As it is altogether impossible, in a translation, literally to

preserve the low humour arising from blunders upon words or sounds, I

have been obliged to substitute an equivalent jingle, in the room of

_puto_, _gafo_ and _meon_, which are Spanish words, signifying, a a

_whore_, a _catamite_, and a _piss-a-bed_: so that Sancho, deceived by

the affinity of these sounds to _computo_, _cosmographa_, and

_Ptolemeo_, thought he had reason to say his master had produced a

fair set of evidences.

Footnote 165:

In allusion to the speech that Virgil puts in the mouth of Panthus

Othryades, who says to Æneas,

——_fuit Ilium, et ingens_

_Gloria Teucrorum!_

CHAP. XIII.

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND A FAIR HUNTRESS.

In a melancholy plight did the knight and squire reach the place where

their cattle stood; indeed, they were both sufficiently out of humour,

especially Sancho, who was cut to the soul by the incroachment upon

their capital, which to him was as precious as the apple of his eye. At

length, they mounted, in the most profound silence, and departed from

the banks of that famous river; Don Quixote buried as it were amidst the

meditations of his love, and Sancho immersed in those of his preferment,

which at that time seemed to be at a weary distance; for maugre all his

simplicity and folly, he could easily perceive that all, or the greatest

part of his master’s actions, proceeded from frenzy and distraction; he

therefore resolved to take an opportunity of retreating abruptly to his

own house, without expostulation, or the ceremony of taking leave. But

fortune ordained that things should fall out quite contrary to his

apprehensions.

Next day, at sun-set, as they came out of a wood, Don Quixote extending

his view over a delightful green meadow, perceived some people at the

farther end of it; and as he proceeded, saw they were hawkers:

approaching still nearer, he observed among them a gay lady, mounted

upon a palfrey or beautiful pad as white as the driven snow, adorned

with green furniture and a saddle of silver; the lady was likewise

dressed in a rich habit of the same colour, as fine as finery itself. On

her left-hand she carried a hawk, a circumstance from which the knight

concluded she was some lady of high rank, and mistress of all the rest;

nor was he mistaken. On this supposition, therefore, he said to his

squire, ‘Make haste, son Sancho, go and tell that lady of the palfrey

and hawk, that I, the Knight of the Lions, send my respects to her

exceeding beauty; and that, with her good leave, I will go and pay my

compliments in person, and make her a tender of my service to the utmost

of my power, in whatever she shall please to command; but keep a guard

upon your tongue, Sancho, and beware of thrusting in some of your

proverbs, while you deliver my embassy.’—‘To be sure, you have found me

a deadly thruster,’ answered the squire, ‘that you give me such warning!

as if this were the first time in my life, that I have carried embassies

to ladies of high rank and augmentation.’—‘Except that which you carried

to the Lady Dulcinea,’ said the knight, ‘I do not know that ever you

carried another; at least while in my service.’—‘That’s true,’ replied

Sancho, ‘but a good paymaster never wants bail; and a dinner is easily

got, where there is plenty of meat for the pot: what I mean is, that

there is no occasion to tell me or advertise me of any thing; for I am

never out, and have a sort of a smack of every thing.’—‘I believe it,

Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘go in peace, and God be your guide.’

The squire setting out accordingly, at a good rate, and spurring Dapple

beyond his natural pace, came up with the fair huntress; then alighting

and kneeling before her, ‘Beautiful lady,’ said he, ‘yonder knight,

called the Knight of the Lions, is my master, and I am this squire,

known at my own home by the name of Sancho Panza; and that same Knight

of the Lions, though formerly of the Rueful Countenance, sends me to beg

your grandeur would be pleased to allow him purposely, courteously, and

consentingly, to come and gratify his desire, which is no other, as he

says, and I believe, than to serve your exalted beauty and hawkingship;

and in so doing, your excellency will do a thing that will redound to

your own advantage, and from which he will receive the most notorious

honour and satisfaction.’

‘Worthy squire,’ replied the lady, ‘assuredly you have delivered your

embassy with all the circumstances that such embassies require; pray

rise, for it is not reasonable, that the squire of such a great

knight-errant as he of the Rueful Countenance, whose character is well

known in these parts, should remain in that posture; rise, friend, and

go tell your master, that he shall be extremely welcome to command the

services of me and the duke my husband, at our country-house in the

neighbourhood.’ Sancho arose, equally astonished at the beauty,

good-breeding, and affability, of this worthy lady: but he was still

more surprized at what she said concerning the well-known character of

the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; for if she did not give him the

appellation of the Lions, it was because he had but lately assumed that

epithet. ‘Pray, tell me, brother squire,’ said the duchess, whose title

is not known, ‘is not your master the person whose history is printed

under the name of the sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha, who

professes himself the admirer of one Dulcinea del Toboso?’—‘The very

same, my lady,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I myself am that very squire of

his who is mentioned, or ought to be mentioned, in that history, by the

name of Sancho Panza, unless they have changed me in the cradle, I mean,

in the press.’—‘I am extremely glad to hear it,’ replied the duchess;

‘go, brother Sancho, and tell your master, that he is well met, and

welcome to my estate; and that nothing could give me more pleasure than

his arrival.’

Sancho, in an excess of joy, occasioned by this agreeable answer,

returned, and recounted to his master all that this lady of rank had

said, extolling to the skies, in his rustick phrase, her exceeding

beauty, good-humour, and politeness. The knight chose one of his

genteelest attitudes, fixed himself well in his stirrups, adjusted his

vizor, quickened Rozinante, and with an agreeable air, advanced to pay

his respects to the duchess; who, while he approached, ordered her

husband to be called, and communicated the curious embassy. As they had

read the first part of the history, from which they learned the

extravagant humour of Don Quixote, they waited with infinite pleasure,

and the most eager desire of being acquainted with the original, fully

determined to gratify his humour in every thing, and treat him all the

time he should stay with them, as a real knight-errant; that is, with

all the ceremonies described in those books of chivalry they had read,

and to which, indeed, they were greatly attached. Meanwhile, Don Quixote

approaching with his beaver up, made a motion to alight, and Sancho made

haste to hold the stirrup; but he was so unfortunate, that in

dismounting from Dapple, he slipped his foot through the noose of the

stirrup rope, in such a manner, that he could not possibly disentangle

himself, but continued hanging with his face and part of his body on the

ground. The knight, who never alighted without his assistance, imagining

that Sancho, as usual, held the stirrup, threw himself off with a swing,

and the saddle, which must have been very ill girted, and he, came to

the ground together; not without great disgrace, and a thousand curses

which he muttered between his teeth against the unfortunate Sancho,

whose leg was still in the stocks.

The duke, seeing their distress, ordered his huntsman to assist the

knight and squire; and they lifted up Don Quixote, who was very much

bruised by the fall; nevertheless, he advanced as well as he could, with

a limping pace, and kneeled before this noble pair: but the duke would

by no means allow him to remain in that posture; on the contrary,

alighting from his horse, he ran to embrace the knight, saying, ‘I am

heartily sorry, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that the first

time you touch my ground, you should be so unlucky; but the carelessness

of squires is often the cause of greater misfortunes.’—‘This accident,

valiant prince,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘cannot possibly be deemed a

misfortune, though I had been plunged into the profound abyss; for even

from thence should I have been raised and extricated by the glory of

seeing your grace. My squire, whom God confound! is more ready at

untying his tongue, in order to utter malicious insinuations, than at

tying and securing the girth of a saddle; but whether fallen or exalted,

afoot or on horseback, I shall always be devoted to your service, and

that of my Lady Duchess, your grace’s worthy consort, the dignified

queen of beauty, and universal princess of politeness’—‘Softly, my good

Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha,’ said the duke, ‘where my Lady

Dulcinea del Toboso reigns, no other beauty deserves applause.’

By this time Sancho Panza had disentangled himself and come up, and

interposing in the discourse, before his master could make any reply,

‘It cannot be denied,’ said he, ‘but must always be affirmed, that my

Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is extremely beautiful: but the hare starts

where she is least expected; for I have heard it said, that the power

called Nature is like a potter, who, if he can make one beautiful

vessel, can in like manner make two, three, aye, and a hundred; this, I

observe, because, in good faith, my Lady Duchess comes not a whit behind

my Lady Mistress Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’ Don Quixote turning to the

duchess, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that no knight-errant upon

earth has such a prattling and free-spoken squire as mine; and he will

certainly verify my words, if your highness shall be pleased to make use

of my service for a few days.’—‘I have the better opinion of honest

Sancho, for his being free-spoken,’ answered the duchess: ‘that is a

sign of his discretion; for pleasantry and wit, Signior Don Quixote, as

your worship very well knows, do not love to dwell in a reserved

disposition; and therefore, since honest Sancho is frank and

free-spoken, I from henceforth set him down as a man of

discretion.’—‘And loquacity,’ added the knight. ‘So much the better,’

said the duke; ‘for a great deal of wit cannot be expressed in a few

words; and that we may not spend more time in them, come, renowned

Knight of the Rueful Countenance——’ ‘Of the Lions, your highness must

call him,’ cried Sancho; ‘the Rueful Countenance is no more.’—‘Of the

Lions let it be then,’ continued the duke; ‘I say, come, Sir Knight of

the Lions, to a castle I have in this neighbourhood, where you shall

meet with that reception which is due to a person of your fame and

character, and that respect which I and the duchess always pay to the

knights-errant who favour us with their company.’

By this time Sancho having replaced and secured Rozinante’s saddle, Don

Quixote bestrode that famous steed; and the duke mounting a beautiful

courser, they rode towards the castle, on each side of the duchess, who

desired Sancho to keep close to her; for she took infinite pleasure in

hearing his conceits. Indeed, the squire did not need intreaty, but

mingling among the three, made a fourth in the conversation, to the

unspeakable satisfaction of their graces, who thought themselves

extremely fortunate in having an opportunity of entertaining, at their

castle, such a knight-errant, and such an erring squire.

CHAP. XIV.

WHICH TREATS OF MANIFOLD IMPORTANT SUBJECTS.

Sancho rejoiced exceedingly at seeing himself, as he thought, a

favourite with the duchess; for being a staunch well-wisher to good

cheer, he imagined he should find the same abundance in the castle,

which prevailed in the houses of Don Diego and Basilius, and always took

by the forelock every occasion of living at his ease. The history then

relates, that before they reached the castle or pleasure-house, the duke

riding on before, directed his servants how to behave to Don Quixote;

who no sooner arrived at the gate with the duchess, than two lacquies or

grooms came forth, clad in long trailing morning-gowns of fine crimson

sattin, and lifting him off, said, without being heard or perceived,

‘Your highness must go and help my Lady Duchess to dismount.’ The knight

took the hint, and a dispute of compliments passed between them on the

subject; but, at length, the obstinacy of the duchess prevailed; for she

would not quit her palfrey, or alight, except in the arms of the duke,

saying, she was not worthy to load such an excellent knight with such an

useless burden; at last, the duke came out to perform the office, and

when they entered the court-yard, they were met by two beautiful

damsels, who threw a mantle of the finest scarlet over Don Quixote’s

shoulders, and the corridores were instantly crouded with servants of

both sexes, who exclaimed aloud, ‘Welcome, thou flower and cream of

knights-errant!’ while all, or the greatest part of them, emptied

bottles of sweet water upon him and their graces, to the admiration of

Don Quixote, who now, for the first time, was sure and satisfied of his

being a real, and not a fantastick knight-errant, because he saw himself

treated as the knights of former ages whose histories he had read.

Sancho quitted Dapple, and betaking himself to the duchess, entered the

castle; where, however, his confidence upbraiding him for having left

his beast alone, he made up to a reverend duenna, who with others had

come out to receive the duchess, and accosting her in a soft voice,

‘Signora Gonçalez,’ said he, ‘or what’s your name, Madam?’—‘My name is

Duenna Rodrigues de Grijalva,’ answered the gentlewoman; ‘what are your

commands, brother?’—‘I wish you would do me the favour, good Madam,’

replied the squire, ‘to go to the castle-gate, where you will find a

dapple ass of mine, and be so good as either to send or lead him to the

stable; for the poor creature is a little timorous, and cannot bear to

be alone, by any manner of means.’—‘If the master be as wise as the

man,’ cried the duenna, ‘we have brought our pigs to a fine market; get

you gone, brother, with a vengeance to you, and those who brought you

hither, and take care of your ass with your own hands; the duennas of

this house are not used to such employment.’—‘But, for all that,’ said

Sancho, ‘I have heard my master, who is a perfect mine of history, tell

us how, when Lancelot came from Britain, ladies tended his own person,

and duennas took care of his horse; now, with respect to my ass, I

declare I would not exchange him for Signior Lancelot’s courser.’—‘Hark

ye, friend,’ replied the duenna, ‘if you are a jack-pudding, keep your

jokes for a proper place, where they may turn to account; from me you’ll

get nothing but a fig for them.’—‘Very well,’ said the squire, ‘I’ll

answer for its ripeness; your worship won’t lose your game by a short

reckoning.’—‘You whoreson,’ cried the duenna, in a violent rage,

‘whether I am old or not, I must render an account to God, and not to

such a garlick-eating rascal as you.’

This address she pronounced in such an audible voice, that she was

overheard by the duchess; who, turning about, and seeing her woman in

such wrath and trepidation, asked, with whom she was in such passion.

‘With this honest fellow, here,’ answered the duenna; ‘who has earnestly

desired me to go and house an ass of his, that stands at the

castle-gate, telling me, forsooth, as an example, that the same

employment was undertaken by some ladies, who took care of one Lancelot,

while the duennas looked after his horse; and to crown the compliment,

he tells me I am old.’—‘I, myself,’ said the duchess, ‘would construe

that into the greatest affront that could be given.—Take notice, friend

Sancho, that Donna Rodriguez is in the prime of her youth; and that the

veil she wears is more for authority and custom, than on account of her

years.’—‘Accursed be those I have to live,’ cried the squire, ‘if I

spoke to her for that reason; but, only for the great affection I bear

to my ass, whom I thought I could not recommend to a more charitable

person than Signora Donna Rodriguez.’ Don Quixote overhearing all that

passed, ‘Is that proper discourse for this place, Sancho?’ said he.

‘Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘every man must speak of his wants where

he finds them; here I thought of Dapple, and here I talked of him; and

if he had come into my head in the stable, there too he should have been

honourably mentioned.’ Here the duke interposing, ‘Sancho is very much

in the right,’ said he, ‘and must not be blamed for what he has said;

Dapple shall have no more to do but ask and have as much provender as he

can eat; for that Sancho may be quite easy in that respect, for his

beast shall be treated like his own person.’

This conversation, which was extremely agreeable to all, except Don

Quixote, brought them to the top of the stair-case: and the knight being

conducted into an apartment, hung with the richest tissue and brocade,

was unarmed, and attended by six sprightly damsels, well instructed by

the duke and duchess in the particulars of behaviour which they were to

observe towards Don Quixote, in order to convince him that he was

treated in all respects like a knight-errant. Thus disarmed, he remained

in his strait breeches and shamoy doublet, so long, so lank, so lean,

with his lanthorn jaws kissing each other, that if the damsels had not

been very careful in preserving their gravity, according to the precise

orders they had received, they must certainly have burst with laughing

at sight of such an uncouth figure. They desired he would allow them to

undress and shift him; but he would not assent to this proposal, saying

that knights-errant ought to be as remarkable for decency as for valour:

he therefore bade them deliver the shirt to Sancho, with whom shutting

himself up in a chamber, furnished with a magnificent bed, he was

immediately undressed and shifted. Then being alone with his squire,

‘Tell me,’ said he, ‘thou modern buffoon and ancient blockhead! was it

thy province to dishonour and affront a venerable duenna, so worthy of

reverence and respect! Was that a time to think of Dapple? or couldst

thou imagine those noble persons would neglect the cattle belonging to

guests whom they treated with such elegance? For the love of God,

Sancho; set a guard upon thy tongue, and behave so as that people may

not discover, by the thread, the coarse country web of which thou art

woven: consider, sinner as thou art, that the matter is respected in

proportion to the discretion and good-breeding of his servants; and this

is one of the great advantages which noblemen have over people of

inferior rank: dost thou not consider, thou plague to thyself, and

vexation to me! that if they perceive thee to be a base-bred clown or

blundering fool, they will take me for some cheating impostor or knight

of the post! No, no, Sancho, shun and avoid those inconveniences; for he

who sets up for a merry-andrew, falls at the first stumble into a

disgraced buffoon: bridle thy tongue, therefore, consider and ruminate

well, before the words issue from thy mouth; and remember that we are

now arrived at a place from whence by the favour of God, and the valour

of mine arm, we shall depart, bettered three, nay, five-fold, both in

fortune and in fame.’ Sancho promised, with repeated assurances, that he

would rather stitch up his mouth, or bite off his tongue, than utter one

word that should not be pat to the purpose, and well considered,

according to his command; and that he might make himself perfectly easy

on that score, for by him it should never be discovered who they were.

Don Quixote having dressed himself, girded on his sword, thrown the

scarlet mantle over his shoulders, and covered his head with a cap of

green velvet, which he received from the damsels, came forth thus

equipped, into the great hall, where he found the maidens placed in two

equal rows, furnished with the implements for hands-washing, which they

administered with profound respect and abundance of ceremony: then came

the major-domo, attended by twelve pages, to conduct him to the table

where their graces waited for him; he was accordingly surrounded by

these domesticks, and led with great pomp and majesty into another hall,

in which appeared a table, nobly decorated, with four covers. The duke

and duchess came to the door to receive him, attended by one of those

grave ecclesiasticks who govern the families of noblemen; who being of

no birth themselves, know not how to direct those who are; who seek to

measure the grandeur of the great by the narrowness of their own souls;

and, in attempting to make their pupils œconomists, convert them into

downright misers: such, I say, was the grave clergyman who came out to

receive Don Quixote, with the duke and duchess. After a thousand

courteous compliments, they walked on each side of him to the table,

where the duke complimented him with the upper end; and though he

refused that honour, they importuned him so much, that he was obliged to

comply; the clergyman sitting opposite to him, and the duke and duchess

taking their places at the sides.

Sancho, who was present at all this ceremony, being confounded and

astonished at the honours which were paid to his master, and perceiving

the formality and entreaties that passed between his grace and Don

Quixote, about sitting at the head of the table, intruded himself, as

usual, into the discourse, saying, ‘With your honour’s leave, I’ll tell

you a story of what happened in our village, with respect to the

upper-hand in sitting.’

Scarce had he pronounced these words, when the knight began to tremble

with apprehensions that he was going to utter some absurdity; but the

squire seeing and understanding the cause of his matter’s trepidation,

‘Signior,’ said he, ‘Your worship needs not be afraid that I shall

misbehave, or say, something that is not to the matter in hand; for I

have not forgot the advice I just now received from your worship, about

speaking a little or a great deal, to the purpose, and not to the

purpose.’—‘I know nothing at all of the matter,’ answered the knight;

‘say what thou wilt, so thou sayest it quickly.’—‘Well then,’ replied

Sancho, ‘what I am going to say, is true, for my master Don Quixote,

here present, would not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘As for me,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘you may lye as much as you please, without lett or

molestation: but I advise you to consider well what you are about to

say.’—‘I have it so well considered and reconsidered, that I am as safe

as he that has the repique in hand, as will appear in the

performance.’—‘Your graces will do well,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to order

the servants to turn out this madman, who will commit a thousand

blunders.’—‘By the life of the duke!’ cried the duchess, ‘I will not

part with my good friend Sancho, for whom I have a very great respect,

because I know him to be a person of wit and pleasantry.’—‘Pleasant may

all the days of your holiness be, for your good opinion, of my deserts,’

said the squire; ‘though God knows, they are but slender enough:

however, my story is this.

‘There was an invitation given by a gentleman of our town, who was both

rich and well born, as being come of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and

married to Donna Mencia de Quinones, daughter of Don Alonzo de Maranon,

Knight of the Order of St. Jago, who was drowned in the Herradura, and

occasioned a quarrel some years ago in our village, in which, if I am

not mistaken, my master Don Quixote was concerned; but this I know, mad

Tom, the son of old Balvastro the blacksmith, was hurt on that

occasion.—Now, Sir Master of mine, is not this God’s truth; speak upon

your worship’s honour, that these noble persons may not look upon me as

a chattering lyar?’—‘Hitherto,’ said the clergyman, ‘I take you to be a

chatterer rather than a lyar; but I know not what I shall take you for

in the sequel.’—‘Thou hast produced so many witnesses and tokens,’

replied the knight, ‘that I cannot but say thy story looks like truth;

proceed, however, and shorten thy tale, for thou art in the way of

lengthening it out for the space of two whole days.’—‘He shall not

shorten it,’ said the duchess, ‘if he consults my entertainment; but, on

the contrary, tell it in his own way, though it should not be finished

in six days; for should it hold out so long, they will be some of the

pleasantest I ever passed.’

‘Well, then, my masters,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same gentleman, whom I

know as well as I know these two hands, for it is not above a bow-shot

from his house to mine; invited a farmer, who, though not rich, was a

very honest man.’—‘Dispatch, brother,’ cried the priest, interposing,

‘for at this rate, your story will reach to the other world.’—‘It will

hardly go half so far, an it please God,’ answered the squire; who thus

proceeded: ‘So, as I was saying, the farmer going to the house of the

gentleman inviter, who is now dead, God rest his soul! by the same token

they say he died like an angel; for my own part, I was not present at

his death, having gone a reaping to Tembleque.’—‘As you hope to live,

son,’ cried the ecclesiastick, ‘return quickly from Tembleque, and

finish your story, without staying to inter the gentleman, unless you

have a mind to bury us all?’—‘Well, to come to the point,’ replied

Sancho; ‘when the two came to be seated at table. Methinks I see them

now more than ever.’ The duke and duchess were infinitely pleased with

the disgust which the reverend ecclesiastick expressed at the tedious

and circumstantial manner in which the squire related his story, while

Don Quixote was almost consumed by shame and indignation. ‘I say,

moreover,’ resumed Sancho, ‘that the two, as I have already observed,

coming to sit down at the table, the farmer obstinately refused to take

the upper-end, according to the desire of the entertainer; while the

gentleman on the other hand as obstinately insisted upon his compliance,

alledging that he ought to be master in his own house; but the farmer,

who piqued himself upon his politeness and good-breeding, still

persisted in his refusal, until the gentleman, growing angry, took him

by the shoulders, and thrust him into the seat, saying, “Know, Mr.

Chaff-thresher, that wheresoever I sit, I shall always be at the head of

the table.” Now this is my tale, and I really believe it was brought in

pretty pat to the purpose.’

Don Quixote’s brown face was speckled with a thousand different colours

at this recital: and their graces restrained their laughter, that he

might not be quite abashed at the sarcastick insinuation of his squire.

To change the discourse, therefore, and prevent Sancho from uttering any

other such dangerous contents, the duchess addressing herself to the

knight, asked, when he had heard from the Lady Dulcinea; and if he had

lately sent her any presents from the great number of giants and robbers

whom he must have vanquished. To this interrogation the knight replied,

‘My misfortunes, Madam, though they had a beginning, will never have an

end. Giants I have vanquished; felons and robbers I have sent; but where

must they find her, inchanted and transformed as she is, into the most

homely country wench that can be imagined!’—‘This I know,’ said Sancho

Panza: ‘to me she seemed the most beautiful creature in the whole world;

at least, in point of nimbleness and leaping, she would get the better

of a professed rope-dancer.—In good faith, my Lady Duchess, she skipped

from the ground upon her ass, like a perfect cat.’—‘What! have you seen

her inchanted, Sancho?’ said the duke. ‘How! I seen her?’ replied the

squire: ‘who the devil but I was the first that fell upon the plot of

the inchantment: to be sure she was as much inchanted as my father.’

The ecclesiastick hearing them talk of giants, felons, and inchantments,

began to imagine that this must be the Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose

history the duke took such delight in reading, that he had often

reprehended his grace for being so mad as to read such nonsense; and

being now confirmed in his suspicion, he said to the duke, in a very

cholerick tone, ‘Signior, your excellency is accountable to Heaven for

the actions of that poor man. That Don Quixote, or Don Driveller, or

what’s his name, would not, I imagine, be such a fool, if your

excellency did not administer fuel and encouragement to his madness and

folly.’ Then addressing himself to the knight, ‘And pray, Mr. Wiseacre,’

said he, ‘who has stuffed your brain with the ridiculous conceit of your

being a knight-errant, conquering giants, and apprehending robbers?

Return, in good hour, (for in good hour I advise you) return to your own

house, educate your children, if you have any, take care of your own

concerns, and leave off strolling about the country, sucking the wind,

and exposing yourself to the laughter of those who do, and those who do

not, know your infirmity. Where, in evil hour, did you find that there

are, or ever were, knights-errant? Where did you ever see giants in

Spain, caitiffs in La Mancha, or inchanted Dulcineas, with all that

tribe of absurdities that are recounted as your adventures?’

Don Quixote, who listened attentively to the discourse of this venerable

person, no sooner perceived he had left off speaking, than forgetting

the respect he owed the duke and duchess, he started up, and with ireful

aspect and glowing visage, replied——But the reply deserves a chapter for

itself.

CHAP. XV.

CONTAINING DON QUIXOTE’S REPLY TO HIS REPROVER;

WITH OTHER SERIOUS AND DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

Don Quixote starting up, and trembling from head to foot, like

quicksilver, thus accosted the ecclesiastick, with an eager, yet

faultering tongue: ‘The place and presence in which I am, and the

respect which I always had and still have for the function you profess,

withold and tie up the hands of my just resentment; for these reasons,

as well as because I know what all the world knows, that gownmen and

women make use of no weapons but their tongues, I will, with mine,

fairly engage your reverence, of whom I might have expected good advice,

rather than infamous reproach; as wholesome and well-meant reproof

requires far other circumstances, and ought to be conveyed in gentler

terms: at least, a rebuke in publick, delivered with such asperity, has

exceeded all the bounds of Christian reprehension, the beginning of

which ought to be mild rather than severe; nor is it just to call the

delinquent in plain terms, a wiseacre and a fool, without knowing the

nature of the fault for which he is reprehensible. But, pray tell me,

reverend Signior, for which of the absurdities you have noted in my

behaviour, do you condemn and reproach me, bidding me return to my own

house, to take care of my family, my wife and children, without knowing

whether I have either wife or children? What then! is there nothing

required but to enter a house at random, in order to lead the master by

the nose; and shall a narrow-minded pedant, on the strength of having

taught a few pupils to read Latin, though he has seen no more of the

world than what may be contained in twenty or thirty leagues of

district, presume abruptly, without permission, to give laws to

chivalry, and judge of knights-errant? Is it a vain undertaking then, or

is the time misspent, which we employ in travelling about the world, not

in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend

the throne of immortality? Had I been counted a fool by knights, or

people of fashion, birth, or generosity, I should have deemed myself

irreparably affronted; but my being regarded as a madman by book-worms

who never entered or trod the paths of chivalry, I value not a farthing;

a knight I am, and a knight I shall die according to the pleasure of the

Almighty. Some chuse the spacious field of proud ambition; others take

that of base and servile adulation; a third set follow the paths of

deceitful hypocrisy; and a fourth proceed in that of true religion; but

I, by the influence of my stars, pursue the narrow track of

knight-errantry, for the exercise of which, I undervalue fortune in the

chace of honour. I have assisted the aggrieved, redressed wrongs,

chastised the insolent, overcome giants, and overthrown hobgoblins. I am

enamoured, for no other reason but because it is necessary that

knights-errant should be in love; and this being the case, I am not a

vicious libertine, but a chaste platonick admirer. My intention I always

direct to a worthy aim, namely, to do good unto all men, and harm to no

creature.—Whether or not he who thinks, acts, and speaks in this manner,

deserves to be called a fool, let your graces determine?’

‘Well argued, master!’ cried Sancho: ’‘Fore God! your worship needs say

no more in behalf of your own character; for there is no more to be

said, thought, or insisted upon; especially as that gentleman denies,

and he certainly has denied, that there either are, or ever were,

knights-errant in this world; so that he knows nothing at all of the

matter!’—‘Brother,’ replied the priest, ‘belike you are that Sancho

Panza, to whom they say your master has promised an island?’—‘Yes, I

am,’ said the squire, ‘and I hope I deserve it as well as another. I am

one of whom you may say, Keep good company, and you’ll learn good

manners; and, I ask not where you was hatched, but where you was

watched. And again, Well sheltered shall he be, who leans against a

sturdy tree. Now I have leaned against a good master, and accompanied

him many months, and will learn to be just such another as himself; and

if God pleases, and he live and I live, he will not want governments to

give, nor I islands to govern.’—‘No, surely, friend Sancho,’ said the

duke, ‘for I myself, in the name of Signior Don Quixote, will confer

upon you the government of an odd island, and that not inconsiderable,

which is in my possession.’—‘Fall upon your knees, Sancho,’ cried Don

Quixote, ‘and kiss his excellency’s feet, for the honour he has done

you.’ Sancho did as he was desired: and the ecclesiastick no sooner saw

the ceremony performed, than he rose from table in a violent passion,

saying, ‘By the habit which I wear, I affirm, that your excellency is as

mad as these poor sinners: what wonder that they should be frantick,

when people who are in their senses canonize their phrenzy! Your

excellency may enjoy their company by yourself; for while they remain in

this house, I shall stay in my own, and excuse myself from reproving

what I cannot remedy.’ Without farther speech, or eating another

mouthful, he went away abruptly, in spite of all their graces could say

to detain him. Indeed the duke said not much; for he was hindered by the

laughter which the priest’s impertinent indignation had produced;

however, as soon as he could resume his gravity, he addressed himself to

Don Quixote in these words.

‘Sir Knight of the Lions, your worship has made such an ample reply,

that nothing farther remains to be done, by way of satisfaction for

that, which though it may seem an affront, falls by no means under that

denomination; for neither the female sex nor the clergy, can give

affronts, as your worship so very well knows.’—‘Undoubtedly,’ answered

the knight; ‘and the reason is, because those persons who cannot

receive, are not capable of giving an affront. Women, children, and

ecclesiasticks, as they cannot defend themselves when attacked, so

neither can they be affronted: for there is this difference between an

injury and affront, as your excellency well knows; an affront comes from

a person who is capable of giving an affront, and when it is given,

maintains it; whereas, an injury may come from any quarter, unattended

by an affront. For example, a man walking carelessly in the street, is

assaulted and cudgelled by ten armed persons, against whom he draws his

sword, and behaves like a man of honour; but he is overpowered by the

number of his antagonists, and prevented from executing his intention,

which is to revenge the wrong; this man is injured, not affronted. A

truth which we will confirm by another example: A man comes and strikes

another, whose back is turned, and then betakes himself to his heels;

and the other pursues, though he cannot overtake the fugitive. The man

so struck received an injury, but no affront, because an affront ought

to be maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done by

stealth, in a cowardly manner, had drawn his sword, and stood facing the

enemy, he who received the blow would have been both injured and

affronted: injured, because he was surprized; and affronted, because he

who gave the blow maintained it by keeping his ground. And therefore,

according to the punctilios of honour, I may be injured but not

affronted; for women and children do not feel those things; they can

neither fly nor stand their ground: and the same rule holds good with

those who are consecrated to the service of religion. Now these three

classes of mankind are destitute of offensive and defensive weapons; and

though nature obliges them to stand in their own defence, yet they can

offend nobody: and albeit I just now said I might be injured, I now

affirm it cannot be in any shape; for he who cannot receive, much less

can he give an affront. For which reasons I ought not to resent, nor do

I resent, the reproaches of that honest man; I only wish he had staid a

little, until I should have convinced him of his error, in thinking and

saying, there never were, nor are, knights-errant upon the face of the

earth; an asseveration which might have turned to his prejudice, had it

been overheard by Amadis, or any one of his infinite progeny.’—‘I’ll

take my corporal oath,’ cried Sancho, ‘that they would have given a

back-stroke that would have laid him open from top to toe, like a

pomegranate or ripe melon: they were a rare set to endure such tickling.

By my holy-dame! I am well assured, that if Reynaldos of Montalvan had

heard this manikin’s discourse, he would have given him such a slap in

the mouth, that he should not have spoke another word in three long

years. No, no! let him meddle with them, and he’ll see how well he’ll

escape out of their clutches.’ The duchess had well-nigh died with

laughing at this speech of Sancho; who, in her sentiment, was a more

diverting madman than his master, and a great many people at that time

were of the same way of thinking.

Finally, Don Quixote was appeased, dinner ended, and the cloth being

taken away, in came four damsels, one of them with a silver ewer,

another with a flask of the same metal, a third with a couple of very

fine white towels over her arm, and a fourth with her arms bare up to

the elbow, and in her white hands, for doubtless they were white, a wash

ball of Neapolitan soap. She who carried the ewer, approaching with a

genteel carriage, and modest assurance, thrust it under the beard of Don

Quixote, who, without speaking one word, wondered at this ceremony; from

which he concluded, that it was the custom of the country to wash

beards, instead of hands: he therefore stretched out his chin as far as

he could, and immediately the flask began to rain; the damsel with the

soap-ball lathered him with great expedition, raising flakes of snow,

(for the suds were as white) not only upon the beard, but also over the

whole face of the obedient knight, insomuch that he was obliged to shut

his eyes in their defence; while the duke and duchess, who were not in

the secret, sat impatiently waiting to see the issue of this ablution.

The young she-barber having raised the lather as high as her hand,

pretended the water was spent, and bade the damsel of the flask go for a

fresh supply, and Signior Don Quixote would have patience till her

return. He accordingly waited with patience, exhibiting the strangest

and most ludicrous figure that ever was conceived, to the view of

numerous spectators, who seeing half a yard of neck more than moderately

brown, two eyes shut, and his beard covered with lather, had need of

great discretion to restrain their laughter, and it was a wonder they

could smother it at any rate. As for the damsels concerned in the joke,

they kept their eyes fixed on the ground, without daring to look at the

duke and duchess, who were at once agitated by mirth and indignation;

and did not know, whether they should resolve upon chastising their

presumption, or rewarding them for the pleasure they received in seeing

the knight in such an attitude. At length the damsel returning with more

water, they finished the ablution of Don Quixote; then she who carried

the towels having wiped and dried him with great composure, all four at

once made a most profound curtsey, and were going away. But the duke,

fearing the knight would smell the joke, called to the damsel of the

ewer, saying—‘Come hither, and wash me too, and be sure you have water

enough.’ The girl being very handy and acute, obeyed without hesitation,

placed the ewer under his grace’s chin, and when he was well washed,

lathered, wiped, and dried, they dropped their curtsies and retired. It

was afterwards known, the duke had sworn within himself, that if they

should have refused to serve him in that manner, he would have chastised

them for their assurance; but they prudently escaped a scouring, by

scouring his grace.

Sancho having attentively considered this ceremony of cleansing—‘God’s

mercy!’ said he within himself, ‘is it the custom in this country to

wash the squire’s beard as well as the knight’s? For God and my own

conscience knows, I have need of such purification; and if they would

give me the touch of a razor, the benefit would still be the

greater.’—‘What is that you mutter, Sancho?’ said the duchess. ‘I say,

my lady,’ answered the squire, ‘I have always heard it said, that in the

courts of other princes, when the cloth is taken away, water for the

hands is brought in, but not suds for the beard; so that the longer we

live, the more we learn: yet it is also observed, that he who lives much

time will bear much misfortune; though to undergo such a purification as

this may pass for a pleasure rather than a toil.’—‘Give yourself no

concern, friend Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘for I will order my maids

not only to wash, but also to lay you a-bucking, should it be

necessary.’—‘I shall be satisfied with the lathering of my beard,’

replied the squire; ‘at least for the present, and God will ordain what

is to happen in the sequel.’ The duchess turning to the

major-domo—‘Remember,’ said she, ‘what honest Sancho desires, and

gratify his inclination with the utmost punctuality.’ This domestick

promised that Signior Sancho should be obeyed in all things; and

returning to dinner with the squire, left their graces and Don Quixote

sitting at the table, discoursing on many and various subjects, though

all of them related to chivalry and the exercise of arms.

The duchess entreated the knight, who seemed to possess such a tenacious

memory, to delineate and describe the beauty and deportment of the Lady

Dulcinea del Toboso, who, she concluded, from what fame had proclaimed

of her charms, must be the fairest creature, not only in the whole

world, but even in La Mancha. Don Quixote sighing, at her grace’s

request—‘If,’ said he, ‘I could take out my heart, and lay it before

your highness in a plate, upon this table, I should save my tongue the

trouble of saying what is almost inconceivable, for in it your

excellency would see her picture at full length: but why should I now

attempt to delineate and describe circumstantially the particular charms

of the peerless Dulcinea? A burden worthy of other shoulders than mine,

and a task which ought to employ the pencils of Parrhasius, Timanthes,

and Apelles, together with the chissel of Lysippus, to exhibit her image

on canvas, brass, and marble, as well as the Ciceronian and Demosthenian

eloquence to sound her praise.’—‘What does Signior Don Quixote mean by

Demosthenian,’ said the duchess, ‘which is a word I never heard before

in the whole course of my life.’—‘Demosthenian eloquence,’ answered the

knight, ‘has the same signification as the eloquence of Demosthenes, and

Ciceronian means that of Cicero; for these two were the greatest orators

in the whole world.’—‘Certainly,’ said the duke, ‘and you exposed

yourself by such an interrogation: nevertheless, Signior Don Quixote

would give us infinite pleasure, could he be prevailed upon to describe

that beauty which, even in a sketch or rough draught, would certainly

appear such as might excite envy in the most beautiful women of the

creation.’—‘I would assuredly comply with your grace’s desire,’ replied

the knight, ‘were not her idea blotted from my remembrance, by the

misfortune which hath lately befallen her; a misfortune which induces me

to bewail rather than describe her; for your highness must observe, that

when I went some time ago to kiss her hands and receive her benediction,

consent, and licence, for this my third sally, I found her quite

otherwise than I expected; I found her enchanted and transformed from a

princess into a country wench, from beauty into deformity, from an angel

into a dæmon, from a delicious perfume into a pestilential vapour, from

the pink of compliment into the most clownish dialect, from light into

darkness, from a sedate young lady into a rustick romp, and finally,

from Dulcinea del Toboso into a Sayago[166] drab.’—‘God protect us!’

cried the duke with a loud voice, ‘who can have done such mischief to

the world, in robbing it of that beauty by which it was delighted, that

good humour by which it was entertained, and that modesty which did it

honour?’—‘Who?’ answered the knight; ‘who could it be, but one of the

malignant and envious tribe of enchanters, by whom I am persecuted? That

accursed race, brought into the world on purpose to obscure and

annihilate the exploits of the good, and to illustrate and extol the

deeds of the wicked. Persecuted I have been by enchanters, persecuted I

am by enchanters, and enchanters will persecute me, until I and all my

lofty feats of chivalry are plunged into the abyss of oblivion: nay,

they injure and wound me in that part where they know my feeling is most

acute; for to deprive a knight-errant of his mistress, is to rob him of

the eyes with which he sees, the sun by which he is enlightened, and the

support by which he is maintained. I have many times said, and now I

repeat the observation, that a knight-errant without a mistress, is like

a tree without leaves, a building without cement, and a shadow without

the substance by which it is produced.’

‘There is no more to be said,’ replied the duchess; ‘nevertheless, if we

are to believe the history of Signior Don Quixote, which has lately been

ushered into the world, with the general applause of the different

nations that compose it, we must conclude (if I right remember) that

your worship never saw the Lady Dulcinea, and that there is no such

person in being; but that it is only a fantastical mistress, begot and

born in your imagination, which hath decked her with all the graces and

perfection that fancy could conceive.’—‘Much may be said on that

subject,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘God knows whether or not there is such

a person as Dulcinea in the world, whether she is fantastical or not

fantastical; for these things are not to be too nicely investigated: for

my own part, I neither begat nor bore my mistress, although I

contemplate her with that admiration which is due to a lady, in whom are

concentered those qualities that ought to render her renowned throughout

the whole world, such as beauty without blemish, gravity without pride,

tenderness with chastity, affability from courtesy, courtesy from

good-breeding; and, finally, dignity from birth, because nobleness of

blood reflects an additional splendor upon beauty, and shews it to

greater perfection than that which we find, among the fairest of those

who are meanly born.’—‘Your observation is extremely just,’ said the

duke: ‘but Signior Don Quixote must give me leave to mention what the

history of his adventures, which I have read, obliges me to declare;

namely, that though we grant there may be a Dulcinea, either in or out

of Toboso, and that she may be beautiful to excess, as your worship has

described her, yet, in respect to pedigree, she is by no means on a

footing with the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, Madasimas, together with

the rest of that class, which occurs so often in those histories that

are so familiar to your worship.’

‘To that observation I can answer,’ said the knight, ‘that Dulcinea is

the daughter of her own works; that good qualities ennoble the blood,

and that a virtuous person of low descent ought to be more esteemed than

a vicious man of high degree; especially as Dulcinea possesses

qualifications which may raise her to the throne of a crowned and

sceptered queen; for the merit of a virtuous and beautiful woman is

sufficient to work still greater miracles, and virtually, though not

formally, contains within itself still greater advantages.’—‘Signior Don

Quixote,’ said the duchess, ‘every thing you say is spoken with

deliberation, and, according to the proverb, you proceed with the

plummet in your hand: henceforth I shall firmly believe, and make my

whole family, even the duke himself, should there be occasion, believe,

that Dulcinea is living at this day in Toboso; that she is beautiful,

high born, and in all respects worthy to be served and admired by such a

knight as Signior Don Quixote; and that is the highest compliment that

can be bestowed. But I cannot help forming a scruple, and entertaining a

kind of grudge against Sancho Panza: the scruple arises from a

particular of the history, importing, that the said Sancho found the

Lady Dulcinea winnowing a sack of wheat, when he carried a letter to her

from your worship, by the same token it is said to have been red wheat;

a circumstance that makes me doubt the nobleness of her pedigree.’

To this remark Don Quixote replied—‘Madam, your highness must know that

all or the greatest part of the incidents that happen to me, deviate

from the ordinary limits of those adventures which occur to other

knights-errant, either conduced by the inscrutable will of destiny, or

effected by the malice of some envious enchanter; and it is a

circumstance well known of all or the greatest part of renowned

knights-errant, that one possessed the virtue of being proof against

enchantment, another of being invulnerable, which was the case of the

famous Orlando, one of the Twelve Peers of France, who, as it is

recorded, could not be wounded in any other place but the sole of his

left foot, and even there, with no other weapon than the point of a

large pin; so that Bernardo del Carpio, who slew him at the battle of

Roncesvalles, perceiving that he could make no impression upon him with

steel, lifted him off the ground, and strangled him between his arms, in

imitation of the manner in which Hercules destroyed Anteus, that

ferocious giant said to be the son of Earth. What I would infer from

what I have said, is, that I too may have some of these virtues centered

in my person, though not that of being invulnerable, for I have been

frequently convinced by experience, that my flesh is very tender, and by

no means impenetrable; nor that of being proof against enchantment, for

I once found myself cooped up in a cage, in which the whole world would

not have had strength enough to inclose me, without the additional power

of enchantment; but since I freed myself from that confinement, I am apt

to believe that no other will ever interrupt the course of my

adventures; and, therefore, those enchanters, seeing that their wicked

arts will not take effect upon my own person, revenge themselves on

those things to which my affection is chiefly attached, and endeavour to

deprive me of life, by persecuting that of Dulcinea, for whom alone I

live. I therefore am persuaded, that when my squire delivered my

message, they had converted her into a coarse country wench, employed in

such a mean exercise as that of winnowing wheat: but I have already

said, that it could not be red wheat, nor indeed any sort of wheat, but

oriental pearls; and as a proof of this asseveration, I must tell your

highnesses, that when I lately went to Toboso, I could by no means find

Dulcinea’s palace; and the day following, while my squire Sancho beheld

her in her own figure, which is the fairest in the whole world, to me

she seemed a rustick and homely country wench, without any thing

sensible in her conversation; whereas she is in fact the very pink of

discretion and good sense. Now, since I myself neither am, nor, in all

probability, can be enchanted, she is the person enchanted, offended,

changed, perverted, and transformed, and in her my enemies have taken

vengeance upon me; so that, for her, I shall live in perpetual

affliction, until I see her restored to her former state; all this I

have observed, that nobody may scruple about what Sancho said of her

sifting and winnowing; for, since they have transformed her in my view,

no wonder they should change her form in his. Dulcinea is a person of

birth and fashion, one of the genteel families of Toboso, which are very

numerous, ancient and noble; and certainly no small part of these

qualifications falls to the share of the peerless Dulcinea, on whose

account the place of her nativity will become famous and renowned in

future ages, as Troy is become famous by Helen, and Spain by Cava,

though with a better title and nobler fame. On the other hand, I must

inform your graces, that Sancho Panza is one of the most pleasant

squires that ever served a knight-errant: sometimes his simplicity is so

arch, that to consider whether he is more fool or wag, yields abundance

of pleasure; he hath roguery enough to pass for a knave, and absurdities

sufficient to confirm him a fool; he doubts every thing, and believes

every thing; and often, when I think, he is going to discharge nonsense,

he will utter apophthegms that will raise him to the skies; in a word, I

would not exchange him for any other squire, even with a city to boot;

and therefore I am in doubt whether or not it will be expedient to send

him to that government which your grace has been so good as to bestow

upon him; although I can perceive in him a certain aptitude for such an

office; so that, when his understanding is a very little polished, he

will agree with any government, like the king with his customs; for we

know by repeated experience, that great talents and learning are not

necessary in a governor, as there are a hundred at least, who govern

like _jerfaulcons_, though they can hardly read their mother tongue;

provided their intention is righteous, and their desire to do justice,

they will never want counsellors to direct them in every transaction,

like your military governors, who being illiterate themselves, never

decide without the advice of an assessor. I shall advise him corruption

to eschew, but never quit his due: and inculcate some other small

matters that are in my head, which, in process of time, may redound to

his own interest, as well as to the advantage of the island under his

command.’

Thus far the conversation had proceeded between their graces and Don

Quixote, when they heard a number of people talking, and a great noise

in the palace, and presently Sancho entered the hall in a fright, tucked

with a dish-clout by way of bib, and followed by several boys, or rather

scullions and other small gentry, one of whom brought a tray full of

water, which, by its colour and filth, appeared to be dish-washings,

pursuing and persecuting the poor squire, and struggling to thrust it

under his chin; while another, with the same earnestness, endeavoured to

lather his beard. ‘What is the matter, fellows?’ cried the duchess,

‘what is the matter? What designs have you upon that worthy gentleman?

Hah! don’t you consider he is governor elect?’ To this apostrophe, the

barber scullion replied—‘The gentleman won’t suffer himself to be washed

according to the custom and manner practised upon my Lord Duke and his

own master.’—‘Yes, I will,’ cried Sancho in a violent passion, ‘but it

must be with whiter towels, clearer suds, and cleaner hands; for surely

there is not such a difference between me and my master, as that he

should be washed with angel water, and I drenched with devil’s lye. The

customs of different countries, and the fashions of princely courts, are

no farther good than as they are agreeable; but this here custom of

lathering is worse than the exercise of disciplinants[167]. My beard is

clean enough, and needs no such scrubbing; and if any man pretends to

lather me, or touch a hair of my head, (my beard I mean) saving this

honourable presence, I’ll drive my fist in his scull; for these

ceremonies of soap scouring look rather like making game than making

welcome.’ The duchess was ready to burst with laughing at the rage and

remonstrance of Sancho: but Don Quixote was not extremely well pleased,

to see his squire tucked up with such a dirty cloth, and surrounded with

so many sons of the kitchen; he therefore, making a low bow to the duke

and duchess, by way of asking their permission to speak, thus addressed

himself to the scullions, in a solemn tone—‘So ho, you gentlemen

cavaliers! I desire your worships will let the young man alone, and

return to the place from whence you came, or go whithersoever you

please; my squire is as cleanly as another, and those trays are as unfit

for him as a narrow-necked bottle: take my advice, therefore, and let

him alone; for neither he nor I understand such impertinent jokes.’ Here

Sancho, taking the word out of his master’s mouth, proceeded,

saying—‘No, no, let them perform their clumsy joke, which I shall bear

as sure as it is now night! let them fetch a comb, or what they will, to

curry this beard, and if they catch any thing that should give offence

to cleanliness, they shall shear me against the hair.’

At this period, the duchess still laughing—‘Sancho Panza,’ said she, ‘is

certainly in the right in all that he has said, and will be in the right

in all that he shall say; he is already clean enough, and as he

observes, has no occasion to be washed; and if he does not like the

custom of the place, he shall follow his own inclination[168]; besides,

you ministers of cleanliness have been extremely remiss and negligent,

not to say presumptuous, in bringing to such a personage and such a

beard, trays, wooden troughs, and dishclouts, instead of ewers and

golden basons, and towels of the finest holland: but the case is, you

are base-born miscreants, and like caitiffs as you are, cannot forbear

shewing the grudge you bear to the squires of knights errant.’ The whole

scullion ministry, as well as the major-domo, who came in with them,

believed her grace was actually in earnest, and sneaked away in great

shame and confusion, after having untied the dishclout from the neck of

Sancho, who seeing himself delivered from that imminent danger, went and

fell upon his knees before the duchess, saying—‘From great ladies great

benefits are expected; and this that I have now received from your

grace, I can in no other shape repay, than in wishing I were dubbed a

knight-errant, that I might spend all the days of my life in the service

of such a noble and exalted lady; a peasant I am, and Sancho Panza by

name, with a wife and family, and serve in quality of a squire; and if

in any of these respects I can serve your highness, I shall be more

speedy in obeying than your grace in laying your commands.’—‘Sancho,’

replied the duchess, ‘it plainly appears that you have learned

politeness in the school of courtesy itself; I say, it plainly appears,

that you have been bred up at the feet of Don Quixote, who is the cream

of compliment, and flower of ceremony, or, as you term it, Sarah-money:

long life and prosperity to such a master and such a pupil; one the

north-pole of knight-errantry, and the other the very star of squirish

fidelity. Rise, friend Sancho, and I will remunerate your politeness, by

prevailing upon my Lord Duke to perform his promise of the government

with all possible dispatch.’

Here the conversation being broke off, the knight retired to take his

afternoon’s nap[169], and the duchess desired Sancho, if he was not very

much disposed to sleep, to go and pass the evening with her and her

women, in a very cool and pleasant apartment. Sancho told her, that

although it was really his custom to sleep for four or five hours every

afternoon in the heat of summer, yet, for the satisfaction of her

grace’s goodness, he would that day strive, with all his might, to keep

himself awake, and obey her commands in all things: he accordingly

attended her steps; while the duke gave fresh directions for treating

Don Quixote as a real knight-errant, without deviating one tittle from

the stile in which the ancient knights are said to have been

entertained.

END OF BOOK II. PART II.

Footnote 166:

Sayago is a district in the kingdom of Leon, the inhabitants of which

were extremely poor, and very meanly cloathed.

Footnote 167:

In Spain and Italy there is, upon every Holy Thursday, a procession of

disciplinants, or people who do penance in sackcloth, carrying a

flambeau in one hand, and in the other a scourge, with which they

belabour their own shoulders, in such a manner, that the very street

is sometimes coloured with their blood: some of these disciplinants,

however, are mere hypocrites, who under their sackcloth wear women’s

stay’s, buff jackets, and even plates of tin; so that they are often

detected from the sound of the stroke: and at Rome nothing is more

common than to hear the people who accompany these devotees, call out,

according to the report of the application, ‘_Guipponi di

Buffalo!—Busti di Donna!_ and _Corrazini di Latta!_’

Footnote 168:

‘_Su alma en su palma._’ The original expression literally signifies,

‘His soul is in his hand,’ i. e. ‘He is at his own discretion.’

Footnote 169:

In Spain the people always retire after dinner, and sleep till six

o’clock, whence the afternoon’s nap is called _siesta_.

BOOK III.

CHAP. I.

OF THE PLEASANT CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE DUCHESS,

HER WOMEN, AND SANCHO PANZA;

WORTHY TO BE READ AND REMEMBERED.

The history then relates, that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon; but,

according to his promise, went, eating all the way, into the apartment

of the duchess, who took great delight in hearing his conversation, and

desired him to sit close by her on a joint-stool, though the squire, out

of pure good-breeding, begged to be excused; but her grace told him, he

should sit as governor, and speak as squire, for in both capacities he

deserved the individual seat of the champion Cid Roy Dias.

[Illustration: Sancho Panza and the Duchess and Her Ladies.]

Sancho, shrugging up his shoulders, obeyed and took his place,

surrounded by all the damsels and duennas, who listened with profound

silence and attention. Nevertheless, the duchess was the first who began

the discourse, saying—‘Now that we are by ourselves, unheard by any

body, I must entreat Mr. Governor, to resolve certain doubts of mine,

produced by the printed history of the great Don Quixote; one of which

doubts is this: as honest Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean, the Lady

Dulcinea del Toboso, nor conveyed to her the letter of Signior Don

Quixote, which remained with the memorandum book in Sierra Morena, how

durst he feign an answer, and pretend that he found her winnowing wheat,

a circumstance altogether ridiculous and untrue, so much to the

prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea’s reputation, and so ill becoming the

station and fidelity of a trusty squire?’

Without making any immediate answer to this interrogation, Sancho rose

from his seat, and moving softly on his tiptoes, with his body bent, and

a finger on his lips, examined the whole apartment, lifting up and

looking behind the tapestry; and this scrutiny being made, returned to

his stool, and replied—‘Now, my Lady Duchess, that I am assured there is

no skulker listening, and that we are not overheard by any but this good

company, I will, without fear or trembling, answer all the questions of

your grace; and first and foremost, I will own, I look upon my master

Don Quixote as an incurable madman; although sometimes he says things,

which, to my thinking, and in the opinion of all who hear them, are so

sensible and well-directed, that even Satan himself could not mend them:

nevertheless, I am really and truly, and without any scruple, fully

persuaded within myself, that he is downright distracted. Now as I am

possessed with this notion, I venture to make him believe any story,

without either head or tail, like that of the answer to his letter, and

another trick that I played him six or eight days ago, which is not yet

recorded in the history; I mean, the enchantment of Donna Dulcinea,

which I palmed upon him, though it was a tale as wild and uncertain as

the hills of Ubeda[170].’

The duchess desired he would recount that enchantment or deception; and

he accordingly related it exactly as it happened, to the no small

entertainment of the hearers; but when he was about to proceed in his

discourse, her grace interposing, said—‘From this recital of honest

Sancho, a scruple has started in my mind, and whispers me in the ear,

since Don Quixote de La Mancha is so lunatick, crazy, and mad, and his

squire Sancho Panza, who knows his infirmity, nevertheless serves and

follows him, and even depends upon his vain promises; the said squire

must, without all doubt, be more crazy and mad than his master; and if

this be the case, as it certainly is, it would be no great sign of

wisdom in you, my Lady Duchess, to bestow an island on such a governor;

for how will he be able to govern other people, who cannot govern

himself?’

‘’Fore God, my lady,’ cried the squire, ‘your scruple starts in the

right place; and I beg your ladyship will let it speak out in its own

way, for I know it speaks truth. Had I been wise, I should have left my

master long ago; but this was my fate and my misventure: I cannot do

otherwise, but follow him I must. We are of the same town; I have eaten

of his bread; I have an affection for him; he returns me his love, and

has given me his colts; but, above all, I am constant and faithful, and

therefore nothing can possibly part us but the sexton’s shovel. If your

highness does not chuse to perform your promise of the island, God made

me of a less matter, and perhaps your refusal may turn out to the ease

of my conscience; for maugre all my madness, I understand the proverb

that says, The pismire found wings to her sorrow: and perhaps Sancho the

Squire may get sooner to heaven than Governor Sancho; There’s as good

bread baked here as in France; and By night all cats are grey; and sure,

The man his lot may rue, who has not broke his fast by two; Between man

and man the maw cannot differ a span; and, as the saying is, With hay or

with straw we’ll fill up the craw; The little birds of the field have

God for their steward and shield; Four yards of coarse Cuenca stuff are

warmer than as much of fine Segovia serge; When we leave this world and

are laid in the ground, the Lord goes in as narrow a path as his

labourer; and, The pope’s body takes up no more room than the sexton’s;

for though the one be higher than the other, When we go to the pit, we

must lie snug, and make it fit; or, We shall be obliged to find room,

though scanty is the tomb: and so good night. Wherefore, I say again, if

your grace will not give me the island, because I’m a fool, I shall be

so wise as not to break my heart at the disappointment; and I have often

heard, that the devil skulks behind the cross; It is not all gold that

glitters; and that, From his oxen, his yokes, and his ploughs, Bamba the

husbandman was raised to the throne of Spain; and that from his riches,

pastime, and embroidery, Rodorigo was taken to be devoured by serpents,

if the rhimes of old ballads do not lye.’

Here Donna Rodriguez the duenna, who was one of the hearers,

interposing, ‘Wherefore should they lye?’ said she, ‘for the ballad says

as how they thrust King Rodorigo all alive into a tomb full of toads,

lizards, and snakes; and two days after, he was heard to cry with a weak

and doleful voice, “Now they eat me! now they gnaw the part in which I

sinned so heinously!” And therefore the gentleman is in the right to say

he would rather be a husbandman than a king, to be devoured by vermin.’

The duchess could neither help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna,

nor admiring the discourse and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she

replied—‘Honest Sancho very well knows whatsoever a knight promises must

be fulfilled, even though it should cost him his life; now, my lord and

husband the duke, though no errant, is, nevertheless, a knight; and

therefore will perform his promise of the island, in spite of all the

envy and malice of the world; let Sancho, then, be of good cheer; for

when he least thinks of the matter, he will see himself seated in the

saddle of his island and dominion, and grasp his government, which he

would not exchange for one of superfine brocade; but I charge him to

mind how he governs his vassals, who, I give him notice, are all people

of honest parents and approved loyalty.’

‘With respect to their being happy under my government,’ said the

squire, ‘you need not give me any thing in charge; for I am naturally

charitable and compassionate towards the poor; and, From him who can

knead and bake, it is not easy to steal a cake. By my salvation, they

shall not pass false dice upon me! I am an old dog, not to be taken in

with, “Come hither, poor Tray[171].” I know how to snuff my peepers upon

proper occasions; nor will I consent to walk with cobwebs in my eyes;

for I know where the shoe pinches. This I observe, because the righteous

shall always have the benefit of my heart and hand, but the wicked shall

have neither foot nor footing. In my opinion, every governor must have a

beginning in the art and mystery of government, and perhaps, in a

fortnight’s administration, I shall lick my fingers after the office,

and know as much of the matter as I do of day-labour, to which I was

bred.’

‘Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘you are certainly in the right; for no man

was ever a scholar at his birth; and bishops are made of men, and not of

blocks, but to return to our former discourse about the inchantment of

the Lady Dulcinea; I take it for an absolute certainty, and not a bare

asseveration, that Sancho’s scheme of deceiving his master, and making

him believe that the country wench was Dulcinea, whom the knight could

not know, because she was inchanted; I say, this scheme was altogether

the invention of one of those inchanters who persecute Don Quixote; for

I know, from very good authority, that the village maiden who skipped

upon the ass, was really and truly the individual Dulcinea del Toboso;

and that Sancho, in thinking himself the deceiver, was, in fast, the

person deceived: a truth of which we ought no more to doubt, than of

things we never saw; for Signior Sancho Panza must know, that here also

we have friendly inchanters, who, out of real regard, impart to us every

thing that passes, truly and distinctly, without circumlocution or

deceit; and therefore, Sancho may believe me, when I affirm, that the

jumping wench was, and is, Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as much inchanted

as the mother that bore her; and when we dream of no such thing, we

shall see her in her own shape, and then Sancho will be undeceived.’

‘There is nothing more likely,’ cried the squire; ‘and now I am apt to

believe my master’s account of the cave of Montesinos, where he saw my

Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, dressed in the same manner that I described,

when I inchanted her for my own amusement. Now, the whole affair must

have been quite the reverse, as your ladyship observes; for it cannot be

supposed that my ignorant pate could contrive, in an instant, such an

ingenious stratagem; nor can I think my master such a fool, as upon my

weak and meagre persuasion, to believe such an improbable device; but

for all that, my lady, your goodness ought not to take me for an

evil-minded person, seeing a blockhead, like me, is not obliged to bore

into the designs and knavery of abominable inchanters. I contrived the

scheme, in order to escape the displeasure of my master Don Quixote, and

not with any design to do him hurt; and if it has turned out otherwise,

there’s a Judge in heaven who knows the heart.’—‘Very true,’ answered

the duchess; ‘but tell me now, Sancho, the story of the cave of

Montesinos, which I shall be extremely glad to hear.’

Then Sancho Panza recounted every circumstance of that adventure, as it

hath been already related; and her grace having heard the whole—‘From

this incident,’ said she, ‘we may infer, that since the great Don

Quixote says he beheld in that place the same country wench whom Sancho

saw in the neighbourhood of Toboso, it could be no other than Dulcinea,

and that the inchanters of this country are very officious, and

extremely curious.’—‘This I will venture to say,’ replied Panza, ‘that

if my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is really inchanted, ’tis her own loss,

and that it is no business of mine to enter the lists with my master’s

enemies, who are certainly both wicked and numerous. True it is, she I

saw was a country-wench, for such I took her, and such I judged her to

be. If that was Dulcinea, it ought not to be laid to my charge, nor am I

to be blackened for that reason; yet I must be lugged in, at every bawdy

house bench, with “Sancho said this; Sancho did that; Sancho went, and

Sancho came!” as if Sancho were just such as they would please to make

him, and not the very same Sancho Panza who has already travelled all

the world over in books, as I have been informed by Samson Carrasco, who

is, at least, a batcheleering person of Salamanca; and such people

cannot tell an untruth, except when it comes into their heads, or will

turn to their account; wherefore, nobody has any right to meddle with

me; and seeing I live in good repute, and I have heard my master say, A

good name is better than tons of wealth, even shove me into this

government, and they shall see marvellous things; for he who has been a

good squire, will never become a bad governor.’

