_Of an extraordinary accident that happened to Don Quixote, which may
well pass for an adventure._
A clear fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho found among some
verdant trees, served to refresh them, besmeared with dust, and tired
as they were, after the rude encounter of the bulls. There, by the
brink, leaving Rozinante and Dapple, unbridled and unhaltered, to
their own liberty, the two forlorn adventurers sat down. The squire
then went to the wallet, and having taken out of it what he used to
call his stomach-sauce, laid it before the knight. But Don Quixote
would eat nothing for pure vexation, and Sancho durst not begin for
good manners, expecting that he would first shew him the way. However,
finding him so wrapped in his imaginations as to have no thoughts of
lifting his hand to his mouth, the squire, without letting one word
come out of his, laid aside all kind of good breeding, and made a
fierce attack upon the bread and cheese before him. "Eat, friend
Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "repair the decays of nature, and sustain
life, which thou hast more reason to cherish than I; leave me to die,
abandoned to my sorrows, and the violence of my misfortunes. I was
born, Sancho, to live dying, and thou to die eating."
"For my part," quoth Sancho, "I am not so simple yet as to kill
myself. No, I am like the cobbler that stretches his leather with his
teeth: I am for lengthening my life by eating; truly, master, there is
no greater folly in the world than for a man to despair, and throw the
helve after the hatchet. Therefore take my advice, and eat as I do;
and when you have done, lie down and take a nap; the fresh grass here
will do as well as a feather-bed. I daresay by the time you awake you
will find yourself better in body and mind."
Don Quixote followed Sancho's counsel, for he was convinced the squire
spoke good philosophy at that time. However, in the meanwhile, a
thought coming into his mind, "Ah! Sancho," said he, "if thou wouldst
but do something that I am now going to desire thee, my cares would
sit more easy on me, and my comfort would be more certain. It is only
this: while, according to thy advice, I try to compose my thoughts
with sleep, do but step aside a little, and take the reins of
Rozinante's bridle, and give thyself some three or four hundred smart
lashes, in part of the three thousand and odd thou art to receive to
disenchant Dulcinea; for, in truth, it is a shame and very great pity
that poor lady should remain enchanted all this while, through thy
carelessness and neglect." "There is a great deal to be said as to
that," quoth Sancho, "but it may well keep; first let us go to sleep,
and then come what will come. Let my Lady Dulcinea have a little
patience. There is nothing lost that comes at last; while there is
life there is hope; which is as good as to say, I live with an intent
to make good my promise." Don Quixote gave him thanks, ate a little,
and Sancho a great deal; and then both betook themselves to their
rest; leaving those constant friends and companions, Rozinante and
Dapple, to their own discretion, to repose or feed at random on the
pasture that abounded in that meadow.
The day was now far gone, when the knight and the squire awoke. They
mounted, and held on their journey, making the best of their way to an
inn, that seemed to be about a league distant. I call it an inn
because Don Quixote himself called it so, contrary to his custom, it
being a common thing with him to take inns for castles.
Being got thither, they asked the innkeeper whether he had got any
lodgings? "Yes," answered he; "and as good accommodation as you will
find anywhere." They alighted, and, after Sancho had seen Rozinante
and Dapple well provided for in the stable, he went to wait on his
master, whom he found sitting on a seat made in the wall--the squire
blessing himself more than once that the knight had not taken the inn
for a castle. Supper-time approaching, Don Quixote retired to his
apartment, and Sancho, staying with his host, asked him what he had to
give them for supper? "What you will," answered he; "you may pick and
choose--fish or flesh, butchers' meat or poultry, wild-fowl, and what
not; whatever land, sea, and air afford for food, it is but ask and
have: everything is to be had in this inn." "There is no need of all
this," quoth Sancho, "a couple of roasted chickens will do our
business; for my master has a nice stomach, and eats but little; and,
as for me, I am none of your unreasonable trenchermen." "As for
chickens," replied the innkeeper, "truly we have none; for the kites
have devoured them." "Why, then," quoth Sancho, "roast us a good
handsome pullet, with eggs, so it be young and tender." "A pullet,
master!" answered the host, "I sent above fifty yesterday to the city
to sell; but, setting aside pullets, you may have any thing else."
