The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote and his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at Sancho’s persuasion ate a little from the store carried by Dapple, and over their supper Sancho said to his master, “Senor, what a fool I should have looked if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the first adventure your worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares. After all, ‘a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.’”
“At the same time, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “if thou hadst let me attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor’s gold crown and Cupid’s painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils, for I should have taken them by force and given them into thy hands.”
“The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors,” said Sancho, “were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote, “for it would not be right that the accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho — and, as a necessary consequence, towards those who represent and produce it — I would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments of great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is there any similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and ought to be than the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers other personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another the knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they have put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors become equal.”
“Yes, I have seen that,” said Sancho.
“Well then,” said Don Quixote, “the same thing happens in the comedy and life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in short, all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when it is over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of the garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in the grave.”
“A fine comparison!” said Sancho; “though not so new but that I have heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own particular office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed, jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much like ending life in the grave.”
“Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho,” said Don Quixote.
“Ay,” said Sancho; “it must be that some of your worship’s shrewdness sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to yield good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is that your worship’s conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the barren soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and society has been the tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in abundance that will not fall away or slide from those paths of good breeding that your worship has made in my parched understanding.”
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho’s affected phraseology, and perceived that what he said about his improvement was true, for now and then he spoke in a way that surprised him; though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to talk fine and attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling over from the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and where he showed his culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not upon the subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be noticed in the course of this history.
In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he left him at liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante’s saddle, as his master’s express orders were, that so long as they were in the field or not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped — the ancient usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take off the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove the saddle from the horse — never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a friendship so unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by tradition from father to son, that the author of this veracious history devoted some special chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the propriety and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert therein; although at times he forgets this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two beasts would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they were tired or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple’s , stretching half a yard or more on the other side, and the pair would stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, or at least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did not drive them to go and look for food. I may add that they say the author left it on record that he likened their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades and Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived, to the admiration of mankind, how firm the friendship must have been between these two peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships with one another so badly. This was why it was said —
For friend no longer is there friend; The reeds turn lances now.
And some one else has sung —
Friend to friend the bug, etc.
And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received many lessons from beasts, and learned many important things, as, for example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog, watchfulness from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the horse.
Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up startled, he listened and looked in the direction the noise came from, and perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to the other, “Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the horses, for, so far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for them, and the solitude and silence my love-sick thoughts need of.” As he said this he stretched himself upon the ground, and as he flung himself down, the armour in which he was clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he shook him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his senses, and said in a low voice to him, “Brother Sancho, we have got an adventure.”
“God send us a good one,” said Sancho; “and where may her ladyship the adventure be?”
“Where, Sancho?” replied Don Quixote; “turn thine eyes and look, and thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me, is not over and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse and throw himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and his armour rattled as he fell.”
“Well,” said Sancho, “how does your worship make out that to be an adventure?”
“I do not mean to say,” returned Don Quixote, “that it is a complete adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute or guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must be getting ready to sing something.”
“Faith, you are right,” said Sancho, “and no doubt he is some enamoured knight.”
“There is no knight-errant that is not,” said Don Quixote; “but let us listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the ball of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.”
Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove’s voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and listening attentively the pair heard him sing this
Declare the terms that I am to obey;
My will to yours submissively I mould,
And from your law my feet shall never stray.
Would you I die, to silent grief a prey?
Then count me even now as dead and cold;
Would you I tell my woes in some new way?
Then shall my tale by Love itself be told.
The unison of opposites to prove,
Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I;
But still, obedient to the laws of love,
Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast,
Whate’er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest
Indelible for all eternity.
With an “Ah me!” that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of his heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and shortly afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice, “O fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils? It is not enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, and finally all the knights of La Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?”
“Not so,” said Don Quixote at this, “for I am of La Mancha, and I have never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess a thing so much to the prejudice of my lady’s beauty; thou seest how this knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will tell us more about himself.”
“That he will,” returned Sancho, “for he seems in a mood to bewail himself for a month at a stretch.”
But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed in a distinct but courteous tone, “Who goes there? What are you? Do you belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?”
“Of the miserable,” answered Don Quixote.
