Kabanata Kabanata 38 · CHAPTER XXXVIII. WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND

. CHAPTER XXXVIII. WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND

LETTERS

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Continuing his discourse Don Quixote said: “As we began in the

student’s case with poverty and its accompaniments, let us see now if

the soldier is richer, and we shall find that in poverty itself there

is no one poorer; for he is dependent on his miserable pay, which comes

late or never, or else on what he can plunder, seriously imperilling

his life and conscience; and sometimes his nakedness will be so great

that a slashed doublet serves him for uniform and shirt, and in the

depth of winter he has to defend himself against the inclemency of the

weather in the open field with nothing better than the breath of his

mouth, which I need not say, coming from an empty place, must come out

cold, contrary to the laws of nature. To be sure he looks forward to

the approach of night to make up for all these discomforts on the bed

that awaits him, which, unless by some fault of his, never sins by

being over narrow, for he can easily measure out on the ground as he

likes, and roll himself about in it to his heart’s content without any

fear of the sheets slipping away from him. Then, after all this,

suppose the day and hour for taking his degree in his calling to have

come; suppose the day of battle to have arrived, when they invest him

with the doctor’s cap made of lint, to mend some bullet-hole, perhaps,

that has gone through his temples, or left him with a crippled arm or

leg. Or if this does not happen, and merciful Heaven watches over him

and keeps him safe and sound, it may be he will be in the same poverty

he was in before, and he must go through more engagements and more

battles, and come victorious out of all before he betters himself; but

miracles of that sort are seldom seen. For tell me, sirs, if you have

ever reflected upon it, by how much do those who have gained by war

fall short of the number of those who have perished in it? No doubt you

will reply that there can be no comparison, that the dead cannot be

numbered, while the living who have been rewarded may be summed up with

three figures. All which is the reverse in the case of men of letters;

for by skirts, to say nothing of sleeves, they all find means of

support; so that though the soldier has more to endure, his reward is

much less. But against all this it may be urged that it is easier to

reward two thousand soldiers, for the former may be remunerated by

giving them places, which must perforce be conferred upon men of their

calling, while the latter can only be recompensed out of the very

property of the master they serve; but this impossibility only

strengthens my argument.

“Putting this, however, aside, for it is a puzzling question for which

it is difficult to find a solution, let us return to the superiority of

arms over letters, a matter still undecided, so many are the arguments

put forward on each side; for besides those I have mentioned, letters

say that without them arms cannot maintain themselves, for war, too,

has its laws and is governed by them, and laws belong to the domain of

letters and men of letters. To this arms make answer that without them

laws cannot be maintained, for by arms states are defended, kingdoms

preserved, cities protected, roads made safe, seas cleared of pirates;

and, in short, if it were not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies,

cities, ways by sea and land would be exposed to the violence and

confusion which war brings with it, so long as it lasts and is free to

make use of its privileges and powers. And then it is plain that

whatever costs most is valued and deserves to be valued most. To attain

to eminence in letters costs a man time, watching, hunger, nakedness,

headaches, indigestions, and other things of the sort, some of which I

have already referred to. But for a man to come in the ordinary course

of things to be a good soldier costs him all the student suffers, and

in an incomparably higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk of

losing his life. For what dread of want or poverty that can reach or

harass the student can compare with what the soldier feels, who finds

himself beleaguered in some stronghold mounting guard in some ravelin

or cavalier, knows that the enemy is pushing a mine towards the post

where he is stationed, and cannot under any circumstances retire or fly

from the imminent danger that threatens him? All he can do is to inform

his captain of what is going on so that he may try to remedy it by a

counter-mine, and then stand his ground in fear and expectation of the

moment when he will fly up to the clouds without wings and descend into

the deep against his will. And if this seems a trifling risk, let us

see whether it is equalled or surpassed by the encounter of two galleys

stem to stem, in the midst of the open sea, locked and entangled one

with the other, when the soldier has no more standing room than two

feet of the plank of the spur; and yet, though he sees before him

threatening him as many ministers of death as there are cannon of the

foe pointed at him, not a lance length from his body, and sees too that

with the first heedless step he will go down to visit the profundities

of Neptune’s bosom, still with dauntless heart, urged on by honour that

nerves him, he makes himself a target for all that musketry, and

struggles to cross that narrow path to the enemy’s ship. And what is

still more marvellous, no sooner has one gone down into the depths he

will never rise from till the end of the world, than another takes his

place; and if he too falls into the sea that waits for him like an

enemy, another and another will succeed him without a moment’s pause

between their deaths: courage and daring the greatest that all the

chances of war can show. Happy the blest ages that knew not the dread

fury of those devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am

persuaded is in hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention,

by which he made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the life

of a gallant gentleman; and that, when he knows not how or whence, in

the height of the ardour and enthusiasm that fire and animate brave

hearts, there should come some random bullet, discharged perhaps by one

who fled in terror at the flash when he fired off his accursed machine,

which in an instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life

of one who deserved to live for ages to come. And thus when I reflect

on this, I am almost tempted to say that in my heart I repent of having

adopted this profession of knight-errant in so detestable an age as we

live in now; for though no peril can make me fear, still it gives me

some uneasiness to think that powder and lead may rob me of the

opportunity of making myself famous and renowned throughout the known

earth by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword. But Heaven’s

will be done; if I succeed in my attempt I shall be all the more

honoured, as I have faced greater dangers than the knights-errant of

yore exposed themselves to.”

All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others

supped, forgetting to raise a morsel to his lips, though Sancho more

than once told him to eat his supper, as he would have time enough

afterwards to say all he wanted. It excited fresh pity in those who had

heard him to see a man of apparently sound sense, and with rational

views on every subject he discussed, so hopelessly wanting in all, when

his wretched unlucky chivalry was in question. The curate told him he

was quite right in all he had said in favour of arms, and that he

himself, though a man of letters and a graduate, was of the same

opinion.

They finished their supper, the cloth was removed, and while the

hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes were getting Don Quixote of La

Mancha’s garret ready, in which it was arranged that the women were to

be quartered by themselves for the night, Don Fernando begged the

captive to tell them the story of his life, for it could not fail to be

strange and interesting, to judge by the hints he had let fall on his

arrival in company with Zoraida. To this the captive replied that he

would very willingly yield to his request, only he feared his tale

would not give them as much pleasure as he wished; nevertheless, not to

be wanting in compliance, he would tell it. The curate and the others

thanked him and added their entreaties, and he finding himself so

pressed said there was no occasion to ask, where a command had such

weight, and added, “If your worships will give me your attention you

will hear a true story which, perhaps, fictitious ones constructed with

ingenious and studied art cannot come up to.” These words made them

settle themselves in their places and preserve a deep silence, and he

seeing them waiting on his words in mute expectation, began thus in a

pleasant quiet voice.

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