The History of Don Quixote, Vol. I., Part 7. - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
"I have never been in the habit," said Don Quixote, "of taking spoil of
those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away
their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the
victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to
take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore,
Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be;
for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it."
"God knows I should like to take it," returned Sancho, "or at least to
change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one: verily the
laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let one
ass be changed for another; I should like to know if I might at least
change trappings."
"On that head I am not quite certain," answered Don Quixote, "and the
matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest
change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them."
"So urgent is it," answered Sancho, "that if they were for my own person
I could not want them more;" and forthwith, fortified by this licence, he
effected the mutatio capparum, rigging out his beast to the ninety-nines
and making quite another thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on
the remains of the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule, and
drank of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, without casting a
look in that direction, in such loathing did they hold them for the alarm
they had caused them; and, all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and,
without taking any fixed road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing
for true knights-errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante's will, which
carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass,
which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably;
nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a venture
without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master, "Senor,
would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For since you
laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things have gone to
rot in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of my tongue that I
don't want to be spoiled."
"Say, on, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and be brief in thy discourse, for
there is no pleasure in one that is long."
"Well then, senor," returned Sancho, "I say that for some days past I
have been considering how little is got or gained by going in search of
these adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds and cross-roads,
where, even if the most perilous are victoriously achieved, there is no
one to see or know of them, and so they must be left untold for ever, to
the loss of your worship's object and the credit they deserve; therefore
it seems to me it would be better (saving your worship's better judgment)
if we were to go and serve some emperor or other great prince who may
have some war on hand, in whose service your worship may prove the worth
of your person, your great might, and greater understanding, on
perceiving which the lord in whose service we may be will perforce have
to reward us, each according to his merits; and there you will not be at
a loss for some one to set down your achievements in writing so as to
preserve their memory for ever. Of my own I say nothing, as they will not
go beyond squirely limits, though I make bold to say that, if it be the
practice in chivalry to write the achievements of squires, I think mine
must not be left out."
"Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "but before that
point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on
probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some, name and
fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the court of
some great monarch the knight may be already known by his deeds, and that
the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of the city, may all
follow him and surround him, crying, 'This is the Knight of the Sun'-or
the Serpent, or any other title under which he may have achieved great
deeds. 'This,' they will say, 'is he who vanquished in single combat the
gigantic Brocabruno of mighty strength; he who delivered the great
Mameluke of Persia out of the long enchantment under which he had been
for almost nine hundred years.' So from one to another they will go
proclaiming his achievements; and presently at the tumult of the boys and
the others the king of that kingdom will appear at the windows of his
royal palace, and as soon as he beholds the knight, recognising him by
his arms and the device on his shield, he will as a matter of course say,
'What ho! Forth all ye, the knights of my court, to receive the flower of
chivalry who cometh hither!' At which command all will issue forth, and
he himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace him closely,
and salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will then lead him to the
queen's chamber, where the knight will find her with the princess her
daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished damsels
that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in the known
world. Straightway it will come to pass that she will fix her eyes upon
the knight and he his upon her, and each will seem to the other something
more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why they will be
taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and sorely
distressed in their hearts not to see any way of making their pains and
sufferings known by speech. Thence they will lead him, no doubt, to some
richly adorned chamber of the palace, where, having removed his armour,
they will bring him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself,
and if he looked noble in his armour he will look still more so in a
doublet. When night comes he will sup with the king, queen, and princess;
and all the time he will never take his eyes off her, stealing stealthy
glances, unnoticed by those present, and she will do the same, and with
equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a damsel of great discretion.
The tables being removed, suddenly through the door of the hall there
will enter a hideous and diminutive dwarf followed by a fair dame,
between two giants, who comes with a certain adventure, the work of an
ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it shall be deemed the best knight
in the world.