“Then come to me,” said he of the Grove, “and rest assured that it is to woe itself and affliction itself you come.”
Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho.
The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, “Sit down here, sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in this place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat of knights-errant, keep you company.” To which Don made answer, “A knight I am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows, misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion I feel for the misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from it. From what you have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from the love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament.”
In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not going to break one another’s heads.
“Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?” asked he of the Grove of Don Quixote.
“By mischance I am,” replied Don Quixote; “though the ills arising from well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than misfortunes.”
“That is true,” returned he of the Grove, “if scorn did not unsettle our reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like revenge.”
“I was never scorned by my lady,” said Don Quixote.
“Certainly not,” said Sancho, who stood close by, “for my lady is as a lamb, and softer than a roll of butter.”
“Is this your squire?” asked he of the Grove.
“He is,” said Don Quixote.
“I never yet saw a squire,” said he of the Grove, “who ventured to speak when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as big as his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his lips when I am speaking.”
“By my faith then,” said Sancho, “I have spoken, and am fit to speak, in the presence of one as much, or even — but never mind — it only makes it worse to stir it.”
The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, “Let us two go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and leave these gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story of their loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it without having made an end of it.”
“So be it by all means,” said Sancho; “and I will tell your worship who I am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among the number of the most talkative squires.”
With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between their masters was serious.
唐吉诃德和桑乔在碰到死神的那天夜晚是在几棵高大茂密的树下度过的。唐吉诃德听从了桑乔的劝告，吃了些驴驮的干粮。吃饭时，桑乔对主人说：
“大人，假如我选择您第一次征险得到的战利品作为对我的奖赏，而不是选择您那三匹母马下的小马驹，我也就太傻了。真的，真的，‘手中麻雀胜似天上雄鹰嘛’。”
“你若是能让我任意进攻，桑乔，”唐吉诃德说，“我给你的战利品里至少包括皇帝的金冠和丘比特的彩色翅膀。我完全可以把这些东西夺来放到你手上。”
“戏里皇帝的权杖和皇冠从来都不是用纯金做的，而是用铜箔或铁片做的。”桑乔说。
“这倒是事实，”唐吉诃德说，“戏剧演员的衣着服饰若是做成真的就不合适了，只能做假的。这就同戏剧本身一样。我想让你明白，桑乔，你可以喜欢戏剧，并且因此喜欢演戏和编戏的那些人，因为他们都是大有益于国家的工具，为人生提供了一面镜子，人们可以从中生动地看到自己的各种活动，没有任何东西能像戏剧那样，表现我们自己现在的样子以及我们应该成为的样子，就像演员们在戏剧里表现的那样。不信，你告诉我，你是否看过一部戏里有国王、皇帝、主教、骑士、夫人和各种各样的人物？这个人演妓院老板，那个人演骗子，一个人演商人，另一个人演士兵，有人演聪明的笨蛋，有人演愚蠢的情人。可是戏演完后，一换下戏装，大家都成了一样的演员。”
“这我见过。”桑乔说。
“戏剧同这个世界上的情况一样。”唐吉诃德说，“在这个世界上，有人当皇帝，有人当主教，一句话，各种各样的人物充斥着这部戏。不过，戏演完之时也就是人生结束之日。死亡将剥掉把人们分为不同等级的外表，大家到了坟墓里就都一样了。”
“真是绝妙的比喻，”桑乔开说，“不过并不新鲜，这类比喻我已经听过多次了，譬如说人生就像一盘棋。下棋的时候，每个棋子都有不同的角色。可是下完棋后，所有的棋子都混在一起，装进一个口袋，就好像人死了都进坟墓一样。”
“桑乔，”唐吉诃德说，“你现在是日趋聪明，不那么愚蠢了。”
“是的，这大概也是受您的才智影响。”桑乔说，“如果您的土地贫瘠干涸，只要施肥耕种，就会结出果实。我是想说，同您谈话就好比在我的智慧的干涸土地上施肥，而我服侍您，同您沟通，就属于耕种，我希望由此可以得到对我有益的果实，不脱离您对我的枯竭头脑的栽培之路。”
唐吉诃德听到桑乔这番不伦不类的话不禁哑然失笑，不过他觉得桑乔这番补充道的是实情，况且桑乔也确实能不时说出些令人惊奇的话来，尽管有更多的时候，桑乔常常故作聪明，假充文雅，结果说出的话常常愚蠢透顶，无知绝伦。桑乔表现出记忆力强的最佳时刻就是他说俗语时，不管说得合适不合适，这点大致可以从这个故事的过程中看到。
两人说着话，已经过了大半夜。桑乔想把他的眼帘放下来了，他想睡觉时常常这么说。桑乔先给他的驴卸了鞍，让它在肥沃的草地上随便吃草。不过，桑乔并没有给罗西南多卸鞍，因为主人已经明确吩咐过，他们在野外周游或者露宿时，不能给罗西南多卸鞍，这是游侠骑士自古沿袭下来的习惯，只能把马嚼子拿下来，挂在鞍架上。要想拿掉马鞍，休想。桑乔执行了主人的吩咐，但他给了罗西南多同他的驴一样的自由。他的驴同罗西南多的友谊牢固而又特殊，如同父子，以至于本书的作者专门为此写了好几章。但为了保持这部英雄史的严肃性，他又没有把这几章放进书里。尽管如此，作者偶尔还是有疏忽的时候，违背了初衷，写到两个牲口凑在一起，耳鬓厮磨累了，满足了，罗西南多就把脖子搭在驴的脖子上。罗西南多的脖子比驴的脖子长半尺多，两头牲口认真地看着地面，而且往往一看就是三天，除非有人打搅或是它们饿了需要找吃的。据说作者常把这种友谊同尼索和欧里亚诺①以及皮拉德斯和俄瑞斯忒斯②的友谊相比。由此可以看出，这两头和平共处的牲口之间的友谊是多么牢固，值得世人钦佩。与此同时，人与人之间的友谊倒让人困惑。有句话说道：
朋友之间没朋友，
玉帛变干戈结冤仇。
还有句话说：
朋友朋友，并非朋友。
①维吉尔的史诗《埃涅阿斯纪》中的一对好友。
