Don Quixote

WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS
Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself, as it
seemed, an established favourite with the duchess, for he looked
forward to finding in her castle what he had found in Don Diego’s house
and in Basilio’s; he was always fond of good living, and always seized
by the forelock any opportunity of feasting himself whenever it
presented itself. The history informs us, then, that before they
reached the country house or castle, the duke went on in advance and
instructed all his servants how they were to treat Don Quixote; and so
the instant he came up to the castle gates with the duchess, two
lackeys or equerries, clad in what they call morning gowns of fine
crimson satin reaching to their feet, hastened out, and catching Don
Quixote in their arms before he saw or heard them, said to him, “Your
highness should go and take my lady the duchess off her horse.”
Don Quixote obeyed, and great bandying of compliments followed between
the two over the matter; but in the end the duchess’s determination
carried the day, and she refused to get down or dismount from her
palfrey except in the arms of the duke, saying she did not consider
herself worthy to impose so unnecessary a burden on so great a knight.
At length the duke came out to take her down, and as they entered a
spacious court two fair damsels came forward and threw over Don
Quixote’s shoulders a large mantle of the finest scarlet cloth, and at
the same instant all the galleries of the court were lined with the
men-servants and women-servants of the household, crying, “Welcome,
flower and cream of knight-errantry!” while all or most of them flung
pellets filled with scented water over Don Quixote and the duke and
duchess; at all which Don Quixote was greatly astonished, and this was
the first time that he thoroughly felt and believed himself to be a
knight-errant in reality and not merely in fancy, now that he saw
himself treated in the same way as he had read of such knights being
treated in days of yore.

Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and entered the
castle, but feeling some twinges of conscience at having left the ass
alone, he approached a respectable duenna who had come out with the
rest to receive the duchess, and in a low voice he said to her, “Señora
Gonzalez, or however your grace may be called—”

“I am called Doña Rodriguez de Grijalba,” replied the duenna; “what is
your will, brother?” To which Sancho made answer, “I should be glad if
your worship would do me the favour to go out to the castle gate, where
you will find a grey ass of mine; make them, if you please, put him in
the stable, or put him there yourself, for the poor little beast is
rather easily frightened, and cannot bear being alone at all.”

“If the master is as wise as the man,” said the duenna, “we have got a
fine bargain. Be off with you, brother, and bad luck to you and him who
brought you here; go, look after your ass, for we, the duennas of this
house, are not used to work of that sort.”

“Well then, in troth,” returned Sancho, “I have heard my master, who is
the very treasure-finder of stories, telling the story of Lancelot when
he came from Britain, say that ladies waited upon him and duennas upon
his hack; and, if it comes to my ass, I wouldn’t change him for Señor
Lancelot’s hack.”

“If you are a jester, brother,” said the duenna, “keep your drolleries
for some place where they’ll pass muster and be paid for; for you’ll
get nothing from me but a fig.”

“At any rate, it will be a very ripe one,” said Sancho, “for you won’t
lose the trick in years by a point too little.”

“Son of a bitch,” said the duenna, all aglow with anger, “whether I’m
old or not, it’s with God I have to reckon, not with you, you
garlic-stuffed scoundrel!” and she said it so loud, that the duchess
heard it, and turning round and seeing the duenna in such a state of
excitement, and her eyes flaming so, asked whom she was wrangling with.

“With this good fellow here,” said the duenna, “who has particularly
requested me to go and put an ass of his that is at the castle gate
into the stable, holding it up to me as an example that they did the
same I don’t know where—that some ladies waited on one Lancelot, and
duennas on his hack; and what is more, to wind up with, he called me
old.”

“That,” said the duchess, “I should have considered the greatest
affront that could be offered me;” and addressing Sancho, she said to
him, “You must know, friend Sancho, that Doña Rodriguez is very
youthful, and that she wears that hood more for authority and custom’s
sake than because of her years.”

“May all the rest of mine be unlucky,” said Sancho, “if I meant it that
way; I only spoke because the affection I have for my ass is so great,
and I thought I could not commend him to a more kind-hearted person
than the lady Doña Rodriguez.”

Don Quixote, who was listening, said to him, “Is this proper
conversation for the place, Sancho?”

“Señor,” replied Sancho, “every one must mention what he wants wherever
he may be; I thought of Dapple here, and I spoke of him here; if I had
thought of him in the stable I would have spoken there.”

On which the duke observed, “Sancho is quite right, and there is no
reason at all to find fault with him; Dapple shall be fed to his
heart’s content, and Sancho may rest easy, for he shall be treated like
himself.”

