arrived at the

river Ebro, the sight of which afforded infinite pleasure to the knight,

who eagerly contemplated the amenity of its banks, the transparency of

its water, the tranquillity of its course, and the abundance of its

chrystal stream, the joyous prospect of which renewed in his remembrance

a thousand amorous thoughts, that chiefly turned upon what he had seen

in the cave of Montesinos; for, although Master Peter’s ape had

declared, that part of those circumstances was true, and part of them

false, he inclined more to the belief that they were altogether real;

while Sancho, on the contrary, looked upon the whole detail as one

continued lye.

As they jogged on in this manner, their view was saluted by a small

boat, without oars, or any other tackle, close to the river-side, and

made fast to a tree that grew on the bank. Don Quixote looking around

him, without perceiving any living soul, alighted immediately from

Rozinante, commanding Sancho to quit the back of Dapple, and tie both

beasts securely to the trunk of a poplar or willow that grew upon the

spot. When the squire desired to know the cause of this sudden descent

and ligation, ‘You must know, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘that this

vessel is here on purpose, without a possibility of any other design, to

call and invite me to embark, that I may be conveyed to the succour of

some knight, or other necessitous personage of high degree, who must

certainly be involved in some dire disaster; for this is the very spirit

of books of chivalry, and the practice of those inchanters concerning

whom they treat, who, when any knight in distress cannot be delivered by

their art, but solely by the prowess of another errant, though perhaps

at the distance of two or three thousand leagues or more, they snatch

him up in a cloud, or provide him with a vessel, in which he embarks,

and in the twinkling of an eye he is transported either through the air,

or by sea, to the place where his assistance is required: this bark,

therefore, O Sancho, is brought hither for the like purpose, as sure as

it is now day; and before the day be spent, take and secure Dapple and

Rozinante together, and let us commit ourselves to the direction of God;

for even the barefooted Carmelites shall not dissuade me from

embarking.’—‘Since that is the case,’ answered Sancho, ‘and your worship

is resolved at every turn to plunge into these (I know not whether I

should call them mad) vagaries, I have nothing to do but bow and obey;

according to the proverb, If you obey the commands of your lord, you may

sit as a guest at his board. Nevertheless, in order to disburden my

confidence, I must give your worship notice, that in my opinion this

same bark has nothing to do with inchanted people, but belongs to some

fishermen of this river, in which they catch the best shads in the

world.’

This remonstrance was made while he tied the cattle, which he could not

leave to the protection of inchanters, without being grieved to the very

soul. But the knight exhorted him to banish his anxiety on account of

the animals, which would be carefully maintained and protected by the

same sage destined to transport their riders through roads and regions

of such longitude. ‘I do not understand what you mean by logickhood,’

said the squire; ‘for I never heard such a word before in the whole

course of my life.’—‘By longitude I mean, length,’ answered the knight,

‘but I do not at all wonder that thou shouldst not understand the word;

for thou art not obliged to be acquainted with the Latin tongue, like

some arrogant people who pretend to knowledge of which they are entirely

ignorant.’—‘The beasts are now secured,’ said Sancho, ‘what is next to

be done?’—‘What!’ replied Don Quixote, ‘but to cross ourselves and weigh

anchor; I mean to embark, and cut the rope by which the vessel is made

fast.’

So saying, he leaped on board, whither he was followed by Sancho, and

the fastening being cut, the boat edged gently off from the bank. The

squire seeing himself about two fathoms from the shore, began to

tremble, in the apprehension of perishing; but nothing gave him more

pain than hearing Dapple raise his voice, and seeing Rozinante struggle

for his freedom. ‘Now, Dapple,’ said he to his master, ‘brays for grief

at our departure; and Rozinante strives to get loose, that he may throw

himself into the water and swim after us!—Farewel, my dearly beloved

friends, peace be with you, and may the madness that parts us be

converted and undeceived, that we may be restored to your agreeable

company.’

