The History of Don Quixote de la Mancha Part 15

Thus the good squires went on talking and eating and drinking, until it was full time that sleep should give their tongues a respite and allay their thirst, for to quench it seemed to be impossible; and both of them, still keeping hold of the almost empty bottle, fell fast asleep; in which situation we will leave them at present, to relate what pa.s.sed between the two knights.

CHAPTER XLVI.

_Continuation again of the adventure of the Knight of the Wood._

Much conversation pa.s.sed between the two knights. Among other things, he of the Wood said to Don Quixote, "In fact, sir knight, I must confess that, by destiny, or rather by choice, I became enamoured of the peerless Casildea de Vandalia:--peerless I call her, because she is without her peer, either in rank, beauty, or form. Casildea repaid my honourable and virtuous pa.s.sion by employing me as Hercules was employed by his stepmother, in many and various perils; promising me, at the end of each of them, that the next should crown my hopes; but, alas! she still goes on, adding link after link to the chain of my labours, insomuch that they are now countless; nor can I tell when they are to cease, and my tender wishes be gratified. One time she commanded me to go and challenge Giralda, the famous giantess of Seville, who is as stout and strong as if she were made of bra.s.s, and, though never stirring from one spot, is the most changeable and unsteady woman in the world. I came, I saw, I conquered; I made her stand still, and fixed her to a point; for, during a whole week, no wind blew but from the north. Another time she commanded me to weigh those ancient statues, the fierce bulls of Guisando, an enterprise better suited to a porter than a knight. Another time she commanded me to plunge headlong into Cabra's cave (direful mandate!), and bring her a particular detail of all that lies enclosed within its dark abyss. I stopped the motion of the Giralda, I weighed the bulls of Guisando, I plunged headlong into the cavern of Cabra and brought to light its hidden secrets; yet still my hopes are dead! In short, she has now commanded me to travel over all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight whom I meet to confess that in beauty she excels all others now in existence; and that I am the most valiant and the most enamoured knight in the universe. In obedience to this command I have already traversed the greatest part of Spain, and have vanquished divers knights who have had the presumption to contradict me. But what I value myself most upon is having vanquished, in single combat, that renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea; and I reckon that, in this conquest alone, I have vanquished all the knights in the world; for this Don Quixote has conquered them all, and I, having overcome him, his glory, his fame, and his honour, are, consequently transferred to me. All the innumerable exploits of the said Don Quixote I therefore consider as already mine, and placed to my account."

Don Quixote was amazed at the a.s.sertions of the Knight of the Wood, and had been every moment at the point of giving him the lie; but he restrained himself, that he might convict him of falsehood from his own mouth; and therefore he said, very calmly, "That you may have vanquished, sir knight, most of the knights-errant of Spain, or even of the whole world, I will not dispute; but that you have conquered Don Quixote de la Mancha I have much reason to doubt. Some one resembling him, I allow, it might have been; though, in truth, I believe there are not many like him." "How say you?" cried he of the Wood; "as sure as I am here alone, I fought with Don Quixote, vanquished him, and made him surrender to me! He is a man of an erect figure, withered face, long and meagre limbs, grizzle-haired, hawk-nosed, with large black mustachios, and styles himself the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure. The name of his squire is Sancho Panza; he oppresses the back and governs the reins of a famous steed called Rozinante--in a word, the mistress of his thoughts is one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly called Aldonza Lorenzo, as my Casildea, being of Andalusia, is now distinguished by the name of Casildea de Vandalia.

And now, if I have not sufficiently proved what I have said, here is my sword, which shall make incredulity itself believe." "Softly, sir knight," said Don Quixote, "and hear what I have to say. You must know that this Don Quixote you speak of is the dearest friend I have in the world, insomuch that he is, as it were, another self; and, notwithstanding the very accurate description you have given of him, I am convinced, by the evidence of my senses, that you have never subdued him. It is, indeed, possible that, as he is continually persecuted by enchanters, some one of these may have a.s.sumed his shape, and suffered himself to be vanquished, in order to defraud him of the fame which his exalted feats of chivalry have acquired him over the whole face of the earth. A proof of their malice occurred but a few days since, when they transformed the figure and face of the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso into the form of a mean rustic wench.

