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DON QUIXOTE
by Miguel de Cervantes
Translated by John Ormsby

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

I: ABOUT THIS TRANSLATION
It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour of
the present undertaking what had long been a favourite project: that
of a new edition of Shelton's "Don Quixote which has now become a
somewhat scarce book. There are some- and I confess myself to be
one- for whom Shelton's racy old version, with all its defects, has
a charm that no modern translation, however skilful or correct,
could possess. Shelton had the inestimable advantage of belonging to
the same generation as Cervantes; Don Quixote" had to him a
vitality that only a contemporary could feel; it cost him no
dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes saw them; there is no
anachronism in his language; he put the Spanish of Cervantes into
the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most likely knew the
book; he may have carried it home with him in his saddle-bags to
Stratford on one of his last journeysand under the mulberry tree
at New Place joined hands with a kindred genius in its pages.

But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even a moderate
popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted English would
no doubtbe relished by a minoritybut it would be only by a
minority. His warmest admirers must admit that he is not a
satisfactory representative of Cervantes. His translation of the First
Part was very hastily made and was never revised by him. It has all
the freshness and vigourbut also a full measure of the faultsof
a hasty production. It is often very literal- barbarously literal
frequently- but just as often very loose. He had evidently a good
colloquial knowledge of Spanishbut apparently not much more. It
never seems to occur to him that the same translation of a word will
not suit in every case.

It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of "Don
Quixote." To those who are familiar with the originalit savours of
truism or platitude to say sofor in truth there can be no thoroughly
satisfactory translation of "Don Quixote" into English or any other
language. It is not that the Spanish idioms are so utterly
unmanageableor that the untranslatable wordsnumerous enough no
doubtare so superabundantbut rather that the sententious terseness
to which the humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to
Spanishand can at best be only distantly imitated in any other
tongue.

The history of our English translations of "Don Quixote" is
instructive. Shelton'sthe first in any languagewas made
apparentlyabout 1608but not published till 1612. This of course
was only the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second
published in 1620is not the work of Sheltonbut there is nothing to
support the assertion save the fact that it has less spiritless of


what we generally understand by "go about it than the first, which
would be only natural if the first were the work of a young man
writing currente calamo, and the second that of a middle-aged man
writing for a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer and more
literal, the style is the same, the very same translations, or
mistranslations, occur in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a
new translator would, by suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to
carry off the credit.

In 1687 John Phillips, Milton's nephew, produced a Don Quixote"
made English,he saysaccording to the humour of our modern
language.His "Quixote" is not so much a translation as a travesty
and a travesty that for coarsenessvulgarityand buffoonery is
almost unexampled even in the literature of that day.

Ned Ward's "Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixotemerrily
translated into Hudibrastic Verse" (1700)can scarcely be reckoned
a translationbut it serves to show the light in which "Don
Quixote" was regarded at the time.

A further illustration may be found in the version published in 1712
by Peter Motteuxwho had then recently combined tea-dealing with
literature. It is described as "translated from the original by
several hands but if so all Spanish flavour has entirely
evaporated under the manipulation of the several hands. The flavour
that it has, on the other hand, is distinctly Franco-cockney. Anyone
who compares it carefully with the original will have little doubt
that it is a concoction from Shelton and the French of Filleau de
Saint Martin, eked out by borrowings from Phillips, whose mode of
treatment it adopts. It is, to be sure, more decent and decorous,
but it treats Don Quixote" in the same fashion as a comic book that
cannot be made too comic.

To attempt to improve the humour of "Don Quixote" by an infusion
of cockney flippancy and facetiousnessas Motteux's operators didis
not merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin of prize beefbut
an absolute falsification of the spirit of the bookand it is a proof
of the uncritical way in which "Don Quixote" is generally read that
this worse than worthless translation -worthless as failing to
representworse than worthless as misrepresenting- should have been
favoured as it has been.

It had the effecthoweverof bringing out a translation undertaken
and executed in a very different spiritthat of Charles Jervasthe
portrait painterand friend of PopeSwiftArbuthnotand Gay.
Jervas has been allowed little credit for his workindeed it may be
said nonefor it is known to the world in general as Jarvis's. It was
not published until after his deathand the printers gave the name
according to the current pronunciation of the day. It has been the
most freely used and the most freely abused of all the translations.
It has seen far more editions than any otherit is admitted on all
hands to be by far the most faithfuland yet nobody seems to have a
good word to say for it or for its author. Jervas no doubt
prejudiced readers against himself in his prefacewhere among many
true words about SheltonStevensand Motteuxhe rashly and unjustly
charges Shelton with having translated not from the Spanishbut
from the Italian version of Franciosiniwhich did not appear until
ten years after Shelton's first volume. A suspicion of incompetence
tooseems to have attached to him because he was by profession a
painter and a mediocre one (though he has given us the best portrait
we have of Swift)and this may have been strengthened by Pope's
remark that he "translated 'Don Quixote' without understanding
Spanish." He has been also charged with borrowing from Sheltonwhom
he disparaged. It is true that in a few difficult or obscure


passages he has followed Sheltonand gone astray with him; but for
one case of this sortthere are fifty where he is right and Shelton
wrong. As for Pope's dictumanyone who examines Jervas's version
carefullyside by side with the originalwill see that he was a
sound Spanish scholarincomparably a better one than Shelton
except perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. He wasin factan honest
faithfuland painstaking translatorand he has left a version which
whatever its shortcomings may beis singularly free from errors and
mistranslations.

The charge against it is that it is stiffdry- "wooden" in a wordand
no one can deny that there is a foundation for it. But it may be
pleaded for Jervas that a good deal of this rigidity is due to his
abhorrence of the lightflippantjocose style of his predecessors.
He was one of the fewvery fewtranslators that have shown any
apprehension of the unsmiling gravity which is the essence of Quixotic
humour; it seemed to him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking
and grinning at his own good thingsand to this may be attributed
in a great measure the ascetic abstinence from everything savouring of
liveliness which is the characteristic of his translation. In most
modern editionsit should be observedhis style has been smoothed
and smartenedbut without any reference to the original Spanishso
that if he has been made to read more agreeably he has also been
robbed of his chief merit of fidelity.

Smollett's versionpublished in 1755may be almost counted as
one of these. At any rate it is plain that in its construction
Jervas's translation was very freely drawn uponand very little or
probably no heed given to the original Spanish.

The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George
Kelly'swhich appeared in 1769printed for the Translator,was
an impudent imposturebeing nothing more than Motteux's version
with a few of the wordshere and thereartfully transposed;
Charles Wilmot's (1774) was only an abridgment like Florian'sbut not
so skilfully executed; and the version published by Miss Smirke in
1818to accompany her brother's plateswas merely a patchwork
production made out of former translations. On the latestMr. A. J.
Duffield'sit would be in every sense of the word impertinent in me
to offer an opinion here. I had not even seen it when the present
undertaking was proposed to meand since then I may say vidi
tantumhaving for obvious reasons resisted the temptation which Mr.
Duffield's reputation and comely volumes hold out to every lover of
Cervantes.

From the foregoing history of our translations of "Don Quixote
it will be seen that there are a good many people who, provided they
get the mere narrative with its full complement of facts, incidents,
and adventures served up to them in a form that amuses them, care very
little whether that form is the one in which Cervantes originally
shaped his ideas. On the other hand, it is clear that there are many
who desire to have not merely the story he tells, but the story as
he tells it, so far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances
permit, and who will give a preference to the conscientious
translator, even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat
awkwardly.

But after all there is no real antagonism between the two classes;
there is no reason why what pleases the one should not please the
other, or why a translator who makes it his aim to treat Don Quixote"
with the respect due to a great classicshould not be as acceptable
even to the careless reader as the one who treats it as a famous old
jest-book. It is not a question of caviare to the generalorif it
isthe fault rests with him who makes so. The method by which


Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish people oughtmutatis mutandis
to be equally effective with the great majority of English readers. At
any rateeven if there are readers to whom it is a matter of
indifferencefidelity to the method is as much a part of the
translator's duty as fidelity to the matter. If he can please all
partiesso much the better; but his first duty is to those who look
to him for as faithful a representation of his author as it is in
his power to give themfaithful to the letter so long as fidelity
is practicablefaithful to the spirit so far as he can make it.

My purpose here is not to dogmatise on the rules of translationbut
to indicate those I have followedor at least tried to the best of my
ability to followin the present instance. One whichit seems to me
cannot be too rigidly followed in translating "Don Quixote is to
avoid everything that savours of affectation. The book itself is,
indeed, in one sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more
than Cervantes. For this reason, I think, any temptation to use
antiquated or obsolete language should be resisted. It is after all an
affectation, and one for which there is no warrant or excuse.
Spanish has probably undergone less change since the seventeenth
century than any language in Europe, and by far the greater and
certainly the best part of Don Quixote" differs but little in
language from the colloquial Spanish of the present day. Except in the
tales and Don Quixote's speechesthe translator who uses the simplest
and plainest everyday language will almost always be the one who
approaches nearest to the original.

Seeing that the story of "Don Quixote" and all its characters and
incidents have now been for more than two centuries and a half
familiar as household words in English mouthsit seems to me that the
old familiar names and phrases should not be changed without good
reason. Of course a translator who holds that "Don Quixote" should
receive the treatment a great classic deserveswill feel himself
bound by the injunction laid upon the Morisco in Chap. IX not to
omit or add anything.

II: ABOUT CERVANTES AND DON QUIXOTE
Four generations had laughed over "Don Quixote" before it occurred
to anyone to askwho and what manner of man was this Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra whose name is on the title-page; and it was too
late for a satisfactory answer to the question when it was proposed to
add a life of the author to the London edition published at Lord
Carteret's instance in 1738. All traces of the personality of
Cervantes had by that time disappeared. Any floating traditions that
may once have existedtransmitted from men who had known himhad
long since died outand of other record there was none; for the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were incurious as to "the men of
the time a reproach against which the nineteenth has, at any rate,
secured itself, if it has produced no Shakespeare or Cervantes. All
that Mayans y Siscar, to whom the task was entrusted, or any of
those who followed him, Rios, Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was
to eke out the few allusions Cervantes makes to himself in his various
prefaces with such pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon his
life as they could find.

This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer to such
good purpose that he has superseded all predecessors. Thoroughness
is the chief characteristic of Navarrete's work. Besides sifting,
testing, and methodising with rare patience and judgment what had been
previously brought to light, he left, as the saying is, no stone
unturned under which anything to illustrate his subject might possibly


be found. Navarrete has done all that industry and acumen could do,
and it is no fault of his if he has not given us what we want. What
Hallam says of Shakespeare may be applied to the almost parallel
case of Cervantes: It is not the register of his baptismor the
draft of his willor the orthography of his name that we seek; no
letter of his writingno record of his conversationno character
of him drawn ... by a contemporary has been produced."

It is only naturalthereforethat the biographers of Cervantes
forced to make brick without strawshould have recourse largely to
conjectureand that conjecture should in some instances come by
degrees to take the place of established fact. All that I propose to
do here is to separate what is matter of fact from what is matter of
conjectureand leave it to the reader's judgment to decide whether
the data justify the inference or not.

The men whose names by common consent stand in the front rank of
Spanish literatureCervantesLope de VegaQuevedoCalderon
Garcilaso de la Vegathe MendozasGongorawere all men of ancient
familiesandcuriouslyallexcept the lastof families that
traced their origin to the same mountain district in the North of
Spain. The family of Cervantes is commonly said to have been of
Galician originand unquestionably it was in possession of lands in
Galicia at a very early date; but I think the balance of the
evidence tends to show that the "solar the original site of the
family, was at Cervatos in the north-west corner of Old Castile, close
to the junction of Castile, Leon, and the Asturias. As it happens,
there is a complete history of the Cervantes family from the tenth
century down to the seventeenth extant under the title of Illustrious
AncestryGlorious Deedsand Noble Posterity of the Famous Nuno
AlfonsoAlcaide of Toledo written in 1648 by the industrious
genealogist Rodrigo Mendez Silva, who availed himself of a
manuscript genealogy by Juan de Mena, the poet laureate and
historiographer of John II.

The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso was almost
as distinguished in the struggle against the Moors in the reign of
Alfonso VII as the Cid had been half a century before in that of
Alfonso VI, and was rewarded by divers grants of land in the
neighbourhood of Toledo. On one of his acquisitions, about two leagues
from the city, he built himself a castle which he called Cervatos,
because he was lord of the solar of Cervatos in the Montana as
the mountain region extending from the Basque Provinces to Leon was
always called. At his death in battle in 1143, the castle passed by
his will to his son Alfonso Munio, who, as territorial or local
surnames were then coming into vogue in place of the simple
patronymic, took the additional name of Cervatos. His eldest son Pedro
succeeded him in the possession of the castle, and followed his
example in adopting the name, an assumption at which the younger
son, Gonzalo, seems to have taken umbrage.

Everyone who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will remember
the ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot where the bridge
of Alcantara spans the gorge of the Tagus, and with its broken outline
and crumbling walls makes such an admirable pendant to the square
solid Alcazar towering over the city roofs on the opposite side. It
was built, or as some say restored, by Alfonso VI shortly after his
occupation of Toledo in 1085, and called by him San Servando after a
Spanish martyr, a name subsequently modified into San Servan (in which
form it appears in the Poem of the Cid")San Servantesand San
Cervantes: with regard to which last the "Handbook for Spain" warns
its readers against the supposition that it has anything to do with
the author of "Don Quixote." Fordas all know who have taken him
for a companion and counsellor on the roads of Spainis seldom


wrong in matters of literature or history. In this instance
howeverhe is in error. It has everything to do with the author of
Don Quixote,for it is in fact these old walls that have given to
Spain the name she is proudest of to-day. Gonzaloabove mentionedit
may be readily conceiveddid not relish the appropriation by his
brother of a name to which he himself had an equal rightfor though
nominally taken from the castleit was in reality derived from the
ancient territorial possession of the familyand as a set-offand to
distinguish himself (diferenciarse) from his brotherhe took as a
surname the name of the castle on the bank of the Tagusin the
building of whichaccording to a family traditionhis
great-grandfather had a share.

Both brothers founded families. The Cervantes branch had more
tenacity; it sent offshoots in various directionsAndalusia
EstremaduraGaliciaand Portugaland produced a goodly line of
men distinguished in the service of Church and State. Gonzalo himself
and apparently a son of hisfollowed Ferdinand III in the great
campaign of 1236-48 that gave Cordova and Seville to Christian Spain
and penned up the Moors in the kingdom of Granadaand his descendants
intermarried with some of the noblest families of the Peninsula and
numbered among them soldiersmagistratesand Church dignitaries
including at least two cardinal-archbishops.

Of the line that settled in AndalusiaDeigo de Cervantes
Commander of the Order of Santiagomarried Juana Avellanedadaughter
of Juan Arias de Saavedraand had several sonsof whom one was
Gonzalo GomezCorregidor of Jerez and ancestor of the Mexican and
Columbian branches of the family; and anotherJuanwhose son Rodrigo
married Dona Leonor de Cortinasand by her had four children
RodrigoAndreaLuisaand Miguelour author.

The pedigree of Cervantes is not without its bearing on "Don
Quixote." A man who could look back upon an ancestry of genuine
knights-errant extending from well-nigh the time of Pelayo to the
siege of Granada was likely to have a strong feeling on the subject of
the sham chivalry of the romances. It gives a pointtooto what he
says in more than one place about families that have once been great
and have tapered away until they have come to nothinglike a pyramid.
It was the case of his own.

He was born at Alcala de Henares and baptised in the church of Santa
Maria Mayor on the 9th of October1547. Of his boyhood and youth we
know nothingunless it be from the glimpse he gives us in the preface
to his "Comedies" of himself as a boy looking on with delight while
Lope de Rueda and his company set up their rude plank stage in the
plaza and acted the rustic farces which he himself afterwards took
as the model of his interludes. This first glimpsehoweveris a
significant onefor it shows the early development of that love of
the drama which exercised such an influence on his life and seems to
have grown stronger as he grew olderand of which this very
prefacewritten only a few months before his deathis such a
striking proof. He gives us to understandtoothat he was a great
reader in his youth; but of this no assurance was neededfor the
First Part of "Don Quixote" alone proves a vast amount of
miscellaneous readingromances of chivalryballadspopular
poetrychroniclesfor which he had no time or opportunity except
in the first twenty years of his life; and his misquotations and
mistakes in matters of detail are alwaysit may be noticedthose
of a man recalling the reading of his boyhood.

Other things besides the drama were in their infancy when
Cervantes was a boy. The period of his boyhood was in every way a
transition period for Spain. The old chivalrous Spain had passed away.


The new Spain was the mightiest power the world had seen since the
Roman Empire and it had not yet been called upon to pay the price of
its greatness. By the policy of Ferdinand and Ximenez the sovereign
had been made absoluteand the Church and Inquisition adroitly
adjusted to keep him so. The nobleswho had always resisted
absolutism as strenuously as they had fought the Moorshad been
divested of all political powera like fate had befallen the
citiesthe free constitutions of Castile and Aragon had been swept
awayand the only function that remained to the Cortes was that of
granting money at the King's dictation.

The transition extended to literature. Men wholike Garcilaso de la
Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendozafollowed the Italian warshad
brought back from Italy the products of the post-Renaissance
literaturewhich took root and flourished and even threatened to
extinguish the native growths. Damon and ThyrsisPhyllis and Chloe
had been fairly naturalised in Spaintogether with all the devices of
pastoral poetry for investing with an air of novelty the idea of a
dispairing shepherd and inflexible shepherdess. As a set-off against
thisthe old historical and traditional balladsand the true
pastoralsthe songs and ballads of peasant lifewere being collected
assiduously and printed in the cancioneros that succeeded one
another with increasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence
perhapsof the spread of printing was the flood of romances of
chivalry that had continued to pour from the press ever since Garci
Ordonez de Montalvo had resuscitated "Amadis of Gaul" at the beginning
of the century.

For a youth fond of readingsolid or lightthere could have been
no better spot in Spain than Alcala de Henares in the middle of the
sixteenth century. It was then a busypopulous university town
something more than the enterprising rival of Salamancaand
altogether a very different place from the melancholysilent
deserted Alcala the traveller sees now as he goes from Madrid to
Saragossa. Theology and medicine may have been the strong points of
the universitybut the town itself seems to have inclined rather to
the humanities and light literatureand as a producer of books Alcala
was already beginning to compete with the older presses of Toledo
BurgosSalamanca and Seville.

A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his first
playgoings mightno doubthave been often seen in the streets of
Alcala at that time; a brighteagertawny-haired boy peering into
a book-shop where the latest volumes lay open to tempt the public
wonderingit may bewhat that little book with the woodcut of the
blind beggar and his boythat called itself "Vida de Lazarillo de
Tormessegunda impresion could be about; or with eyes brimming over
with merriment gazing at one of those preposterous portraits of a
knight-errant in outrageous panoply and plumes with which the
publishers of chivalry romances loved to embellish the title-pages
of their folios. If the boy was the father of the man, the sense of
the incongruous that was strong at fifty was lively at ten, and some
such reflections as these may have been the true genesis of Don
Quixote."

For his more solid educationwe are toldhe went to Salamanca. But
why Rodrigo de Cervanteswho was very poorshould have sent his
son to a university a hundred and fifty miles away when he had one
at his own doorwould be a puzzleif we had any reason for supposing
that he did so. The only evidence is a vague statement by Professor
Tomas Gonzalezthat he once saw an old entry of the matriculation
of a Miguel de Cervantes. This does not appear to have been ever
seen again; but even if it hadand if the date correspondedit would
prove nothingas there were at least two other Miguels born about the


middle of the century; one of themmoreovera Cervantes Saavedra
a cousinno doubtwho was a source of great embarrassment to the
biographers.

That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcala is best
proved by his own works. No man drew more largely upon experience than
he didand he has nowhere left a single reminiscence of student lifefor
the "Tia Fingida if it be his, is not one- nothing, not even
a college joke to show that he remembered days that most men
remember best. All that we know positively about his education is that
Juan Lopez de Hoyos, a professor of humanities and belles-lettres of
some eminence, calls him his dear and beloved pupil." This was in a
little collection of verses by different hands on the death of
Isabel de Valoissecond queen of Philip IIpublished by the
professor in 1569to which Cervantes contributed four pieces
including an elegyand an epitaph in the form of a sonnet. It is only
by a rare chance that a "Lycidas" finds its way into a volume of
this sortand Cervantes was no Milton. His verses are no worse than
such things usually are; so muchat leastmay be said for them.

By the time the book appeared he had left Spainandas fate
ordered itfor twelve yearsthe most eventful ones of his life.
Giulioafterwards CardinalAcquaviva had been sent at the end of
1568 to Philip II by the Pope on a missionpartly of condolence
partly politicaland on his return to Romewhich was somewhat
brusquely expedited by the Kinghe took Cervantes with him as his
camarero (chamberlain)the office he himself held in the Pope's
household. The post would no doubt have led to advancement at the
Papal Court had Cervantes retained itbut in the summer of 1570 he
resigned it and enlisted as a private soldier in Captain Diego
Urbina's companybelonging to Don Miguel de Moncada's regimentbut
at that time forming a part of the command of Marc Antony Colonna.
What impelled him to this step we know notwhether it was distaste
for the career before himor purely military enthusiasm. It may
well have been the latterfor it was a stirring time; the events
howeverwhich led to the alliance between SpainVeniceand the
Popeagainst the common enemythe Porteand to the victory of the
combined fleets at Lepantobelong rather to the history of Europe
than to the life of Cervantes. He was one of those that sailed from
Messinain September 1571under the command of Don John of
Austria; but on the morning of the 7th of Octoberwhen the Turkish
fleet was sightedhe was lying below ill with fever. At the news that
the enemy was in sight he roseandin spite of the remonstrances
of his comrades and superiorsinsisted on taking his postsaying
he preferred death in the service of God and the King to health. His
galleythe Marquesawas in the thick of the fightand before it was
over he had received three gunshot woundstwo in the breast and one
in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the battleaccording to
Navarretehe had an interview with the commander-in-chiefDon
Johnwho was making a personal inspection of the woundedone
result of which was an addition of three crowns to his payand
anotherapparentlythe friendship of his general.

