CHAPTER 47
OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED
AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS
When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this
way, he said, “Many grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but never
yet have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off enchanted knights-errant
in this fashion, or at the slow pace that these lazy, sluggish animals promise;
for they always take them away through the air with marvellous swiftness,
enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a chariot of fire, or it may be on some
hippogriff or other beast of the kind; but to carry me off like this on an ox-
cart! By God, it puzzles me! But perhaps the chivalry and enchantments of
our day take a different course from that of those in days gone by; and it
may be, too, that as I am a new knight in the world, and the first to revive
the already forgotten calling of knight-adventurers, they may have newly
invented other kinds of enchantments and other modes of carrying off the
enchanted. What thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son?”
“I don’t know what to think,” answered Sancho, “not being as well read
as your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to say and swear
that these apparitions that are about us are not quite catholic.”
“Catholic!” said Don Quixote. “Father of me! how can they be Catholic
when they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes to come and do
this, and bring me to this condition? And if thou wouldst prove it, touch
them, and feel them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of air, and no
consistency except in appearance.”
“By God, master,” returned Sancho, “I have touched them already; and
that devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and another prop-
erty very different from what I have heard say devils have, for by all ac-
counts they all smell of brimstone and other bad smells; but this one smells
of amber half a league off.” Sancho was here speaking of Don Fernando,
who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very likely perfumed as Sancho said.
“Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote; “for let me tell
thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about with them,
they themselves have no smell, because they are spirits; or, if they have any
smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but of something foul and fetid;
and the reason is that as they carry hell with them wherever they go, and
can get no ease whatever from their torments, and as a sweet smell is a
thing that gives pleasure and enjoyment, it is impossible that they can smell
sweet; if, then, this devil thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of amber,
either thou art deceiving thyself, or he wants to deceive thee by making thee
fancy he is not a devil.”
Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and Don
Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho’s making a complete dis-
covery of their scheme, towards which he had already gone some way, re-
solved to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside, they directed
him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on Sancho’s ass, which he
did with great alacrity. In the meantime the curate had made an arrangement
with the officers that they should bear them company as far as his village,
he paying them so much a day. Cardenio hung the buckler on one side of
the bow of Rocinante’s saddle and the basin on the other, and by signs com-
manded Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante’s bridle, and at each
side of the cart he placed two officers with their muskets; but before the cart
was put in motion, out came the landlady and her daughter and Maritornes
to bid Don Quixote farewell, pretending to weep with grief at his misfor-
tune; and to them Don Quixote said:
“Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those who fol-
low the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not befall me I should
not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for such things never happen to
knights of little renown and fame, because nobody in the world thinks about
them; to valiant knights they do, for these are envied for their virtue and
valour by many princes and other knights who compass the destruction of
the worthy by base means. Nevertheless, virtue is of herself so mighty, that,
in spite of all the magic that Zoroaster its first inventor knew, she will come
victorious out of every trial, and shed her light upon the earth as the sun
does upon the heavens. Forgive me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I
have in aught offended you; for intentionally and wittingly I have never
done so to any; and pray to God that he deliver me from this captivity to
which some malevolent enchanter has consigned me; and should I find my-
self released therefrom, the favours that ye have bestowed upon me in this
castle shall be held in memory by me, that I may acknowledge, recognise,
and requite them as they deserve.”
While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don Quixote,
the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and his compan-
ions, to the captain, his brother, and the ladies, now all made happy, and in
particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all embraced one another, and
promised to let each other know how things went with them, and Don Fer-
nando directed the curate where to write to him, to tell him what became of
Don Quixote, assuring him that there was nothing that could give him more
pleasure than to hear of it, and that he too, on his part, would send him word
of everything he thought he would like to know, about his marriage, Zorai-
da’s baptism, Don Luis’s affair, and Luscinda’s return to her home. The cu-
rate promised to comply with his request carefully, and they embraced once
more, and renewed their promises.
The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers, saying
he had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the novel of
“The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been found, and that he might take them all
away with him as their owner had not since returned; for, as he could not
read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked him, and opening
them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the words, “Novel of Rin-
conete and Cortadillo,” by which he perceived that it was a novel, and as
that of “The Ill-advised Curiosity” had been good he concluded this would
be so too, as they were both probably by the same author; so he kept it, in-
tending to read it when he had an opportunity. He then mounted and his
friend the barber did the same, both masked, so as not to be recognised by
Don Quixote, and set out following in the rear of the cart. The order of
march was this: first went the cart with the owner leading it; at each side of
it marched the officers of the Brotherhood, as has been said, with their mus-
kets; then followed Sancho Panza on his ass, leading Rocinante by the bri-
dle; and behind all came the curate and the barber on their mighty mules,
with faces covered, as aforesaid, and a grave and serious air, measuring
their pace to suit the slow steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated in the
cage, with his hands tied and his feet stretched out, leaning against the bars
as silent and as patient as if he were a stone statue and not a man of flesh.
