CHAPTER XVI.

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA


Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and
self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous
knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late victory. All
the adventures that could befall him from that time forth he regarded as
already done and brought to a happy issue; he made light of enchantments
and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless drubbings that had
been administered to him in the course of his knight-errantry, nor of the
volley of stones that had levelled half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude
of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and the
shower of stakes that fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that
could he discover any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady
Dulcinea, he would not envy the highest fortune that the most fortunate
knight-errant of yore ever reached or could reach.

He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said
to him, "Isn't it odd, senor, that I have still before my eyes that
monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?"

"And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the
Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire Tom
Cecial thy gossip?"

"I don't know what to say to that," replied Sancho; "all I know is that
the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife and children, nobody else
but himself could have given me; and the face, once the nose was off, was
the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it many a time in my town and
next door to my own house; and the sound of the voice was just the same."

"Let us reason the matter, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come now, by what
process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor Samson Carrasco
would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to fight
with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy? Have I ever given him
any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival, or does he profess arms,
that he should envy the fame I have acquired in them?"

"Well, but what are we to say, senor," returned Sancho, "about that
knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and his
squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be enchantment, as your
worship says, was there no other pair in the world for them to take the
likeness of?"

"It is all," said Don Quixote, "a scheme and plot of the malignant
magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be victorious
in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should display the
countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the friendship I
bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword and might of my
arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who sought to take
my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own. And to prove it, thou
knowest already, Sancho, by experience which cannot lie or deceive, how
easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance into another, turning
fair into foul, and foul into fair; for it is not two days since thou
sawest with thine own eyes the beauty and elegance of the peerless
Dulcinea in all its perfection and natural harmony, while I saw her in
the repulsive and mean form of a coarse country wench, with cataracts in
her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; and when the perverse enchanter
ventured to effect so wicked a transformation, it is no wonder if he
effected that of Samson Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the
glory of victory out of my grasp. For all that, however, I console
myself, because, after all, in whatever shape he may have been, I have
victorious over my enemy."

"God knows what's the truth of it all," said Sancho; and knowing as he
did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and imposition
of his own, his master's illusions were not satisfactory to him; but he
did not like to reply lest he should say something that might disclose
his trickery.

As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man
who was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome
flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny
velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The trappings of the
mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of mulberry colour and
green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad green and gold
baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the baldric; the spurs were
not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly polished that, matching as
they did the rest of his apparel, they looked better than if they had
been of pure gold.

When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously, and
spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote
called out to him, "Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our road,
and has no occasion for speed, it would be a pleasure to me if we were to
join company."

"In truth," replied he on the mare, "I would not pass you so hastily but
for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare."

"You may safely hold in your mare, senor," said Sancho in reply to this,
"for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in the world;
he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the only time he
misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold; I say again your
worship may pull up if you like; for if she was offered to him between
two plates the horse would not hanker after her."

The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote,
who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front
of Dapple's pack-saddle; and if the man in green examined Don Quixote
closely, still more closely did Don Quixote examine the man in green, who
struck him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he was about
fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of
features, and an expression between grave and gay; and his dress and
accoutrements showed him to be a man of good condition. What he in green
thought of Don Quixote of La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape
he had never yet seen; he marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty
stature, the lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his
bearing and his gravity--a figure and picture such as had not been seen
in those regions for many a long day.

Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveller was
regarding him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and courteous
as he was and ready to please everybody, before the other could ask him
any question he anticipated him by saying, "The appearance I present to
your worship being so strange and so out of the common, I should not be
surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when
I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights who, as people say,
go seeking adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I
have given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune,
to bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to life
again knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past, stumbling here,
falling there, now coming down headlong, now raising myself up again, I
have carried out a great portion of my design, succouring widows,
protecting maidens, and giving aid to wives, orphans, and minors, the
proper and natural duty of knights-errant; and, therefore, because of my
many valiant and Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy
to make my way in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the
earth. Thirty thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and it is
on the high-road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if
heaven does not put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words,
or in a single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha,
otherwise called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;' for though
self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that is
to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that, gentle
sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor this
squire, nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my
countenance, nor my gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now
that you know who I am and what profession I follow."

With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took
to answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a
long pause, however, he said to him, "You were right when you saw
curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not succeeded in
removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for although you say,
senor, that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done so;
on the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished
than before. What! is it possible that there are knights-errant in the
world in these days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot
realise the fact that there can be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids
widows, or protects maidens, or defends wives, or succours orphans; nor
should I believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes.
Blessed be heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and genuine
chivalrous deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless stories
of fictitious knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to
the injury of morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories,
will have been driven into oblivion."

"There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote, "as to
whether the histories of the knights-errant are fiction or not."

"Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?" said
the man in green.

"I doubt it," said Don Quixote, "but never mind that just now; if our
journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show your worship that
you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard it as a matter
of certainty that they are not true."