And now if, after all, you doubt the truth of what I say, behold the true Don Quixote himself before you, ready to convince you of your error by force of arms, on foot or on horseback, or in whatever manner you please." He then rose up, and grasping his sword, awaited the determination of the Knight of the Wood, who very calmly said in reply, "A good paymaster wants no pledge: he who could vanquish Signor Don Quixote under transformation may well hope to make him yield in his proper person. But as knights-errant should by no means perform their feats in the dark, like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for daylight, that the sun may witness our exploits; and let the condition of our combat be, that the conquered shall remain entirely at the mercy and disposal of the conqueror; provided that he require nothing of him but what a knight may with honour submit to." Don Quixote having expressed himself entirely satisfied with these conditions, they went to seek their squires, whom they found snoring in the very same posture as that in which sleep had first surprised them. They were soon awakened by their masters, and ordered to prepare the steeds, so that they might be ready at sunrise for a single combat. At this intelligence Sancho was thunderstruck, and ready to swoon away with fear for his master, from what he had been told by the Squire of the Wood of his knight's prowess. Both the squires, however, without saying a word, went to seek their cattle; and the three horses and Dapple were found all very sociably together.

"You must understand, brother," said the Squire of the Wood to Sancho, "that it is not the custom in Andalusia for the seconds to stand idle with their arms folded while their princ.i.p.als are engaged in combat.

So this is to give you notice that, while our masters are at it, we must fight too, and make splinters of one another." "This custom, Signor Squire," answered Sancho, "may pa.s.s among ruffians; but among the squires of knights-errant no such practice is thought of,--at least I have not heard my master talk of any such custom; and he knows by heart all the laws of knight-errantry. But supposing there is any such law, I shall not obey it. I would rather pay the penalty laid upon such peaceable squires, which, I dare say, cannot be above a couple of pounds of wax; and that will cost me less money than plasters to cure a broken head. Besides, how can I fight when I have got no sword, and never had one in my life?" "I know a remedy for that," said he of the Wood: "here are a couple of linen bags of the same size; you shall take one, and I the other, and so, with equal weapons, we will have a bout at bag-blows." "With all my heart,"

answered Sancho; "for such a battle will only dust our jackets." "It must not be quite so, either," replied the other; "for, lest the wind should blow them aside, we must put in them half-a-dozen clean and smooth pebbles of equal weight; and thus we may brush one another without much harm or damage." "But I tell you what, master," said Sancho, "though they should be filled with b.a.l.l.s of raw silk, I shall not fight. Let our masters fight, but let us drink and live; for time takes care to rid us of our lives without our seeking ways to go before our appointed term and season." "Nay," replied he of the Wood, "do let us fight, if it be but for half-an-hour." "No, no," answered Sancho, "I shall not be so rude nor ungrateful as to have any quarrel with a gentleman after eating and drinking with him. Besides, who can set about dry fighting without being provoked to it?" "If that be all," quoth he of the Wood, "I can easily manage it; for, before we begin our fight, I will come up and just give you three or four handsome cuffs, which will lay you flat at my feet and awaken your choler, though it slept sounder than a dormouse." "Against that trick," answered Sancho, "I have another not a whit behind it; which is to take a good cudgel, and, before you come near enough to awaken my choler, I will bastinado yours into so sound a sleep that it shall never awake but in another world. Let me tell you, I am not a man to suffer my face to be handled; so let every one look to the arrow; though the safest way would be to let that same choler sleep on--for one man knows not what another can do, and some people go out for wool, and come home shorn. In all times G.o.d blessed the peace-makers, and cursed the peace-breakers. If a baited cat turns into a lion, there is no knowing what I, that am a man, may turn into; and therefore I warn you, master squire, that all the damage and mischief that may follow from our quarrel must be placed to your account."

"Agreed," replied he of the Wood; "when daylight arrives, we shall see what is to be done."

And now a thousand sorts of birds, glittering in their gay attire, began to chirp and warble in the trees, and in a variety of joyous notes seemed to hail the blus.h.i.+ng Aurora, who now displayed her rising beauties from the bright arcades and balconies of the east, and gently shook from her locks a shower of liquid pearls, sprinkling that reviving treasure over all vegetation. The willows distilled their delicious manna, the fountains smiled, the brooks murmured, the woods and meads rejoiced at her approach. But scarcely had hill and dale received the welcome light of day, and objects become visible, when the first thing that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of the Wood's nose, which was so large that it almost overshadowed his whole body. Its magnitude was indeed extraordinary; it was moreover a hawk-nose, full of warts and carbuncles, of the colour of a mulberry, and hanging two fingers' breadth below his mouth. The size, the colour, the carbuncles, and the crookedness, produced such a countenance of horror, that Sancho, at sight thereof, began to tremble from head to foot, and he resolved within himself to take two hundred cuffs before he would be provoked to attack such a hobgoblin.