Then he began to weep so bitterly, that the knight exclaimed, in a tone

of rage and vexation, ‘Of what art thou afraid, cowardly miscreant!

wherefore dost thou weep, thou heart of butter! who persecutes, who

molests thee, thou soul of a garret-mouse! or what wants dost thou

suffer, beggarly wretch, rolling as thou art in the very bowels of

abundance! art thou, peradventure, travelling, barefoot over the Riphean

mountains! No: seated like an archduke upon a convenient bench, thou art

softly conveyed by the gentle current of this delicious river, from

which in a little time we shall launch into the wide and extended ocean:

but, indeed, we must have already entered the open sea; aye, and sailed

at least seven or eight hundred leagues; and, if I had here an astrolabe

to take the elevation of the pole, I would tell thee exactly what way we

have made; though either I have little skill, or we have already passed,

or will pass in a very little time, the equinoctial line, that divides

the globe into two equal parts.’—‘And how far shall we have gone when we

come to that same line your worship mentions?’ said Sancho. ‘A great

way,’ replied the knight; ‘for, of three hundred and sixty degrees,

comprehending the whole terraqueous globe, according to the computation

of Ptolemy, who was the greatest cosmographer ever known, we shall have

traversed one half when we reach the equinoctial line.’—‘’Fore God!’

cried Sancho, ‘your worship has brought a set of rare witnesses to prove

the truth of what you say, Copulation and Kiss-me-gaffer, with the

addition of Tool-i’me, or some such name[164].’ Don Quixote laughed at

Sancho’s blunders, upon the computation of the cosmographer Ptolemy;

adding, ‘You must know, Sancho, that one of the signs by which those who

embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, know they have passed the

equinoctial, is the total destruction of vermin among the passengers and

seamen: so that not one louse remains alive, or can be had in the whole

ship, even though you should give its weight in gold; thou mayest

therefore slip thy hand along thy thigh, Sancho, and if thou canst catch

any thing alive, our doubt will be resolved; but if there is nothing to

be found, we must certainly have passed the line.’—‘I can hardly believe

it,’ answered the squire; ‘but, however, I will do as your worship

desires; though there is no necessity for trying those experiments; for

I can see with my own eyes, that we have not moved five yards from the

bank, no, nor have we driven two yards below the cattle; for there stand

Rozinante and Dapple, in the very spot where they were left; and taking

aim as I do now, I vow to God, we do not move or go at the pace of a

pismire.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘perform the investigation I have

mentioned, and give thyself no trouble about any other circumstance; for

thou dost not know the meaning of colours, lines, parallels, zodiacks,

eclipticks, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets, constellations,

points, and measures, that compose the spheres celestial and

terrestrial. Wert thou acquainted with these, or even a part of them,

thou wouldst distinctly perceive what parallels we have crossed, what

signs we have seen, and what constellations we have left, and are now

leaving behind us. I therefore repeat my request, that thou wouldst

examine and go afishing upon thyself; for I am persuaded thou art clean

and smooth as a sheet of white paper.’

Sancho, in compliance with his desire, slipped down his hand softly, and

felt about his left ham; then raising his head, and looking at his

master, ‘Either the experiment is false,’ said he; ‘or we have not

reached the place your worship mentioned, by many leagues.’—‘What!’ said

the knight, ‘hast thou found something?’—‘Aye, more than one something,’

answered the squire: who snapped his fingers, and afterwards washed them

in the river, along the current of which the boat glided softly, without

the assistance of any secret power, or concealed inchanter, being

conveyed by nothing but the stream, which then ran with a smooth and

gentle course.

In this manner they proceeded, when they discovered some large mills,

built in the middle of the river, which Don Quixote no sooner perceived,

than he addressed himself to Sancho, in an exalted voice: ‘Behold, my

friend, yonder appears the city, castle, or fortress, that contains some

oppressed knight-errant, queen, infanta, or princess in distress, for

whose relief I am brought hither.’—‘What the devil does your worship

mean by a city, fortress, or castle!’ cried the squire; ‘don’t you see

these are mills, built in the river, for grinding wheat?’—‘Peace,

Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘although they appear to be mills, they are

in reality edifices of a very different nature: I have already told

thee, that all things are transformed and changed by the power of

inchantment; I do not mean that they are really changed in any

circumstance but appearance, as we have been taught by woeful experience

in the transformation of Dulcinea, the sole refuge of my hope.’

