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VOLUME[ PART 2  ]  

CHAPTER[ XVI. OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA

MANCHA

Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and

self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous

knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late victory. All

the adventures that could befall him from that time forth he regarded as

already done and brought to a happy issue; he made light of enchantments

and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless drubbings that had

been administered to him in the course of his knight-errantry, nor of the

volley of stones that had levelled half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude

of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and the

shower of stakes that fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that

could he discover any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady

Dulcinea, he would not envy the highest fortune that the most fortunate

knight-errant of yore ever reached or could reach.

He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said

to him, "Isn't it odd, senor, that I have still before my eyes that

monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?"

"And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the

Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire Tom

Cecial thy gossip?"

"I don't know what to say to that," replied Sancho; "all I know is that

the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife and children, nobody else

but himself could have given me; and the face, once the nose was off, was

the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it many a time in my town and

next door to my own house; and the sound of the voice was just the same."

"Let us reason the matter, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come now, by what

process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor Samson Carrasco

would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to fight

with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy? Have I ever given him

any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival, or does he profess arms,

that he should envy the fame I have acquired in them?"

"Well, but what are we to say, senor," returned Sancho, "about that

knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and his

squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be enchantment, as your

worship says, was there no other pair in the world for them to take the

likeness of?"

"It is all," said Don Quixote, "a scheme and plot of the malignant

magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be victorious

in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should display the

countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the friendship I

bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword and might of my

arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who sought to take

my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own. And to prove it, thou

knowest already, Sancho, by experience which cannot lie or deceive, how

easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance into another, turning

fair into foul, and foul into fair; for it is not two days since thou

sawest with thine own eyes the beauty and elegance of the peerless

Dulcinea in all its perfection and natural harmony, while I saw her in

the repulsive and mean form of a coarse country wench, with cataracts in

her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; and when the perverse enchanter

ventured to effect so wicked a transformation, it is no wonder if he

effected that of Samson Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the

glory of victory out of my grasp. For all that, however, I console

myself, because, after all, in whatever shape he may have been, I have

victorious over my enemy."

"God knows what's the truth of it all," said Sancho; and knowing as he

did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and imposition

of his own, his master's illusions were not satisfactory to him; but he

did not like to reply lest he should say something that might disclose

his trickery.

As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man

who was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome

flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny

velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The trappings of the

mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of mulberry colour and

green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad green and gold

baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the baldric; the spurs were

not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly polished that, matching as

they did the rest of his apparel, they looked better than if they had

been of pure gold.

When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously, and

spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote

called out to him, "Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our road,

and has no occasion for speed, it would be a pleasure to me if we were to

join company."

"In truth," replied he on the mare, "I would not pass you so hastily but

for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare."

"You may safely hold in your mare, senor," said Sancho in reply to this,

"for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in the world;

he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the only time he

misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold; I say again your

worship may pull up if you like; for if she was offered to him between

two plates the horse would not hanker after her."

The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote,

who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front

of Dapple's pack-saddle; and if the man in green examined Don Quixote

closely, still more closely did Don Quixote examine the man in green, who

struck him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he was about

fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of

features, and an expression between grave and gay; and his dress and

accoutrements showed him to be a man of good condition. What he in green

thought of Don Quixote of La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape

he had never yet seen; he marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty

stature, the lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his

bearing and his gravity--a figure and picture such as had not been seen

in those regions for many a long day.

Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveller was

regarding him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and courteous

as he was and ready to please everybody, before the other could ask him

any question he anticipated him by saying, "The appearance I present to

your worship being so strange and so out of the common, I should not be

surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when

I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights who, as people say,

go seeking adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I

have given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune,

to bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to life

again knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past, stumbling here,

falling there, now coming down headlong, now raising myself up again, I

have carried out a great portion of my design, succouring widows,

protecting maidens, and giving aid to wives, orphans, and minors, the

proper and natural duty of knights-errant; and, therefore, because of my

many valiant and Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy

to make my way in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the

earth. Thirty thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and it is

on the high-road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if

heaven does not put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words,

or in a single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha,

otherwise called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;' for though

self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that is

to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that, gentle

sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor this

squire, nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my

countenance, nor my gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now

that you know who I am and what profession I follow."

With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took

to answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a

long pause, however, he said to him, "You were right when you saw

curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not succeeded in

removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for although you say,

senor, that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done so;

on the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished

than before. What! is it possible that there are knights-errant in the

world in these days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot

realise the fact that there can be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids

widows, or protects maidens, or defends wives, or succours orphans; nor

should I believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes.

Blessed be heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and genuine

chivalrous deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless stories

of fictitious knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to

the injury of morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories,

will have been driven into oblivion."

"There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote, "as to

whether the histories of the knights-errant are fiction or not."

"Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?" said

the man in green.

"I doubt it," said Don Quixote, "but never mind that just now; if our

journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show your worship that

you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard it as a matter

of certainty that they are not true."

