Chapter XXXIV. Which tells of the news that was received of how the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso was to be disenchanted, which is one of the most famous adventures in this book

Great was the delight that the duke and duchess found in Don Quixote’s conversation and in Sancho Panza’s; and, confirmed in their intention of playing some jests on them that would carry the glimmer and look of adventures, they took their cue from the one Don Quixote had already told them about the cave of Montesinos, to play one on him that would be famous (but what most amazed the duchess was that Sancho’s simplicity should be so great that he had come to believe it infallible truth that Dulcinea del Toboso was enchanted, when he himself had been the enchanter and the trickster in that business); and so, having given their servants orders for everything they were to do, six days later they took him out hunting big game, with as great a train of huntsmen and beaters as a crowned king could have taken. They gave Don Quixote a hunting suit, and Sancho another, green, of the finest cloth; but Don Quixote would not put his on, saying that one day soon he would have to go back to the hard exercise of arms and could not carry wardrobes or pantries around with him. Sancho did take the one they gave him, meaning to sell it at the first chance he could.

When the awaited day came, then, Don Quixote armed himself and Sancho dressed, and, on top of his gray, whom he would not leave though they offered him a horse, he joined the troop of huntsmen. The duchess rode out in splendid array, and Don Quixote, out of sheer courtesy and good manners, took the rein of her palfrey, though the duke did not want to allow it; and at last they came to a wood that lay between two very high mountains, where, the stations, blinds, and paths having been taken up and the people placed at different posts, the hunt began with a great din, shouting, and hallooing, so that no one could hear anyone else, as much for the baying of the hounds as for the sound of the horns.

The duchess dismounted and, with a sharp boar spear in her hands, took up a post where she knew some wild boars usually came by. The duke and Don Quixote dismounted as well and placed themselves at her sides; Sancho placed himself behind them all, without getting down from the gray, whom he would not have dared abandon lest some mishap befall him. And they had scarcely set foot on the ground and drawn up in line with many other servants of theirs when, hounded by the dogs and followed by the huntsmen, they saw a monstrous boar coming toward them, gnashing teeth and tusks and casting foam from his mouth; and, on seeing him, Don Quixote, bracing his shield on his arm and putting his hand to his sword, stepped forward to meet him. The duke did the same with his boar spear; but the duchess would have got ahead of them all, if the duke had not stopped her. Only Sancho, on seeing the valiant animal, abandoned the gray and took to his heels as fast as he could, and he tried to climb a tall holm oak but could not; rather, being already halfway up it, clinging to a branch and struggling to reach the top, he was so short of luck and so unfortunate that the branch broke off, and as he came down he was left hanging in the air, caught on a snag of the oak, unable to reach the ground. And, seeing himself in this plight, and that the green hunting coat was tearing, and thinking that if that fierce animal came that way he could get at him, he began to give so many shrieks and to call for help so urgently that all who heard him and did not see him thought he was between the teeth of some wild beast.

In the end the tusked boar was run through by the blades of the many spears that were set against him; and Don Quixote, turning his head toward Sancho’s shrieks, for by now he had recognized him by them, saw him hanging from the holm oak head downward, and the gray beside him, for the gray did not abandon him in his calamity; and Cide Hamete says that he seldom saw Sancho Panza without seeing the gray, or the gray without seeing Sancho: such was the friendship and good faith the two kept between them.

Don Quixote came up and unhooked Sancho; and he, finding himself free and on the ground, looked at the tear in his hunting coat and was grieved to the soul, for he thought he had an entailed estate in that suit. Meanwhile they laid the mighty boar across a pack mule and, covering him with sprigs of rosemary and branches of myrtle, carried him, as a token of victorious spoils, to some large field tents that stood pitched in the heart of the wood, and there they found the tables set and the meal prepared, so sumptuous and grand that the greatness and magnificence of the one who gave it could plainly be seen in it. Sancho, showing the duchess the wounds of his torn suit, said:

“If this hunt had been for hares or little birds, my coat would have been safe from coming to this pass. I don’t know what pleasure there is in waiting for an animal that, if he gets you with a tusk, can take your life; I remember hearing an old ballad sung that goes:

“‘By the bears may you be eaten,
like Favila of great renown.’”

