The History of Don Quixote, Vol. II., Part 21 - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
DON QUIXOTE
Volume II.
Part 21.
by Miguel de Cervantes
Translated by John Ormsby
CHAPTER XI.
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR
OR CART OF "THE CORTES OF DEATH"
Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey, turning over
in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him in changing his
lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass, nor could he think
of any way of restoring her to her original form; and these reflections
so absorbed him, that without being aware of it he let go Rocinante's
bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, stopped at
every step to crop the fresh grass with which the plain abounded.
Sancho recalled him from his reverie. "Melancholy, senor," said he, "was
made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way to it overmuch
they turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be yourself again;
gather up Rocinante's reins; cheer up, rouse yourself and show that
gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is this?
What weakness is this? Are we here or in France? The devil fly away with
all the Dulcineas in the world; for the well-being of a single
knight-errant is of more consequence than all the enchantments and
transformations on earth."
"Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice, "hush and
utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am to blame
for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come of the hatred the
wicked bear me."
"So say I," returned Sancho; "his heart rend in twain, I trow, who saw
her once, to see her now."
"Thou mayest well say that, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "as thou sawest
her in the full perfection of her beauty; for the enchantment does not go
so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her loveliness from thee; against
me alone and against my eyes is the strength of its venom directed.
Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred to me, and that is
that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as well as I
recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes that are like
pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a lady, and I am
persuaded that Dulcinea's must be green emeralds, full and soft, with two
rainbows for eyebrows; take away those pearls from her eyes and transfer
them to her teeth; for beyond a doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken the one
for the other, the eyes for the teeth."
"Very likely," said Sancho; "for her beauty bewildered me as much as her
ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to God, who alone
knows what is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil world of
ours, where there is hardly a thing to be found without some mixture of
wickedness, roguery, and rascality. But one thing, senor, troubles me
more than all the rest, and that is thinking what is to be done when your
worship conquers some giant, or some other knight, and orders him to go
and present himself before the beauty of the lady Dulcinea. Where is this
poor giant, or this poor wretch of a vanquished knight, to find her? I
think I can see them wandering all over El Toboso, looking like noddies,
and asking for my lady Dulcinea; and even if they meet her in the middle
of the street they won't know her any more than they would my father."
"Perhaps, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "the enchantment does not go so
far as to deprive conquered and presented giants and knights of the power
of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by experiment with one or two of the
first I vanquish and send to her, whether they see her or not, by
commanding them to return and give me an account of what happened to them
in this respect."
"I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent," said
Sancho; "and that by this plan we shall find out what we want to know;
and if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden, the
misfortune will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady Dulcinea
is well and happy, we on our part will make the best of it, and get on as
well as we can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time to take his own
course; for he is the best physician for these and greater ailments."
Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he was prevented by a
cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange personages
and figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules and acted as
carter was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky, without a tilt
or cane roof, and the first figure that presented itself to Don Quixote's
eyes was that of Death itself with a human face; next to it was an angel
with large painted wings, and at one side an emperor, with a crown, to
all appearance of gold, on his head. At the feet of Death was the god
called Cupid, without his bandage, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows;
there was also a knight in full armour, except that he had no morion or
helmet, but only a hat decked with plumes of divers colours; and along
with these there were others with a variety of costumes and faces. All
this, unexpectedly encountered, took Don Quixote somewhat aback, and
struck terror into the heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don Quixote
was glad of it, believing that some new perilous adventure was presenting
itself to him, and under this impression, and with a spirit prepared to
face any danger, he planted himself in front of the cart, and in a loud
and menacing tone, exclaimed, "Carter, or coachman, or devil, or whatever
thou art, tell me at once who thou art, whither thou art going, and who
these folk are thou carriest in thy wagon, which looks more like Charon's
boat than an ordinary cart."
To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, "Senor, we are
players of Angulo el Malo's company; we have been acting the play of 'The
Cortes of Death' this morning, which is the octave of Corpus Christi, in
a village behind that hill, and we have to act it this afternoon in that
village which you can see from this; and as it is so near, and to save
the trouble of undressing and dressing again, we go in the costumes in
which we perform. That lad there appears as Death, that other as an
angel, that woman, the manager's wife, plays the queen, this one the
soldier, that the emperor, and I the devil; and I am one of the principal
characters of the play, for in this company I take the leading parts. If
you want to know anything more about us, ask me and I will answer with
the utmost exactitude, for as I am a devil I am up to everything."
"By the faith of a knight-errant," replied Don Quixote, "when I saw this
cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting itself to me; but I
declare one must touch with the hand what appears to the eye, if
illusions are to be avoided. God speed you, good people; keep your
festival, and remember, if you demand of me ought wherein I can render
you a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for from a child I was
fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of the actor's art."
