DON QUIXOTE found that Don Diego’s house was spacious, after the country fashion, having the arms of the family carved in rough stone over the great gates; the buttery in the courtyard, the cellar under the porch, and several earthen wine jars placed round about it, which being of the ware of Toboso, renewed the memory of his enchanted and metamorphosed Dulcinea; and without considering what he said, or before whom, he sighed, and cried:
‘“O sweet pledges, found now to my sorrow; sweet and joyous, when heaven would have it so!”* O ye Tobosan jars, that have brought back to my remembrance the sweet pledge of my greatest bitterness!’
This was overheard by the poetical scholar, Don Diego’s son, who, with his mother, was come out to receive him; and both mother and son were in admiration at the strange figure of Don Quixote, who, alighting from Rosinante, very courteously desired leave to kiss the lady’s hands; and Don Diego said:
‘Receive, madam, with your accustomed civility, Señor Don Quixote de la Mancha here present, a knight-errant, and the most valiant, and most ingenious person in the world.’
The lady, whose name was Doña Christina, received him with tokens of much affection and civility, and Don Quixote returned them in discreet and courteous expressions. The same kind of compliments passed between him and the student, whom by his talk Don Quixote took for a witty and acute person.
Here the author* sets down all the particulars of Don Diego’s house, describing all the furniture usually contained in the mansion of a gentleman that was both a farmer and rich. But the translator of the history* thought fit to pass over in silence these, and such like minute matters, as not suiting with the principal scope of the history, in which truth has more force than cold and insipid digressions.
Don Quixote was led into a hall: Sancho unarmed him; he remained in his wide Walloon breeches, and in a chamois doublet, all besmeared with the rust of his armour: his band was of the college cut, without starch and without lace: his buskins were date-coloured, and his shoes waxed. He girt on his trusty sword, which hung at a belt made of a sea-wolf’s skin: for it is thought he had been many years troubled with a weakness in his loins. Over these he had a long cloak of good grey cloth. But, first of all, with five or six kettles of water (for there is some difference as to the number) he washed his head and face; and still the water continued of a whey-colour, thanks to Sancho’s gluttony, and the purchase of the nasty curds, that had made his master so white and clean. With the aforesaid accoutrements, and with a genteel air and deportment, Don Quixote walked into another hall, where the student was waiting to entertain him till the cloth was laid; for the lady Doña Christina would show, upon the arrival of so noble a guest, that she knew how to regale those who came to her house.
While Don Quixote was unarming, Don Lorenzo (for that was the name of Don Diego’s son) had leisure to say to his father:
‘Pray, sir, who is this gentleman you have brought us home? for his name, his figure, and your telling us he is a knight-errant, hold my mother and me in great suspense.’
‘I know not how to answer you, son,’ replied Don Diego: ‘I can only tell you, that I have seen him act the part of the maddest man in the world, and then talk so ingeniously, that his words contradict and undo all his actions. Talk you to him, and feel the pulse of his understanding; and since you have discernment enough, judge of his discretion, or distraction, as you shall find; though, to say the truth, I rather take him to be mad, than otherwise.’
Hereupon Don Lorenzo went to entertain Don Quixote, as has been said; and among other discourse, which passed between them, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo:
‘Señor Don Diego de Miranda, your father, sir, has given me some account of your rare abilities, and refined judgement, and particularly that you are a great poet.’
‘A poet, perhaps, I may be,’ replied Don Lorenzo; ‘but a great one, not even in thought. True it is, I am somewhat fond of poetry, and of reading the good poets: but in no wise so as to merit the title my father is pleased to bestow upon me.’
‘I do not dislike this modesty,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘for poets are usually very arrogant, each thinking himself the greatest in the world.’
‘There is no rule without an exception,’ answered Don Lorenzo, ‘and such an one there may be, who is really so, and does not think it.’
‘Very few,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘but please to tell me, sir, what verses are those you have now in hand, which, your father says, makes you so uneasy and thoughtful? For if it be some gloss, I know somewhat of the knack of glossing, and should be glad to see it: and if they are designed for a poetical prize, endeavour to obtain the second; for the first is always carried by favour, or by the great quality of the person:* the second is bestowed according to merit; so that the third becomes the second, and the first, in this account, is but the third, according to the liberty commonly taken in your universities. But, for all that, the name of the first makes a great figure.’
‘Hitherto,’ said Don Lorenzo to himself, ‘I cannot judge thee to be mad: let us proceed.’
So he said to him:
‘Your worship, I presume, has frequented the schools: what sciences have you studied?’
‘That of knight-errantry,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘which is as good as your poetry, yea, and two little fingers’ breadth beyond it.’
‘I know not what science that is,’ replied Don Lorenzo, ‘and hitherto it has not come to my knowledge.’