"The king will then command all those present to essay it, and none will
bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the great
enhancement of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed and will
esteem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and placed her
thoughts so high. And the best of it is that this king, or prince, or
whatever he is, is engaged in a very bitter war with another as powerful
as himself, and the stranger knight, after having been some days at his
court, requests leave from him to go and serve him in the said war. The
king will grant it very readily, and the knight will courteously kiss his
hands for the favour done to him; and that night he will take leave of
his lady the princess at the grating of the chamber where she sleeps,
which looks upon a garden, and at which he has already many times
conversed with her, the go-between and confidante in the matter being a
damsel much trusted by the princess. He will sigh, she will swoon, the
damsel will fetch water, much distressed because morning approaches, and
for the honour of her lady he would not that they were discovered; at
last the princess will come to herself and will present her white hands
through the grating to the knight, who will kiss them a thousand and a
thousand times, bathing them with his tears. It will be arranged between
them how they are to inform each other of their good or evil fortunes,
and the princess will entreat him to make his absence as short as
possible, which he will promise to do with many oaths; once more he
kisses her hands, and takes his leave in such grief that he is well-nigh
ready to die. He betakes him thence to his chamber, flings himself on his
bed, cannot sleep for sorrow at parting, rises early in the morning, goes
to take leave of the king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his
leave of the pair, it is told him that the princess is indisposed and
cannot receive a visit; the knight thinks it is from grief at his
departure, his heart is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from
showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes all, goes to tell
her mistress, who listens with tears and says that one of her greatest
distresses is not knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of kingly
lineage or not; the damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness,
and gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any
save one who was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and
she strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in her
parents, and at the end of two days she appears in public. Meanwhile the
knight has taken his departure; he fights in the war, conquers the king's
enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to the court,
sees his lady where he was wont to see her, and it is agreed that he
shall demand her in marriage of her parents as the reward of his
services; the king is unwilling to give her, as he knows not who he is,
but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other way it may be,
the princess comes to be his bride, and her father comes to regard it as
very good fortune; for it so happens that this knight is proved to be the
son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know not what, for I fancy it is
not likely to be on the map. The father dies, the princess inherits, and
in two words the knight becomes king. And here comes in at once the
bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all who have aided him in rising
to so exalted a rank. He marries his squire to a damsel of the
princess's, who will be, no doubt, the one who was confidante in their
amour, and is daughter of a very great duke."
"That's what I want, and no mistake about it!" said Sancho. "That's what
I'm waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store for your
worship under the title of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
"Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "for in the same
manner, and by the same steps as I have described here, knights-errant
rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we want now is to find
out what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and has a beautiful
daughter; but there will be time enough to think of that, for, as I have
told thee, fame must be won in other quarters before repairing to the
court. There is another thing, too, that is wanting; for supposing we
find a king who is at war and has a beautiful daughter, and that I have
won incredible fame throughout the universe, I know not how it can be
made out that I am of royal lineage, or even second cousin to an emperor;
for the king will not be willing to give me his daughter in marriage
unless he is first thoroughly satisfied on this point, however much my
famous deeds may deserve it; so that by this deficiency I fear I shall
lose what my arm has fairly earned. True it is I am a gentleman of known
house, of estate and property, and entitled to the five hundred sueldos
mulct; and it may be that the sage who shall write my history will so
clear up my ancestry and pedigree that I may find myself fifth or sixth
in descent from a king; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that there
are two kinds of lineages in the world; some there be tracing and
deriving their descent from kings and princes, whom time has reduced
little by little until they end in a point like a pyramid upside down;
and others who spring from the common herd and go on rising step by step
until they come to be great lords; so that the difference is that the one
were what they no longer are, and the others are what they formerly were
not. And I may be of such that after investigation my origin may prove
great and famous, with which the king, my father-in-law that is to be,
ought to be satisfied; and should he not be, the princess will so love me
that even though she well knew me to be the son of a water-carrier, she
will take me for her lord and husband in spite of her father; if not,
then it comes to seizing her and carrying her off where I please; for
time or death will put an end to the wrath of her parents."
"It comes to this, too," said Sancho, "what some naughty people say,
'Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;' though it would
fit better to say, 'A clear escape is better than good men's prayers.' I
say so because if my lord the king, your worship's father-in-law, will
not condescend to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing for it
but, as your worship says, to seize her and transport her. But the
mischief is that until peace is made and you come into the peaceful
enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as far as rewards
go, unless it be that the confidante damsel that is to be his wife comes
with the princess, and that with her he tides over his bad luck until
Heaven otherwise orders things; for his master, I suppose, may as well
give her to him at once for a lawful wife."