Thus slowly and silently they made, it might be, two leagues, until they
reached a valley which the carter thought a convenient place for resting and
feeding his oxen, and he said so to the curate, but the barber was of opinion
that they ought to push on a little farther, as at the other side of a hill which
appeared close by he knew there was a valley that had more grass and much
better than the one where they proposed to halt; and his advice was taken
and they continued their journey.
Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them
six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook
them, for they were travelling, not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of oxen,
but like men who rode canons’ mules, and in haste to take their noontide
rest as soon as possible at the inn which was in sight not a league off. The
quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous salutations were ex-
changed; and one of the new comers, who was, in fact, a canon of Toledo
and master of the others who accompanied him, observing the regular order
of the procession, the cart, the officers, Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and
the barber, and above all Don Quixote caged and confined, could not help
asking what was the meaning of carrying the man in that fashion; though,
from the badges of the officers, he already concluded that he must be some
desperate highwayman or other malefactor whose punishment fell within
the jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers to whom he
had put the question, replied, “Let the gentleman himself tell you the mean-
ing of his going this way, senor, for we do not know.”
Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, “Haply, gentlemen,
you are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry? Because if you are
I will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no good in my giving myself
the trouble of relating them;” but here the curate and the barber, seeing that
the travellers were engaged in conversation with Don Quixote, came for-
ward, in order to answer in such a way as to save their stratagem from being
discovered.
The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, “In truth, brother, I know more
about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando’s elements of logic; so
if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please.”
“In God’s name, then, senor,” replied Don Quixote; “if that be so, I would
have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the envy and fraud
of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted by the wicked than
loved by the good. I am a knight-errant, and not one of those whose names
Fame has never thought of immortalising in her record, but of those who, in
defiance and in spite of envy itself, and all the magicians that Persia, or
Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists that Ethiopia ever produced, will
place their names in the temple of immortality, to serve as examples and
patterns for ages to come, whereby knights-errant may see the footsteps in
which they must tread if they would attain the summit and crowning point
of honour in arms.”
“What Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha says,” observed the curate, “is
the truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or sins of his,
but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is odious and val-
our hateful. This, senor, is the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if you
have ever heard him named, whose valiant achievements and mighty deeds
shall be written on lasting brass and imperishable marble, notwithstanding
all the efforts of envy to obscure them and malice to hide them.”
When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at liberty
talk in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his astonishment, and
could not make out what had befallen him; and all his attendants were in the
same state of amazement.
At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the conversa-
tion, said, in order to make everything plain, “Well, sirs, you may like or
dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the matter is, my master, Don
Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother. He is in his full senses, he
eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like other men and as he had yester-
day, before they caged him. And if that’s the case, what do they mean by
wanting me to believe that he is enchanted? For I have heard many a one
say that enchanted people neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk; and my master, if
you don’t stop him, will talk more than thirty lawyers.” Then turning to the
curate he exclaimed, “Ah, senor curate, senor curate! do you think I don’t
know you? Do you think I don’t guess and see the drift of these new en-
chantments? Well then, I can tell you I know you, for all your face is cov-
ered, and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide your tricks.
After all, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, and where there is niggardli-
ness there can be no liberality. Ill betide the devil! if it had not been for your
worship my master would be married to the Princess Micomicona this
minute, and I should be a count at least; for no less was to be expected, as
well from the goodness of my master, him of the Rueful Countenance, as
from the greatness of my services. But I see now how true it is what they
say in these parts, that the wheel of fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel,
and that those who were up yesterday are down to-day. I am sorry for my
wife and children, for when they might fairly and reasonably expect to see
their father return to them a governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom,
they will see him come back a horse-boy. I have said all this, senor curate,
only to urge your paternity to lay to your conscience your ill-treatment of
my master; and have a care that God does not call you to account in another
life for making a prisoner of him in this way, and charge against you all the
succours and good deeds that my lord Don Quixote leaves undone while he
is shut up.
“Trim those lamps there!” exclaimed the barber at this; “so you are of the
same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see that you
will have to keep him company in the cage, and be enchanted like him for
having caught some of his humour and chivalry. It was an evil hour when
you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and that island you long
so much for found its way into your head.”
“I am not with child by anyone,” returned Sancho, “nor am I a man to let
myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though I am poor I
am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I long for an is-
land, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son of his own works;
and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say governor of an island,
especially as my master may win so many that he will not know whom to
give them to. Mind how you talk, master barber; for shaving is not every-
thing, and there is some difference between Peter and Peter. I say this be-
cause we all know one another, and it will not do to throw false dice with
me; and as to the enchantment of my master, God knows the truth; leave it
as it is; it only makes it worse to stir it.”
