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VOLUME[ PART 2  ]  

CHAPTER[ XII. OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE

BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote and

his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at

Sancho's persuasion ate a little from the store carried by Dapple, and

over their supper Sancho said to his master, "Senor, what a fool I should

have looked if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the first

adventure your worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares.

After all, 'a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.'"

"At the same time, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if thou hadst let me

attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold crown and

Cupid's painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils, for I should

have taken them by force and given them into thy hands."

"The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors," said Sancho,

"were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin."

"That is true," said Don Quixote, "for it would not be right that the

accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions

and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho-and, as a

necessary consequence, towards those who represent and produce it--I

would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments of

great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in

which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is

there any similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and ought

to be than the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a

play acted in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and

divers other personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another

the knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted

fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they have

put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors become equal."

"Yes, I have seen that," said Sancho.

"Well then," said Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy and

life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in

short, all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when it is

over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of the

garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in the

grave."

"A fine comparison!" said Sancho; "though not so new but that I have

heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of

chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own particular

office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed, jumbled up and

shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much like ending

life in the grave."

"Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho," said

Don Quixote.

"Ay," said Sancho; "it must be that some of your worship's shrewdness

sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to yield

good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is that your worship's

conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the barren soil of my

dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and society has been

the tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in abundance

that will not fall away or slide from those paths of good breeding that

your worship has made in my parched understanding."

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and perceived that

what he said about his improvement was true, for now and then he spoke in

a way that surprised him; though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to

talk fine and attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling over

from the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and

where he showed his culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was

in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not

upon the subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be

noticed in the course of this history.

In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but

Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to

say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he left him at

liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante's saddle, as his

master's express orders were, that so long as they were in the field or

not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped--the ancient

usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take off the

bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove the saddle from the

horse--never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same liberty he

had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a friendship so

unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by tradition from father

to son, that the author of this veracious history devoted some special

chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the propriety and decorum due

to a history so heroic, he did not insert therein; although at times he

forgets this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two beasts

would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they were

tired or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple's, stretching

half a yard or more on the other side, and the pair would stand thus,

gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, or at least so long as

they were left alone, or hunger did not drive them to go and look for

food. I may add that they say the author left it on record that he

likened their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades and

Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived, to the admiration of

mankind, how firm the friendship must have been between these two

peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships with one another

so badly. This was why it was said--

For friend no longer is there friend;

The reeds turn lances now.

And some one else has sung--

Friend to friend the bug, etc.

And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared

the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received

many lessons from beasts, and learned many important things, as, for

example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog,

watchfulness from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the

elephant, and loyalty from the horse.

Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote

dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a

noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up startled, he listened

and looked in the direction the noise came from, and perceived two men on

horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to the

other, "Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the horses, for, so

far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for them, and the

solitude and silence my love-sick thoughts need of." As he said this he

stretched himself upon the ground, and as he flung himself down, the

armour in which he was clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that

he must be a knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he

shook him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his

senses, and said in a low voice to him, "Brother Sancho, we have got an

adventure."

"God send us a good one," said Sancho; "and where may her ladyship the

adventure be?"

"Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote; "turn thine eyes and look, and thou

wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me, is not over

and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse and throw

himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and his armour

rattled as he fell."

"Well," said Sancho, "how does your worship make out that to be an

adventure?"

"I do not mean to say," returned Don Quixote, "that it is a complete

adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way

adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute or guitar,

and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must be getting

ready to sing something."

"Faith, you are right," said Sancho, "and no doubt he is some enamoured

knight."

"There is no knight-errant that is not," said Don Quixote; "but let us

listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the ball

of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of the heart the mouth

speaketh."

Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove's

voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and

listening attentively the pair heard him sing this

SONNET

Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold;

  Declare the terms that I am to obey;

My will to yours submissively I mould,

  And from your law my feet shall never stray.

  Would you I die, to silent grief a prey?

Then count me even now as dead and cold;

  Would you I tell my woes in some new way?

Then shall my tale by Love itself be told.

The unison of opposites to prove,

  Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I;

But still, obedient to the laws of love,

  Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast,

  Whate'er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest

    Indelible for all eternity.

With an "Ah me!" that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of his

heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and shortly

afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice, "O fairest and

most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most serene Casildea de

Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste away and

perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils? It is not

enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all the Leonese,

all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, and finally all the knights of La

Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?"

"Not so," said Don Quixote at this, "for I am of La Mancha, and I have

never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess a

thing so much to the prejudice of my lady's beauty; thou seest how this

knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will tell us more

about himself."

"That he will," returned Sancho, "for he seems in a mood to bewail

himself for a month at a stretch."

But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices

near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed

in a distinct but courteous tone, "Who goes there? What are you? Do you

belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?"

"Of the miserable," answered Don Quixote.

"Then come to me," said he of the Grove, "and rest assured that it is to

woe itself and affliction itself you come."

Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous

manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho.

The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down here,

sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess

knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in this

place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat of

knights-errant, keep you company." To which Don made answer, "A knight I

am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows, misfortunes, and

calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion I feel for the

misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from it. From what

you have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from

the love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament."

In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground

peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not

going to break one another's heads.

"Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?" asked he of the Grove of Don

Quixote.

"By mischance I am," replied Don Quixote; "though the ills arising from

well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than

misfortunes."

"That is true," returned he of the Grove, "if scorn did not unsettle our

reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like revenge."

"I was never scorned by my lady," said Don Quixote.

"Certainly not," said Sancho, who stood close by, "for my lady is as a

lamb, and softer than a roll of butter."

"Is this your squire?" asked he of the Grove.

"He is," said Don Quixote.

"I never yet saw a squire," said he of the Grove, "who ventured to speak

when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as big as

his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his lips when

I am speaking."

"By my faith then," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and am fit to speak, in

the presence of one as much, or even--but never mind--it only makes it

worse to stir it."

The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, "Let us

two go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and leave

these gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story of their

loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it without having

made an end of it."

"So be it by all means," said Sancho; "and I will tell your worship who I

am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among the number of the

most talkative squires."

With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there

passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between their masters

was serious.

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