Chapter V

Of what has been Recorded in History Without the Happening

“But,” retorted Sancho, “what demon hath come upon your lordship that you attempt to secure fame that is already safely stored in your granary of possession through the history recorded by Mr. Moor Bean-and-Jelly? Did not Mr. Batchelor himself affirm that there are twelve thousand copies of your worship’s adventures, on this day, copiously swallowed whole by man, woman and child alike? Why must thou divert thy career when every horse not just in la Mancha but every land that the account is read in, is Rozinante and every ass a Dapple?” “Ideot that you are Sancho, your ignorance of letters results in insipid argumentation,” replied Don Quixote; “a Moor is never to be trusted with the truth for they are, by their very nature, false, deceitful and chimerical.” “Has the historian then not produced a sublime and punctual history?” inquired a confounded Sancho, for all his knowledge of the book, which had for its reservoir a hundred people in la Mancha, made concrete that nothing had escaped the pen of the sage author, a circumstance that had caused Sancho much unease for even his most secret thoughts and intimate conversations were documented in that history. “My suspicion of the historian made a skeptic of me in my perusal of the book Sancho, but the Moor hath been an honest man, recording everything in the right to the minutest detail, until I reached a diabolical chapter from whereon, there is not only innovation in history but a stupendous and illegitimate crafting of it!” “God deliver my soul from the devil!” cried an incredulous Sancho, “crafting of history your lordship says?” “That very thing, as real as the mother that bore you Sancho,” replied the knight; “the Moor records our first two sallies with scrupulous detail, so much so as to make me wish he had overlooked a few drubbings which do not amount to any significance; a condition that happily inspired faith that this Moor was not fraudulent. But then the historian records a ‘third sally,’ a venturing of knight and squire out for expeditions a third time!” “But that has not happened!” cried Sancho, “you and I sit in this room in very body and spirit, with our bags packed and our steeds nickering.” “That is the very nut of the matter Sancho,” explained Don Quixote, “The Moor has produced hundreds of sheets of parchment of proceedings that have not occurred yet, and with the course of action heaven directs me to follow, are not likely to either.”

“What opinion does the author of the history express of us?” inquired Sancho. “A most excellent opinion Sancho, for on innumerable occasions he pronounces me the most valiant knight in history and you the most noble and obedient squire that ever served a knight-errant. Nevertheless a constant reiteration causes me much distress for the author pronounces my wits diseased and imagination disordered in multitudinous languages in innumerable occurrences.” “That must be due to the carelessness of the translator,” said Sancho, “for a sage historian would consider repetition a mark of a bad tale. What does he write about our third sally?” “Some fallacious and blasphemous event about our journey to my handsome mistress’ land and an atrociously erroneous account of that resplendent sun of beauty not recognizing this valiant knight,” replied Don Quixote, much distressed at having to restate the author’s folly. “Has he nothing creditable to say about your lordship’s valiance?” “I did not read further Sancho, for if history, which is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is truth and where truth is, there the divinity resides; is based on a lie it can produce nothing but more prevarications and it offends a knight’s integrity to dabble in falsehood.”

“But,” said Sancho after a deliberate pause, “does the Moorish history not bring us fame and renown? Mr. Batchelor Simpson quoted some thousand volumes in print just this day.” “You must say Sampson Sancho, for Simpson refers to not that honored batchelor of Salamanca but a fat bellied, bean and jellied, yellow looking, bald man.” “The difference is quite insignificant Signor Don Quixote,” replied the squire, “for be it Simpson or Sampson, the Moor has promised us everlasting renown in his book, a direct means to the attainment of that blessed island.” “You are correct in your conjecture Sancho,” replied the knight, “but this fame comes riding on the back of dishonesty, for many of the feats the historian accredits us with have never been undertaken, wherefore any island you beget by falsehood will be an island of devils, increasingly hard to govern.” “Let Brother Devil be my associate in government!” retorted Sancho, “but I must become the Earl of an island before your worship will extract one more service out of my pate.” “Hasten not in thy haste Sancho,” replied the knight, “and listen carefully: I have, all these days, locked my doors to all devils and witches and deliberated upon history, concluding that those who write books about the gallantry of valiant knights amass more riches than the heroes, for the heroes are confined to the very pages of the books and the proceeds, which people make out of good will and as recompense for the entertainment they receive from these books, go to the author, while the hero benefits not a farthing.”

“I have therefore, friend Sancho, to redress this wrong, taken to the pen to compose a true account of Don Quixote de la Mancha, who took to the sword twice to battle with the evil-doers and the pen the third time to rewrite history!”