Chap. VI Of the Unseen and Unheard of Adventure — Atchieved by the Valiant Don Quixote de la Mancha, With Less Hazard Than Ever Attended Any Exploit Performed by the Most Renowned Knight on Earth
‘This grass, my good master, proves beyond all contradiction, that there must be some spring or rivulet hereabouts by which it is watered; and therefore we had better proceed a little farther, until we find wherewith to allay this terrible thirst, which is more painful and fatiguing than hunger alone.’ This advice appearing rational to Don Quixote, he took hold of Rozinante’s bridle, and Sancho leading Dapple by the halter, after he had loaded him again with the fragments of their supper, they began to move farther into the meadow, at a venture; for the night was so dark, they could not distinguish one object from another: but they had not gone two hundred paces, when their ears were saluted with a prodigious noise of water, that seemed to rush down from some huge and lofty rocks; they were infinitely rejoiced at the sound, when halting to listen, that they might know whence it came, they were all of a sudden surprized with another kind of noise, that soon damped the pleasure occasioned by the water, especially in Sancho, who was naturally fearful and faint-hearted; I say they heard the sound of regular strokes, accompanied with strange clanking of iron chains, which, added to the dreadful din of the cataract, would have smote the heart of any other but Don Quixote with fear and consternation.
The night, as we have already observed, was dark; our travellers happened at this time to be in a grove of tall trees, whose leaves, moving gently by the wind, yielded a sort of dreary whisper: so that the solitude of the place, the darkness of the night, the noise of the water, and rustling of the leaves, concurred to inspire them with horror and dismay; the more so, as the strokes were continued, the wind sighed on, and the morning was far off; and all these circumstances were aggravated by their ignorance of the place in which they were. But Don Quixote, encouraged by his own intrepid heart, mounted Rozinante, braced his shield, and brandishing his lance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ cried he, ‘know that I was born by Heaven’s appointment in these iron times to revive the age of gold, or, as it is usually called, the golden age. I am he for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved! I am he, I say, ordained to re-establish the Knights of the Round-table, the Twelve Peers of France, with the Nine Worthies! He whose feats shall bury, in oblivion the Platirs, Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, the Febuses and Belianises, together with the whole tribe of knights-errant who lived in former times; performing such mighty and amazing deeds of arms, as will eclipse their most renowned acts! Consider well, thou true and loyal squire, the darkness and the solemn stillness of this night, the indistinct and hollow whispering of these trees, the dreadful din of that water we came to seek, which seems to rush and rumble down from the lofty mountains of the moon; together with these incessant strokes that strike and wound our ears: all those circumstances united, or each singly by itself, is sufficient to infuse fear, terror, and dismay, into the breast of Mars himself; much more in him who is altogether unaccustomed to such adventures and events. Yet all I have described are only incentives that awaken my courage, and already cause my heart to rebound within my breast, with desire to atchieve this adventure, howsoever difficult it may appear to be! Therefore straiten Rozinante’s girth, recommend thyself to God, and wait for me in this place, three days at farthest; within which time, if I come not back, thou mayest return to our village; and, as the last favour and service done to me, go from thence to Toboso, and inform my incomparable mistress, Dulcinea, that her captive knight died in attempting things that might render him worthy to be called her lover.’
When Sancho heard these last words of his master, he began to blubber with incredible tenderness. ‘I cannot conceive,’ said he, ‘why your worship should attempt such a terrible adventure: it is now dark, and nobody sees us; therefore we may turn out of this road and avoid the danger, though we should not taste liquor these three days; and if nobody sees us, we run no risk of being accused of cowardice; besides, I have heard the curate of our town, whom your worship knows very well, remark in his preaching, “He that seeketh danger perisheth therein;” therefore it must be a sin to tempt God by engaging in this rash exploit, from whence there is no escaping without a miracle; and Heaven hath wrought enow of them already, in preserving you from being blanketed as I was, and bringing you off conqueror, and sound wind and limb, from the midst of so many adversaries as accompanied the dead man: and if all this will not move you, nor soften your rugged heart, sure you will relent, when you consider and are assured that your worship will be scarce gone from hence, when I shall I through pure fear yield my life to any thing that may chuse to take it. I left my habitation, wife and children, to come and serve your worship, believing it would be the better, not the worse for me so to do; but as greediness bursts the bag, so is the bag of my hopes bursten; for when they are at the highest pitch, in expectation of that curst unlucky island your worship has promised me so often, I find in lieu of that, you want to make me amends by leaving me in this desart, removed from all human footsteps: for the love of God, dear master, do me not such wrong; or if your worship is resolved to attempt this atchievement at any rate, at least delay it till morning, which, according to the signs I learned when I was a shepherd, will appear in less than three hours; for the muzzle of the bear is at the top of his head63, and shews midnight in the line of the left paw.’
