_Containing ways and means for disenchanting the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso, being one of the most famous adventures in the whole book._
The duke and duchess were extremely diverted with the humours of their
guests. Resolving, therefore, to improve their sport by carrying on
some pleasant design that might bear the appearance of an adventure,
they took the hint from Don Quixote's account of Montesinos' cave, as
a subject from which they might raise an extraordinary entertainment;
the rather, since, to the duchess's amazement, Sancho was so foolish
as to believe that Dulcinea del Toboso was really enchanted, though he
himself had been the first contriver of the story, and her only
enchanter.
Accordingly, having given directions to their servants that nothing
might be wanting, and proposed a day for hunting the wild boar, in
five or six days they were ready to set out with a train of huntsmen
and other attendants not unbecoming the greatest prince. They
presented Don Quixote with a hunting-suit, but he refused it, alleging
it superfluous, since he was in a short time to return to the hard
exercise of arms, and could carry no sumpters nor wardrobes along with
him; but Sancho readily accepted one of fine green cloth, designing to
sell it the first opportunity.
The day appointed being come, Don Quixote armed, and Sancho equipped
himself in his new suit, and mounting his ass, which he would not quit
for a good horse that was offered him, he crowded among the train of
sportsmen. The duchess also made one of the company. The knight, who
was courtesy itself, very gallantly would hold the reins of her
palfrey, though the duke seemed very unwilling to let him. In short,
they came to the scene of their sport, which was in a wood between two
high mountains, where alighting, and taking their several stands, the
duchess, with a pointed javelin in her hand, attended by the duke and
Don Quixote, took her stand in a place where they knew the boars were
used to pass through.
And now the chase began with full cry, the dogs opened, the horns
sounded, and the huntsmen hollowed in so loud a concert, that there
was no hearing one another. Soon after, a hideous boar, of a monstrous
size, came on; and being baited hard by the dogs, and followed close
by the huntsmen, made furiously towards the pass which Don Quixote had
taken; whereupon the knight, grasping his shield and drawing his
sword, moved forward to receive the raging beast. The duke joined him
with a boar-spear, and the duchess would have been foremost, had not
the duke prevented her. Sancho alone, seeing the furious animal,
resolved to shift for himself; and away he ran, as fast as his legs
would carry him, towards a high oak, to the top of which he
endeavoured to clamber; but, as he was getting up, one of the boughs
unluckily broke, and he was tumbling down, when a stump of another
bough caught hold of his new coat, and stopped his fall, slinging him
in the air by the middle, so that he could neither get up nor down.
His fine green coat was torn; and he fancied every moment the wild
boar was running that way, with foaming mouth and dreadful tusks, to
tear him to pieces; which so disturbed him, that he roared and
bellowed for help, as if some wild beast had been devouring him in
good earnest.
At last the tusky boar was laid at his length, with a number of
pointed spears fixed in him; and Don Quixote, being alarmed by
Sancho's noise, which he could distinguish easily, looked about, and
discovered him swinging from the tree with his head downwards, and
close by him poor Dapple, who, like a true friend, never forsook him
in his adversity. Don Quixote went and took down his squire, who, as
soon as he was at liberty, began to examine the damage his fine
hunting-suit had received, which grieved him to the soul; for he
prized it as much as if it had made him heir to an estate.
Meanwhile, the boar, being laid across a large mule, and covered with
branches of rosemary and myrtle, was carried in triumph by the
victorious huntsmen to a large field-tent, pitched in the middle of
the wood, where an excellent entertainment was provided, suitable to
the magnificence of the founder.
Sancho drew near the duchess, and shewing her his torn coat, "Had we
been hunting the hare now, or catching sparrows," quoth he, "my coat
might have slept in a whole skin. For my part, I wonder what pleasure
there can be in beating the bushes for a beast which, if it does but
come at you, may be the death of you. I have not forgotten an old song
to this purpose:
'May Fabila's sad fate be thine,
And make thee food for bears or swine.'"
