Gavilan College celebrates 400 years of Don Quijote

The History of Don Quixote - The Second Part

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The History of the
Valorous & Witty Knight-Errant Don Quixote of the Mancha

By Miguel de Cervantes, Translated by Thomas Shelton

The Second Part

CHAPTER LIX: Of an Extraordinary Accident that befel Don Quixote, which may be held for an Adventure


THE dust and weariness that Don Quixote and Sancho received from the unmannerly bulls was recompensed with a clear and running fountain, which they found in a cool grove, on whose margin, leaving Rozinante and Dapple loose without a bridle or halter, the two way-beaten, master and man, sat down. Sancho repaired to the cupboard of his wallets, and took out of them that which he called his sauce, and rinsed his mouth: Don Quixote washed his face, with which refreshing his faint spirits recovered breath.

Don Quixote eat nothing for pure grief, neither durst Sancho touch any meat before him for pure mannerliness, and expected his master should first be his taster; but, seeing him carried on with his imaginations, not remembering to put a bit in his mouth, he never asked him; and, over-running all kind of manners, he began to barrel up all the bread and cheese that was before him in his stomach.

‘Eat, friend Sancho,’ quoth Don Quixote; ‘hold life together, for thou hast more need than I, and leave me to die by the hands of my sorrows and the force of my misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to live dying, and thou to die eating; and that thou mayst see I tell thee true, consider me printed in histories, famous in arms, well-nurtured in my actions, respected by princes, courted by damosels; now at the end of all, when I hoped for bays, triumphs, and crowns laid up and merited by my famous exploits, this morning I have seen myself trampled on and kicked and bruised with the feet of base unclean beasts; the consideration of this dulls my teeth, makes slow my grinders, and benumbs my hands, and altogether bereaves me of my appetite; so that I think I shall die with hunger, the cruellest of all deaths.’

‘So that,’ quoth Sancho (not leaving his fast chewing), ‘you will not allow of that proverb that says, “Let Martha die, so she die not empty.” At least, I will not be the cause of my death. I mean rather to do as the shoemaker doth, that stretcheth the leather with his teeth, till he makes it reach as he list; I’ll draw out my life by eating, till it come to the end that Heaven hath allotted it. And know, sir, there is no greater madness in the world than to despair as you do; and believe me, and after you have eaten, rest yourself a little upon the down-beds of this green grass, and you shall see that, when you wake, you shall find yourself somewhat lightened.’

Don Quixote took his counsel, taking his reasons to be rather philosophical than senseless, and said, ‘If thou, O Sancho, wouldst do what shall I now tell thee for me, my lightsomeness would be certain, and my sorrows not so great; which is, that whilst I, obeying thy counsel, sleep, thou go out of the way a little, and with Rozinante’s reins, turning thy flesh to the air, give thyself three or four hundred lashes upon account of the three thousand and so many that thou art to give for the disenchanting Dulcinea, which is no small pity, that that poor lady should be enchanted by thy carelessness and negligence.’

‘There is much to be said in this business,’ quoth Sancho; ‘let’s both sleep now, and God will provide afterward. Know, sir, that this whipping in cold blood is a cruel thing, especially if it light upon a weak body and worse-fed; let my Lady Dulcinea have patience, for, when she least thinks of it, she shall see me a very sieve with lashes; and till death all is life — I mean, I live with a desire to fulfil my promise.

Don Quixote, giving him thanks, eat something, and Sancho a great deal, leaving the two continual friends and companions, Rozinante and Dapple, to their liberum arbitrium, disorderly feeding upon the pasture that was plentiful in that meadow.

They awaked somewhat late, and up they got again, and went on their way, making haste to come to an inn, which seemed to be about a league off: I say an inn, for Don Quixote called it so, contrary to his ordinary custom of calling all inns castles. Well, to it they come, they asked mine host if there were any lodging. He answered, Yes, with all the commodiousness and provision that they might have in the town of Saragosa.

They alighted, and Sancho retired with his sumptry into a chamber of which the host gave him the key; the beasts he carried to the stable, and gave them their stint, and so went to see what Don Quixote, who sat by upon a bench, would command him, giving God particular thanks that that inn had not appeared to him a castle.

Supper-time came on, so to their resting-place they got.

Sancho asked mine host what he had for supper. To which quoth he, ‘Your mouth shall have measure, ask what you will; for, from the birds of the air to the poultry of the earth, and the fishes of the sea, that inn was provided.’1

‘Not so much,’ quoth Sancho; ‘for so we may have a couple of roasted chickens, ‘twill be enough; for my master is weak-stomached, and eats little, and I am no very greedy-gut.’

