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Don Quixote - Chapter 32

1. The Author's Preface

2. Dedication of Volume I

3. Chapter 1

4. Chapter 2

5. Chapter 3

6. Chapter 4

7. Chapter 5

8. Chapter 6

9. Chapter 7

10. Chapter 8

11. Chapter 9

12. Chapter 10

13. Chapter 11

14. Chapter 12

15. Chapter 13

16. Chapter 14

17. Chapter 15

18. Chapter 16

19. Chapter 17

20. Chapter 18

21. Chapter 19

22. Chapter 20

23. Chapter 21

24. Chapter 22

25. Chapter 23

26. Chapter 24

27. Chapter 25

28. Chapter 26

29. Chapter 27

30. Chapter 28

31. Chapter 29

32. Chapter 30

33. Chapter 31

34. Chapter 32

35. Chapter 33

36. Chapter 34

37. Chapter 35

38. Chapter 36

39. Chapter 37

40. Chapter 38

41. Chapter 39

42. Chapter 40

43. Chapter 41

44. Chapter 42

45. Chapter 43

46. Chapter 44

47. Chapter 45

48. Chapter 46

49. Chapter 47

50. Chapter 48

51. Chapter 49

52. Chapter 50

53. Chapter 51

54. Chapter 52

55. Dedication of Volume II

56. The Author's Preface

57. Chapter 1

58. Chapter 2

59. Chapter 3

60. Chapter 4

61. Chapter 5

62. Chapter 6

63. Chapter 7

64. Chapter 8

65. Chapter 9

66. Chapter 10

67. Chapter 11

68. Chapter 12

69. Chapter 13

70. Chapter 14

71. Chapter 15

72. Chapter 16

73. Chapter 17

74. Chapter 18

75. Chapter 19

76. Chapter 20

77. Chapter 21

78. Chapter 22

79. Chapter 23

80. Chapter 24

81. Chapter 25

82. Chapter 26

83. Chapter 27

84. Chapter 28

85. Chapter 29

86. Chapter 30

87. Chapter 31

88. Chapter 32

89. Chapter 33

90. Chapter 34

91. Chapter 35

92. Chapter 36

93. Chapter 37

94. Chapter 38

95. Chapter 39

96. Chapter 40

97. Chapter 41

98. Chapter 42

99. Chapter 43

100. Chapter 44

101. Chapter 45

102. Chapter 46

103. Chapter 47

104. Chapter 48

105. Chapter 49

106. Chapter 50

107. Chapter 51

108. Chapter 52

109. Chapter 53

110. Chapter 54

111. Chapter 55

112. Chapter 56

113. Chapter 57

114. Chapter 58

115. Chapter 59

116. Chapter 60

117. Chapter 61

118. Chapter 62

119. Chapter 63

120. Chapter 64

121. Chapter 65

122. Chapter 66

123. Chapter 67

124. Chapter 68

125. Chapter 69

126. Chapter 70

127. Chapter 71

128. Chapter 72

129. Chapter 73

130. Chapter 74







CHAPTER XXXII.

OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE
AND DROLL


Don Quixote, then, having risen to his feet, trembling from head to foot
like a man dosed with mercury, said in a hurried, agitated voice, "The
place I am in, the presence in which I stand, and the respect I have and
always have had for the profession to which your worship belongs, hold
and bind the hands of my just indignation; and as well for these reasons
as because I know, as everyone knows, that a gownsman's weapon is the
same as a woman's, the tongue, I will with mine engage in equal combat
with your worship, from whom one might have expected good advice instead
of foul abuse. Pious, well-meant reproof requires a different demeanour
and arguments of another sort; at any rate, to have reproved me in
public, and so roughly, exceeds the bounds of proper reproof, for that
comes better with gentleness than with rudeness; and it is not seemly to
call the sinner roundly blockhead and booby, without knowing anything of
the sin that is reproved. Come, tell me, for which of the stupidities you
have observed in me do you condemn and abuse me, and bid me go home and
look after my house and wife and children, without knowing whether I have
any? Is nothing more needed than to get a footing, by hook or by crook,
in other people's houses to rule over the masters (and that, perhaps,
after having been brought up in all the straitness of some seminary, and
without having ever seen more of the world than may lie within twenty or
thirty leagues round), to fit one to lay down the law rashly for
chivalry, and pass judgment on knights-errant? Is it, haply, an idle
occupation, or is the time ill-spent that is spent in roaming the world
in quest, not of its enjoyments, but of those arduous toils whereby the
good mount upwards to the abodes of everlasting life? If gentlemen, great
lords, nobles, men of high birth, were to rate me as a fool I should take
it as an irreparable insult; but I care not a farthing if clerks who have
never entered upon or trod the paths of chivalry should think me foolish.
Knight I am, and knight I will die, if such be the pleasure of the Most
High. Some take the broad road of overweening ambition; others that of
mean and servile flattery; others that of deceitful hypocrisy, and some
that of true religion; but I, led by my star, follow the narrow path of
knight-errantry, and in pursuit of that calling I despise wealth, but not
honour. I have redressed injuries, righted wrongs, punished insolences,
vanquished giants, and crushed monsters; I am in love, for no other
reason than that it is incumbent on knights-errant to be so; but though I
am, I am no carnal-minded lover, but one of the chaste, platonic sort. My
intentions are always directed to worthy ends, to do good to all and evil
to none; and if he who means this, does this, and makes this his practice
deserves to be called a fool, it is for your highnesses to say, O most
excellent duke and duchess."

"Good, by God!" cried Sancho; "say no more in your own defence, master
mine, for there's nothing more in the world to be said, thought, or
insisted on; and besides, when this gentleman denies, as he has, that
there are or ever have been any knights-errant in the world, is it any
wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been talking about?"

"Perhaps, brother," said the ecclesiastic, "you are that Sancho Panza
that is mentioned, to whom your master has promised an island?"

"Yes, I am," said Sancho, "and what's more, I am one who deserves it as
much as anyone; I am one of the sort--'Attach thyself to the good, and
thou wilt be one of them,' and of those, 'Not with whom thou art bred,
but with whom thou art fed,' and of those, 'Who leans against a good
tree, a good shade covers him;' I have leant upon a good master, and I
have been for months going about with him, and please God I shall be just
such another; long life to him and long life to me, for neither will he
be in any want of empires to rule, or I of islands to govern."

"No, Sancho my friend, certainly not," said the duke, "for in the name of
Senor Don Quixote I confer upon you the government of one of no small
importance that I have at my disposal."

"Go down on thy knees, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and kiss the feet of
his excellence for the favour he has bestowed upon thee."

Sancho obeyed, and on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up from table
completely out of temper, exclaiming, "By the gown I wear, I am almost
inclined to say that your excellence is as great a fool as these sinners.
No wonder they are mad, when people who are in their senses sanction
their madness! I leave your excellence with them, for so long as they are
in the house, I will remain in my own, and spare myself the trouble of
reproving what I cannot remedy;" and without uttering another word, or
eating another morsel, he went off, the entreaties of the duke and
duchess being entirely unavailing to stop him; not that the duke said
much to him, for he could not, because of the laughter his uncalled-for
anger provoked.

When he had done laughing, he said to Don Quixote, "You have replied on
your own behalf so stoutly, Sir Knight of the Lions, that there is no
occasion to seek further satisfaction for this, which, though it may look
like an offence, is not so at all, for, as women can give no offence, no
more can ecclesiastics, as you very well know."