Don Quixote also surveyed his antagonist, but, the beaver of his helmet being down, his face was concealed; it was evident, however, that he was a strong-made man, not very tall, and that over his armour he wore a kind of surtout or loose coat, apparently of the finest gold cloth, besprinkled with little moons of polished gla.s.s, which made a very gay and s.h.i.+ning appearance; a large plume of feathers, green, yellow, and white, waved above his helmet. His lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very large and thick, and headed with pointed steel above a span long. All these circ.u.mstances Don Quixote attentively marked, and inferred from appearances that he was a very potent knight; but he was not therefore daunted, like Sancho Panza; on the contrary, with a gallant spirit, he said to the Knight of the Mirrors, "Sir knight, if your eagerness for combat has not exhausted your courtesy, I entreat you to lift up your beaver a little, that I may see whether your countenance corresponds with your gallant demeanour." "Whether vanquished or victorious in this enterprise, sir knight," answered he of the Mirrors, "you will have time and leisure enough for seeing me; and if I comply not now with your request, it is because I think it would be an indignity to the beauteous Casildea de Vandalia to lose any time in forcing you to make the confession required." "However, while we are mounting our horses," said Don Quixote, "you can tell me whether I resemble that Don Quixote whom you said you had vanquished." "As like as one egg is to another," replied he of the Mirrors, "though, as you say you are persecuted by enchanters, I dare not affirm that you are actually the same person."

"I am satisfied that you acknowledge you may be deceived," said Don Quixote; "however, to remove all doubt, let us to horse, and in less time than you would have spent in raising your beaver, if G.o.d, my mistress, and my arm avail me, I will see your face, and you shall be convinced I am not the vanquished Don Quixote."

They now mounted without more words; and Don Quixote wheeled Rozinante about, to take sufficient ground for the encounter, while the other knight did the same; but before Don Quixote had gone twenty paces, he heard himself called by his opponent, who, meeting him half way, said, "Remember, sir knight, our agreement; which is, that the conquered shall remain at the discretion of the conqueror." "I know it,"

answered Don Quixote, "provided that which is imposed shall not transgress the laws of chivalry." "Certainly," answered he of the Mirrors. At this juncture the squire's strange nose presented itself to Don Quixote's sight, who was no less struck than Sancho, insomuch that he looked upon him as a monster, or some creature of a new species. Sancho, seeing his master set forth to take his career, would not stay alone with Long-nose, lest perchance he should get a filip from that dreadful snout, which would level him to the ground, either by force or fright. So he ran after his master, holding by the stirrup-leather, and when he thought it was nearly time for him to face about, "I beseech your wors.h.i.+p," he cried, "before you turn, to help me into yon cork-tree, where I can see better and more to my liking the brave battle you are going to have with that knight." "I rather believe, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, "that thou art for mounting a scaffold to see the bull-sports without danger." "To tell you the truth, sir," answered Sancho, "that squire's monstrous nose fills me with dread, and I dare not stand near him." "It is indeed a fearful sight," said Don Quixote, "to any other but myself; come, therefore, and I will help thee up."

[Ill.u.s.tration: DON QUIXOTE. P. 218.]

While Don Quixote was engaged in helping Sancho up into the cork-tree, the Knight of the Mirrors took as large a compa.s.s as he thought necessary, and believing that Don Quixote had done the same, without waiting for sound of trumpet, or any other signal, he turned about his horse, who was not a whit more active nor more sightly than Rozinante, and at his best speed, though not exceeding a middling trot, he advanced to encounter the enemy; but seeing him employed with Sancho, he reined-in his steed and stopped in the midst of his career; for which his horse was most thankful, being unable to stir any farther.

