Chapter VII

Chapter in which the Reader will find that Which He can only find in the Perusal of it

“Reality and fiction says your worship?” Sancho inquired. “Yes Sancho,” replied the knight, “for fiction is always the better, the nearer it resembles the truth.” “But what composition and distinction of status will thy new history achieve if it is merely a resemblance of truth and not the truth in flesh?” “All truth must only be a semblance Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for who can claim to be honest in memory when memory itself is a chimerical observation so vulnerable to the ravages of time and inchantments of the devil. This is where you must aid me, for two weak recollections make for a true one. As of right now, I require you to remind me how many demons blanketed your carcass at the inn?” “Demons they were not your lordship, for I paid heed to them talking in our tongue and addressing each other with names of mortals. And four they were in number, for each securely held the corner of the blanket that made me cut capers through air.” “The number recalled to your imagination seems as flawed as the identity of those brethren, for I recall only two devils jesting at thy helpless flying peg. But, friends Sancho, in such cases, let us satisfy and settle for a moderate path, and let it go not as four or two in the truest history, but as three demons of the inn.”

“It is this very custard of truth and lies that merit the accusation that books of chivalry are fictions, fables and lying dreams,” declaimed Sancho, “for if learned persons like the priest and canon damn them to the hellfire after reading but a few pages, how will your history secure a distinction?” “My true history will not be based on falsehood, for falsehood is a crime committed against a person and I, committing any variation in the account, do not hurt a soul but myself, and no one but you and I can testify to the truth of our ventures. How canst thou, Sancho, a squire I feel sufficiently enriched by the chivalric tradition, talk like a harried pretender of letters! How can these books be false when they have been printed with the license of kings and approbation of those who are appointed to examine them; and alleged fictitious when they divert so much attention to detail, mentioning father, mother, country, relations, conditions, birth place. Take the trouble of reading those books, and you will see what effectual antidotes they are against melancholy and how they improve the disposition when it is bad.”

“Not a sea of encyclopedias of chivalry can improve mine disposition right now,” said Sancho is the most piteous voice, “for I find no use for myself in your ventures of the pen now.” “Ye must possess some scholarly talent that could prove of service Sancho” said Don Quixote, “for your memory and judgment seems hazed and the truth needs rest on a compromise between the two.” “I have grown up an unlettered peasant to the very day till I joined the order of squireship,” said Sancho. “That, being in my knowledge,” replied the knight, “made me perceive that thou must have another talent, for the fields often produce great scientists and the deserts, worthy mathematicians.” “If science and math be fields of knowledge,” said Sancho “I possess one that might serve your worship in some oblique way, for as boy Sancho, while ploughing fields and watering wells, I would often take to resting for long periods of time, meanwhile drawing in the mud with broken twigs.” “Even though drawing qualifies not as a field of Science, barely making it to the lowest ranks of Arts,” said Don Quixote, “I think this happy talent might be put to good use in this recording of history, for there are events and instances I feel slipping through a scholar’s words that might happily be stroked by an artist brush.” “Oh heaven grant thee more of such events,” cried Sancho with delight, “for this farmer discovers yet another talent God hath granted him.”

Thus Don Quixote took to the pen and Sancho to the brush, toiling for days on end. The housekeeper lamented outside till one day there were heard no more laments. No curate, barber, doctor, batchelor, mother, devil, giant or inchanter was allowed to visit the great scholar and his attending artist. The little light, shining from their window in dark and lonely nights, and the diminishing neighing of Rozinante, became the North Star for young knights who now tried their fates in the meadows of la Mancha.