How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from the fact
that with youtha vigorous frameand as cheerful and buoyant a
temperament as ever invalid hadhe was seven months in hospital at
Messina before he was discharged. He came out with his left hand
permanently disabled; he had lost the use of itas Mercury told him
in the "Viaje del Parnaso" for the greater glory of the right. This
howeverdid not absolutely unfit him for serviceand in April 1572
he joined Manuel Ponce de Leon's company of Lope de Figueroa's
regimentin whichit seems probablehis brother Rodrigo was
servingand shared in the operations of the next three years
including the capture of the Goletta and Tunis. Taking advantage of


the lull which followed the recapture of these places by the Turkshe
obtained leave to return to Spainand sailed from Naples in September
1575 on board the Sun galleyin company with his brother Rodrigo
Pedro Carrillo de Quesadalate Governor of the Golettaand some
othersand furnished with letters from Don John of Austria and the
Duke of Sesathe Viceroy of Sicilyrecommending him to the King
for the command of a companyon account of his services; a dono
infelice as events proved. On the 26th they fell in with a squadron of
Algerine galleysand after a stout resistance were overpowered and
carried into Algiers.

By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers contrived to
inform their family of their conditionand the poor people at
Alcala at once strove to raise the ransom moneythe father
disposing of all he possessedand the two sisters giving up their
marriage portions. But Dali Mami had found on Cervantes the letters
addressed to the King by Don John and the Duke of Sesaand
concluding that his prize must be a person of great consequence
when the money came he refused it scornfully as being altogether
insufficient. The owner of Rodrigohoweverwas more easily
satisfied; ransom was accepted in his caseand it was arranged
between the brothers that he should return to Spain and procure a
vessel in which he was to come back to Algiers and take off Miguel and
as many of their comrades as possible. This was not the first
attempt to escape that Cervantes had made. Soon after the commencement
of his captivity he induced several of his companions to join him in
trying to reach Oranthen a Spanish poston foot; but after the
first day's journeythe Moor who had agreed to act as their guide
deserted themand they had no choice but to return. The second
attempt was more disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the
sea-shorehe constructedwith the help of the gardenera
Spaniarda hiding-placeto which he broughtone by onefourteen of
his fellow-captiveskeeping them there in secrecy for several months
and supplying them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador
the Gilder.How hea captive himselfcontrived to do all this
is one of the mysteries of the story. Wild as the project may
appearit was very nearly successful. The vessel procured by
Rodrigo made its appearance off the coastand under cover of night
was proceeding to take off the refugeeswhen the crew were alarmed by
a passing fishing boatand beat a hasty retreat. On renewing the
attempt shortly afterwardstheyor a portion of them at least
were taken prisonersand just as the poor fellows in the garden
were exulting in the thought that in a few moments more freedom
would be within their graspthey found themselves surrounded by
Turkish troopshorse and foot. The Dorador had revealed the whole
scheme to the Dey Hassan.

When Cervantes saw what had befallen themhe charged his companions
to lay all the blame upon himand as they were being bound he
declared aloud that the whole plot was of his contrivingand that
nobody else had any share in it. Brought before the Deyhe said the
same. He was threatened with impalement and with torture; and as
cutting off ears and noses were playful freaks with the Algerines
it may be conceived what their tortures were like; but nothing could
make him swerve from his original statement that he and he alone was
responsible. The upshot was that the unhappy gardener was hanged by
his masterand the prisoners taken possession of by the Deywho
howeverafterwards restored most of them to their mastersbut kept
Cervantespaying Dali Mami 500 crowns for him. He feltno doubt
that a man of such resourceenergyand daringwas too dangerous a
piece of property to be left in private hands; and he had him
heavily ironed and lodged in his own prison. If he thought that by
these means he could break the spirit or shake the resolution of his
prisonerhe was soon undeceivedfor Cervantes contrived before


long to despatch a letter to the Governor of Oranentreating him to
send him some one that could be trustedto enable him and three other
gentlemenfellow-captives of histo make their escape; intending
evidently to renew his first attempt with a more trustworthy guide.
Unfortunately the Moor who carried the letter was stopped just outside
Oranand the letter being found upon himhe was sent back to
Algierswhere by the order of the Dey he was promptly impaled as a
warning to otherswhile Cervantes was condemned to receive two
thousand blows of the sticka number which most likely would have
deprived the world of "Don Quixote had not some persons, who they
were we know not, interceded on his behalf.

After this he seems to have been kept in still closer confinement
than before, for nearly two years passed before he made another
attempt. This time his plan was to purchase, by the aid of a Spanish
renegade and two Valencian merchants resident in Algiers, an armed
vessel in which he and about sixty of the leading captives were to
make their escape; but just as they were about to put it into
execution one Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, an ecclesiastic and a
compatriot, informed the Dey of the plot. Cervantes by force of
character, by his self-devotion, by his untiring energy and his
exertions to lighten the lot of his companions in misery, had endeared
himself to all, and become the leading spirit in the captive colony,
and, incredible as it may seem, jealousy of his influence and the
esteem in which he was held, moved this man to compass his destruction
by a cruel death. The merchants finding that the Dey knew all, and
fearing that Cervantes under torture might make disclosures that would
imperil their own lives, tried to persuade him to slip away on board a
vessel that was on the point of sailing for Spain; but he told them
they had nothing to fear, for no tortures would make him compromise
anybody, and he went at once and gave himself up to the Dey.

As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accomplices.
Everything was made ready for his immediate execution; the halter
was put round his neck and his hands tied behind him, but all that
could be got from him was that he himself, with the help of four
gentlemen who had since left Algiers, had arranged the whole, and that
the sixty who were to accompany him were not to know anything of it
until the last moment. Finding he could make nothing of him, the Dey
sent him back to prison more heavily ironed than before.

The poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this time
trying once more to raise the ransom money, and at last a sum of three
hundred ducats was got together and entrusted to the Redemptorist
Father Juan Gil, who was about to sail for Algiers. The Dey,
however, demanded more than double the sum offered, and as his term of
office had expired and he was about to sail for Constantinople, taking
all his slaves with him, the case of Cervantes was critical. He was
already on board heavily ironed, when the Dey at length agreed to
reduce his demand by one-half, and Father Gil by borrowing was able to
make up the amount, and on September 19, 1580, after a captivity of
five years all but a week, Cervantes was at last set free. Before long
he discovered that Blanco de Paz, who claimed to be an officer of
the Inquisition, was now concocting on false evidence a charge of
misconduct to be brought against him on his return to Spain. To
checkmate him Cervantes drew up a series of twenty-five questions,
covering the whole period of his captivity, upon which he requested
Father Gil to take the depositions of credible witnesses before a
notary. Eleven witnesses taken from among the principal captives in
Algiers deposed to all the facts above stated and to a great deal more
besides. There is something touching in the admiration, love, and
gratitude we see struggling to find expression in the formal
language of the notary, as they testify one after another to the
good deeds of Cervantes, how he comforted and helped the weak-hearted,


how he kept up their drooping courage, how he shared his poor purse
with this deponent, and how in him this deponent found father and
mother."

On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to march
for Portugal to support Philip's claim to the crownand utterly
penniless nowhad no choice but to rejoin it. He was in the
expeditions to the Azores in 1582 and the following yearand on the
conclusion of the war returned to Spain in the autumn of 1583
bringing with him the manuscript of his pastoral romancethe
Galatea,and probably alsoto judge by internal evidencethat of
the first portion of "Persiles and Sigismunda." He also brought back
with himhis biographers assertan infant daughterthe offspring of
an amouras some of them with great circumstantiality inform uswith
a Lisbon lady of noble birthwhose namehoweveras well as that
of the street she lived inthey omit to mention. The sole
foundation for all this is that in 1605 there certainly was living
in the family of Cervantes a Dona Isabel de Saavedrawho is described
in an official document as his natural daughterand then twenty years
of age.

With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was hopeless
now that Don John was dead and he had no one to press his claims and
servicesand for a man drawing on to forty life in the ranks was a
dismal prospect; he had already a certain reputation as a poet; he
made up his mindthereforeto cast his lot with literatureand
for a first venture committed his "Galatea" to the press. It was
publishedas Salva y Mallen shows conclusivelyat Alcalahis own
birth-placein 1585 and no doubt helped to make his name more
widely knownbut certainly did not do him much good in any other way.

While it was going through the presshe married Dona Catalina de
Palacios Salazar y Vozmedianoa lady of Esquivias near Madridand
apparently a friend of the familywho brought him a fortune which may
possibly have served to keep the wolf from the doorbut if sothat
was all. The drama had by this time outgrown market-place stages and
strolling companiesand with his old love for it he naturally
turned to it for a congenial employment. In about three years he wrote
twenty or thirty playswhich he tells us were performed without any
throwing of cucumbers or other missilesand ran their course
without any hissesoutcriesor disturbance. In other wordshis
plays were not bad enough to be hissed off the stagebut not good
enough to hold their own upon it. Only two of them have been
preservedbut as they happen to be two of the seven or eight he
mentions with complacencywe may assume they are favourable
specimensand no one who reads the "Numancia" and the "Trato de
Argel" will feel any surprise that they failed as acting dramas.
Whatever merits they may havewhatever occasional they may showthey
areas regards constructionincurably clumsy. How completely they
failed is manifest from the fact that with all his sanguine
temperament and indomitable perseverance he was unable to maintain the
struggle to gain a livelihood as a dramatist for more than three
years; nor was the rising popularity of Lope the causeas is often
saidnotwithstanding his own words to the contrary. When Lope began
to write for the stage is uncertainbut it was certainly after
Cervantes went to Seville.

Among the "Nuevos Documentos" printed by Senor Asensio y Toledo is
one dated 1592and curiously characteristic of Cervantes. It is an
agreement with one Rodrigo Osorioa managerwho was to accept six
comedies at fifty ducats (about 6l.) apiecenot to be paid in any
case unless it appeared on representation that the said comedy was one
of the best that had ever been represented in Spain. The test does not
seem to have been ever applied; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent


to Rodrigo Osorio that the comedies were not among the best that had
ever been represented. Among the correspondence of Cervantes there
might have been foundno doubtmore than one letter like that we see
in the "Rake's Progress SirI have read your playand it will not
doo."

He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 1595 in
honour of the canonisation of St. Jacintowhen his composition won
the first prizethree silver spoons. The year before this he had been
appointed a collector of revenues for the kingdom of Granada. In order
to remit the money he had collected more conveniently to the treasury
he entrusted it to a merchantwho failed and absconded; and as the
bankrupt's assets were insufficient to cover the wholehe was sent to
prison at Seville in September 1597. The balance against himhowever
was a small oneabout 26l.and on giving security for it he was
released at the end of the year.

It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the king's
taxesthat he noted down those bits of inn and wayside life and
character that abound in the pages of "Don Quixote:" the Benedictine
monks with spectacles and sunshadesmounted on their tall mules;
the strollers in costume bound for the next village; the barber with
his basin on his headon his way to bleed a patient; the recruit with
his breeches in his bundletramping along the road singing; the
reapers gathered in the venta gateway listening to "Felixmarte of
Hircania" read out to them; and those little Hogarthian touches that
he so well knew how to bring inthe ox-tail hanging up with the
landlord's comb stuck in itthe wine-skins at the bed-headand those
notable examples of hostelry artHelen going off in high spirits on
Paris's armand Dido on the tower dropping tears as big as walnuts.
Nayit may well be that on those journeys into remote regions he came
across now and then a specimen of the pauper gentlemanwith his
lean hack and his greyhound and his books of chivalrydreaming away
his life in happy ignorance that the world had changed since his
great-grandfather's old helmet was new. But it was in Seville that
he found out his true vocationthough he himself would not by any
means have admitted it to be so. It was therein Trianathat he
was first tempted to try his hand at drawing from lifeand first
brought his humour into play in the exquisite little sketch of
Rinconete y Cortadillo,the germin more ways than oneof "Don
Quixote."

Where and when that was writtenwe cannot tell. After his
imprisonment all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity
disappearsfrom which it may be inferred that he was not
reinstated. That he was still in Seville in November 1598 appears from
a satirical sonnet of his on the elaborate catafalque erected to
testify the grief of the city at the death of Philip IIbut from this
up to 1603 we have no clue to his movements. The words in the
preface to the First Part of "Don Quixote" are generally held to be
conclusive that he conceived the idea of the bookand wrote the
beginning of it at leastin a prisonand that he may have done so is
extremely likely.

There is a tradition that Cervantes read some portions of his work
to a select audience at the Duke of Bejar'swhich may have helped
to make the book known; but the obvious conclusion is that the First
Part of "Don Quixote" lay on his hands some time before he could
find a publisher bold enough to undertake a venture of so novel a
character; and so little faith in it had Francisco Robles of Madrid
to whom at last he sold itthat he did not care to incur the
expense of securing the copyright for Aragon or Portugalcontenting
himself with that for Castile. The printing was finished in
Decemberand the book came out with the new year1605. It is often


said that "Don Quixote" was at first received coldly. The facts show
just the contrary. No sooner was it in the hands of the public than
preparations were made to issue pirated editions at Lisbon and
Valenciaand to bring out a second edition with the additional
copyrights for Aragon and Portugalwhich he secured in February.

No doubt it was received with something more than coldness by
certain sections of the community. Men of wittasteand
discrimination among the aristocracy gave it a hearty welcomebut the
aristocracy in general were not likely to relish a book that turned
their favourite reading into ridicule and laughed at so many of
their favourite ideas. The dramatists who gathered round Lope as their
leader regarded Cervantes as their common enemyand it is plain
that he was equally obnoxious to the other cliquethe culto poets who
had Gongora for their chief. Navarretewho knew nothing of the letter
above mentionedtries hard to show that the relations between
Cervantes and Lope were of a very friendly sortas indeed they were
until "Don Quixote" was written. Cervantesindeedto the last
generously and manfully declared his admiration of Lope's powers
his unfailing inventionand his marvellous fertility; but in the
preface of the First Part of "Don Quixote" and in the verses of
Urganda the Unknown,and one or two other placesthere areif we
read between the linessly hits at Lope's vanities and affectations
that argue no personal good-will; and Lope openly sneers at "Don
Quixote" and Cervantesand fourteen years after his death gives him
only a few lines of cold commonplace in the "Laurel de Apolo that
seem all the colder for the eulogies of a host of nonentities whose
names are found nowhere else.

In 1601 Valladolid was made the seat of the Court, and at the
beginning of 1603 Cervantes had been summoned thither in connection
with the balance due by him to the Treasury, which was still
outstanding. He remained at Valladolid, apparently supporting
himself by agencies and scrivener's work of some sort; probably
drafting petitions and drawing up statements of claims to be presented
to the Council, and the like. So, at least, we gather from the
depositions taken on the occasion of the death of a gentleman, the
victim of a street brawl, who had been carried into the house in which
he lived. In these he himself is described as a man who wrote and
transacted business, and it appears that his household then
consisted of his wife, the natural daughter Isabel de Saavedra already
mentioned, his sister Andrea, now a widow, her daughter Constanza, a
mysterious Magdalena de Sotomayor calling herself his sister, for whom
his biographers cannot account, and a servant-maid.

Meanwhile Don Quixote" had been growing in favourand its author's
name was now known beyond the Pyrenees. In 1607 an edition was printed
at Brussels. Roblesthe Madrid publisherfound it necessary to
meet the demand by a third editionthe seventh in allin 1608. The
popularity of the book in Italy was such that a Milan bookseller was
led to bring out an edition in 1610; and another was called for in
Brussels in 1611. It might naturally have been expected thatwith
such proofs before him that he had hit the taste of the public
Cervantes would have at once set about redeeming his rather vague
promise of a second volume.

Butto all appearancenothing was farther from his thoughts. He
had still by him one or two short tales of the same vintage as those
he had inserted in "Don Quixote" and instead of continuing the
adventures of Don Quixotehe set to work to write more of these
Novelas Exemplaresas he afterwards called themwith a view to
making a book of them.

The novels were published in the summer of 1613with a dedication


to the Conde de Lemosthe Maecenas of the dayand with one of
those chatty confidential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In
thiseight years and a half after the First Part of "Don Quixote" had
appearedwe get the first hint of a forthcoming Second Part. "You
shall see shortly he says, the further exploits of Don Quixote
and humours of Sancho Panza." His idea of "shortly" was a somewhat
elastic oneforas we know by the date to Sancho's letterhe had
barely one-half of the book completed that time twelvemonth.

But more than poemsor pastoralsor novelsit was his dramatic
ambition that engrossed his thoughts. The same indomitable spirit that
kept him from despair in the bagnios of Algiersand prompted him to
attempt the escape of himself and his comrades again and againmade
him persevere in spite of failure and discouragement in his efforts to
win the ear of the public as a dramatist. The temperament of Cervantes
was essentially sanguine. The portrait he draws in the preface to
the novelswith the aquiline featureschestnut hairsmooth
untroubled foreheadand bright cheerful eyesis the very portrait of
a sanguine man. Nothing that the managers might say could persuade him
that the merits of his plays would not be recognised at last if they
were only given a fair chance. The old soldier of the Spanish
Salamis was bent on being the Aeschylus of Spain. He was to found a
great national dramabased on the true principles of artthat was to
be the envy of all nations; he was to drive from the stage the
sillychildish playsthe "mirrors of nonsense and models of folly"
that were in vogue through the cupidity of the managers and
shortsightedness of the authors; he was to correct and educate the
public taste until it was ripe for tragedies on the model of the Greek
drama- like the "Numancia" for instance- and comedies that would not
only amuse but improve and instruct. All this he was to docould he
once get a hearing: there was the initial difficulty.

He shows plainly enoughtoothat "Don Quixote" and the
demolition of the chivalry romances was not the work that lay next his
heart. He wasindeedas he says himself in his prefacemore a
stepfather than a father to "Don Quixote." Never was great work so
neglected by its author. That it was written carelesslyhastily
and by fits and startswas not always his faultbut it seems clear
he never read what he sent to the press. He knew how the printers
had blunderedbut he never took the trouble to correct them when
the third edition was in progressas a man who really cared for the
child of his brain would have done. He appears to have regarded the
book as little more than a mere libro de entretenimientoan amusing
booka thingas he says in the "Viaje to divert the melancholy
moody heart at any time or season." No doubt he had an affection for
his heroand was very proud of Sancho Panza. It would have been
strange indeed if he had not been proud of the most humorous
creation in all fiction. He was proudtooof the popularity and
success of the bookand beyond measure delightful is the naivete with
which he shows his pride in a dozen passages in the Second Part. But
it was not the success he coveted. In all probability he would have
given all the success of "Don Quixote nay, would have seen every
copy of Don Quixote" burned in the Plaza Mayorfor one such
success as Lope de Vega was enjoying on an average once a week.

And so he went ondawdling over "Don Quixote adding a chapter
now and again, and putting it aside to turn to Persiles and
Sigismunda" -whichas we knowwas to be the most entertaining book
in the languageand the rival of "Theagenes and Chariclea"- or
finishing off one of his darling comedies; and if Robles asked when
Don Quixotewould be readythe answer no doubt was: En breveshortly
there was time enough for that. At sixty-eight he was as full
of life and hope and plans for the future as a boy of eighteen.


Nemesis was cominghowever. He had got as far as Chapter LIXwhich
at his leisurely pace he could hardly have reached before October or
November 1614when there was put into his hand a small octave
lately printed at Tarragonaand calling itself "Second Volume of
the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha: by the Licentiate
Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda of Tordesillas." The last half of
Chapter LIX and most of the following chapters of the Second Part give
us some idea of the effect produced upon himand his irritation was
not likely to be lessened by the reflection that he had no one to
blame but himself. Had Avellanedain factbeen content with merely
bringing out a continuation to "Don Quixote Cervantes would have had
no reasonable grievance. His own intentions were expressed in the very
vaguest language at the end of the book; nay, in his last words,
forse altro cantera con miglior plettro he seems actually to invite
some one else to continue the work, and he made no sign until eight
years and a half had gone by; by which time Avellaneda's volume was no
doubt written.

In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as the mere
continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose to write a preface to
it, full of such coarse personal abuse as only an ill-conditioned
man could pour out. He taunts Cervantes with being old, with having
lost his hand, with having been in prison, with being poor, with being
friendless, accuses him of envy of Lope's success, of petulance and
querulousness, and so on; and it was in this that the sting lay.
Avellaneda's reason for this personal attack is obvious enough.
Whoever he may have been, it is clear that he was one of the
dramatists of Lope's school, for he has the impudence to charge
Cervantes with attacking him as well as Lope in his criticism on the
drama. His identification has exercised the best critics and baffled
all the ingenuity and research that has been brought to bear on it.
Navarrete and Ticknor both incline to the belief that Cervantes knew
who he was; but I must say I think the anger he shows suggests an
invisible assailant; it is like the irritation of a man stung by a
mosquito in the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of language
pronounces him to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an Aragonese himself,
supports this view and believes him, moreover, to have been an
ecclesiastic, a Dominican probably.

Any merit Avellaneda has is reflected from Cervantes, and he is
too dull to reflect much. Dull and dirty" will always beI
imaginethe verdict of the vast majority of unprejudiced readers.
He isat besta poor plagiarist; all he can do is to follow
slavishly the lead given him by Cervantes; his only humour lies in
making Don Quixote take inns for castles and fancy himself some
legendary or historical personageand Sancho mistake wordsinvert
proverbsand display his gluttony; all through he shows a
proclivity to coarseness and dirtand he has contrived to introduce
two tales filthier than anything by the sixteenth century novellieri
and without their sprightliness.

But whatever Avellaneda and his book may bewe must not forget
the debt we owe them. But for themthere can be no doubtDon
Quixotewould have come to us a mere torso instead of a complete
work. Even if Cervantes had finished the volume he had in handmost
assuredly he would have left off with a promise of a Third Part
giving the further adventures of Don Quixote and humours of Sancho
Panza as shepherds. It is plain that he had at one time an intention
of dealing with the pastoral romances as he had dealt with the books
of chivalryand but for Avellaneda he would have tried to carry it
out. But it is more likely thatwith his plansand projectsand
hopefulnessthe volume would have remained unfinished till his death
and that we should have never made the acquaintance of the Duke and
Duchessor gone with Sancho to Barataria.


From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to have been
haunted by the fear that there might be more Avellanedas in the field
and putting everything else asidehe set himself to finish off his
task and protect Don Quixote in the only way he couldby killing him.
The conclusion is no doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece
of work and the frequent repetition of the scolding administered to
Avellaneda becomes in the end rather wearisome; but it isat any
ratea conclusion and for that we must thank Avellaneda.

The new volume was ready for the press in Februarybut was not
printed till the very end of 1615and during the interval Cervantes
put together the comedies and interludes he had written within the
last few yearsandas he adds plaintivelyfound no demand for among
the managersand published them with a prefaceworth the book it
introduces tenfoldin which he gives an account of the early
Spanish stageand of his own attempts as a dramatist. It is
needless to say they were put forward by Cervantes in all good faith
and full confidence in their merits. The readerhoweverwas not to
suppose they were his last word or final effort in the dramafor he
had in hand a comedy called "Engano a los ojos about which, if he
mistook not, there would be no question.

Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has no opportunity of
judging; his health had been failing for some time, and he died,
apparently of dropsy, on the 23rd of April, 1616, the day on which
England lost Shakespeare, nominally at least, for the English calendar
had not yet been reformed. He died as he had lived, accepting his
lot bravely and cheerfully.

Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes? His biographers all
tell us that it was; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard life,
a life of poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of
disappointment, but Cervantes carried within himself the antidote to
all these evils. His was not one of those light natures that rise
above adversity merely by virtue of their own buoyancy; it was in
the fortitude of a high spirit that he was proof against it. It is
impossible to conceive Cervantes giving way to despondency or
prostrated by dejection. As for poverty, it was with him a thing to be
laughed over, and the only sigh he ever allows to escape him is when
he says, Happy he to whom Heaven has given a piece of bread for which
he is not bound to give thanks to any but Heaven itself." Add to all
this his vital energy and mental activityhis restless invention
and his sanguine temperamentand there will be reason enough to doubt
whether his could have been a very unhappy life. He who could take
Cervantes' distresses together with his apparatus for enduring them
would not make so bad a bargainperhapsas far as happiness in
life is concerned.

Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was buriedin
accordance with his willin the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian
nunsof which it is supposed his daughterIsabel de Saavedrawas an
inmateand that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to another
conventcarrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of
Cervantes were included in the removal or not no one knowsand the
clue to their resting-place is now lost beyond all hope. This
furnishes perhaps the least defensible of the items in the charge of
neglect brought against his contemporaries. In some of the others
there is a good deal of exaggeration. To listen to most of his
biographers one would suppose that all Spain was in league not only
against the man but against his memoryor at least that it was
insensible to his meritsand left him to live in misery and die of
want. To talk of his hard life and unworthy employments in Andalusia
is absurd. What had he done to distinguish him from thousands of other


struggling men earning a precarious livelihood? Truehe was a gallant
soldierwho had been wounded and had undergone captivity and
suffering in his country's causebut there were hundreds of others in
the same case. He had written a mediocre specimen of an insipid
class of romanceand some plays which manifestly did not comply
with the primary condition of pleasing: were the playgoers to
patronise plays that did not amuse thembecause the author was to
produce "Don Quixote" twenty years afterwards?

The scramble for copies whichas we have seenfollowed immediately
on the appearance of the bookdoes not look like general
insensibility to its merits. No doubt it was received coldly by
somebut if a man writes a book in ridicule of periwigs he must
make his account with being coldly received by the periwig wearers and
hated by the whole tribe of wigmakers. If Cervantes had the
chivalry-romance readersthe sentimentaliststhe dramatistsand the
poets of the period all against himit was because "Don Quixote"
was what it was; and if the general public did not come forward to
make him comfortable for the rest of his daysit is no more to be
charged with neglect and ingratitude than the English-speaking
public that did not pay off Scott's liabilities. It did the best it
could; it read his book and liked it and bought itand encouraged the
bookseller to pay him well for others.

It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has erected no
monument to the man she is proudest of; no monumentthat is to say
of him; for the bronze statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las
Cortesa fair work of art no doubtand unexceptionable had it been
set up to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial
townis not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has
Cervantes of "such weak witness of his name;" or what could a monument
do in his case except testify to the self-glorification of those who
had put it up? Si monumentum quoeriscircumspice. The nearest
bookseller's shop will show what bathos there would be in a monument
to the author of "Don Quixote."

Nine editions of the First Part of "Don Quixote" had already
appeared before Cervantes diedthirty thousand copies in all
according to his own estimateand a tenth was printed at Barcelona
the year after his death. So large a number naturally supplied the
demand for some timebut by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted;
and from that time down to the present day the stream of editions
has continued to flow rapidly and regularly. The translations show
still more clearly in what request the book has been from the very
outset. In seven years from the completion of the work it had been
translated into the four leading languages of Europe. Except the
Biblein factno book has been so widely diffused as "Don
Quixote." The "Imitatio Christi" may have been translated into as many
different languagesand perhaps "Robinson Crusoe" and the "Vicar of
Wakefield" into nearly as manybut in multiplicity of translations
and editions "Don Quixote" leaves them all far behind.

Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion.
Don Quixotehas been thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas
about knight-errantryif they had any at allwere of the vaguest
who had never seen or heard of a book of chivalrywho could not
possibly feel the humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the
author's purpose. Another curious fact is that thisthe most
cosmopolitan book in the worldis one of the most intensely national.
Manon Lescautis not more thoroughly FrenchTom Jonesnot more
EnglishRob Roynot more Scotchthan "Don Quixote" is Spanish
in characterin ideasin sentimentin local colourin
everything. Whatthenis the secret of this unparalleled popularity
increasing year by year for well-nigh three centuries? One


explanationno doubtis that of all the books in the worldDon
Quixoteis the most catholic. There is something in it for every sort
of readeryoung or oldsage or simplehigh or low. As Cervantes
himself says with a touch of prideIt is thumbed and read and got by
heart by people of all sorts; the children turn its leaves, the
young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise
it.

But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient whichmore than
its humouror its wisdomor the fertility of invention or
knowledge of human nature it displayshas insured its success with
the multitudeis the vein of farce that runs through it. It was the
attack upon the sheepthe battle with the wine-skinsMambrino's
helmetthe balsam of FierabrasDon Quixote knocked over by the sails
of the windmillSancho tossed in the blanketthe mishaps and
misadventures of master and manthat were originally the great
attractionand perhaps are so still to some extent with the
majority of readers. It is plain that "Don Quixote" was generally
regarded at firstand indeed in Spain for a long timeas little more
than a queer droll bookfull of laughable incidents and absurd
situationsvery amusingbut not entitled to much consideration or
care. All the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to 1771when the
famous printer Ibarra took it upwere mere trade editionsbadly
and carelessly printed on vile paper and got up in the style of
chap-books intended only for popular usewithin most instances
uncouth illustrations and clap-trap additions by the publisher.

To England belongs the credit of having been the first country to
recognise the right of "Don Quixote" to better treatment than this.
The London edition of 1738commonly called Lord Carteret's from
having been suggested by himwas not a mere edition de luxe. It
produced "Don Quixote" in becoming form as regards paper and typeand
embellished with plates whichif not particularly happy as
illustrationswere at least well intentioned and well executedbut
it also aimed at correctness of texta matter to which nobody
except the editors of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given
even a passing thought; and for a first attempt it was fairly
successfulfor though some of its emendations are inadmissiblea
good many of them have been adopted by all subsequent editors.

The zeal of publisherseditorsand annotators brought about a
remarkable change of sentiment with regard to "Don Quixote." A vast
number of its admirers began to grow ashamed of laughing over it. It
became almost a crime to treat it as a humorous book. The humour was
not entirely deniedbutaccording to the new viewit was rated as
an altogether secondary qualitya mere accessorynothing more than
the stalking-horse under the presentation of which Cervantes shot
his philosophy or his satireor whatever it was he meant to shoot;
for on this point opinions varied. All were agreedhoweverthat
the object he aimed at was not the books of chivalry. He said
emphatically in the preface to the First Part and in the last sentence
of the Secondthat he had no other object in view than to discredit
these booksand thisto advanced criticismmade it clear that his
object must have been something else.

One theory was that the book was a kind of allegorysetting forth
the eternal struggle between the ideal and the realbetween the
spirit of poetry and the spirit of prose; and perhaps German
philosophy never evolved a more ungainly or unlikely camel out of
the depths of its inner consciousness. Something of the antagonismno
doubtis to be found in "Don Quixote because it is to be found
everywhere in life, and Cervantes drew from life. It is difficult to
imagine a community in which the never-ceasing game of
cross-purposes between Sancho Panza and Don Quixote would not be


recognized as true to nature. In the stone age, among the lake
dwellers, among the cave men, there were Don Quixotes and Sancho
Panzas; there must have been the troglodyte who never could see the
facts before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could see nothing
else. But to suppose Cervantes deliberately setting himself to expound
any such idea in two stout quarto volumes is to suppose something
not only very unlike the age in which he lived, but altogether
unlike Cervantes himself, who would have been the first to laugh at an
attempt of the sort made by anyone else.

The extraordinary influence of the romances of chivalry in his day
is quite enough to account for the genesis of the book. Some idea of
the prodigious development of this branch of literature in the
sixteenth century may be obtained from the scrutiny of Chapter VII, if
the reader bears in mind that only a portion of the romances belonging
to by far the largest group are enumerated. As to its effect upon
the nation, there is abundant evidence. From the time when the
Amadises and Palmerins began to grow popular down to the very end of
the century, there is a steady stream of invective, from men whose
character and position lend weight to their words, against the
romances of chivalry and the infatuation of their readers. Ridicule
was the only besom to sweep away that dust.

That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had
ample provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to
those who look into the evidence; as it will be also that it was not
chivalry itself that he attacked and swept away. Of all the
absurdities that, thanks to poetry, will be repeated to the end of
time, there is no greater one than saying that Cervantes smiled
Spain's chivalry away." In the first place there was no chivalry for
him to smile away. Spain's chivalry had been dead for more than a
century. Its work was done when Granada felland as chivalry was
essentially republican in its natureit could not live under the rule
that Ferdinand substituted for the free institutions of mediaeval
Spain. What he did smile away was not chivalry but a degrading mockery
of it.

The true nature of the "right arm" and the "bright array before
which, according to the poet, the world gave ground and which
Cervantes' single laugh demolished, may be gathered from the words
of one of his own countrymen, Don Felix Pacheco, as reported by
Captain George Carleton, in his Military Memoirs from 1672 to
1713." "Before the appearance in the world of that labour of
Cervantes he said, it was next to an impossibility for a man to
walk the streets with any delight or without danger. There were seen
so many cavaliers prancing and curvetting before the windows of
their mistressesthat a stranger would have imagined the whole nation
to have been nothing less than a race of knight-errants. But after the
world became a little acquainted with that notable historythe man
that was seen in that once celebrated drapery was pointed at as a
Don Quixoteand found himself the jest of high and low. And I
verily believe that to thisand this onlywe owe that dampness and
poverty of spirit which has run through all our councils for a century
pastso little agreeable to those nobler actions of our famous
ancestors."

To call "Don Quixote" a sad bookpreaching a pessimist view of
lifeargues a total misconception of its drift. It would be so if its
moral were thatin this worldtrue enthusiasm naturally leads to
ridicule and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort; its
moralso far as it can be said to have oneis that the spurious
enthusiasm that is born of vanity and self-conceitthat is made an
end in itselfnot a means to an endthat acts on mere impulse
regardless of circumstances and consequencesis mischievous to its


ownerand a very considerable nuisance to the community at large.
To those who cannot distinguish between the one kind and the otherno
doubt "Don Quixote" is a sad book; no doubt to some minds it is very
sad that a man who had just uttered so beautiful a sentiment as that
it is a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and Nature made
free,should be ungratefully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy
philanthropy had let loose on society; but to others of a more
judicial cast it will be a matter of regret that reckless
self-sufficient enthusiasm is not oftener requited in some such way
for all the mischief it does in the world.

A very slight examination of the structure of "Don Quixote" will
suffice to show that Cervantes had no deep design or elaborate plan in
his mind when he began the book. When he wrote those lines in which
with a few strokes of a great master he sets before us the pauper
gentleman,he had no idea of the goal to which his imagination was
leading him. There can be little doubt that all he contemplated was
a short tale to range with those he had already writtena tale
setting forth the ludicrous results that might be expected to follow
the attempt of a crazy gentleman to act the part of a knight-errant in
modern life.

It is plainfor one thingthat Sancho Panza did not enter into the
original schemefor had Cervantes thought of him he certainly would
not have omitted him in his hero's outfitwhich he obviously meant to
be complete. Him we owe to the landlord's chance remark in Chapter III
that knights seldom travelled without squires. To try to think of a
Don Quixote without Sancho Panza is like trying to think of a
one-bladed pair of scissors.

The story was written at firstlike the otherswithout any
division and without the intervention of Cide Hamete Benengeli; and it
seems not unlikely that Cervantes had some intention of bringing
Dulcineaor Aldonza Lorenzoon the scene in person. It was
probably the ransacking of the Don's library and the discussion on the
books of chivalry that first suggested it to him that his idea was
capable of development. Whatif instead of a mere string of
farcical misadventureshe were to make his tale a burlesque of one of
these bookscaricaturing their styleincidentsand spirit?

In pursuance of this change of planhe hastily and somewhat
clumsily divided what he had written into chapters on the model of
Amadis,invented the fable of a mysterious Arabic manuscriptand
set up Cide Hamete Benengeli in imitation of the almost invariable
practice of the chivalry-romance authorswho were fond of tracing
their books to some recondite source. In working out the new ideashe
soon found the value of Sancho Panza. Indeedthe keynotenot only to
Sancho's partbut to the whole bookis struck in the first words
Sancho utters when he announces his intention of taking his ass with
him. "About the ass we are told, Don Quixote hesitated a little
trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant taking with him
an esquire mounted on ass-back; but no instance occurred to his
memory." We can see the whole scene at a glancethe stolid
unconsciousness of Sancho and the perplexity of his masterupon whose
perception the incongruity has just forced itself. This is Sancho's
mission throughout the book; he is an unconscious Mephistopheles
always unwittingly making mockery of his master's aspirations
always exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some unintentional ad
absurdumalways bringing him back to the world of fact and
commonplace by force of sheer stolidity.

By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his hands
and summoned up resolution enough to set about the Second Part in
earnestthe case was very much altered. Don Quixote and Sancho


Panza had not merely found favourbut had already becomewhat they
have never since ceased to beveritable entities to the popular
imagination. There was no occasion for him now to interpolate
extraneous matter; nayhis readers told him plainly that what they
wanted of him was more Don Quixote and more Sancho Panzaand not
novelstalesor digressions. To himselftoohis creations had
become realitiesand he had become proud of themespecially of
Sancho. He began the Second Partthereforeunder very different
conditionsand the difference makes itself manifest at once. Even
in translation the style will be seen to be far easiermore
flowingmore naturaland more like that of a man sure of himself and
of his audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a change also. In
the First PartDon Quixote has no character or individuality
whatever. He is nothing more than a crazy representative of the
sentiments of the chivalry romances. In all that he says and does he
is simply repeating the lesson he has learned from his books; and
thereforeit is absurd to speak of him in the gushing strain of the
sentimental critics when they dilate upon his nobleness
disinterestednessdauntless courageand so forth. It was the
business of a knight-errant to right wrongsredress injuriesand
succour the distressedand thisas a matter of coursehe makes
his business when he takes up the part; a knight-errant was bound to
be intrepidand so he feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all
Byron's melodious nonsense about Don Quixotethe most nonsensical
statement is that "'t is his virtue makes him mad!" The exact opposite
is the truth; it is his madness makes him virtuous.

In the Second PartCervantes repeatedly reminds the readeras if
it was a point upon which he was anxious there should be no mistake
that his hero's madness is strictly confined to delusions on the
subject of chivalryand that on every other subject he is discreto
onein factwhose faculty of discernment is in perfect order. The
advantage of this is that he is enabled to make use of Don Quixote
as a mouthpiece for his own reflectionsand sowithout seeming to
digressallow himself the relief of digression when he requires it
as freely as in a commonplace book.

It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don Quixote
is not very great. There are some natural touches of character about
himsuch as his mixture of irascibility and placabilityand his
curious affection for Sancho together with his impatience of the
squire's loquacity and impertinence; but in the mainapart from his
crazehe is little more than a thoughtfulcultured gentlemanwith
instinctive good taste and a great deal of shrewdness and
originality of mind.

As to Sanchoit is plainfrom the concluding words of the
preface to the First Partthat he was a favourite with his creator
even before he had been taken into favour by the public. An inferior
geniustaking him in hand a second timewould very likely have tried
to improve him by making him more comicalcleveramiableor
virtuous. But Cervantes was too true an artist to spoil his work in
this way. Sanchowhen he reappearsis the old Sancho with the old
familiar features; but with a difference; they have been brought out
more distinctlybut at the same time with a careful avoidance of
anything like caricature; the outline has been filled in where filling
in was necessaryandvivified by a few touches of a master's hand
Sancho stands before us as he might in a character portrait by
Velazquez. He is a much more important and prominent figure in the
Second Part than in the First; indeedit is his matchless mendacity
about Dulcinea that to a great extent supplies the action of the
story.

His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any other. In


the First Part he displays a great natural gift of lying. His lies are
not of the highly imaginative sort that liars in fiction commonly
indulge in; like Falstaff'sthey resemble the father that begets
them; they are simplehomelyplump lies; plain working liesin
short. But in the service of such a master as Don Quixote he
develops rapidlyas we see when he comes to palm off the three
country wenches as Dulcinea and her ladies in waiting. It is worth
noticing howflushed by his success in this instancehe is tempted
afterwards to try a flight beyond his powers in his account of the
journey on Clavileno.

In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents of the
chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque. Enchantments
of the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and the Trifaldi and the
cave of Montesinos play a leading part in the later and inferior
romancesand another distinguishing feature is caricatured in Don
Quixote's blind adoration of Dulcinea. In the romances of chivalry
love is either a mere animalism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a
coarse-minded man would care to make merry with the formerbut to one
of Cervantes' humour the latter was naturally an attractive subject
for ridicule. Like everything else in these romancesit is a gross
exaggeration of the real sentiment of chivalrybut its peculiar
extravagance is probably due to the influence of those masters of
hyperbolethe Provencal poets. When a troubadour professed his
readiness to obey his lady in all thingshe made it incumbent upon
the next comerif he wished to avoid the imputation of tameness and
commonplaceto declare himself the slave of her willwhich the
next was compelled to cap by some still stronger declaration; and so
expressions of devotion went on rising one above the other like
biddings at an auctionand a conventional language of gallantry and
theory of love came into being that in time permeated the literature
of Southern Europeand bore fruitin one direction in the
transcendental worship of Beatrice and Lauraand in another in the
grotesque idolatry which found exponents in writers like Feliciano
de Silva. This is what Cervantes deals with in Don Quixote's passion
for Dulcineaand in no instance has he carried out the burlesque more
happily. By keeping Dulcinea in the backgroundand making her a vague
shadowy being of whose very existence we are left in doubthe invests
Don Quixote's worship of her virtues and charms with an additional
extravaganceand gives still more point to the caricature of the
sentiment and language of the romances.

One of the great merits of "Don Quixote and one of the qualities
that have secured its acceptance by all classes of readers and made it
the most cosmopolitan of books, is its simplicity. There are, of
course, points obvious enough to a Spanish seventeenth century
audience which do not immediately strike a reader now-a-days, and
Cervantes often takes it for granted that an allusion will be
generally understood which is only intelligible to a few. For example,
on many of his readers in Spain, and most of his readers out of it,
the significance of his choice of a country for his hero is completely
lost. It would he going too far to say that no one can thoroughly
comprehend Don Quixote" without having seen La Manchabut
undoubtedly even a glimpse of La Mancha will give an insight into
the meaning of Cervantes such as no commentator can give. Of all the
regions of Spain it is the last that would suggest the idea of
romance. Of all the dull central plateau of the Peninsula it is the
dullest tract. There is something impressive about the grim
solitudes of Estremadura; and if the plains of Leon and Old Castile
are bald and drearythey are studded with old cities renowned in
history and rich in relics of the past. But there is no redeeming
feature in the Manchegan landscape; it has all the sameness of the
desert without its dignity; the few towns and villages that break
its monotony are mean and commonplacethere is nothing venerable


about themthey have not even the picturesqueness of poverty; indeed
Don Quixote's own villageArgamasillahas a sort of oppressive
respectability in the prim regularity of its streets and houses;
everything is ignoble; the very windmills are the ugliest and
shabbiest of the windmill kind.

To anyone who knew the country wellthe mere style and title of
Don Quixote of La Manchagave the key to the author's meaning at
once. La Mancha as the knight's country and scene of his chivalries is
of a piece with the pasteboard helmetthe farm-labourer on ass-back
for a squireknighthood conferred by a rascally venteroconvicts
taken for victims of oppressionand the rest of the incongruities
between Don Quixote's world and the world he lived inbetween
things as he saw them and things as they were.

It is strange that this element of incongruityunderlying the whole
humour and purpose of the bookshould have been so little heeded by
the majority of those who have undertaken to interpret "Don
Quixote." It has been completely overlookedfor exampleby the
illustrators. To be surethe great majority of the artists who
illustrated "Don Quixote" knew nothing whatever of Spain. To them a
venta conveyed no idea but the abstract one of a roadside innand
they could not therefore do full justice to the humour of Don
Quixote's misconception in taking it for a castleor perceive the
remoteness of all its realities from his ideal. But even when better
informed they seem to have no apprehension of the full force of the
discrepancy. Takefor instanceGustave Dore's drawing of Don Quixote
watching his armour in the inn-yard. Whether or not the Venta de
Quesada on the Seville road isas tradition maintainsthe inn
described in "Don Quixote beyond all question it was just such an
inn-yard as the one behind it that Cervantes had in his mind's eye,
and it was on just such a rude stone trough as that beside the
primitive draw-well in the corner that he meant Don Quixote to deposit
his armour. Gustave Dore makes it an elaborate fountain such as no
arriero ever watered his mules at in the corral of any venta in Spain,
and thereby entirely misses the point aimed at by Cervantes. It is the
mean, prosaic, commonplace character of all the surroundings and
circumstances that gives a significance to Don Quixote's vigil and the
ceremony that follows.

Cervantes' humour is for the most part of that broader and simpler
sort, the strength of which lies in the perception of the incongruous.
It is the incongruity of Sancho in all his ways, words, and works,
with the ideas and aims of his master, quite as much as the
wonderful vitality and truth to nature of the character, that makes
him the most humorous creation in the whole range of fiction. That
unsmiling gravity of which Cervantes was the first great master,
Cervantes' serious air which sits naturally on Swift alone,
perhaps, of later humourists, is essential to this kind of humour, and
here again Cervantes has suffered at the hands of his interpreters.
Nothing, unless indeed the coarse buffoonery of Phillips, could be
more out of place in an attempt to represent Cervantes, than a
flippant, would-be facetious style, like that of Motteux's version for
example, or the sprightly, jaunty air, French translators sometimes
adopt. It is the grave matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the
apparent unconsciousness of the author that he is saying anything
ludicrous, anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar
flavour to the humour of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact
opposite of the humour of Sterne and the self-conscious humourists.
Even when Uncle Toby is at his best, you are always aware of the
man Sterne" behind himwatching you over his shoulder to see what
effect he is producing. Cervantes always leaves you alone with Don
Quixote and Sancho. He and Swift and the great humourists always
keep themselves out of sightormore properly speakingnever


think about themselves at allunlike our latter-day school of
humouristswho seem to have revived the old horse-collar method
and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque assumption of ignorance
imbecilityor bad taste.

