Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote
"Nay, sir," replied Don Quixote, "if you will not be a spectator of what
you think will prove a tragedy, spur your flea-bitten, and save
yourself."
Sancho, too, besought him, with tears in his eyes, to desist from an
enterprise compared with which that of the windmills, the dreadful one
of the fulling-mills, and in short, all the exploits he had performed in
the whole course of his life, were mere tarts and cheesecakes.
"Consider, sir," added Sancho, "here is no enchantment, nor anything
like it; for I saw, through the grates and chinks of the cage, the paw
of a true lion; and I guess, by the size of its claw, that it is bigger
than a mountain."
"Thy fears," answered Don Quixote, "would make it appear to thee larger
than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I perish here,
thou knowest our old agreement: repair to Dulcinea--I say no more." To
these he added other expressions, which showed the firmness of his
purpose, and that all argument would be fruitless. The gentleman would
fain have compelled him to desist, but thought himself unequally matched
in weapons and armor, and that it Would not be prudent to engage with a
madman, whose violence and menaces against the keeper were now
redoubled; the gentleman therefore spurred his mare, Sancho his Dapple,
and the carter his mules, and all endeavored to get as far off as
possible from the cart, before the lions were let loose. Sancho bewailed
the death of his master; verily believing it would now overtake him
between the paws of the lions; he cursed his hard fortune, and the
unlucky hour when he again entered into his service. But,
notwithstanding his tears and lamentations, he kept urging on his Dapple
to get far enough from the cart. The keeper, seeing that the fugitives
were at a good distance, repeated his arguments and entreaties, but to
no purpose: Don Quixote answered that he heard him, and desired he would
trouble himself no more, but immediately obey his commands, and open the
door.
Whilst the keeper was unbarring the first gate, Don Quixote deliberated
within himself whether it would be best to engage on horseback or not,
and finally determined it should be on foot, as Rozinante might be
terrified at the sight of the lions. He therefore leaped from his horse,
flung aside his lance, braced on his shield, and drew his sword; and
marching slowly, with marvellous intrepidity and an undaunted heart, he
planted himself before the car, devoutly commending himself, first to
God and then to his mistress Dulcinea.
Here it is to be noted that the author of this faithful history, coming
to this passage, falls into exclamations, and cries out, O strenuous and
beyond all expression courageous Don Quixote de la Mancha! thou mirror
wherein all the valiant ones of the world may behold themselves, thou
second and new Don Manuel de Leon, who was the glory and honor of the
Spanish knights! With what words shall I relate this tremendous exploit?
By what arguments shall I render it credible to succeeding ages? or what
praises, though above all hyperboles hyperbolical, do not fit and become
thee? Thou, alone, on foot, intrepid and magnanimous, with a single
sword, and that none of the sharpest, with a shield not of the brightest
and most shining steel, standest waiting for and expecting two of the
fiercest lions that the forests of Africa ever bred. Let thy own deeds
praise thee, valorous Manchegan! for here I must leave off for want of
words whereby to enhance them. Here the author ends his exclamation, and
resumes the thread of the history, saying:--
The keeper, seeing Don Quixote fixed in his posture, and that he could
not avoid letting loose the male lion on pain of falling under the
displeasure of the angry and daring knight, set wide open the door of
the first cage, where lay the lion, which appeared to be of an
extraordinary bigness and of a hideous and frightful aspect. The first
thing he did was to turn himself round in the cage, reach out a paw, and
stretch himself at full length. Then he gaped and yawned very leisurely;
then licked the dust off his eyes, and washed his face, with some half a
yard of tongue. This done, he thrust his head out of the cage and stared
round on all sides with eyes of fire-coals,--a sight and aspect enough
to have struck terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote only observed
him with attention, wishing he would leap out from the car and grapple
with him, that he might tear him in pieces, to such a pitch of
extravagance had his unheard-of madness transported him.
But the generous lion, more civil than arrogant, taking no notice of his
vaporing and bravados, after having stared about him, as has been said,
turned his back and showed his posteriors to Don Quixote, and with
great phlegm and calmness laid himself down again in the cage; which Don
Quixote perceiving, he ordered the keeper to give him some blows and
provoke him to come forth.
"That I will not do," answered the keeper; "for, should I provoke him, I
myself shall be the first he will tear in pieces. Be satisfied, signor
cavalier, with what is done, which is all that can be said in point of
courage, and do not tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door
open, and it is in his choice to come forth or not; and since he has not
yet come out, he will not come out all this day. The greatness of your
worship's courage is already sufficiently shown. No brave combatant, as
I take it, is obliged to more than to challenge his foe, and expect him
in the field; and if the antagonist does not meet him, the disgrace
falls on him, while the challenger is entitled to the crown of victory."
