บทที่ บทที่ 114 · CHAPTER LXII. WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH

. CHAPTER LXII. WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH

CHAPTER LXII.

WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH

OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD

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Don Quixote’s host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, a gentleman of

wealth and intelligence, and very fond of diverting himself in any fair

and good-natured way; and having Don Quixote in his house he set about

devising modes of making him exhibit his mad points in some harmless

fashion; for jests that give pain are no jests, and no sport is worth

anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did was to make Don

Quixote take off his armour, and lead him, in that tight chamois suit

we have already described and depicted more than once, out on a balcony

overhanging one of the chief streets of the city, in full view of the

crowd and of the boys, who gazed at him as they would at a monkey. The

cavaliers in livery careered before him again as though it were for him

alone, and not to enliven the festival of the day, that they wore it,

and Sancho was in high delight, for it seemed to him that, how he knew

not, he had fallen upon another Camacho’s wedding, another house like

Don Diego de Miranda’s, another castle like the duke’s. Some of Don

Antonio’s friends dined with him that day, and all showed honour to Don

Quixote and treated him as a knight-errant, and he becoming puffed up

and exalted in consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction.

Such were the drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the house,

and all who heard him, were kept hanging upon his lips. While at table

Don Antonio said to him, “We hear, worthy Sancho, that you are so fond

of manjar blanco and forced-meat balls, that if you have any left, you

keep them in your bosom for the next day.”

“No, señor, that’s not true,” said Sancho, “for I am more cleanly than

greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows well that we two are used

to live for a week on a handful of acorns or nuts. To be sure, if it so

happens that they offer me a heifer, I run with a halter; I mean, I eat

what I’m given, and make use of opportunities as I find them; but

whoever says that I’m an out-of-the-way eater or not cleanly, let me

tell him that he is wrong; and I’d put it in a different way if I did

not respect the honourable beards that are at the table.”

“Indeed,” said Don Quixote, “Sancho’s moderation and cleanliness in

eating might be inscribed and graved on plates of brass, to be kept in

eternal remembrance in ages to come. It is true that when he is hungry

there is a certain appearance of voracity about him, for he eats at a

great pace and chews with both jaws; but cleanliness he is always

mindful of; and when he was governor he learned how to eat daintily, so

much so that he eats grapes, and even pomegranate pips, with a fork.”

“What!” said Don Antonio, “has Sancho been a governor?”

“Ay,” said Sancho, “and of an island called Barataria. I governed it to

perfection for ten days; and lost my rest all the time; and learned to

look down upon all the governments in the world; I got out of it by

taking to flight, and fell into a pit where I gave myself up for dead,

and out of which I escaped alive by a miracle.”

Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole affair of

Sancho’s government, with which he greatly amused his hearers.

On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Quixote by the hand,

passed with him into a distant room in which there was nothing in the

way of furniture except a table, apparently of jasper, resting on a

pedestal of the same, upon which was set up, after the fashion of the

busts of the Roman emperors, a head which seemed to be of bronze. Don

Antonio traversed the whole apartment with Don Quixote and walked round

the table several times, and then said, “Now, Señor Don Quixote, that I

am satisfied that no one is listening to us, and that the door is shut,

I will tell you of one of the rarest adventures, or more properly

speaking strange things, that can be imagined, on condition that you

will keep what I say to you in the remotest recesses of secrecy.”

“I swear it,” said Don Quixote, “and for greater security I will put a

flag-stone over it; for I would have you know, Señor Don Antonio” (he

had by this time learned his name), “that you are addressing one who,

though he has ears to hear, has no tongue to speak; so that you may

safely transfer whatever you have in your bosom into mine, and rely

upon it that you have consigned it to the depths of silence.”

“In reliance upon that promise,” said Don Antonio, “I will astonish you

with what you shall see and hear, and relieve myself of some of the

vexation it gives me to have no one to whom I can confide my secrets,

for they are not of a sort to be entrusted to everybody.”

Don Quixote was puzzled, wondering what could be the object of such

precautions; whereupon Don Antonio taking his hand passed it over the

bronze head and the whole table and the pedestal of jasper on which it

stood, and then said, “This head, Señor Don Quixote, has been made and

fabricated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the world ever

saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the famous Escotillo

of whom such marvellous stories are told. He was here in my house, and

for a consideration of a thousand crowns that I gave him he constructed

this head, which has the property and virtue of answering whatever

questions are put to its ear. He observed the points of the compass, he

traced figures, he studied the stars, he watched favourable moments,

and at length brought it to the perfection we shall see to-morrow, for

on Fridays it is mute, and this being Friday we must wait till the next

day. In the interval your worship may consider what you would like to

ask it; and I know by experience that in all its answers it tells the

truth.”

Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of the head, and was

inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time he had

to wait to test the matter, he did not choose to say anything except

that he thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty a secret. They

then quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and they repaired

to the chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were assembled. In the

meantime Sancho had recounted to them several of the adventures and

accidents that had happened his master.

That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a stroll, not in his

armour but in street costume, with a surcoat of tawny cloth upon him,

that at that season would have made ice itself sweat. Orders were left

with the servants to entertain Sancho so as not to let him leave the

house. Don Quixote was mounted, not on Rocinante, but upon a tall mule

of easy pace and handsomely caparisoned. They put the surcoat on him,

and on the back, without his perceiving it, they stitched a parchment

on which they wrote in large letters, “This is Don Quixote of La

Mancha.” As they set out upon their excursion the placard attracted the

eyes of all who chanced to see him, and as they read out, “This is Don

Quixote of La Mancha,” Don Quixote was amazed to see how many people

gazed at him, called him by his name, and recognised him, and turning

to Don Antonio, who rode at his side, he observed to him, “Great are

the privileges knight-errantry involves, for it makes him who professes

it known and famous in every region of the earth; see, Don Antonio,

even the very boys of this city know me without ever having seen me.”

“True, Señor Don Quixote,” returned Don Antonio; “for as fire cannot be

hidden or kept secret, virtue cannot escape being recognised; and that

which is attained by the profession of arms shines distinguished above

all others.”

It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was proceeding amid the

acclamations that have been described, a Castilian, reading the

inscription on his back, cried out in a loud voice, “The devil take

thee for a Don Quixote of La Mancha! What! art thou here, and not dead

of the countless drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs? Thou art mad;

and if thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy madness, it

would not be so bad; but thou hast the gift of making fools and

blockheads of all who have anything to do with thee or say to thee.

Why, look at these gentlemen bearing thee company! Get thee home,

blockhead, and see after thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and

give over these fooleries that are sapping thy brains and skimming away

thy wits.”

“Go your own way, brother,” said Don Antonio, “and don’t offer advice

to those who don’t ask you for it. Señor Don Quixote is in his full

senses, and we who bear him company are not fools; virtue is to be

honoured wherever it may be found; go, and bad luck to you, and don’t

meddle where you are not wanted.”

“By God, your worship is right,” replied the Castilian; “for to advise

this good man is to kick against the pricks; still for all that it

fills me with pity that the sound wit they say the blockhead has in

everything should dribble away by the channel of his knight-errantry;

but may the bad luck your worship talks of follow me and all my

descendants, if, from this day forth, though I should live longer than

Methuselah, I ever give advice to anybody even if he asks me for it.”

The advice-giver took himself off, and they continued their stroll; but

so great was the press of the boys and people to read the placard, that

Don Antonio was forced to remove it as if he were taking off something

else.

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Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies’ dancing party,

for Don Antonio’s wife, a lady of rank and gaiety, beauty and wit, had

invited some friends of hers to come and do honour to her guest and

amuse themselves with his strange delusions. Several of them came, they

supped sumptuously, the dance began at about ten o’clock. Among the

ladies were two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and, though

perfectly modest, somewhat free in playing tricks for harmless

diversion’s sake. These two were so indefatigable in taking Don Quixote

out to dance that they tired him down, not only in body but in spirit.

It was a sight to see the figure Don Quixote made, long, lank, lean,

and yellow, his garments clinging tight to him, ungainly, and above all

anything but agile.

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The gay ladies made secret love to him, and he on his part secretly

repelled them, but finding himself hard pressed by their blandishments

he lifted up his voice and exclaimed, “_Fugite, partes adversæ!_ Leave

me in peace, unwelcome overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies,

for she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, suffers

none but hers to lead me captive and subdue me;” and so saying he sat

down on the floor in the middle of the room, tired out and broken down

by all this exertion in the dance.

Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried to bed, and

the first that laid hold of him was Sancho, saying as he did so, “In an

evil hour you took to dancing, master mine; do you fancy all mighty men

of valour are dancers, and all knights-errant given to capering? If you

do, I can tell you you are mistaken; there’s many a man would rather

undertake to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had been the

shoe-fling you were at I could take your place, for I can do the

shoe-fling like a gerfalcon; but I’m no good at dancing.”

With these and other observations Sancho set the whole ball-room

laughing, and then put his master to bed, covering him up well so that

he might sweat out any chill caught after his dancing.

The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make trial of the

enchanted head, and with Don Quixote, Sancho, and two others, friends

of his, besides the two ladies that had tired out Don Quixote at the

ball, who had remained for the night with Don Antonio’s wife, he locked

himself up in the chamber where the head was. He explained to them the

property it possessed and entrusted the secret to them, telling them

that now for the first time he was going to try the virtue of the

enchanted head; but except Don Antonio’s two friends no one else was

privy to the mystery of the enchantment, and if Don Antonio had not

first revealed it to them they would have been inevitably reduced to

the same state of amazement as the rest, so artfully and skilfully was

it contrived.