‘How canst thou perceive,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that line, or head, or muzzle, thou talked of, when the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen?’—‘It is so,’ answered Sancho; ‘but fear hath many eyes; and I can at present behold things that are hid within the bowels of the earth; much more those that appear in the firmament above: a man of sound judgment, like me, can easily foretel that it will soon be day.’—‘Let it come when it will,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘it shall not be said of me, either now or at any other time, that I was diverted by tears and intreaties from doing what I owed to the customs of chivalry; I therefore beseech thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace; for God, who hath put it in my heart to attempt this dreadful and unseen adventure, will doubtless take care of my safety, and comfort thee in thy affliction: thy business at present is to gird fast Rozinante, and remain in this place, for dead or alive I will soon return.’
Sancho finding this was the final resolution of his master, and how little all his tears, advice, and intreaties availed, determined, to make use of stratagem to detain the knight, if possible, till morning: with this purpose, under pretence of adjusting the girth of Rozinante, he fair and softly, without being perceived, tied two of the horse’s feet together with the halter of his ass, in such a manner, that when Don Quixote attempted to depart, he found it impossible, because his steed could move no otherwise than by leaps. The squire perceiving the success of his invention, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you may see that Heaven, melted by my tears and prayers, hath ordained that Rozinante shall not stir; and if you obstinately persist in spurring and driving him on, you will only give offence to Providence, and, as the saying is, “Kick against the pricks.”’
The knight actually despaired of making him go forward, because the more he goaded his horse, the less was he inclined to stir; and therefore, without guessing a tittle of the ligature, thought proper to submit and wait with patience, either till morning, or such time as Rozinante should recover the use of his limbs; believing for certain, that his disappointment was owing to another cause than the craft of his squire, to whom he said, ‘Since Rozinante is incapable of moving, I am content to wait for the dawn, though I cannot help lamenting its delay.’—‘You shall have no cause for lamentation,’ answered Sancho; ‘I will entertain your worship with telling stories till day, unless you chuse to alight, and take a nap on the soft grass according to the custom of knights-errant, that you may find yourself refreshed when day breaks, and ready to undertake the unconscionable adventure that awaits you.’—‘Talk not to me of alighting or sleeping,’ said Don Quixote; ‘dost thou imagine me to be one of those knights who seek their repose in times of danger? Sleep thou who wast born to sleep, or follow thy own inclinations; for my own part, I will behave as becomes a person of my pretensions.’—‘Let not your worship be offended; for that was not my intention when I spoke;’ answered Sancho; who coming close to him, laid hold of the saddle before and behind, and stood embracing his master’s left thigh, without daring to stir a finger’s breadth from the spot; such was his consternation, inspired by the strokes, which all this time sounded alternately in his ears.
Then Don Quixote claiming his promise of entertaining him with some story; ‘I would with all my heart,’ said Sancho, ‘if the dread of what I hear would allow me; but nevertheless I will try to force out one story, which if I hit it aright, without letting it slip through my hands, is the best tale that ever was told; therefore I would have your worship be attentive, for thus I begin.