"That Fabila," said Don Quixote, "was a king of the Goths; who, going
a-hunting once, was devoured by a bear." "That is it I say," quoth
Sancho; "and therefore why should kings and other great folks run
themselves into harm's way, when they may have sport enough without
it? what pleasure can you find, any of you all, in killing a poor
beast that never meant any harm?" "You are mistaken, Sancho," said the
duke; "hunting wild beasts is the most proper exercise for knights and
princes; for in the chase of a stout noble beast may be represented
the whole art of war, stratagems, policy, and ambuscades, with all
other devices usually practised to overcome an enemy with safety. Here
we are exposed to the extremities of heat and cold; ease and laziness
can have no room in this diversion; by this we are inured to toil and
hardship, our limbs are strengthened, our joints made pliable, and our
whole body hale and active. In short, it is an exercise that may be
beneficial to many, and can be prejudicial to none; and the most
enticing property is its rarity, being placed above the reach of the
vulgar, who may indeed enjoy the diversion of other sorts of game, but
not this nobler kind, nor that of hawking, a sport also reserved for
kings and persons of quality. Therefore, Sancho, let me advise you to
alter your opinion when you become a governor; for then you will find
the great advantage of these sports and diversions." "You are out far
wide, sir," quoth Sancho; "it were better that a governor had his legs
broken, and be laid up at home, than to be gadding abroad at this
rate. It would be a pretty business, forsooth, when poor people come,
weary and tired, to wait on the governor about business, that he
should be rambling about the woods for his pleasure! There would be a
sweet government truly! Truly, sir, I think these sports and pastimes
are fitter for those that have nothing to do than for governors." "I
wish with all my heart," said the duke, "that you prove as good as you
promise; but saying and doing are different things." "Well, well,"
quoth Sancho, "be it how it will, I say that an honest man's word is
as good as his bond. Heaven's help is better than early rising. My
meaning is, that with Heaven's help, and my honest endeavours, I shall
govern better than any gosshawk. Do but put your finger in my mouth,
and try if I cannot bite." "A plague on thee, and thy impertinent
proverbs," said Don Quixote: "shall I never get thee to talk sense
without a string of that disagreeable stuff?" "Oh, sir," said the
duchess, "Sancho's proverbs will always please for their sententious
brevity, though they were as numerous as a printed collection; and I
assure you I relish them more than I should do others that might be
better, and more to the purpose."
After this, and suchlike diverting talk, they left the tent, and
walked into the wood, to see whether any game had fallen into their
nets. Now, while they were thus intent upon their sport, the night
drew on apace, and more cloudy and overcast than was usual at that
time of the year, which was about midsummer; but it happened very
critically for the better carrying on the intended contrivance. A
little while after the close of the evening, when it grew quite dark,
in a moment the wood seemed all on fire, and blazed in every quarter.
This was attended with an alarming sound of trumpets, and other
warlike instruments, answering one another from all sides, as if
several parties of horse had been hastily marching through the wood.
Then presently was heard a confused noise of Moorish cries, such as
are used in joining battle; which, together with the rattling of the
drums, the loud sound of the trumpets and other instruments of war,
made such a hideous and dreadful concert in the air, that the duke was
amazed, the duchess astonished, Don Quixote was surprised, and Sancho
shook like a leaf; and even those that knew the occasion of all this
were affrighted.
This consternation caused a general silence; and by and by, one riding
post, equipped like a fiend, passed by the company, winding a huge
hollow horn. "Hark you, post," said the duke; "whither so fast? what
are you? and what parties of soldiers are those that march across the
wood?" "I go," cried the post, in a hideous unearthly tone, "in quest
of Don Quixote de la Mancha; and those that are coming this way are
six bands of necromancers, that conduct the peerless Dulcinea del
Toboso enchanted in a triumphant chariot. She is attended by that
gallant French knight, Montesinos, who comes to give information how
she may be freed from enchantment." "Wert thou as much a demon," said
the duke, "as thy horrid shape speaks thee to be, thou wouldst have
known this knight here before thee to be that Don Quixote de la Mancha
whom thou seekest." "On my conscience," replied he, "I never thought
of it; for I have so many things in my head, that it almost distracts
me; I had quite forgotten my errand." Then directing himself to Don
Quixote, without dismounting: "To thee, O Knight of the Lions!" cried
he, "(and I wish thee fast in their claws), to thee am I sent by the
valiant but unfortunate Montesinos, to bid thee attend his coming in
this very place, whither he brings one whom they call Dulcinea del
Toboso, in order to give thee instructions touching her
disenchantment. Now I have delivered my message I must fly." This
said, he winded his monstrous horn, and without staying for an answer,
disappeared.