It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any other
language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural gravity and
a sonorous stateliness about Spanishbe it ever so colloquialthat
make an absurdity doubly absurdand give plausibility to the most
preposterous statement. This is what makes Sancho Panza's drollery the
despair of the conscientious translator. Sancho's curt comments can
never fall flatbut they lose half their flavour when transferred
from their native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners
have failed to do justice to the humour of Cervantesthey are no
worse than his own countrymen. Indeedwere it not for the Spanish
peasant's relish of "Don Quixote one might be tempted to think
that the great humourist was not looked upon as a humourist at all
in his own country.

The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have
communicated itself to his critics, making them see things that are
not in the book and run full tilt at phantoms that have no existence
save in their own imaginations. Like a good many critics now-a-days,
they forget that screams are not criticism, and that it is only vulgar
tastes that are influenced by strings of superlatives, three-piled
hyperboles, and pompous epithets. But what strikes one as particularly
strange is that while they deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe
all manner of imaginary ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show no
perception of the quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred of his
readers would rate highest in him, and hold to be the one that
raises him above all rivalry.

To speak of Don Quixote" as if it were merely a humorous book would
be a manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times makes it a kind of
commonplace book for occasional essays and criticismsor for the
observations and reflections and gathered wisdom of a long and
stirring life. It is a mine of shrewd observation on mankind and human
nature. Among modern novels there may behere and theremore
elaborate studies of characterbut there is no book richer in
individualised character. What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in
minimis is true of Cervantes; he nevereven for the most temporary
purposeputs forward a lay figure. There is life and individuality in
all his charactershowever little they may have to door however
short a time they may be before the reader. Samson Carrascothe
curateTeresa PanzaAltisidoraeven the two students met on the
road to the cave of Montesinosall live and move and have their
being; and it is characteristic of the broad humanity of Cervantes
that there is not a hateful one among them all. Even poor
Maritorneswith her deplorable moralshas a kind heart of her own
and "some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her;" and
as for Sanchothough on dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in
himunless it be a sort of dog-like affection for his masterwho
is there that in his heart does not love him?

But it isafter allthe humour of "Don Quixote" that distinguishes
it from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it
as one of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls itthe
best novel in the world beyond all comparison.It is its varied
humourranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as
Shakespeare's or Moliere's that has naturalised it in every country
where there are readersand made it a classic in every language
that has a literature.


SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES

URGANDA THE UNKNOWN

To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha

If to be welcomed by the good
O Book! thou make thy steady aim
No empty chatterer will dare
To question or dispute thy claim.
But if perchance thou hast a mind
To win of idiots approbation
Lost labour will be thy reward
Though they'll pretend appreciation.


They say a goodly shade he finds
Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree;
And such a one thy kindly star
In Bejar bath provided thee:
A royal tree whose spreading boughs
A show of princely fruit display;
A tree that bears a noble Duke
The Alexander of his day.


Of a Manchegan gentleman
Thy purpose is to tell the story
Relating how he lost his wits
O'er idle tales of love and glory
Of "ladiesarmsand cavaliers:"
A new Orlando Furioso-
Innamoratorather- who
Won Dulcinea del Toboso.


Put no vain emblems on thy shield;
All figures- that is bragging play.
A modest dedication make
And give no scoffer room to say
What! Alvaro de Luna here?
Or is it Hannibal again?
Or does King Francis at Madrid
Once more of destiny complain?


Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee
Deep erudition to bestow
Or black Latino's gift of tongues
No Latin let thy pages show.
Ape not philosophy or wit
Lest one who cannot comprehend
Make a wry face at thee and ask
Why offer flowers to me, my friend?

Be not a meddler; no affair
Of thine the life thy neighbours lead:
Be prudent; oft the random jest
Recoils upon the jester's head.
Thy constant labour let it be
To earn thyself an honest name
For fooleries preserved in print
Are perpetuity of shame.

A further counsel bear in mind:


If that thy roof be made of glass
It shows small wit to pick up stones
To pelt the people as they pass.
Win the attention of the wise
And give the thinker food for thought;
Whoso indites frivolities
Will but by simpletons be sought.


AMADIS OF GAUL
To Don Quixote of la Mancha


SONNET

Thou that didst imitate that life of mine
When I in lonely sadness on the great
Rock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate


In self-imposed penance there to pine;

Thouwhose sole beverage was the bitter brine
Of thine own tearsand who withouten plate
Of silvercoppertinin lowly state


Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine;

Live thouof thine eternal glory sure.
So long as on the round of the fourth sphere
The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer


In thy renown thou shalt remain secure
Thy country's name in story shall endure
And thy sage author stand without a peer.


DON BELIANIS OF GREECE
To Don Quixote of la Mancha

SONNET

In slashinghewingcleavingword and deed
I was the foremost knight of chivalry
Stoutboldexpertas e'er the world did see;


Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed;

Great were my featseternal fame their meed;
In love I proved my truth and loyalty;
The hugest giant was a dwarf for me;


Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed.
My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned
And even Chancesubmitting to control
Grasped by the forelockyielded to my will.
Yet- though above yon horned moon enthroned
My fortune seems to sit- great Quixotestill
Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.


THE LADY OF ORIANA
To Dulcinea del Toboso

SONNET

Ohfairest Dulcineacould it be!
It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so-
Could Miraflores change to El Toboso


And London's town to that which shelters thee!

Ohcould mine but acquire that livery
Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!
Or himnow famous grown- thou mad'st him grow so



Thy knightin some dread combat could I see!
Ohcould I be released from Amadis
By exercise of such coy chastity
As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!
Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;
None would I envyall would envy me
And happiness be mine without alloy.

GANDALINSQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL
To Sancho Panzasquire of Don Quixote

SONNET

All hailillustrious man! Fortunewhen she
Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade
Her care and tenderness of thee displayed

Shaping thy course from misadventure free.

No longer now doth proud knight-errantry
Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade;
Of towering arrogance less count is made

Than of plain esquire-like simplicity.
I envy thee thy Dappleand thy name
And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff

With comforts that thy providence proclaim.
Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again!
To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain


Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.

FROM EL DONOSOTHE MOTLEY POET

On Sancho Panza and Rocinante


ON SANCHO


I am the esquire Sancho Pan-
Who served Don Quixote of La Man-;
But from his service I retreat-
Resolved to pass my life discreet-;
For Villadiegocalled the Si-
Maintained that only in reti-
Was found the secret of well-be-
According to the "Celesti-:"
A book divineexcept for sin-
By speech too plainin my opin-


ON ROCINANTE


I am that Rocinante fa-
Great-grandson of great Babie-
Whoall for being lean and bon-
Had one Don Quixote for an own-;
But if I matched him well in weak-
I never took short commons meek-
But kept myself in corn by steal-
A trick I learned from Lazaril-
When with a piece of straw so neat-
The blind man of his wine he cheat-.



ORLANDO FURIOSO
To Don Quixote of La Mancha

SONNET

If thou art not a Peerpeer thou hast none;
Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer;
Nor is there room for one when thou art near


Unvanquished victorgreat unconquered one!

Orlandoby Angelica undone
Am I; o'er distant seas condemned to steer
And to Fame's altars as an offering bear


Valour respected by Oblivion.
I cannot be thy rivalfor thy fame
And prowess rise above all rivalry
Albeit both bereft of wits we go.
Butthough the Scythian or the Moor to tame
Was not thy lotstill thou dost rival me:
Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.


THE KNIGHT OF PHOEBUS

To Don Quixote of La Mancha

My sword was not to be compared with thine
Phoebus of Spainmarvel of courtesy


Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine
That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.
I scorned all empireand that monarchy

The rosy east held out did I resign

For one glance of Claridiana's eye
The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.
A miracle of constancy my love;


And banished by her ruthless cruelty
This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.
ButGothic Quixotehappier thou dost prove
For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name
And famoushonouredwiseshe lives in thee.

FROM SOLISDAN
To Don Quixote of La Mancha

SONNET

Your fantasiesSir Quixoteit is true
That crazy brain of yours have quite upset
But aught of base or mean hath never yet


Been charged by any in reproach to you.

Your deeds are open proof in all men's view;
For you went forth injustice to abate
And for your pains sore drubbings did you get


From many a rascally and ruffian crew.
If the fair Dulcineayour heart's queen
Be unrelenting in her cruelty
If still your woe be powerless to move her
In such hard case your comfort let it be
That Sancho was a sorry go-between:



A booby hehard-hearted sheand you no lover.

DIALOGUE
Between Babieca and Rocinante

SONNET

B. "How comes itRocinanteyou're so lean?"
R. "I'm underfedwith overwork I'm worn."
B. "But what becomes of all the hay and corn?"
R. "My master gives me none; he's much too mean."
B. "Comecomeyou show ill-breedingsirI ween;
'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn."
R. He is an asswill die an assan ass was born;
Whyhe's in love; what's what's plainer to be seen?"
B. "To be in love is folly?"- R. "No great sense."
B. "You're metaphysical."- R. "From want of food."
B. "Rail at the squirethen."- R. "Whywhat's the good?
I might indeed complain of himI grant ye
Butsquire or masterwhere's the difference?
They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante."


THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would
this bookas it is the child of my brainwere the fairestgayest
and cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract
Nature's law that everything shall beget its like; and whatthen
could this sterileilltilled wit of mine beget but the story of a
dryshrivelledwhimsical offspringfull of thoughts of all sorts
and such as never came into any other imagination- just what might
be begotten in a prisonwhere every misery is lodged and every
doleful sound makes its dwelling? Tranquillitya cheerful retreat
pleasant fieldsbright skiesmurmuring brookspeace of mind
these are the things that go far to make even the most barren muses
fertileand bring into the world births that fill it with wonder
and delight. Sometimes when a father has an uglyloutish sonthe
love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his
defectsorrathertakes them for gifts and charms of mind and body
and talks of them to his friends as wit and grace. Ihowever- for
though I pass for the fatherI am but the stepfather to "Don
Quixote"- have no desire to go with the current of customor to
implore theedearest readeralmost with tears in my eyesas
others doto pardon or excuse the defects thou wilt perceive in
this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friendthy
soul is thine own and thy will as free as any man'swhate'er he be
thou art in thine own house and master of it as much as the king of
his taxes and thou knowest the common sayingUnder my cloak I kill
the king;all which exempts and frees thee from every consideration
and obligationand thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without
fear of being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou
mayest say of it.

My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned
without any embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of
customary sonnetsepigramsand eulogiessuch as are commonly put at
the beginning of books. For I can tell theethough composing it


cost me some labourI found none greater than the making of this
Preface thou art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write
itand many did I lay it down againnot knowing what to write. One
of these timesas I was pondering with the paper before mea pen
in my earmy elbow on the deskand my cheek in my handthinking
of what I should saythere came in unexpectedly a certain lively
clever friend of minewhoseeing me so deep in thoughtasked the
reason; to which Imaking no mystery of itanswered that I was
thinking of the Preface I had to make for the story of "Don
Quixote which so troubled me that I had a mind not to make any at
all, nor even publish the achievements of so noble a knight.

Forhow could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that
ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees me
after slumbering so many years in the silence of oblivioncoming
out now with all my years upon my backand with a book as dry as a
rushdevoid of inventionmeagre in stylepoor in thoughtswholly
wanting in learning and wisdomwithout quotations in the margin or
annotations at the endafter the fashion of other books I seewhich
though all fables and profanityare so full of maxims from Aristotle
and Platoand the whole herd of philosophersthat they fill the
readers with amazement and convince them that the authors are men of
learningeruditionand eloquence. And thenwhen they quote the Holy
Scriptures!- anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other doctors
of the Churchobserving as they do a decorum so ingenious that in one
sentence they describe a distracted lover and in the next deliver a
devout little sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and
read. Of all this there will be nothing in my bookfor I have nothing
to quote in the margin or to note at the endand still less do I know
what authors I follow in itto place them at the beginningas all
dounder the letters ABCbeginning with Aristotle and ending
with Xenophonor Zoilusor Zeuxisthough one was a slanderer and
the other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the
beginningat least sonnets whose authors are dukesmarquises
countsbishopsladiesor famous poets. Though if I were to ask
two or three obliging friendsI know they would give me themand
such as the productions of those that have the highest reputation in
our Spain could not equal.

In short, my friend,I continuedI am determined that Senor
Don Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha
until Heaven provide some one to garnish him with all those things
he stands in need of; because I find myself, through my shallowness
and want of learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am by
nature shy and careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself
can say without them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found
me in, and reason enough, what you have heard from me.

Hearing thismy friendgiving himself a slap on the forehead and
breaking into a hearty laughexclaimedBefore God, Brother, now
am I disabused of an error in which I have been living all this long
time I have known you, all through which I have taken you to be shrewd
and sensible in all you do; but now I see you are as far from that
as the heaven is from the earth. It is possible that things of so
little moment and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe
wit like yours, fit to break through and crush far greater
obstacles? By my faith, this comes, not of any want of ability, but of
too much indolence and too little knowledge of life. Do you want to
know if I am telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me, and you will
see how, in the opening and shutting of an eye, I sweep away all
your difficulties, and supply all those deficiencies which you say
check and discourage you from bringing before the world the story of
your famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry.


Say on,said Ilistening to his talk; "how do you propose to make
up for my diffidenceand reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I
am in?"

To which he made answerYour first difficulty about the sonnets,
epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want for the beginning,
and which ought to be by persons of importance and rank, can be
removed if you yourself take a little trouble to make them; you can
afterwards baptise them, and put any name you like to them,
fathering them on Prester John of the Indies or the Emperor of
Trebizond, who, to my knowledge, were said to have been famous
poets: and even if they were not, and any pedants or bachelors
should attack you and question the fact, never care two maravedis
for that, for even if they prove a lie against you they cannot cut off
the hand you wrote it with.

As to references in the margin to the books and authors from whom
you take the aphorisms and sayings you put into your storyit is only
contriving to fit in nicely any sentences or scraps of Latin you may
happen to have by heartor at any rate that will not give you much
trouble to look up; so aswhen you speak of freedom and captivityto
insert

Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;

and then refer in the margin to Horaceor whoever said it; orif you
allude to the power of deathto come in with


Pallida mors Aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas
Regumque turres.


If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our enemygo
at once to the Holy Scriptureswhich you can do with a very small
amount of researchand quote no less than the words of God himself:
Ego autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros. If you speak of
evil thoughtsturn to the Gospel: De corde exeunt cogitationes malae.
If of the fickleness of friendsthere is Catowho will give you
his distich:

Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos
Tempora si fuerint nubilasolus eris.

With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a
grammarian at all eventsand that now-a-days is no small honour and
profit.

With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, you may
safely do it in this way. If you mention any giant in your book
contrive that it shall be the giant Goliath, and with this alone,
which will cost you almost nothing, you have a grand note, for you can
put- The giant Golias or Goliath was a Philistine whom the shepherd
David slew by a mighty stone-cast in the Terebinth valley, as is
related in the Book of Kings- in the chapter where you find it
written.

Nextto prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and
cosmographymanage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story
and there you are at once with another famous annotationsetting
forth- The river Tagus was so called after a King of Spain: it has its
source in such and such a place and falls into the oceankissing
the walls of the famous city of Lisbonand it is a common belief that
it has golden sands&c. If you should have anything to do with
robbersI will give you the story of Cacusfor I have it by heart;
if with loose womenthere is the Bishop of Mondonedowho will give


you the loan of LamiaLaidaand Floraany reference to whom will
bring you great credit; if with hard-hearted onesOvid will furnish
you with Medea; if with witches or enchantressesHomer has Calypso
and Virgil Circe; if with valiant captainsJulius Caesar himself will
lend you himself in his own 'Commentaries' and Plutarch will give you
a thousand Alexanders. If you should deal with lovewith two ounces
you may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrewwho will
supply you to your heart's content; or if you should not care to go to
foreign countries you have at home Fonseca's 'Of the Love of God'
in which is condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can
want on the subject. In shortall you have to do is to manage to
quote these namesor refer to these stories I have mentionedand
leave it to me to insert the annotations and quotationsand I swear
by all that's good to fill your margins and use up four sheets at
the end of the book.

Now let us come to those references to authors which other books
have, and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple:
You have only to look out for some book that quotes them all, from A
to Z as you say yourself, and then insert the very same alphabet in
your book, and though the imposition may be plain to see, because
you have so little need to borrow from them, that is no matter;
there will probably be some simple enough to believe that you have
made use of them all in this plain, artless story of yours. At any
rate, if it answers no other purpose, this long catalogue of authors
will serve to give a surprising look of authority to your book.
Besides, no one will trouble himself to verify whether you have
followed them or whether you have not, being no way concerned in it;
especially as, if I mistake not, this book of yours has no need of any
one of those things you say it wants, for it is, from beginning to
end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which Aristotle never
dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had any knowledge; nor
do the niceties of truth nor the observations of astrology come within
the range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have geometrical
measurements or refutations of the arguments used in rhetoric anything
to do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody, mixing up things
human and divine, a sort of motley in which no Christian understanding
should dress itself. It has only to avail itself of truth to nature in
its composition, and the more perfect the imitation the better the
work will be. And as this piece of yours aims at nothing more than
to destroy the authority and influence which books of chivalry have in
the world and with the public, there is no need for you to go
a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts from Holy
Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles
from saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run
musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and
well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your
power, and putting your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or
obscurity. Strive, too, that in reading your story the melancholy
may be moved to laughter, and the merry made merrier still; that the
simple shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire the
invention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the wise fail to
praise it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the destruction of that
ill-founded edifice of the books of chivalry, hated by some and
praised by many more; for if you succeed in this you will have
achieved no small success.

In profound silence I listened to what my friend saidand his
observations made such an impression on me thatwithout attempting to
question themI admitted their soundnessand out of them I
determined to make this Preface; whereingentle readerthou wilt
perceive my friend's good sensemy good fortune in finding such an
adviser in such a time of needand what thou hast gained in
receivingwithout addition or alterationthe story of the famous Don


Quixote of La Manchawho is held by all the inhabitants of the
district of the Campo de Montiel to have been the chastest lover and
the bravest knight that has for many years been seen in that
neighbourhood. I have no desire to magnify the service I render thee
in making thee acquainted with so renowned and honoured a knight
but I do desire thy thanks for the acquaintance thou wilt make with
the famous Sancho Panzahis squirein whomto my thinkingI have
given thee condensed all the squirely drolleries that are scattered
through the swarm of the vain books of chivalry. And so- may God
give thee healthand not forget me. Vale.

DEDICATION OF PART I

TO THE DUKE OF BEJARMARQUIS OF GIBRALEONCOUNT OF BENALCAZAR
AND BANARESVICECOUNT OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCERMASTER OF THE TOWNS
OF CAPILLACURIEL AND BURGUILLOS

In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency
bestows on all sort of booksas prince so inclined to favor good
artschiefly those who by their nobleness do not submit to the
service and bribery of the vulgarI have determined bringing to light
The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Manchain shelter of Your
Excellency's glamorous nameto whomwith the obeisance I owe to such
grandeurI pray to receive it agreeably under his protectionso that
in this shadowthough deprived of that precious ornament of
elegance and erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of
those who knowit dares appear with assurance in the judgment of some
whotrespassing the bounds of their own ignoranceuse to condemn
with more rigour and less justice the writings of others. It is my
earnest hope that Your Excellency's good counsel in regard to my
honourable purposewill not disdain the littleness of so humble a
service.

Miguel de Cervantes

CHAPTER I

WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN
DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

In a village of La Manchathe name of which I have no desire to
call to mindthere lived not long since one of those gentlemen that
keep a lance in the lance-rackan old bucklera lean hackand a
greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than muttona
salad on most nightsscraps on Saturdayslentils on Fridaysand a
pigeon or so extra on Sundaysmade away with three-quarters of his
income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet
breeches and shoes to match for holidayswhile on week-days he made a
brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper
past fortya niece under twentyand a lad for the field and
market-placewho used to saddle the hack as well as handle the
bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty;
he was of a hardy habitsparegaunt-featureda very early riser and
a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or
Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the
authors who write on the subject)although from reasonable
conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This


howeveris of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough
not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

You must knowthenthat the above-named gentleman whenever he
was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up
to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he
almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sportsand even
the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his
eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of
tillageland to buy books of chivalry to readand brought home as many
of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well
as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's compositionfor their
lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his
sightparticularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and
cartelswhere he often found passages like "the reason of the
unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that
with reason I murmur at your beauty;" or againthe high heavens,
that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render
you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves.Over conceits of
this sort the poor gentleman lost his witsand used to lie awake
striving to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what
Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come
to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about
the wounds which Don Belianis gave and tookbecause it seemed to
him thatgreat as were the surgeons who had cured himhe must have
had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He
commendedhoweverthe author's way of ending his book with the
promise of that interminable adventureand many a time was he tempted
to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed
which no doubt he would have doneand made a successful piece of work
of it toohad not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a
learned manand a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the
better knightPalmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas
the village barberhoweverused to say that neither of them came
up to the Knight of Phoebusand that if there was any that could
compare with him it was Don Galaorthe brother of Amadis of Gaul
because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasionand was no
finikin knightnor lachrymose like his brotherwhile in the matter
of valour he was not a whit behind him. In shorthe became so
absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise
and his days from dawn to darkporing over them; and what with little
sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits.
His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books
enchantmentsquarrelsbattleschallengeswoundswooingsloves
agoniesand all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his
mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true
that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to
say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knightbut that he was not to be
compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke
cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of
Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of
enchantmentsavailing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he
strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly
of the giant Morgantebecausealthough of the giant breed which is
always arrogant and ill-conditionedhe alone was affable and
well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalbanespecially
when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he
metand when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet whichas
his history sayswas entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at
that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeperand his
niece into the bargain.


In shorthis wits being quite gonehe hit upon the strangest
notion that ever madman in this world hit uponand that was that he
fancied it was right and requisiteas well for the support of his own
honour as for the service of his countrythat he should make a
knight-errant of himselfroaming the world over in full armour and on
horseback in quest of adventuresand putting in practice himself
all that he had read of as being the usual practices of
knights-errant; righting every kind of wrongand exposing himself
to peril and danger from whichin the issuehe was to reap eternal
renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might
of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and soled away by the
intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancieshe set himself
forthwith to put his scheme into execution.

The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged
to his great-grandfatherand had been for ages lying forgotten in a
corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and
polished it as best he couldbut he perceived one great defect in it
that it had no closed helmetnothing but a simple morion. This
deficiencyhoweverhis ingenuity suppliedfor he contrived a kind
of half-helmet of pasteboard whichfitted on to the morionlooked
like a whole one. It is true thatin order to see if it was strong
and fit to stand a cuthe drew his sword and gave it a couple of
slashesthe first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a
week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces
disconcerted him somewhatand to guard against that danger he set
to work againfixing bars of iron on the inside until he was
satisfied with its strength; and thennot caring to try any more
experiments with ithe passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the
most perfect construction.

