Kabanata Kabanata 47 · CHAPTER XLVII. OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED

. CHAPTER XLVII. OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED

CHAPTER XLVII.

OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED

AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS

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When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this way,

he said, “Many grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but never

yet have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off enchanted

knights-errant in this fashion, or at the slow pace that these lazy,

sluggish animals promise; for they always take them away through the

air with marvellous swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a

chariot of fire, or it may be on some hippogriff or other beast of the

kind; but to carry me off like this on an ox-cart! By God, it puzzles

me! But perhaps the chivalry and enchantments of our day take a

different course from that of those in days gone by; and it may be,

too, that as I am a new knight in the world, and the first to revive

the already forgotten calling of knight-adventurers, they may have

newly invented other kinds of enchantments and other modes of carrying

off the enchanted. What thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son?”

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“I don’t know what to think,” answered Sancho, “not being as well read

as your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to say

and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite

catholic.”

“Catholic!” said Don Quixote. “Father of me! how can they be Catholic

when they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes to come and

do this, and bring me to this condition? And if thou wouldst prove it,

touch them, and feel them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of

air, and no consistency except in appearance.”

“By God, master,” returned Sancho, “I have touched them already; and

that devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and

another property very different from what I have heard say devils have,

for by all accounts they all smell of brimstone and other bad smells;

but this one smells of amber half a league off.” Sancho was here

speaking of Don Fernando, who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very

likely perfumed as Sancho said.

“Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “for let me

tell thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about

with them, they themselves have no smell, because they are spirits; or,

if they have any smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but of

something foul and fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell

with them wherever they go, and can get no ease whatever from their

torments, and as a sweet smell is a thing that gives pleasure and

enjoyment, it is impossible that they can smell sweet; if, then, this

devil thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of amber, either thou art

deceiving thyself, or he wants to deceive thee by making thee fancy he

is not a devil.”

Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and Don

Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho’s making a complete

discovery of their scheme, towards which he had already gone some way,

resolved to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside,

they directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on

Sancho’s ass, which he did with great alacrity. In the meantime the

curate had made an arrangement with the officers that they should bear

them company as far as his village, he paying them so much a day.

Cardenio hung the buckler on one side of the bow of Rocinante’s saddle

and the basin on the other, and by signs commanded Sancho to mount his

ass and take Rocinante’s bridle, and at each side of the cart he placed

two officers with their muskets; but before the cart was put in motion,

out came the landlady and her daughter and Maritornes to bid Don

Quixote farewell, pretending to weep with grief at his misfortune; and

to them Don Quixote said:

“Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those who

follow the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not befall

me I should not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for such things

never happen to knights of little renown and fame, because nobody in

the world thinks about them; to valiant knights they do, for these are

envied for their virtue and valour by many princes and other knights

who compass the destruction of the worthy by base means. Nevertheless,

virtue is of herself so mighty, that, in spite of all the magic that

Zoroaster its first inventor knew, she will come victorious out of

every trial, and shed her light upon the earth as the sun does upon the

heavens. Forgive me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I have in

aught offended you; for intentionally and wittingly I have never done

so to any; and pray to God that he deliver me from this captivity to

which some malevolent enchanter has consigned me; and should I find

myself released therefrom, the favours that ye have bestowed upon me in

this castle shall be held in memory by me, that I may acknowledge,

recognise, and requite them as they deserve.”

While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don

Quixote, the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and

his companions, to the captain, his brother, and the ladies, now all

made happy, and in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all

embraced one another, and promised to let each other know how things

went with them, and Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to

him, to tell him what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that there

was nothing that could give him more pleasure than to hear of it, and

that he too, on his part, would send him word of everything he thought

he would like to know, about his marriage, Zoraida’s baptism, Don

Luis’s affair, and Luscinda’s return to her home. The curate promised

to comply with his request carefully, and they embraced once more, and

renewed their promises.

The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers, saying

he had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the novel

of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been found, and that he might take

them all away with him as their owner had not since returned; for, as

he could not read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked

him, and opening them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the

words, “Novel of Rinconete and Cortadillo,” by which he perceived that

it was a novel, and as that of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been

good he concluded this would be so too, as they were both probably by

the same author; so he kept it, intending to read it when he had an

opportunity. He then mounted and his friend the barber did the same,

both masked, so as not to be recognised by Don Quixote, and set out

following in the rear of the cart. The order of march was this: first

went the cart with the owner leading it; at each side of it marched the

officers of the Brotherhood, as has been said, with their muskets; then

followed Sancho Panza on his ass, leading Rocinante by the bridle; and

behind all came the curate and the barber on their mighty mules, with

faces covered, as aforesaid, and a grave and serious air, measuring

their pace to suit the slow steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated

in the cage, with his hands tied and his feet stretched out, leaning

against the bars as silent and as patient as if he were a stone statue

and not a man of flesh. Thus slowly and silently they made, it might

be, two leagues, until they reached a valley which the carter thought a

convenient place for resting and feeding his oxen, and he said so to

the curate, but the barber was of opinion that they ought to push on a

little farther, as at the other side of a hill which appeared close by

he knew there was a valley that had more grass and much better than the

one where they proposed to halt; and his advice was taken and they

continued their journey.

Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them

six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook

them, for they were travelling, not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of

oxen, but like men who rode canons’ mules, and in haste to take their

noontide rest as soon as possible at the inn which was in sight not a

league off. The quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous

salutations were exchanged; and one of the new comers, who was, in

fact, a canon of Toledo and master of the others who accompanied him,

observing the regular order of the procession, the cart, the officers,

Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and the barber, and above all Don Quixote

caged and confined, could not help asking what was the meaning of

carrying the man in that fashion; though, from the badges of the

officers, he already concluded that he must be some desperate

highwayman or other malefactor whose punishment fell within the

jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers to whom he

had put the question, replied, “Let the gentleman himself tell you the

meaning of his going this way, señor, for we do not know.”

Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, “Haply, gentlemen, you

are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry? Because if you

are I will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no good in my

giving myself the trouble of relating them;” but here the curate and

the barber, seeing that the travellers were engaged in conversation

with Don Quixote, came forward, in order to answer in such a way as to

save their stratagem from being discovered.

The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, “In truth, brother, I know

more about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando’s elements of

logic; so if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please.”

“In God’s name, then, señor,” replied Don Quixote; “if that be so, I

would have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the envy

and fraud of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted by the

wicked than loved by the good. I am a knight-errant, and not one of

those whose names Fame has never thought of immortalising in her

record, but of those who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and

all the magicians that Persia, or Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists

that Ethiopia ever produced, will place their names in the temple of

immortality, to serve as examples and patterns for ages to come,

whereby knights-errant may see the footsteps in which they must tread

if they would attain the summit and crowning point of honour in arms.”

“What Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha says,” observed the curate, “is

the truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or

sins of his, but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is

odious and valour hateful. This, señor, is the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance, if you have ever heard him named, whose valiant

achievements and mighty deeds shall be written on lasting brass and

imperishable marble, notwithstanding all the efforts of envy to obscure

them and malice to hide them.”

When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at liberty

talk in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his

astonishment, and could not make out what had befallen him; and all his

attendants were in the same state of amazement.

At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the

conversation, said, in order to make everything plain, “Well, sirs, you

may like or dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the matter

is, my master, Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother. He

is in his full senses, he eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like

other men and as he had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that’s

the case, what do they mean by wanting me to believe that he is

enchanted? For I have heard many a one say that enchanted people

neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk; and my master, if you don’t stop him,

will talk more than thirty lawyers.” Then turning to the curate he

exclaimed, “Ah, señor curate, señor curate! do you think I don’t know

you? Do you think I don’t guess and see the drift of these new

enchantments? Well then, I can tell you I know you, for all your face

is covered, and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide

your tricks. After all, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, and where

there is niggardliness there can be no liberality. Ill betide the

devil! if it had not been for your worship my master would be married

to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a count at

least; for no less was to be expected, as well from the goodness of my

master, him of the Rueful Countenance, as from the greatness of my

services. But I see now how true it is what they say in these parts,

that the wheel of fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel, and that

those who were up yesterday are down to-day. I am sorry for my wife and

children, for when they might fairly and reasonably expect to see their

father return to them a governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom,

they will see him come back a horse-boy. I have said all this, señor

curate, only to urge your paternity to lay to your conscience your

ill-treatment of my master; and have a care that God does not call you

to account in another life for making a prisoner of him in this way,

and charge against you all the succours and good deeds that my lord Don

Quixote leaves undone while he is shut up.

“Trim those lamps there!” exclaimed the barber at this; “so you are of

the same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see

that you will have to keep him company in the cage, and be enchanted

like him for having caught some of his humour and chivalry. It was an

evil hour when you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and

that island you long so much for found its way into your head.”

“I am not with child by anyone,” returned Sancho, “nor am I a man to

let myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though I

am poor I am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I

long for an island, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son

of his own works; and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say

governor of an island, especially as my master may win so many that he

will not know whom to give them to. Mind how you talk, master barber;

for shaving is not everything, and there is some difference between

Peter and Peter. I say this because we all know one another, and it

will not do to throw false dice with me; and as to the enchantment of

my master, God knows the truth; leave it as it is; it only makes it

worse to stir it.”