While this conversation, amusing to all except Don Quixote, was
proceeding, they ascended the staircase and ushered Don Quixote into a
chamber hung with rich cloth of gold and brocade; six damsels relieved
him of his armour and waited on him like pages, all of them prepared
and instructed by the duke and duchess as to what they were to do, and
how they were to treat Don Quixote, so that he might see and believe
they were treating him like a knight-errant. When his armour was
removed, there stood Don Quixote in his tight-fitting breeches and
chamois doublet, lean, lanky, and long, with cheeks that seemed to be
kissing each other inside; such a figure, that if the damsels waiting
on him had not taken care to check their merriment (which was one of
the particular directions their master and mistress had given them),
they would have burst with laughter. They asked him to let himself be
stripped that they might put a shirt on him, but he would not on any
account, saying that modesty became knights-errant just as much as
valour. However, he said they might give the shirt to Sancho; and
shutting himself in with him in a room where there was a sumptuous bed,
he undressed and put on the shirt; and then, finding himself alone with
Sancho, he said to him, “Tell me, thou new-fledged buffoon and old
booby, dost thou think it right to offend and insult a duenna so
deserving of reverence and respect as that one just now? Was that a
time to bethink thee of thy Dapple, or are these noble personages
likely to let the beasts fare badly when they treat their owners in
such elegant style? For God’s sake, Sancho, restrain thyself, and don’t
show the thread so as to let them see what a coarse, boorish texture
thou art of. Remember, sinner that thou art, the master is the more
esteemed the more respectable and well-bred his servants are; and that
one of the greatest advantages that princes have over other men is that
they have servants as good as themselves to wait on them. Dost thou not
see—shortsighted being that thou art, and unlucky mortal that I
am!—that if they perceive thee to be a coarse clown or a dull
blockhead, they will suspect me to be some impostor or swindler? Nay,
nay, Sancho friend, keep clear, oh, keep clear of these
stumbling-blocks; for he who falls into the way of being a chatterbox
and droll, drops into a wretched buffoon the first time he trips;
bridle thy tongue, consider and weigh thy words before they escape thy
mouth, and bear in mind we are now in quarters whence, by God’s help,
and the strength of my arm, we shall come forth mightily advanced in
fame and fortune.”

Sancho promised him with much earnestness to keep his mouth shut, and
to bite off his tongue before he uttered a word that was not altogether
to the purpose and well considered, and told him he might make his mind
easy on that point, for it should never be discovered through him what
they were.

Don Quixote dressed himself, put on his baldric with his sword, threw
the scarlet mantle over his shoulders, placed on his head a montera of
green satin that the damsels had given him, and thus arrayed passed out
into the large room, where he found the damsels drawn up in double
file, the same number on each side, all with the appliances for washing
the hands, which they presented to him with profuse obeisances and
ceremonies. Then came twelve pages, together with the seneschal, to
lead him to dinner, as his hosts were already waiting for him. They
placed him in the midst of them, and with much pomp and stateliness
they conducted him into another room, where there was a sumptuous table
laid with but four covers. The duchess and the duke came out to the
door of the room to receive him, and with them a grave ecclesiastic,
one of those who rule noblemen’s houses; one of those who, not being
born magnates themselves, never know how to teach those who are how to
behave as such; one of those who would have the greatness of great folk
measured by their own narrowness of mind; one of those who, when they
try to introduce economy into the household they rule, lead it into
meanness. One of this sort, I say, must have been the grave churchman
who came out with the duke and duchess to receive Don Quixote.

A vast number of polite speeches were exchanged, and at length, taking
Don Quixote between them, they proceeded to sit down to table. The duke
pressed Don Quixote to take the head of the table, and, though he
refused, the entreaties of the duke were so urgent that he had to
accept it.

The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to him, and the duke and
duchess those at the sides. All this time Sancho stood by, gaping with
amazement at the honour he saw shown to his master by these illustrious
persons; and observing all the ceremonious pressing that had passed
between the duke and Don Quixote to induce him to take his seat at the
head of the table, he said, “If your worship will give me leave I will
tell you a story of what happened in my village about this matter of
seats.”

The moment Sancho said this Don Quixote trembled, making sure that he
was about to say something foolish. Sancho glanced at him, and guessing
his thoughts, said, “Don’t be afraid of my going astray, señor, or
saying anything that won’t be pat to the purpose; I haven’t forgotten
the advice your worship gave me just now about talking much or little,
well or ill.”

“I have no recollection of anything, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “say
what thou wilt, only say it quickly.”

“Well then,” said Sancho, “what I am going to say is so true that my
master Don Quixote, who is here present, will keep me from lying.”

“Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“for I am not going to stop thee, but consider what thou art going to
say.”

“I have so considered and reconsidered,” said Sancho, “that the
bell-ringer’s in a safe berth; as will be seen by what follows.”

“It would be well,” said Don Quixote, “if your highnesses would order
them to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap of nonsense.”

“By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away from me for a
moment,” said the duchess; “I am very fond of him, for I know he is
very discreet.”

