CHAPTER 10
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE
LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE
When the author of this great history comes to relate what is set down in
this chapter he says he would have preferred to pass it over in silence, fear-
ing it would not be believed, because here Don Quixote’s madness reaches
the confines of the greatest that can be conceived, and even goes a couple of
bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, though still under the same fear
and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding to the story or leaving
out a particle of the truth, and entirely disregarding the charges of falsehood
that might be brought against him; and he was right, for the truth may run
fine but will not break, and always rises above falsehood as oil above water;
and so, going on with his story, he says that as soon as Don Quixote had en-
sconced himself in the forest, oak grove, or wood near El Toboso, he bade
Sancho return to the city, and not come into his presence again without hav-
ing first spoken on his behalf to his lady, and begged of her that it might be
her good pleasure to permit herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and
deign to bestow her blessing upon him, so that he might thereby hope for a
happy issue in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook
to execute the task according to the instructions, and to bring back an an-
swer as good as the one he brought back before.
“Go, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and be not dazed when thou findest
thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art going to seek.
Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in mind, and let it not
escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if she changes colour while thou
art giving her my message; if she is agitated and disturbed at hearing my
name; if she cannot rest upon her cushion, shouldst thou haply find her seat-
ed in the sumptuous state chamber proper to her rank; and should she be
standing, observe if she poises herself now on one foot, now on the other; if
she repeats two or three times the reply she gives thee; if she passes from
gentleness to austerity, from asperity to tenderness; if she raises her hand to
smooth her hair though it be not disarranged. In short, my son, observe all
her actions and motions, for if thou wilt report them to me as they were, I
will gather what she hides in the recesses of her heart as regards my love;
for I would have thee know, Sancho, if thou knowest it not, that with lovers
the outward actions and motions they give way to when their loves are in
question are the faithful messengers that carry the news of what is going on
in the depths of their hearts. Go, my friend, may better fortune than mine
attend thee, and bring thee a happier issue than that which I await in dread
in this dreary solitude.”
“I will go and return quickly,” said Sancho; “cheer up that little heart of
yours, master mine, for at the present moment you seem to have got one no
bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say, that a stout heart breaks
bad luck, and that where there are no fletches there are no pegs; and more-
over they say, the hare jumps up where it’s not looked for. I say this be-
cause, if we could not find my lady’s palaces or castles to-night, now that it
is daylight I count upon finding them when I least expect it, and once found,
leave it to me to manage her.”
“Verily, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou dost always bring in thy
proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck in
what I am anxious about.”
With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don
Quixote remained behind, seated on his horse, resting in his stirrups and
leaning on the end of his lance, filled with sad and troubled forebodings;
and there we will leave him, and accompany Sancho, who went off no less
serious and troubled than he left his master; so much so, that as soon as he
had got out of the thicket, and looking round saw that Don Quixote was not
within sight, he dismounted from his ass, and seating himself at the foot of
a tree began to commune with himself, saying, “Now, brother Sancho, let us
know where your worship is going. Are you going to look for some ass that
has been lost? Not at all. Then what are you going to look for? I am going
to look for a princess, that’s all; and in her for the sun of beauty and the
whole heaven at once. And where do you expect to find all this, Sancho?
Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well, and for whom are you
going to look for her? For the famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha,
who rights wrongs, gives food to those who thirst and drink to the hungry.
That’s all very well, but do you know her house, Sancho? My master says it
will be some royal palace or grand castle. And have you ever seen her by
any chance? Neither I nor my master ever saw her. And does it strike you
that it would be just and right if the El Toboso people, finding out that you
were here with the intention of going to tamper with their princesses and
trouble their ladies, were to come and cudgel your ribs, and not leave a
whole bone in you? They would, indeed, have very good reason, if they did
not see that I am under orders, and that ‘you are a messenger, my friend, no
blame belongs to you.’ Don’t you trust to that, Sancho, for the Manchegan
folk are as hot-tempered as they are honest, and won’t put up with liberties
from anybody. By the Lord, if they get scent of you, it will be worse for
you, I promise you. Be off, you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why should I
go looking for three feet on a cat, to please another man; and what is more,
when looking for Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in Ravena, or the
bachelor in Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody else, has mixed me
up in this business!”
Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all the conclusion
he could come to was to say to himself again, “Well, there’s remedy for
everything except death, under whose yoke we have all to pass, whether we
like it or not, when life’s finished. I have seen by a thousand signs that this
master of mine is a madman fit to be tied, and for that matter, I too, am not
behind him; for I’m a greater fool than he is when I follow him and serve
him, if there’s any truth in the proverb that says, ‘Tell me what company
thou keepest, and I’ll tell thee what thou art,’ or in that other, ‘Not with
whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.’ Well then, if he be mad,
as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one thing for another, and
white for black, and black for white, as was seen when he said the wind-
mills were giants, and the monks’ mules dromedaries, flocks of sheep
armies of enemies, and much more to the same tune, it will not be very hard
to make him believe that some country girl, the first I come across here, is
the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not believe it, I’ll swear it; and if he should
swear, I’ll swear again; and if he persists I’ll persist still more, so as, come
what may, to have my quoit always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out in
this way, I may put a stop to his sending me on messages of this kind anoth-
er time; or maybe he will think, as I suspect he will, that one of those
wicked enchanters, who he says have a spite against him, has changed her
form for the sake of doing him an ill turn and injuring him.”
With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting the business as
good as settled, and stayed there till the afternoon so as to make Don
Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and return; and things
turned out so luckily for him that as he got up to mount Dapple, he spied,
coming from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood, three peasant girls
on three colts, or fillies—for the author does not make the point clear,
though it is more likely they were she-asses, the usual mount with village
girls; but as it is of no great consequence, we need not stop to prove it.
To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned full
speed to seek his master, and found him sighing and uttering a thousand
passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he exclaimed, “What
news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a white stone or a
black?”
“Your worship,” replied Sancho, “had better mark it with ruddle, like the
inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who see it may see it
plain.”
“Then thou bringest good news,” said Don Quixote.
“So good,” replied Sancho, “that your worship has only to spur Rocinante
and get out into the open field to see the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who,
with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your worship.”
“Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?” exclaimed Don
Quixote. “Take care thou art not deceiving me, or seeking by false joy to
cheer my real sadness.”
“What could I get by deceiving your worship,” returned Sancho, “espe-
cially when it will so soon be shown whether I tell the truth or not? Come,
senor, push on, and you will see the princess our mistress coming, robed
and adorned—in fact, like what she is. Her damsels and she are all one
glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of bro-
cade of more than ten borders; with their hair loose on their shoulders like
so many sunbeams playing with the wind; and moreover, they come mount-
ed on three piebald cackneys, the finest sight ever you saw.”
“Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,” said Don Quixote.
“There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys,” said
Sancho; “but no matter what they come on, there they are, the finest ladies
one could wish for, especially my lady the princess Dulcinea, who staggers
one’s senses.”
“Let us go, Sancho, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and in guerdon of this
news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow upon thee the best spoil I shall
win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does not satisfy thee, I
promise thee the foals I shall have this year from my three mares that thou
knowest are in foal on our village common.”
“I’ll take the foals,” said Sancho; “for it is not quite certain that the spoils
of the first adventure will be good ones.”
By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three village lasses
close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El Toboso, and as
he could see nobody except the three peasant girls, he was completely puz-
zled, and asked Sancho if it was outside the city he had left them.
“How outside the city?” returned Sancho. “Are your worship’s eyes in the
back of your head, that you can’t see that they are these who are coming
here, shining like the very sun at noonday?”
“I see nothing, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but three country girls on
three jackasses.”
“Now, may God deliver me from the devil!” said Sancho, “and can it be
that your worship takes three hackneys—or whatever they’re called-as white
as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I could tear my beard if that
was the case!”
“Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “that it is as
plain they are jackasses—or jennyasses—as that I am Don Quixote, and
thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me to be so.”
“Hush, senor,” said Sancho, “don’t talk that way, but open your eyes, and
come and pay your respects to the lady of your thoughts, who is close upon
us now;” and with these words he advanced to receive the three village lass-
es, and dismounting from Dapple, caught hold of one of the asses of the
three country girls by the halter, and dropping on both knees on the ground,
he said, “Queen and princess and duchess of beauty, may it please your
haughtiness and greatness to receive into your favour and good-will your
captive knight who stands there turned into marble stone, and quite stupe-
fied and benumbed at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am
Sancho Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of La
Mancha, otherwise called ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'”
Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside Sancho,
and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze, was regarding
her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could see nothing in her
except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured one, for she was platter-
faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and bewildered, and did not ven-
ture to open his lips. The country girls, at the same time, were astonished to
see these two men, so different in appearance, on their knees, preventing
their companion from going on. She, however, who had been stopped,
breaking silence, said angrily and testily, “Get out of the way, bad luck to
you, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.”
To which Sancho returned, “Oh, princess and universal lady of El To-
boso, is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing the pillar and prop
of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated presence?”
On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, “Woa then! why, I’m rub-
bing thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law! See how the lordlings come to
make game of the village girls now, as if we here could not chaff as well as
themselves. Go your own way, and let us go ours, and it will be better for
you.”