"Nobody can object to that," said Don Quixote.
"Then since that may be," said Sancho, "there is nothing for it but to
commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it will."
"God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants," said Don Quixote,
"and mean be he who thinks himself mean."
"In God's name let him be so," said Sancho: "I am an old Christian, and
to fit me for a count that's enough."
"And more than enough for thee," said Don Quixote; "and even wert thou
not, it would make no difference, because I being the king can easily
give thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by thee, for when
I make thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman; and they may say
what they will, but by my faith they will have to call thee 'your
lordship,' whether they like it or not."
"Not a doubt of it; and I'll know how to support the tittle," said
Sancho.
"Title thou shouldst say, not tittle," said his master.
"So be it," answered Sancho. "I say I will know how to behave, for once
in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the beadle's gown sat so
well on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward of the same
brotherhood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke's robe on my back,
or dress myself in gold and pearls like a count? I believe they'll come a
hundred leagues to see me."
"Thou wilt look well," said Don Quixote, "but thou must shave thy beard
often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that if thou dost
not shave it every second day at least, they will see what thou art at
the distance of a musket shot."
"What more will it be," said Sancho, "than having a barber, and keeping
him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will make him
go behind me like a nobleman's equerry."
"Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind them?" asked
Don Quixote.
"I will tell you," answered Sancho. "Years ago I was for a month at the
capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman who they
said was a very great man, and a man following him on horseback in every
turn he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man did not
join the other man, instead of always going behind him; they answered me
that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with nobles to have
such persons behind them, and ever since then I know it, for I have never
forgotten it."
"Thou art right," said Don Quixote, "and in the same way thou mayest
carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all
together, nor were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the
first count to have a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one's
beard is a greater trust than saddling one's horse."
"Let the barber business be my look-out," said Sancho; "and your
worship's be it to strive to become a king, and make me a count."
"So it shall be," answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw what
will be told in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XXII.
OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST
THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO
Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, relates in this
most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, and original history that
after the discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and his
squire Sancho Panza which is set down at the end of chapter twenty-one,
Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road he was
following some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck, like beads,
on a great iron chain, and all with manacles on their hands. With them
there came also two men on horseback and two on foot; those on horseback
with wheel-lock muskets, those on foot with javelins and swords, and as
soon as Sancho saw them he said:
"That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force of
the king's orders."
"How by force?" asked Don Quixote; "is it possible that the king uses
force against anyone?"
"I do not say that," answered Sancho, "but that these are people
condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the king's galleys."
"In fact," replied Don Quixote, "however it may be, these people are
going where they are taking them by force, and not of their own will."
"Just so," said Sancho.
"Then if so," said Don Quixote, "here is a case for the exercise of my
office, to put down force and to succour and help the wretched."
"Recollect, your worship," said Sancho, "Justice, which is the king
himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such persons, but punishing
them for their crimes."
The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don Quixote in
very courteous language asked those who were in custody of it to be good
enough to tell him the reason or reasons for which they were conducting
these people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback answered that
they were galley slaves belonging to his majesty, that they were going to
the galleys, and that was all that was to be said and all he had any
business to know.
"Nevertheless," replied Don Quixote, "I should like to know from each of
them separately the reason of his misfortune;" to this he added more to
the same effect to induce them to tell him what he wanted so civilly that
the other mounted guard said to him:
"Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of
every one of these wretches, this is no time to take them out or read
them; come and ask themselves; they can tell if they choose, and they
will, for these fellows take a pleasure in doing and talking about
rascalities."
With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they
not granted it, he approached the chain and asked the first for what
offences he was now in such a sorry case.
He made answer that it was for being a lover.
"For that only?" replied Don Quixote; "why, if for being lovers they send
people to the galleys I might have been rowing in them long ago."