Don Quixote, thinking his enemy was coming full speed against him, clapped spurs to Rozinante's flanks, and made him so bestir himself, that this was the only time in his life that he approached to something like a gallop; and with this unprecedented fury he soon came up to where his adversary stood, striking his spurs rowel-deep into the sides of his charger, without being able to make him stir a finger's length from the place where he had been checked in his career. At this fortunate juncture Don Quixote met his adversary embarra.s.sed not only with his horse but his lance, which he either knew not how, or had not time, to fix in its rest; and therefore our knight, who saw not these perplexities, a.s.sailed him with perfect security, and with such force that he soon brought him to the ground, over his horse's crupper, leaving him motionless and without any signs of life. Sancho, on seeing this, immediately slid down from the cork-tree, and in all haste ran to his master, who alighted from Rozinante, and went up to the vanquished knight, when, unlacing his helmet to see whether he was dead, or if yet alive, to give him air, he beheld----but who can relate what he beheld, without causing amazement, wonder, and terror, in all that shall hear it? He saw, says the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the very physiognomy, the very effigies and semblance of the bachelor Samson Carrasco! "Come hither, Sancho," cried he aloud, "and see, but believe not; make haste, son, and mark what wizards and enchanters can do!"

Sancho approached, and seeing the face of the bachelor Samson Carrasco, he began to cross and bless himself a thousand times over.

All this time the overthrown cavalier shewed no signs of life. "My advice is," said Sancho, "that, at all events, your wors.h.i.+p should thrust your sword down the throat of this man who is so like the bachelor Samson Carrasco; for in dispatching him you may destroy one of those enchanters your enemies." "Thou sayest not amiss," quoth Don Quixote, "for the fewer enemies the better." He then drew his sword to put Sancho's advice into execution, when the squire of the Mirrors came running up, but without the frightful nose, and cried aloud, "Have a care, Signor Don Quixote, what you do; for it is the bachelor Samson Carrasco your friend, and I am his squire." Sancho seeing his face now shorn of its deformity, exclaimed, "The nose! where is the nose?" "Here it is," said the other, taking from his right-hand pocket a pasteboard nose, formed and painted in the manner already described; and Sancho, now looking earnestly at him, made another exclamation.

"Blessed Virgin, defend me!" cried he, "is not this Tom Cecial my neighbour?" "Indeed am I," answered the unnosed squire; "Tom Cecial I am, friend Sancho Panza, and I will tell you presently what tricks brought me hither; but now, good Sancho, entreat, in the mean time, your master not to hurt the Knight of the Mirrors at his feet: for he is truly no other than the rash and ill-advised bachelor Samson Carrasco, our townsman."

By this time the Knight of the Mirrors began to recover his senses, which Don Quixote perceiving, he clapped the point of his naked sword to his throat, and said, "You are a dead man, sir knight, if you confess not that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels in beauty your Casildea de Vandalia; you must promise also, on my sparing your life, to go to the city of Toboso, and present yourself before her from me, that she may dispose of you as she shall think fit; and, if she leaves you at liberty, then shall you return to me without delay--the fame of my exploits being your guide--to relate to me the circ.u.mstances of your interview: these conditions being strictly conformable to the terms agreed on before our encounter, and also to the rules of knight-errantry." "I confess," said the fallen knight, "that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso's torn and dirty shoe is preferable to the ill-combed, though clean, locks of Casildea; and I promise to go and return from her presence to yours, and give you the exact and particular account which you require of me."

"You must likewise confess and believe," added Don Quixote, "that the knight you vanquished was not Don Quixote de la Mancha, but some one resembling him; as I do confess and believe that, though resembling the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you are not he, but some other whom my enemies have purposely transformed into his likeness, to restrain the impetuosity of my rage, and make me use with moderation the glory of my conquest." "I confess, judge, and believe every thing, precisely as you do yourself," answered the disjointed knight; "and now suffer me to rise, I beseech you, if my bruises do not prevent me." Don Quixote raised him with the a.s.sistance of his squire, on whom Sancho still kept his eyes fixed; and though from some conversation that pa.s.sed between them, he had much reason to believe it was really his old friend Tom Cecial, he was so prepossessed by all that his master had said about enchanters, that he would not trust his own eyes. In short, both master and man persisted in their error; and the Knight of the Mirrors, with his squire, much out of humour and in ill plight, went in search of some convenient place where he might searcloth himself and splinter his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho continued their journey to Saragosa, where the history leaves them; to give some account of the Knight of the Mirrors and his well-snouted squire.

CHAPTER XLVII.

