_The pleasant discourse between Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the
bachelor Samson Carrasco._
Don Quixote could not be persuaded that there was a history of
himself extant, while yet the blood of those enemies he had cut off
had scarce done reeking on the blade of his sword; so that they could
not have already finished and printed the history of his mighty feats
of arms. However, at last he concluded that some learned sage had, by
the way of enchantment, been able to commit them to the press, either
as a friend, to extol his heroic achievements above the noblest
performances of the most famous knights-errant; or as an enemy, to
sully the lustre of his exploits, and debase them below the most
inferior actions of any of the meanest squires. Though, thought he to
himself, the actions of squires were never yet recorded; and after
all, if there were such a book printed, since it was the history of a
knight-errant, it could not choose but be pompous, lofty, magnificent,
and authentic. This thought yielded him a while some small
consolation; but then he relapsed into melancholic doubts and
anxieties, when he considered that the author had given himself the
title of Cid, and consequently must be a Moor; a nation from whom no
truth could be expected, they all being given to impose on others with
lies and fabulous stories, to falsify and counterfeit, and very fond
of their own chimeras. Sancho and Carrasco found him thus agitated and
perplexed with a thousand melancholic fancies, which yet did not
hinder him from receiving the stranger with a great deal of civility.
This bachelor, though his name was Samson, was none of the biggest in
body, but a very great man at all manner of drollery; he had a pale
complexion, but good sense. He was about four-and-twenty years of age,
round-visaged, flat-nosed, and wide-mouthed, all signs of a
disposition that would delight in nothing more than in making sport
for himself, by ridiculing others; as he plainly discovered when he
saw Don Quixote. For, falling on his knees before him, "Admit me to
kiss your honour's hand," cried he, "most noble Don Quixote; for by
the habit of St. Peter, which I wear, though indeed I have as yet
taken but the four first of the holy orders, you are certainly one of
the most renowned knights-errant that ever was, or ever will be,
through the whole extent of the habitable globe. Blest may the sage
Cid Hamet Benengeli be, for enriching the world with the history of
your mighty deeds; and more than blest, that curious virtuoso, who
took care to have it translated out of the Arabic into our vulgar
tongue, for the universal entertainment of mankind!"
"Sir," said Don Quixote, making him rise, "is it then possible that my
history is extant, and that it was a Moor, and one of the sages, that
penned it?" "It is so notorious a truth," said the bachelor, "that I
do not in the least doubt but at this day there have already been
published above twelve thousand copies of it. Portugal, Barcelona, and
Valencia, where they have been printed, can witness that, if there
were occasion. It is said that it is also now in the press at Antwerp.
And I verily believe there is scarce a language into which it is not
to be translated." "Truly, sir," said Don Quixote, "one of the things
that ought to yield the greatest satisfaction to a person of eminent
virtue, is to live to see himself in good reputation in the world, and
his actions published in print. I say, in good reputation; for
otherwise there is no death but would be preferable to such a life."
"As for a good name and reputation," replied Carrasco, "your worship
has gained the palm from all the knights-errant that ever lived; for,
both the Arabian in his history, and the Christian in his version,
have been very industrious to do justice to your character; your
peculiar gallantry; your intrepidity and greatness of spirit in
confronting danger; your constancy in adversities; your patience in
suffering wounds and afflictions; and your modesty in that love so
very platonic between your worship and my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso."
"But pray," added Don Quixote, "good Mr. Bachelor, on which of all my
adventures does the history seem to lay the greatest stress?" "As to
that," answered Carrasco, "the opinions of men are divided: some cry
up the adventure of the windmill giants; some are for that of the
fulling-mills; others stand up for the description of the two armies
that afterwards proved two flocks of sheep. Some prize most the
adventure of the dead corpse that was carrying to Segovia; while
others say that none of them can compare with that of the
galley-slaves. However, some who have read your history wish that the
author had spared himself the pains of registering some of that
infinite number of drubs which the noble Don Quixote received." "There
lies the truth of the history," quoth Sancho. "Those things, in human
equity," said Don Quixote, "might very well have been omitted; for
actions that neither impair nor alter the history, ought rather to be
buried in silence than related, if they redound to the discredit of
the hero of the history. Certainly AEneas was never so pious as Virgil
represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is made by Homer." "I am
of your opinion," said Carrasco; "but it is one thing to write like a
poet, and another thing to write like an historian. It is sufficient
for the first to deliver matters as they ought to have been; whereas
the last must relate them as they were really transacted, without
adding or omitting any thing, upon any pretence whatever." "Well,"
quoth Sancho, "if this same Moorish lord be once got into the road of
truth, a hundred to one but among my master's rib-roastings he has not
forgot mine; for they never took measure of his worship's shoulders
but they were pleased to do as much for my whole body: but it was no
wonder; for it is his own rule, that if once the head aches, every
limb must suffer too."
"Hold your tongue," said Don Quixote, "and let the learned bachelor
proceed, that I may know what the history says of me." "And of me
too," quoth Sancho; "for they tell me I am one of the top parsons in
it." "Persons, you should say, Sancho," said Carrasco, "and not
parsons." "Heyday!" quoth Sancho, "have we got another corrector of
hard words? If this be the trade, we shall never have done." "Most
certainly," said Carrasco, "you are the second person in the history,
honest Sancho; nay, and some there are who had rather hear you talk
than the best there; though some there are again that will say you
were horribly credulous to flatter yourself with having the government
of that island which your master promised you." "While there is life
there is hope," said Don Quixote; "when Sancho is grown mature with
time and experience, he may be better qualified for a government than
he is yet." "If I be not fit to govern an island at these years,"
quoth Sancho, "I shall never be a governor, though I live to the years
of Methusalem; but there the mischief lies, we have brains enough, but
we want the island." "Come, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "hope for the
best; trust in providence; all will be well, and perhaps better than
you imagine; but know, there is not a leaf on any tree that can be
moved without the permission of Heaven." "That is very true," said
Carrasco; "and I dare say Sancho shall not want a thousand islands to
govern, much less one; that is, if it be Heaven's will." "Why not?"
quoth Sancho; "I have seen governors in my time who, to my thinking,
could not come up to me passing the sole of my shoes; and yet,
forsooth, they were called 'your honour,' and they eat their victuals
all in silver." "Ay," said Carrasco, "but these were none of your
governors of islands, but of other easy governments: why, man, these
ought at least to know their grammar." "Gramercy, for that," quoth
Sancho; "give me but a grey mare[11] once, and I shall know her well
enough, I'll warrant ye. But leaving the government in the hands of
him that will best provide for me, I must tell you, Master Bachelor
Samson Carrasco, I am huge glad that, as your author has not forgot
me, so he has not given an ill character of me; for by the faith of a
trusty squire, had he said any thing that did not become a Christian
as I am, I had rung him such a peal that the deaf should have heard
me." "That were a miracle," said Carrasco. "Miracle me no miracles,"
cried Sancho; "let every man take care how he talks, or how he writes
of other men, and not set down at random, higgle-de-piggledy, whatever
comes into his noddle."
[11] This jingle of the words _grammar_, _gramercy_, and _grey mare_,
is in imitation of the original, which would not admit of a literal
translation.
"The author," continued Carrasco, "has made every thing so plain, that
there is nothing in that book but what any one may understand.
Children handle it, youngsters read it, grown men understand it, and
old people applaud it. In short, it is universally so thumbed, so
gleaned, so studied, and so known, that if the people do but see a
lean horse, they presently cry, 'There goes Rozinante.' But none
apply themselves to the reading of it more than your pages; there is
never a nobleman's antechamber where you shall not find a Don Quixote.
No sooner has one laid it down, but another takes it up. One asks for
it here, and there it is snatched up by another. In a word, it is
esteemed the most pleasant and least dangerous diversion that ever was
seen."[12]
[12] The extraordinary popularity of this work in Spain is exemplified
in a story told in the life of Philip III. The king, standing one day
on the balcony of his palace of Madrid, observed a student at a
distance with a book in his hand, which he was reading--every now and
then he struck his forehead, accompanied with convulsions of laughter.
"That student," said the king, "is either out of his wits, or is
_reading_ the _History of Don Quixote_."