الفصل الفصل 68 · CHAPTER XVI. OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

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

CHAPTER XVI.

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

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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, señor, 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, señor,” 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 been 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, señor,” 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,

señor, 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 for 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 to-day; 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, Señor 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, señor, 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, señor, 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, señor,

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, señor, 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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