While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the company in a
mummers' dress with a great number of bells, and armed with three blown
ox-bladders at the end of a stick, joined them, and this merry-andrew
approaching Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick and banging the
ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great jingling of the
bells, which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante that, in spite of
Don Quixote's efforts to hold him in, taking the bit between his teeth he
set off across the plain with greater speed than the bones of his anatomy
ever gave any promise of.
Sancho, who thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped off
Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he reached him
he was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, who had come
down with his master, the usual end and upshot of Rocinante's vivacity
and high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast to go and help
Don Quixote, the dancing devil with the bladders jumped up on Dapple, and
beating him with them, more by the fright and the noise than by the pain
of the blows, made him fly across the fields towards the village where
they were going to hold their festival. Sancho witnessed Dapple's career
and his master's fall, and did not know which of the two cases of need he
should attend to first; but in the end, like a good squire and good
servant, he let his love for his master prevail over his affection for
his ass; though every time he saw the bladders rise in the air and come
down on the hind quarters of his Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of
death, and he would have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his
own eyes than on the least hair of his ass's tail. In this trouble and
perplexity he came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier plight than
he liked, and having helped him to mount Rocinante, he said to him,
"Senor, the devil has carried off my Dapple."
"What devil?" asked Don Quixote.
"The one with the bladders," said Sancho.
"Then I will recover him," said Don Quixote, "even if he be shut up with
him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of hell. Follow me, Sancho, for
the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make good the loss
of Dapple."
"You need not take the trouble, senor," said Sancho; "keep cool, for as I
now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his old
quarters;" and so it turned out, for, having come down with Dapple, in
imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made off on foot to the
town, and the ass came back to his master.
"For all that," said Don Quixote, "it will be well to visit the
discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, even if it were
the emperor himself."
"Don't think of it, your worship," returned Sancho; "take my advice and
never meddle with actors, for they are a favoured class; I myself have
known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet come off scot-free;
remember that, as they are merry folk who give pleasure, everyone favours
and protects them, and helps and makes much of them, above all when they
are those of the royal companies and under patent, all or most of whom in
dress and appearance look like princes."
"Still, for all that," said Don Quixote, "the player devil must not go
off boasting, even if the whole human race favours him."
So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town,
shouting out as he went, "Stay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want to
teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of
knights-errant for steeds."
So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the cart heard and
understood them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker's intention
was, Death in an instant jumped out of the cart, and the emperor, the
devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the queen or the god Cupid
stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and formed in line,
prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their pebbles. Don
Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a gallant array with uplifted
arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones, checked Rocinante and began
to consider in what way he could attack them with the least danger to
himself. As he halted Sancho came up, and seeing him disposed to attack
this well-ordered squadron, said to him, "It would be the height of
madness to attempt such an enterprise; remember, senor, that against sops
from the brook, and plenty of them, there is no defensive armour in the
world, except to stow oneself away under a brass bell; and besides, one
should remember that it is rashness, and not valour, for a single man to
attack an army that has Death in it, and where emperors fight in person,
with angels, good and bad, to help them; and if this reflection will not
make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to know for certain that among all
these, though they look like kings, princes, and emperors, there is not a
single knight-errant."
"Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "which
may and should turn me from the resolution I had already formed. I cannot
and must not draw sword, as I have many a time before told thee, against
anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for thee, Sancho, if thou wilt,
to take vengeance for the wrong done to thy Dapple; and I will help thee
from here by shouts and salutary counsels."
"There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, senor," replied
Sancho; "for it is not the part of good Christians to revenge wrongs; and
besides, I will arrange it with my ass to leave his grievance to my
good-will and pleasure, and that is to live in peace as long as heaven
grants me life."
"Well," said Don Quixote, "if that be thy determination, good Sancho,
sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest Sancho, let us leave these
phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier adventures;
for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to find plenty of
marvellous ones in it."
He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of his Dapple,
Death and his flying squadron returned to their cart and pursued their
journey, and thus the dread adventure of the cart of Death ended happily,
thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master; who had, the following day,
a fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than the last, with an
enamoured knight-errant.
CHAPTER XII.
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE
BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS
The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote and
his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at
Sancho's persuasion ate a little from the store carried by Dapple, and
over their supper Sancho said to his master, "Senor, what a fool I should
have looked if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the first
adventure your worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares.
After all, 'a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.'"
"At the same time, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if thou hadst let me
attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold crown and
Cupid's painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils, for I should
have taken them by force and given them into thy hands."
"The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors," said Sancho,
"were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin."