"The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of," said the galley
slave; "mine was that I loved a washerwoman's basket of clean linen so
well, and held it so close in my embrace, that if the arm of the law had
not forced it from me, I should never have let it go of my own will to
this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no occasion for torture,
the case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on the back,
and three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of it."
"What are gurapas?" asked Don Quixote.
"Gurapas are galleys," answered the galley slave, who was a young man of
about four-and-twenty, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.
Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply, so
downcast and melancholy was he; but the first answered for him, and said,
"He, sir, goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and a singer."
"What!" said Don Quixote, "for being musicians and singers are people
sent to the galleys too?"
"Yes, sir," answered the galley slave, "for there is nothing worse than
singing under suffering."
"On the contrary, I have heard say," said Don Quixote, "that he who sings
scares away his woes."
"Here it is the reverse," said the galley slave; "for he who sings once
weeps all his life."
"I do not understand it," said Don Quixote; but one of the guards said to
him, "Sir, to sing under suffering means with the non sancta fraternity
to confess under torture; they put this sinner to the torture and he
confessed his crime, which was being a cuatrero, that is a
cattle-stealer, and on his confession they sentenced him to six years in
the galleys, besides two bundred lashes that he has already had on the
back; and he is always dejected and downcast because the other thieves
that were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub, and jeer,
and despise him for confessing and not having spirit enough to say nay;
for, say they, 'nay' has no more letters in it than 'yea,' and a culprit
is well off when life or death with him depends on his own tongue and not
on that of witnesses or evidence; and to my thinking they are not very
far out."
"And I think so too," answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the third
he asked him what he had asked the others, and the man answered very
readily and unconcernedly, "I am going for five years to their ladyships
the gurapas for the want of ten ducats."
"I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble," said
Don Quixote.
"That," said the galley slave, "is like a man having money at sea when he
is dying of hunger and has no way of buying what he wants; I say so
because if at the right time I had had those twenty ducats that your
worship now offers me, I would have greased the notary's pen and
freshened up the attorney's wit with them, so that to-day I should be in
the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this road
coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience--there, that's
enough of it."
Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a
white beard falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the
reason of his being there began to weep without answering a word, but the
fifth acted as his tongue and said, "This worthy man is going to the
galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds in ceremony and on
horseback."
"That means," said Sancho Panza, "as I take it, to have been exposed to
shame in public."
"Just so," replied the galley slave, "and the offence for which they gave
him that punishment was having been an ear-broker, nay body-broker; I
mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as a pimp, and for having
besides a certain touch of the sorcerer about him."
"If that touch had not been thrown in," said Don Quixote, "he would not
deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather to command
and be admiral of them; for the office of pimp is no ordinary one, being
the office of persons of discretion, one very necessary in a well-ordered
state, and only to be exercised by persons of good birth; nay, there
ought to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other offices, and
recognised number, as with the brokers on change; in this way many of the
evils would be avoided which are caused by this office and calling being
in the hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as women more or less
silly, and pages and jesters of little standing and experience, who on
the most urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of contrivance is needed,
let the crumbs freeze on the way to their mouths, and know not which is
their right hand. I should like to go farther, and give reasons to show
that it is advisable to choose those who are to hold so necessary an
office in the state, but this is not the fit place for it; some day I
will expound the matter to some one able to see to and rectify it; all I
say now is, that the additional fact of his being a sorcerer has removed
the sorrow it gave me to see these white hairs and this venerable
countenance in so painful a position on account of his being a pimp;
though I know well there are no sorceries in the world that can move or
compel the will as some simple folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is
there herb or charm that can force it. All that certain silly women and
quacks do is to turn men mad with potions and poisons, pretending that
they have power to cause love, for, as I say, it is an impossibility to
compel the will."
"It is true," said the good old man, "and indeed, sir, as far as the
charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp I
cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any harm by it, for my
only object was that all the world should enjoy itself and live in peace
and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good intentions were
unavailing to save me from going where I never expect to come back from,
with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that never gives
me a moment's ease;" and again he fell to weeping as before, and such
compassion did Sancho feel for him that he took out a real of four from
his bosom and gave it to him in alms.