The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain speaking he
should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying so hard to con-
ceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had asked the canon to
ride on a little in advance, so that he might tell him the mystery of this man
in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The canon agreed, and
going on ahead with his servants, listened with attention to the account of
the character, life, madness, and ways of Don Quixote, given him by the cu-
rate, who described to him briefly the beginning and origin of his craze, and
told him the whole story of his adventures up to his being confined in the
cage, together with the plan they had of taking him home to try if by any
means they could discover a cure for his madness. The canon and his ser-
vants were surprised anew when they heard Don Quixote’s strange story,
and when it was finished he said, “To tell the truth, senor curate, I for my
part consider what they call books of chivalry to be mischievous to the
State; and though, led by idle and false taste, I have read the beginnings of
almost all that have been printed, I never could manage to read any one of
them from beginning to end; for it seems to me they are all more or less the
same thing; and one has nothing more in it than another; this no more than
that. And in my opinion this sort of writing and composition is of the same
species as the fables they call the Milesian, nonsensical tales that aim solely
at giving amusement and not instruction, exactly the opposite of the apo-
logue fables which amuse and instruct at the same time. And though it may
be the chief object of such books to amuse, I do not know how they can
succeed, when they are so full of such monstrous nonsense. For the enjoy-
ment the mind feels must come from the beauty and harmony which it per-
ceives or contemplates in the things that the eye or the imagination brings
before it; and nothing that has any ugliness or disproportion about it can
give any pleasure. What beauty, then, or what proportion of the parts to the
whole, or of the whole to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a
lad of sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two halves of
him as if he was an almond cake? And when they want to give us a picture
of a battle, after having told us that there are a million of combatants on the
side of the enemy, let the hero of the book be opposed to them, and we have
perforce to believe, whether we like it or not, that the said knight wins the
victory by the single might of his strong arm. And then, what shall we say
of the facility with which a born queen or empress will give herself over
into the arms of some unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is not
wholly barbarous and uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a
great tower full of knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair
wind, and will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land
of Prester John of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never described
nor Marco Polo saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the authors of
books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are not bound to re-
gard niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is all the better the more it
looks like truth, and gives the more pleasure the more probability and possi-
bility there is about it. Plots in fiction should be wedded to the understand-
ing of the reader, and be constructed in such a way that, reconciling impos-
sibilities, smoothing over difficulties, keeping the mind on the alert, they
may surprise, interest, divert, and entertain, so that wonder and delight
joined may keep pace one with the other; all which he will fail to effect who
shuns verisimilitude and truth to nature, wherein lies the perfection of writ-
ing. I have never yet seen any book of chivalry that puts together a connect-
ed plot complete in all its numbers, so that the middle agrees with the be-
ginning, and the end with the beginning and middle; on the contrary, they
construct them with such a multitude of members that it seems as though
they meant to produce a chimera or monster rather than a well-proportioned
figure. And besides all this they are harsh in their style, incredible in their
achievements, licentious in their amours, uncouth in their courtly speeches,
prolix in their battles, silly in their arguments, absurd in their travels, and, in
short, wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which reason they de-
serve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth as a worthless
breed.”
The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of sound
understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so he told
him that, being of the same opinion himself, and bearing a grudge to books
of chivalry, he had burned all Don Quixote’s, which were many; and gave
him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them, and of those he had
condemned to the flames and those he had spared, with which the canon
was not a little amused, adding that though he had said so much in condem-
nation of these books, still he found one good thing in them, and that was
the opportunity they afforded to a gifted intellect for displaying itself; for
they presented a wide and spacious field over which the pen might range
freely, describing shipwrecks, tempests, combats, battles, portraying a
valiant captain with all the qualifications requisite to make one, showing
him sagacious in foreseeing the wiles of the enemy, eloquent in speech to
encourage or restrain his soldiers, ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold
in biding his time as in pressing the attack; now picturing some sad tragic
incident, now some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous lady, vir-
tuous, wise, and modest; there a Christian knight, brave and gentle; here a
lawless, barbarous braggart; there a courteous prince, gallant and gracious;
setting forth the devotion and loyalty of vassals, the greatness and generosi-
ty of nobles. “Or again,” said he, “the author may show himself to be an as-
tronomer, or a skilled cosmographer, or musician, or one versed in affairs of
state, and sometimes he will have a chance of coming forward as a magi-
cian if he likes. He can set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of AE-
neas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of
Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the boldness
of Caesar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the wis-
dom of Cato, and in short all the faculties that serve to make an illustrious
man perfect, now uniting them in one individual, again distributing them
among many; and if this be done with charm of style and ingenious inven-
tion, aiming at the truth as much as possible, he will assuredly weave a web
of bright and varied threads that, when finished, will display such perfection
and beauty that it will attain the worthiest object any writing can seek,
which, as I said before, is to give instruction and pleasure combined; for the
unrestricted range of these books enables the author to show his powers,
epic, lyric, tragic, or comic, and all the moods the sweet and winning arts of
poesy and oratory are capable of; for the epic may be written in prose just
as well as in verse.”
