第 九 章 · CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE

. CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE

CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE

GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN

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In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and the

renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted, ready to deliver two

such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full and fair they

would at least have split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and

laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point the

delightful history came to a stop and stood cut short without any

intimation from the author where what was missing was to be found.

This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having

read such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the poor

chance that presented itself of finding the large part that, so it

seemed to me, was missing of such an interesting tale. It appeared to

me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all precedent that so good

a knight should have been without some sage to undertake the task of

writing his marvellous achievements; a thing that was never wanting to

any of those knights-errant who, they say, went after adventures; for

every one of them had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not

only recorded their deeds but described their most trifling thoughts

and follies, however secret they might be; and such a good knight could

not have been so unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like

him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that

such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the

blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had

either concealed or consumed it.

On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books there

had been found such modern ones as “The Enlightenment of Jealousy” and

the “Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,” his story must likewise be

modern, and that though it might not be written, it might exist in the

memory of the people of his village and of those in the neighbourhood.

This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly

the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote

of La Mancha, light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the first

that in our age and in these so evil days devoted himself to the labour

and exercise of the arms of knight-errantry, righting wrongs,

succouring widows, and protecting damsels of that sort that used to

ride about, whip in hand, on their palfreys, with all their virginity

about them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley—for, if it

were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or

monstrous giant, that forced them, there were in days of yore damsels

that at the end of eighty years, in all which time they had never slept

a day under a roof, went to their graves as much maids as the mothers

that bore them. I say, then, that in these and other respects our

gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and notable praise, nor

should it be withheld even from me for the labour and pains spent in

searching for the conclusion of this delightful history; though I know

well that if Heaven, chance and good fortune had not helped me, the

world would have remained deprived of an entertainment and pleasure

that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him who shall read it

attentively. The discovery of it occurred in this way.

One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell some

pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of reading

even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this natural bent

of mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for sale, and saw

that it was in characters which I recognised as Arabic, and as I was

unable to read them though I could recognise them, I looked about to

see if there were any Spanish-speaking Morisco at hand to read them for

me; nor was there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter,

for even had I sought one for an older and better language I should

have found him. In short, chance provided me with one, who when I told

him what I wanted and put the book into his hands, opened it in the

middle and after reading a little in it began to laugh. I asked him

what he was laughing at, and he replied that it was at something the

book had written in the margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to

me; and he still laughing said, “In the margin, as I told you, this is

written: ‘_This Dulcinea del Toboso so often mentioned in this history,

had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La Mancha for salting

pigs_.’”

When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and

amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained

the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the

beginning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he

told me it meant, “_History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by Cid

Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian_.” It required great caution to

hide the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and

snatching it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and

pamphlets from the boy for half a real; and if he had had his wits

about him and had known how eager I was for them, he might have safely

calculated on making more than six reals by the bargain. I withdrew at

once with the Morisco into the cloister of the cathedral, and begged

him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the

Castilian tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering

him whatever payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of

raisins and two bushels of wheat, and promised to translate them

faithfully and with all despatch; but to make the matter easier, and

not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I took him to my

house, where in little more than a month and a half he translated the

whole just as it is set down here.

In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the Biscayan

was drawn to the very life, they planted in the same attitude as the

history describes, their swords raised, and the one protected by his

buckler, the other by his cushion, and the Biscayan’s mule so true to

nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot off. The

Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, “_Don Sancho de

Azpeitia_,” which no doubt must have been his name; and at the feet of

Rocinante was another that said, “_Don Quixote_.” Rocinante was

marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so

much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he showed plainly

with what judgment and propriety the name of Rocinante had been

bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza holding the halter of his

ass, at whose feet was another label that said, “Sancho Zancas,” and

according to the picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body,

and long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the names of Panza and

Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the history several

times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might be mentioned,

but they are all of slight importance and have nothing to do with the

true relation of the history; and no history can be bad so long as it

is true.

If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its

truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very

common propensity with those of that nation; though, as they are such

enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were omissions rather

than additions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion;

for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so

worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in

silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business

and duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from

passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make

them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of

time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel

for the present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be

found all that can be desired in the pleasantest, and if it be wanting

in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its hound of an

author and not the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part,

according to the translation, began in this way:

With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though

the two valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening heaven, and

earth, and hell, with such resolution and determination did they bear

themselves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which

was delivered with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in

its course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to the

bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight; but that good

fortune which reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword

of his adversary, so that although it smote him upon the left shoulder,

it did him no more harm than to strip all that side of its armour,

carrying away a great part of his helmet with half of his ear, all

which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry

plight.

Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that

filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in

this fashion? All that can be said is, it was such that he again raised

himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with both

hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full

over the cushion and over the head, that—even so good a shield proving

useless—as if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from

nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his

mule, as no doubt he would have done had he not flung his arms about

its neck; at the same time, however, he slipped his feet out of the

stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and the mule, taking fright at

the terrible blow, made off across the plain, and with a few plunges

flung its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very

calmly, and, when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great

briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of his sword to his

eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan

was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it would

have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies

in the coach, who had hitherto been watching the combat in great

terror, hastened to where he stood and implored him with earnest

entreaties to grant them the great grace and favour of sparing their

squire’s life; to which Don Quixote replied with much gravity and

dignity, “In truth, fair ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of

me; but it must be on one condition and understanding, which is that

this knight promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my

behalf present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal

with him as shall be most pleasing to her.”

The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don Quixote’s

demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire

should do all that had been commanded.

“Then, on the faith of that promise,” said Don Quixote, “I shall do him

no further harm, though he well deserves it of me.”

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