By this time, the boat being sucked into the middle of the stream, so as

to move considerably faster than at first, was perceived by the millers,

who seeing it advancing to the indraught of the wheels, came suddenly

out in a body, with long poles, to stop its motion; and as their faces

and cloaths were be-powdered with meal, they made a frightful figure,

while they exclaimed, with great vociferation, ‘You devils of men! where

are you going: are you mad; to come and drown yourselves, or be ground

to pieces by the wheels?’

Don Quixote, hearing this address, ‘Did not I tell thee, Sancho,’ said

he, ‘that we had arrived at the scene in which I must exert the prowess

of mine arm? Behold, what felons and assassins come forth to try my

valour; behold what a number of hobgoblins range themselves against me;

behold, I say, what horrid physiognomies appear to scare and overawe us;

but you shall presently see what will happen. Ye ruffians!’ Then,

starting up, he began to threaten and revile them, exclaiming aloud, ‘Ye

scum, ye scoundrels, ill-intentioned and worse-advised! release, I

charge you, and restore to the full fruition of freedom, the person whom

ye keep confined and oppressed in that fortress or gaol, let him be high

or low, or of what rank and quality soever he may be; for I am Don

Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise intitled the Knight of the Lions,

destined by the appointment of Heaven above, to bring this adventure to

an happy issue.’

So saying, he unsheathed his sword, and brandished it in the air, in

defiance of the millers, who hearing this rhapsody without understanding

it, began to employ their poles, in order to turn aside the boat, which

by this time had entered the current and canal of the wheels. As for

Sancho, he fell upon his knees, and prayed devoutly that Heaven would

deliver him from such imminent danger; and his deliverance was

accordingly effected by the alertness and dexterity of the millers, who

pushed back the boat with their poles; yet not without oversetting the

vessel; so as that the knight and his squire were soused over head and

ears in the water. It was well for Don Quixote that he could swim like a

goose; nevertheless, the weight of his armour sunk him twice to the

bottom, and had not the millers thrown themselves into the river, and

weighed them up by main strength, it might have been said, ‘Here Troy

once stood[165].’

They were no sooner dragged ashore, rather drenched than dead of

drought, than the squire, humbling himself upon his knees, again

clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes to Heaven, uttered a very

fervent petition to God, that he might be from thenceforward delivered

from the frantick projects and mad attempts of his master. This

ejaculation was scarce finished, when they were joined by the fishermen

who were owners of the boat, which was crushed to pieces by the

mill-wheels; and they perceiving the wreck, began to strip Sancho, and

demand indemnification of his master, who, with great tranquillity, as

if nothing at all had happened told the millers and fishermen that he

would pay for the bark with the utmost chearfulness, on condition that

they would release, without ransom or security, the person or persons

whom they detained in durance and oppression within the castle.

‘What does the madman mean by persons and castles?’ answered one of the

millers; ‘wouldst thou carry off the customers that bring grist to our

mills, forsooth?’—‘Enough,’ said Don Quixote within himself, ‘I might as

well preach to the desart, as attempt, by intreaties, to prevail upon

such miscreants to do any virtuous action. In this adventure there must

certainly be two powerful inchanters engaged on opposite sides, one of

whom baffles the designs of the other; by one I was provided with a

bark, and his antagonist overturned me in the water. Lord mend us! the

world is nothing but a continual warfare of opposite machinations and

deceit; for my own part, I can do no more.’ Then raising his voice, and

fixing his eyes upon the mills, ‘Friends,’ cried he, ‘whosoever you are

who lie confined within that prison, forgive me, that for my misfortune,

as well as yours, it is not in my power to extricate you from your

distress; for some other knight the adventure must be reserved.’ Having

pronounced this apostrophe, he compounded with the fishermen, for whose

boat he paid fifty rials, which Sancho disbursed with great reluctance,

saying, ‘Two such boatfuls will sink our whole stock to the bottom.’

The fishermen and millers gazed with admiration at those two figures, so

different in appearance from other men; and as they could by no means

understand the meaning and tendency of Don Quixote’s discourse, and the

questions he asked, they looked upon them as madmen, and went away. The

millers retreated to their mills; the fishermen betook themselves to

their cottage; the knight and squire, like beasts, returned to their

beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

Footnote 164: