_The pleasant dialogue between Don Quixote and his Squire continued;
with other adventures._
"All this is mighty well," said Don Quixote; "proceed therefore: you
arrived, and how was that queen of beauty then employed? On my
conscience thou foundst her stringing of orient pearls, or
embroidering some curious device in gold for me her captive knight;
was it not so, my Sancho?" "No," answered the squire; "I found her
winnowing a parcel of wheat very seriously in the back-yard." "Then,"
said the Don, "you may rest assured that every corn of that wheat was
a grain of pearl, since she did it the honour of touching it with her
divine hand. Didst thou observe the quality of the wheat, was it not
of the finest sort?" "Very indifferent, I thought," said the squire.
"Well, this at least you must allow; it must make the finest whitest
bread, if sifted by her white hands. But go on; when you delivered my
letter, did she kiss it? Did she treasure it in her bosom? or what
ceremony did she use worthy such a letter? How did she behave
herself?" "Why truly, sir," answered Sancho, "when I offered her the
letter she was very busy handling her sieve; 'and, pr'ythee, honest
friend,' said she, 'do so much as lay that letter down upon that sack
there; I cannot read it till I have winnowed out what is in my
hands.'" "O unparalleled discretion!" cried Don Quixote; "she knew
that a perusal required leisure, and therefore deferred it for her
more pleasing and private hours. But oh, my squire, while she was thus
employed what conference passed? What did she ask about her knight,
and what did you reply? Say all, say all, my dearest Sancho, let not
the smallest circumstance escape the tongue; speak all that thought
can frame or pen describe." "Her questions were easily answered, sir,"
said Sancho; "for she asked me none at all. I told her, indeed, in
what a sad pickle I had left you, and how disconsolate you were; that
you eat and slept like the brute beasts; that you would let a razor as
soon touch your throat as your beard; that you were still blubbering
and crying, or lamenting and cursing your fortune." "There you
mistook," replied Don Quixote; "I rather bless my fortune, and always
shall, while life affords me breath, since I am thought to merit the
esteem of so high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso. But now," continued
the knight, "supposing the corn winnowed and despatched to the mill,
what did she after she had read my letter?" "Your letter, sir,"
answered Sancho, "your letter was not read at all, sir; as, for her
part, she said she could neither read nor write, and she would trust
nobody else, lest they should tell tales, and so she cunningly tore
your letter. She said that what I told her by word of mouth of your
love and sufferings was enough: to make short now, she gave her
service to you, and said she had rather see you than hear from you;
and she prayed you, if ever you loved her, upon sight of me forthwith
to leave your madness among the bushes here, and come straight to
Toboso (if you be at leisure), for she has something to say to you,
and has a huge mind to see you; she had like to burst with laughing,
when I called you the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure."
"Thus far all goes well," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, pray, what
jewel did she present you at your departure, as a reward for the news
you brought? for it is a custom of ancient standing among knights and
ladies errant, to bestow on squires, dwarfs, or damsels, who bring
them good news of their ladies or servants some precious jewel as a
grateful reward of their welcome tidings." "Ah, sir," said Sancho,
"that was the fashion in the days of yore, and a very good fashion, I
take it; but all the jewels Sancho got was a luncheon of bread and a
piece of cheese, which she handed to me over the wall, when I was
taking my leave: by the same token (I hope there is no ill luck in
it), the cheese was made of sheep's milk." "It is strange," said Don
Quixote, "for she is liberal even to profuseness; and if she presented
thee not a jewel, she had certainly none about her at that time; but
what is deferred is not lost. I shall see her, and matters shall be
accommodated. But, Sancho, one thing raises my astonishment, which is
thy sudden return; for proportioning thy short absence to the length
of thy journey, Toboso being at least thirty leagues distant, thou
must have ridden on the wind. Certainly the sagacious enchanter, who
is my guardian and friend,--for doubtless such a one there is and
ought to be, or I should not be a true knight-errant,--certainly, I
say, that wise magician has furthered thee on thy journey unawares;
for there are sages of such incredible power as to take up a
knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and waken him next morning a
thousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. By this power
knights-errant succour one another in their most dangerous exigents
when and where they please. For instance, suppose me fighting in the
mountains of Armenia with some horrid monster, some dreadful sprite,
or fierce gigantic knight, where perhaps I am like to be worsted (such
a thing may happen), when just in the very crisis of my fate, when I
least expect it, I behold on the top of a flying cloud, or riding in a
flaming chariot, another knight, my friend, who but a minute before
was in England perhaps--he sustains me, delivers me from death, and
returns that night to his own lodging, where he sups with a very good
appetite after his journey, having rid you two or three thousand
leagues that day; and all this performed by the industry and wisdom of
these knowing magicians, whose only business and charge is glorious
knight-errantry. Some such expeditious power, I believe, Sancho,
though hidden from you, has promoted so great a despatch in your late
journey." "I believe, indeed," answered Sancho, "that there was
witchcraft in the case; for Rozinante went without spur all the way,
and was as mettlesome as though he had been a gipsy's ass with
quicksilver in his ears." "And what is thy advice as to my lady's
commands to visit her? I know her power should regulate my will. But
then my honour, Sancho; my solemn promise has engaged me to the
princess's service that comes with us; and the law of arms confines me
to my word. Love draws me one, and glory the other way; on this side
Dulcinea's strict commands, on the other my promised faith; but--it is
resolved. I will travel night and day, cut off this giant's head, and,
having settled the princess in her dominions, will presently return to
see that sun which enlightens my senses. She will easily condescend to
excuse my absence when I convince her it was for her fame and glory;
since the past, present, and future success of my victorious arms
depends wholly on the gracious influences of her favour, and the
honour of being her knight." "Oh sad! oh sad!" said Sancho; "I doubt
your worship's head is much the worse for wearing. Are you mad, sir,
to take so long a voyage for nothing? why don't you catch at this
preferment that now offers, where a fine kingdom is the portion,
twenty thousand leagues round, they say; nay, bigger than Portugal and
Castile both together. Good your worship, hold your tongue, I wonder
you are not ashamed. Take a fool's counsel for once, marry her by the
first priest you meet; here is our own curate can do the job most
curiously. Come, master, I have hair enough in my beard to make a
counsellor, and my advice is as fit for you as your shoe for your
foot--a bird in hand is worth two in the bush, and
He that will not when he may,
When he would he shall have nay."
"Thou advisest me thus," answered Don Quixote, "that I may be able to
promote thee according to my promise; but that I can do without
marrying this lady; for I shall make this the condition of entering
into battle, that after my victory, without marrying the princess, she
shall leave part of her kingdom at my disposal, to gratify whom I
please; and who can claim any such gratuity but thyself?" "That's
plain," answered Sancho; "but pray, sir, take care that you reserve
some part near the sea-side for me; that if the air does not agree
with me, I may transport my black slaves, make my profit of them, and
go live somewhere else; so that I would have you resolve upon it
presently: leave the Lady Dulcinea for the present, and go kill this
same giant, and make an end of that business first; for I assure you
it will yield you a good market." "I am fixed in thy opinion," said
Don Quixote; "but I admonish thee not to whisper to any person the
least hint of our conference; for since Dulcinea is so cautious and
secret, it is proper that I and mine should follow her example." "Why
then," said Sancho, "should you send every body you overcome packing
to Madam Dulcinea, to fall down before her and tell her they came from
you to pay their obedience, when this tells all the world that she is
your mistress, as much as if they had it under your own hand?" "How
dull of apprehension and stupid thou art!" said the knight; "hast thou
not sense to find that all this redounds to her greater glory? Know,
that in proceedings of chivalry, a lady's honour is calculated from
the number of her servants, whose services must not tend to any reward
but the favour of her acceptance, and the pure honour of performing
them for her sake, and being called her servants."
Master Nicholas, seeing them so deep in discourse, called to them to
stop and drink at a little fountain by the road. Don Quixote halted;
and Sancho was very glad of the interruption, his stock of fiction
being almost spent, and he stood in danger besides of being trapped in
his words; for he had never seen Dulcinea, though he knew she lived at
Toboso. Cardenio by this time had changed his clothes for those
Dorothea wore when they found her in the mountains; and though they
made but an ordinary figure, they looked much better than those he had
put off.[5] They all stopped at the fountain, and fell upon the
curate's provision, which was but a snap among so many, for they were
all very hungry. While they sat refreshing themselves, a young lad,
travelling that way, observed them, and looking earnestly on the whole
company, ran suddenly and fell down before Don Quixote, addressing him
in a very doleful manner. "Alas, good sir," said he, "don't you know
me? don't you remember poor Andres, whom you caused to be untied from
the tree?" With that the knight knew him; and raising him up, turned
to the company; "That you may all know," said he, "of how great
importance to the redressing of injuries, punishing vice, and the
universal benefit of mankind, the business of knight-errantry may be,
you must understand, that riding through a desert some days ago, I
heard certain lamentable shrieks and outcries. Prompted by the misery
of the afflicted, and borne away by the zeal of my profession, I
followed the voice, and found this boy, whom you all see, bound to a
great oak; I am glad he is present, because he can attest the truth of
my relation. I found him, as I told you, bound to an oak; naked from
the waist upwards, and a bloody-minded peasant scourging his back
unmercifully with the reins of a bridle. I presently demanded the
cause of his severe chastisement. The rude fellow answered, that he
had liberty to punish his own servant, whom he thus used for some
faults that argued him more knave than fool. 'Good sir,' said the boy,
'he can lay nothing to my charge but demanding my wages.' His master
made some reply, which I would not allow as a just excuse, and ordered
him immediately to unbind the youth, and took his oath that he would
take him home and pay him all his wages upon the nail, in good and
lawful coin. Is not this literally true, Andres? Did you not mark,
besides, with what face of authority I commanded, and with how much
humility he promised to obey all I imposed, commanded, and desired?