Mine host answered him he had no chickens, for the kites had devoured them. ‘Why, then, let’s have a tender pullet roasted,’ quoth he. ‘A pullet? My father as soon? trust me, trust me, I sent above fifty yesterday to the city to sell. Saving pullets, ask what you will.’

‘Why, then,’ quoth Sancho, ‘you want no veal or kid?’ ‘We have none in the house now,’ said my host, ‘for it is all spent; but by next week we shall have to spare.’

‘The matter’ is mended,’ quoth Sancho. ‘I hold a wager all these wants are supplied with eggs and bacon.’

‘Assuredly,’ quoth mine host, ‘here’s fine doings with my guests; I have told him we have neither pullet nor hens, and yet he would have eggs. Run, if you will, to other dainties, and leave these gluttonies.’

‘Resolve us, body of me,’ quoth Sancho, ‘and tell me what we shall have, and leave you your running, mine host.’

The host said,’ The very truth is, I have two neats’ feet like calves’ feet, or two calves’ feet like neats’ feet; they are sod with their pease, bacon, and onions; and just at this instant cry, Come eat me, come eat me.’

‘For mine I mark them henceforward,’ quoth Sancho, ‘and let no man touch them, for I’ll pay more for them than anybody else, and there could have been no better meat for me in the world.’

‘No man shall touch them,’ said mine host; ‘for other guests I have, out of pure gentility, bring their cook, cater, and butler with them.’

‘If it go by gentle,’ quoth Sancho, ‘none more gentle than my master; but his calling permits no larders or butteries; we clap us down in the midst of a field, and fill ourselves with acorns and medlars.

This discourse passed between Sancho and the host, without Sancho’s answering him, who asked what calling his master was of. Supper was ready; Don Quixote went to his chamber — mine host brought the pot of meat just as it was — and sat him fair and well down to supper. It seemed that in another chamber next Don Quixote’s, divided only by a thin lath-wall, he might hear one say, ‘By your life, Signior Don Jeronimo, whilst supper is to come in, let us read another chapter in the Second Part of Don Quixote.’

Don Quixote scarce heard himself named, when up he stood, and watchfully gave ear to their discourse concerning him, and he heard that the aforesaid Don Jeronimo answered, ‘Signior Don John, why should we read these fopperies? He that hath read the First Part of Don Quixote, it is impossible he should take any pleasure in reading the second.’

‘For all that,’ quoth Don John, “twere good reading it; for there is no book so ill that hath not some good thing in it. That which most displeaseth me in this is that he makes Don Quixote disenamoured of Dulcinea del Toboso.’

Which when Don Quixote heard, full of wrath and despite, he lifted up his voice, saying, ‘Whosoever saith Don Quixote de la Mancha hath forgotten, or can forget, Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make him know with equal arms that he is far from the truth; for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be forgotten, neither can forgetfulness be contained in Don Quixote; his escutcheon is loyalty, his profession sweetly to keep it, without doing it any violence.’

‘Who is that answers us?’ said they in the next room. ‘Who should it be,’ quoth Sancho, ‘but Don Quixote himself, that will make good all he hath said, or as much as he shall say? for a good paymaster cares not for his pawns.’

Scarce had Sancho said this when the two gentlemen came in at the chamber-door — for they seemed no less to them — and one of them, casting his arms about Don Quixote’s neck, said,’ Neither can your presence belie your name, or your name credit your presence. Doubtless you sir, are the right Don Quixote de la Mancha, north-star and morning-star of knight-errantry, in spite of him that hath usurped your name and annihilated your exploits, as the author of this book I here deliver hath done’; and giving him the book that his companion had, Don Quixote took it, and, without answering a word, began to turn the leaves, and a while after returned it, saying:

‘In this little that I have seen, I have found three things in this author2 worthy of reprehension. The first is, some words I have read in his prologue; the second, that his language is Aragonian, for sometimes he writes without articles; and the third, which doth most confirm his ignorance, is that he errs and strays from the truth in the chiefest of the history; for here he sayst that Sancho Panza my squire’s wife’s name was Mary Gutierrez, which is not so, but she is called Teresa Panza; and therefore he that errs in so main a matter, it may well be feared he will err in all the rest of the history.’

To this Sancho said, ‘Prettily done, indeed, of the historian; he knows very well sure what belongs to our affairs, since he calls my wife Teresa Panza, Mary Gutierrez. Pray take the book again, sir, and see whether I be there, and whether he have changed my name.’ ‘By your speech, friend,’ quoth Don Jeronimo, ‘you should be Sancho Panza, Signior Don Quixote’s squire.’ ‘I am,’ quoth Sancho, ‘and I am proud of it.’

‘Well, in faith,’ said the gentleman, ‘this modern author doth not treat of you so neatly as your person makes show for; he paints you out for a glutton, an idiot, and nothing witty, and far different from the Sancho that is described in the First Part of your master’s history.’

‘God forgive him!’ said Sancho; ‘he should have left me in my corner, and not remembered me; for Every man in his ability, and ‘TIS good sleeping in a whole skin.’

The two gentlemen entreated Don Quixote to go to their chamber and sup with them; for they knew well that in that inn he found not things fitting to his person. Don Quixote, who was ever courteous, condescended to their request, and supped with them; Sancho remained with his flesh-pot, sole lord and governor. Sancho sat at the upper end of the table, and with him the innkeeper, that was no less affectioned to his neats’ feet than Sancho.

In the midst of supper, Don John asked Don Quixote what news he had of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, whether she were married, or brought a-bed, or great with child, or being entire, whether (respecting her honesty and good decorum) she were mindful of Signior Don Quixote’s amorous desires. To which he answered, ‘Dulcinea is as entire and my desires as firm as ever, our correspondency in the ancient barrenness, her beauty transformed into the complexion of a base milk-wench’; and straight he recounted unto them every tittle of her enchantment, and what had befallen him in Montesinos’ Cave, with the order that the sage Merlin had given for her disenchanting, which was by Sancho’s stripes.

Great was the delight the two gentlemen received to hear Don Quixote tell the strange passages of his history, and so they wondered at his fopperies, as also his elegant manner of delivering them. Here they held him to be wise, there he slipped from them by the fool; so they knew not what medium to give him, betwixt wisdom and folly.

Sancho ended his supper, and, leaving the innkeeper, passed to the chamber where his master was, and, entering, said, ‘Hang me, sirs, if the author of this book that your worships have would that we should eat a good meal together; pray God, as he calls me glutton, he say not that I am a drunkard too.’

‘Yes, marry, doth he,’ said Don Jeronimo, ‘but I know not how directly, though I know his reasons do not hang together, and are very erroneous, as I see by Sancho’s physiognomy here present.’ ‘Believe me,’ quoth Sancho, ‘Sancho and Don Quixote are differing in this history from what they are in that Cid Hamet Benengeli composed; for we are — my master valiant, discreet, and amorous; I simple and conceited, but neither glutton nor drunkard.’

‘I believe it,’ said Don John, ‘and, were it possible, it should be commanded that none should dare to treat of the grand Don Quixote’s affairs but Cid Hamet, his first author; as Alexander commanded that none but Appelles should dare to draw him.’

‘Let whoso will draw me,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘but let him not abuse me; for ofttimes patience falls, when injuries overload.’

‘None,’ quoth Don John, ‘can be done Signior Don Quixote that he will not be revenged of, if he ward it not with the shield of his patience, which, in my opinion, is strong and great.’

In these and other discourses they passed a great part of the night, and though Don John would that Don Quixote should have read more in the book to see what it did descant on, yet he could not prevail with him, saying he made account he had read it, and concluded it to be but an idle pamphlet, and that he would not (if it should come to the author’s knowledge that he had meddled with it) he should make himself merry to think he had read it; for our thoughts must not be busied in filthy and obscene things, much less our eyes.

They asked him whither he purposed his voyage. He answered, to Saragosa, to be at the jousts in harness, that use to be there yearly.

Don John told him that there was one thing in that new history, which was, that he should be at a running at the ring in that city, as short of invention as poor in mottoes, but most poor in liveries, and rich in nothing but simplicities.

‘For this matter only,’ quoth Don Quixote, ‘I will not set foot in Saragosa; and therefore the world shall see what a liar this modern historiographer is, and people shall perceive I am not the Don Quixote he speaks of.’

‘You shall do very well,’ quoth Don Jeronimo; ‘for there be other jousts in Barcelona, where Signior Don Quixote may show his valour.’ ‘So I mean to do,’ quoth Don Quixote; ‘and therefore let me take leave o you (for it is time) to go to bed, and so hold me in the rank of your greatest friends and servitors.’ ‘And me too,’ quoth Sancho, ‘for it may be I shall be good for somewhat.

With this they took leave, and Don Quixote and Sancho retired to their chamber, leaving Don John and Don Jeronimo in admiration to see what a medley he had made with his discretion and madness; and they verily believed that these were the right Don Quixote and Sancho, and not they whom the Aragonian author described.

Don Quixote rose early, and, knocking upon the thin wall of the other chamber, he took leave of those guests. Sancho paid the host royally, but advised him he should either less praise the provision of his inn or have it better provided.

1 A good character of a lying, beggarly, vain-glorious Spanish host in general.
2 This the author of this book brings in by way of invective against an Aragonian scholar, that wrote a Second Part of Don Quixote, before this was published.

Gavilan College celebrates 400 years of Don Quijote

The History of Don Quixote - The Second Part

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