‘It is a science,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘which includes in it all, or most of the other sciences of the world. For he who professes it must be a lawyer, and know the laws of distributive and commutative justice, in order to give every one what is his own, and that which is proper for him. He must be a divine, to be able to give a reason for the Christian faith he professes, clearly and distinctly, whenever it is required of him. He must be a physician, and especially a botanist, to know, in the midst of wildernesses and deserts, the herbs and simples, which have the virtue of curing wounds; for your knight-errant must not at every turn be running to look for somebody to heal him. He must be an astronomer, to know by the stars what it is o’clock, and what part or climate of the world he is in. He must know the mathematics, because at every foot he will stand in need of them: and, setting aside that he must be adorned with all the cardinal and theological virtues.
‘I descend to some other minute particulars. I say then, he must know how to swim, like him people call Fish Nicholas, or Nicholao.* He must know how to shoe a horse, and to keep the saddle and bridle in repair: and to return to what was said above, he must preserve his faith to God and his mistress inviolate. He must be chaste in his thoughts, modest in his words, liberal in good works, valiant in exploits, patient in toils, charitable to the needy, and lastly, a maintainer of the truth, though it should cost him his life to defend it. Of all these great and small parts a good knight-errant is composed. Consider then, Señor Don Lorenzo, whether it be a snotty science, which the knight, who professes it, learns and studies, and whether it may not be equalled to the stateliest of all those that are taught in your colleges and schools.’
‘If this be so,’ replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I maintain, that this science is preferable to all others.’
‘How! if it be so!’ answered Don Quixote.
‘What I mean, sir,’ quoth Don Lorenzo, ‘is, that I question whether there ever have been, or now are in being, any knights-errant, and adorned with so many virtues.’
‘I have often said,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘what I now repeat, that the greatest part of the world are of opinion, there never were any knights-errant: and, because I am of opinion, that, if heaven does not in some miraculous manner convince them of the truth, that there have been, and are such now, whatever pains are taken will be all in vain, as I have often found by experience, I will not now lose time in bringing you out of an error so prevalent with many. What I intend, is, to beg of heaven to undeceive you, and let you see how useful and necessary knights-errant were in times past, and how beneficial they would be in the present, were they again in fashion: but now, through the sins of the people, sloth, idleness, gluttony, and luxury triumph.’
‘Our guest has broke loose,’ quoth Don Lorenzo to himself; ‘but still he is a whimsical kind of a madman, and I should be a weak fool, if I did not believe so.’
Here their discourse ended; for they were called to supper. Don Diego asked his son what he had copied out fair of the genius of his guest. He answered:
‘The ablest doctors and best penmen in the world will never be able to extricate him out of the rough-draft of his madness. His distraction is a medley full of lucid intervals.’
To supper they went, and the repast was such, as Don Diego had told them upon the road, he used to give to those he invited, neat, plentiful, and savoury. But that, which pleased Don Quixote above all, was the marvellous silence throughout the whole house, as if it had been a convent of Carthusians.
The cloth being taken away, grace said, and their hands washed, Don Quixote earnestly entreated Don Lorenzo to repeat the verses designed for the prize. To which he answered:
‘That I may not be like those poets, who, when desired, refuse to repeat their verses, and, when not asked, spew them out, I will read my gloss, for which I expect no prize, having done it only to exercise my fancy.’
‘A friend of mine, a very ingenious person,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘was of opinion that nobody should give themselves the trouble of glossing on verses: and the reason, he said, was, because the gloss could never come up to the text, and very often the gloss mistakes the intention and design of the author. Besides, the rules of glossing are too strict, suffering no interrogations, nor “said he’s”, nor “shall I say’s”, nor making nouns of verbs, nor changing the sense, with other ties and restrictions, which cramp the glossers, as your worship must needs know.’
‘Truly Señor Don Quixote,’ quoth Don Lorenzo, ‘I have a great desire to catch your worship tripping in some false Latin, and cannot; for you slip through my fingers like an eel.’
‘I do not understand,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘what you mean by my slipping through your fingers.’
‘I will let you know another time,’ replied Don Lorenzo: ‘at present give attention to the text and gloss, which are as follows:
‘Could I the joyous moments past
Recall, and say, what was now is,
Or to succeeding moments haste,
And now enjoy the future bliss.*
‘As all things fleet and die away,
And day at length is lost in night,
My blessings would no longer stay,
But took their everlasting flight.
O fortune, at thy feet I lie,
To supplicate thy deity:
Inconstant goddess, frown no more;
Make me but happy now at last:
No more I’d curse thy fickle power,
Could I recall the moments past.
‘No other conquest I implore,
No other palm my brow to grace:
Content (‘tis all I ask) restore,
And give me back my mind’s lost peace.
Past joys enhance the present pain,
And sad remembrance is our bane.
O would at length relenting Fate
Restore the ravish’d hours of bliss,
How should I hug the charming state,
And joyful say, what was now is!