“That was a Gothic king,” said Don Quixote, “who, going out to hunt big game, was eaten by a bear.”

“That’s just what I’m saying,” answered Sancho, “that I wouldn’t want princes and kings to put themselves in such dangers in exchange for a pleasure that it seems to me shouldn’t be one, since it consists in killing an animal that hasn’t committed any crime.”

“On the contrary, you are mistaken, Sancho,” answered the duke, “for the exercise of hunting big game is more fitting and necessary for kings and princes than any other. The hunt is an image of war: there are stratagems in it, wiles, ambushes, for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it one suffers the bitterest cold and unbearable heat; idleness and sleep are cut down, strength is built up, the limbs of whoever practices it are made nimble, and, in short, it is an exercise that can be pursued without harm to anyone and to the pleasure of many; and the best thing about it is that it is not for everyone, as other kinds of hunting are, except hawking, which is also only for kings and great lords. So, O Sancho, change your opinion, and when you are governor, take up hunting, and you will see how it pays you back a hundred loaves for one.”

“Not that,” answered Sancho. “The good governor, a broken leg, and at home. A fine thing it would be if people with business came looking for him, worn out, and he was off in the hills enjoying himself! That’s the way the government would go to the devil! On my faith, sir, hunting and pastimes are more for idlers than for governors. What I mean to amuse myself with is playing envite trumps at the great feasts, and ninepins on Sundays and holidays; for those chases and chafing dishes don’t suit my nature or sit with my conscience.”

“God grant, Sancho, that it be so, for from saying to doing is a long road.”

“Come what may,” replied Sancho, “for a good payer is not pained by pledges, and better off is the man God helps than the man who gets up very early, and the guts carry the feet, not the feet the guts; I mean that if God helps me, and I do what I ought with good intentions, there’s no doubt I’ll govern better than a gerfalcon. No, just put a finger in my mouth and see whether I bite or not!”

“God and all His saints curse you, accursed Sancho!” said Don Quixote. “And when will the day come, as I have said many other times, when I shall see you speak one plain, well-ordered sentence without proverbs? Let your greatnesses leave this fool alone, my lord and lady, for he will grind your souls not between two but between two thousand proverbs, brought in as seasonably and as timely as God may give him health, or me, if I wanted to listen to them.”

“Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said the duchess, “though they are more than the Greek Commander’s, are no less to be prized for that, because of the brevity of the maxims. For my part I can say that they give me more pleasure than others, though those may be better brought in and more seasonably fitted.”

With this and other entertaining talk, they went out of the tent into the wood, and in looking over some of the hunting posts the day went by quickly and night came on them, and not so clear or so calm as the season called for, it being midsummer; but a certain twilight it brought with it helped the duke and duchess’s plan a great deal; and, just as it began to grow dark, a little after dusk, all of a sudden it seemed that the whole wood was on fire on all four sides, and then there were heard, here and there, and on this side and on that, countless bugles and other instruments of war, as if of many troops of cavalry passing through the wood. The light of the fire and the sound of the warlike instruments almost blinded and deafened the eyes and ears of those present, and even of everyone in the wood. Then were heard countless lelilíes, the war cries the Moors raise when they go into battle; trumpets and clarions sounded, drums rumbled, fifes shrilled, almost all at once, so continuously and so fast that anyone who did not lose his senses at the confused sound of so many instruments must have had none to lose. The duke was stunned, the duchess was struck still, Don Quixote marveled, Sancho Panza trembled, and, in short, even those who knew the cause were frightened. With the fear, silence took hold of them, and a postboy dressed as a demon rode past in front of them, blowing, in place of a bugle, a huge hollow horn that gave out a hoarse and frightful sound.

“Ho there, brother courier!” said the duke. “Who are you, where are you going, and what men of war are these that seem to be crossing this wood?”

To which the courier answered in a horrisonous and brazen voice:

“I am the Devil; I am going to look for Don Quixote of La Mancha; the people coming this way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso on a triumphal car. She comes enchanted, with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give Don Quixote instructions on how this same lady is to be disenchanted.”

“If you were a devil, as you say and as your figure shows, you would already have recognized this same knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, for you have him in front of you.”

“By God and on my conscience,” answered the Devil, “I wasn’t looking at that, for I have my thoughts so distracted with so many things that I was forgetting the main one I came for.”