‘All that honest Sancho has uttered,’ said the duchess, ‘is Catonian

wisdom, or at least the very essence of Michael Verino[172],

_Florentibus occidit annis_. In a word, to speak in his own stile, A

good drinker is often found under a rusty cloak.’—‘In sober truth, my

Lady,’ answered Sancho, ‘I never in my life drank out of malice; from

thirst I might, for I have not the least spice of hypocrisy in my belly;

I drink when I chuse it, and even when I would rather be excused,

because I am desired so to do, that I may not seem shy or ill-bred; for

sure he must have an heart of marble who can refuse to pledge a friend;

for though I put on my shoes, I will not defile them; especially, as the

squires of knights-errant usually drink water, as they are always

strolling through forests, woods, and meadows, and over rocks and

mountains, without finding the smallest charity of wine, even though one

should offer to purchase it with an eye.’—‘I believe what you say,’

answered the duchess: ‘at present Sancho may go to rest; and we shall

afterwards talk more at large upon these subjects, and take order that

with all convenient dispatch he may be, to use his own words, shoved

into that same government.’

Sancho kissed his hands again, and begged her grace would be so good as

to give directions about the entertainment of Dapple, who was the light

of his eyes. When she asked, what he meant by Dapple—‘My ass,’ replied

the squire, ‘whom, rather than use the vulgar term, I call Dapple: when

I first came to the castle, I desired Madam Duenna here to take care of

him; and truly she was as much affronted as if I had called her ugly and

old; though I think it would be more natural and proper for duennas to

look after cattle, than to regulate rooms of state. God’s my life! what

a spite a gentleman of our town had to these waiting-gentlewomen.’—‘He

must be some ill-bred clown,’ said Donna Rodriguez the duenna; ‘for had

he been a gentleman of birth, he would have exalted them above the horns

of the moon.’—‘Enough, for the present,’ resumed the duchess: ‘hold your

tongue, Donna Rodriguez, and let Signior Panza make himself perfectly

easy, and leave me to take special care of Dapple, whom, as being a

moveable appertaining to Sancho, I will place him above the apple of

mine eye.’—‘The stable is a place good enough for him,’ answered the

squire; ‘for neither he nor I are worthy of being placed for one moment

above the apple of your highness’s eye; and I will as soon consent to

his being disposed of in that manner, as I would to drive a dagger in my

breast; for although, as my master says, in point of courtesy, one ought

to lose the game by a card too much, rather than by a card too little;

in respect to asses, and the apple of an eye, one ought to proceed

cautiously with the compass in his hand, and measure as he goes.’

‘Sancho may conduct him to his government,’ said the duchess, ‘and there

entertain him to his heart’s content; nay, even infranchise him from all

labour.’—‘Your grace, my Lady Duchess, needs not think much of that,’

replied the squire; ‘for I have seen more than one or two asses go to

governments; and therefore it will be no new practice if I carry Dapple

to mine.’

This remark renewed the laughter and satisfaction of the duchess, who

having dismissed him to his repose, went to communicate the conversation

to the duke; and this noble couple contrived and gave directions about

the execution of a pleasant joke upon Don Quixote, which should turn out

a famous incident, and be conformable in all respects to the stile of

chivalry; in which they invented a number, with such propriety and

discretion, that they are counted the best adventures contained in this

important history.

Footnote 170:

This is an expression proverbially applied to any story that is vague,

inconsistent, or of dubious authority; for the hills of Ubeda make an

extensive chain, the different parts of which are differently

denominated, from the different countries or districts through which

it extends; so that the whole is not easily ascertained.

Footnote 171:

In the original, ‘And thoroughly understand “_Tus, tus_”’; which is an

expression in Spain, to wheedle a cur.

Footnote 172:

A young Florentine, of great genius, who died in the seventeenth year

of his age, and was lamented by all the poets of his time.

CHAP. II.

WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE INFORMATION RECEIVED,

TOUCHING THE MEANS FOR DISINCHANTING

THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO:

ONE OF THE MOST RENOWNED ADVENTURES OF THIS BOOK.

Great was the satisfaction which the duke and duchess received from the

conversation of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and being confirmed in

their design of practising some jokes, which should bear a faint shadow

and appearance of adventures, they took the hint for a very

extraordinary contrivance, from the knight’s account of what had

happened to him in the cave of Montesinos: but what mostly excited the

admiration of the duchess, was the amazing simplicity of Sancho, who was

by this time brought to believe, as an infallible truth, the inchantment

of Dulcinea, though he himself was the only inchanter and projector of

that whole stratagem. Their graces having given directions to the

servants, touching the execution of the scheme they had laid, at the end

of six days they went forth to hunt the wild boar, with as great an

apparatus of hunters and spearmen as used to attend the king in person.

Don Quixote was presented with a hunting suit, and Sancho received

another of superfine green cloth; but the knight excused himself from

accepting the present, observing that, in a few days, he should be

obliged to resume the rugged exercise of arms, and therefore could not

encumber himself with baggage and wardrobes; as for the squire, he took

that which was offered to him, without scruple, intending to sell it

with the first opportunity.

On the morning of the appointed day, Don Quixote armed himself at all

points, Sancho put on his green suit, and mounting Dapple, which he

would not exchange for the best steed in the stable, mingled among the

troop of hunters: the duchess came forth very gaily caparisoned, and the

knight, out of pure courtesy and good breeding, would have held the

reins of her palfrey; but the duke would not consent to his performing

such an office. At length they arrived at a wood, between two very high

mountains, where the disposition being made, the toils set, and the

people distributed in their different posts, the hunt began with a vast

noise of hallooing and crying, and nothing could be distinctly heard for

the barking of the dogs and the sound of the horns. The duchess

alighted, and with a pointed boar-spear in her hand, took post in a

place through which she knew the wild beasts were used to come; the duke

and Don Quixote likewise dismounting, posted themselves on each side of

her grace, while Sancho stayed in the rear, without parting from Dapple,

whom he durst not quit, lest some misfortune should happen to that

darling beast.

Scarce had they set foot on ground, and taken their stations, supported

by a number of servants, when they beheld a monstrous boar baited by the

dogs and pursued by the hunters, running towards them, gnashing his

teeth and tusks, and foaming at the mouth. The knight no sooner

perceived this savage, than bracing his shield and unsheathing his

sword, he advanced to receive him; while the duke did the same with his

boar-spear; but the duchess would have been the foremost of the three,

had she not been restrained by her lord. Sancho alone seeing this

furious animal, forsook his friend Dapple, and running full speed, in

order to climb a lofty oak, found his endeavours altogether ineffectual;

for having surmounted one half of the ascent, the branch on which he

stood struggling to gain the top, unfortunately gave way, and in

falling, he was caught by another stump of the tree, so that he hung

dangling in the air, without being able to reach the ground. Perceiving

himself thus suspended, that his green suit was torn, and supposing that

if the wild boar should come up, he would be able to seize him as he

hung, he began to utter such doleful cries, and roar so hideously for

assistance, that all those who heard his clamour, without seeing his

situation, actually believed he was in the jaws of some savage beast. At

length the tusky boar being pierced and killed by the number of spears

that opposed him, Don Quixote turned about his head, in consequence of

Sancho’s cries, by which he recognized his faithful squire, whom he saw

hanging from the oak, with his head downwards, and hard by he perceived

Dapple, who did not forsake him in his calamity: and Cid Hamet observes,

that he very seldom saw Sancho without Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho,

such was the friendship and fidelity subsisting between them. Don

Quixote immediately advanced and unhooked Sancho; who finding himself

delivered, and fairly placed upon firm ground, examined the rent in his

hunting-suit, which grieved him to the soul; for in that dress he

thought he had obtained an invaluable inheritance.

About this time they laid the mighty boar across a sumpter mule, and

covering him with sprigs of myrtle and rosemary, carried him in triumph,

as the spoils of victory, to a large field-tent, pitched in the middle

of the wood, where they found the cloth ready laid, and the table

furnished with such a grand and sumptuous entertainment as well bespoke

the wealth and magnificence of the founder. Sancho presenting to the

duchess the skirts of his torn suit—‘If,’ said he, ‘this had been hare

or sparrow-hunting, my coat would have been secure from this unlucky

accident; for my own part, I do not know what pleasure there is in

attacking an animal, which, if he can once fasten his tusks on you, will

deprive you of life. I remember to have heard people sing an old ballad,

that says—

‘“May bears upon thy carcase feed,

As erst on Fabila they did.”’

‘That was a Gothick king,’ said Don Quixote, ‘who in going to the chace,

was devoured by a bear.’—‘That is the very thing I say,’ replied the

squire, ‘I would not have kings and noblemen run themselves into such

dangers, for the enjoyment of a diversion which, in my opinion, hardly

deserves the name, as it consists in murdering a poor beast that never

committed any crime.’—‘There, Sancho, you are mistaken,’ said the duke,

‘for the exercise of hunting wild-beasts is of all others the most

necessary and suitable to kings and noblemen. The chace is a picture of

war, comprehending schemes, feints, and stratagems, for taking advantage

of the enemy; by this we are enabled to endure extreme cold and

excessive heat, to contemn ease and undervalue sleep; our bodies acquire

strength, and our limbs agility; in a word, it is an exercise that

affords pleasure to numbers, and does prejudice to none; and what

renders it superior to all others is, that it cannot be enjoyed by every

body, like all the other kinds of sport, except hawking, which is also

peculiar to sovereigns and persons of rank; you must therefore alter

your opinion, Sancho, and when you are governor, employ yourself in the

chace, which you will find of incredible service.[173]’—‘Surely, that

cannot be,’ answered the squire; ‘a good governor will stay at home, as

if he had a broken bone. It would look rarely indeed, if, when people

fatigued with a journey, come to visit him upon business, he should be

taking his diversion upon the hills; in that case the government would

go to wreck. In good faith, my lord, such pastime is more proper for

idle folks than for governors: I intend, God willing, to amuse myself

with a game at cards at Easter, and with nine pins on Sundays and

holidays; for as to these chaces or cases, they neither suit my

condition, nor agree with my confidence.’—‘God grant Sancho may behave

as he says he will,’ replied the duke; ‘but there is a wide difference

between saying and doing.’—‘Let it be as wide as it pleases,’ cried

Sancho. ‘A good paymaster needs no pawn; God’s blessing is better than

early rising; and, The belly is carried by the feet, and not the feet by

the belly; I mean, that with God’s assistance, and a righteous

intention, I shall certainly be able to govern like any goshawk; aye,

aye, let them thrust their fingers in my mouth, and they shall see

whether or no I can bite.’

‘The curse of God, and all his saints, light on thee, accursed babbler!’

cried Don Quixote: ‘will that day never come, as I have often said, when

I shall hear thee speak sensibly and distinctly, without lugging in old

saws?—My Lord and Lady Duchess, I entreat your graces to let that madman

alone; otherwise he will grind your souls, not between two but two

thousand proverbs, dragged in as much to the purpose, and as seasonably

as I wish God may give him health, or me protection, if I desire to hear

them.’—‘The proverbs of Sancho Panza,’ said the duchess, ‘though more in

number than those of the Greek commentator, are not the less to be

esteemed for the conciseness of the apophthegms. I can safely say for

myself, that they give me much more pleasure than I should receive from

others, though better culled and more suitable to the occasion.’

In the midst of this and other such savoury conversation, they quitted

the tent, to examine some snares they had laid; in which amusement the

day was soon elapsed, and was succeeded by the night, which did not

appear so serene and composed as it might have been expected at the

season of the year, which was midsummer, but along with it came a

certain _darkness visible_, which greatly assisted the design of the

duke and duchess. When the night, therefore, began to fall, a little

after the twilight, all of a sudden the four quarters of the wood seemed

to be on fire, and here and there, and every where, they heard an

infinite number of cornets and other warlike instruments, as if a great

number of cavalry had been marching through the wood; so that the light

of the flames, and the sound of those warlike instruments, dazzled and

astonished the eyes and ears of the bye-standers, and indeed of all the

people in the wood. This noise was succeeded by innumerable _lelilles_,

or cries used by the Moors in battle; the trumpets and clarions exalted

their brazen throats, the drums rattled, and the fires resounded all

together, in such a continued and alarming concert, that the man must

have been utterly devoid of all sense who did not lose it in consequence

of such confusion and uproar. The duke was confounded, the duchess

amazed, Don Quixote astonished, Sancho Panza affrighted; and, finally,

even those who were let into the secret, seemed to be seized with

consternation, which produced among them a most dreary silence.