From this last observation of Don Quixote's, the traveller began to have

a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting him to confirm

it by something further; but before they could turn to any new subject

Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was, since he himself had

rendered account of his station and life. To this, he in the green gaban

replied "I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a gentleman by

birth, native of the village where, please God, we are going to dine

today; I am more than fairly well off, and my name is Don Diego de

Miranda. I pass my life with my wife, children, and friends; my pursuits

are hunting and fishing, but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing

but a tame partridge or a bold ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of

books, some in our mother tongue, some Latin, some of them history,

others devotional; those of chivalry have not as yet crossed the

threshold of my door; I am more given to turning over the profane than

the devotional, so long as they are books of honest entertainment that

charm by their style and attract and interest by the invention they

display, though of these there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine

with my neighbours and friends, and often invite them; my entertainments

are neat and well served without stint of anything. I have no taste for

tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my presence; I pry not into my

neighbours' lives, nor have I lynx-eyes for what others do. I hear mass

every day; I share my substance with the poor, making no display of good

works, lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that subtly take

possession of the most watchful heart, find an entrance into mine. I

strive to make peace between those whom I know to be at variance; I am

the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust is ever in the infinite

mercy of God our Lord."

Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the

gentleman's life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy life,

and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw himself off

Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup and kissed his foot

again and again with a devout heart and almost with tears.

Seeing this the gentleman asked him, "What are you about, brother? What

are these kisses for?"

"Let me kiss," said Sancho, "for I think your worship is the first saint

in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life."

"I am no saint," replied the gentleman, "but a great sinner; but you are,

brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity shows."

Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a laugh

from his master's profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement in Don

Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and observed

that one of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were without

the true knowledge of God, placed the summum bonum was in the gifts of

nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, and many and good

children.

"I, Senor Don Quixote," answered the gentleman, "have one son, without

whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not because he is

a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could wish. He is eighteen

years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca studying Latin and Greek,

and when I wished him to turn to the study of other sciences I found him

so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be called a science) that

there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which I wished him to

study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I would like him to be an

honour to his family, as we live in days when our kings liberally reward

learning that is virtuous and worthy; for learning without virtue is a

pearl on a dunghill. He spends the whole day in settling whether Homer

expressed himself correctly or not in such and such a line of the Iliad,

whether Martial was indecent or not in such and such an epigram, whether

such and such lines of Virgil are to be understood in this way or in

that; in short, all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of

Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own

language he makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference

to Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss

on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which I suspect are

for some poetical tournament."

To all this Don Quixote said in reply, "Children, senor, are portions of

their parents' bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad, are to be

loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for the parents to

guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue, propriety, and worthy

Christian conduct, so that when grown up they may be the staff of their

parents' old age, and the glory of their posterity; and to force them to

study this or that science I do not think wise, though it may be no harm

to persuade them; and when there is no need to study for the sake of pane

lucrando, and it is the student's good fortune that heaven has given him

parents who provide him with it, it would be my advice to them to let him

pursue whatever science they may see him most inclined to; and though

that of poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those

that bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I

take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array, bedeck,

and adorn whom is the task of several other maidens, who are all the rest

of the sciences; and she must avail herself of the help of all, and all

derive their lustre from her. But this maiden will not bear to be

handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed either at the

corners of the market-places, or in the closets of palaces. She is the

product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who is able to practise it,

will turn her into pure gold of inestimable worth. He that possesses her

must keep her within bounds, not permitting her to break out in ribald

satires or soulless sonnets. She must on no account be offered for sale,

unless, indeed, it be in heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and

ingenious comedies. She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the

ignorant vulgar, incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden

treasures. And do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term vulgar here

merely to plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant,

be he lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He,

then, who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have

named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the

civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say, senor,

of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am inclined to

think that he is not quite right there, and for this reason: the great

poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek, nor did Virgil

write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in short, all the ancient poets

wrote in the language they imbibed with their mother's milk, and never

went in quest of foreign ones to express their sublime conceptions; and

that being so, the usage should in justice extend to all nations, and the

German poet should not be undervalued because he writes in his own

language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his.

But your son, senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry,

but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any

knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and

vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be

wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to

say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother's womb; and

following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the aid of

study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke who said,

'Est Deus in nobis,' etc. At the same time, I say that the poet by nature

who calls in art to his aid will be a far better poet, and will surpass

him who tries to be one relying upon his knowledge of art alone. The

reason is, that art does not surpass nature, but only brings it to

perfection; and thus, nature combined with art, and art with nature, will

produce a perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I would say

then, gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for being so

studious as he seems to be, and having already successfully surmounted

the first step of the sciences, which is that of the languages, with

their help he will by his own exertions reach the summit of polite

literature, which so well becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns,

honours, and distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or

the gown the learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on

the honour of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he

compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of

Horace, and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for

a poet to write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the

other vices too, provided he does not single out individuals; there are,

however, poets who, for the sake of saying something spiteful, would run

the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in

his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the tongue of

the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things that

it writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvellous

science of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they

honour, value, exalt them, and even crown them with the leaves of that

tree which the thunderbolt strikes not, as if to show that they whose

brows are honoured and adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed

by anyone."

He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's

argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up

about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being not

very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to beg a

little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by; and

just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the

conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered

with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and

persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho

to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted

the shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to

whom there fell a terrific and desperate adventure.

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