Book II
Chap. I Of What Befel Don Quixote at the Castle or House of the Knight of the Green Surtout — With Other Out-of-the-Way Matters
Don Quixote found that Diego’s house, like the houses of most country gentlemen, was large and roomy, with the arms of the family over the great gates, cut out in rough stone; the buttery was in the yard, the cellar was under the porch, and around were placed divers jars, which jars being of the manufactory of Toboso, recalled the memory of the metamorphosed and inchanted Dulcinea; upon which, without reflecting what he said, or before whom he poured out his sighs and tears: ‘O dearest pledges,’ said he, ‘which now I find in bitterness of sorrow, but sweet and ravishing when Heaven’s high will ordained it so. O jars of Toboso, which have recalled into my mind the dear idea of my greatest sorrow!’ This exclamation was overheard by the young poet, Diego’s son; who, along with his mother, had come down to receive Don Quixote. Both mother and son were struck with his uncouth figure, and he, alighting from Rozinante, with great good breeding, begged leave to kiss the lady’s hand. To which intreaty Don Diego added, ‘Madam, receive with your usual politeness, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant, whom I here introduce to you as a gentleman of the brightest parts and most intrepid courage of any in the world.’ Donna Christina (for that was the lady’s name) received him with all the marks of respect and esteem, and Don Quixote overpaid them in polite and mannerly acknowledgments; the same kind of intercourse passed between him and the young scholar, whom he took by his conversation to be a gentleman of vivacity and acuteness.
The author here minutely describes Don Diego’s house, gives an inventory of the furniture usually contained in the house of a rich country gentleman: but the translators of this history have thought it adviseable not to mention these and such other particular matters, as being rather foreign from the main scope of this history, in which truth has more energy than needless and languid digressions.
Don Quixote was conducted into a hall, where Sancho disarmed him; after which, he remained in his other accoutrements, a pair of wide walloon breeches, and a shamoy-leather doublet, stained with the rust of his armour; his band was collegian, neither starched nor laced; his buskins of the colour of dates, and his shoes of waxed leather; he girded upon his thigh his trusty sword, which hung at a belt of seal’s skin, for it is believed he had been for some years troubled with an imbecility in his loins; and over all these was a long cloak of good grey cloth; but, before he stirred any farther, he applied to his face five or six pitchers (the precise number not being exactly ascertained) of fair water, which, nevertheless, still ran off exhibiting a whey colour; and it was undoubtedly owing to the irregular appetite of Sancho, and his having made the bargain for these nasty curds, that his master was now scoured so white and so clean. In this equipment, as here described, and with a gallant air and address, Don Quixote walked into another hall, where the young gentleman of the house was waiting to receive and entertain him, till dinner should be got ready; for as to the Lady Donna Christina, she was busy in ordering matters so, upon the arrival of this noble guest, as to let it be seen she knew what reception to give those who came to visit under her roof.
While Don Quixote was unarming, Don Lorenzo (that was the name of Diego’s son) took the opportunity of that leisure time to ask his father, who that knight was he had brought home to them; ‘For,’ said he, ‘his name and his uncouth figure, and your telling us, at the same time, that he is a knight-errant, puzzle both my mother and me prodigiously.’—‘I know not,’ said Don Diego, ‘what answer to make you; all I can say is, I never saw a madman act more frantickly, and have heard him talk so very sensibly, as gave the lye to all his actions: but I would have you enter into conversation with him, and sound the depth of his understanding; you have sense enough, and therefore I would have you form a judgment of him according to your own observation; to say the truth, I myself am more inclined to believe him distracted than otherwise.’
Upon this intimation, Don Lorenzo went to entertain Don Quixote, as we have mentioned; who, among other discourse, said to Lorenzo, ‘Signior Don Diego de Miranda, your father has been pleased to inform me a little of your great genius and good judgment, and particularly that you are a great poet.’—‘A poet, in some sense, I may be,’ said Lorenzo; ‘but a great one did I never so much as dare even in my own imagination to think myself. True it is, I am a little fond of poetry, and of reading the good poets; but don’t at all for that reason merit the title my father is pleased to bestow upon me.’—‘I love your reserve,’ said Don Quixote: ‘for poets are usually far removed from modesty, each thinking himself the greatest in the world.’—‘No rule holds universally,’ answered Lorenzo, ’and there may be one who is really a great poet, and yet does not think himself so.’—‘There must be very few such,’ answered the other; ‘but pray, Sir,’ continued he, ‘what verses are those you are about, which your father says make you so anxious and studious? for, if it be commenting upon some theme, I know somewhat of the art of paraphrasing, and should be glad to see what your performance is; and if they are designed as a poetical prize, let me advise you to obtain the second, for the first is decreed in view of interest, or in favour of the great quality of some person; but merit carries the second: so that, according to the general practice of our universities, the third becomes the second, and the first the third; but, notwithstanding this acceptation, the name of the first makes a great shew.’—‘So far, surely,’ said Lorenzo to himself, ‘this gentleman shews no signs of a disturbed understanding; but we’ll go on.—Your worship, I presume, has been long at the schools; pray, Sir, what sciences have you addicted yourself to?’—‘That of knight-errantry,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘a science equally sublime as your poetry; and, in my humble opinion, even mounted a few steps above it.’—‘That science,’ answered Lorenzo, ‘I am hitherto a stranger to; it has not yet come within the extent of my knowledge.’—‘It is a science,’ answered the other, ‘that includes in itself virtually, most, if not all the other sciences in the world; for he who professes it must be a civilian, and know the laws both of distributive and communicative justice, to determine, with equity and propriety, what lawfully and properly belongs to every individual: he must be a good divine and casuist, that he may, with clearness and precision, defend the principles of the Christian faith, which he professes, as often as he shall be required so to do: he ought to be a physician, and particularly a botanist, that, in the midst of desarts and wildernesses, he may know those herbs that are of efficacy in curing wounds; for a knight-errant cannot at every turn have recourse to a surgeon. He ought to be an astronomer, to distinguish by the stars the time of the night, together with the climate and part of the globe on which he chances to be: he must be learned in the mathematicks, for which he will frequently have occasion; and besides being adorned with all the theological and cardinal virtues, he ought to descend to other minute branches of science. I say, for example, he must know how to swim like an herring, to shoe an horse, to mend a saddle and bridle; and, returning to what we have observed above, he must preserve his fealty to God and his mistress; he must be chaste in thought, decent in speech, liberal in action, valiant in exploits, patient in toil, charitable with the needy; and finally, an asserter of truth, even though the defence of it should cost him his life. Of all these great and small qualities is a good knight-errant composed; so that Signior Don Lorenzo may judge, whether it be a snivelling science which is learned and professed by a knight-errant: and whether it may not be compared with the sublimest which are taught in colleges and schools.’—‘If that be the case,’ replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I affirm, that it has the advantage over all others.’—‘How!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case!’—‘What I would say,’ resumed Lorenzo, ’is, that I doubt whether there ever were or are knights-errants adorned with so many virtues.’—‘I have often said what I am now going to repeat,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘that the greatest part of the world believes there never were knights-errant; and, in my opinion, if Heaven does not work a miracle to prove that they both did and do exist, whatever trouble may be taken will fail of success, as I know by repeated experience. I will not, therefore, spend time at present, in refuting and rectifying the error in which you and many others are involved; but my intention is to pray that Heaven will extricate you from your mistake, and give you to understand how advantageous and necessary knights-errant have been to the world in past ages, and how useful they might be to the present, were it the custom to solicit their assistance: but, now, for the sins of mankind, idleness, sloth, gluttony, and extravagance, prevail and triumph.’ Here Don Lorenzo said within himself, ‘Now hath our guest given us the slip; but, nevertheless, he is a whimsical madman, and I should be an idle fool, if I thought otherwise.’
In this place their discourse was interrupted by a call to table; and Don Diego asked his son, what he had fairly extracted from the genius of his guest. To this question he replied, ‘All the best physicians and writers that the world contains, will not extract him fairly from the blotted sheet of his madness; but he is a party-coloured maniack, full of lucid intervals.’ They sat down to eat, and their repast was such as Don Diego had said upon the road he was wont to bestow upon his friends whom he invited, neat, plentiful, and savoury; but what yielded more satisfaction to Don Quixote, was the wonderful silence that prevailed over the whole house, which in this particular resembled a monastery of Carthusians.
The cloth being removed, grace said, and hands washed, Don Quixote earnestly desired that Don Lorenzo would repeat the verses designed for the literary contest; and the young gentleman answered, ‘Rather than appear one of those authors, who when they are requested to rehearse their works, refuse to grant the favour, and on the other hand, disgorge them upon those who have no inclination to hear them; I will repeat my gloss, from which I expect no reward, as I composed it solely with a view to exercise my genius.’—‘It was the opinion of an ingenious friend of mine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that no man ought to fatigue himself in glossing upon verses; because, as he observed, the gloss could never come up to the text; and very often, or indeed almost always, the gloss was foreign to the original proposition; besides, the laws of the gloss were extremely narrow, restricting the paraphraser from the use of interrogations; and, “Said he,” or, “I will say;” as well as from changing verbs into nouns, and altering the sentiment; with other ties and shackles incurred by those who try their fortune in this way, as you yourself undoubtedly know.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ cried Don Lorenzo, ‘I am very desirous of intrapping your worship in false Latin; but it is not in my power, for you slip through my fingers like an eel.’—‘I do not know,’ answered the knight, ‘what you mean by saying I slip through your fingers.’—‘I will explain myself some other time,’ replied Don Lorenzo; ‘mean-while, your worship will be pleased to hear the paraphrase and the text, which run thus—
‘THE TEXT.
‘Could I the moments past renew,
Though fate should other joys deny;
Or bring the future scenes to view
In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie.
‘THE GLOSS.
’As all things perish and decay;
So did that happiness I mourn,
On silent pinion fleet away;
Ah! never—never to return.
At Fortune’s feet forlorn I lie:
Would she again propitious strew
Her favours, who more blest than I,
Could I the moments past renew!
‘No pleasure, palm, or wreathe I claim,
No wealth or triumph seek to find;
For all my wish, and all my aim,
Is to retrieve my peace of mind.
Ah, Fortune! thy returning smile
Would change to bliss my destiny,
And ev’ry gloomy thought beguile,
Though fate should other joys deny.
‘Fond wish! impossible and vain;
No pow’r on this terrestrial ball
Can Time’s unwearied foot detain,
Or his accomplish’d flight recall.
He forward flies, nor looks behind;
And those miscarriage will pursue,
Who hope this fugitive to bind,
Or bring the future scenes to view.
‘Perplex’d with hopes and fears I live,
Tho’ death at once would ease my pain;
What folly, then, for me to grieve,
Who can that easy cure obtain?
No! yet a wiser course I’ll steer,
Resolv’d my fortune still to try,
Until those happier days appear,
In time’s dark womb that rip’ning lie.’
Don Lorenzo no sooner concluded his paraphrase, than Don Quixote starting up, took the young gentleman by the right-hand, and raising his voice even almost to a halloo, pronounced, ‘Now, by the Heaven of heavens! noble youth, you are the best poet in the world, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus or Gaeta, as an author said, whom God pardon, but by the academy of Athens, did it now subsist, and by those of Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca, which are still in being. Heaven grant, that those judges who deny you the first prize, may be transfixed by the arrows of Apollo, and that the Muses may never deign to cross the thresholds of their doors. Signior, let me hear, if you please, some of your more majestick verses, that I may be thoroughly acquainted with the pulse of your admirable genius.’ Is it not diverting to observe, that Don Lorenzo was pleased with the applause of Don Quixote, although he considered him as a madman? O influence of flattery, how far dost thou extend! and how unlimited are the limits of thy agreeable jurisdiction! This truth is verified in the behaviour of Lorenzo; who, in compliance with the desire and intreaty of the knight, repeated this sonnet, on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.