Answer me, boy; and tell boldly all that passed to this worthy
company, that it may appear how necessary the vocation of
knights-errant is up and down the high roads."
[5] These must be the ragged apparel Cardenio wore before he was
dressed in the priest's short cassock and cloak.
"All you have said is true enough," answered Andres; "but the business
did not end after that manner you and I hoped it would." "How!" said
the knight; "has not the peasant paid you?" "Ay, he has paid me with a
vengeance," said the boy; "for no sooner was your back turned but he
tied me again to the same tree, and lashed me so horridly that I
looked like St. Bartholomew flayed alive; and at every blow he had
some joke or another to laugh at you; and had he not laid on me as he
did, I fancy I could not have helped laughing myself. At last he left
me, in so pitiful a case that I was forced to crawl to a hospital,
where I have lain ever since to get cured, so wofully the tyrant had
lashed me. And now I may thank you for this; for had you rode on your
journey, and neither meddled nor made, seeing nobody sent for you, and
it was none of your business, my master, perhaps, had been satisfied
with giving me ten or twenty lashes, and after that would have paid me
what he owed me; but you was so huffy, and called him so many names,
that it made him mad, and so he vented all his spite against you upon
my poor back, as soon as yours was turned, inasmuch that I fear I
shall never be mine own man again." "The miscarriage," answered the
knight, "is only chargeable on my departure before I saw my orders
executed; for I might by experience have remembered that the word of a
peasant is regulated, not by honour, but by profit. But you remember,
Andres, how I said, that if he disobeyed, I would return and seek him
through the universe, and find him though hid in a whale's belly."
"Ah, sir," answered Andres, "but that is no cure for my sore
shoulders." "You shall be redressed," answered the knight, starting
fiercely up, and commanding Sancho immediately to bridle Rozinante,
who was baiting as fast as the rest of the company. Dorothea asked
what he intended to do: he answered, that he intended to find out the
villain, and punish him severely for his crimes, then force him to pay
Andres his wages to the last maravedi,[6] in spite of all the peasants
in the universe. She then desired him to remember his engagements to
her, which withheld him from any new achievement till that was
finished; that he must therefore suspend his resentments till his
return from her kingdom. "It is but just and reasonable," said the
knight; "and therefore Andres must wait with patience my return; but
when I do return, I do hereby ratify my former oath and promise, never
to rest till he be fully satisfied and paid." "I dare not trust to
that," answered Andres; "but if you will bestow on me as much money as
will bear my charges to Seville, I shall thank your worship more than
for all the revenge you tell me of. Give me a snap to eat, and a bit
in my pocket; and so Heaven be with you and all other knights-errant,
and may they prove as arrant fools in their own business as they have
been in mine."
[6] Near the value of a farthing.
Sancho took a crust of bread and a slice of cheese, and reaching it to
Andres, "There, friend," said he, "there is something for thee; on my
word, we have all of us a share of thy mischance." "What share?" said
Andres. "Why, the cursed mischance of parting with this bread and
cheese to thee; for my head to a halfpenny, I may live to want it; for
thou must know, friend of mine, that we, the squires of
knights-errant, often pick our teeth without a dinner, and are subject
to many other things which are better felt than told." Andres snatched
at the provender, and seeing no likelihood of any more, he made his
leg and marched off. But looking over his shoulder at Don Quixote,
"Hark ye, you Sir Knight-errant," cried he, "if ever you meet me again
in your travels, which I hope you never shall, though I were torn in
pieces, do not trouble me with your foolish help, but mind your own
business; and so fare you well, with a plague upon you and all the
knights-errant that ever were born!" The knight thought to chastise
him, but the lad was too nimble for any there, and his heels carried
him off, leaving Don Quixote highly incensed at his story, which moved
the company to hold their laughter, lest they should raise his anger
to a dangerous height.