CHAPTER 34
WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISEN-
CHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST AD-
VENTURES IN THIS BOOK
Great was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the conversation of
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and, more bent than ever upon the plan
they had of practising some jokes upon them that should have the look and
appearance of adventures, they took as their basis of action what Don
Quixote had already told them about the cave of Montesinos, in order to
play him a famous one. But what the duchess marvelled at above all was
that Sancho’s simplicity could be so great as to make him believe as abso-
lute truth that Dulcinea had been enchanted, when it was he himself who
had been the enchanter and trickster in the business. Having, therefore, in-
structed their servants in everything they were to do, six days afterwards
they took him out to hunt, with as great a retinue of huntsmen and beaters
as a crowned king.
They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and Sancho with anoth-
er of the finest green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his on, saying
that he must soon return to the hard pursuit of arms, and could not carry
wardrobes or stores with him. Sancho, however, took what they gave him,
meaning to sell it the first opportunity.
The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed himself, and San-
cho arrayed himself, and mounted on his Dapple (for he would not give him
up though they offered him a horse), he placed himself in the midst of the
troop of huntsmen. The duchess came out splendidly attired, and Don
Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the rein of her palfrey, though
the duke wanted not to allow him; and at last they reached a wood that lay
between two high mountains, where, after occupying various posts, am-
bushes, and paths, and distributing the party in different positions, the hunt
began with great noise, shouting, and hallooing, so that, between the baying
of the hounds and the blowing of the horns, they could not hear one another.
The duchess dismounted, and with a sharp boar-spear in her hand posted
herself where she knew the wild boars were in the habit of passing. The
duke and Don Quixote likewise dismounted and placed themselves one at
each side of her. Sancho took up a position in the rear of all without dis-
mounting from Dapple, whom he dared not desert lest some mischief
should befall him. Scarcely had they taken their stand in a line with several
of their servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely pressed by the hounds
and followed by the huntsmen, making towards them, grinding his teeth and
tusks, and scattering foam from his mouth. As soon as he saw him Don
Quixote, bracing his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced to
meet him; the duke with boar-spear did the same; but the duchess would
have gone in front of them all had not the duke prevented her. Sancho
alone, deserting Dapple at the sight of the mighty beast, took to his heels as
hard as he could and strove in vain to mount a tall oak. As he was clinging
to a branch, however, half-way up in his struggle to reach the top, the
bough, such was his ill-luck and hard fate, gave way, and caught in his fall
by a broken limb of the oak, he hung suspended in the air unable to reach
the ground. Finding himself in this position, and that the green coat was be-
ginning to tear, and reflecting that if the fierce animal came that way he
might be able to get at him, he began to utter such cries, and call for help so
earnestly, that all who heard him and did not see him felt sure he must be in
the teeth of some wild beast. In the end the tusked boar fell pierced by the
blades of the many spears they held in front of him; and Don Quixote, turn-
ing round at the cries of Sancho, for he knew by them that it was he, saw
him hanging from the oak head downwards, with Dapple, who did not for-
sake him in his distress, close beside him; and Cide Hamete observes that
he seldom saw Sancho Panza without seeing Dapple, or Dapple without
seeing Sancho Panza; such was their attachment and loyalty one to the oth-
er. Don Quixote went over and unhooked Sancho, who, as soon as he found
himself on the ground, looked at the rent in his huntingcoat and was grieved
to the heart, for he thought he had got a patrimonial estate in that suit.
Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a mule, and
having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of myrtle, they bore
it away as the spoils of victory to some large field-tents which had been
pitched in the middle of the wood, where they found the tables laid and din-
ner served, in such grand and sumptuous style that it was easy to see the
rank and magnificence of those who had provided it. Sancho, as he showed
the rents in his torn suit to the duchess, observed, “If we had been hunting
hares, or after small birds, my coat would have been safe from being in the
plight it’s in; I don’t know what pleasure one can find in lying in wait for an
animal that may take your life with his tusk if he gets at you. I recollect
having heard an old ballad sung that says,
By bears be thou devoured, as erst
Was famous Favila.”
“That,” said Don Quixote, “was a Gothic king, who, going a-hunting, was
devoured by a bear.”