"That is true," answered Don Quixote; "shut the door, and give me a
certificate in the best form you can of what you have here seen me
perform. It should be known that you opened the door to the lion; that I
waited for him; that he came not out; again I waited for him; again he
came not out; and again he laid himself down. I am bound to no
more,--enchantments avaunt! So Heaven prosper right and justice and true
chivalry! Shut the door, as I told thee, while I make a signal to the
fugitive and absent, that from your own mouth they may have an account
of this exploit."
The keeper closed the door, and Don Quixote, having fixed the linen
cloth with which he had wiped the curds from his face upon the point of
his lance, began to hail the troop in the distance, who, with the
gentleman in green at their head, were still retiring, but looking round
at every step, when suddenly Sancho observed the signal of the white
cloth.
"May I be hanged," cried he, "if my master has not vanquished the wild
beasts, for he is calling to us!"
They all stopped, and saw that it was Don Quixote that made the sign;
and, their fear in some degree abating, they ventured to return slowly
till they could distinctly hear the words of Don Quixote, who continued
calling to them. When they had reached the cart again, Don Quixote said
to the driver: "Now, friend, put on your mules again, and in Heaven's
name proceed; and, Sancho, give two crowns to him and the keeper, to
make them amends for this delay."
"That I will, with all my heart," answered Sancho; "but what has become
of the lions? are they dead or alive?"
The keeper then very minutely, and with due pauses, gave an account of
the conflict, enlarging, to the best of his skill, on the valor of Don
Quixote, at sight of whom the daunted lion would not, or durst not, stir
out of the cage, though he had held open the door a good while; and,
upon his representing to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke
the lion, and to force him out, he had at length, very reluctantly,
permitted him to close it again.
"What sayest thou to this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote; "can any
enchantment prevail against true courage? Enchanters may, indeed,
deprive me of good fortune, but of courage and resolution they never
can."
Sancho gave the gold crowns; the carter yoked his mules; the keeper
thanked Don Quixote for his present, and promised to relate this
valorous exploit to the king himself when he arrived at court.
"If, perchance, his majesty," said Don Quixote, "should inquire who
performed it, tell him the Knight of the Lions; for henceforward I
resolve that the title I have hitherto borne, of the Knight of the
Sorrowful Figure, shall be thus changed, converted, and altered; and
herein I follow the ancient practice of knights-errant, who changed
their names at pleasure."
It is a gallant sight to see a cavalier in shining armor prancing over
the lists at some gay tournament in sight of the ladies; it is a gallant
sight when, in the middle of a spacious square, a brave cavalier, before
the eyes of his prince, transfixes with his lance a furious bull; and a
gallant show do all those knights make, who, in military or other
exercises, entertain, enliven, and do honor to their prince's court; but
far above all these is the knight-errant, who, through deserts and
solitudes, through cross-ways, through woods, and over mountains, goes
in quest of perilous adventures, which he undertakes and accomplishes
only to obtain a glorious and immortal fame.
All knights have their peculiar functions. Let the courtier serve the
ladies, adorn his prince's court with rich liveries, entertain the
poorer cavaliers at his splendid table, order his jousts, manage
tournaments, and show himself great, liberal, and magnificent; above
all, a good Christian, and thus will he fulfil his duties.
In enterprises of every kind, it is better to lose the game by a card
too much than one too little; for it sounds better to be called rash and
daring than timorous and cowardly.
"Signor Don Diego de Miranda, your father, sir, has informed me of the
rare talents you possess, and particularly that you are a great poet."
"Certainly not a great poet," replied Lorenzo; "it is true I am fond of
poetry, and honor the works of good poets; but I have no claim to the
title my father is pleased to confer 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
surely there may be some who do not appear too conscious of their real
merits."
"Very few, I believe," said Don Quixote.
THE SCIENCE OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY.
"It is a science," replied Don Quixote, "which comprehends all, or most
of the other sciences; for he who professes it must be learned in the
law, and understand distributive and commutative justice, that he may
know not only how to assign to each man what is truly his own, but what
is proper for him to possess; he must be conversant in divinity, in
order to be able to explain, clearly and distinctly, the Christian faith
which he professes; he must be skilled in medicine, especially in
botany, that he may know both how to cure the diseases with which he may
be afflicted, and collect the various remedies which Providence has
scattered in the midst of the wilderness, nor be compelled on every
emergency to be running in quest of a physician to heal him; he must be
an astronomer, that he may if necessary ascertain by the stars the exact
hour of the night and what part or climate of the world he is in; he
must understand mathematics, because he will have occasion for them; and
taking it for granted that he must be adorned with all the cardinal and
theological virtues, I descend to other more minute particulars, and say
that he must know how to swim as well as it is reported of Fish
Nicholas;[9] he must know how to shoe a horse and repair his saddle and
bridle: and to return to higher concerns, he must preserve his faith
inviolable towards Heaven, and also to his mistress; he must be chaste