"Why, then," quoth Sancho, "even give us a good joint of veal or kid."
"Cry you mercy!" replied the innkeeper, "now I remember me, we have
none left in the house; the last company that went cleared me quite;
but by next week we shall have enough, and to spare." "We are in a
fine case, indeed," quoth Sancho; "now will I hold a good wager that
all these defects must be made up with a dish of eggs and bacon." "Hey
day!" cried the host, "my guest has a rare knack at guessing; I told
him I had no hens nor pullets in the house, and yet he would have me
to have eggs! Think on something else, I beseech you, and let us talk
no more of that." "Come, come," cried Sancho, "let us have something;
tell me what thou hast, Mr. Landlord, and do not put me to trouble my
brains any longer." "Why, then, do you see," quoth the host, "to deal
plainly with you, I have a delicate pair of cow-heels, that look like
calves' feet, or a pair of calves' feet that look like cow-heels,
dressed with onions, peas, and bacon--a dish for a prince; they are
just ready to be taken off, and by this time they cry 'Come eat me,
come eat me.'" "Cow-heels!" cried Sancho, "I set my mark on them; let
nobody touch them: I will give more for them than any other shall.
There is nothing I love better." "Nobody else shall have them,"
answered the host, "you need not fear, for all the guests I have in
the house, besides yourselves, are persons of quality, that carry
their steward, their cook, and their provisions along with them." "As
for quality," quoth Sancho, "my master is a person of as good quality
as the proudest of them all, if you go to that, but his profession
allows of no larders nor butteries." This was the discourse that
passed betwixt Sancho and the innkeeper; for, as to the host's
interrogatories concerning his master's profession, Sancho was not
then at leisure to make him any answer.
In short, supper-time came, Don Quixote went to his room, the host
brought the dish of cow-heels, such as it was, and set him down fairly
to supper. But at the same time, in the next room, which was divided
from that where they were by a slender partition, the knight overheard
somebody talking. "Dear Don Jeronimo," said the unseen person, "I
beseech you, till supper is brought in, let us read another chapter of
the Second Part of Don Quixote." The champion no sooner heard himself
named, than up he started, and listened, with attentive ears, to what
was said of him; and then he heard that Don Jeronimo answer, "Why
would you have us read nonsense, Signor Don John? Methinks any one
that has read the First Part of Don Quixote should take but little
delight in reading the second." "That may be," replied Don John;
"however, it may not be amiss to read it; for there is no book so bad
as not to have something that is good in it. What displeases me most
in this part is, that it represents Don Quixote as no longer in love
with Dulcinea del Toboso." Upon these words, Don Quixote, burning with
anger and indignation, cried out, "Whoever says that Don Quixote de la
Mancha has forgotten, or can forget, Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make
him know, with equal arms, that he departs wholly from the truth; for
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be forgotten, nor can Don
Quixote be guilty of forgetfulness. _Constancy_ is his motto; and, to
preserve his fidelity voluntarily, and without the least restraint, is
his profession." "Who is he that answers us?" cries one of those in
the next room. "Who should it be?" quoth Sancho, "but Don Quixote de
la Mancha his own self, the same that will make good all he has said,
and all he has to say, take my word for it; for a good paymaster never
grudges to give security."