“Just so,” said Sancho; “and I would not have kings and princes expose
themselves to such dangers for the sake of a pleasure which, to my mind,
ought not to be one, as it consists in killing an animal that has done no harm
whatever.”
“Quite the contrary, Sancho; you are wrong there,” said the duke; “for
hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings and princes than for any-
body else. The chase is the emblem of war; it has stratagems, wiles, and
crafty devices for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it extreme cold and
intolerable heat have to be borne, indolence and sleep are despised, the bod-
ily powers are invigorated, the limbs of him who engages in it are made
supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit which may be followed without injury
to anyone and with enjoyment to many; and the best of it is, it is not for
everybody, as field-sports of other sorts are, except hawking, which also is
only for kings and great lords. Reconsider your opinion therefore, Sancho,
and when you are governor take to hunting, and you will find the good of
it.”
“Nay,” said Sancho, “the good governor should have a broken leg and
keep at home;” it would be a nice thing if, after people had been at the trou-
ble of coming to look for him on business, the governor were to be away in
the forest enjoying himself; the government would go on badly in that fash-
ion. By my faith, senor, hunting and amusements are more fit for idlers than
for governors; what I intend to amuse myself with is playing all fours at
Eastertime, and bowls on Sundays and holidays; for these huntings don’t
suit my condition or agree with my conscience.”
“God grant it may turn out so,” said the duke; “because it’s a long step
from saying to doing.”
“Be that as it may,” said Sancho, “‘pledges don’t distress a good payer,’
and ‘he whom God helps does better than he who gets up early,’ and ‘it’s the
tripes that carry the feet and not the feet the tripes;’ I mean to say that if God
gives me help and I do my duty honestly, no doubt I’ll govern better than a
gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a finger in my mouth, and they’ll see
whether I can bite or not.”
“The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed Sancho!”
exclaimed Don Quixote; “when will the day come—as I have often said to
thee—when I shall hear thee make one single coherent, rational remark
without proverbs? Pray, your highnesses, leave this fool alone, for he will
grind your souls between, not to say two, but two thousand proverbs,
dragged in as much in season, and as much to the purpose as—may God
grant as much health to him, or to me if I want to listen to them!”
“Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said the duchess, “though more in number
than the Greek Commander’s, are not therefore less to be esteemed for the
conciseness of the maxims. For my own part, I can say they give me more
pleasure than others that may be better brought in and more seasonably
introduced.”
In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the tent into the
wood, and the day was spent in visiting some of the posts and hiding-
places, and then night closed in, not, however, as brilliantly or tranquilly as
might have been expected at the season, for it was then midsummer; but
bringing with it a kind of haze that greatly aided the project of the duke and
duchess; and thus, as night began to fall, and a little after twilight set in,
suddenly the whole wood on all four sides seemed to be on fire, and shortly
after, here, there, on all sides, a vast number of trumpets and other military
instruments were heard, as if several troops of cavalry were passing through
the wood. The blaze of the fire and the noise of the warlike instruments al-
most blinded the eyes and deafened the ears of those that stood by, and in-
deed of all who were in the wood. Then there were heard repeated lelilies
after the fashion of the Moors when they rush to battle; trumpets and clari-
ons brayed, drums beat, fifes played, so unceasingly and so fast that he
could not have had any senses who did not lose them with the confused din
of so many instruments. The duke was astounded, the duchess amazed, Don
Quixote wondering, Sancho Panza trembling, and indeed, even they who
were aware of the cause were frightened. In their fear, silence fell upon
them, and a postillion, in the guise of a demon, passed in front of them,
blowing, in lieu of a bugle, a huge hollow horn that gave out a horrible
hoarse note.
“Ho there! brother courier,” cried the duke, “who are you? Where are you
going? What troops are these that seem to be passing through the wood?”
To which the courier replied in a harsh, discordant voice, “I am the devil;
I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha; those who are coming this
way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing on a triumphal car the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso; she comes under enchantment, together with
the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give instructions to Don Quixote as
to how, she the said lady, may be disenchanted.”
“If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance indicates,” said
the duke, “you would have known the said knight Don Quixote of La Man-
cha, for you have him here before you.”