The first to approach the ear of the head was Don Antonio himself, and

in a low voice but not so low as not to be audible to all, he said to

it, “Head, tell me by the virtue that lies in thee what am I at this

moment thinking of?”

The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a clear and

distinct voice, so as to be heard by all, “I cannot judge of thoughts.”

All were thunderstruck at this, and all the more so as they saw that

there was nobody anywhere near the table or in the whole room that

could have answered. “How many of us are here?” asked Don Antonio once

more; and it was answered him in the same way softly, “Thou and thy

wife, with two friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight

called Don Quixote of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza by

name.”

Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone’s hair was standing on

end with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed, “This

suffices to show me that I have not been deceived by him who sold thee

to me, O sage head, talking head, answering head, wonderful head! Let

someone else go and put what question he likes to it.”

And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the first to come

forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio’s wife, and her

question was, “Tell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?”

and the answer she got was, “Be very modest.”

“I question thee no further,” said the fair querist.

Her companion then came up and said, “I should like to know, Head,

whether my husband loves me or not;” the answer given to her was,

“Think how he uses thee, and thou mayest guess;” and the married lady

went off saying, “That answer did not need a question; for of course

the treatment one receives shows the disposition of him from whom it is

received.”

Then one of Don Antonio’s two friends advanced and asked it, “Who am

I?” “Thou knowest,” was the answer. “That is not what I ask thee,” said

the gentleman, “but to tell me if thou knowest me.” “Yes, I know thee,

thou art Don Pedro Noriz,” was the reply.

“I do not seek to know more,” said the gentleman, “for this is enough

to convince me, O Head, that thou knowest everything;” and as he

retired the other friend came forward and asked it, “Tell me, Head,

what are the wishes of my eldest son?”

“I have said already,” was the answer, “that I cannot judge of wishes;

however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee.”

“That’s ‘what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,’” said the

gentleman, “so I ask no more.”

Don Antonio’s wife came up and said, “I know not what to ask thee,

Head; I would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years of

enjoyment of my good husband;” and the answer she received was, “Thou

shalt, for his vigour and his temperate habits promise many years of

life, which by their intemperance others so often cut short.”

Then Don Quixote came forward and said, “Tell me, thou that answerest,

was that which I describe as having happened to me in the cave of

Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will Sancho’s whipping be accomplished

without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be brought about?”

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“As to the question of the cave,” was the reply, “there is much to be

said; there is something of both in it. Sancho’s whipping will proceed

leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its due

consummation.”

“I seek to know no more,” said Don Quixote; “let me but see Dulcinea

disenchanted, and I will consider that all the good fortune I could

wish for has come upon me all at once.”

The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, “Head, shall I

by any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from the

hard life of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and children?”

To which the answer came, “Thou shalt govern in thy house; and if thou

returnest to it thou shalt see thy wife and children; and on ceasing to

serve thou shalt cease to be a squire.”

“Good, by God!” said Sancho Panza; “I could have told myself that; the

prophet Perogrullo could have said no more.”

“What answer wouldst thou have, beast?” said Don Quixote; “is it not

enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put to

it?”

“Yes, it is enough,” said Sancho; “but I should have liked it to have

made itself plainer and told me more.”

The questions and answers came to an end here, but not the wonder with

which all were filled, except Don Antonio’s two friends who were in the

secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal at once, not

to keep the world in suspense, fancying that the head had some strange

magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the model of another

head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen at Madrid, Don

Antonio made this one at home for his own amusement and to astonish

ignorant people; and its mechanism was as follows. The table was of

wood painted and varnished to imitate jasper, and the pedestal on which

it stood was of the same material, with four eagles’ claws projecting

from it to support the weight more steadily. The head, which resembled

a bust or figure of a Roman emperor, and was coloured like bronze, was

hollow throughout, as was the table, into which it was fitted so

exactly that no trace of the joining was visible. The pedestal of the

table was also hollow and communicated with the throat and neck of the

head, and the whole was in communication with another room underneath

the chamber in which the head stood. Through the entire cavity in the

pedestal, table, throat and neck of the bust or figure, there passed a

tube of tin carefully adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room

below corresponding to the one above was placed the person who was to

answer, with his mouth to the tube, and the voice, as in an

ear-trumpet, passed from above downwards, and from below upwards, the

words coming clearly and distinctly; it was impossible, thus, to detect

the trick. A nephew of Don Antonio’s, a smart sharp-witted student, was

the answerer, and as he had been told beforehand by his uncle who the

persons were that would come with him that day into the chamber where

the head was, it was an easy matter for him to answer the first

question at once and correctly; the others he answered by guess-work,

and, being clever, cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous

contrivance stood for some ten or twelve days; but that, as it became

noised abroad through the city that he had in his house an enchanted

head that answered all who asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing

it might come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith,

explained the matter to the inquisitors, who commanded him to break it

up and have done with it, lest the ignorant vulgar should be

scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the head was still

held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering questions, though

more to Don Quixote’s satisfaction than Sancho’s.