_Giving an account of the Knight of the Mirrors and his Squire._

Exceedingly happy, elated, and self-satisfied was Don Quixote at his triumph over so valiant a knight as he imagined him of the Mirrors to be, and from whose promise he hoped to learn whether his adored mistress still remained in a state of enchantment. But Don Quixote expected one thing, and he of the Mirrors intended another: his only care at present being to get, as soon as possible, plasters for his bruises. The history then proceeds to tell us, that when the bachelor Samson Carrasco advised Don Quixote to resume his functions of knight-errantry, he had previously consulted with the priest and the barber upon the best means of inducing Don Quixote to stay peaceably and quietly at home; and it was agreed by general vote, as well as by the particular advice of Carrasco, that they should let Don Quixote make another sally (since it seemed impossible to detain him), and that the bachelor should then also sally forth like a knight-errant, and take an opportunity of engaging him to fight, and after vanquis.h.i.+ng him, which they held to be an easy matter, he should remain, according to a previous agreement, at the disposal of the conqueror, who should command him to return home and not quit it for the s.p.a.ce of two years, or till he had received further orders from him. They doubted not but that he would readily comply, rather than infringe the laws of chivalry; and they hoped that, during this interval, he might forget his follies, or that some means might be discovered of curing his malady. Carrasco engaged in the enterprise; and Tom Cecial, Sancho Panza's neighbour, a merry shallow-brained fellow, proffered his service as squire. Samson armed himself in the manner already described, and Tom Cecial fitted the counterfeit nose to his face for the purpose of disguising himself; and, following the same road that Don Quixote had taken, they were not far off when the adventure of Death's car took place; but it was in the wood they overtook him, which was the scene of the late action, and where, had it not been for Don Quixote's extraordinary conceit that the bachelor was not the bachelor, that gentleman, not meeting even so much as nests where he thought to find birds, would have been incapacitated for ever from taking the degree of licentiate.

Tom Cecial, after the unlucky issue of their expedition, said to the bachelor, "Most certainly, Signor Carrasco, we have been rightly served. It is easy to plan a thing, but very often difficult to get through with it. Don Quixote is mad, and we are in our senses; he gets off sound and laughing, and your wors.h.i.+p remains sore and sorrowful: now, pray, which is the greater madman, he who is so because he cannot help it, or he who is so on purpose?" "The difference between these two sorts of madmen is," replied Samson, "that he who cannot help it will remain so, and he who deliberately plays the fool may leave off when he thinks fit." "That being the case," said Tom Cecial, "I was mad when I desired to be your wors.h.i.+p's squire; and now I desire to be so no longer, but shall hasten home again." "That you may do,"

answered Samson; "but, for myself, I cannot think of returning to mine till I have soundly banged this same Don Quixote. It is not now with the hope of curing him of his madness that I shall seek him, but a desire to punish him;--the pain of my ribs will not allow me to entertain a more charitable purpose." In this humour they went talking on till they came to a village, where they luckily met with a bone-setter, who undertook to cure the unfortunate Samson. Tom Cecial now returned home, leaving his master meditating schemes of revenge; and though the history will have occasion to mention him again hereafter, it must now attend the motions of our triumphant knight.

Don Quixote pursued his journey with the pleasure, satisfaction, and self-complacency already described; imagining, because of his late victory, that he was the most valiant knight the world could then boast of. He cared neither for enchantments nor enchanters, and looked upon all the adventures which should henceforth befall him as already achieved and brought to a happy conclusion. He no longer remembered his innumerable sufferings during the progress of his chivalries: the stoning that demolished half his teeth, the ingrat.i.tude of the galley-slaves, nor the audacity of the Yanguesian carriers and their shower of pack staves,--in short, he inwardly exclaimed that, could he but devise any means of disenchanting his Lady Dulcinea, he should not envy the highest fortune that ever was or could be attained by the most prosperous knight-errant of past ages!

He was wholly absorbed in these reflections, when Sancho said to him, "Is it not strange, sir, that I still have before my eyes the monstrous nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial?" "And dost thou really believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and his squire thy friend Tom Cecial?" "I know not what to say about it," answered Sancho; "I only know that the marks he gave me of my house, wife, and children, could be given by n.o.body else; and his face, when the nose was off, was Tom Cecial's,--for he lives in the next house to my own; the tone of his voice, too, was the very same." "Come, come, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "let us reason upon this matter. How can it be imagined that the bachelor Samson Carrasco should come as a knight-errant, armed at all points, to fight with me? Was I ever his enemy? Have I ever given him occasion to bear me ill-will? Am I his rival? Or has he embraced the profession of arms, envying the fame I have acquired by them?"