From this last observation of Don Quixote's, the traveller began to have
a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting him to confirm
it by something further; but before they could turn to any new subject
Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was, since he himself had
rendered account of his station and life. To this, he in the green gaban
replied "I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a gentleman by
birth, native of the village where, please God, we are going to dine
today; I am more than fairly well off, and my name is Don Diego de
Miranda. I pass my life with my wife, children, and friends; my pursuits
are hunting and fishing, but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing
but a tame partridge or a bold ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of
books, some in our mother tongue, some Latin, some of them history,
others devotional; those of chivalry have not as yet crossed the
threshold of my door; I am more given to turning over the profane than
the devotional, so long as they are books of honest entertainment that
charm by their style and attract and interest by the invention they
display, though of these there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine
with my neighbours and friends, and often invite them; my entertainments
are neat and well served without stint of anything. I have no taste for
tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my presence; I pry not into my
neighbours' lives, nor have I lynx-eyes for what others do. I hear mass
every day; I share my substance with the poor, making no display of good
works, lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that subtly take
possession of the most watchful heart, find an entrance into mine. I
strive to make peace between those whom I know to be at variance; I am
the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust is ever in the infinite
mercy of God our Lord."

Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the
gentleman's life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy life,
and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw himself off
Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup and kissed his foot
again and again with a devout heart and almost with tears.

Seeing this the gentleman asked him, "What are you about, brother? What
are these kisses for?"

"Let me kiss," said Sancho, "for I think your worship is the first saint
in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life."

"I am no saint," replied the gentleman, "but a great sinner; but you are,
brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity shows."

Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a laugh
from his master's profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement in Don
Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and observed
that one of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were without
the true knowledge of God, placed the summum bonum was in the gifts of
nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, and many and good
children.

"I, Senor Don Quixote," answered the gentleman, "have one son, without
whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not because he is
a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could wish. He is eighteen
years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca studying Latin and Greek,
and when I wished him to turn to the study of other sciences I found him
so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be called a science) that
there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which I wished him to
study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I would like him to be an
honour to his family, as we live in days when our kings liberally reward
learning that is virtuous and worthy; for learning without virtue is a
pearl on a dunghill. He spends the whole day in settling whether Homer
expressed himself correctly or not in such and such a line of the Iliad,
whether Martial was indecent or not in such and such an epigram, whether
such and such lines of Virgil are to be understood in this way or in
that; in short, all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of
Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own
language he makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference
to Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss
on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which I suspect are
for some poetical tournament."

To all this Don Quixote said in reply, "Children, senor, are portions of
their parents' bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad, are to be
loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for the parents to
guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue, propriety, and worthy
Christian conduct, so that when grown up they may be the staff of their
parents' old age, and the glory of their posterity; and to force them to
study this or that science I do not think wise, though it may be no harm
to persuade them; and when there is no need to study for the sake of pane
lucrando, and it is the student's good fortune that heaven has given him
parents who provide him with it, it would be my advice to them to let him
pursue whatever science they may see him most inclined to; and though
that of poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those
that bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I
take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array, bedeck,
and adorn whom is the task of several other maidens, who are all the rest
of the sciences; and she must avail herself of the help of all, and all
derive their lustre from her. But this maiden will not bear to be
handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed either at the
corners of the market-places, or in the closets of palaces. She is the
product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who is able to practise it,
will turn her into pure gold of inestimable worth. He that possesses her
must keep her within bounds, not permitting her to break out in ribald
satires or soulless sonnets. She must on no account be offered for sale,
unless, indeed, it be in heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and
ingenious comedies. She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the
ignorant vulgar, incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden
treasures. And do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term vulgar here
merely to plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant,
be he lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He,
then, who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have
named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the
civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say, senor,
of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am inclined to
think that he is not quite right there, and for this reason: the great
poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek, nor did Virgil
write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in short, all the ancient poets
wrote in the language they imbibed with their mother's milk, and never
went in quest of foreign ones to express their sublime conceptions; and
that being so, the usage should in justice extend to all nations, and the
German poet should not be undervalued because he writes in his own
language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his.
But your son, senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry,
but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any
knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and
vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be
wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to
say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother's womb; and
following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the aid of
study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke who said,
'Est Deus in nobis,' etc. At the same time, I say that the poet by nature
who calls in art to his aid will be a far better poet, and will surpass
him who tries to be one relying upon his knowledge of art alone. The
reason is, that art does not surpass nature, but only brings it to
perfection; and thus, nature combined with art, and art with nature, will
produce a perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I would say
then, gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for being so
studious as he seems to be, and having already successfully surmounted
the first step of the sciences, which is that of the languages, with
their help he will by his own exertions reach the summit of polite
literature, which so well becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns,
honours, and distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or
the gown the learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on
the honour of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he
compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of
Horace, and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for
a poet to write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the
other vices too, provided he does not single out individuals; there are,
however, poets who, for the sake of saying something spiteful, would run
the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in
his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the tongue of
the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things that
it writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvellous
science of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they
honour, value, exalt them, and even crown them with the leaves of that
tree which the thunderbolt strikes not, as if to show that they whose
brows are honoured and adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed
by anyone."

He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's
argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up
about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being not
very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to beg a
little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by; and
just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the
conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered
with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and
persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho
to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted
the shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to
whom there fell a terrific and desperate adventure.