While Don Quixote stood pondering these things, "Well, sir," said the
duke to him, "what do you intend to do? will you stay?" "Stay!" cried
Don Quixote, "shall I not? I will stay here, intrepid and courageous,
though all the infernal powers enclose me round." "So you may, if you
will," quoth Sancho; "but if any more devils or horns come hither,
they shall as soon find me in Flanders as here."
And now the night grew darker and darker, and several shooting lights
were seen glancing up and down the wood, like meteors or exhalations
from the earth. Then was heard a horrid noise, like the creaking of
the ungreased wheels of heavy waggons, from which piercing and
ungrateful sound bears and wolves are said to fly. This odious jarring
was presently seconded by a greater, which seemed to be the dreadful
din and shocks of four several engagements, in each quarter of the
wood, with all the sounds and hurry of so many joined battles. On one
side were heard several peals of cannon; on the other, the discharging
of numerous volleys of small-shot; here the shouts of the engaging
parties that seemed to be near at hand; there, cries of the Moors,
that seemed at a great distance. In short, the strange, confused
intermixture of drums, trumpets, cornets, horns, the thundering of the
cannon, the rattling of the small-shot, the creaking of the wheels,
and the cries of the combatants, made the most dismal noise
imaginable, and tried Don Quixote's courage to the uttermost. But poor
Sancho was annihilated, and fell into a swoon at the duchess' feet;
who, ordering some water to be sprinkled on his face, at last
recovered him, just as the foremost of the creaking carriages came up,
drawn by four heavy oxen, covered with mourning, and carrying a large
lighted torch upon each horn. On the top of the cart or waggon was an
exalted seat, on which sat a venerable old man, with a beard as white
as snow, and so long that it reached down to his girdle. He was clad
in a long gown of black buckram, as were also two fiends that drove
the waggons; both so very monstrous and ugly, that Sancho, having seen
them once, was forced to shut his eyes, and would not venture upon a
second look. The cart, which was stuck full of lights within, having
come up, the reverend old man stood up, and cried with a loud voice,
"I am the sage Lirgander;" and the cart passed on without one word
more being spoken. Then followed another cart, with another grave old
man; who, making the cart stop at a convenient distance, rose up from
his high seat, and in as deep a tone as the first cried, "I am the
sage Alquife, great friend to Urganda the Unknown;" and so went
forward. He was succeeded by a third cart, that moved in the same
solemn pace, and bore a person not so ancient as the rest, but a
robust and sturdy, sour-looking, ill-favoured fellow, who rose up from
his throne, like the rest, and with a more hollow and diabolical voice
cried out, "I am Archelaus the Enchanter, the mortal enemy of Amadis
de Gaul, and all his race;" which said, he passed by, like the other
carts, which, taking a short turn, made a halt; and the grating noise
of the wheels of the waggons ceasing, an excellent concert of sweet
music was heard, which mightily comforted poor Sancho; and, passing
with him for a good omen, "My lady," quoth he to the duchess, from
whom he would not budge an inch, "there can be no mischief sure where
there is music." "Very true," said the duchess, "especially where
there is brightness and light." "Ay, but there is no light without
fire," replied Sancho, "and brightness comes most from flames. Who
knows but those about us may burn us! But music I take to be always a
sign of feasting and merriment." "We shall know presently what this
will come to," said Don Quixote; and he said right, for you will find
it in the next chapter.