The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the

honours to Don Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying his

folly, made arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days from

that time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned hereafter,

did not take place.

Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on foot,

for he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow him;

so he and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set out for

a walk. Thus it came to pass that going along one of the streets Don

Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large letters over a

door, “Books printed here,” at which he was vastly pleased, for until

then he had never seen a printing office, and he was curious to know

what it was like. He entered with all his following, and saw them

drawing sheets in one place, correcting in another, setting up type

here, revising there; in short all the work that is to be seen in great

printing offices. He went up to one case and asked what they were about

there; the workmen told him, he watched them with wonder, and passed

on. He approached one man, among others, and asked him what he was

doing. The workman replied, “Señor, this gentleman here” (pointing to a

man of prepossessing appearance and a certain gravity of look) “has

translated an Italian book into our Spanish tongue, and I am setting it

up in type for the press.”

“What is the title of the book?” asked Don Quixote; to which the author

replied, “Señor, in Italian the book is called _Le Bagatelle_.”

“And what does _Le Bagatelle_ import in our Spanish?” asked Don

Quixote.

“_Le Bagatelle_,” said the author, “is as though we should say in

Spanish _Los Juguetes;_ but though the book is humble in name it has

good solid matter in it.”

“I,” said Don Quixote, “have some little smattering of Italian, and I

plume myself on singing some of Ariosto’s stanzas; but tell me, señor—I

do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of curiosity—have

you ever met with the word _pignatta_ in your book?”

“Yes, often,” said the author.

“And how do you render that in Spanish?”

“How should I render it,” returned the author, “but by _olla_?”

“Body o’ me,” exclaimed Don Quixote, “what a proficient you are in the

Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say in

Italian _piace_ you say in Spanish _place_, and where they say _piu_

you say _mas_, and you translate _sù_ by _arriba_ and _giù_ by

_abajo_.”

“I translate them so of course,” said the author, “for those are their

proper equivalents.”

“I would venture to swear,” said Don Quixote, “that your worship is not

known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare wits

and praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What genius

thrust away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it seems to

me that translation from one language into another, if it be not from

the queens of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is like looking at

Flemish tapestries on the wrong side; for though the figures are

visible, they are full of threads that make them indistinct, and they

do not show with the smoothness and brightness of the right side; and

translation from easy languages argues neither ingenuity nor command of

words, any more than transcribing or copying out one document from

another. But I do not mean by this to draw the inference that no credit

is to be allowed for the work of translating, for a man may employ

himself in ways worse and less profitable to himself. This estimate

does not include two famous translators, Doctor Cristóbal de Figueroa,

in his _Pastor Fido_, and Don Juan de Jáuregui, in his _Aminta_,

wherein by their felicity they leave it in doubt which is the

translation and which the original. But tell me, are you printing this

book at your own risk, or have you sold the copyright to some

bookseller?”

“I print at my own risk,” said the author, “and I expect to make a

thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of two

thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals apiece.”

“A fine calculation you are making!” said Don Quixote; “it is plain you

don’t know the ins and outs of the printers, and how they play into one

another’s hands. I promise you when you find yourself saddled with two

thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will astonish you,

particularly if the book is a little out of the common and not in any

way highly spiced.”

“What!” said the author, “would your worship, then, have me give it to

a bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and think

he is doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame in the

world, for I am known in it already by my works; I want to make money,

without which reputation is not worth a rap.”

“God send your worship good luck,” said Don Quixote; and he moved on to

another case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with the

title of “Light of the Soul;” noticing it he observed, “Books like

this, though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve to

be printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights

unnumbered are needed for all that are in darkness.”

He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and when

he asked its title they told him it was called, “The Second Part of the

Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha,” by one of Tordesillas.

“I have heard of this book already,” said Don Quixote, “and verily and

on my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to ashes as

a meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as it does to

every pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about them the

more nearly they approach the truth or what looks like it; and true

stories, the truer they are the better they are;” and so saying he

walked out of the printing office with a certain amount of displeasure

in his looks. That same day Don Antonio arranged to take him to see the

galleys that lay at the beach, whereat Sancho was in high delight, as

he had never seen any all his life. Don Antonio sent word to the

commandant of the galleys that he intended to bring his guest, the

famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, of whom the commandant and all the

citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see them; and what

happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter.

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