The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain speaking he

should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying so hard to

conceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had asked the canon

to ride on a little in advance, so that he might tell him the mystery

of this man in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The

canon agreed, and going on ahead with his servants, listened with

attention to the account of the character, life, madness, and ways of

Don Quixote, given him by the curate, who described to him briefly the

beginning and origin of his craze, and told him the whole story of his

adventures up to his being confined in the cage, together with the plan

they had of taking him home to try if by any means they could discover

a cure for his madness. The canon and his servants were surprised anew

when they heard Don Quixote’s strange story, and when it was finished

he said, “To tell the truth, señor curate, I for my part consider what

they call books of chivalry to be mischievous to the State; and though,

led by idle and false taste, I have read the beginnings of almost all

that have been printed, I never could manage to read any one of them

from beginning to end; for it seems to me they are all more or less the

same thing; and one has nothing more in it than another; this no more

than that. And in my opinion this sort of writing and composition is of

the same species as the fables they call the Milesian, nonsensical

tales that aim solely at giving amusement and not instruction, exactly

the opposite of the apologue fables which amuse and instruct at the

same time. And though it may be the chief object of such books to

amuse, I do not know how they can succeed, when they are so full of

such monstrous nonsense. For the enjoyment the mind feels must come

from the beauty and harmony which it perceives or contemplates in the

things that the eye or the imagination brings before it; and nothing

that has any ugliness or disproportion about it can give any pleasure.

What beauty, then, or what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of

the whole to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a lad of

sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two halves of

him as if he was an almond cake? And when they want to give us a

picture of a battle, after having told us that there are a million of

combatants on the side of the enemy, let the hero of the book be

opposed to them, and we have perforce to believe, whether we like it or

not, that the said knight wins the victory by the single might of his

strong arm. And then, what shall we say of the facility with which a

born queen or empress will give herself over into the arms of some

unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is not wholly barbarous and

uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of

knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and

will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of

Prester John of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never described

nor Marco Polo saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the

authors of books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are

not bound to regard niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is

all the better the more it looks like truth, and gives the more

pleasure the more probability and possibility there is about it. Plots

in fiction should be wedded to the understanding of the reader, and be

constructed in such a way that, reconciling impossibilities, smoothing

over difficulties, keeping the mind on the alert, they may surprise,

interest, divert, and entertain, so that wonder and delight joined may

keep pace one with the other; all which he will fail to effect who

shuns verisimilitude and truth to nature, wherein lies the perfection

of writing. I have never yet seen any book of chivalry that puts

together a connected plot complete in all its numbers, so that the

middle agrees with the beginning, and the end with the beginning and

middle; on the contrary, they construct them with such a multitude of

members that it seems as though they meant to produce a chimera or

monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. And besides all this

they are harsh in their style, incredible in their achievements,

licentious in their amours, uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix

in their battles, silly in their arguments, absurd in their travels,

and, in short, wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which

reason they deserve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth as a

worthless breed.”

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The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of

sound understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so

he told him that, being of the same opinion himself, and bearing a

grudge to books of chivalry, he had burned all Don Quixote’s, which

were many; and gave him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them,

and of those he had condemned to the flames and those he had spared,

with which the canon was not a little amused, adding that though he had

said so much in condemnation of these books, still he found one good

thing in them, and that was the opportunity they afforded to a gifted

intellect for displaying itself; for they presented a wide and spacious

field over which the pen might range freely, describing shipwrecks,

tempests, combats, battles, portraying a valiant captain with all the

qualifications requisite to make one, showing him sagacious in

foreseeing the wiles of the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or

restrain his soldiers, ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in

biding his time as in pressing the attack; now picturing some sad

tragic incident, now some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous

lady, virtuous, wise, and modest; there a Christian knight, brave and

gentle; here a lawless, barbarous braggart; there a courteous prince,

gallant and gracious; setting forth the devotion and loyalty of

vassals, the greatness and generosity of nobles. “Or again,” said he,

“the author may show himself to be an astronomer, or a skilled

cosmographer, or musician, or one versed in affairs of state, and

sometimes he will have a chance of coming forward as a magician if he

likes. He can set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of Æneas,

the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of

Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the

boldness of Cæsar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the fidelity of

Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and in short all the faculties that serve

to make an illustrious man perfect, now uniting them in one individual,

again distributing them among many; and if this be done with charm of

style and ingenious invention, aiming at the truth as much as possible,

he will assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads that, when

finished, will display such perfection and beauty that it will attain

the worthiest object any writing can seek, which, as I said before, is

to give instruction and pleasure combined; for the unrestricted range

of these books enables the author to show his powers, epic, lyric,

tragic, or comic, and all the moods the sweet and winning arts of poesy

and oratory are capable of; for the epic may be written in prose just

as well as in verse.”

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