During this pause, came a postillion dressed, like a devil, and instead

of a cornet, blew an unmeasurable horn, which yielded an hoarse and

dreadful sound. ‘Holla! brother courier,’ cried the duke, ‘who are you?

where are you going? and what troops are those that seem to march across

the wood?’ To these interrogations the courier replied, in a dismal,

hollow tone—‘I am the devil, going in quest of Don Quixote de La Mancha;

those who follow are six troops of inchanters, who bring upon a

triumphant car the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso inchanted, accompanied

by the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to instruct Don Quixote in a

certain method for disinchanting the said Lady Dulcinea.’—‘If you were

the devil,’ answered the duke, ‘as you say you are, and your figure

seems to declare, you would have distinguished that same knight Don

Quixote de La Mancha, who now stands before you.’—‘’Fore God! and upon

my conscience,’ cried the devil, ‘I did not see him; for my thoughts are

so much distracted by different avocations, that I had forgot the

principal aim of my coming.’—‘Without doubt,’ said Sancho, ‘that devil

must be an honest man, and a good Christian, otherwise he would not

swear, ’Fore God, and on my conscience! Now I am fully convinced that

there must be some worthy people even in hell.’

Then the courier, without alighting, fixed his eyes upon Don Quixote,

and pronounced—‘To thee, the Knight of the Lions (and would I might see

thee in their clutches) am I sent by the unfortunate though valiant

knight Montesinos, who commanded me to desire, in his name, that thou

wouldst wait on the very spot where I should find thee, because he

brings along with him one Dulcinea del Toboso, in order to communicate

what will be necessary towards her disinchantment; and as this message

was the sole cause of my coming, there is no cause that requires my

longer stay. Devils like me be with thee, and good angels guard that

noble pair!’ So saying, he sounded his dreadful horn, and rode off,

without waiting for the least reply.

This address renewed the astonishment of all present, especially of

Sancho and Don Quixote; of Sancho, because, in despite of truth, he saw

they were resolved that Dulcinea should be inchanted; and of Don

Quixote, because he could not be certain of the truth of what had

happened to him in the cave of Montesinos. While he was wrapped in these

meditations, the duke accosted him, saying—‘Signior Don Quixote, do you

intend to wait?’—‘Wherefore not?’ replied the knight; ‘here will I wait,

courageous and intrepid, though all hell should come to assault

me.’—‘Then, for my part,’ cried Sancho, ‘if I see another devil, and

hear another horn like that which passed, I should as soon wait here as

in Flanders.’

About this time the night being more advanced, a number of lights began

to gleam through the wood, like the dry exhalations of the earth that

glide through the air, and are mistaken by ignorant people for shooting

stars: their fears were likewise invaded by a frightful sound, like that

occasioned by the massy wheels of waggons drawn by oxen; an harsh and

grating noise, from which the very bears and wolves (if any chance to be

in the way) are said to fly with terror. This uproar was succeeded by

another more terrible than all the rest; for all at once, at the four

corners of the wood, there really seemed to be four encounters or

battles: in one place was heard the horrid din of cannon; in another a

vast number of muskets were fired; here resounded the cries of the

combatants; there the Moorish _lelilles_ were repeated with vast

vociferation. In a word, the cornets, horns, bugles, clarions, trumpets,

drums, artillery, and musketry, but, above all, the dismal noise of the

cars, formed all together such a confused and horrible concert, that Don

Quixote was obliged to recollect his whole courage, in order to bear it

without emotion; but Sancho’s heart died within him, and down he came in

a swoon upon the train of the duchess, who received him as he fell, and

with marks of great concern, ordered her servants to throw water in his

face: in consequence of this application, he recovered, just as one of

the waggons with the creaking wheels came up to the place where they

stood. It was drawn by four lazy oxen, wholly covered with black

trappings, with a large lighted taper tied to each horn, and in the

waggon was raised a lofty seat, on which sat a venerable old man, with a

beard as white as snow itself, that flowed down below his middle, and a

large loose garment of black buckram; for the waggon being stuck full of

lights, it was easy to observe and distinguish every thing that it

contained. It was conducted by two ugly devils clad also in buckram,

with such hideous features, that Sancho no sooner saw them than he shut

his eyes, that they might not encounter such frightful objects. This

carriage being come up, the venerable senior rose up from his lofty

seat, and pronounced aloud—‘I am the sage Lirgandeo.’ He said no more;

and the waggon proceeded. Another carriage followed in the same manner,

with another old man inthroned, who ordering the waggon to stop, said

with a voice as solemn as the first—‘I am the sage Alquife, the great

friend of Urganda the unknown.’ And so the carriage proceeded. Then a

third approached in the same stile: but he who possessed this throne,

instead of being old like the others, was a robust man of a very

disagreeable aspect, who rising from his seat, like the other two,

exclaimed in a more hoarse and diabolical tone—‘I am the inchanter

Arcalaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis de Gaul, and his whole race.’ And

so the carriage passed on; but when they had proceeded a little way, the

three waggons halted, then ceased the dismal creaking of the wheels, and

no other sound was heard but that of an agreeable musical concert, which

rejoiced the heart of Sancho, who took it as a good omen, and in that

persuasion said to the duchess, from whom he had not budged an hair’s

breadth—‘My Lady Duchess, where there is musick there can be no

harm.’—‘As little should we expect any harm where there is light and

illumination,’ answered the duchess. ‘And yet,’ replied the squire, ‘we

may be easily burnt by such torches and bonfires as these,

notwithstanding all the light and illuminations they produced; but

musick is always a sign of joy and feasting.’—‘Time will shew,’ said Don

Quixote, who overheard the conversation; and he said well, as will

appear in the following chapter.

Footnote 173:

Literally, ‘And you shall see it will be worth a loaf that will serve

a hundred.’

CHAP. III.

BEING A CONTINUATION OF WHAT WAS IMPARTED TO DON QUIXOTE,

TOUCHING THE MEANS FOR DISINCHANTING

DULCINEA—WITH AN ACCOUNT OF OTHER SURPRIZING INCIDENTS.

Moving to the sound of this agreeable musick, came one of those

carriages, called triumphal cars, drawn by six grey mules, covered with

white linen, and upon each was mounted a penitent of light[174], clad

also in white, with a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car was

twice, nay thrice as large as the carriages which had passed, and the

tops and sides were occupied by twelve other penitents as white as snow,

with their lighted tapers: a sight that excited equal terror and

surprise. Seated on a lofty throne appeared a nymph, habited in robes of

silver tissue, bespangled with innumerable leaves of gold brocade; so

that her dress, if not rich, was extremely gaudy; her face was covered

with a delicate and transparent veil of fine tiffany, the plaits of

which could not conceal the beauteous features of a young lady; and the

number of lights enabled the spectators to distinguish her charms and

her age, which seemed to be turned of seventeen, but under twenty. Close

by her appeared a figure clad in what is called a robe of state, that

reached to his feet; and his head was muffled in a black veil. The cart

had no sooner come opposite to the duke and duchess and Don Quixote,

than the musick of the waits, the harps, and lutes, ceased all at once;

then this figure rising, threw aside his robe, and taking off the veil,

disclosed to view the horrible and incarnate form of death; at sight of

which Don Quixote was startled, Sancho overwhelmed with fear, and the

duke and duchess exhibited some affected marks of consternation.

This living death standing upright, began, with a languid voice and

tongue, but half awake, to repeat the following address—

‘I Merlin am, by histories bely’d.

That represent the devil as my fire:

A falshood sanction’d by the lapse of time.

I am the prince of magick, in whose breast

The Zoroastrick science lies intomb’d:

The rival of invidious Time, whose wings

Still seek to shade and darken all exploits

Atchiev’d by the illustrious errant knights,

For whom my friendship glows, and ever glow’d.

‘Tho’ all my fellows of th’inchanting tribe,

The magi and magicians, ever nurs’d

A disposition barbarous and harsh,

Mine still was tender, gentle, and humane,

A friend to all the various race of man.

In the profoundest cave of gloomy Dis,

Where my industrious spirit was employ’d

In forming mystick characters and spells,

Mine ears were wounded with the wailing cries

Of fam’d Dulcinea, that matchless fair.

‘I learn’d her strange inchantment, and condol’d

Her transformation from a gentle nymph

To the vile figure of a rustick wench.

And hundred thousand volumes I perus’d,

Fraught with the dark and diabolick art;

Then in the horrible and ghastly trunk

Of this dry skeleton my soul enclosed:

And now I come on purpose to impart

An easy remedy for her mishap.

‘O thou! the glory of all knights who wear

Impervious coats of mail and adamant;

Thou light and lanthorn, path, and north, and guide

Of all who quit the drowsy joys of sloth,

And starting from the lazy down, embrace

Th’ intolerable use and exercise

Of rude, unwieldy, sanguinary arms:

To thee I speak, great chief, whose valiant deeds

So far transcend the loudest blast of fame.

‘Quixote, for courage and discretion fam’d,

La Mancha’s mirrour, and the star of Spain,

In order to recover and restore

Thy peerless mistress to her former state,

Sancho, thy faithful squire, must undergo

Three thousand and three hundred stripes, apply’d

To his posteriors, passively expos’d;

And he himself must wield the pliant scourge

And start, and smart, and tingle with the pain.

Thus stands th’ irrevocable doom pronounc’d

By the fell authors of her dire mischance;

And on this errand, gentles, am I come.’

‘I vow to God!’ cried Sancho at this period, ‘not to mention three

thousand, I will as soon give myself three stabs with a dagger as three

single stripes with a scourge. Now, devil take such ways of

disenchanting! I cannot conceive what my buttocks have to do with

inchantments. Before God! if Signior Merlin can find no other method for

disinchanting my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he may e’en go enchanted to

her grave.’—‘Hark ye, Don Garlick-eating rustick,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I

shall take and tie you to a tree, naked as your mother bore you, and not

to mention three thousand three hundred, give you six thousand six

hundred lashes, so well laid on, that three thousand three hundred

twitches shall not pull them off; and answer me not a syllable, or I

will tear thy soul from thy body.’

Merlin hearing this declaration—‘Not so, neither,’ said he; ‘the lashes

to be received by honest Sancho must be voluntary, not upon compulsion,

and at his own leisure, for there is no time fixed for the final

execution; nevertheless, he is so far indulged, that he may be quit for

one half of the stripes, provided he will allow the other half to be

inflicted by another hand, though it may chance to be a little

weighty.’—‘No man’s hand shall touch my flesh! neither another’s, nor my

own, nor weighty nor unweighed. What a plague! did I, forsooth, bring my

Lady Dulcinea into the world, that my backside must suffer for the

transgression of her eyes? My master, indeed, who is a part of her, and

is continually calling her his life, his soul, his sustenance and

support, may, and ought to lash himself for her sake, and take with all

dispatch the necessary steps for her disenchantment; but for me to

scourge my own body, I denounce it!’

Scarce had Sancho uttered this remonstrance, when the embroidered nymph

who sat by Merlin’s spirit, rising up, took off her transparent veil,

and disclosing a face, which to all the spectators seemed more than

exceedingly beautiful, addressed herself in these words directly to

Sancho Panza, with a masculine assurance, and a voice that was not

extremely melodious—‘O ill-conditioned squire! thou soul of a pitcher,

heart of cork, and bowels of flinty pebbles! hadst thou been commanded,

thou nose-slaying caitiff, to throw thyself down from a lofty tower;

hadst thou been desired, thou enemy of human species, to swallow a dozen

of toads, twice the number of lizards, and three dozen of snakes; hadst

thou been urged to murder thy wife and children with some sharp and

ruthless scymitar, it would not have been strange to see thee shy and

fearful; but to make such objections to three thousand three hundred

stripes, which there is scarce a naughty boy that does not receive every

month, astounds, astonishes, and affrights the compassionate bowels of

all this audience, as well as of all those who shall hear it in the

future course of time. Turn, O miserable, hard-hearted animal! turn, I

say, thy mulish goggle eyes upon these balls of mine that emulate the

glittering stars, and see how they weep, thread by thread, and skein by

skein, creating trenches, paths, and furrows, through the delightful

meadows of my cheeks! Wilt thou not relent, thou crafty and malicious

monster, at seeing me, in the flower of my age, (for I am still in my

teens, being no more than nineteen, which is one year short of twenty)

consume and pine within the bark of a homely rustick wench? in which

form if I do not now appear, it is owing to the particular favour of

Signior Merlin, who has indulged me so far, that my beauty might melt

thy savage heart; for the tears of afflicted beauty soften rocks to

cotton, and transform tygers into gentle lambs. Chastise, chastise,

obdurate beast, that brawny beef of thine; arouze that slothful spirit

which inclines thee to nothing but to gorge and regorge thy voracious

maw, and set at liberty the beauty of my face; and if, for my sake, thou

wilt not mollify thyself, and listen to any reasonable terms, at least

relent in favour of that poor knight who stands forlorn at thy elbow; I

mean, thy master, whose soul I now can see traversed in his throat, not

above ten fingers breadth from his lips, waiting for nothing but thy

kind or rigorous reply, in consequence of which it will either leap out

of his mouth, or retire to his stomach.’