"That is true," said Don Quixote, "for it would not be right that the
accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions
and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho-and, as a
necessary consequence, towards those who represent and produce it--I
would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments of
great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in
which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is
there any similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and ought
to be than the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a
play acted in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and
divers other personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another
the knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted
fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they have
put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors become equal."
"Yes, I have seen that," said Sancho.
"Well then," said Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy and
life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in
short, all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when it is
over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of the
garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in the
grave."
"A fine comparison!" said Sancho; "though not so new but that I have
heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of
chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own particular
office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed, jumbled up and
shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much like ending
life in the grave."
"Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho," said
Don Quixote.
"Ay," said Sancho; "it must be that some of your worship's shrewdness
sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to yield
good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is that your worship's
conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the barren soil of my
dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and society has been
the tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in abundance
that will not fall away or slide from those paths of good breeding that
your worship has made in my parched understanding."
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and perceived that
what he said about his improvement was true, for now and then he spoke in
a way that surprised him; though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to
talk fine and attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling over
from the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and
where he showed his culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was
in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not
upon the subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be
noticed in the course of this history.
In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but
Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to
say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he left him at
liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante's saddle, as his
master's express orders were, that so long as they were in the field or
not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped--the ancient
usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take off the
bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove the saddle from the
horse--never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same liberty he
had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a friendship so
unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by tradition from father
to son, that the author of this veracious history devoted some special
chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the propriety and decorum due
to a history so heroic, he did not insert therein; although at times he
forgets this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two beasts
would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they were
tired or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple's, stretching
half a yard or more on the other side, and the pair would stand thus,
gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, or at least so long as
they were left alone, or hunger did not drive them to go and look for
food. I may add that they say the author left it on record that he
likened their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades and
Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived, to the admiration of
mankind, how firm the friendship must have been between these two
peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships with one another
so badly. This was why it was said--
For friend no longer is there friend;
The reeds turn lances now.
And some one else has sung--
Friend to friend the bug, etc.
And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared
the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received
many lessons from beasts, and learned many important things, as, for
example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog,
watchfulness from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the
elephant, and loyalty from the horse.
Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote
dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a
noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up startled, he listened
and looked in the direction the noise came from, and perceived two men on
horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to the
other, "Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the horses, for, so
far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for them, and the
solitude and silence my love-sick thoughts need of." As he said this he
stretched himself upon the ground, and as he flung himself down, the
armour in which he was clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that
he must be a knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he
shook him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his
senses, and said in a low voice to him, "Brother Sancho, we have got an
adventure."
"God send us a good one," said Sancho; "and where may her ladyship the
adventure be?"
"Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote; "turn thine eyes and look, and thou
wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me, is not over
and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse and throw
himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and his armour
rattled as he fell."
"Well," said Sancho, "how does your worship make out that to be an
adventure?"
"I do not mean to say," returned Don Quixote, "that it is a complete
adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way
adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute or guitar,
and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must be getting
ready to sing something."
"Faith, you are right," said Sancho, "and no doubt he is some enamoured
knight."
"There is no knight-errant that is not," said Don Quixote; "but let us
listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the ball
of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh."
Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove's
voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and
listening attentively the pair heard him sing this
SONNET
Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold;
Declare the terms that I am to obey;
My will to yours submissively I mould,
And from your law my feet shall never stray.
Would you I die, to silent grief a prey?
Then count me even now as dead and cold;
Would you I tell my woes in some new way?
Then shall my tale by Love itself be told.
The unison of opposites to prove,
Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I;
But still, obedient to the laws of love,
Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast,
Whate'er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest
Indelible for all eternity.
With an "Ah me!" that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of his
heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and shortly
afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice, "O fairest and
most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most serene Casildea de
Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste away and
perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils? It is not
enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all the Leonese,
all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, and finally all the knights of La
Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?"
"Not so," said Don Quixote at this, "for I am of La Mancha, and I have
never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess a
thing so much to the prejudice of my lady's beauty; thou seest how this
knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will tell us more
about himself."
"That he will," returned Sancho, "for he seems in a mood to bewail
himself for a month at a stretch."
But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices
near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed
in a distinct but courteous tone, "Who goes there? What are you? Do you
belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?"
"Of the miserable," answered Don Quixote.
"Then come to me," said he of the Grove, "and rest assured that it is to
woe itself and affliction itself you come."
Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous
manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho.
The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down here,
sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess
knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in this
place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat of
knights-errant, keep you company." To which Don made answer, "A knight I
am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows, misfortunes, and
calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion I feel for the
misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from it. From what
you have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from
the love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament."