Chap. XV Containing Don Quixote’s Reply to His Reprover; With Other Serious and Diverting Incidents
Don Quixote starting up, and trembling from head to foot, like quicksilver, thus accosted the ecclesiastick, with an eager, yet faultering tongue: ‘The place and presence in which I am, and the respect which I always had and still have for the function you profess, withold and tie up the hands of my just resentment; for these reasons, as well as because I know what all the world knows, that gownmen and women make use of no weapons but their tongues, I will, with mine, fairly engage your reverence, of whom I might have expected good advice, rather than infamous reproach; as wholesome and well-meant reproof requires far other circumstances, and ought to be conveyed in gentler terms: at least, a rebuke in publick, delivered with such asperity, has exceeded all the bounds of Christian reprehension, the beginning of which ought to be mild rather than severe; nor is it just to call the delinquent in plain terms, a wiseacre and a fool, without knowing the nature of the fault for which he is reprehensible. But, pray tell me, reverend Signior, for which of the absurdities you have noted in my behaviour, do you condemn and reproach me, bidding me return to my own house, to take care of my family, my wife and children, without knowing whether I have either wife or children? What then! is there nothing required but to enter a house at random, in order to lead the master by the nose; and shall a narrow-minded pedant, on the strength of having taught a few pupils to read Latin, though he has seen no more of the world than what may be contained in twenty or thirty leagues of district, presume abruptly, without permission, to give laws to chivalry, and judge of knights-errant? Is it a vain undertaking then, or is the time misspent, which we employ in travelling about the world, not in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend the throne of immortality? Had I been counted a fool by knights, or people of fashion, birth, or generosity, I should have deemed myself irreparably affronted; but my being regarded as a madman by book-worms who never entered or trod the paths of chivalry, I value not a farthing; a knight I am, and a knight I shall die according to the pleasure of the Almighty. Some chuse the spacious field of proud ambition; others take that of base and servile adulation; a third set follow the paths of deceitful hypocrisy; and a fourth proceed in that of true religion; but I, by the influence of my stars, pursue the narrow track of knight-errantry, for the exercise of which, I undervalue fortune in the chace of honour. I have assisted the aggrieved, redressed wrongs, chastised the insolent, overcome giants, and overthrown hobgoblins. I am enamoured, for no other reason but because it is necessary that knights-errant should be in love; and this being the case, I am not a vicious libertine, but a chaste platonick admirer. My intention I always direct to a worthy aim, namely, to do good unto all men, and harm to no creature.—Whether or not he who thinks, acts, and speaks in this manner, deserves to be called a fool, let your graces determine?’
‘Well argued, master!’ cried Sancho: ’‘Fore God! your worship needs say no more in behalf of your own character; for there is no more to be said, thought, or insisted upon; especially as that gentleman denies, and he certainly has denied, that there either are, or ever were, knights-errant in this world; so that he knows nothing at all of the matter!’—‘Brother,’ replied the priest, ‘belike you are that Sancho Panza, to whom they say your master has promised an island?’—‘Yes, I am,’ said the squire, ’and I hope I deserve it as well as another. I am one of whom you may say, Keep good company, and you’ll learn good manners; and, I ask not where you was hatched, but where you was watched. And again, Well sheltered shall he be, who leans against a sturdy tree. Now I have leaned against a good master, and accompanied him many months, and will learn to be just such another as himself; and if God pleases, and he live and I live, he will not want governments to give, nor I islands to govern.’—‘No, surely, friend Sancho,’ said the duke, ‘for I myself, in the name of Signior Don Quixote, will confer upon you the government of an odd island, and that not inconsiderable, which is in my possession.’—‘Fall upon your knees, Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ’and kiss his excellency’s feet, for the honour he has done you.’ Sancho did as he was desired: and the ecclesiastick no sooner saw the ceremony performed, than he rose from table in a violent passion, saying, ‘By the habit which I wear, I affirm, that your excellency is as mad as these poor sinners: what wonder that they should be frantick, when people who are in their senses canonize their phrenzy! Your excellency may enjoy their company by yourself; for while they remain in this house, I shall stay in my own, and excuse myself from reproving what I cannot remedy.’ Without farther speech, or eating another mouthful, he went away abruptly, in spite of all their graces could say to detain him. Indeed the duke said not much; for he was hindered by the laughter which the priest’s impertinent indignation had produced; however, as soon as he could resume his gravity, he addressed himself to Don Quixote in these words.
‘Sir Knight of the Lions, your worship has made such an ample reply, that nothing farther remains to be done, by way of satisfaction for that, which though it may seem an affront, falls by no means under that denomination; for neither the female sex nor the clergy, can give affronts, as your worship so very well knows.’—‘Undoubtedly,’ answered the knight; ’and the reason is, because those persons who cannot receive, are not capable of giving an affront. Women, children, and ecclesiasticks, as they cannot defend themselves when attacked, so neither can they be affronted: for there is this difference between an injury and affront, as your excellency well knows; an affront comes from a person who is capable of giving an affront, and when it is given, maintains it; whereas, an injury may come from any quarter, unattended by an affront. For example, a man walking carelessly in the street, is assaulted and cudgelled by ten armed persons, against whom he draws his sword, and behaves like a man of honour; but he is overpowered by the number of his antagonists, and prevented from executing his intention, which is to revenge the wrong; this man is injured, not affronted. A truth which we will confirm by another example: A man comes and strikes another, whose back is turned, and then betakes himself to his heels; and the other pursues, though he cannot overtake the fugitive. The man so struck received an injury, but no affront, because an affront ought to be maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done by stealth, in a cowardly manner, had drawn his sword, and stood facing the enemy, he who received the blow would have been both injured and affronted: injured, because he was surprized; and affronted, because he who gave the blow maintained it by keeping his ground. And therefore, according to the punctilios of honour, I may be injured but not affronted; for women and children do not feel those things; they can neither fly nor stand their ground: and the same rule holds good with those who are consecrated to the service of religion. Now these three classes of mankind are destitute of offensive and defensive weapons; and though nature obliges them to stand in their own defence, yet they can offend nobody: and albeit I just now said I might be injured, I now affirm it cannot be in any shape; for he who cannot receive, much less can he give an affront. For which reasons I ought not to resent, nor do I resent, the reproaches of that honest man; I only wish he had staid a little, until I should have convinced him of his error, in thinking and saying, there never were, nor are, knights-errant upon the face of the earth; an asseveration which might have turned to his prejudice, had it been overheard by Amadis, or any one of his infinite progeny.’—‘I’ll take my corporal oath,’ cried Sancho, ‘that they would have given a back-stroke that would have laid him open from top to toe, like a pomegranate or ripe melon: they were a rare set to endure such tickling. By my holy-dame! I am well assured, that if Reynaldos of Montalvan had heard this manikin’s discourse, he would have given him such a slap in the mouth, that he should not have spoke another word in three long years. No, no! let him meddle with them, and he’ll see how well he’ll escape out of their clutches.’ The duchess had well-nigh died with laughing at this speech of Sancho; who, in her sentiment, was a more diverting madman than his master, and a great many people at that time were of the same way of thinking.
Finally, Don Quixote was appeased, dinner ended, and the cloth being taken away, in came four damsels, one of them with a silver ewer, another with a flask of the same metal, a third with a couple of very fine white towels over her arm, and a fourth with her arms bare up to the elbow, and in her white hands, for doubtless they were white, a wash ball of Neapolitan soap. She who carried the ewer, approaching with a genteel carriage, and modest assurance, thrust it under the beard of Don Quixote, who, without speaking one word, wondered at this ceremony; from which he concluded, that it was the custom of the country to wash beards, instead of hands: he therefore stretched out his chin as far as he could, and immediately the flask began to rain; the damsel with the soap-ball lathered him with great expedition, raising flakes of snow, (for the suds were as white) not only upon the beard, but also over the whole face of the obedient knight, insomuch that he was obliged to shut his eyes in their defence; while the duke and duchess, who were not in the secret, sat impatiently waiting to see the issue of this ablution. The young she-barber having raised the lather as high as her hand, pretended the water was spent, and bade the damsel of the flask go for a fresh supply, and Signior Don Quixote would have patience till her return. He accordingly waited with patience, exhibiting the strangest and most ludicrous figure that ever was conceived, to the view of numerous spectators, who seeing half a yard of neck more than moderately brown, two eyes shut, and his beard covered with lather, had need of great discretion to restrain their laughter, and it was a wonder they could smother it at any rate. As for the damsels concerned in the joke, they kept their eyes fixed on the ground, without daring to look at the duke and duchess, who were at once agitated by mirth and indignation; and did not know, whether they should resolve upon chastising their presumption, or rewarding them for the pleasure they received in seeing the knight in such an attitude. At length the damsel returning with more water, they finished the ablution of Don Quixote; then she who carried the towels having wiped and dried him with great composure, all four at once made a most profound curtsey, and were going away. But the duke, fearing the knight would smell the joke, called to the damsel of the ewer, saying—‘Come hither, and wash me too, and be sure you have water enough.’ The girl being very handy and acute, obeyed without hesitation, placed the ewer under his grace’s chin, and when he was well washed, lathered, wiped, and dried, they dropped their curtsies and retired. It was afterwards known, the duke had sworn within himself, that if they should have refused to serve him in that manner, he would have chastised them for their assurance; but they prudently escaped a scouring, by scouring his grace.
Sancho having attentively considered this ceremony of cleansing—‘God’s mercy!’ said he within himself, ‘is it the custom in this country to wash the squire’s beard as well as the knight’s? For God and my own conscience knows, I have need of such purification; and if they would give me the touch of a razor, the benefit would still be the greater.’—‘What is that you mutter, Sancho?’ said the duchess. ‘I say, my lady,’ answered the squire, ‘I have always heard it said, that in the courts of other princes, when the cloth is taken away, water for the hands is brought in, but not suds for the beard; so that the longer we live, the more we learn: yet it is also observed, that he who lives much time will bear much misfortune; though to undergo such a purification as this may pass for a pleasure rather than a toil.’—‘Give yourself no concern, friend Sancho,’ said the duchess, ‘for I will order my maids not only to wash, but also to lay you a-bucking, should it be necessary.’—‘I shall be satisfied with the lathering of my beard,’ replied the squire; ‘at least for the present, and God will ordain what is to happen in the sequel.’ The duchess turning to the major-domo—‘Remember,’ said she, ‘what honest Sancho desires, and gratify his inclination with the utmost punctuality.’ This domestick promised that Signior Sancho should be obeyed in all things; and returning to dinner with the squire, left their graces and Don Quixote sitting at the table, discoursing on many and various subjects, though all of them related to chivalry and the exercise of arms.
The duchess entreated the knight, who seemed to possess such a tenacious memory, to delineate and describe the beauty and deportment of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, she concluded, from what fame had proclaimed of her charms, must be the fairest creature, not only in the whole world, but even in La Mancha. Don Quixote sighing, at her grace’s request—‘If,’ said he, ‘I could take out my heart, and lay it before your highness in a plate, upon this table, I should save my tongue the trouble of saying what is almost inconceivable, for in it your excellency would see her picture at full length: but why should I now attempt to delineate and describe circumstantially the particular charms of the peerless Dulcinea? A burden worthy of other shoulders than mine, and a task which ought to employ the pencils of Parrhasius, Timanthes, and Apelles, together with the chissel of Lysippus, to exhibit her image on canvas, brass, and marble, as well as the Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence to sound her praise.’—‘What does Signior Don Quixote mean by Demosthenian,’ said the duchess, ‘which is a word I never heard before in the whole course of my life.’—‘Demosthenian eloquence,’ answered the knight, ‘has the same signification as the eloquence of Demosthenes, and Ciceronian means that of Cicero; for these two were the greatest orators in the whole world.’—‘Certainly,’ said the duke, ’and you exposed yourself by such an interrogation: nevertheless, Signior Don Quixote would give us infinite pleasure, could he be prevailed upon to describe that beauty which, even in a sketch or rough draught, would certainly appear such as might excite envy in the most beautiful women of the creation.’—‘I would assuredly comply with your grace’s desire,’ replied the knight, ‘were not her idea blotted from my remembrance, by the misfortune which hath lately befallen her; a misfortune which induces me to bewail rather than describe her; for your highness must observe, that when I went some time ago to kiss her hands and receive her benediction, consent, and licence, for this my third sally, I found her quite otherwise than I expected; I found her enchanted and transformed from a princess into a country wench, from beauty into deformity, from an angel into a dæmon, from a delicious perfume into a pestilential vapour, from the pink of compliment into the most clownish dialect, from light into darkness, from a sedate young lady into a rustick romp, and finally, from Dulcinea del Toboso into a Sayago166 drab.’—‘God protect us!’ cried the duke with a loud voice, ‘who can have done such mischief to the world, in robbing it of that beauty by which it was delighted, that good humour by which it was entertained, and that modesty which did it honour?’—‘Who?’ answered the knight; ‘who could it be, but one of the malignant and envious tribe of enchanters, by whom I am persecuted? That accursed race, brought into the world on purpose to obscure and annihilate the exploits of the good, and to illustrate and extol the deeds of the wicked. Persecuted I have been by enchanters, persecuted I am by enchanters, and enchanters will persecute me, until I and all my lofty feats of chivalry are plunged into the abyss of oblivion: nay, they injure and wound me in that part where they know my feeling is most acute; for to deprive a knight-errant of his mistress, is to rob him of the eyes with which he sees, the sun by which he is enlightened, and the support by which he is maintained. I have many times said, and now I repeat the observation, that a knight-errant without a mistress, is like a tree without leaves, a building without cement, and a shadow without the substance by which it is produced.’
‘There is no more to be said,’ replied the duchess; ‘nevertheless, if we are to believe the history of Signior Don Quixote, which has lately been ushered into the world, with the general applause of the different nations that compose it, we must conclude (if I right remember) that your worship never saw the Lady Dulcinea, and that there is no such person in being; but that it is only a fantastical mistress, begot and born in your imagination, which hath decked her with all the graces and perfection that fancy could conceive.’—‘Much may be said on that subject,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘God knows whether or not there is such a person as Dulcinea in the world, whether she is fantastical or not fantastical; for these things are not to be too nicely investigated: for my own part, I neither begat nor bore my mistress, although I contemplate her with that admiration which is due to a lady, in whom are concentered those qualities that ought to render her renowned throughout the whole world, such as beauty without blemish, gravity without pride, tenderness with chastity, affability from courtesy, courtesy from good-breeding; and, finally, dignity from birth, because nobleness of blood reflects an additional splendor upon beauty, and shews it to greater perfection than that which we find, among the fairest of those who are meanly born.’—‘Your observation is extremely just,’ said the duke: ‘but Signior Don Quixote must give me leave to mention what the history of his adventures, which I have read, obliges me to declare; namely, that though we grant there may be a Dulcinea, either in or out of Toboso, and that she may be beautiful to excess, as your worship has described her, yet, in respect to pedigree, she is by no means on a footing with the Orianas, the Alastrajareas, Madasimas, together with the rest of that class, which occurs so often in those histories that are so familiar to your worship.’
‘To that observation I can answer,’ said the knight, ‘that Dulcinea is the daughter of her own works; that good qualities ennoble the blood, and that a virtuous person of low descent ought to be more esteemed than a vicious man of high degree; especially as Dulcinea possesses qualifications which may raise her to the throne of a crowned and sceptered queen; for the merit of a virtuous and beautiful woman is sufficient to work still greater miracles, and virtually, though not formally, contains within itself still greater advantages.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said the duchess, ‘every thing you say is spoken with deliberation, and, according to the proverb, you proceed with the plummet in your hand: henceforth I shall firmly believe, and make my whole family, even the duke himself, should there be occasion, believe, that Dulcinea is living at this day in Toboso; that she is beautiful, high born, and in all respects worthy to be served and admired by such a knight as Signior Don Quixote; and that is the highest compliment that can be bestowed. But I cannot help forming a scruple, and entertaining a kind of grudge against Sancho Panza: the scruple arises from a particular of the history, importing, that the said Sancho found the Lady Dulcinea winnowing a sack of wheat, when he carried a letter to her from your worship, by the same token it is said to have been red wheat; a circumstance that makes me doubt the nobleness of her pedigree.’
To this remark Don Quixote replied—‘Madam, your highness must know that all or the greatest part of the incidents that happen to me, deviate from the ordinary limits of those adventures which occur to other knights-errant, either conduced by the inscrutable will of destiny, or effected by the malice of some envious enchanter; and it is a circumstance well known of all or the greatest part of renowned knights-errant, that one possessed the virtue of being proof against enchantment, another of being invulnerable, which was the case of the famous Orlando, one of the Twelve Peers of France, who, as it is recorded, could not be wounded in any other place but the sole of his left foot, and even there, with no other weapon than the point of a large pin; so that Bernardo del Carpio, who slew him at the battle of Roncesvalles, perceiving that he could make no impression upon him with steel, lifted him off the ground, and strangled him between his arms, in imitation of the manner in which Hercules destroyed Anteus, that ferocious giant said to be the son of Earth. What I would infer from what I have said, is, that I too may have some of these virtues centered in my person, though not that of being invulnerable, for I have been frequently convinced by experience, that my flesh is very tender, and by no means impenetrable; nor that of being proof against enchantment, for I once found myself cooped up in a cage, in which the whole world would not have had strength enough to inclose me, without the additional power of enchantment; but since I freed myself from that confinement, I am apt to believe that no other will ever interrupt the course of my adventures; and, therefore, those enchanters, seeing that their wicked arts will not take effect upon my own person, revenge themselves on those things to which my affection is chiefly attached, and endeavour to deprive me of life, by persecuting that of Dulcinea, for whom alone I live. I therefore am persuaded, that when my squire delivered my message, they had converted her into a coarse country wench, employed in such a mean exercise as that of winnowing wheat: but I have already said, that it could not be red wheat, nor indeed any sort of wheat, but oriental pearls; and as a proof of this asseveration, I must tell your highnesses, that when I lately went to Toboso, I could by no means find Dulcinea’s palace; and the day following, while my squire Sancho beheld her in her own figure, which is the fairest in the whole world, to me she seemed a rustick and homely country wench, without any thing sensible in her conversation; whereas she is in fact the very pink of discretion and good sense. Now, since I myself neither am, nor, in all probability, can be enchanted, she is the person enchanted, offended, changed, perverted, and transformed, and in her my enemies have taken vengeance upon me; so that, for her, I shall live in perpetual affliction, until I see her restored to her former state; all this I have observed, that nobody may scruple about what Sancho said of her sifting and winnowing; for, since they have transformed her in my view, no wonder they should change her form in his. Dulcinea is a person of birth and fashion, one of the genteel families of Toboso, which are very numerous, ancient and noble; and certainly no small part of these qualifications falls to the share of the peerless Dulcinea, on whose account the place of her nativity will become famous and renowned in future ages, as Troy is become famous by Helen, and Spain by Cava, though with a better title and nobler fame. On the other hand, I must inform your graces, that Sancho Panza is one of the most pleasant squires that ever served a knight-errant: sometimes his simplicity is so arch, that to consider whether he is more fool or wag, yields abundance of pleasure; he hath roguery enough to pass for a knave, and absurdities sufficient to confirm him a fool; he doubts every thing, and believes every thing; and often, when I think, he is going to discharge nonsense, he will utter apophthegms that will raise him to the skies; in a word, I would not exchange him for any other squire, even with a city to boot; and therefore I am in doubt whether or not it will be expedient to send him to that government which your grace has been so good as to bestow upon him; although I can perceive in him a certain aptitude for such an office; so that, when his understanding is a very little polished, he will agree with any government, like the king with his customs; for we know by repeated experience, that great talents and learning are not necessary in a governor, as there are a hundred at least, who govern like jerfaulcons, though they can hardly read their mother tongue; provided their intention is righteous, and their desire to do justice, they will never want counsellors to direct them in every transaction, like your military governors, who being illiterate themselves, never decide without the advice of an assessor. I shall advise him corruption to eschew, but never quit his due: and inculcate some other small matters that are in my head, which, in process of time, may redound to his own interest, as well as to the advantage of the island under his command.’
Thus far the conversation had proceeded between their graces and Don Quixote, when they heard a number of people talking, and a great noise in the palace, and presently Sancho entered the hall in a fright, tucked with a dish-clout by way of bib, and followed by several boys, or rather scullions and other small gentry, one of whom brought a tray full of water, which, by its colour and filth, appeared to be dish-washings, pursuing and persecuting the poor squire, and struggling to thrust it under his chin; while another, with the same earnestness, endeavoured to lather his beard. ‘What is the matter, fellows?’ cried the duchess, ‘what is the matter? What designs have you upon that worthy gentleman? Hah! don’t you consider he is governor elect?’ To this apostrophe, the barber scullion replied—‘The gentleman won’t suffer himself to be washed according to the custom and manner practised upon my Lord Duke and his own master.’—‘Yes, I will,’ cried Sancho in a violent passion, ‘but it must be with whiter towels, clearer suds, and cleaner hands; for surely there is not such a difference between me and my master, as that he should be washed with angel water, and I drenched with devil’s lye. The customs of different countries, and the fashions of princely courts, are no farther good than as they are agreeable; but this here custom of lathering is worse than the exercise of disciplinants167. My beard is clean enough, and needs no such scrubbing; and if any man pretends to lather me, or touch a hair of my head, (my beard I mean) saving this honourable presence, I’ll drive my fist in his scull; for these ceremonies of soap scouring look rather like making game than making welcome.’ The duchess was ready to burst with laughing at the rage and remonstrance of Sancho: but Don Quixote was not extremely well pleased, to see his squire tucked up with such a dirty cloth, and surrounded with so many sons of the kitchen; he therefore, making a low bow to the duke and duchess, by way of asking their permission to speak, thus addressed himself to the scullions, in a solemn tone—‘So ho, you gentlemen cavaliers! I desire your worships will let the young man alone, and return to the place from whence you came, or go whithersoever you please; my squire is as cleanly as another, and those trays are as unfit for him as a narrow-necked bottle: take my advice, therefore, and let him alone; for neither he nor I understand such impertinent jokes.’ Here Sancho, taking the word out of his master’s mouth, proceeded, saying—‘No, no, let them perform their clumsy joke, which I shall bear as sure as it is now night! let them fetch a comb, or what they will, to curry this beard, and if they catch any thing that should give offence to cleanliness, they shall shear me against the hair.’
At this period, the duchess still laughing—‘Sancho Panza,’ said she, ‘is certainly in the right in all that he has said, and will be in the right in all that he shall say; he is already clean enough, and as he observes, has no occasion to be washed; and if he does not like the custom of the place, he shall follow his own inclination168; besides, you ministers of cleanliness have been extremely remiss and negligent, not to say presumptuous, in bringing to such a personage and such a beard, trays, wooden troughs, and dishclouts, instead of ewers and golden basons, and towels of the finest holland: but the case is, you are base-born miscreants, and like caitiffs as you are, cannot forbear shewing the grudge you bear to the squires of knights errant.’ The whole scullion ministry, as well as the major-domo, who came in with them, believed her grace was actually in earnest, and sneaked away in great shame and confusion, after having untied the dishclout from the neck of Sancho, who seeing himself delivered from that imminent danger, went and fell upon his knees before the duchess, saying—‘From great ladies great benefits are expected; and this that I have now received from your grace, I can in no other shape repay, than in wishing I were dubbed a knight-errant, that I might spend all the days of my life in the service of such a noble and exalted lady; a peasant I am, and Sancho Panza by name, with a wife and family, and serve in quality of a squire; and if in any of these respects I can serve your highness, I shall be more speedy in obeying than your grace in laying your commands.’—‘Sancho,’ replied the duchess, ‘it plainly appears that you have learned politeness in the school of courtesy itself; I say, it plainly appears, that you have been bred up at the feet of Don Quixote, who is the cream of compliment, and flower of ceremony, or, as you term it, Sarah-money: long life and prosperity to such a master and such a pupil; one the north-pole of knight-errantry, and the other the very star of squirish fidelity. Rise, friend Sancho, and I will remunerate your politeness, by prevailing upon my Lord Duke to perform his promise of the government with all possible dispatch.’
Here the conversation being broke off, the knight retired to take his afternoon’s nap169, and the duchess desired Sancho, if he was not very much disposed to sleep, to go and pass the evening with her and her women, in a very cool and pleasant apartment. Sancho told her, that although it was really his custom to sleep for four or five hours every afternoon in the heat of summer, yet, for the satisfaction of her grace’s goodness, he would that day strive, with all his might, to keep himself awake, and obey her commands in all things: he accordingly attended her steps; while the duke gave fresh directions for treating Don Quixote as a real knight-errant, without deviating one tittle from the stile in which the ancient knights are said to have been entertained.
END OF BOOK II. PART II.