Chap. II The Notable Fray That Happened Between Sancho and Don Quixote’s Niece and Housekeeper — With Other Diverting Incidents
The history relates, that the noise which Don Quixote, the curate, and barber heard, was occasioned by the niece and housekeeper scolding at Sancho, who struggled to get in and see his master, while they defended the door. ‘What does the swag-bellied lurcher want in this house?’ said the housekeeper: ‘get you home, brother; it was you, and none but you, that turned my poor master’s brain, enticing him from his own home, to stroll about the highways.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied, ‘Housekeeper of Satan! ’tis my brain that’s turned; ’twas I that was enticed to stroll about the highways, and not thy master, for he carried me a rambling; so that you have reckoned without your host. ’Twas he that wheedled me from my own house, with the promise of an island, which I expect to this good hour.’—‘Devil choak thee with islands, thou cursed cormorant!’ cried the niece: ’and pray what is an island; is it any thing to eat, thou gorbellied glutton, ha?’—‘No, not to eat, but to govern,’ answered Sancho, ’and a fat government it is. Better than four cities, or the places of any four of the king’s alcades.’—‘Be that as it will,’ said the housekeeper, ‘thou shan’t set foot in this house, thou bag of mischief, and bundle of malice! go and look after thy own family, fatten thy hogs, and let us hear no more of these islands or oil-lands.’
The curate and barber were highly entertained with this dialogue; but Don Quixote fearing that Sancho would open his budget, and disburden himself of some mischievous load of folly, by blabbing things not much to his credit, called him in, bidding the women hold their tongues, and give him entrance. Sancho being accordingly admitted, the curate and barber took their leave of Don Quixote, whose recovery they despaired of, seeing him so unalterably fixed in his folly, and so wholly possessed with the frantick spirit of knight-errantry. ‘You shall see, neighbour,’ said the curate to the barber, ‘that when we least think of it, this poor gentleman will make another sally.’—‘That I make no doubt of,’ answered the barber, ‘but I don’t wonder so much at the madness of the knight, as at the simplicity of the squire, who believes so devoutly in this island, that I think all the invention of man could not extract it from his skull.’—‘God mend them!’ replied the curate: ‘meanwhile, let us keep a strict eye over their behaviour, and observe the operation of their joint extravagance; for the madness of the master seems to have been cast in the same mould with the foolishness of the man, and in my opinion, the one without the other would not be worth a farthing.’—‘True,’ said the barber; ’and I should be glad to know what they are now talking of.’—‘I dare say,’ replied the curate, ‘the niece and house-keeper will give us a good account of their conversation; for they are none of those who can resist the opportunity of listening.’
In the mean time, Don Quixote having shut himself up in his apartment with Sancho, said, ‘It gives me much concern, Sancho, to hear thee say, as thou dost, that I enticed thee from thy cottage, when thou knowest that I, at the same time, quitted my own house; together we set out, lived and travelled together; sharing the same fortune and the same fate. If thou hast been once tossed in a blanket, I have been bruised an hundred times; and this is the only pre-eminence I enjoyed.’—’And that’s but reasonable,’ replied Sancho, ‘according to your worship’s own remark, that misfortune belongs more to knights-errant than to their squires.’—‘There you are mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the Latin adage says, Quando caput dolet, &c.’—‘Nay,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I understand no lingo but my mother-tongue.’—‘The meaning,’ said the master, ’is, When the head aches, all the members are affected. I, therefore, as thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, as my servant, are a part of me; so that whatever mischief has happened, or may happen to me, ought to extend to thee likewise, in the same manner as I bear a share in all thy sufferings.’—‘So it ought to be,’ said Sancho, ‘but when I, as a member, was tossed in a blanket, my head sat peaceably on the other side of the wall, and beheld me vaulting in the air, without feeling the least uneasiness; and since the members are obliged to ache with the head, I think it is but just that the head should ache with the members.’—‘How canst thou affirm, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I felt no pain while thou was tossed in the blanket? Say, or think so no more; for I was, at that time, more afflicted in mind than thou in body.