He next proceeded to inspect his hackwhichwith more quartos than
a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonelathat "tantum
pellis et ossa fuit surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of
Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in
thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was
not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with
such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and
he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before
belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only
reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a
new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one,
befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so,
after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and
remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided
upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty,
sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he
became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the
world.

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious
to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this
point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself Don Quixote
whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious
history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt
Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting,
however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself
curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom
and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul,
he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to
style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he
described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in
taking his surname from it.


So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a
helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to
the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for
a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a
tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said
to himself, Iffor my sinsor by my good fortuneI come across
some giant hereaboutsa common occurrence with knights-errantand
overthrow him in one onslaughtor cleave him asunder to the waist
orin shortvanquish and subdue himwill it not be well to have
some one I may send him to as a presentthat he may come in and
fall on his knees before my sweet ladyand in a humblesubmissive
voice say'I am the giant Caraculiambrolord of the island of
Malindraniavanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently
extolled knight Don Quixote of La Manchawho has commanded me to
present myself before your Gracethat your Highness dispose of me
at your pleasure'?" Ohhow our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of
this speechespecially when he had thought of some one to call his
Lady! There wasso the story goesin a village near his own a very
good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love
thoughso far as is knownshe never knew it nor gave a thought to
the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzoand upon her he thought
fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search
for a name which should not be out of harmony with her ownand should
suggest and indicate that of a princess and great ladyhe decided
upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso -she being of El Toboso- a name
to his mindmusicaluncommonand significantlike all those he had
already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

CHAPTER II

WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME

These preliminaries settledhe did not care to put off any longer
the execution of his designurged on to it by the thought of all
the world was losing by his delayseeing what wrongs he intended to
rightgrievances to redressinjustices to repairabuses to
removeand duties to discharge. Sowithout giving notice of his
intention to anyoneand without anybody seeing himone morning
before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the
month of July) he donned his suit of armourmounted Rocinante with
his patched-up helmet onbraced his bucklertook his lanceand by
the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had
made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find
himself upon the open plainwhen a terrible thought struck himone
all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise at the very
outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knightand
that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to
bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had beenstill he
oughtas a novice knightto wear white armourwithout a device upon
the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections
made him waver in his purposebut his craze being stronger than any
reasoninghe made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by
the first one he came acrossfollowing the example of others in the
same caseas he had read in the books that brought him to this
pass. As for white armourhe resolvedon the first opportunityto
scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and so comforting
himself he pursued his waytaking that which his horse chosefor
in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.

Thus setting outour new-fledged adventurer paced alongtalking to


himself and sayingWho knows but that in time to come, when the
veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who
writes it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early
morning, will do it after this fashion? 'Scarce had the rubicund
Apollo spread o'er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden
threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted
plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous
harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of
her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and
balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated
steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo
de Montiel;'which in fact he was actually traversing. "Happy the
agehappy the time he continued, in which shall be made known my
deeds of fameworthy to be moulded in brasscarved in marblelimned
in picturesfor a memorial for ever. And thouO sage magician
whoever thou artto whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this
wondrous historyforget notI entreat theemy good Rocinantethe
constant companion of my ways and wanderings." Presently he broke
out againas if he were love-stricken in earnestO Princess
Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou
done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy
banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in
remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for
love of thee.

So he went on stringing together these and other absurditiesall in
the style of those his books had taught himimitating their
language as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly
and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was
enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled
without anything remarkable happening to himat which he was in
despairfor he was anxious to encounter some one at once upon whom to
try the might of his strong arm.

Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that
of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what
I have ascertained on this pointand what I have found written in the
annals of La Manchais that he was on the road all dayand towards
nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry
whenlooking all around to see if he could discover any castle or
shepherd's shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his
sore wantshe perceived not far out of his road an innwhich was
as welcome as a star guiding him to the portalsif not the palaces
of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as night
was setting in. At the door were standing two young womengirls of
the district as they call themon their way to Seville with some
carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and ashappen
what might to our adventurereverything he saw or imaged seemed to
him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he read ofthe
moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its
four turrets and pinnacles of shining silvernot forgetting the
drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles
of the sort. To this innwhich to him seemed a castlehe advanced
and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinantehoping that some
dwarf would show himself upon the battlementsand by sound of trumpet
give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing
that they were slow about itand that Rocinante was in a hurry to
reach the stablehe made for the inn doorand perceived the two
gay damsels who were standing thereand who seemed to him to be two
fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.

At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through
the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (forwithout any apology


that is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them
togetherand forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was
expectingthe signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so
with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the
ladieswhoseeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour
and with lance and bucklerwere turning in dismay into the inn
when Don Quixoteguessing their fear by their flightraising his
pasteboard visordisclosed his dry dusty visageand with courteous
bearing and gentle voice addressed themYour ladyships need not
fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of
knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn
maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be.The girls were
looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the features which
the clumsy visor obscuredbut when they heard themselves called
maidensa thing so much out of their linethey could not restrain
their laughterwhich made Don Quixote wax indignantand say
Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause
is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for
my desire is none other than to serve you.

The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our
cavalier only increased the ladies' laughterand that increased his
irritationand matters might have gone farther if at that moment
the landlord had not come outwhobeing a very fat manwas a very
peaceful one. Heseeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did
not match any more than his saddlebridlelancebuckleror
corseletwas not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their
manifestations of amusement; butin truthstanding in awe of such
a complicated armamenthe thought it best to speak him fairlyso
he saidSenor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the
bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything
else here.Don Quixoteobserving the respectful bearing of the
Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes)
made answerSir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for

'My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.'

The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a
worthy of Castile,though he was in fact an Andalusianand one from
the strand of San Lucaras crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of
tricks as a student or a page. "In that case said he,

'Your bed is on the flinty rock
Your sleep to watch alway;'

and if soyou may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of
sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonthnot to say for a
single night." So sayinghe advanced to hold the stirrup for Don
Quixotewho got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had
not broken his fast all day)and then charged the host to take
great care of his horseas he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate
bread in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him
as good as Don Quixote saidnor even half as good; and putting him up
in the stablehe returned to see what might be wanted by his guest
whom the damselswho had by this time made their peace with himwere
now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and
backpiecebut they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or
remove his make-shift helmetfor he had fastened it with green
ribbonswhichas there was no untying the knotsrequired to be cut.
Thishoweverhe would not by any means consent toso he remained
all the evening with his helmet onthe drollest and oddest figure
that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour
taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree


belonging to the castlehe said to them with great sprightliness:

Ohneversurelywas there knight
So served by hand of dame
As served was heDon Quixote hight
When from his town he came;
With maidens waiting on himself
Princesses on his hack


-or Rocinantefor thatladies mineis my horse's nameand Don
Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of
declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour
had made me knownthe necessity of adapting that old ballad of
Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my
name altogether prematurely. A timehoweverwill come for your
ladyships to command and me to obeyand then the might of my arm will
show my desire to serve you."

The girlswho were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sorthad
nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything
to eat. "I would gladly eat a bit of something said Don Quixote,
for I feel it would come very seasonably." The day happened to be a
Fridayand in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of
the fish they call in Castile "abadejo in Andalusia bacallao
and in some places curadillo and in others troutlet;" so they
asked him if he thought he could eat troutletfor there was no
other fish to give him. "If there be troutlets enough said Don
Quixote, they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to
me whether I am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight;
moreoverit may be that these troutlets are like vealwhich is
better than beefor kidwhich is better than goat. But whatever it
be let it come quicklyfor the burden and pressure of arms cannot
be borne without support to the inside." They laid a table for him
at the door of the inn for the sake of the airand the host brought
him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfishand a piece of
bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laughable sight
it was to see him eatingfor having his helmet on and the beaver
uphe could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless
some one else placed it thereand this service one of the ladies
rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was impossibleor
would have been so had not the landlord bored a reedand putting
one end in his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all
which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of his
helmet.

While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelderwho
as he approachedsounded his reed pipe four or five timesand
thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous
castleand that they were regaling him with musicand that the
stockfish was troutthe bread the whitestthe wenches ladiesand
the landlord the castellan of the castle; and consequently he held
that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. But still it
distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knightfor it was
plain to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without
receiving the order of knighthood.

CHAPTER III

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF
DUBBED A KNIGHT


Harassed by this reflectionhe made haste with his scanty
pothouse supperand having finished it called the landlordand
shutting himself into the stable with himfell on his knees before
himsayingFrom this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your
courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your
praise and the benefit of the human race.The landlordseeing his
guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kindstood staring
at him in bewildermentnot knowing what to do or sayand
entreating him to risebut all to no purpose until he had agreed to
grant the boon demanded of him. "I looked for no lessmy lordfrom
your High Magnificence replied Don Quixote, and I have to tell
you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that
you shall dub me knight to-morrow morningand that to-night I shall
watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrowas I
have saidwill be accomplished what I so much desireenabling me
lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking
adventures on behalf of those in distressas is the duty of
chivalry and of knights-errant like myselfwhose ambition is directed
to such deeds."

The landlordwhoas has been mentionedwas something of a wag
and had already some suspicion of his guest's want of witswas
quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from himand to
make sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour.
So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in
viewand that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers
as distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to
be; and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same
honourable callingroaming in quest of adventures in various parts of
the worldamong others the Curing-grounds of Malagathe Isles of
Riaranthe Precinct of Sevillethe Little Market of Segoviathe
Olivera of Valenciathe Rondilla of Granadathe Strand of San Lucar
the Colt of Cordovathe Taverns of Toledoand divers other quarters
where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of
his fingersdoing many wrongscheating many widowsruining maids
and swindling minorsandin shortbringing himself under the notice
of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at
last he had retired to this castle of hiswhere he was living upon
his property and upon that of others; and where he received all
knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might beall for
the great love he bore them and that they might share their
substance with him in return for his benevolence. He told him
moreoverthat in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he
could watch his armouras it had been pulled down in order to be
rebuiltbut that in a case of necessity it mighthe knewbe watched
anywhereand he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the
castleand in the morningGod willingthe requisite ceremonies
might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knightand so
thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any
money with himto which Don Quixote replied that he had not a
farthingas in the histories of knights-errant he had never read of
any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was
mistaken; forthough not recorded in the historiesbecause in the
author's opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious
and necessary as money and clean shirtsit was not to be supposed
therefore that they did not carry themand he might regard it as
certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there were
so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses in
case of emergencyand likewise carried shirts and a little box of
ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains and
deserts where they engaged in combat and came out woundedit was
not always that there was some one to cure themunless indeed they
had for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by
fetching through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial


of water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured
of their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they
had not received any damage whatever. But in case this should not
occurthe knights of old took care to see that their squires were
provided with money and other requisitessuch as lint and ointments
for healing purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires
(which was rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried
everything in cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse's
croupas if it were something else of more importancebecause
unless for some such reasoncarrying saddle-bags was not very
favourably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore advised him
(andas his godson so soon to behe might even command him) never
from that time forth to travel without money and the usual
requirementsand he would find the advantage of them when he least
expected it.

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulouslyand it was
arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard
at one side of the inn; socollecting it all togetherDon Quixote
placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a welland bracing
his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately
air to march up and down in front of the troughand as he began his
march night began to fall.

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze
of his guestthe watching of the armourand the dubbing ceremony
he contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness
they flocked to see it from a distanceand observed with what
composure he sometimes paced up and downor sometimesleaning on his
lancegazed on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever
so long; and as the night closed in with a light from the moon so
brilliant that it might vie with his that lent iteverything the
novice knight did was plainly seen by all.

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to
water his teamand it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armour as
it lay on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a
loud voiceO thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to
lay hands on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt
on sword, have a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst
lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness.The carrier gave no
heed to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if
he had been heedful of his health)but seizing it by the straps flung
the armour some distance from him. Seeing thisDon Quixote raised his
eyes to heavenand fixing his thoughtsapparentlyupon his lady
DulcineaexclaimedAid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter
that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection;
let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;
andwith these words and others to the same purposedropping his
buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a
blow on the carrier's head that he stretched him on the groundso
stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been
no need of a surgeon to cure him. This donehe picked up his armour
and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.

Shortly after thisanothernot knowing what had happened (for
the carrier still lay senseless)came with the same object of
giving water to his mulesand was proceeding to remove the armour
in order to clear the troughwhen Don Quixotewithout uttering a
word or imploring aid from anyoneonce more dropped his buckler and
once more lifted his lanceand without actually breaking the second
carrier's head into piecesmade more than three of itfor he laid it
open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the
spotand among them the landlord. Seeing thisDon Quixote braced his


buckler on his armand with his hand on his sword exclaimedO
Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for
thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on
the brink of so mighty an adventure.By this he felt himself so
inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the
world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the
plight they were in began from a distance to shower stones on Don
Quixotewho screened himself as best he could with his bucklernot
daring to quit the trough and leave his armour unprotected. The
landlord shouted to them to leave him alonefor he had already told
them that he was madand as a madman he would not be accountable even
if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixotecalling
them knaves and traitorsand the lord of the castlewho allowed
knights-errant to be treated in this fashiona villain and a low-born
knight whomhad he received the order of knighthoodhe would call to
account for his treachery. "But of you he cried, base and vile
rabbleI make no account; flingstrikecome ondo all ye can
against meye shall see what the reward of your folly and insolence
will be." This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that he
filled his assailants with a terrible fearand as much for this
reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning him
and he allowed them to carry off the woundedand with the same
calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.

But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the
landlordso he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at
once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure
could occur; sogoing up to himhe apologised for the rudeness
whichwithout his knowledgehad been offered to him by these low
peoplewhohoweverhad been well punished for their audacity. As he
had already told himhe saidthere was no chapel in the castle
nor was it needed for what remained to be doneforas he
understood the ceremonial of the orderthe whole point of being
dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder
and that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he
had now done all that was needful as to watching the armourfor all
requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours onlywhile he had
been more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it alland told
him he stood there ready to obey himand to make an end of it with as
much despatch as possible; forif he were again attackedand felt
himself to be dubbed knighthe would nothe thoughtleave a soul
alive in the castleexcept such as out of respect he might spare at
his bidding.

Thus warned and menacedthe castellan forthwith brought out a
book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to
the carriersandwith a lad carrying a candle-endand the two
damsels already mentionedhe returned to where Don Quixote stoodand
bade him kneel down. Thenreading from his account-book as if he were
repeating some devout prayerin the middle of his delivery he
raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neckand thenwith
his own sworda smart slap on the shoulderall the while muttering
between his teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this
he directed one of the ladies to gird on his swordwhich she did with
great self-possession and gravityand not a little was required to
prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what
they had already seen of the novice knight's prowess kept their
laughter within bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy
lady said to himMay God make your worship a very fortunate
knight, and grant you success in battle.Don Quixote asked her name
in order that he might from that time forward know to whom he was
beholden for the favour he had receivedas he meant to confer upon
her some portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his arm.
She answered with great humility that she was called La Tolosaand


that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the
stalls of Sanchobienayaand that wherever she might be she would
serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said in reply that she
would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed the "Don" and
called herself Dona Tolosa. She promised she wouldand then the other
buckled on his spurand with her followed almost the same
conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her nameand she
said it was La Molineraand that she was the daughter of a
respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote
requested that she would adopt the "Don" and call herself Dona
Molineramaking offers to her further services and favours.

Having thuswith hot haste and speedbrought to a conclusion these
never-till-now-seen ceremoniesDon Quixote was on thorns until he saw
himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and
saddling Rocinante at once he mountedand embracing his hostas he
returned thanks for his kindness in knighting himhe addressed him in
language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of
it or report it. The landlordto get him out of the innreplied with
no less rhetoric though with shorter wordsand without calling upon
him to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.

CHAPTER IV

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN

Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the innso happyso
gayso exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knightthat his
joy was like to burst his horse-girths. Howeverrecalling the
advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him
especially that referring to money and shirtshe determined to go
home and provide himself with alland also with a squirefor he
reckoned upon securing a farm-labourera neighbour of hisa poor man
with a familybut very well qualified for the office of squire to a
knight. With this object he turned his horse's head towards his
villageand Rocinantethus reminded of his old quartersstepped out
so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.

He had not gone farwhen out of a thicket on his right there seemed
to come feeble cries as of some one in distressand the instant he
heard them he exclaimedThanks be to heaven for the favour it
accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the
obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my
ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want
of help, and needing my aid and protection;and wheelinghe turned
Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He
had gone but a few paces into the woodwhen he saw a mare tied to
an oakand tied to anotherand stripped from the waist upwardsa
youth of about fifteen years of agefrom whom the cries came. Nor
were they without causefor a lusty farmer was flogging him with a
belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands
repeatingYour mouth shut and your eyes open!while the youth
made answerI won't do it again, master mine; by God's passion I
won't do it again, and I'll take more care of the flock another time.

Seeing what was going onDon Quixote said in an angry voice
Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot
defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance(for there was a
lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied)and I will
make you know that you are behaving as a coward.The farmerseeing
before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his


headgave himself up for deadand made answer meeklySir Knight,
this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch
a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I
lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and
knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the
wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies.

Lies before me, base clown!said Don Quixote. "By the sun that
shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him
at once without another word; if notby the God that rules us I
will make an end of youand annihilate you on the spot; release him
instantly."

The farmer hung his headand without a word untied his servant
of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.

He repliednine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it
upfound that it came to sixty-three realsand told the farmer to
pay it down immediatelyif he did not want to die for it.

The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he
had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for
there were to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of
shoes he had given himand a real for two blood-lettings when he
was sick.

All that is very well,said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes and
the blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have
given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the
shoes you paid foryou have damaged that of his bodyand if the
barber took blood from him when he was sickyou have drawn it when he
was sound; so on that score he owes you nothing."

The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let
Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.

I go with him!said the youth. "NayGod forbid! Nosenornot
for the world; for once alone with mehe would ray me like a Saint
Bartholomew."

He will do nothing of the kind,said Don Quixote; "I have only
to commandand he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the
order of knighthood which he has receivedI leave him freeand I
guarantee the payment."

Consider what you are saying, senor,said the youth; "this
master of mine is not a knightnor has he received any order of
knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Richof Quintanar."

That matters little,replied Don Quixote; "there may be Haldudos
knights; moreovereveryone is the son of his works."

That is true,said Andres; "but this master of mine- of what works
is he the sonwhen he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?"

I do not refuse, brother Andres,said the farmerbe good
enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of
knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by
real, and perfumed.

For the perfumery I excuse you,said Don Quixote; "give it to
him in realsand I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you
have sworn; if notby the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you
out and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie


closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this
command upon youthat you be more firmly bound to obey itknow
that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Manchathe undoer of
wrongs and injustices; and soGod be with youand keep in mind
what you have promised and sworn under those penalties that have
been already declared to you."

So sayinghe gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The
farmer followed him with his eyesand when he saw that he had cleared
the wood and was no longer in sighthe turned to his boy Andres
and saidCome here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as
that undoer of wrongs has commanded me.

My oath on it,said Andresyour worship will be well advised
to obey the command of that good knight- may he live a thousand yearsfor,
as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay
me, he will come back and do as he said.

My oath on it, too,said the farmer; "but as I have a strong
affection for youI want to add to the debt in order to add to the
payment;" and seizing him by the armhe tied him up againand gave
him such a flogging that he left him for dead.

Now, Master Andres,said the farmercall on the undoer of
wrongs; you will find he won't undo that, though I am not sure that
I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive.
But at last he untied himand gave him leave to go look for his judge
in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.

Andres went off rather down in the mouthswearing he would go to
look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly
what had happenedand that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold;
but for all thathe went off weepingwhile his master stood
laughing.

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrongandthoroughly
satisfied with what had taken placeas he considered he had made a
very happy and noble beginning with his knighthoodhe took the road
towards his village in perfect self-contentsaying in a low voice
Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on
earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen
to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and
pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of
knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance
that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day
plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly
lashing that tender child.

He now came to a road branching in four directionsand
immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where
knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they should take.
In imitation of them he halted for a whileand after having deeply
considered ithe gave Rocinante his headsubmitting his own will
to that of his hackwho followed out his first intentionwhich was
to make straight for his own stable. After he had gone about two miles
Don Quixote perceived a large party of peoplewhoas afterwards
appearedwere some Toledo traderson their way to buy silk at
Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades
with four servants mountedand three muleteers on foot. Scarcely
had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this
must be some new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he
could those passages he had read of in his bookshere seemed to
come one made on purposewhich he resolved to attempt. So with a


lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his
stirrupsgot his lance readybrought his buckler before his
breastand planting himself in the middle of the roadstood
waiting the approach of these knights-errantfor such he now
considered and held them to be; and when they had come near enough
to see and hearhe exclaimed with a haughty gestureAll the world
stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is
no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso.

The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of
the strange figure that uttered itand from both figure and
language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished
howeverto learn quietly what was the object of this confession
that was demanded of themand one of themwho was rather fond of a
joke and was very sharp-wittedsaid to himSir Knight, we do not
know who this good lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for,
if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and
without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your part
required of us.

If I were to show her to you,replied Don Quixotewhat merit
would you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential
point is that without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm,
swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in battle,
ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by
one as the order of knighthood requires, or all together as is the
custom and vile usage of your breed, here do I bide and await you
relying on the justice of the cause I maintain.

Sir Knight,replied the traderI entreat your worship in the
name of this present company of princes, that, to save us from
charging our consciences with the confession of a thing we have
never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of
the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship
will be pleased to show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no
bigger than a grain of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the
ball, and in this way we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will
be content and pleased; nay, I believe we are already so far agreed
with you that even though her portrait should show her blind of one
eye, and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would
nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that
you desire.

She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,said Don Quixote
burning with ragenothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and
civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter
than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have
uttered against beauty like that of my lady.

And so sayinghe charged with levelled lance against the one who
had spokenwith such fury and fierceness thatif luck had not
contrived that Rocinante should stumble midway and come downit would
have gone hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinanteand over
went his masterrolling along the ground for some distance; and
when he tried to rise he was unableso encumbered was he with
lancebucklerspurshelmetand the weight of his old armour; and
all the while he was struggling to get up he kept sayingFly not,
cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am
I stretched here.