“No doubt,” said Sancho, “this demon must be an honest man and a good Christian, because if he weren’t, he wouldn’t swear by God and on his conscience. Now I hold for myself that even in hell itself there must be good people.”

Then the Demon, without dismounting, turning his gaze on Don Quixote, said:

“To you, the Knight of the Lions (may I see you between their claws), I am sent by the unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos, who bids me tell you on his behalf to wait for him in the very place I find you, for he brings with him the one they call Dulcinea del Toboso, with orders to give you the orders needed to disenchant her. And as my coming is for nothing more, my staying will be no longer: may demons like me remain with you, and the good angels with these lords.”

And, saying this, he blew the monstrous horn, turned his back, and went off, without waiting for an answer from anyone.

Everyone’s amazement was renewed, especially Sancho’s and Don Quixote’s: Sancho’s at seeing that, in spite of the truth, they would have it that Dulcinea was enchanted; Don Quixote’s at not being able to settle whether what befell him in the cave of Montesinos was true or false. And, as he was rapt in these thoughts, the duke said to him:

“Does your grace mean to wait, Señor Don Quixote?”

“Why not?” he answered. “Here I shall wait, dauntless and strong, though all hell should come to charge me.”

“Well, if I see another devil and hear another horn like the last one, I’ll wait here as surely as in Flanders,” said Sancho.

At this the night closed in further, and many lights began to run through the wood, just as the dry exhalations of the earth run across the sky and look to our eyes like shooting stars. There was heard as well a frightful noise, like that made by the solid wheels ox carts usually have, from whose harsh and steady screeching wolves and bears are said to flee, if there are any where they pass. To all this tempest was added another that increased them all, which was that it truly seemed that on the four sides of the wood four skirmishes or battles were being fought at one and the same time, for here sounded the hard thunder of fearful artillery, there countless muskets were being fired, close by almost rang the voices of the combatants, far off the Hagarene war cries were repeated again and again.

In the end the bugles, the horns, the hunting horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the artillery, the harquebuses, and, above all, the fearful noise of the carts, all together made a sound so confused and so horrendous that Don Quixote had to call on all his heart to bear it; but Sancho’s gave way, and laid him fainting in the duchess’s lap; she received him there and in great haste ordered water thrown in his face. This was done, and he came to himself just as one of the carts with the screeching wheels was reaching that post.

It was drawn by four sluggish oxen, all covered with black trappings; on each horn they had a great wax torch tied and lit, and on top of the cart a high seat had been made, and on it was seated a venerable old man, his beard whiter than snow itself, and so long that it fell below his waist; his garment was a long robe of black buckram; and, as the cart came full of countless lights, everything on it could well be made out and discerned. It was guided by two ugly demons dressed in the same buckram, with faces so ugly that Sancho, having seen them once, shut his eyes so as not to see them again. When the cart, then, came level with the post, the venerable old man rose from his high seat and, standing up, said in a loud voice:

“I am the sage Lirgandeo.”

And the cart passed on, without his speaking another word. After this one came another cart in the same fashion, with another old man enthroned; and he, making the cart stop, said in a voice no less grave than the other’s:

“I am the sage Alquife, great friend to Urganda the Unknown.”

And it passed on.

Then, in the same manner, came another cart; but the one seated on the throne was not an old man like the others, but a big, burly fellow with an evil look, who, on arriving, rising to his feet like the others, said in a voice hoarser and more devilish:

“I am Arcaláus the enchanter, mortal enemy of Amadís of Gaul and of all his kin.”

And it passed on. A little way off from there these three carts halted, and the irksome noise of their wheels ceased, and then another was heard, not a noise, but a sound made of sweet and harmonious music, at which Sancho cheered up and took it for a good sign; and so he said to the duchess, from whom he did not stray a step or an inch:

“My lady, where there’s music there can’t be anything bad.”

“Nor where there are lights and brightness,” answered the duchess.

To which Sancho replied:

“Fire gives light and bonfires give brightness, as we see by the ones all around us, and they might well burn us up; but music is always a sign of rejoicing and festivities.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Don Quixote, who was listening to it all.

And he spoke well, as is shown in the following chapter.