‘Thy empty wish, fond wretch, give o’er,
Nor ask so vain, so wild a thing;
Revolving Time no mortal pow’r,
Can stop, or stay his fleeting wing.
Nimble as thought, he runs, he flies;
The present hour for ever dies,
In vain we ask futurity;
In vain we would recall the past:
We cannot from the present fly,
Nor to succeeding moments haste.
‘Vex’d with alternate hopes and fears,
I feel variety of pain:
But death can ease a wretch’s cares,
And surely death to me is gain.
Again my erring judgement strays
From sober reason’s juster ways;
Convinc’d by her unerring voice,
Another life must follow this,
I make the present woes my choice,
Rather than forfeit future bliss.’
When Don Lorenzo had made an end of reading his gloss, Don Quixote stood up, and, holding Don Lorenzo fast upon the right hand, cried out, in a voice so loud, that it was next to a squall:
‘By the highest heavens, noble youth, you are the best poet in the universe, and deserve to wear the laurel, not of Cyprus, nor of Gaeta, as a certain poet* said, whom God forgive, but of the Universities of Athens, were they now in being, and of those that now subsist, of Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca. Heaven grant, that the judges, who shall deprive you of the first prize, may be transfixed by the arrows of Apollo, and that the Muses may never cross the threshold of their doors. Be pleased, sir, to repeat some other of your verses, in the greater kinds of poetry: for I would thoroughly feel the pulse of your admirable genius.’
Is it not excellent that Don Lorenzo should be delighted to hear himself praised by Don Quixote, whom he deemed a madman? O force of flattery, how far dost thou extend, and how wide are the bounds of thy pleasing jurisdiction! This truth was verified in Don Lorenzo, who complied with the desire and request of Don Quixote, repeating this sonnet on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe:
The nymph, who Pyramus with love inspired,
Pierces the wall, with equal passion fired:
Cupid from distant Cyprus thither flies,
And views the secret breach with laughing eyes.
Here silence vocal mutual vows conveys,
And whisp’ring eloquent their love betrays.
Though chained by fear their voices dare not pass
Their souls transmitted through the chink embrace.
Ah! woful story of disastrous love,
Ill-fated haste that did their ruin prove!
One death, one grave unites the faithful pair,
And in one common fame their mem’ries share.
‘Now God be thanked,’ quoth Don Quixote, having heard Don Lorenzo’s sonnet, ‘that, among the infinite number of poets now in being, I have met with one so absolute in all respects, as the artifice of your worship’s sonnet shows you to be.’
Four days was Don Quixote nobly regaled in Don Diego’s house: at the end whereof he begged leave to be gone, telling him, he thanked him for the favour and kind entertainment he had received in his family: but, because it did not look well for knights-errant to give themselves up to idleness and indulgence too long, he would go, in compliance with the duty of his function, in quest of adventures, wherewith he was informed those parts abounded; designing to employ the time thereabouts, till the day of the jousts at Saragossa, at which he resolved to be present: but in the first place he intended to visit the cave of Montesinos, of which people related so many and such wonderful things all over that country; at the same time inquiring into the source and true springs of the seven lakes, commonly called the lakes of Ruydera.* Don Diego and his son applauded his honourable resolution, desiring him to furnish himself with whatever he pleased of theirs: for he was heartily welcome to it, his worthy person and his noble profession obliging them to make him this offer.
At length the day of his departure came, as joyous to Don Quixote, as sad and unhappy for Sancho Panza, who liked the plenty of Don Diego’s house wondrous well, and was loath to return to the hunger of the forests and wildernesses, and to the penury of his ill-provided wallets. However, he filled and stuffed them with what he thought most necessary: and Don Quixote, at taking leave of Don Lorenzo, said:
‘I know not whether I have told you before, and, if I have, I tell you again, that, whenever you shall have a mind to shorten your way and pains to arrive at 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 somewhat narrow, and follow that of knight-errantry, which is still narrower, but sufficient to make you an emperor before you can say, “Give me those straws.’”
With these expressions Don Quixote did, as it were, finish and shut up the process of his madness, and especially with what he added, saying:
‘God knows how willingly I would take Señor Don Lorenzo with me, to teach him how “to spare the humble, and to trample under foot the haughty”* virtues annexed to the function I profess: but since his youth does not require it, nor his laudable exercises permit it, I content myself with putting your worship in the way of becoming a famous poet; and that is, by following the opinion and judgement of other men, rather than your own; for no fathers or mothers think their own children ugly; and this self-deceit is yet stronger with respect to the offspring of the mind.’
The father and son admired afresh at the intermixed discourses of Don Quixote, sometimes wise and sometimes wild, and the obstinacy with which he was bent upon the search of his misadventurous adventures, the sole end and aim of all his wishes. Offers of service and civilities were repeated, and, with the good leave of the lady of the castle, they departed, Don Quixote upon Rosinante, and Sancho upon Dapple.