"But, then, what are we to say, sir," answered Sancho, "to the likeness of that knight, whoever he may be, to the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and his squire to my neighbour Tom Cecial? If it be enchantment, as your wors.h.i.+p says, why were they to be made like those two above all other in the world?" "Trust me, Sancho, the whole is an artifice," answered Don Quixote, "and a trick of the wicked magicians who persecute me. Knowing that I might be victorious, they cunningly contrived that my vanquished enemy should a.s.sume the appearance of the worthy bachelor, in order that the friends.h.i.+p which I bear him might interpose between the edge of my sword and the rigour of my arm, and, by checking my just indignation, the wretch might escape with life, who, by fraud and violence, sought mine. Indeed, already thou knowest by experience, Sancho, how easy a thing it is for enchanters to change one face into another, making the fair foul, and the foul fair; since, not two days ago, thou sawest with thine own eyes the grace and beauty of the peerless Dulcinea in their highest perfection, while to me she appeared under the mean and disgusting exterior of a rude country wench. If, then, the wicked enchanter durst make so foul a transformation, no wonder at this deception of his, in order to s.n.a.t.c.h the glory of victory out of my hands! However, I am gratified in knowing that, whatever was the form he pleased to a.s.sume, my triumph over him was complete." Sancho, well knowing the transformation of Dulcinea to have been a device of his own, would make no reply, lest he should betray himself.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

_Of what befell Don Quixote with a worthy gentleman of La Mancha._

While thus discoursing, they were overtaken by a gentleman, mounted on a fine mare, and dressed in a green cloth riding-coat faced with murry-coloured velvet, and a hunter's cap of the same; the mare's furniture corresponded in colour with his dress, and was adapted to field-sports; a Moorish scymitar hung at his shoulder-belt, which was green and gold; his buskins were wrought like the belt; and his spurs were green,--not gilt, but green,--and polished so neatly that, as they suited his clothes, they looked better than if they had been of pure gold. He saluted them courteously, and, spurring his mare, was pa.s.sed on, when Don Quixote said to him, "If you are travelling our road, signor, and are not in haste, will you favour us with your company?" "Indeed, signor," replied he, "I should not have pa.s.sed on, but I was afraid your horse might prove unruly in the company of mine." "Sir," answered Sancho, "if that be all, you may set your mind at rest on that score, for ours is the soberest and best-behaved horse in the world, and was never guilty of a roguish trick in his life, but once, and then my master and I paid for it sevenfold." The traveller upon this checked his mare, his curiosity being excited by the appearance of Don Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried at the pommel of his a.s.s's pannel; but if he stared at Don Quixote, he was himself surveyed with no less attention by the knight, who conceived him to be some person of consequence. His age seemed to be about fifty, though he had but few grey hairs; his face was of the aquiline form, of a countenance neither too gay nor too grave, and by his whole exterior it was evident that he was no ordinary person. It was not less manifest that the traveller, as he contemplated Don Quixote, thought he had never seen any thing like him before. With wonder he gazed upon his tall person, his meagre sallow visage, his lank horse, his armour and stately deportment--altogether presenting a figure like which nothing, for many centuries past, had been seen in that country.

Don Quixote perceived that he had attracted the attention of the traveller, and being the pink of courtesy, and always desirous of pleasing, he antic.i.p.ated his questions by saying, "You are probably surprised, signor, at my appearance, which is certainly uncommon in the present age; but this will be explained when I tell you that I am a knight in search of adventures. I left my country, mortgaged my estate, quitted ease and pleasures, and threw myself into the arms of fortune. I wished to revive chivalry, so long deceased; and, for some time past, exposed to many vicissitudes, stumbling in one place, and rising again in another, I have prosecuted my design; succouring widows, protecting damsels, aiding wives and orphans--all the natural and proper duties of knights-errant. And thus, by many valorous and Christian exploits, I have acquired the deserved honour of being in print, throughout all, or most of, the nations in the world. Thirty thousand copies are already published of my history, and, Heaven permitting, thirty thousand thousands more are likely to be printed.

Finally, to sum up all in a single word, know that I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure. Though self-praise depreciates, I am compelled sometimes to p.r.o.nounce my own commendations; but it is only when no friend is present to perform that office for me. And now, my worthy sir, that you know my profession, and who I am, you will cease to wonder at my appearance."