②在古希腊神话中，这两人既是表兄弟，又是好友。%%%没有人认为作者把牲口之间的友谊与人之间的友谊相比是做得出格了。人从动物身上学到了很多警示和重要的东西，例如从鹳身上学到了灌肠法，从狗身上学到了厌恶和感恩，从鹤身上学到了警觉，从蚂蚁身上学到了知天意，从大象身上学到了诚实，从马身上学到了忠实。后来，桑乔在一棵栓皮槠树下睡着了，唐吉诃德也在一棵粗壮的圣栎树下打盹。不过，唐吉诃德很快就醒了，他感到背后有声音。他猛然站起来，边看边听声音到底是从哪儿传来的。他看见两个骑马的人，其中一个从马背上滑下来，对另一个说：
“下来吧，朋友，把马嚼子拿下来。我看这个地方的草挺肥，可以喂牲口，而且这儿挺僻静，正适合我的情思。”
那人说完就躺下了，而且躺下时发出了一种盔甲的撞击声。唐吉诃德由此认定那人也是游侠骑士。他赶紧来到桑乔身旁。桑乔正睡觉，他好不容易才把桑乔弄醒。唐吉诃德悄声对桑乔说：
“桑乔兄弟，咱们又遇险了。”
“愿上帝给咱们一个大有油水的险情吧，”桑乔说，“大人，那个险情在哪儿？”
“在哪儿？”唐吉诃德说，“桑乔，你转过头来看，那儿就躺着一个游侠骑士。据我观察，他现在不太高兴。我看见他从马上下来，躺在地上，有点垂头丧气的样子。还有，他躺下时有盔甲的撞击声。”
“那您凭什么说这是险情呢？”桑乔问。
“我并没有说这就是险情，”唐吉诃德说，“我只是说这是险情的开端，险情由此开始。你听，他正在给诗琴或比维尔琴调音。他又清嗓子又吐痰，大概是想唱点什么吧。”
“很可能，”桑乔说，“看来是个坠入情网的骑士。”
“游侠骑士莫不如此。”唐吉诃德说，“只要他唱，我们就可以从他的只言片语里得知他在想什么。心里有事，嘴上就会说出来。”
桑乔正要说话，传来了森林骑士的歌声，桑乔打住了。骑士的嗓音不好也不坏。两人注意听着，只听歌中唱到：《十 四 行 诗》
请你按照你的意愿，夫人，
给我一个追求的目标，
我将铭记于肺腑，
始终如一不动摇。
你若讨厌我的相扰，
让我去死，请直言相告。
你若愿我婉转诉情，
为爱情我肝胆相照。
我准备接受两种考验，不论是
蜡般柔软，钻石般坚硬，
爱情的规律我仿效。
任你软硬考验，
我都将挺胸面对，
铭刻在心永记牢。
一声大概是发自肺腑的“哎”声结束了森林骑士的歌声。
过了一会儿，只听骑士痛苦又凄凉地说道：
“哎，世界上最美丽又最负心的人啊！最文静的班达利亚的卡西尔德亚呀，你怎么能让这位已经被你俘虏的骑士无休止地游历四方，受苦受罪呢？我已经让纳瓦拉的所有骑士，让莱昂的所有骑士，让塔尔特苏斯的所有骑士，让卡斯蒂利亚的所有骑士，还有曼查的所有骑士，都承认你是世界上最美丽的人，难道这还不够吗？”
“不，”唐吉诃德说，“我是曼查的，我从没有承认也不可能承认，而且更不应该承认这件如此有损于我美丽的夫人的事情。你看见了，桑乔，这个骑士胡说八道。不过咱们听着吧，也许他还会说点什么呢。”
“肯定还会说，”桑乔说，“他可以念叨一个月呢。”
可事实并非如此。原来森林骑士已经隐约听到了有人在议论他。他没有继续哀叹下去，而是站起身，声音洪亮却又很客气地问道：
“谁在那儿？是什么人？是快活高兴的人，还是痛苦不堪的人。”
“是痛苦不堪的人。”唐吉诃德回答说。
“那就过来吧，”森林骑士说，“你过来就知道咱们是同病相怜了。”
唐吉诃德见那人说话客客气气，就走了过去。桑乔也跟了过去。
那位刚才还唉声叹气的骑士抓着唐吉诃德的手说：
“请坐在这儿，骑士大人。因为我在这儿碰到了你，我就知道你是干什么的了，我知道你是游侠骑士。这里只有孤独和寂静陪伴你，是游侠骑士特有的休息地方。”
唐吉诃德说道：
“我是骑士，是你说的那种骑士。我的内心深处虽然也有悲伤、不幸和痛苦，可我并未因此而失去怜悯别人不幸之心。听你唱了几句，我就知道你在为爱情而苦恼，也就是说，你因为爱上了你抱怨时提到的那位美人而苦恼。”
结果两人一同坐到了坚硬的地上，客客气气，显出一副即使天破了，他们也不会把对方打破的样子。
“骑士大人，”森林骑士问道，“难道您也坠入情网了？”
“很不幸，我确实如此，”唐吉诃德说，“不过，由于处理得当而产生的痛苦应该被看作是幸福，而不是苦恼。”
“如果不是被人鄙夷的意识扰乱我的心，你说的倒是事实。”森林骑士说，“不过，瞧不起咱们的人很多，简直要把咱们吃了似的。”
“我可从来没受过我夫人的蔑视。”唐吉诃德说。
“从来没有，”桑乔也在一旁说，“我们的夫人像只羔羊似的特别温顺。”
“这是您的侍从？”森林骑士问。
“是的。”唐吉诃德回答说。
“我从没见过哪个侍从敢在主人说话的时候插嘴，”森林骑士说，“至少我的侍从不这样。他已经长得同他父亲一样高了，可是我说话时他从来不开口。”
“我刚才的确插话了，”桑乔说，“而且，我还可以当着其他人……算了吧，还是少说为佳。”
森林骑士的侍从拉着桑乔的胳膊说：
“咱们找个地方，随便说说咱们侍从的事吧。让咱们的主人痛痛快快地说他们的恋爱史吧，他们肯定讲到天亮也讲不完。”
“那正好，”桑乔说，“我也可以给你讲讲我是什么样的人，看我是否算得上那种为数不多的爱插嘴的人。”
两个侍从说着便离开了。他们同他们的主人一样，进行了一场有趣的谈话。