"That is true," said Don Quixote, "and the reason is, that he who is not
liable to offence cannot give offence to anyone. Women, children, and
ecclesiastics, as they cannot defend themselves, though they may receive
offence cannot be insulted, because between the offence and the insult
there is, as your excellence very well knows, this difference: the insult
comes from one who is capable of offering it, and does so, and maintains
it; the offence may come from any quarter without carrying insult. To
take an example: a man is standing unsuspectingly in the street and ten
others come up armed and beat him; he draws his sword and quits himself
like a man, but the number of his antagonists makes it impossible for him
to effect his purpose and avenge himself; this man suffers an offence but
not an insult. Another example will make the same thing plain: a man is
standing with his back turned, another comes up and strikes him, and
after striking him takes to flight, without waiting an instant, and the
other pursues him but does not overtake him; he who received the blow
received an offence, but not an insult, because an insult must be
maintained. If he who struck him, though he did so sneakingly and
treacherously, had drawn his sword and stood and faced him, then he who
had been struck would have received offence and insult at the same time;
offence because he was struck treacherously, insult because he who struck
him maintained what he had done, standing his ground without taking to
flight. And so, according to the laws of the accursed duel, I may have
received offence, but not insult, for neither women nor children can
maintain it, nor can they wound, nor have they any way of standing their
ground, and it is just the same with those connected with religion; for
these three sorts of persons are without arms offensive or defensive, and
so, though naturally they are bound to defend themselves, they have no
right to offend anybody; and though I said just now I might have received
offence, I say now certainly not, for he who cannot receive an insult can
still less give one; for which reasons I ought not to feel, nor do I
feel, aggrieved at what that good man said to me; I only wish he had
stayed a little longer, that I might have shown him the mistake he makes
in supposing and maintaining that there are not and never have been any
knights-errant in the world; had Amadis or any of his countless
descendants heard him say as much, I am sure it would not have gone well
with his worship."

"I will take my oath of that," said Sancho; "they would have given him a
slash that would have slit him down from top to toe like a pomegranate or
a ripe melon; they were likely fellows to put up with jokes of that sort!
By my faith, I'm certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan had heard the little
man's words he would have given him such a spank on the mouth that he
wouldn't have spoken for the next three years; ay, let him tackle them,
and he'll see how he'll get out of their hands!"

The duchess, as she listened to Sancho, was ready to die with laughter,
and in her own mind she set him down as droller and madder than his
master; and there were a good many just then who were of the same
opinion.

Don Quixote finally grew calm, and dinner came to an end, and as the
cloth was removed four damsels came in, one of them with a silver basin,
another with a jug also of silver, a third with two fine white towels on
her shoulder, and the fourth with her arms bared to the elbows, and in
her white hands (for white they certainly were) a round ball of Naples
soap. The one with the basin approached, and with arch composure and
impudence, thrust it under Don Quixote's chin, who, wondering at such a
ceremony, said never a word, supposing it to be the custom of that
country to wash beards instead of hands; he therefore stretched his out
as far as he could, and at the same instant the jug began to pour and the
damsel with the soap rubbed his beard briskly, raising snow-flakes, for
the soap lather was no less white, not only over the beard, but all over
the face, and over the eyes of the submissive knight, so that they were
perforce obliged to keep shut. The duke and duchess, who had not known
anything about this, waited to see what came of this strange washing. The
barber damsel, when she had him a hand's breadth deep in lather,
pretended that there was no more water, and bade the one with the jug go
and fetch some, while Senor Don Quixote waited. She did so, and Don
Quixote was left the strangest and most ludicrous figure that could be
imagined. All those present, and there were a good many, were watching
him, and as they saw him there with half a yard of neck, and that
uncommonly brown, his eyes shut, and his beard full of soap, it was a
great wonder, and only by great discretion, that they were able to
restrain their laughter. The damsels, the concocters of the joke, kept
their eyes down, not daring to look at their master and mistress; and as
for them, laughter and anger struggled within them, and they knew not
what to do, whether to punish the audacity of the girls, or to reward
them for the amusement they had received from seeing Don Quixote in such
a plight.