“By God and upon my conscience,” said the devil, “I never observed it,
for my mind is occupied with so many different things that I was forgetting
the main thing I came about.”
“This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Christian,” said San-
cho; “for if he wasn’t he wouldn’t swear by God and his conscience; I feel
sure now there must be good souls even in hell itself.”
Without dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote and said,
“The unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends me to thee, the
Knight of the Lions (would that I saw thee in their claws), bidding me tell
thee to wait for him wherever I may find thee, as he brings with him her
whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may show thee what is needful
in order to disenchant her; and as I came for no more I need stay no longer;
demons of my sort be with thee, and good angels with these gentles;” and
so saying he blew his huge horn, turned about and went off without waiting
for a reply from anyone.
They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don Quixote;
Sancho to see how, in defiance of the truth, they would have it that Dulcinea
was enchanted; Don Quixote because he could not feel sure whether what
had happened to him in the cave of Montesinos was true or not; and as he
was deep in these cogitations the duke said to him, “Do you mean to wait,
Senor Don Quixote?”
“Why not?” replied he; “here will I wait, fearless and firm, though all hell
should come to attack me.”
“Well then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like the last, I’ll
wait here as much as in Flanders,” said Sancho.
Night now closed in more completely, and many lights began to flit
through the wood, just as those fiery exhalations from the earth, that look
like shooting-stars to our eyes, flit through the heavens; a frightful noise,
too, was heard, like that made by the solid wheels the ox-carts usually have,
by the harsh, ceaseless creaking of which, they say, the bears and wolves
are put to flight, if there happen to be any where they are passing. In addi-
tion to all this commotion, there came a further disturbance to increase the
tumult, for now it seemed as if in truth, on all four sides of the wood, four
encounters or battles were going on at the same time; in one quarter re-
sounded the dull noise of a terrible cannonade, in another numberless mus-
kets were being discharged, the shouts of the combatants sounded almost
close at hand, and farther away the Moorish lelilies were raised again and
again. In a word, the bugles, the horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the
drums, the cannon, the musketry, and above all the tremendous noise of the
carts, all made up together a din so confused and terrific that Don Quixote
had need to summon up all his courage to brave it; but Sancho’s gave way,
and he fell fainting on the skirt of the duchess’s robe, who let him lie there
and promptly bade them throw water in his face. This was done, and he
came to himself by the time that one of the carts with the creaking wheels
reached the spot. It was drawn by four plodding oxen all covered with black
housings; on each horn they had fixed a large lighted wax taper, and on the
top of the cart was constructed a raised seat, on which sat a venerable old
man with a beard whiter than the very snow, and so long that it fell below
his waist; he was dressed in a long robe of black buckram; for as the cart
was thickly set with a multitude of candles it was easy to make out every-
thing that was on it. Leading it were two hideous demons, also clad in buck-
ram, with countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen them,
shut his eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as the cart came opposite
the spot the old man rose from his lofty seat, and standing up said in a loud
voice, “I am the sage Lirgandeo,” and without another word the cart then
passed on. Behind it came another of the same form, with another aged man
enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no less solemn than that
of the first, “I am the sage Alquife, the great friend of Urganda the Un-
known,” and passed on. Then another cart came by at the same pace, but the
occupant of the throne was not old like the others, but a man stalwart and
robust, and of a forbidding countenance, who as he came up said in a voice
far hoarser and more devilish, “I am the enchanter Archelaus, the mortal en-
emy of Amadis of Gaul and all his kindred,” and then passed on. Having
gone a short distance the three carts halted and the monotonous noise of
their wheels ceased, and soon after they heard another, not noise, but sound
of sweet, harmonious music, of which Sancho was very glad, taking it to be
a good sign; and said he to the duchess, from whom he did not stir a step, or
for a single instant, “Senora, where there’s music there can’t be mischief.”
“Nor where there are lights and it is bright,” said the duchess; to which
Sancho replied, “Fire gives light, and it’s bright where there are bonfires, as
we see by those that are all round us and perhaps may burn us; but music is
a sign of mirth and merrymaking.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Don Quixote, who was listening to all
that passed; and he was right, as is shown in the following chapter.