‘There was, so there was; the good that shall fall, betide us all; and he that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil. Your worship may take notice, that the beginning of ancient tales is not just what came into the head of the teller: no, they always began with some saying of Cato the censor of Rome, like this of, “He that seeks evil, may he meet with the devil.” And truly it comes as pat to the purpose as the ring to my finger, in order to persuade your worship to remain where you are, without going in search of evil in any manner of way; or else to turn into another road, since we are not bound to follow this in which we have been surprized with fear and terror.’—‘Follow thy story, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ’and as to the road we have to follow, leave the care of that to me.’—‘To proceed, then,’ said Sancho; ‘in a certain village of Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd; I mean, one that kept goats; and this shepherd or goatherd, as the story goes, was called Lope Ruyz; and it came to pass, that this Lope Ruyz fell in love with a shepherdess whose name was Torralva; which shepherdess, whose name was Torralva, was the daughter of a rich herdsman; and this rich herdsman—’
‘If thou telleth thy tale in this manner,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘repeating every circumstance twice over, it will not be finished these two days: proceed therefore connectedly, and rehearse it like a man of understanding; otherwise thou hadst better hold thy tongue.’—‘In my country,’ answered Sancho, ‘all the old stories are told in this manner; neither can I tell it in any other; nor is it civil in your worship to desire I should change the custom.’—‘Take thy own way,’ said the knight; ’and since it is the will of fate that I should hear thee, pray go on.’
‘Well, then, good master of mine,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that same shepherd, as I have already remarked, fell in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a thick, brawny wench, a little coy, and somewhat masculine; for she wore a sort of mustachios: methinks I see her now for all the world.’—‘Then thou knewest her?’ said the knight. ‘Not I,’ answered the squire; ‘but the person who told me the story, said it was so true and certain, that if ever I should chance to tell it again, I might affirm upon oath that I had seen it with my own eyes—And so, in process of time, the devil, who never sleeps, but wants to have a finger in every pye, managed matters in such a manner, that the shepherd’s love for the shepherdess was turned into malice and deadly hate: and the cause, according to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of small jealousies she gave him, exceeding all bounds of measure. And such was the abhorrence the shepherd conceived for her, from that good day forward, that, in order to avoid the sight of her, he resolved to absent himself from his own country, and go where he should never set eyes on her again. Torralva, finding herself despised by Lope, began to love him more than ever.’—‘That is the natural disposition of the sex,’ said Don Quixote, ‘to disdain those who adore them, and love those by whom they are abhorred: but proceed, Sancho.’
‘It so fell out,’ said Sancho, ‘that the shepherd put his resolution in practice, and driving his goats before him, travelled through the plains of Estremadura, towards the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, having got an inkling of his design, was soon at his heels, following him on foot, aye, and barefoot too, with a pilgrim’s staff in her hand, and a wallet at her back, in which, as the report goes, she carried a bit of a looking-glass, a broken comb, and a kind of phial of wash for her complexion: but howsomever, whether she carried these things or not, I shall not at present take upon me to aver; but only say what is recorded, that the shepherd came with his flock to the river Guadiana, which at that time was very high, having almost forsaken its channel; and finding at the place neither boat nor bark to carry himself and his flock to the other side, he was very much in the dumps, because he saw Torralva behind him, and knew what he must suffer from her tears and complaints: but looking about, he at last perceived hard by him a fisherman in a boat, that was so small as to contain only one person and one goat: nevertheless, they struck up a bargain, by which the man was to ferry over the shepherd with his three hundred goats. Accordingly the fisherman took one goat into the boat, and carried it over; then he returned and carried over another, then he returned again to fetch another. Pray, good your worship, keep an exact account of the goats, as the fisherman ferried them over; for, if one only should be lost in the reckoning, the story will break off, and it will be impossible for me to relate one word more. To be short, then, I say, the landing-place on the other side being full of mud and slippery, was a great hindrance to the fisherman in his going and coming; but however he returned for the other goat, and then for some more, and then for another.’
‘Suppose them all passed over at once,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for if thou goest backwards and forwards in this manner, thou wilt not have them all ferried over in a year.’—‘How many have already passed?’ said the squire. ‘How the devil should I know?’ answered the knight. ‘Did not I tell you to keep a good account?’ said Sancho; ‘now, before God, the tale is ended, and it is impossible to proceed!’—‘How can that be?’ replied Don Quixote; ’is it so essential to the story to know the number of goats as they passed, so precisely, that if I misreckon one, thou canst not proceed?’—‘Certainly, Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘I can proceed in no manner of way: for when I desired your worship to tell me what number of goats had passed, and you answered you did not know; at that instant the whole of the story that remained untold, vanished from my remembrance; and, upon my conscience! it was very curious and entertaining.’—‘At that rate, then, the story is at an end?’ said Don Quixote. ’As much at an end,’ replied the squire, ’as the mother that bore me.’
‘In good sooth,’ resumed the knight, ‘thou hast related the strangest fable, tale, or story, that ever was invented; and finished thy relation in such a manner as never was or will be heard again in this world; but nothing else was to be expected from thy sound judgment; and indeed it is a matter of no admiration with me, because I take it for granted, that these incessant strokes have disordered thy understanding.’—‘Not unlikely,’ said Sancho; ‘but this I know, that there is no more to be said of the tale, which ended in that place where the mistake began about the passage of the goats.’—‘In good time end it according to thy own pleasure,’ replied the knight, ’and now let us see if Rozinante will move.’ So saying, he began again to spur, and the horse to leap without moving from his station, so effectually had Sancho fettered him.
About this time, whether it was owing to the coolness of the morning that approached, or to his having supped upon something that was laxative; or, which is more probable, to the operation of nature; Sancho was seized with an inclination and desire of doing that which could not be performed by proxy; but such was the terror that had taken possession of his soul, that he durst not move the breadth of a nail-pairing from his master’s side; at the same time it was as impossible for him to resist the motion of his bowels; and therefore, to compromise the matter, he slipped his right-hand from the hinder part of the saddle, and without any noise softly undid the slip-knot by which his breeches were kept up; upon which they of themselves fell down to his heels, where they remained like a pair of shackles; he then gathered up his shirt behind as well as he could, and exposed his posteriors, which were none of the smallest, to the open air: this being done, and he imagined it was the chief step he could take to deliver himself from the pressing occasion and dilemma in which he was, another difficulty still greater occurred, namely, that he should not be able to disincumber himself without noise; he therefore began to fix his teeth close, shrug up his shoulders, and hold in his breath with all his might. But, notwithstanding these precautions, he was so unlucky in the issue, as to produce a rumbling sound very different from that which had terrified him so much. It did not escape the ears of Don Quixote, who immediately cried, ‘What noise is that, Sancho?’—‘I know not, Sir,’ said the squire; ‘it must be some new affair, for adventures and misventures never begin with trifles.’ He tried his fortune a second time; and, without any more noise or disorder, freed himself from the load which had given him so much uneasiness. But as Don Quixote’s sense of smelling was altogether as acute as that of his hearing, and Sancho stood so close to him that the vapours ascended towards him almost in a direct line, he could not exclude some of them from paying a visit to his nose. No sooner was he sensible of the first salutation, than, in his own defence, he pressed his nose between his finger and thumb, and, in a snuffling tone, pronounced, ‘Sancho, thou seemest to be in great fear.’—‘I am so,’ answered the squire; ‘but how comes your worship to perceive my fears now more than ever?’—‘Because at present thou smellest more than ever, and that not of amber,’ replied the knight. ‘That may be,’ said Sancho; ‘but I am not so much to blame as your worship, who drags me at such unseasonable hours into these uninhabited places.’—‘Retire three or four steps farther off, friend,’ resumed Don Quixote, stopping his nose all the time, ’and henceforth take more heed of thy own person, and remember what thou owest to mine; for I find the frequent conversation I maintain with thee, hath engendered this disrespect.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship thinks I have been doing something I ought not to have done.’—‘The more you stir it, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘the more it will stink.’
In this and other such discourse, the master and his squire passed the night; but Sancho perceiving the day begin to break apace, with great care and secresy unbound Rozinante, and tied up his breeches. The beast, which was naturally none of the briskest, seemed to rejoice at his freedom, and began to paw the ground; for as to curvetting, with his leave be it spoken, he knew nothing of the matter. Don Quixote, finding him so mettlesome, conceived a good omen from his eagerness, believing it a certain presage of his success in the dreadful adventure he was about to atchieve. Aurora now disclosed herself, and objects appearing distinctly, Don Quixote found himself in a grove of tall chesnut-trees, which formed a very thick shade. The strokes still continuing, though he could not conceive the meaning of them, he, without farther delay, made Rozinante feel the spur; then turning to take leave of Sancho, commanded him to wait three days at farthest, as he had directed before; and if he should not return before that time was expired, he might take it for granted that God had been pleased to put a period to his life in that perilous adventure; he again recommended to him the embassy and message he should carry from him to his mistress Dulcinea, and bade him give himself no uneasiness about his wages; for he had made a will before he quitted his family, in which he should find his services repaid, by a salary proportioned to the time of his attendance: but if Heaven should be pleased to bring him off from that danger, safe, sound, and free, he might, beyond all question, lay his account with the government of the island he had promised him. Sancho, hearing these dismal expressions of his worthy master repeated, began to blubber afresh, and resolved not to leave him until the last circumstance and issue of the affair.
From these tears, and this honourable determination of Sancho Panza, the author of this history concludes, that he must have been a gentleman born, or an old Christian at least. His master himself was melted a little at this testimony of his affection, but not so much as to discover the least weakness: on the contrary, disguising his sentiments, he rode forward towards the place from whence the noise of the strokes and water seemed to come; Sancho followed on foot, and according to custom, leading by the halter his ass, which was the constant companion of his good and evil fortune. Having travelled a good way among those shady chesnut-trees, they arrived in a small meadow lying at the foot of a huge rock, over which a stream of water rushed down with vast impetuosity. Below appeared a few wretched huts, that looked more like ruins than houses; and they observed that from them proceeded the horrible din of the strokes, which had not yet ceased.
Rozinante being startled at the dreadful noise of the strokes and water, Don Quixote endeavoured to soothe him, and advanced by little and little towards the huts, recommending himself in the most earnest manner to his mistress, whose favour he implored in the atchievement of that fearful enterprize: neither did he omit praying to God for his protection. Sancho, who never stirred from his side, thrust his neck as far as he could between the legs of Rozinante, in order to discover the objects that kept him in such terror and suspence; and when they had proceeded about a hundred paces farther, at the doubling of a corner, stood fully disclosed to view the very individual and undoubted cause of this tremendous sound and terrible noise, which had filled them with such doubts and consternation all night long.
This was no other, (be not offended, gentle reader) than six fulling-hammers, which, by their alternate strokes, produced that amazing din. Don Quixote was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight; Sancho looked at him, and found his head hanging down upon his breast, and other manifest signs of his being out of countenance. The knight, in his turn, looked at the squire, and saw his mouth shut, his cheeks puffed up, with other symptoms of his being ready to burst with laughing. This comical situation of the squire, in spite of all his own melancholy, obliged the master to begin; and Sancho no sooner beheld the severity of the knight’s features relaxed, than he opened the flood-gates of his mirth, which broke forth with such violence, that he was under the necessity of supporting his sides with both fists, that they might not be rent to pieces by the convulsion. Four times did he exhaust, and as often renew the laugh with the same impetuosity as at first; for which Don Quixote already wished him at the devil, more especially when he heard him pronounce, by way of sneer, ‘Know, friend Sancho, that I was born by Heaven’s appointment, in these iron times, to revive the age of gold, or the Golden Age! I am he for whom strange perils, valiant deeds, and vast adventures, are reserved!’ And in this manner he proceeded, repeating all, or the greater part of the knight’s exclamation, when they first heard the terrible noise.
Don Quixote finding that Sancho made a jest of him, was so much ashamed and provoked, that, lifting up his lance, he bestowed upon him two or three thwacks, which, had they fallen upon his head, as they lighted on his shoulders, would have saved his master the trouble of paying his salary, unless it might be to his heirs. Sancho feeling his joke turned into such disagreeable earnest, which he was afraid might not be as yet over, addressed himself to his master with great humility, saying, ‘Good your worship, forbear; before God, I was only in jest.’—‘Though you was in jest,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I was not quite so merrily disposed: come hither, Mr. Joker; don’t you think, that if, instead of fulling-hammers, these had been some very dangerous adventure, I have shewn courage enough to undertake and atchieve it? Am I, who am a knight, obliged, for sooth, to distinguish sounds, and know which proceed from fulling-mills, and which do not? especially as it may be the case, and it really is so, that I never saw one before; though it is otherwise with thee, base plebeian as thou art, who was born and bred up among them: but see if thou canst metamorphose these six hammers into so many giants, and bring them within arm’s length of me, one by one, or all together; and if I don’t make them lie with their heels uppermost, make a jest of me as much as you please.’
‘Enough, dear master,’ replied Sancho, ‘I confess I have exceeded a little in my pleasantry; but, pray tell me now, that we are at peace again, as God shall deliver your worship from all succeeding adventures as safe and sound as you have been extricated from this, is not the terror with which we were seized, a thing to be laughed at and repeated? I mean, my own terror; for, as to your worship, I know you are an utter stranger to terror and dismay!’—‘I do not deny,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that what hath happened to us is ridiculous enough; but, nevertheless, it ought not to be repeated; because every body has not discretion to take things by the right handle.’—‘I am sure,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship knows how to handle your lance, with which, while you wanted to handle my head, you happened to salute my shoulders; thanks be to God, and my own activity, in avoiding the blow: but all that, when it is dry, will rub out; and I have often heard it said, “He that loves thee well, will often make thee cry.” Nay, it is a common thing for your gentry, when they have said a harsh thing to a servant, to make it up with him by giving him a pair of cast breeches; though I don’t know what they used to give after having beaten him, unless it be the practice of knights-errant, after blows, to give islands, or kingdoms on the main land.’
‘Who knows,’ said Don Quixote, ‘but the dice may run that way, and all that thou hast mentioned come to pass. I ask pardon for what is past, since you are resolved to be more discreet for the future; and as the first emotions are not in a man’s own power, I must apprize thee henceforward to be more reserved, and abstain from speaking so freely to me; for in all the books of chivalry I have read, and they are almost infinite, I never found that any squire talked so much to his master as thou hast talked to thine: and really both you and I are very much to blame; thou, in regarding me so little; and I, in not making myself regarded more. Was not Gandalin, squire of Amadis de Gaul, count of the Firm Island? and yet we read of him, that he always spoke to his master cap in hand, with an inclination of his head, and his body bent in the Turkish manner. What need I mention Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who was so reserved, that, in order to express the excellence of his surprizing silence, his name is mentioned but once in the whole course of that equally vast and true history. From what I have said, Sancho, thou art to draw this inference, that there is a necessity for maintaining some distinction between the master and his man, the gentleman and his servant, and the knight and his squire: wherefore, from this day forward, we are to be treated with more respect and less provocation; for if ever I am incensed by you again, in any shape whatever, the pitcher will pay for all. The favours and benefits I have promised will come in due time; and if they should fail, your wages at least will be forthcoming, as I have already informed you.’
‘All that your worship observes is very just,’ said Sancho; ‘but I should be glad to know, since if the benefits come not in time, I must be fain to put up with the wages, what was the hire of a knight-errant’s squire in those days; and whether they agreed by the month or the day, like common labourers?’—‘I do not believe,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that they were retained for hire, but depended altogether on favour; and though I have bequeathed a sum to thee in my will, which I have left signed and sealed at home, it was done in case of the worst; for one does not know how chivalry may succeed in these calamitous times: and I would not have my soul punished in the other world for so small a matter; for, let me tell thee, Sancho, in this there is not a more dangerous course than that of adventures.’—‘That I know to be true,’ answered the squire, ‘since the noise of a fulling-mill could daunt and disturb the heart of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship: but this I assure you of, that from this good hour, my lips shall never give umbrage to your worship in turning your affairs to jest again; but, on the contrary, honour you as my natural lord and master.’—‘In so doing,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘thou shalt live long upon the face of the earth; for, after your father and mother, you ought to respect your master as another parent.’