_Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quixote with
the brave Knight of the Mirrors._
Don Quixote and his squire passed the night following their encounter
with Death under some tall, umbrageous trees; and as they were
refreshing themselves, by Sancho's advice, from the store of
provisions carried by Dapple, he said to his master, "What a fool,
sir, should I have been had I chosen for my reward the spoils of your
worship's first adventure, instead of the three ass-colts! It is a
true saying, 'A sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture upon the
wing.'" "However, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "hadst thou suffered
me to make the attack which I had premeditated, thy share of the booty
would have been at least the emperor's crown of gold and Cupid's
painted wings; for I would have plucked them off per force, and
delivered them into thy hands." "The crowns and sceptres of your
theatrical emperors," answered Sancho, "are never pure gold, but
tinsel or copper." "That is true," replied Don Quixote; "nor would it
be proper that the decorations of a play should be otherwise than
counterfeit, like the drama itself, which I would have thee hold in
due estimation, as well as the actors and authors; for they are all
instruments of much benefit to the commonwealth, continually
presenting a mirror before our eyes, in which we see lively
representations of the actions of human life; nothing, indeed, more
truly portrays to us what we are, and what we should be, than the
drama. Tell me, hast thou never seen a play in which kings, emperors,
popes, lords, and ladies are introduced, with divers other personages;
one acting the ruffian, another the knave; one the merchant, another
the soldier; one a designing fool, another a foolish lover; and
observed that, when the play is done, and the actors undressed, they
are all again upon a level?" "Yes, marry have I," quoth Sancho. "The
very same thing, then," said Don Quixote, "happens on the stage of
this world, on which some play the part of emperors, others of
popes--in short, every part that can be introduced in a comedy; but
at the conclusion of this drama of life, death strips us of the robes
which made the difference between man and man, and leaves us all on
one level in the grave." "A brave comparison!" quoth Sancho; "though
not so new but that I have heard it many times, as well as that of the
game of chess; which is that, while the game is going, every piece has
its office, and when it is ended, they are all huddled together, and
put into a bag: just as we are put together into the ground when we
are dead." "Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou art daily improving in
sense." "And so I ought," answered Sancho; "for some of your worship's
wisdom must needs stick to me; as dry and barren soil, by well dunging
and digging, comes at last to bear good fruit. My meaning is, that
your worship's conversation has been the dung laid upon the barren
soil of my poor wit, and the tillage has been the time I have been in
your service and company; by which I hope to produce fruit like any
blessing, and such as will not disparage my teacher, nor let me stray
from the paths of good-breeding which your worship has made in my
shallow understanding." Don Quixote smiled at Sancho's affected style;
but he really did think him improved, and was frequently surprised by
his observations, when he did not display his ignorance by soaring too
high. His chief strength lay in proverbs, of which he had always
abundance ready, though perhaps not always fitting the occasion, as
may often have been remarked in the course of this history.
In this kind of conversation they spent great part of the night, till
Sancho felt disposed to let down the portcullises of his eyes, as he
used to say when he was inclined to sleep. So, having unrigged his
Dapple, he turned him loose into pasture; but he did not take off the
saddle from Rozinante's back, it being the express command of his
master that he should continue saddled whilst they kept the field and
were not sleeping under a roof, in conformity to an ancient
established custom religiously observed among knights-errant, which
was to take off the bridle and hang it on the pommel of the saddle,
but by no means to remove the saddle.
At length Sancho fell asleep at the foot of a cork-tree, while Don
Quixote slumbered beneath a branching oak. But it was not long before
he was disturbed by a noise near him; he started up, and looking in
the direction whence the sounds proceeded, could discern two men on
horseback, one of whom dismounting, said to the other, "Alight,
friend, and unbridle the horses; for this place will afford them
pasture, and offers to me that silence and solitude which my pensive
thoughts require." As he spoke, he threw himself on the ground, and in
this motion a rattling of armour was heard, which convinced Don
Quixote that this was a knight-errant; and going to Sancho, who was
fast asleep, he pulled him by the arm, and having with some difficulty
roused him, he said in a low voice, "Friend Sancho, we have got an
adventure here." "God send it be a good one!" answered Sancho; "and
pray, sir, where may this same adventure be?" "Where, sayest thou,
Sancho?" replied Don Quixote, "turn thine eyes that way, and thou wilt
see a knight-errant lying extended, who seems to me not over happy in
his mind; for I just now saw him dismount and throw himself upon the
ground, as if much oppressed with grief, and his armour rattled as he
fell." "But how do you know," quoth Sancho, "that this is an
adventure?" "Though I cannot yet positively call it an adventure, it
has the usual signs of one: but listen, he is tuning an instrument,
and seems to be preparing to sing." "By my troth, so he is," cried
Sancho, "and he must be some knight or other in love." "As all
knights-errant must be," quoth Don Quixote; "but hearken, and we shall
discover his thoughts by his song." Sancho would have replied; but the
Knight of the Wood, whose voice was only moderately good, began to
sing, and they both attentively listened to the following:
Sonnet.
Bright queen, how shall your loving slave
Be sure not to displease?
Some rule of duty let him crave;
He begs no other ease.
Say, must I die, or hopeless live?
I'll act as you ordain;
Despair a silent death shall give,
Or Love himself complain.
My heart, though soft as wax, will prove
Like diamonds firm and true:
For what th' impression can remove,
That's stamp'd by love and you?
With a deep sigh, that seemed to be drawn from the very bottom of his
heart, the Knight of the Wood ended his song; and after some pause, in
a plaintive and dolorous voice, he exclaimed, "O thou most beautiful
and most ungrateful of woman-kind! O divine Casildea de Vandalia! wilt
thou, then, suffer this thy captive knight to consume and pine away in
continual peregrinations and in severest toils? Is it not enough that
I have caused thee to be acknowledged the most consummate beauty in
the world by all the knights of Navarre, of Leon, of Tartesia, of
Castile, and, in fine, by all the knights of La Mancha?" "Not so,"
said Don Quixote, "for I am of La Mancha, and never have made such an
acknowledgment, nor ever will admit an assertion so prejudicial to the
beauty of my mistress. Thou seest, Sancho, how this knight raves; but
let us listen; perhaps he will make some farther declaration." "Ay,
marry will he," replied Sancho, "for he seems to be in a humour to
complain for a month to come." But they were mistaken; for the knight,
hearing voices near them, proceeded no farther in his lamentation, but
rising up, said aloud in a courteous voice, "Who goes there? What are
ye? Of the number of the happy, or of the afflicted?" "Of the
afflicted," answered Don Quixote. "Come to me, then," answered the
Knight of the Wood, "and you will find sorrow and misery itself!"
These expressions were uttered in so moving a tone, that Don Quixote,
followed by Sancho, went up to the mournful knight, who, taking his
hand, said to him, "Sit down here, sir knight; for to be assured that
you profess the order of chivalry, it is sufficient that I find you
here, encompassed by solitude and the cold dews of night, the proper
station for knights-errant." "A knight I am," replied Don Quixote,
"and of the order you name; and although my heart is the mansion of
misery and woe, yet can I sympathise in the sorrows of others; from
the strain I just now heard from you, I conclude that you are of the
amorous kind--arising, I mean, from a passion for some ungrateful
fair."
Whilst thus discoursing, they were seated together on the ground
peaceably and sociably, not as if at daybreak they were to fall upon
each other with mortal fury. "Perchance you too are in love, sir
knight," said he of the Wood to Don Quixote. "Such is my cruel
destiny," answered Don Quixote; "though the sorrows that may arise
from well-placed affections ought rather to be accounted blessings
than calamities." "That is true," replied the Knight of the Wood,
"provided our reason and understanding be not affected by disdain,
which, when carried to excess, is more like vengeance." "I never was
disdained by my mistress," answered Don Quixote. "No, verily," quoth
Sancho, who stood close by; "for my lady is as gentle as a lamb and as
soft as butter." "Is this your squire?" demanded the Knight of the
Wood. "He is," replied Don Quixote. "I never in my life saw a squire,"
said the Knight of the Wood, "who durst presume to speak where his
lord was conversing; at least, there stands mine, as tall as his
father, and it cannot be proved that he ever opened his lips where I
was speaking." "Truly," quoth Sancho, "I have talked, and can talk
before one as good as ---- and perhaps, ---- but let that rest: perhaps
the less said the better." The Knight of the Wood's squire now took
Sancho by the arm, and said, "Let us two go where we may chat
squire-like together, and leave these masters of ours to talk over
their loves to each other; for I warrant they will not have done
before to-morrow morning." "With all my heart," quoth Sancho, "and I
will tell you who I am, that you may judge whether I am not fit to
make one among the talking squires." The squires then withdrew, and a
dialogue passed between them as lively as that of their masters was
grave.