One of the muleteers in attendancewho could not have had much good
nature in himhearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this
stylewas unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs;


and coming up to him he seized his lanceand having broken it in
pieceswith one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that
notwithstanding and in spite of his armourhe milled him like a
measure of wheat. His masters called out not to lay on so hard and
to leave him alonebut the muleteers blood was upand he did not
care to drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrathand
gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a
discharge upon the unhappy victimwho all through the storm of sticks
that rained on him never ceased threatening heavenand earthand the
brigandsfor such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired
and the traders continued their journeytaking with them matter for
talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found
himself alone made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when
whole and soundhow was he to rise after having been thrashed and
well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunateas
it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant's mishapand
entirelyhe consideredthe fault of his horse. Howeverbattered
in body as he wasto rise was beyond his power.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP IS CONTINUED

Findingthenthatin fact he could not movehe thought himself
of having recourse to his usual remedywhich was to think of some
passage in his booksand his craze brought to his mind that about
Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantuawhen Carloto left him wounded on
the mountain sidea story known by heart by the childrennot
forgotten by the young menand lauded and even believed by the old
folk; and for all that not a whit truer than the miracles of
Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit exactly the case in which he
found himselfsomaking a show of severe sufferinghe began to roll
on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the
wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:

Where art thoulady minethat thou
My sorrow dost not rue?
Thou canst not know itlady mine
Or else thou art untrue.

And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:

O noble Marquis of Mantua
My Uncle and liege lord!

As chance would have itwhen he had got to this line there happened
to come by a peasant from his own villagea neighbour of hiswho had
been with a load of wheat to the milland heseeing the man
stretched therecame up to him and asked him who he was and what
was the matter with him that he complained so dolefully.

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of
Mantuahis uncleso the only answer he made was to go on with his
balladin which he told the tale of his misfortuneand of the
loves of the Emperor's son and his wife all exactly as the ballad
sings it.

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsenseand relieving him
of the visoralready battered to pieces by blowshe wiped his
facewhich was covered with dustand as soon as he had done so he


recognised him and saidSenor Quixada(for so he appears to have
been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a
quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant)who has brought your
worship to this pass?But to all questions the other only went on
with his ballad.

Seeing thisthe good man removed as well as he could his
breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any woundbut he could
perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise
him from the groundand with no little difficulty hoisted him upon
his asswhich seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and
collecting the armseven to the splinters of the lancehe tied
them on Rocinanteand leading him by the bridle and the ass by the
halter he took the road for the villagevery sad to hear what
absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking. Nor was Don Quixote less sofor
what with blows and bruises he could not sit upright on the assand
from time to time he sent up sighs to heavenso that once more he
drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only
the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own
adventuresfor nowforgetting Baldwinhe bethought himself of the
Moor Abindarraezwhen the Alcaide of AntequeraRodrigo de Narvaez
took him prisoner and carried him away to his castle; so that when the
peasant again asked him how he was and what ailed himhe gave him for
reply the same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave
to Rodrigo de Narvaezjust as he had read the story in the "Diana" of
Jorge de Montemayor where it is writtenapplying it to his own case
so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to
listen to such a lot of nonsense; from whichhoweverhe came to
the conclusion that his neighbour was madand so made all haste to
reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of
Don Quixote's; whoat the end of itsaidSenor Don Rodrigo de
Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned
is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing,
and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world
have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.

To this the peasant answeredSenor- sinner that I am!- cannot your
worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of
Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is
neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor
Quixada?

I know who I am,replied Don Quixoteand I know that I may be
not only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and
even all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that
they have done all together and each of them on his own account.

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village
just as night was beginning to fallbut the peasant waited until it
was a little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen
riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the
proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote's house
which he found all in confusionand there were the curate and the
village barberwho were great friends of Don Quixoteand his
housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voiceWhat does your
worship think can have befallen my master, Senor Licentiate Pero
Perez?for so the curate was called; "it is three days now since
anything has been seen of himor the hackor the bucklerlance
or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of itand it is as true as that
I was born to diethat these accursed books of chivalry he hasand
has got into the way of reading so constantlyhave upset his
reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to himself
that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of
adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such booksthat have


brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in
all La Mancha!"

The niece said the sameandmore: "You must knowMaster
Nicholas"- for that was the name of the barber- "it was often my
uncle's way to stay two days and nights together poring over these
unholy books of misventuresafter which he would fling the book
away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and
when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like four
towers; and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said
was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; and then he
would drink a great jug of cold water and become calm and quiet
saying that this water was a most precious potion which the sage
Esquifea great magician and friend of hishad brought him. But I
take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships
of my uncle's vagariesthat you might put a stop to them before
things had come to this passand burn all these accursed books- for
he has a great number- that richly deserve to be burned like
heretics."

So say I too,said the curateand by my faith to-morrow shall
not pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be
condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my
good friend seems to have behaved.

All this the peasant heardand from it he understood at last what
was the matter with his neighbourso he began calling aloudOpen,
your worships, to Senor Baldwin and to Senor the Marquis of Mantua,
who comes badly wounded, and to Senor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom
the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings
captive.

At these words they all hurried outand when they recognised
their friendmasterand unclewho had not yet dismounted from the
ass because he could notthey ran to embrace him.

Hold!said hefor I am badly wounded through my horse's fault;
carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and
see to my wounds.

See there! plague on it!cried the housekeeper at this: "did not
my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To
bed with your worship at onceand we will contrive to cure you here
without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once moreand a
hundred times moreon those books of chivalry that have brought
your worship to such a pass."

They carried him to bed at onceand after searching for his
wounds could find nonebut he said they were all bruises from
having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat
with ten giantsthe biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.

So, so!said the curateare there giants in the dance? By the
sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day over.

They put a host of questions to Don Quixotebut his only answer
to all was- give him something to eatand leave him to sleepfor
that was what he needed most. They did soand the curate questioned
the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He
told himand the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way
homeall which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did
the next daywhich was to summon his friend the barberMaster
Nicholasand go with him to Don Quixote's house.


CHAPTER VI

OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THE
BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN

He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of
the room where the booksthe authors of all the mischiefwereand
right willingly she gave them. They all went inthe housekeeper
with themand found more than a hundred volumes of big books very
well boundand some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper
saw them she turned about and ran out of the roomand came back
immediately with a saucer of holy water and a sprinklersaying
Here, your worship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don't leave
any magician of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in
revenge for our design of banishing them from the world.

The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laughand
he directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what
they were aboutas there might be some to be found among them that
did not deserve the penalty of fire.

No,said the niecethere is no reason for showing mercy to any
of them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling
them out of the window into the court and make a pile of them and
set fire to them; or else carry them into the yard, and there a
bonfire can be made without the smoke giving any annoyance.The
housekeeper said the sameso eager were they both for the slaughter
of those innocentsbut the curate would not agree to it without first
reading at any rate the titles.

The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was "The four books
of Amadis of Gaul." "This seems a mysterious thing said the
curate, foras I have heard saythis was the first book of chivalry
printed in Spainand from this all the others derive their birth
and origin; so it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it
to the flames as the founder of so vile a sect."

Nay, sir,said the barberI too, have heard say that this is the
best of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so,
as something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned.

True,said the curate; "and for that reason let its life be spared
for the present. Let us see that other which is next to it."

It is,said the barberthe 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the lawful
son of Amadis of Gaul.

Then verily,said the curatethe merit of the father must not be
put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper;
open the window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of
the pile for the bonfire we are to make.

The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfactionand the worthy
Esplandianwent flying into the yard to await with all patience
the fire that was in store for him.

Proceed,said the curate.

This that comes next,said the barberis 'Amadis of Greece,'
and, indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis
lineage.


Then to the yard with the whole of them,said the curate; "for
to have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestraand the shepherd Darinel
and his ecloguesand the bedevilled and involved discourses of his
authorI would burn with them the father who begot me if he were
going about in the guise of a knight-errant."

I am of the same mind,said the barber.

And so am I,added the niece.

In that case,said the housekeeperhere, into the yard with
them!

They were handed to herand as there were many of themshe
spared herself the staircaseand flung them down out of the window.

Who is that tub there?said the curate.

This,said the barberis 'Don Olivante de Laura.'

The author of that book,said the curatewas the same that wrote
'The Garden of Flowers,' and truly there is no deciding which of the
two books is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less
lying; all I can say is, send this one into the yard for a
swaggering fool.

This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hircania,'said the barber.

Senor Florismarte here?said the curate; "then by my faith he must
take up his quarters in the yardin spite of his marvellous birth and
visionary adventuresfor the stiffness and dryness of his style
deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the othermistress
housekeeper."

With all my heart, senor,said sheand executed the order with
great delight.

This,said the barberis The Knight Platir.'

An old book that,said the curatebut I find no reason for
clemency in it; send it after the others without appeal;which was
done.

Another book was openedand they saw it was entitledThe Knight
of the Cross.

For the sake of the holy name this book has,said the curateits
ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, 'behind the cross
there's the devil; to the fire with it.

Taking down another bookthe barber saidThis is 'The Mirror of
Chivalry.'

I know his worship,said the curate; "that is where Senor
Reinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades
greater thieves than Cacusand the Twelve Peers of France with the
veracious historian Turpin; howeverI am not for condemning them to
more than perpetual banishmentbecauseat any ratethey have some
share in the invention of the famous Matteo Boiardowhence too the
Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his webto whomif I find him
hereand speaking any language but his ownI shall show no respect
whatever; but if he speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my
head."


Well, I have him in Italian,said the barberbut I do not
understand him.

Nor would it be well that you should understand him,said the
curateand on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had
not brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed
him of a great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who
try to turn books written in verse into another language, for, with
all the pains they take and all the cleverness they show, they never
can reach the level of the originals as they were first produced. In
short, I say that this book, and all that may be found treating of
those French affairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry
well, until after more consideration it is settled what is to be
done with them; excepting always one 'Bernardo del Carpio' that is
going about, and another called 'Roncesvalles;' for these, if they
come into my hands, shall pass at once into those of the
housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any reprieve.

To all this the barber gave his assentand looked upon it as
right and properbeing persuaded that the curate was so staunch to
the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say
anything opposed to them. Opening another book he saw it was "Palmerin
de Oliva and beside it was another called Palmerin of England
seeing which the licentiate said, Let the Olive be made firewood of
at once and burned until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm
of England be kept and preserved as a thing that stands aloneand let
such another case be made for it as that which Alexander found among
the spoils of Darius and set aside for the safe keeping of the works
of the poet Homer. This bookgossipis of authority for two reasons
first because it is very goodand secondly because it is said to have
been written by a wise and witty king of Portugal. All the
adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent and of
admirable contrivanceand the language is polished and clear
studying and observing the style befitting the speaker with
propriety and judgment. So thenprovided it seems good to youMaster
NicholasI say let this and 'Amadis of Gaul' be remitted the
penalty of fireand as for all the restlet them perish without
further question or query."

Nay, gossip,said the barberfor this that I have here is the
famous 'Don Belianis.'

Well,said the curatethat and the second, third, and fourth
parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of
bile, and they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of
Fame and other greater affectations, to which end let them be
allowed the over-seas term, and, according as they mend, so shall
mercy or justice be meted out to them; and in the mean time, gossip,
do you keep them in your house and let no one read them.

With all my heart,said the barber; and not caring to tire himself
with reading more books of chivalryhe told the housekeeper to take
all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to
one dull or deafbut to one who enjoyed burning them more than
weaving the broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about
eight at a timeshe flung them out of the window.

In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the
barberwho took it upcurious to know whose it wasand found it
saidHistory of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco.

God bless me!said the curate with a shout'Tirante el Blanco'
here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury


of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of
Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan,
and the knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with
the mastiff, and the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and
the loves and wiles of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love
with the squire Hipolito- in truth, gossip, by right of its style it
is the best book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die
in their beds, and make their wills before dying, and a great deal
more of which there is nothing in all the other books. Nevertheless, I
say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing such fooleries,
deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take it home with you and
read it, and you will see that what I have said is true.

As you will,said the barber; "but what are we to do with these
little books that are left?"

These must be, not chivalry, but poetry,said the curate; and
opening one he saw it was the "Diana" of Jorge de Montemayorand
supposing all the others to be of the same sortthese,he saiddo
not deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor
can do the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of
entertainment that can hurt no one.

Ah, senor!said the nieceyour worship had better order these to
be burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after
being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took
a fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and
piping; or, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is
an incurable and infectious malady.

The damsel is right,said the curateand it will be well to
put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend's way. To
begin, then, with the 'Diana' of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should
not be burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the
sage Felicia and the magic water, and of almost all the longer
pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of
being the first of books of the kind.

This that comes next,said the barberis the 'Diana,' entitled
the 'Second Part, by the Salamancan,' and this other has the same
title, and its author is Gil Polo.

As for that of the Salamancan,replied the curatelet it go to
swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's be
preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and
make haste, for it is growing late.

This book,said the barberopening anotheris the ten books
of the 'Fortune of Love,' written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian
poet.

By the orders I have received,said the curatesince Apollo
has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been
poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written,
and in its way it is the best and the most singular of all of this
species that have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be
sure he has never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I
make more account of having found it than if they had given me a
cassock of Florence stuff.

He put it aside with extreme satisfactionand the barber went on
These that come next are 'The Shepherd of Iberia,' 'Nymphs of
Henares,' and 'The Enlightenment of Jealousy.'


Then all we have to do,said the curateis to hand them over
to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall
never have done.

This next is the 'Pastor de Filida.'

No Pastor that,said the curatebut a highly polished
courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel.

This large one here,said the barberis called 'The Treasury
of various Poems.'

If there were not so many of them,said the curatethey would be
more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain
vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved
because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other
more heroic and loftier works that he has written.

This,continued the barberis the 'Cancionero' of Lopez de
Maldonado.

The author of that book, too,said the curateis a great
friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration
of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he
enchants when he chants them: it gives rather too much of its
eclogues, but what is good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept
with those that have been set apart. But what book is that next it?

The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes,said the barber.

That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine,
and to my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in
verses. His book has some good invention in it, it presents us with
something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the
Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in
winning the full measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the
mean time do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters.

Very good,said the barber; "and here come three togetherthe
'Araucana' of Don Alonso de Ercillathe 'Austriada' of Juan Rufo
Justice of Cordovaand the 'Montserrate' of Christobal de Viruesthe
Valencian poet."

These three books,said the curateare the best that have been
written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the
most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures
of poetry that Spain possesses.

The curate was tired and would not look into any more booksand
so he decided thatcontents uncertified,all the rest should be
burned; but just then the barber held open onecalled "The Tears of
Angelica."

I should have shed tears myself,said the curate when he heard the
titlehad I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one
of the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very
happy in the translation of some of Ovid's fables.

CHAPTER VII

OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA


At this instant Don Quixote began shouting outHere, here,
valiant knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your
strong arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the
tourney!Called away by this noise and outcrythey proceeded no
farther with the scrutiny of the remaining booksand so it is thought
that "The Carolea The Lion of Spain and The Deeds of the
Emperor written by Don Luis de Avila, went to the fire unseen and
unheard; for no doubt they were among those that remained, and perhaps
if the curate had seen them they would not have undergone so severe
a sentence.

When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was
still shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide
awake as if he had never slept.

They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he
had become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, Of a
truthSenor Archbishop Turpinit is a great disgrace for us who call
ourselves the Twelve Peersso carelessly to allow the knights of
the Court to gain the victory in this tourneywe the adventurers
having carried off the honour on the three former days."

Hush, gossip,said the curate; "please Godthe luck may turnand
what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your
worship have a care of your healthfor it seems to me that you are
over-fatiguedif not badly wounded."

Wounded no,said Don Quixotebut bruised and battered no
doubt, for that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with the trunk
of an oak tree, and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival
him in his achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of
Montalvan did he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as
soon as I rise from this bed. For the present let them bring me
something to eat, for that, I feel, is what will be more to my
purpose, and leave it to me to avenge myself.

They did as he wished; they gave him something to eatand once more
he fell asleepleaving them marvelling at his madness.

That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were
in the yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed
that deserved preservation in everlasting archivesbut their fate and
the laziness of the examiner did not permit itand so in them was
verified the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.

One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately
applied to their friend's disorder was to wall up and plaster the room
where the books wereso that when he got up he should not find them
(possibly the cause being removed the effect might cease)and they
might say that a magician had carried them offroom and all; and this
was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got upand the
first thing he did was to go and look at his booksand not finding
the room where he had left ithe wandered from side to side looking
for it. He came to the place where the door used to beand tried it
with his handsand turned and twisted his eyes in every direction
without saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper
whereabouts was the room that held his books.

The housekeeperwho had been already well instructed in what she
was to answersaidWhat room or what nothing is it that your
worship is looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house
now, for the devil himself has carried all away.


It was not the devil,said the niecebut a magician who came
on a cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and
dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and
what he did there I know not, but after a little while he made off,
flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we
went to see what he had done we saw neither book nor room: but we
remember very well, the housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old
villain said in a loud voice that, for a private grudge he owed the
owner of the books and the room, he had done mischief in that house
that would be discovered by-and-by: he said too that his name was
the Sage Munaton.

He must have said Friston,said Don Quixote.

I don't know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,said the
housekeeperI only know that his name ended with 'ton.'

So it does,said Don Quixoteand he is a sage magician, a
great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by
his arts and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single
combat with a knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and
he will be unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavours
to do me all the ill turns that he can; but I promise him it will be
hard for him to oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven.

Who doubts that?said the niece; "butunclewho mixes you up
in these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your
own house instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than
ever came of wheatnever reflecting that many go for wool and come
back shorn?"

Oh, niece of mine,replied Don Quixotehow much astray art
thou in thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and
stripped off the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a
hair of mine.

The two were unwilling to make any further answeras they saw
that his anger was kindling.

In shortthenhe remained at home fifteen days very quietly
without showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former
delusionsand during this time he held lively discussions with his
two gossipsthe curate and the barberon the point he maintained
that knights-errant were what the world stood most in need ofand
that in him was to be accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The
curate sometimes contradicted himsometimes agreed with himfor if
he had not observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring
him to reason.

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourera neighbour of
hisan honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is
poor)but with very little wit in his pate. In a wordhe so talked
him overand with such persuasions and promisesthat the poor
clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as
esquire. Don Quixoteamong other thingstold him he ought to be
ready to go with him gladlybecause any moment an adventure might
occur that might win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave
him governor of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for
so the labourer was called) left wife and childrenand engaged
himself as esquire to his neighbour. Don Quixote next set about
getting some money; and selling one thing and pawning anotherand
making a bad bargain in every casehe got together a fair sum. He
provided himself with a bucklerwhich he begged as a loan from a
friendandrestoring his battered helmet as best he couldhe warned


his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set outthat he
might provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above allhe
charged him to take alforjas with him. The other said he wouldand
that he meant to take also a very good ass he hadas he was not
much given to going on foot. About the assDon Quixote hesitated a
littletrying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant
taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-backbut no instance
occurred to his memory. For all thathoweverhe determined to take
himintending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when a
chance of it presented itselfby appropriating the horse of the first
discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts
and such other things as he couldaccording to the advice the host
had given him; all which being donewithout taking leaveSancho
Panza of his wife and childrenor Don Quixote of his housekeeper
and niecethey sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one
nightand made such good way in the course of it that by daylight
they held themselves safe from discoveryeven should search be made
for them.

Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarchwith his alforjas and bota
and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master
had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and
road he had taken on his first journeythat over the Campo de
Montielwhich he travelled with less discomfort than on the last
occasionforas it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on
them obliquelythe heat did not distress them.

And now said Sancho Panza to his masterYour worship will take
care, Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have
promised me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to governing it.

To which Don Quixote repliedThou must know, friend Sancho
Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with the
knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands
or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there shall be no
failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean
to improve upon it, for they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently,
waited until their squires were old, and then when they had had enough
of service and hard days and worse nights, they gave them some title
or other, of count, or at the most marquis, of some valley or province
more or less; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that
before six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has
others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable
thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this
wonderful, for things and chances fall to the lot of such knights in
ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even
more than I promise thee.

In that case,said Sancho Panzaif I should become a king by one
of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old
woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes.

Well, who doubts it?said Don Quixote.

I doubt it,replied Sancho Panzabecause for my part I am
persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth,
not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you,
senor, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit
her better, and that only with God's help.

Leave it to God, Sancho,returned Don Quixotefor he will give
her what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to
come to be content with anything less than being governor of a
province.


I will not, senor,answered Sanchospecially as I have a man
of such quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to
give me all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear.

CHAPTER VIII

OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE
TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLSWITH OTHER
OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO BE FITLY RECORDED

At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that
there are on plainand as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his
squireFortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have
shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza,
where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of
whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we
shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and
it is God's good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of
the earth.

What giants?said Sancho Panza.

Those thou seest there,answered his masterwith the long
arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long.

Look, your worship,said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants
but windmillsand what seem to be their arms are the sails that
turned by the wind make the millstone go."

It is easy to see,replied Don Quixotethat thou art not used to
this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid,
away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage
them in fierce and unequal combat.

So sayinghe gave the spur to his steed Rocinanteheedless of
the cries his squire Sancho sent after himwarning him that most
certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack.
Hehoweverwas so positive they were giants that he neither heard
the cries of Sanchonor perceivednear as he waswhat they were
but made at them shoutingFly not, cowards and vile beings, for a
single knight attacks you.

A slight breeze at this moment sprang upand the great sails
began to moveseeing which Don Quixote exclaimedThough ye flourish
more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me.

So sayingand commending himself with all his heart to his lady
Dulcineaimploring her to support him in such a perilwith lance
in rest and covered by his bucklerhe charged at Rocinante's
fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of
him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it
round with such force that it shivered the lance to piecessweeping
with it horse and riderwho went rolling over on the plainin a
sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his
ass could goand when he came up found him unable to movewith
such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.

God bless me!said Sanchodid I not tell your worship to mind
what you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could
have made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same


kind in his head.

Hush, friend Sancho,replied Don Quixotethe fortunes of war
more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and
moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who
carried off my study and books, has turned these giants into mills
in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the
enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but
little against my good sword.

God order it as he may,said Sancho Panzaand helping him to rise
got him up again on Rocinantewhose shoulder was half out; and
thendiscussing the late adventurethey followed the road to
Puerto Lapicefor theresaid Don Quixotethey could not fail to
find adventures in abundance and varietyas it was a great
thoroughfare. For all thathe was much grieved at the loss of his
lanceand saying so to his squirehe addedI remember having
read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas by name, having
broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous bough or
branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many
Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and his
descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I
mention this because from the first oak I see I mean to rend such
another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am
determined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself
very fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an
eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed.

Be that as God will,said SanchoI believe it all as your
worship says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on
one side, may be from the shaking of the fall.