After an interval of silence, the traveller in green said, in reply, "You are indeed right, signor, in conceiving me to be struck by your appearance; but you have rather increased than lessened my wonder by the accounts you give of yourself. How! Is it possible that there are knights-errant now in the world, and that there are histories printed of real chivalries? I had no idea that there was any body now upon earth who relieved widows, succoured damsels, aided wives, or protected orphans; nor should yet have believed it, had I not been convinced with my own eyes. Thank Heaven, the history you mention must surely cast into oblivion all the fables of imaginary knights-errant, which abound, much to the detriment of good morals, and the prejudice and neglect of genuine history." "There is much to be said," answered Don Quixote, "upon the question of the truth or fiction of the histories of knights-errant." "Why, is there any one," answered he in green, "who doubts the falsehood of those histories?" "I doubt it,"

replied Don Quixote: "but no more of that at present; for if we travel together much farther, I hope to convince you, sir, that you have been wrong in suffering yourself to be carried in the stream with those who cavil at their truth." The traveller now first began to suspect the state of his companion's intellects, and watched for a further confirmation of his suspicion; but before they entered into any other discourse, Don Quixote said that, since he had so freely described himself, he hoped he might be permitted to ask who he was. To which the traveller answered, "I, sir knight, am a gentleman, and native of a village, where, if it please G.o.d, we shall dine to-day. My fortune is affluent, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I spend my time with my wife, my children, and my friends: my diversions are hunting and fis.h.i.+ng; but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, only some decoy partridges and a stout ferret. I have about six dozen of books, Spanish and Latin, some of history, and some of devotion; those of chivalry have not come over my threshold. Sometimes I eat with my neighbours and friends, and frequently I invite them; my table is neat and clean, and not parsimoniously furnished. I slander no one, nor do I listen to slander from others. I pry not into other men's lives, nor scrutinise their actions. I hear ma.s.s every day; I share my substance with the poor, making no parade of my good works, lest hypocrisy and vain-glory, those insidious enemies of the human breast, should find access to mine. It is always my endeavour to make peace between those who are at variance. I am devoted to our blessed Lady, and ever trust in the infinite mercy of G.o.d our Lord."

Sancho was very attentive to the account of the gentleman's life, which appeared to him to be good and holy; and thinking that one of such a character must needs work miracles, he flung himself off his Dapple, and running up to him, he laid hold of his right stirrup; then, devoutly and almost with tears, he kissed his feet more than once. "What mean you by this, brother?" said the gentleman; "why these embraces?" "Your wors.h.i.+p," said Sancho, "is the first saint on horseback I ever saw in all my life." "I am no saint," answered the gentleman, "but a great sinner; you, my friend, must indeed be good, as your simplicity proves." Sancho retired, and mounted his a.s.s again; having forced a smile from the profound gravity of his master, and caused fresh astonishment in Don Diego.

Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had; at the same time observing that the ancient philosophers, being without the knowledge of the true G.o.d, held supreme happiness to subsist in the gifts of nature and fortune, in having many friends and many good children. "I have one son," answered the gentleman; "and if I had him not, perhaps I should think myself happier; not that he is bad, but because he is not all that I would have him. He is eighteen years old; six of which he has spent at Salamanca, learning the Latin and Greek languages; and when I wished him to proceed to other studies, I found him infatuated with poetry, and could not prevail upon him to look into the law, which it was my desire he should study; nor into theology, the queen of all sciences. I was desirous that he should be an honour to his family, since we live in an age in which useful and virtuous literature is rewarded by the sovereign,--I say virtuous, for letters without virtue are pearls on a dunghill. He pa.s.ses whole days in examining whether Homer expressed himself well in such a verse of the Iliad; whether such a line in Virgil should be understood this or that way;--in a word, all his conversation is with those and other ancient poets: for the modern Spanish authors he holds in no esteem. At the same time, in spite of the contempt he seems to have for Spanish poetry, his thoughts are at this very time entirely engrossed by a paraphrase on four verses sent him from Salamanca, and which, I believe, is intended for a scholastic prize."

"Children, my good sir," replied Don Quixote, "are the flesh and blood of their parents; and whether good or bad, must be loved and cherished as part of themselves. It is the duty of parents to train them up, from their infancy, in the paths of virtue and good manners, and in Christian discipline; so that they may become the staff of their age, and an honour to their posterity. As to forcing them to this or that pursuit, I do not hold it to be right, though I think there is a propriety in advising them; and when the student is so fortunate as to have an inheritance, and therefore not compelled to study for his subsistence, I should be for indulging him in the pursuit of that science to which his genius is most inclined; and although that of poetry be less useful than delightful, it does not usually reflect disgrace on its votaries. With regard to your son's contempt for Spanish poetry, I think he is therein to blame. The great Homer, being a Greek, did not write in Latin; nor did Virgil, who was a Roman, write in Greek. In fact, all the ancient poets wrote in the language of their native country, and did not hunt after foreign tongues to express their own sublime conceptions. If your son write personal satires, chide him, and tear his performances; but if he writes like Horace, reprehending vice in general, commend him; for it is laudable in a poet to employ his pen in a virtuous cause. Let him direct the shafts of satire against vice, in all its various forms, but not level them at individuals; like some who, rather than not indulge their mischievous wit, will hazard a disgraceful banishment to the isles of Pontus. If the poet be correct in his morals, his verse will partake of the same purity: the pen is the tongue of the mind, and what his conceptions are, such will be his productions."