“Discreet be the days of your holiness,” said Sancho, “for the good
opinion you have of my wit, though there’s none in me; but the story I
want to tell is this. There was an invitation given by a gentleman of
my town, a very rich one, and one of quality, for he was one of the
Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Doña Mencia de Quiñones, the
daughter of Don Alonso de Marañon, Knight of the Order of Santiago,
that was drowned at the Herradura—him there was that quarrel about
years ago in our village, that my master Don Quixote was mixed up in,
to the best of my belief, that Tomasillo the scapegrace, the son of
Balbastro the smith, was wounded in.—Isn’t all this true, master mine?
As you live, say so, that these gentlefolk may not take me for some
lying chatterer.”

“So far,” said the ecclesiastic, “I take you to be more a chatterer
than a liar; but I don’t know what I shall take you for by-and-by.”

“Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho,” said Don Quixote,
“that I have no choice but to say thou must be telling the truth; go
on, and cut the story short, for thou art taking the way not to make an
end for two days to come.”

“He is not to cut it short,” said the duchess; “on the contrary, for my
gratification, he is to tell it as he knows it, though he should not
finish it these six days; and if he took so many they would be to me
the pleasantest I ever spent.”

“Well then, sirs, I say,” continued Sancho, “that this same gentleman,
whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for it’s not a bowshot from
my house to his, invited a poor but respectable labourer—”

“Get on, brother,” said the churchman; “at the rate you are going you
will not stop with your story short of the next world.”

“I’ll stop less than half-way, please God,” said Sancho; “and so I say
this labourer, coming to the house of the gentleman I spoke of that
invited him—rest his soul, he is now dead; and more by token he died
the death of an angel, so they say; for I was not there, for just at
that time I had gone to reap at Tembleque—”

“As you live, my son,” said the churchman, “make haste back from
Tembleque, and finish your story without burying the gentleman, unless
you want to make more funerals.”

“Well then, it so happened,” said Sancho, “that as the pair of them
were going to sit down to table—and I think I can see them now plainer
than ever—”

Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from the
irritation the worthy churchman showed at the long-winded, halting way
Sancho had of telling his story, while Don Quixote was chafing with
rage and vexation.

“So, as I was saying,” continued Sancho, “as the pair of them were
going to sit down to table, as I said, the labourer insisted upon the
gentleman’s taking the head of the table, and the gentleman insisted
upon the labourer’s taking it, as his orders should be obeyed in his
house; but the labourer, who plumed himself on his politeness and good
breeding, would not on any account, until the gentleman, out of
patience, putting his hands on his shoulders, compelled him by force to
sit down, saying, ‘Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever I sit will
be the head to you; and that’s the story, and, troth, I think it hasn’t
been brought in amiss here.”

Don Quixote turned all colours, which, on his sunburnt face, mottled it
till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their
laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don Quixote, for they saw
through Sancho’s impertinence; and to change the conversation, and keep
Sancho from uttering more absurdities, the duchess asked Don Quixote
what news he had of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent her any
presents of giants or miscreants lately, for he could not but have
vanquished a good many.

To which Don Quixote replied, “Señora, my misfortunes, though they had
a beginning, will never have an end. I have vanquished giants and I
have sent her caitiffs and miscreants; but where are they to find her
if she is enchanted and turned into the most ill-favoured peasant wench
that can be imagined?”

“I don’t know,” said Sancho Panza; “to me she seems the fairest
creature in the world; at any rate, in nimbleness and jumping she won’t
give in to a tumbler; by my faith, señora duchess, she leaps from the
ground on to the back of an ass like a cat.”

“Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?” asked the duke.

“What, seen her!” said Sancho; “why, who the devil was it but myself
that first thought of the enchantment business? She is as much
enchanted as my father.”

The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and caitiffs and
enchantments, began to suspect that this must be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, whose story the duke was always reading; and he had himself
often reproved him for it, telling him it was foolish to read such
fooleries; and becoming convinced that his suspicion was correct,
addressing the duke, he said very angrily to him, “Señor, your
excellence will have to give account to God for what this good man
does. This Don Quixote, or Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is,
cannot, I imagine, be such a blockhead as your excellence would have
him, holding out encouragement to him to go on with his vagaries and
follies.” Then turning to address Don Quixote he said, “And you,
num-skull, who put it into your head that you are a knight-errant, and
vanquish giants and capture miscreants? Go your ways in a good hour,
and in a good hour be it said to you. Go home and bring up your
children if you have any, and attend to your business, and give over
going wandering about the world, gaping and making a laughing-stock of
yourself to all who know you and all who don’t. Where, in heaven’s
name, have you discovered that there are or ever were knights-errant?
Where are there giants in Spain or miscreants in La Mancha, or
enchanted Dulcineas, or all the rest of the silly things they tell
about you?”

Don Quixote listened attentively to the reverend gentleman’s words, and
as soon as he perceived he had done speaking, regardless of the
presence of the duke and duchess, he sprang to his feet with angry
looks and an agitated countenance, and said—But the reply deserves a
chapter to itself.

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