At length the damsel with the jug returned and they made an end of
washing Don Quixote, and the one who carried the towels very deliberately
wiped him and dried him; and all four together making him a profound
obeisance and curtsey, they were about to go, when the duke, lest Don
Quixote should see through the joke, called out to the one with the basin
saying, "Come and wash me, and take care that there is water enough." The
girl, sharp-witted and prompt, came and placed the basin for the duke as
she had done for Don Quixote, and they soon had him well soaped and
washed, and having wiped him dry they made their obeisance and retired.
It appeared afterwards that the duke had sworn that if they had not
washed him as they had Don Quixote he would have punished them for their
impudence, which they adroitly atoned for by soaping him as well.

Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very attentively, and said to
himself, "God bless me, if it were only the custom in this country to
wash squires' beards too as well as knights'. For by God and upon my soul
I want it badly; and if they gave me a scrape of the razor besides I'd
take it as a still greater kindness."

"What are you saying to yourself, Sancho?" asked the duchess.

"I was saying, senora," he replied, "that in the courts of other princes,
when the cloth is taken away, I have always heard say they give water for
the hands, but not lye for the beard; and that shows it is good to live
long that you may see much; to be sure, they say too that he who lives a
long life must undergo much evil, though to undergo a washing of that
sort is pleasure rather than pain."

"Don't be uneasy, friend Sancho," said the duchess; "I will take care
that my damsels wash you, and even put you in the tub if necessary."

"I'll be content with the beard," said Sancho, "at any rate for the
present; and as for the future, God has decreed what is to be."

"Attend to worthy Sancho's request, seneschal," said the duchess, "and do
exactly what he wishes."

The seneschal replied that Senor Sancho should be obeyed in everything;
and with that he went away to dinner and took Sancho along with him,
while the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at table discussing a
great variety of things, but all bearing on the calling of arms and
knight-errantry.

The duchess begged Don Quixote, as he seemed to have a retentive memory,
to describe and portray to her the beauty and features of the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, for, judging by what fame trumpeted abroad of her
beauty, she felt sure she must be the fairest creature in the world, nay,
in all La Mancha.

Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess's request, and said, "If I
could pluck out my heart, and lay it on a plate on this table here before
your highness's eyes, it would spare my tongue the pain of telling what
can hardly be thought of, for in it your excellence would see her
portrayed in full. But why should I attempt to depict and describe in
detail, and feature by feature, the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea, the
burden being one worthy of other shoulders than mine, an enterprise
wherein the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, and the graver
of Lysippus ought to be employed, to paint it in pictures and carve it in
marble and bronze, and Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence to sound its
praises?"

"What does Demosthenian mean, Senor Don Quixote?" said the duchess; "it
is a word I never heard in all my life."

"Demosthenian eloquence," said Don Quixote, "means the eloquence of
Demosthenes, as Ciceronian means that of Cicero, who were the two most
eloquent orators in the world."

"True," said the duke; "you must have lost your wits to ask such a
question. Nevertheless, Senor Don Quixote would greatly gratify us if he
would depict her to us; for never fear, even in an outline or sketch she
will be something to make the fairest envious."

"I would do so certainly," said Don Quixote, "had she not been blurred to
my mind's eye by the misfortune that fell upon her a short time since,
one of such a nature that I am more ready to weep over it than to
describe it. For your highnesses must know that, going a few days back to
kiss her hands and receive her benediction, approbation, and permission
for this third sally, I found her altogether a different being from the
one I sought; I found her enchanted and changed from a princess into a
peasant, from fair to foul, from an angel into a devil, from fragrant to
pestiferous, from refined to clownish, from a dignified lady into a
jumping tomboy, and, in a word, from Dulcinea del Toboso into a coarse
Sayago wench."

"God bless me!" said the duke aloud at this, "who can have done the world
such an injury? Who can have robbed it of the beauty that gladdened it,
of the grace and gaiety that charmed it, of the modesty that shed a
lustre upon it?"