The gentleman hearing Don Quixote express himself in this manner, was struck with so much admiration, that he began to lose the bad opinion he had conceived of his understanding. As for Sancho, who did not much relish this fine talk, he took an opportunity to slink aside in the middle of it, and went to get a little milk of some shepherds that were hard by keeping their sheep. Now when the gentleman was going to renew his discourse, mightily pleased with these judicious observations, Don Quixote, lifting up his eyes, perceived a waggon on the road, set round with little flags that appeared to be the king's colours; and believing it to be some new adventure, he called out to Sancho to bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing him call aloud, left the shepherds, and clapping his heels vigorously to Dapple's sides, soon came trotting up to his master.

CHAPTER XLIX.

_Where you will find set forth the highest proof that Don Quixote ever gave, or could give, of his courage; with the successful issue of the adventure of the Lions._

They were now overtaken by the waggon, which was attended only by the driver, mounted on one of the mules, and another man that sat on the fore part of it. Don Quixote making up to them, "Whither go ye, friends?" said he. "What waggon is this? What do you convey in it? And what is the meaning of these colours?" "The waggon is mine," answered the waggoner: "I have there two brave lions, which the general of Oran is sending to the king, and these colours are to let the people understand that what goes here belongs to him." "Are the lions large?"

"Very large," answered the man in the fore part of the waggon; "bigger never came from Africa. I am their keeper, and have had charge of several others, but I never saw the like of these before. In the foremost cage is a lion, and in the other a lioness. By this time they are cruelly hungry, for they have not eaten to-day; therefore, pray, good sir, ride out of the way, for we must make haste to get to the place where we are to feed them." "What!" said Don Quixote, with a scornful smile; "lion-whelps against me! And at this time of day?

Well, I will make those gentlemen that sent their lions this way, know whether I am a man to be scared with lions. Get off, honest fellow; and since you are the keeper, open their cages and let them both out; for, in despite of those enchanters that have sent them to try me, I will make the creatures know, in the midst of this very field, who Don Quixote de la Mancha is."

While he was making this speech, Sancho came up to Don Diego, and begged him to dissuade his master from his rash attempt. "Oh, good dear sir!" cried he, "for pity's sake, hinder my master from falling upon these lions by all means, or we shall be torn in pieces." "Why,"

said the gentleman, "is your master so arrant a madman, then, that you should fear he would set upon such furious beasts?" "Ah, sir!" said Sancho, "he is not mad, but terribly venturesome." "Well," replied the gentleman, "I will take care there shall be no harm done;" and with that, coming up to the Don, who was urging the lion-keeper to open the cage, "Sir," said he, "knights-errant ought to engage in adventures from which there may be some hope of coming off with safety, but not in such as are altogether desperate; for courage which borders on temerity is more like madness than true fort.i.tude. Besides, these lions are not come against you, but sent as a present to the king; and therefore it is not your duty to detain them, or stop the waggon."

"Pray, sweet sir," replied Don Quixote, "go and amuse yourself with your tame partridges and your ferrets, and leave every one to his own business. This is mine, and I know best whether these worthy lions are sent against me or no." Then turning about to the keeper, "Sirrah!"

said he, "open your cages immediately, or I will certainly pin thee to the waggon with this lance." "Good sir," cried the waggoner, seeing this strange apparition in armour so resolute, "for mercy's sake, do but let me take out our mules first, and get out of harm's way with them as fast as I can, before the lions get out; for if they should once set upon the poor beasts, I should be undone for ever; for, alas, that cart and they are all I have in the world to get a living with."

"Thou man of small faith," said Don Quixote, "take them out quickly then, and go with them where thou wilt; though thou shalt presently see that thy precaution was needless, and thou mightest have spared thy pains."