Don Quixote hearing these words, felt his throat, and turning to the

duke, ‘By Heaven! my lord,’ said he, ‘Dulcinea has spoke truth; for here

do I feel my soul traversed in my throat, like the nut of a cross-bow.’

When the duchess asked what Sancho said to that circumstance, ‘I say,’

replied the squire, ‘what I have said already, that the whipping I

denounce.’—‘You must call it renounce,’ said the duke, ‘and not

denounce.’—‘I would your grace would let me alone,’ answered Sancho,

‘this is no time for me to mind niceties and letters, more or less; for

I am so confounded at those stripes which I am to receive, or execute

upon myself, that I neither know what I am saying or doing: yet I should

be glad to know where my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso learned that manner of

asking favours. She comes to desire me to tear open my flesh with a

horse-whip, and calls me soul of a pitcher, obdurate beast, and a whole

rigmarole of villainous names, which the devil may suffer for me! What a

plague, is my flesh made of brass; or is it any thing to me, whether she

is disinchanted or no? What baskets of white linen, shirts, caps, and

socks, (though I wear none) does she bring to soften me? Nothing but

abuse upon abuse; without remembering the proverb, that says, An ass

loaded with gold will skip over a mountain. A generous gift the rock

will rift. We must fervently pray, and hammer away. I will give thee, is

good; but, Here, take it, is better. Then, my master, who ought to lead

me fair and softly by the hand, and persuade me with gentle words to

whip myself into wool and carded cotton, declares, forsooth, that if he

should once take me in hand, he will tie me naked to a tree, and double

the allowance of stripes. These angry gentlemen ought to consider it is

not only a squire, but a governor whom they desire to flog himself, as

if it was no more than drinking after cherries. Let them learn, let them

learn, with a vengeance, how to entreat and beg with good-breeding; for

all seasons are not the same; and a man is not always in good-humour;

here am I ready to burst with vexation to see the rent in my green coat,

and they must needs come and desire me to whip myself with good will,

when, God knows, I am as far from doing it with good will, as I am from

turning Turk[175].’

‘Nevertheless, friend Sancho,’ said the duke, ‘if your heart does not

become softer than a ripe fig, you shall finger no government of mine.

It would be a fine scheme, indeed, if I should send to my islanders a

cruel, flinty-hearted governor, who would not melt at the tears of

damsels in affliction; nor at the entreaties of wise, imperious, ancient

sages and inchanters! In a word, Sancho, you must either consent to whip

yourself, or be whipped, or lay aside all thoughts of being a

governor.’—‘My good lord,’ replied the squire, ‘will not they give me

two days to consider and determine what will be for the best?’—‘By no

means,’ cried Merlin: ‘on this very spot, and this very instant, the

business must be discussed; otherwise Dulcinea will return to the cave

of Montesinos, and the appearance of a country-wench; whereas, if you

comply, she will, in her present form, be transported to the Elysian

fields, where she must reside until the number of the stripes be

accomplished.’

‘Go to, honest Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘pluck up your spirits, and

behave like a grateful squire that has eaten the bread of Signior Don

Quixote, who is intitled to the service and acknowledgments of us all,

by his amiable disposition and sublime chivalry. Say Aye, my son, to

this same flagellation, and let the devil fetch the devil; leave fear to

the coward; for a stout heart quails misfortune, as you very well know.’

To these exhortations Sancho made no reply; but addressing himself to

Merlin, with his usual extravagance, ‘Good, your worship, pray tell me,

Signior Merlin, the meaning of one thing: a certain courier devil came

here with a message to my master, from Signior Montesinos, desiring him

to stay in this place until he should come up; for he would teach him a

way to disinchant my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and hitherto we have seen

no such person?’ To this interrogation Merlin replied, ‘That devil,

friend Sancho, is an ignorant blockhead, and a very great knave. I sent

him hither in quest of your master; not with a message from Montesinos,

but from myself; for Montesinos is still in his cave, planning, or

rather expecting his disinchantment, the worst of which is still to

come; but if he owes you any thing, or you have any business to transact

with him, I will bring you face to face wherever you shall appoint. In

the mean time, dispatch, and give your consent to this discipline;

which, I assure you, will greatly redound to the advantage both of your

soul and body: to your soul, from the charity of the undertaking; and to

your body, as I know you are of a florid complexion, and will be the

better for losing a little blood.’

‘What a number of leeches have we got in this world!’ said Sancho; ‘the

very inchanters are physicians; but since every body says so, although I

cannot perceive it myself, I am content to give myself three thousand

three hundred lashes, on condition that I may give them when and where I

shall think proper, without being confined to any certain time, or rate

of allowance; and I will endeavour to discharge the debt as soon as

possible, that the world may enjoy the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea del

Toboso, since, contrary to my former belief, she appears to be really

beautiful. I likewise covenant that I shall not be obliged to fetch

blood with the scourge, and that in case I should chance to be whipped

by the officers of justice[176], every lash so received shall enter into

the tale: Item, lest I should commit a mistake in the number, Signior

Merlin, who knows every thing, shall take care to reckon them, and give

me to understand how far I have fallen short, or exceeded the appointed

score.’—‘There will be no occasion to apprize you of the overplus,’ said

Merlin; ‘for as soon as the number shall be compleated, the Lady

Dulcinea will be disinchanted, and come, out of pure gratitude, to

return thanks, and even a recompence to the charitable Sancho for his

good work. You need not, therefore, make any scruple about the superplus

or the deficiency; nor will Heaven allow me to defraud any person, even

of a single hair.’—‘A God’s name, then,’ cried Sancho, ‘I consent in my

tribulation; I say, I accept of the penance on the conditions

aforesaid.’

Scarce had Sancho pronounced these last words, when the musick of the

waits began to play again, and an infinite number of muskets were

discharged, while Don Quixote, hanging about Sancho’s neck, imprinted a

world of kisses on his cheeks and forehead; the duke and duchess, and

all the by-standers, expressed the utmost pleasure, the car began to

move, and the beauteous Dulcinea, in passing, bowed to their graces, and

made a profound curtsy to Sancho.

About this time the chearful smiling morn advanced; the flowerets of the

field, with heads erect, diffused their fragrance; and the liquid

chrystal of the rills murmuring among the variegated pebbles, went

sliding on to pay its tribute to the rivers, that waited to receive

their customary dues: the joyous earth, the splendid firmament, the

buxom air, and light unclouded; each singly, and all together joined,

prognosticated plainly, that the day, which trod upon Aurora’s skirts,

would be serene and fair. The duke and duchess, extremely well satisfied

with the chace, as well as with the ingenious and fortunate execution of

their design, returned to the castle, with full intention to perform the

sequel of their jest, than which no real adventure could have given them

more delight.

Footnote 174:

_Disciplinante de lux_, is a cant phrase, applied to those who are

exposed to publick shame.

Footnote 175:

Literally, _cacique_, which was the appellation given to Indian

princes.

Footnote 176:

The other translators have interpreted _mosqueo_ into a fly-flap,

which is undoubtedly one of his meanings; but as it likewise signifies

flagellation at the cart’s tail, I have taken it in this last

acceptation, which, I think, heightens the humour of the passage.

CHAP. IV.

WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERILOUS AND INCONCEIVABLE

ADVENTURE OF THE AFFLICTED DUENNA,

ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI—

TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE TERESA

PANZA.

The duke’s steward was a man of humour and ingenuity, who acted the part

of Merlin, and adjusted all the apparatus of the foregoing adventure;

for he composed the verses, and directed a page to represent Dulcinea;

finally, under the auspices of his lord and lady, he projected another

of the most agreeable and strange fancy that could possibly be

conceived.

Next day the duchess asking Sancho if he had begun the task of the

penance, which he was to undergo for the disinchantment of Dulcinea, he

answered in the affirmative, and said, he had that same night given

himself five lashes; but when she enquired about the instrument with

which they were inflicted, he owned they were applied with his hand.

‘That is rather clapping than lashing,’ replied her grace; ‘and I take

it for granted, the sage Merlin will not be content with such delicacy;

it will be absolutely necessary that honest Sancho should make a scourge

of briars, or use a switch that will make him feel it; for learning is

not acquired without pain, and the liberty of such an high-born lady as

Dulcinea is not to be purchased for a trifle.’ To this remonstrance

Sancho replied, ‘I wish your grace would lend me some convenient whip,

or ragged rope’s end, which would do the business without giving me a

great deal of pain; for I would have your grace to know, that although I

am a labouring man, my flesh has more of the cotton than the mat weed in

it; and there is no reason that I should destroy myself for another’s

advantage.’—‘In good time be it,’ answered the duchess; ‘to-morrow

morning I will give you a scourge that will fit you to an hair, and

agree as well with the tenderness of your flesh, as if it was its own

brother.’

This affair being adjusted, ‘My lady,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘your highness

must know I have writ a letter to my wife Teresa Panza, giving an

account of all that hath befallen me since we parted: here it is in my

bosom, and wants nothing but a superscription. I wish your grace, in

your great understanding, would read it; for, in my mind, it smacks of

the governor; I mean, of the manner in which governors ought to

write.’—‘And who was the inditer?’ said the duchess. ‘Who should indite

it, sinner that I am, but myself!’ answered the squire. ‘Did you

likewise write it yourself?’ replied her grace. ‘I did not so much as

think of any such matter,’ said Sancho; ‘for the truth is, I can neither

read nor write, though I know very well how to set my mark.’—‘Let us see

this epistle,’ quoth the duchess, ‘in which, I dare say, you have

displayed the quality and extent of your understanding.’

Then Sancho pulling an open letter from his bosom, the duchess took and

read it to this effect.

SANCHO’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA.

‘If I have been finely lashed, I have been well mounted; If I have

obtained a good government, it has cost me a good whipping. This,

Teresa, thou wilt not now understand, but shalt learn some other

opportunity. Know, Teresa, I am determined thou shalt ride in a

coach, which is a resolution pat to the purpose; for any other way

of travelling is fit for none but cats. A governor’s lady you shall

be, and I would fain see the best of them tread upon thy heels. I

have sent thee a green hunting suit, which was a present from my

Lady Duchess. Make it up into a petticoat and jacket for our

daughter. My master Don Quixote, as I have heard in this country, is

a sensible madman, and a diverting fool, and I myself am nothing

short of him in these respects. We have been in the cave of

Montesinos, and the sage Merlin has pitched upon me to disinchant

the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who in your parts is called Aldonza

Lorenzo; with three thousand three hundred stripes, lacking five,

which I am to give myself, she will be as much disinchanted as the

mother that bore her. Thou shalt not mention a syllable of this to

any person whatsoever; for if you go to seek advice about your own

concerns, one will say it is white, and another swear ’tis black.’

A few days hence I shall set out for my government, whither I go

with a most outrageous desire of getting money; and I am told, this

is the case with all new governors. I will feel the pulse of it, and

give thee notice whether or no thou shalt come and live with me.

Dapple is in good health, and sends his most hearty commendations: I

believe I shall not forsake him even if they should make me the

Grand Turk. My Lady Duchess kisses thy hand a thousand times: return

the compliment with two thousand; for, as my master says, Nothing is

so reasonable and cheap as good manners. It has not pleased God that

I should stumble upon another portmanteau with a hundred crowns, as

heretofore; but let that give thee no uneasiness, my dear Teresa,

for he is safe who has good cards to play; and what is amiss will

come out in the washing of this same government. One thing, I own,

gives me great concern: I am told, that if once I taste it, I shall

be apt to eat my fingers; and should that be the case, it will be no

cheap bargain; though the lame and the paralytick enjoy a sort of

canonry in the alms they receive. Wherefore, one way or another,

thou wilt certainly be rich and fortunate. The Lord make thee so, as

he very well may, and preserve for thy service thy husband the

governor.

‘SANCHO PANZA.

‘From the Duke’s Castle, July 20, 1614.’

The Duchess having read the letter to an end, ‘In two circumstances,’

said she, ‘the honest governor is a little out of the way. First, in

saying or insinuating, that the government was bestowed upon him, in

return for the stripes he must undergo; whereas he knows, and cannot

deny, that when my Lord Duke promised him the island, nobody thought of

any such thing as stripes in the world: Secondly, he discovers an

avaricious disposition, and I should not like to see him a skin flint;

for greediness bursts the bag, and a covetous governor will do very

ungoverned justice.’—‘I did not write with that intention,’ answered the

squire: ‘and if your ladyship thinks this is not a proper letter, there

is nothing to do but tear it and write another, which perhaps will be

still worse, if it be left to my own numbskull.’—‘No, no,’ cried the

duchess, ‘this will do very well, and must be shewn to the duke.’