"Who?" replied Don Quixote; "who could it be but some malignant enchanter
of the many that persecute me out of envy--that accursed race born into
the world to obscure and bring to naught the achievements of the good,
and glorify and exalt the deeds of the wicked? Enchanters have persecuted
me, enchanters persecute me still, and enchanters will continue to
persecute me until they have sunk me and my lofty chivalry in the deep
abyss of oblivion; and they injure and wound me where they know I feel it
most. For to deprive a knight-errant of his lady is to deprive him of the
eyes he sees with, of the sun that gives him light, of the food whereby
he lives. Many a time before have I said it, and I say it now once more,
a knight-errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building
without a foundation, or a shadow without the body that causes it."

"There is no denying it," said the duchess; "but still, if we are to
believe the history of Don Quixote that has come out here lately with
general applause, it is to be inferred from it, if I mistake not, that
you never saw the lady Dulcinea, and that the said lady is nothing in the
world but an imaginary lady, one that you yourself begot and gave birth
to in your brain, and adorned with whatever charms and perfections you
chose."

"There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote; "God
knows whether there be any Dulcinea or not in the world, or whether she
is imaginary or not imaginary; these are things the proof of which must
not be pushed to extreme lengths. I have not begotten nor given birth to
my lady, though I behold her as she needs must be, a lady who contains in
herself all the qualities to make her famous throughout the world,
beautiful without blemish, dignified without haughtiness, tender and yet
modest, gracious from courtesy and courteous from good breeding, and
lastly, of exalted lineage, because beauty shines forth and excels with a
higher degree of perfection upon good blood than in the fair of lowly
birth."

"That is true," said the duke; "but Senor Don Quixote will give me leave
to say what I am constrained to say by the story of his exploits that I
have read, from which it is to be inferred that, granting there is a
Dulcinea in El Toboso, or out of it, and that she is in the highest
degree beautiful as you have described her to us, as regards the
loftiness of her lineage she is not on a par with the Orianas,
Alastrajareas, Madasimas, or others of that sort, with whom, as you well
know, the histories abound."

"To that I may reply," said Don Quixote, "that Dulcinea is the daughter
of her own works, and that virtues rectify blood, and that lowly virtue
is more to be regarded and esteemed than exalted vice. Dulcinea, besides,
has that within her that may raise her to be a crowned and sceptred
queen; for the merit of a fair and virtuous woman is capable of
performing greater miracles; and virtually, though not formally, she has
in herself higher fortunes."

"I protest, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that in all you say,
you go most cautiously and lead in hand, as the saying is; henceforth I
will believe myself, and I will take care that everyone in my house
believes, even my lord the duke if needs be, that there is a Dulcinea in
El Toboso, and that she is living to-day, and that she is beautiful and
nobly born and deserves to have such a knight as Senor Don Quixote in her
service, and that is the highest praise that it is in my power to give
her or that I can think of. But I cannot help entertaining a doubt, and
having a certain grudge against Sancho Panza; the doubt is this, that the
aforesaid history declares that the said Sancho Panza, when he carried a
letter on your worship's behalf to the said lady Dulcinea, found her
sifting a sack of wheat; and more by token it says it was red wheat; a
thing which makes me doubt the loftiness of her lineage."

To this Don Quixote made answer, "Senora, your highness must know that
everything or almost everything that happens me transcends the ordinary
limits of what happens to other knights-errant; whether it be that it is
directed by the inscrutable will of destiny, or by the malice of some
jealous enchanter. Now it is an established fact that all or most famous
knights-errant have some special gift, one that of being proof against
enchantment, another that of being made of such invulnerable flesh that
he cannot be wounded, as was the famous Roland, one of the twelve peers
of France, of whom it is related that he could not be wounded except in
the sole of his left foot, and that it must be with the point of a stout
pin and not with any other sort of weapon whatever; and so, when Bernardo
del Carpio slew him at Roncesvalles, finding that he could not wound him
with steel, he lifted him up from the ground in his arms and strangled
him, calling to mind seasonably the death which Hercules inflicted on
Antaeus, the fierce giant that they say was the son of Terra. I would
infer from what I have mentioned that perhaps I may have some gift of
this kind, not that of being invulnerable, because experience has many
times proved to me that I am of tender flesh and not at all impenetrable;
nor that of being proof against enchantment, for I have already seen
myself thrust into a cage, in which all the world would not have been
able to confine me except by force of enchantments. But as I delivered
myself from that one, I am inclined to believe that there is no other
that can hurt me; and so, these enchanters, seeing that they cannot exert
their vile craft against my person, revenge themselves on what I love
most, and seek to rob me of life by maltreating that of Dulcinea in whom
I live; and therefore I am convinced that when my squire carried my
message to her, they changed her into a common peasant girl, engaged in
such a mean occupation as sifting wheat; I have already said, however,
that that wheat was not red wheat, nor wheat at all, but grains of orient
pearl. And as a proof of all this, I must tell your highnesses that,
coming to El Toboso a short time back, I was altogether unable to
discover the palace of Dulcinea; and that the next day, though Sancho, my
squire, saw her in her own proper shape, which is the fairest in the
world, to me she appeared to be a coarse, ill-favoured farm-wench, and by
no means a well-spoken one, she who is propriety itself. And so, as I am
not and, so far as one can judge, cannot be enchanted, she it is that is
enchanted, that is smitten, that is altered, changed, and transformed; in
her have my enemies revenged themselves upon me, and for her shall I live
in ceaseless tears, until I see her in her pristine state. I have
mentioned this lest anybody should mind what Sancho said about Dulcinea's
winnowing or sifting; for, as they changed her to me, it is no wonder if
they changed her to him. Dulcinea is illustrious and well-born, and of
one of the gentle families of El Toboso, which are many, ancient, and
good. Therein, most assuredly, not small is the share of the peerless
Dulcinea, through whom her town will be famous and celebrated in ages to
come, as Troy was through Helen, and Spain through La Cava, though with a
better title and tradition. For another thing; I would have your graces
understand that Sancho Panza is one of the drollest squires that ever
served knight-errant; sometimes there is a simplicity about him so acute
that it is an amusement to try and make out whether he is simple or
sharp; he has mischievous tricks that stamp him rogue, and blundering
ways that prove him a booby; he doubts everything and believes
everything; when I fancy he is on the point of coming down headlong from
sheer stupidity, he comes out with something shrewd that sends him up to
the skies. After all, I would not exchange him for another squire, though
I were given a city to boot, and therefore I am in doubt whether it will
be well to send him to the government your highness has bestowed upon
him; though I perceive in him a certain aptitude for the work of
governing, so that, with a little trimming of his understanding, he would
manage any government as easily as the king does his taxes; and moreover,
we know already ample experience that it does not require much cleverness
or much learning to be a governor, for there are a hundred round about us
that scarcely know how to read, and govern like gerfalcons. The main
point is that they should have good intentions and be desirous of doing
right in all things, for they will never be at a loss for persons to
advise and direct them in what they have to do, like those
knight-governors who, being no lawyers, pronounce sentences with the aid
of an assessor. My advice to him will be to take no bribe and surrender
no right, and I have some other little matters in reserve, that shall be
produced in due season for Sancho's benefit and the advantage of the
island he is to govern."

The duke, duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their
conversation, when they heard voices and a great hubbub in the palace,
and Sancho burst abruptly into the room all glowing with anger, with a
straining-cloth by way of a bib, and followed by several servants, or,
more properly speaking, kitchen-boys and other underlings, one of whom
carried a small trough full of water, that from its colour and impurity
was plainly dishwater. The one with the trough pursued him and followed
him everywhere he went, endeavouring with the utmost persistence to
thrust it under his chin, while another kitchen-boy seemed anxious to
wash his beard.

"What is all this, brothers?" asked the duchess. "What is it? What do you
want to do to this good man? Do you forget he is a governor-elect?"

To which the barber kitchen-boy replied, "The gentleman will not let
himself be washed as is customary, and as my lord and the senor his
master have been."

"Yes, I will," said Sancho, in a great rage; "but I'd like it to be with
cleaner towels, clearer lye, and not such dirty hands; for there's not so
much difference between me and my master that he should be washed with
angels' water and I with devil's lye. The customs of countries and
princes' palaces are only good so long as they give no annoyance; but the
way of washing they have here is worse than doing penance. I have a clean
beard, and I don't require to be refreshed in that fashion, and whoever
comes to wash me or touch a hair of my head, I mean to say my beard, with
all due respect be it said, I'll give him a punch that will leave my fist
sunk in his skull; for cirimonies and soapings of this sort are more like
jokes than the polite attentions of one's host."

The duchess was ready to die with laughter when she saw Sancho's rage and
heard his words; but it was no pleasure to Don Quixote to see him in such
a sorry trim, with the dingy towel about him, and the hangers-on of the
kitchen all round him; so making a low bow to the duke and duchess, as if
to ask their permission to speak, he addressed the rout in a dignified
tone: "Holloa, gentlemen! you let that youth alone, and go back to where
you came from, or anywhere else if you like; my squire is as clean as any
other person, and those troughs are as bad as narrow thin-necked jars to
him; take my advice and leave him alone, for neither he nor I understand
joking."

Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went on, "Nay, let them come
and try their jokes on the country bumpkin, for it's about as likely I'll
stand them as that it's now midnight! Let them bring me a comb here, or
what they please, and curry this beard of mine, and if they get anything
out of it that offends against cleanliness, let them clip me to the
skin."

Upon this, the duchess, laughing all the while, said, "Sancho Panza is
right, and always will be in all he says; he is clean, and, as he says
himself, he does not require to be washed; and if our ways do not please
him, he is free to choose. Besides, you promoters of cleanliness have
been excessively careless and thoughtless, I don't know if I ought not to
say audacious, to bring troughs and wooden utensils and kitchen
dishclouts, instead of basins and jugs of pure gold and towels of
holland, to such a person and such a beard; but, after all, you are
ill-conditioned and ill-bred, and spiteful as you are, you cannot help
showing the grudge you have against the squires of knights-errant."

The impudent servitors, and even the seneschal who came with them, took
the duchess to be speaking in earnest, so they removed the
straining-cloth from Sancho's neck, and with something like shame and
confusion of face went off all of them and left him; whereupon he, seeing
himself safe out of that extreme danger, as it seemed to him, ran and
fell on his knees before the duchess, saying, "From great ladies great
favours may be looked for; this which your grace has done me today cannot
be requited with less than wishing I was dubbed a knight-errant, to
devote myself all the days of my life to the service of so exalted a
lady. I am a labouring man, my name is Sancho Panza, I am married, I have
children, and I am serving as a squire; if in any one of these ways I can
serve your highness, I will not be longer in obeying than your grace in
commanding."

"It is easy to see, Sancho," replied the duchess, "that you have learned
to be polite in the school of politeness itself; I mean to say it is easy
to see that you have been nursed in the bosom of Senor Don Quixote, who
is, of course, the cream of good breeding and flower of ceremony--or
cirimony, as you would say yourself. Fair be the fortunes of such a
master and such a servant, the one the cynosure of knight-errantry, the
other the star of squirely fidelity! Rise, Sancho, my friend; I will
repay your courtesy by taking care that my lord the duke makes good to
you the promised gift of the government as soon as possible."

With this, the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote retired to
take his midday sleep; but the duchess begged Sancho, unless he had a
very great desire to go to sleep, to come and spend the afternoon with
her and her damsels in a very cool chamber. Sancho replied that, though
he certainly had the habit of sleeping four or five hours in the heat of
the day in summer, to serve her excellence he would try with all his
might not to sleep even one that day, and that he would come in obedience
to her command, and with that he went off. The duke gave fresh orders
with respect to treating Don Quixote as a knight-errant, without
departing even in smallest particular from the style in which, as the
stories tell us, they used to treat the knights of old.




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