“Get up, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this; “I see that fortune, ‘with evil
done to me unsated still,’ has taken possession of all the roads by which any
comfort may reach ‘this wretched soul’ that I carry in my flesh. And thou,
highest perfection of excellence that can be desired, utmost limit of grace in
human shape, sole relief of this afflicted heart that adores thee, though the
malign enchanter that persecutes me has brought clouds and cataracts on
my eyes, and to them, and them only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty
and changed thy features into those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he has
not at the same time changed mine into those of some monster to render
them loathsome in thy sight, refuse not to look upon me with tenderness
and love; seeing in this submission that I make on my knees to thy trans-
formed beauty the humility with which my soul adores thee.”
“Hey-day! My grandfather!” cried the girl, “much I care for your love-
making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we’ll thank you.”
Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have got so well
out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass who had done duty
for Dulcinea found herself free, prodding her “cackney” with a spike she
had at the end of a stick, she set off at full speed across the field. The she-
ass, however, feeling the point more acutely than usual, began cutting such
capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to the ground; seeing which, Don
Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho to fix and girth the pack-saddle,
which also had slipped under the ass’s belly. The pack-saddle being secured,
as Don Quixote was about to lift up his enchanted mistress in his arms and
put her upon her beast, the lady, getting up from the ground, saved him the
trouble, for, going back a little, she took a short run, and putting both hands
on the croup of the ass she dropped into the saddle more lightly than a fal-
con, and sat astride like a man, whereat Sancho said, “Rogue! but our lady
is lighter than a lanner, and might teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican
how to mount; she cleared the back of the saddle in one jump, and without
spurs she is making the hackney go like a zebra; and her damsels are no
way behind her, for they all fly like the wind;” which was the truth, for as
soon as they saw Dulcinea mounted, they pushed on after her, and sped
away without looking back, for more than half a league.
Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no longer
in sight, he turned to Sancho and said, “How now, Sancho? thou seest how I
am hated by enchanters! And see to what a length the malice and spite they
bear me go, when they seek to deprive me of the happiness it would give
me to see my lady in her own proper form. The fact is I was born to be an
example of misfortune, and the target and mark at which the arrows of ad-
versity are aimed and directed. Observe too, Sancho, that these traitors were
not content with changing and transforming my Dulcinea, but they trans-
formed and changed her into a shape as mean and ill-favoured as that of the
village girl yonder; and at the same time they robbed her of that which is
such a peculiar property of ladies of distinction, that is to say, the sweet fra-
grance that comes of being always among perfumes and flowers. For I must
tell thee, Sancho, that when I approached to put Dulcinea upon her hackney
(as thou sayest it was, though to me it appeared a she-ass), she gave me a
whiff of raw garlic that made my head reel, and poisoned my very heart.”
“O scum of the earth!” cried Sancho at this, “O miserable, spiteful en-
chanters! O that I could see you all strung by the gills, like sardines on a
twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great deal, and ye do a great deal
more. It ought to have been enough for you, ye scoundrels, to have changed
the pearls of my lady’s eyes into oak galls, and her hair of purest gold into
the bristles of a red ox’s tail, and in short, all her features from fair to foul,
without meddling with her smell; for by that we might somehow have
found out what was hidden underneath that ugly rind; though, to tell the
truth, I never perceived her ugliness, but only her beauty, which was raised
to the highest pitch of perfection by a mole she had on her right lip, like a
moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like threads of gold, and more than
a palm long.”
“From the correspondence which exists between those of the face and
those of the body,” said Don Quixote, “Dulcinea must have another mole
resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on which she has the
one on her ace; but hairs of the length thou hast mentioned are very long for
moles.”
“Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,” replied
Sancho.
“I believe it, my friend,” returned Don Quixote; “for nature bestowed
nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and well-finished; and so, if she
had a hundred moles like the one thou hast described, in her they would not
be moles, but moons and shining stars. But tell me, Sancho, that which
seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou wert fixing it, was it a flat-saddle
or a side-saddle?”
“It was neither,” replied Sancho, “but a jineta saddle, with a field cover-
ing worth half a kingdom, so rich is it.”
“And that I could not see all this, Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “once
more I say, and will say a thousand times, I am the most unfortunate of
men.”
Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing the
simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. At length, after a good
deal more conversation had passed between them, they remounted their
beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which they expected to reach in
time to take part in a certain grand festival which is held every year in that
illustrious city; but before they got there things happened to them, so many,
so important, and so strange, that they deserve to be recorded and read, as
will be seen farther on.
