CHAPTER 18
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON
QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING
Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on his
beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, “I have now
come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is beyond a
doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously diverted them-
selves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings of another
world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when I was by the
wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, it was out of my
power to mount upon it, nor could I even dismount from Rocinante, be-
cause they no doubt had me enchanted; for I swear to thee by the faith of
what I am that if I had been able to climb up or dismount, I would have
avenged thee in such a way that those braggart thieves would have remem-
bered their freak for ever, even though in so doing I knew that I contravened
the laws of chivalry, which, as I have often told thee, do not permit a knight
to lay hands on him who is not one, save in case of urgent and great neces-
sity in defence of his own life and person.”
“I would have avenged myself too if I could,” said Sancho, “whether I
had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though for my part I am per-
suaded those who amused themselves with me were not phantoms or en-
chanted men, as your worship says, but men of flesh and bone like our-
selves; and they all had their names, for I heard them name them when they
were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and another Tenorio
Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan Palomeque the Left-
handed; so that, senor, your not being able to leap over the wall of the yard
or dismount from your horse came of something else besides enchantments;
and what I make out clearly from all this is, that these adventures we go
seeking will in the end lead us into such misadventures that we shall not
know which is our right foot; and that the best and wisest thing, according
to my small wits, would be for us to return home, now that it is harvest-
time, and attend to our business, and give over wandering from Zeca to
Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is.”
“How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote;
“hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when thou shalt see
with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to wander in the pursuit
of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there be in the world,
or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, and triumphing over
one’s enemy? None, beyond all doubt.”
“Very likely,” answered Sancho, “though I do not know it; all I know is
that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has been one
(for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable a number) we
have never won any battle except the one with the Biscayan, and even out
of that your worship came with half an ear and half a helmet the less; and
from that till now it has been all cudgellings and more cudgellings, cuffs
and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over and above, and falling in with
enchanted persons on whom I cannot avenge myself so as to know what the
delight, as your worship calls it, of conquering an enemy is like.”
“That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,” replied
Don Quixote; “but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some
sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take effect upon
him who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may procure for me
that which belonged to Amadis when he was called ‘The Knight of the
Burning Sword,’ which was one of the best swords that ever knight in the
world possessed, for, besides having the said virtue, it cut like a razor, and
there was no armour, however strong and enchanted it might be, that could
resist it.”
“Such is my luck,” said Sancho, “that even if that happened and your
worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out service-
able and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the squires, they might
sup sorrow.”
“Fear not that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote: “Heaven will deal better by
thee.”
Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the
road they were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a large
and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and said:
“This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is
reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any other
shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I shall do deeds that
shall remain written in the book of fame for all ages to come. Seest thou
that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well, then, all that is churned up by a
vast army composed of various and countless nations that comes marching
there.”
“According to that there must be two,” said Sancho, “for on this opposite
side also there rises just such another cloud of dust.”
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing ex-
ceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage and en-
counter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and seasons his fan-
cy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures, crazy feats, loves, and
defiances that are recorded in the books of chivalry, and everything he said,
thought, or did had reference to such things. Now the cloud of dust he had
seen was raised by two great droves of sheep coming along the same road
in opposite directions, which, because of the dust, did not become visible
until they drew near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were
armies that Sancho was led to believe it and say, “Well, and what are we to
do, senor?”
“What?” said Don Quixote: “give aid and assistance to the weak and
those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes op-
posite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of
the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me is that of his
enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, for he al-
ways goes into battle with his right arm bare.”
“But why are these two lords such enemies?”
“They are at enmity,” replied Don Quixote, “because this Alifanfaron is a
furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is a very
beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her father is un-
willing to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he first abandons the reli-
gion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his own.”
“By my beard,” said Sancho, “but Pentapolin does quite right, and I will
help him as much as I can.”
“In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for to
engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a dubbed knight.”
“That I can well understand,” answered Sancho; “but where shall we put
this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is over? for I be-
lieve it has not been the custom so far to go into battle on a beast of this
kind.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and what you had best do with him is
to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for the horses we
shall have when we come out victors will be so many that even Rocinante
will run a risk of being changed for another. But attend to me and observe,
for I wish to give thee some account of the chief knights who accompany
these two armies; and that thou mayest the better see and mark, let us with-
draw to that hillock which rises yonder, whence both armies may be seen.”
They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the
two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen
if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and blinded the
sight; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and what
did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice:
“That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon
his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant
Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour with flowers of
gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an azure field, is the
dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that other of gigantic frame,
on his right hand, is the ever dauntless Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of
the three Arabias, who for armour wears that serpent skin, and has for shield
a gate which, according to tradition, is one of those of the temple that Sam-
son brought to the ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his
enemies. But turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front
and in the van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished
Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with
arms quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat
or on a field tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the beginning of
the name of his lady, who according to report is the peerless Miaulina,
daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the other, who burdens and
presses the loins of that powerful charger and bears arms white as snow and
a shield blank and without any device, is a novice knight, a Frenchman by
birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of the baronies of Utrique; that other,
who with iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble parti-coloured ze-
bra, and for arms bears azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafi-
lardo del Bosque, who bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant
with a motto in Castilian that says, Rastrea mi suerte.” And so he went on
naming a number of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagi-
nation, and to all he assigned off-hand their arms, colours, devices, and
mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and without
a pause, he continued, “People of divers nations compose this squadron in
front; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus,
those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that sift the pure fine
gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool banks of the crystal
Thermodon, those that in many and various ways divert the streams of the
golden Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless in their promises, the Persians
renowned in archery, the Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the
Arabs that ever shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair,
the Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose fea-
tures I recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In this oth-
er squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams of the olive-
bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances with the water of
the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in the fertilising flow of
the divine Genil, those that roam the Tartesian plains abounding in pasture,
those that take their pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich
Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old
relics of the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its
gentle current, those that feed their herds along the spreading pastures of the
winding Guadiana famed for its hidden course, those that tremble with the
cold of the pineclad Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine;
in a word, as many as all Europe includes and contains.”
Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to
each its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and saturated
with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung upon his
words without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if he could see
the knights and giants his master was describing, and as he could not make
out one of them he said to him:
“Senor, devil take it if there’s a sign of any man you talk of, knight or gi-
ant, in the whole thing; maybe it’s all enchantment, like the phantoms last
night.”
“How canst thou say that!” answered Don Quixote; “dost thou not hear
the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the
drums?”
“I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,” said Sancho;
which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come close.
“The fear thou art in, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “prevents thee from
seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to derange the
senses and make things appear different from what they are; if thou art in
such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself, for alone I suffice
to bring victory to that side to which I shall give my aid;” and so saying he
gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot down the slope
like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying, “Come back, Senor
Don Quixote; I vow to God they are sheep and ewes you are charging!
Come back! Unlucky the father that begot me! what madness is this! Look,
there is no giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or
whole, nor vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am
before God!” But not for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back; on
the contrary he went on shouting out, “Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight
under the banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, fol-
low me all; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his revenge over his en-
emy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana.”
So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began
spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were transfixing
mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and drovers accompanying the
flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was no use, they ungirt their slings
and began to salute his ears with stones as big as one’s fist. Don Quixote
gave no heed to the stones, but, letting drive right and left kept saying:
“Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single
knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee
yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin
Garamanta.” Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that struck him on the
side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feeling himself so smitten, he
imagined himself slain or badly wounded for certain, and recollecting his
liquor he drew out his flask, and putting it to his mouth began to pour the
contents into his stomach; but ere he had succeeded in swallowing what
seemed to him enough, there came another almond which struck him on the
hand and on the flask so fairly that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or
four teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing
two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the sec-
ond, that the poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his
horse. The shepherds came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all
haste they collected their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of which
there were more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascertain any-
thing further.
All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his master
was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and the occasion
when fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then, brought
to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken themselves off, he ran to
him and found him in very bad case, though not unconscious; and said he:
“Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don Quixote; and that what you
were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?”
“That’s how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify things,”
answered Don Quixote; “thou must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy mat-
ter for those of his sort to make us believe what they choose; and this malig-
nant being who persecutes me, envious of the glory he knew I was to win in
this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy into droves of sheep. At
any rate, do this much, I beg of thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see
that what I say is true; mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou
shalt see that when they have gone some little distance from this they will
return to their original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become men in all
respects as I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet, for I want
thy help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of my teeth and
grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my mouth.”
Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now
just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote,
so, at the very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth, he dis-
charged all its contents with more force than a musket, and full into the
beard of the compassionate squire.
“Holy Mary!” cried Sancho, “what is this that has happened me? Clearly
this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the mouth;” but
considering the matter a little more closely he perceived by the colour, taste,
and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the flask which he had
seen him drink; and he was taken with such a loathing that his stomach
turned, and he vomited up his inside over his very master, and both were
left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something wherewith to
clean himself, and relieve his master, out of his alforjas; but not finding
them, he well-nigh took leave of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and
in his heart resolved to quit his master and return home, even though he for-
feited the wages of his service and all hopes of the promised island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep his
teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of the bridle of
Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master’s side—so loyal and well-
behaved was he—and betook himself to where the squire stood leaning over
his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one in deep dejection. Seeing him in
this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote said to him:
“Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he
does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us are signs that
fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go well with us, for it is
impossible for good or evil to last for ever; and hence it follows that the evil
having lasted long, the good must be now nigh at hand; so thou must not
distress thyself at the misfortunes which happen to me, since thou hast no
share in them.”
“How have I not?” replied Sancho; “was he whom they blanketed yester-
day perchance any other than my father’s son? and the alforjas that are miss-
ing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to any other but myself?”
“What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?” said Don Quixote.
“Yes, they are missing,” answered Sancho.
“In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don Quixote.
“It would be so,” answered Sancho, “if there were none of the herbs your
worship says you know in these meadows, those with which knights-errant
as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like shortcomings.”
“For all that,” answered Don Quixote, “I would rather have just now a
quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards’ heads, than all the
herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna’s notes. Never-
theless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along with me, for
God, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially when we
are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not the midges of the
air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the water, and is so merci-
ful that he maketh his sun to rise on the good and on the evil, and sendeth
rain on the unjust and on the just.”
“Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant,” said
Sancho.
“Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho,” said Don
Quixote; “for there were knights-errant in former times as well qualified to
deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an encampment, as if they
had graduated in the University of Paris; whereby we may see that the lance
has never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.”
“Well, be it as your worship says,” replied Sancho; “let us be off now and
find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may be somewhere
where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor enchanted
Moors; for if there are, may the devil take the whole concern.”
“Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote; “and do thou lead on
where thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach
me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how many of my
teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw, for it is
there I feel the pain.”
Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, “How many
grinders used your worship have on this side?”
“Four,” replied Don Quixote, “besides the back-tooth, all whole and quite
sound.”
“Mind what you are saying, senor.”
“I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “for never in my life
have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been destroyed
by any decay or rheum.”
“Well, then,” said Sancho, “in this lower side your worship has no more
than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor any at all,
for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand.”
“Luckless that I am!” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire
gave him; “I had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the
sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a mill with-
out a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a diamond; but
we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to all this. Mount,
friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at whatever pace thou wilt.”
Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which he
thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road, which was
there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a slow pace—for
the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws kept him uneasy and ill-disposed for speed
—Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him by talk of some kind, and
among the things he said to him was that which will be told in the following
chapter.