Sancho had no sooner made that answer than in came the two gentlemen (for
they appeared to be no less), and one of them, throwing his arms about
Don Quixote's neck, "Your presence, sir knight," said he, "does not belie
your reputation, nor can your reputation fail to raise a respect for your
presence. You are certainly the true Don Quixote de la Mancha, the
polar-star and luminary of chivalry-errant, in despite of him that has
attempted to usurp your name as the author of this book,[14] which I
here deliver into your hands, has presumed to do." With that he took the
book from his friend and gave it to Don Quixote. The knight took it, and,
without saying a word, began to turn over the leaves; then, returning it
a while after, "In the little I have seen," said he, "I have found three
things in this author deserving reprehension. First, I find fault with
some words in his preface; in the second place, his language is
Arragonian, for sometimes he writes without articles; and the third thing
I have observed, which betrays most his ignorance, is, he is out of the
way in one of the principal parts of the history; for there he says that
the wife of my squire, Sancho Panza, is called Mary Gutierrez, which is
not true, for her name is Teresa Panza; and he that errs in so
considerable a passage, may well be suspected to have committed many
gross errors through the whole history." "A pretty impudent fellow is
this same history-writer!" cried Sancho; "sure he knows much what belongs
to our concerns, to call my wife Teresa Panza, Mary Gutierrez! Pray take
the book again, if it like your worship, and see whether he says anything
of me, and whether he has not changed my name too." "Sure, by what you
have said, honest man," said Don Jeronimo, "you should be Sancho Panza,
squire to Signor Don Quixote?" "So I am," quoth Sancho, "and I am proud
of the office." "Well," said the gentleman, "to tell you the truth, the
last author does not treat you so civilly as you seem to deserve. He
represents you as a glutton and a fool, without the least grain of wit or
humour, and very different from the Sancho we have in the first part of
your master's history." "Heaven forgive him," quoth Sancho; "he might
have left me where I was, without offering to meddle with me. Every man's
nose will not make a shoeing horn. Let us leave the world as it is. St.
Peter is very well at Rome." Presently the two gentlemen invited Don
Quixote to sup with them in their chamber, for they knew there was
nothing to be got in the inn fit for his entertainment. Don Quixote, who
was always very complaisant, could not deny their request, and went with
them. Sancho staid behind with the flesh-pot; he placed himself at the
upper end of the table, with the innkeeper for his messmate; for he was
no less a lover of cow-heels than the squire.
[14] Some one had published a book which he called the _Second Part of
Don Quixote_, before our author had printed this.
While Don Quixote was at supper with the gentlemen, Don John asked him
when he heard of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and whether she still
retained a grateful sense of the love and constancy of Signor Don
Quixote. "She does," answered Don Quixote, "and my thoughts are more
fixed upon her than ever; our correspondence is after the old fashion,
not frequent; and, alas, her beauty is transformed into the homely
appearance of a female rustic." And with that he repeated the story of
her enchantment, with what had befallen him in the cavern of
Montesinos, and the means that the sage Merlin had prescribed to free
her from enchantment. The gentlemen were extremely pleased to hear
from Don Quixote's own mouth the strange passages of his history;
equally wondering at the nature of his extravagances and his elegant
manner of relating them. One minute they looked upon him to be in his
senses, and the next they thought he had lost them all; so that they
could not resolve what degree to assign him between madness and sound
judgment.
They then asked him which way he was travelling? He told them he was
for Saragosa, to make one at the tournaments held in that city once a
year for the prize of armour. Don John acquainted him, that the
pretended second part of his history gave an account how Don Quixote,
whoever he was, had been at Saragosa, at a public running at the ring,
the description of which was wretched and defective in the
contrivance, mean and low in the style and expression, and miserably
poor in devices, all made up of foolish idle stuff. "For that reason,"
said Don Quixote, "I will not set a foot in Saragosa; and so the world
shall see what a notorious lie this new historian is guilty of, and
all mankind shall perceive I am not the Don Quixote he speaks of."
"You do very well," said Don Jeronimo; "besides, there is another
tournament at Barcelona, where you may signalise your valour." "I
design to do so," replied Don Quixote; "and so, gentlemen, give me
leave to bid you good night, and permit me to go to bed, for it is
time; and pray place me in the number of your best friends and most
faithful servants."
Having taken leave of one another, Don Quixote and Sancho retired to
their chamber, leaving the two strangers in admiration to think what a
medley the knight had made of good sense and extravagance; but fully
satisfied, however, that these two persons were the true Don Quixote
and Sancho, and not those obtruded upon the public by the Arragonian
author.
Early in the morning Don Quixote got up, and knocking at a thin wall
that parted his chamber from that of the gentlemen, he took his leave
of them. Sancho paid the host nobly, but advised him either to keep
better provisions in his inn, or to commend it less.