‘But let us wave this subject for the present, and time will, no doubt, offer an opportunity of considering it more maturely, and of setting every thing to rights: and tell me, friend Sancho, how I am spoke of in this place? What say the vulgar? What character do I bear among the gentry? and how am I treated by the knights? What is their opinion of my valour, exploits, and courteous behaviour? and how do they relish the design I have undertaken of raising and restoring to the world the long-forgotten order of knight-errantry? In short, Sancho, I desire that thou wilt inform me of every thing thou hast heard on this subject, without adding to the good, or subtracting from the evil; it being the duty of faithful servants to represent the truth to their masters in its own native form, neither exaggerated by adulation, nor diminished by any other vain respect: and let me tell thee, Sancho, if the naked truth was always conveyed to the ears of princes, undisguised by flattery, we should see better days, and other æras would deserve the name of the iron age more than the present, which would be justly looked upon as the age of gold. Remember this advice, Sancho, and inform me with honesty and discretion, of all that thou knowest in regard to what I have asked.’—‘That I will with all my heart, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘on condition that your worship won’t be offended with the truth, since you desire to see it in its nakedness, just as it came to my knowledge.’—‘I shall not be offended in the least,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘speak therefore freely, without going about the bush.’
‘Well, then,’ said the squire, ‘in the first place, you must know that the common people think your worship a stark-staring madman, and me a most notorious fool: the better sort say, that, scorning the rank of a private gentleman, you have put Don before your name, and dubbed yourself knight, with a small garden, a few acres of land, and a doublet clouted on both sides. The knights, forsooth, are affronted that your small gentry should pretend to vie with them, especially those needy squires who sole their own shoes, and darn their black hose with green silk.’—‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘cannot affect me; for I always wear good cloaths, and never appear patched. My doublet may, indeed, be torn, but then it is by my armour, not by time.’—‘Touching the valour, courtesy, adventures, and design of your worship,’ said Sancho, ‘there are different opinions. Some say, he is mad, but a diverting madman; others allow that he is valiant, but unlucky; a third set observe that he is courteous, but impertinent; and in this manner we are handled so severely, that neither your worship nor I have a whole bone left.’—‘You see, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that whenever virtue shines in an eminent degree, she always meets with persecution. Few or none of the celebrated heroes of antiquity could escape the calumnies of malice: Julius Cæsar, a most daring, wise, and valiant general, was accused of being ambitious, and not over-cleanly in his customs or apparel; Alexander, who by his atchievements acquired the name of Great, was said to be a drunkard; and Hercules, renowned for his labours, reported to have been lewd and effeminate; Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul, was grumbled at for being excessively quarrelsome; and Amadis himself ridiculed as an arrant whiner. Therefore, son Sancho, among so many aspersions thrown upon such great men, I may well overlook what is said against me; since it is no worse than what thou hast repeated.’—‘That’s the very thing, body of my father!’ replied Sancho. ‘What, is there any thing more!’ said his master. ‘More!’ cried the squire, ‘the tail is yet unfleaed. What you have heard is but cakes and gingerbread; but, if your worship would know all the backbitings we suffer, I will this moment bring hither one who can inform you of every circumstance, without losing a crumb; for, last night, the son of Bartholomew Carrasco arrived from Salamanca, where he has been at his studies, and got a batchelor’s degree; and when I went to welcome him home, he told me there was a printed book of your worship’s history, in which you go by the name of The Ingenious Squire Don Quixote de La Mancha; and that I am mentioned in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, as well as my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with other things that passed between you and me only; at hearing of which I crossed myself through fear, wondering how they should come to the knowledge of the historian.’—‘You may depend upon it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the author of our history must be some sage inchanter; for nothing is hid from writers of that class.’—‘How can he be a sage inchanter,’ said Sancho, ‘when batchelor Sampson Carrasco (for that’s the name of him who told me) says the author of our history is called Cid Hamet Bean-and-jelly?’—‘That name is Moorish,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Very like,’ said the squire; ‘for I have often heard, that the Moors are very fond of beans and jellies.’—‘Thou must certainly be mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘in the surname of that Cid, which, in Arabick, signifies Signior.’—‘Very possible,’ answered the squire; ‘but if your worship desires to see the batchelor, I will bring him hither in a twinkling.’—‘Thou wilt oblige me very much, my friend,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for what thou hast told me has bred such doubts and suspense within me, that I cannot eat a morsel with any satisfaction, until I am informed of the whole affair.’—‘Then I’ll go seek him,’ replied Sancho: who, leaving his master, went in quest of the batchelor, with whom he returned in a little time, and a most pleasant dialogue ensued.