SONNET.
Fair Thisbe’s charms what bulwarks could withstand!
They pierc’d e’en to her gallant lover’s soul;
And Cupid hasten’d from the Cyprian strand,
To view the narrow paths by which they stole.
Here silence spoke; and through that narrow breach,
Which e’en the timid voice durst not essay,
Th’ intrepid souls to perfect union stretch:
Inspir’d, impower’d, by love’s almighty sway.
Th’ ill-fated pair to death untimely came,
With flow’ry pleasure’s tempting bait intic’d:
By the same poignard, monument, and fame,
At once destroy’d, enclos’d, immortaliz’d.
‘Blessed be God!’ cried Don Quixote, when he had heard the sonnet of Don Lorenzo, ‘that amidst the infinite number of consumptive poets that now exist, I have found one consummate, as your worship has plainly evinced yourself, by the art and execution of those stanzas.’
The knight was sumptuously regaled in the house of Don Diego, for the space of four days; at the expiration of which he thanked his entertainer for the noble treatment he had received from his hospitality, and begged leave to depart; for as it did not become knights-errant to devote much time to ease and banquetting, he was desirous of fulfilling the duty of his profession in seeking adventures, with which he understood that country abounded, and in which he hoped to employ the time till the day of the tournament of Saragossa, whither he was bound; but, first of all, he was resolved to enter the cave of Montesinos, about which so many strange stories were recounted all over that neighbourhood, that he might investigate and discover the origin and real springs of the seven lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego and his son applauded the glorious design, and desired he would supply himself with whatever their house or fortune could afford; for they would, with the utmost good-will, perform that service, which they equally owed to his personal valour and honourable profession. At length arrived the day of his departure, as joyful to the knight as dismal and unfortunate to Sancho Panza, who had lived so much at his ease amidst the plenty of Don Diego’s house, that he could not without reluctance return to the hunger that prevails in dreary forests, and to the poverty of his ill provided bags, which, however, he now took care to fill and stuff with what he thought most necessary for his occasions.
At parting, Don Quixote addressing himself to Don Lorenzo, ‘I know not,’ said he, ‘whether I have already told your worship, but if I have, let me now repeat the intimation, that when you are inclined to take the shortest and easiest road to the inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have no more to do, but to leave on one side the path of poetry, which is pretty narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry, which, though the narrowest of all others, will conduct you to the throne of empire, in the turning of a straw.’ With this advice did the knight, as it were, sum up the process of his madness; which, however, was still more manifest in this addition: ‘Heaven knows what pleasure I should feel in the company and association of Don Lorenzo, whom I would teach, by my own example, to spare the fallen, and trample the haughty under foot; virtues annexed to the order I profess: but as his tender years do not require such tutorage, nor would his laudable exercises permit him to pursue my steps, I shall content myself with assuring his worship, that being a poet, he may certainly acquire renown, if he will conduct himself rather by the opinion of others, than his own; for no parent ever thought his own off-spring ugly, and this prejudice is still more strong towards the children of the understanding.’
Both father and son admired anew the strange medley of Don Quixote’s discourse, in which so much discretion and madness were jumbled together; and were astonished at the wilfulness and obstinacy with which he was so wholly bent upon the search of his misadventurous adventures, that constituted the very aim of all his desires. Nevertheless, they repeated their offers of service and civility, and with the good leave of the lady of the castle, Don Quixote and Sancho set out on Rozinante and Dapple.