That is the truth,said Don Quixoteand if I make no complaint
of the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain
of any wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it.

If so,said SanchoI have nothing to say; but God knows I
would rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my
part, I confess I must complain however small the ache may be;
unless this rule about not complaining extends to the squires of
knights-errant also.

Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simplicity
and he assured him he might complain whenever and however he chose
just as he likedforso farhe had never read of anything to the
contrary in the order of knighthood.

Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-timeto which his master
answered that he wanted nothing himself just thenbut that he might
eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as
comfortably as he could on his beastand taking out of the alforjas
what he had stowed away in themhe jogged along behind his master
munching deliberatelyand from time to time taking a pull at the bota
with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied;
and while he went on in this waygulping down draught after
draughthe never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had
made himnor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation
going in quest of adventureshowever dangerous they might be. Finally
they passed the night among some treesfrom one of which Don
Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a
lanceand fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one.
All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcineain
order to conform to what he had read in his bookshow many a night in
the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the


memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend itfor
having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he
made but one sleep of itandif his master had not called him
neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the cheery
notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had
power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota and found it
somewhat less full than the night beforewhich grieved his heart
because they did not seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency
readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fastforas has
been already saidhe confined himself to savoury recollections for
nourishment.

They returned to the road they had set out withleading to Puerto
Lapiceand at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here
brother Sancho Panza said Don Quixote when he saw it, we may plunge
our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but
observeeven shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the
worldthou must not put a hand to thy sword in my defenceunless
indeed thou perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base
folk; for in that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they
be knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws
of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight."

Most certainly, senor,replied Sanchoyour worship shall be
fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful
and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as
regards the defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to
those laws, for laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself
against any assailant whatever.

That I grant,said Don Quixotebut in this matter of aiding me
against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural
impetuosity.

I will do so, I promise you,answered Sanchoand will keep
this precept as carefully as Sunday.

While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars
of the order of St. Benedictmounted on two dromedariesfor not less
tall were the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling
spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind them came a coach
attended by four or five persons on horseback and two muleteers on
foot. In the coach there wasas afterwards appeareda Biscay lady on
her way to Sevillewhere her husband was about to take passage for
the Indies with an appointment of high honour. The friarsthough
going the same roadwere not in her company; but the moment Don
Quixote perceived them he said to his squireEither I am mistaken,
or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever been
seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless
are, magicians who are carrying off some stolen princess in that
coach, and with all my might I must undo this wrong.

This will be worse than the windmills,said Sancho. "Look
senor; those are friars of St. Benedictand the coach plainly belongs
to some travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and
don't let the devil mislead you."

I have told thee already, Sancho,replied Don Quixotethat on
the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the
truth, as thou shalt see presently.

So sayinghe advanced and posted himself in the middle of the
road along which the friars were comingand as soon as he thought
they had come near enough to hear what he saidhe cried aloud


Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn
princesses whom you are carrying off by force in this coach, else
prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your evil
deeds.

The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don
Quixote as well as at his wordsto which they repliedSenor
Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St.
Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not there are
any captive princesses coming in this coach.

No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,said Don
Quixoteand without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with
levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and
determinationthatif the friar had not flung himself off the
mulehe would have brought him to the ground against his willand
sore woundedif not killed outright. The second brotherseeing how
his comrade was treateddrove his heels into his castle of a mule and
made off across the country faster than the wind.

Sancho Panzawhen he saw the friar on the grounddismounting
briskly from his assrushed towards him and began to strip off his
gown. At that instant the friars muleteers came up and asked what he
was stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him
lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won.
The muleteerswho had no idea of a joke and did not understand all
this about battles and spoilsseeing that Don Quixote was some
distance off talking to the travellers in the coachfell upon Sancho
knocked him downand leaving hardly a hair in his beardbelaboured
him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless on
the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to mountwho
tremblingterrifiedand paleas soon as he found himself in the
saddlespurred after his companionwho was standing at a distance
looking onwatching the result of the onslaught; thennot caring
to wait for the end of the affair just begunthey pursued their
journey making more crosses than if they had the devil after them.

Don Quixote wasas has been saidspeaking to the lady in the
coach: "Your beautylady mine said he, may now dispose of your
person as may be most in accordance with your pleasurefor the
pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this
strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining to know the name
of your delivererknow that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha
knight-errant and adventurerand captive to the peerless and
beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in return for the service
you have received of me I ask no more than that you should return to
El Tobosoand on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell
her what I have done to set you free."

One of the squires in attendance upon the coacha Biscayanwas
listening to all Don Quixote was sayingandperceiving that he would
not allow the coach to go onbut was saying it must return at once to
El Tobosohe made at himand seizing his lance addressed him in
bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashionBegone,
caballero, and ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless
thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art here a Biscayan.

Don Quixote understood him quite welland answered him very
quietlyIf thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have
already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature.To
which the Biscayan returnedI no gentleman! -I swear to God thou
liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword,
soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on
land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest


otherwise thou liest.

'You will see presently said Agrajes,'replied Don Quixote; and
throwing his lance on the ground he drew his swordbraced his buckler
on his armand attacked the Biscayanbent upon taking his life.

The Biscayanwhen he saw him coming onthough he wished to
dismount from his mulein whichbeing one of those sorry ones let
out for hirehe had no confidencehad no choice but to draw his
sword; it was lucky for himhoweverthat he was near the coachfrom
which he was able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield;
and they went at one another as if they had been two mortal enemies.
The others strove to make peace between thembut could notfor the
Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase that if they did not let
him finish his battle he would kill his mistress and everyone that
strove to prevent him. The lady in the coachamazed and terrified
at what she sawordered the coachman to draw aside a littleand
set herself to watch this severe strugglein the course of which
the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over
the top of his bucklerwhichgiven to one without armourwould have
cleft him to the waist. Don Quixotefeeling the weight of this
prodigious blowcried aloudsayingO lady of my soul, Dulcinea,
flower of beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in
fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds himself in this
extreme peril.To say thisto lift his swordto shelter himself
well behind his bucklerand to assail the Biscayan was the work of an
instantdetermined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The
Biscayanseeing him come on in this waywas convinced of his courage
by his spirited bearingand resolved to follow his exampleso he
waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushionbeing unable
to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mulewhichdead tired
and never meant for this kind of gamecould not stir a step.

Onthenas aforesaidcame Don Quixote against the wary
Biscayanwith uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in
halfwhile on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in handand
under the protection of his cushion; and all present stood
tremblingwaiting in suspense the result of blows such as
threatened to falland the lady in the coach and the rest of her
following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the
images and shrines of Spainthat God might deliver her squire and all
of them from this great peril in which they found themselves. But it
spoils allthat at this point and crisis the author of the history
leaves this battle impendinggiving as excuse that he could find
nothing more written about these achievements of Don Quixote than what
has been already set forth. It is true the second author of this
work was unwilling to believe that a history so curious could have
been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivionor that the
wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to preserve
in their archives or registries some documents referring to this
famous knight; and this being his persuasionhe did not despair of
finding the conclusion of this pleasant historywhichheaven
favouring himhe did find in a way that shall be related in the
Second Part.

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE
GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN

In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and


the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords upliftedready to
deliver two such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full
and fair they would at least have split and cleft them asunder from
top to toe and laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so
critical point the delightful history came to a stop and stood cut
short without any intimation from the author where what was missing
was to be found.

This distressed me greatlybecause the pleasure derived from having
read such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the
poor chance that presented itself of finding the large part thatso
it seemed to mewas missing of such an interesting tale. It
appeared to me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all
precedent that so good a knight should have been without some sage
to undertake the task of writing his marvellous achievements; a
thing that was never wanting to any of those knights-errant who
they saywent after adventures; for every one of them had one or
two sages as if made on purposewho not only recorded their deeds but
described their most trifling thoughts and follieshowever secret
they might be; and such a good knight could not have been so
unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like him had in
abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that such a
gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilatedand I laid the
blame on Timethe devourer and destroyer of all thingsthat had
either concealed or consumed it.

On the other handit struck me thatinasmuch as among his books
there had been found such modern ones as "The Enlightenment of
Jealousy" and the "Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares his story must
likewise be modern, and that though it might not be written, it
might exist in the memory of the people of his village and of those in
the neighbourhood. This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to
know really and truly the whole life and wondrous deeds of our
famous Spaniard, Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and mirror of
Manchegan chivalry, and the first that in our age and in these so evil
days devoted himself to the labour and exercise of the arms of
knight-errantry, righting wrongs, succouring widows, and protecting
damsels of that sort that used to ride about, whip in hand, on their
palfreys, with all their virginity about them, from mountain to
mountain and valley to valley- for, if it were not for some ruffian,
or boor with a hood and hatchet, or monstrous giant, that forced them,
there were in days of yore damsels that at the end of eighty years, in
all which time they had never slept a day under a roof, went to
their graves as much maids as the mothers that bore them. I say, then,
that in these and other respects our gallant Don Quixote is worthy
of everlasting and notable praise, nor should it be withheld even from
me for the labour and pains spent in searching for the conclusion of
this delightful history; though I know well that if Heaven, chance and
good fortune had not helped me, the world would have remained deprived
of an entertainment and pleasure that for a couple of hours or so
may well occupy him who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it
occurred in this way.

One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell
some pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of
reading even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this
natural bent of mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for
sale, and saw that it was in characters which I recognised as
Arabic, and as I was unable to read them though I could recognise
them, I looked about to see if there were any Spanish-speaking Morisco
at hand to read them for me; nor was there any great difficulty in
finding such an interpreter, for even had I sought one for an older
and better language I should have found him. In short, chance provided
me with one, who when I told him what I wanted and put the book into


his hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a little in it
began to laugh. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he replied
that it was at something the book had written in the margin by way
of a note. I bade him tell it to me; and he still laughing said, In
the marginas I told youthis is written: 'This Dulcinea del
Toboso so often mentioned in this historyhadthey saythe best
hand of any woman in all La Mancha for salting pigs.'"

When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso namedI was struck with surprise
and amazementfor it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets
contained the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him
to read the beginningand doing soturning the Arabic offhand into
Castilianhe told me it meantHistory of Don Quixote of La
Mancha, written by Cide Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian.It
required great caution to hide the joy I felt when the title of the
book reached my earsand snatching it from the silk mercerI
bought all the papers and pamphlets from the boy for half a real;
and if he had had his wits about him and had known how eager I was for
themhe might have safely calculated on making more than six reals by
the bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the cloister
of the cathedraland begged him to turn all these pamphlets that
related to Don Quixote into the Castilian tonguewithout omitting
or adding anything to themoffering him whatever payment he
pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of raisins and two
bushels of wheatand promised to translate them faithfully and with
all despatch; but to make the matter easierand not to let such a
precious find out of my handsI took him to my housewhere in little
more than a month and a half he translated the whole just as it is set
down here.

In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the
Biscayan was drawn to the very lifethey planted in the same attitude
as the history describestheir swords raisedand the one protected
by his bucklerthe other by his cushionand the Biscayan's mule so
true to nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot
off. The Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which saidDon
Sancho de Azpeitia,which no doubt must have been his name; and at
the feet of Rocinante was another that saidDon Quixote.
Rocinante was marvellously portrayedso long and thinso lank and
leanwith so much backbone and so far gone in consumptionthat he
showed plainly with what judgment and propriety the name of
Rocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza
holding the halter of his assat whose feet was another label that
saidSancho Zancas,and according to the picturehe must have
had a big bellya short bodyand long shanksfor which reasonno
doubtthe names of Panza and Zancas were given himfor by these
two surnames the history several times calls him. Some other
trifling particulars might be mentionedbut they are all of slight
importance and have nothing to do with the true relation of the
history; and no history can be bad so long as it is true.

If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of
its truthit can only be that its author was an Arabas lying is a
very common propensity with those of that nation; thoughas they
are such enemies of oursit is conceivable that there were
omissions rather than additions made in the course of it. And this
is my own opinion; forwhere he could and should give freedom to
his pen in praise of so worthy a knighthe seems to me deliberately
to pass it over in silence; which is ill done and worse contrivedfor
it is the business and duty of historians to be exacttruthfuland
wholly free from passionand neither interest nor fearhatred nor
loveshould make them swerve from the path of truthwhose mother
is historyrival of timestorehouse of deedswitness for the
pastexample and counsel for the presentand warning for the future.


In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the
pleasantestand if it be wanting in any good qualityI maintain it
is the fault of its hound of an author and not the fault of the
subject. To be briefits Second Partaccording to the translation
began in this way:

With trenchant swords upraised and poised on highit seemed as
though the two valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening
heavenand earthand hellwith such resolution and determination
did they bear themselves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a
blowwhich was delivered with such force and fury that had not the
sword turned in its coursethat single stroke would have sufficed
to put an end to the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of
our knight; but that good fortune which reserved him for greater
thingsturned aside the sword of his adversaryso that although it
smote him upon the left shoulderit did him no more harm than to
strip all that side of its armourcarrying away a great part of his
helmet with half of his earall which with fearful ruin fell to the
groundleaving him in a sorry plight.

Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that
filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in
this fashion? All that can be said isit was such that he again
raised himself in his stirrupsandgrasping his sword more firmly
with both handshe came down on the Biscayan with such fury
smiting him full over the cushion and over the headthat- even so
good a shield proving useless- as if a mountain had fallen on him
he began to bleed from nosemouthand earsreeling as if about to
fall backwards from his muleas no doubt he would have done had he
not flung his arms about its neck; at the same timehoweverhe
slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms
and the muletaking fright at the terrible blowmade off across
the plainand with a few plunges flung its master to the ground.
Don Quixote stood looking on very calmlyandwhen he saw him fall
leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to himand
presenting the point of his sword to his eyesbade him surrender
or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that he
was unable to answer a wordand it would have gone hard with him
so blind was Don Quixotehad not the ladies in the coachwho had
hitherto been watching the combat in great terrorhastened to where
he stood and implored him with earnest entreaties to grant them the
great grace and favour of sparing their squire's life; to which Don
Quixote replied with much gravity and dignityIn truth, fair ladies,
I am well content to do what ye ask of me; but it must be on one
condition and understanding, which is that this knight promise me to
go to the village of El Toboso, and on my behalf present himself
before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal with him as shall
be most pleasing to her.

The terrified and disconsolate ladieswithout discussing Don
Quixote's demand or asking who Dulcinea might bepromised that
their squire should do all that had been commanded.

Then, on the faith of that promise,said Don QuixoteI shall
do him no further harm, though he well deserves it of me.

CHAPTER X

OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA


Now by this time Sancho had risenrather the worse for the handling
of the friars' muleteersand stood watching the battle of his master
Don Quixoteand praying to God in his heart that it might be his will
to grant him the victoryand that he might thereby win some island to
make him governor ofas he had promised. Seeingthereforethat
the struggle was now overand that his master was returning to
mount Rocinantehe approached to hold the stirrup for himand
before he could mounthe went on his knees before himand taking his
handkissed it sayingMay it please your worship, Senor Don
Quixote, to give me the government of that island which has been won
in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in
sufficient force to be able to govern it as much and as well as anyone
in the world who has ever governed islands.

To which Don Quixote repliedThou must take notice, brother
Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not adventures of
islands, but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a broken
head or an ear the less: have patience, for adventures will present
themselves from which I may make you, not only a governor, but
something more.

Sancho gave him many thanksand again kissing his hand and the
skirt of his hauberkhelped him to mount Rocinanteand mounting
his ass himselfproceeded to follow his masterwho at a brisk
pacewithout taking leaveor saying anything further to the ladies
belonging to the coachturned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho
followed him at his ass's best trotbut Rocinante stepped out so
thatseeing himself left behindhe was forced to call to his
master to wait for him. Don Quixote did soreining in Rocinante until
his weary squire came upwho on reaching him saidIt seems to me,
senor, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in some church,
for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it
will be no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy
Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before we come
out of gaol we shall have to sweat for it.

Peace,said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or heard
that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice
however many homicides he may have committed?"

I know nothing about omecils,answered Sanchonor in my life
have had anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy
Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the fields, and in that
other matter I do not meddle.

Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend,said Don
Quixotefor I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans,
much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou
livest, hast thou seen a more valiant knight than I in all the known
world; hast thou read in history of any who has or had higher mettle
in attack, more spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding
or skill in overthrowing?

The truth is,answered Sanchothat I have never read any
history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture
to bet is that a more daring master than your worship I have never
served in all the days of my life, and God grant that this daring be
not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress
your wound, for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I
have here some lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas.

All that might be well dispensed with,said Don Quixoteif I had
remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and
medicine are saved by one single drop.


What vial and what balsam is that?said Sancho Panza.

It is a balsam,answered Don Quixotethe receipt of which I have
in my memory, with which one need have no fear of death, or dread
dying of any wound; and so when I make it and give it to thee thou
hast nothing to do when in some battle thou seest they have cut me
in half through the middle of the body- as is wont to happen
frequently,- but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood
congeal, to place that portion of the body which shall have fallen
to the ground upon the other half which remains in the saddle,
taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then thou shalt give me
to drink but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned, and thou
shalt see me become sounder than an apple.

If that be so,said PanzaI renounce henceforth the government
of the promised island, and desire nothing more in payment of my
many and faithful services than that your worship give me the
receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be worth
more than two reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass
the rest of my life in ease and honour; but it remains to be told if
it costs much to make it.

With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made,said Don
Quixote.

Sinner that I am!said Sanchothen why does your worship put off
making it and teaching it to me?

Peace, friend,answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I mean to
teach thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee; and for the
present let us see to the dressingfor my ear pains me more than I
could wish."

Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when
Don Quixote came to see his helmet shatteredhe was like to lose
his sensesand clapping his hand upon his sword and raising his
eyes to heavenbe saidI swear by the Creator of all things and the
four Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of
Mantua did when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin
(and that was not to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor embrace his
wife, and other points which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I
here grant as expressed) until I take complete vengeance upon him
who has committed such an offence against me.

Hearing thisSancho said to himYour worship should bear in mind,
Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded
him in going to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he
will have done all that he was bound to do, and does not deserve
further punishment unless he commits some new offence.

Thou hast said well and hit the point,answered Don Quixote; and
so I recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on
himbut I make and confirm it anew to lead the life I have said until
such time as I take by force from some knight another helmet such as
this and as good; and think notSanchothat I am raising smoke
with straw in doing sofor I have one to imitate in the mattersince
the very same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino's
helmetwhich cost Sacripante so dear."

Senor,replied Sancholet your worship send all such oaths to
the devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and prejudicial
to the conscience; just tell me now, if for several days to come we
fall in with no man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the


oath to be observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort
it will be to sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house,
and a thousand other mortifications contained in the oath of that
old fool the Marquis of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to
revive? Let your worship observe that there are no men in armour
travelling on any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters,
who not only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them
all their lives.

Thou art wrong there,said Don Quixotefor we shall not have
been above two hours among these cross-roads before we see more men in
armour than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica.

Enough,said Sancho; "so be it thenand God grant us successand
that the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear
may soon comeand then let me die."

I have already told thee, Sancho,said Don Quixotenot to give
thyself any uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail,
there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit
thee as a ring fits the finger, and all the more that, being on
terra firma, thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself. But let us
leave that to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in
those alforjas, because we must presently go in quest of some castle
where we may lodge to-night and make the balsam I told thee of, for
I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me great pain.

I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of
bread,said Sanchobut they are not victuals fit for a valiant
knight like your worship.

How little thou knowest about it,answered Don Quixote; "I would
have thee to knowSanchothat it is the glory of knights-errant to
go without eating for a monthand even when they do eatthat it
should be of what comes first to hand; and this would have been
clear to thee hadst thou read as many histories as I haveforthough
they are very manyamong them all I have found no mention made of
knights-errant eatingunless by accident or at some sumptuous
banquets prepared for themand the rest of the time they passed in
dalliance. And though it is plain they could not do without eating and
performing all the other natural functionsbecausein factthey
were men like ourselvesit is plain too thatwandering as they did
the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a
cooktheir most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those
thou now offer me; so thatfriend Sancholet not that distress
thee which pleases meand do not seek to make a new world or
pervert knight-errantry."

Pardon me, your worship,said Sanchofor, as I cannot read or
write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules
of the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the
alforjas with every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a
knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with
poultry and other things more substantial.

I do not say, Sancho,replied Don Quixotethat it is
imperative on knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits
thou speakest of; only that their more usual diet must be those, and
certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew and I know
too.

A good thing it is,answered Sanchoto know those herbs, for
to my thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge
into practice.


And here taking out what he said he had broughtthe pair made their
repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the
nightthey with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare
mounted at onceand made haste to reach some habitation before
night set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their
object failed them close by the huts of some goatherdsso they
determined to pass the night thereand it was as much to Sancho's
discontent not to have reached a houseas it was to his master's
satisfaction to sleep under the open heavenfor he fancied that
each time this happened to him he performed an act of ownership that
helped to prove his chivalry.

CHAPTER XI

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS

He was cordially welcomed by the goatherdsand Sanchohaving as
best he could put up Rocinante and the assdrew towards the fragrance
that came from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the
fire; and though he would have liked at once to try if they were ready
to be transferred from the pot to the stomachhe refrained from doing
so as the goatherds removed them from the fireand laying
sheepskins on the groundquickly spread their rude tableand with
signs of hearty good-will invited them both to share what they had.
Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated
themselveshaving first with rough politeness pressed Don Quixote
to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him upside down.
Don Quixote seated himselfand Sancho remained standing to serve
the cupwhich was made of horn. Seeing him standinghis master
said to him:

That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry
contains in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the
high road to be speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, I
desire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the company of
these worthy people, and that thou be one with me who am thy master
and natural lord, and that thou eat from my plate and drink from
whatever I drink from; for the same may be said of knight-errantry
as of love, that it levels all.

Great thanks,said Sanchobut I may tell your worship that
provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better,
standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And
indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my corner without
form or fuss has much more relish for me, even though it be bread
and onions, than the turkeys of those other tables where I am forced
to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot
sneeze or cough if I want or do other things that are the privileges
of liberty and solitude. So, senor, as for these honours which your
worship would put upon me as a servant and follower of
knight-errantry, exchange them for other things which may be of more
use and advantage to me; for these, though I fully acknowledge them as
received, I renounce from this moment to the end of the world.

For all that,said Don Quixotethou must seat thyself, because
him who humbleth himself God exalteth;and seizing him by the arm
he forced him to sit down beside himself.

The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and
knights-errantand all they did was to eat in silence and stare at


their guestswho with great elegance and appetite were stowing away
pieces as big as one's fist. The course of meat finishedthey
spread upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acornsand with
them they put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of
mortar. All this while the horn was not idlefor it went round so
constantlynow fullnow emptylike the bucket of a water-wheel
that it soon drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight.
When Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite he took up a
handful of the acornsand contemplating them attentively delivered
himself somewhat in this fashion:

Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the
name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so
coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but because they
that lived in it knew not the two words mine" and "thine"! In that
blessed age all things were in common; to win the daily food no labour
was required of any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it
from the sturdy oaks that stood generously inviting him with their
sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and running brooks yielded their
savoury limpid waters in noble abundance. The busy and sagacious
bees fixed their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of
the treesoffering without usance the plenteous produce of their
fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork treesunenforced save of
their own courtesyshed the broad light bark that served at first
to roof the houses supported by rude stakesa protection against
the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peaceall friendship
all concord; as yet the dull share of the crooked plough had not dared
to rend and pierce the tender bowels of our first mother that
without compulsion yielded from every portion of her broad fertile
bosom all that could satisfysustainand delight the children that
then possessed her. Then was it that the innocent and fair young
shepherdess roamed from vale to vale and hill to hillwith flowing
locksand no more garments than were needful modestly to cover what
modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments like
those in use to-dayset off by Tyrian purpleand silk tortured in
endless fashionsbut the wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy
wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court
dames with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle
curiosity has taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed
themselves simply and naturally as the heart conceived themnor
sought to commend themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud
deceitor malice had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity.
Justice held her groundundisturbed and unassailed by the efforts
of favour and of interestthat now so much impairpervertand beset
her. Arbitrary law had not yet established itself in the mind of the
judgefor then there was no cause to judge and no one to be judged.
Maidens and modestyas I have saidwandered at will alone and
unattendedwithout fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine
assaultand if they were undone it was of their own will and
pleasure. But now in this hateful age of ours not one is safenot
though some new labyrinth like that of Crete conceal and surround her;
even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its way to them
through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed
importunityanddespite of all seclusionlead them to ruin. In
defence of theseas time advanced and wickedness increasedthe order
of knights-errant was institutedto defend maidensto protect widows
and to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order I belong
brother goatherdsto whom I return thanks for the hospitality and
kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by natural law
all living are bound to show favour to knights-errantyetseeing
that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and feasted
meit is right that with all the good-will in my power I should thank
you for yours."


All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared)
our knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him
of the golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this
unnecessary argument to the goatherdswho listened to him gaping in
amazement without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his
peace and ate acornsand paid repeated visits to the second
wine-skinwhich they had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine
cool.

Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishingat
the end of which one of the goatherds saidThat your worship,
senor knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you
hospitality with ready good-will, we will give you amusement and
pleasure by making one of our comrades sing: he will be here before
long, and he is a very intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is
more he can read and write and play on the rebeck to perfection.

The goatherd had hardly done speakingwhen the notes of the
rebeck reached their ears; and shortly afterthe player came upa
very good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades
asked him if he had suppedand on his replying that he hadhe who
had already made the offer said to him:

In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of
singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even
in the mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of
thy accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we
say true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about
thy love that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much
liked in the town.

With all my heart,said the young manand without waiting for
more pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oakand
tuning his rebeckpresently began to sing to these words.

ANTONIO'S BALLAD

Thou dost love me wellOlalla;
Well I know iteven though
Love's mute tonguesthine eyeshave never
By their glances told me so.

For I know my love thou knowest
Therefore thine to claim I dare:
Once it ceases to be secret
Love need never feel despair.

True it isOlallasometimes
Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness
And thy snowy bosom stone.

Yet for all thatin thy coyness
And thy fickle fits between
Hope is there- at least the border
Of her garment may be seen.

Lures to faith are theythose glimpses
And to faith in thee I hold;
Kindness cannot make it stronger
Coldness cannot make it cold.


If it be that love is gentle
In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
To the hope of winning thee.

If it be that in devotion
Lies a power hearts to move
That which every day I show thee
Helpful to my suit should prove.

Many a time thou must have noticedIf
to notice thou dost care-
How I go about on Monday
Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love's eyes love to look on brightness;
Love loves what is gaily drest;
SundayMondayall I care is
Thou shouldst see me in my best.

No account I make of dances
Or of strains that pleased thee so
Keeping thee awake from midnight
Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it
That there's none so fair as thou;
True it isbut as I said it
By the girls I'm hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside
At my praise of thee was sore;
SaidYou think you love an angel;
It's a monkey you adore;

Caught by all her glittering trinkets
And her borrowed braids of hair
And a host of made-up beauties
That would Love himself ensnare."

'T was a lieand so I told her
And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it;
And what followed thou hast heard.

Mine is no high-flown affection
Mine no passion par amours-
As they call it- what I offer
Is an honest loveand pure.

Cunning cords the holy Church has
Cords of softest silk they be;
Put thy neck beneath the yokedear;
Mine will followthou wilt see.

Else- and once for all I swear it
By the saint of most renown-
If I ever quit the mountains
'T will be in a friar's gown.

Here the goatherd brought his song to an endand though Don Quixote
entreated him to sing moreSancho had no mind that waybeing more
inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his


masterYour worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to
pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does
not allow them to spend the night in singing.

I understand thee, Sancho,replied Don Quixote; "I perceive
clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in
sleep rather than in music."

It's sweet to us all, blessed be God,said Sancho.

I do not deny it,replied Don Quixote; "but settle thyself where
thou wilt; those of my calling are more becomingly employed in
watching than in sleeping; still it would be as well if thou wert to
dress this ear for me againfor it is giving me more pain than it
need."

Sancho did as he bade himbut one of the goatherdsseeing the
woundtold him not to be uneasyas he would apply a remedy with
which it would be soon healed; and gathering some leaves of
rosemaryof which there was a great quantity therehe chewed them
and mixed them with a little saltand applying them to the ear he
secured them firmly with a bandageassuring him that no other
treatment would be requiredand so it proved.

CHAPTER XII

OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE

Just then another young manone of those who fetched their
provisions from the villagecame up and saidDo you know what is
going on in the village, comrades?

How could we know it?replied one of them.

Well, then, you must know,continued the young manthis
morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is
rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the
daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds
here in the dress of a shepherdess.

You mean Marcela?said one.

Her I mean,answered the goatherd; "and the best of it ishe
has directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like
a Moorand at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is
becauseas the story goes (and they say he himself said so)that was
the place where he first saw her. And he has also left other
directions which the clergy of the village say should not and must not
be obeyed because they savour of paganism. To all which his great
friend Ambrosio the studenthe wholike himalso went dressed as
a shepherdreplies that everything must be done without any
omission according to the directions left by Chrysostomand about
this the village is all in commotion; howeverreport says thatafter
allwhat Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be
doneand to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great ceremony
where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing; at least
I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not return to
the village tomorrow."

We will do the same,answered the goatherdsand cast lots to see
who must stay to mind the goats of all.


Thou sayest well, Pedro,said onethough there will be no need
of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don't
suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the
splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not let me walk.

For all that, we thank thee,answered Pedro.

Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the
shepherdessto which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead
man was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains
who had been a student at Salamanca for many yearsat the end of
which he returned to his village with the reputation of being very
learned and deeply read. "Above allthey saidhe was learned in
the science of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and
the sun and the moonfor he told us of the cris of the sun and moon
to exact time."

Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those
two luminaries,said Don Quixote; but Pedronot troubling himself
with trifleswent on with his storysayingAlso he foretold when
the year was going to be one of abundance or estility.

Sterility, you mean,said Don Quixote.

Sterility or estility,answered Pedroit is all the same in
the end. And I can tell you that by this his father and friends who
believed him grew very rich because they did as he advised them,
bidding them 'sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow
pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and
the three following not a drop will be got.'

That science is called astrology,said Don Quixote.

I do not know what it is called,replied Pedrobut I know that
he knew all this and more besides. But, to make an end, not many
months had passed after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he
appeared dressed as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having
put off the long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same time his
great friend, Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his
studies, took to the shepherd's dress with him. I forgot to say that
Chrysostom, who is dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much
so that he made carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus
Christi, which the young men of our village acted, and all said they
were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars so
unexpectedly appearing in shepherd's dress, they were lost in
wonder, and could not guess what had led them to make so extraordinary
a change. About this time the father of our Chrysostom died, and he
was left heir to a large amount of property in chattels as well as
in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of
money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute owner, and
indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, and
kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a countenance
like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he had
changed his dress with no other object than to wander about these
wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago,
with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must
tell you now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is;
perhaps, and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard
anything like it all the days of your life, though you should live
more years than sarna.

Say Sarra,said Don Quixoteunable to endure the goatherd's
confusion of words.


The sarna lives long enough,answered Pedro; "and ifsenoryou
must go finding fault with words at every stepwe shall not make an
end of it this twelvemonth."

Pardon me, friend,said Don Quixote; "butas there is such a
difference between sarna and SarraI told you of it; howeveryou
have answered very rightlyfor sarna lives longer than Sarra: so
continue your storyand I will not object any more to anything."

I say then, my dear sir,said the goatherdthat in our village
there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who
was named Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above
great wealth, a daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most
respected woman there was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her
now with that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon
on the other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I
trust that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in
the other world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the death of
so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the
care of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village.
The girl grew up with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother's,
which was very great, and yet it was thought that the daughter's would
exceed it; and so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen
years nobody beheld her but blessed God that had made her so
beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her past
redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retirement,
but for all that the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as
well for it as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited,
and importuned, to give her in marriage not only by those of our
town but of those many leagues round, and by the persons of highest
quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man, though he desired
to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old enough, was
unwilling to do so without her consent, not that he had any eye to the
gain and profit which the custody of the girl's property brought him
while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in praise
of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would
have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little villages everything is
talked about and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am,
that the priest must be over and above good who forces his
parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages.

That is the truth,said Don Quixote; "but go onfor the story
is very goodand yougood Pedrotell it with very good grace."

May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,said Pedro; "that is
the one to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put
before his niece and described to her the qualities of each one in
particular of the many who had asked her in marriagebegging her to
marry and make a choice according to her own tasteshe never gave any
other answer than that she had no desire to marry just yetand that
being so young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of
matrimony. At theseto all appearancereasonable excuses that she
madeher uncle ceased to urge herand waited till she was somewhat
more advanced in age and could mate herself to her own liking. For
said he- and he said quite right- parents are not to settle children
in life against their will. But when one least looked for itlo and
behold! one day the demure Marcela makes her appearance turned
shepherdess; andin spite of her uncle and all those of the town that
strove to dissuade hertook to going a-field with the other
shepherd-lasses of the villageand tending her own flock. And so
since she appeared in publicand her beauty came to be seen openlyI
could not well tell you how many rich youthsgentlemen and
peasantshave adopted the costume of Chrysostomand go about these


fields making love to her. One of theseas has been already saidwas
our deceased friendof whom they say that he did not love but adore
her. But you must not supposebecause Marcela chose a life of such
liberty and independenceand of so little or rather no retirement
that she has given any occasionor even the semblance of onefor
disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the contrarysuch and
so great is the vigilance with which she watches over her honourthat
of all those that court and woo her not one has boastedor can with
truth boastthat she has given him any hope however small of
obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid or shun the
society and conversation of the shepherdsand treats them courteously
and kindlyshould any one of them come to declare his intention to
herthough it be one as proper and holy as that of matrimonyshe
flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind of disposition
she does more harm in this country than if the plague had got into it
for her affability and her beauty draw on the hearts of those that
associate with her to love her and to court herbut her scorn and her
frankness bring them to the brink of despair; and so they know not
what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-heartedand
other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of her
character; and if you should remain here any timesenoryou would
hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the
rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot
where there are a couple of dozen of tall beechesand there is not
one of them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name
of Marcelaand above some a crown carved on the same tree as though
her lover would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that
of all human beauty. Here one shepherd is sighingthere another is
lamenting; there love songs are heardhere despairing elegies. One
will pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or
rockand therewithout having closed his weeping eyesthe sun finds
him in the morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without
relief or respite to his sighsstretched on the burning sand in the
full heat of the sultry summer noontidemakes his appeal to the
compassionate heavensand over one and the otherover these and all
the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all of us that
know her are waiting to see what her pride will come toand who is to
be the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable
and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told
you being such well-established truthI am persuaded that what they
say of the cause of Chrysostom's deathas our lad told usis the
same. And so I advise yousenorfail not to be present to-morrow
at his burialwhich will be well worth seeingfor Chrysostom had
many friendsand it is not half a league from this place to where
he directed he should be buried."

I will make a point of it,said Don Quixoteand I thank you
for the pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale.

Oh,said the goatherdI do not know even the half of what has
happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow we may fall
in with some shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will
be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air may
hurt your wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you there is
no fear of an untoward result.

Sancho Panzawho was wishing the goatherd's loquacity at the devil
on his part begged his master to go into Pedro's hut to sleep. He
did soand passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady
Dulcineain imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled
himself between Rocinante and his assand sleptnot like a lover
who had been discardedbut like a man who had been soundly kicked.


CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELAWITH OTHER
INCIDENTS

Bit hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the
eastwhen five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and
tell him that if he was still of a mind to go and see the famous
burial of Chrysostom they would bear him company. Don Quixotewho
desired nothing betterrose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel
at oncewhich he did with all despatchand with the same they all
set out forthwith. They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the
meeting of two paths they saw coming towards them some six shepherds
dressed in black sheepskins and with their heads crowned with garlands
of cypress and bitter oleander. Each of them carried a stout holly
staff in his handand along with them there came two men of quality
on horseback in handsome travelling dresswith three servants on foot
accompanying them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting
and inquiring one of the other which way each party was goingthey
learned that all were bound for the scene of the burialso they
went on all together.

One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him
It seems to me, Senor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the
delay we shall incur in seeing this remarkable funeral, for remarkable
it cannot but be judging by the strange things these shepherds have
told us, of both the dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess.

So I think too,replied Vivaldoand I would delay not to say a
day, but four, for the sake of seeing it.

Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and
Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the same morning they had
met these shepherdsand seeing them dressed in this mournful
fashion they had asked them the reason of their appearing in such a
guise; which one of them gavedescribing the strange behaviour and
beauty of a shepherdess called Marcelaand the loves of many who
courted hertogether with the death of that Chrysostom to whose
burial they were going. In shorthe repeated all that Pedro had
related to Don Quixote.

This conversation droppedand another was commenced by him who
was called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the reason that led him
to go armed in that fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don
Quixote repliedThe pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit
me to go in any other fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were
invented for soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were
invented and made for those alone whom the world calls knights-errant,
of whom I, though unworthy, am the least of all.

The instant they heard this all set him down as madand the
better to settle the point and discover what kind of madness his
wasVivaldo proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant.

Have not your worships,replied Don Quixoteread the annals
and histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of
King Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King
Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly
received all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did
not die, but was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in
process of time he is to return to reign and recover his kingdom and
sceptre; for which reason it cannot be proved that from that time to


this any Englishman ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of
this good king that famous order of chivalry of the Knights of the
Round Table was instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the
Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related,
the go-between and confidante therein being the highly honourable dame
Quintanona, whence came that ballad so well known and widely spread in
our Spain-

O never surely was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lancelot hight
When he from Britain came


with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love
and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went
on extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the
world; and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty
Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth
generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never
sufficiently praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost
we have seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don
Belianis of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and
what I have spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I
have already said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and
what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I profess, and so
I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking adventures, resolved in
soul to oppose my arm and person to the most perilous that fortune may
offer me in aid of the weak and needy.

By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves
of Don Quixote's being out of his senses and of the form of madness
that overmastered himat which they felt the same astonishment that
all felt on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldowho was
a person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperamentin order
to beguile the short journey which they said was required to reach the
mountainthe scene of the burialsought to give him an opportunity
of going on with his absurdities. So he said to himIt seems to
me, Senor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of one of
the most austere professions in the world, and I imagine even that
of the Carthusian monks is not so austere.

As austere it may perhaps be,replied our Don Quixotebut so
necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if
the truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his captain
orders does no less than the captain himself who gives the order. My
meaning, is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for
the welfare of the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into
effect what they pray for, defending it with the might of our arms and
the edge of our swords, not under shelter but in the open air, a
target for the intolerable rays of the sun in summer and the
piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God's ministers on earth and
the arms by which his justice is done therein. And as the business
of war and all that relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted
without exceeding great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that
those who make it their profession have undoubtedly more labour than
those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to
help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter into my
thoughts, that the knight-errant's calling is as good as that of the
monk in his cell; I would merely infer from what I endure myself
that it is beyond a doubt a more laborious and a more belaboured
one, a hungrier and thirstier, a wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier;
for there is no reason to doubt that the knights-errant of yore
endured much hardship in the course of their lives. And if some of
them by the might of their arms did rise to be emperors, in faith it


cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat; and if those who
attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages to help them
they would have been completely baulked in their ambition and
disappointed in their hopes.

That is my own opinion,replied the traveller; "but one thing
among many others seems to me very wrong in knights-errantand that
is that when they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and
perilous adventure in which there is manifest danger of losing their
livesthey never at the moment of engaging in it think of
commending themselves to Godas is the duty of every good Christian
in like peril; instead of which they commend themselves to their
ladies with as much devotion as if these were their godsa thing
which seems to me to savour somewhat of heathenism."

Sir,answered Don Quixotethat cannot be on any account omitted,
and the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it
is usual and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant,
who on engaging in any great feat of arms has his lady before him,
should turn his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as though with
them entreating her to favour and protect him in the hazardous venture
he is about to undertake, and even though no one hear him, he is bound
to say certain words between his teeth, commending himself to her with
all his heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the
histories. Nor is it to be supposed from this that they are to omit
commending themselves to God, for there will be time and opportunity
for doing so while they are engaged in their task.

For all that,answered the travellerI feel some doubt still,
because often I have read how words will arise between two
knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes about that
their anger kindles and they wheel their horses round and take a
good stretch of field, and then without any more ado at the top of
their speed they come to the charge, and in mid-career they are wont
to commend themselves to their ladies; and what commonly comes of
the encounter is that one falls over the haunches of his horse pierced
through and through by his antagonist's lance, and as for the other,
it is only by holding on to the mane of his horse that he can help
falling to the ground; but I know not how the dead man had time to
commend himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this; it
would have been better if those words which he spent in commending
himself to his lady in the midst of his career had been devoted to his
duty and obligation as a Christian. Moreover, it is my belief that all
knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves to, for they
are not all in love.

That is impossible,said Don Quixote: "I say it is impossible that
there could be a knight-errant without a ladybecause to such it is
as natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars:
most certainly no history has been seen in which there is to be
found a knight-errant without an amourand for the simple reason that
without one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastardand
one who had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said
knighthoodnot by the doorbut over the wall like a thief and a
robber."

Nevertheless,said the travellerif I remember rightly, I
think I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis
of Gaul, never had any special lady to whom he might commend
himself, and yet he was not the less esteemed, and was a very stout
and famous knight.

To which our Don Quixote made answerSir, one solitary swallow
does not make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret


very deeply in love; besides which, that way of falling in love with
all that took his fancy was a natural propensity which he could not
control. But, in short, it is very manifest that he had one alone whom
he made mistress of his will, to whom he commended himself very
frequently and very secretly, for he prided himself on being a
reticent knight.

Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in
love,said the travellerit may be fairly supposed that your
worship is so, as you are of the order; and if you do not pride
yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as
earnestly as I can, in the name of all this company and in my own,
to inform us of the name, country, rank, and beauty of your lady,
for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the world knows that
she is loved and served by such a knight as your worship seems to be.

At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and saidI cannot say
positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world
should know I serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been
so courteously asked of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country
El Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a
princess, since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman,
since all the impossible and fanciful attributes of beauty which the
poets apply to their ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are
gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes
suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck
alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and
what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and imagine, as
rational reflection can only extol, not compare.

We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,said
Vivaldo.

To which Don Quixote repliedShe is not of the ancient Roman
Curtii, Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of
the Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or
Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas,
Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques,
Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of
Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage
that though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the
most illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this let
none dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at
the foot of the trophy of Orlando's arms, saying,

'These let none move
Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.'

Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo,said the traveller
I will not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha,
though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever
reached my ears.


What!said Don Quixotehas that never reached them?


The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to
the conversation of the pairand even the very goatherds and
shepherds perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote
was. Sancho Panza alone thought that what his master said was the
truthknowing who he was and having known him from his birth; and all
that he felt any difficulty in believing was that about the fair
Dulcinea del Tobosobecause neither any such name nor any such
princess had ever come to his knowledge though he lived so close to El



Toboso. They were going along conversing in this waywhen they saw
descending a gap between two high mountains some twenty shepherdsall
clad in sheepskins of black wooland crowned with garlands which
as afterwards appearedweresome of them of yewsome of cypress.
Six of the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of
flowers and brancheson seeing which one of the goatherds said
Those who come there are the bearers of Chrysostom's body, and the
foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered them to bury him.
They therefore made haste to reach the spotand did so by the time
those who came had laid the bier upon the groundand four of them
with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock.
They greeted each other courteouslyand then Don Quixote and those
who accompanied him turned to examine the bierand on itcovered
with flowersthey saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherdto
all appearance of one thirty years of ageand showing even in death
that in life he had been of comely features and gallant bearing.
Around him on the bier itself were laid some booksand several papers
open and folded; and those who were looking on as well as those who
were opening the grave and all the others who were there preserved a
strange silenceuntil one of those who had borne the body said to
anotherObserve carefully, Ambrosia if this is the place
Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what he directed in
his will should be so strictly complied with.

This is the place,answered Ambrosia "for in it many a time did my
poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it washe
told methat he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human
raceand heretoofor the first time he declared to her his
passionas honourable as it was devotedand here it was that at last
Marcela ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy
of his wretched life to a close; herein memory of misfortunes so
greathe desired to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion."
Then turning to Don Quixote and the travellers he went on to say
That body, sirs, on which you are looking with compassionate eyes,
was the abode of a soul on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its
riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in wit,
unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle bearing, a phoenix in
friendship, generous without limit, grave without arrogance, gay
without vulgarity, and, in short, first in all that constitutes
goodness and second to none in all that makes up misfortune. He
loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was scorned; he wooed a wild
beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to the
wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was made the prey of
death in the mid-course of life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he
sought to immortalise in the memory of man, as these papers which
you see could fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign them
to the fire after having consigned his body to the earth.

You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their
owner himself,said Vivaldofor it is neither right nor proper to
do the will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would
not have been reasonable in Augustus Caesar had he permitted the
directions left by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into
effect. So that, Senor Ambrosia while you consign your friend's body
to the earth, you should not consign his writings to oblivion, for
if he gave the order in bitterness of heart, it is not right that
you should irrationally obey it. On the contrary, by granting life
to those papers, let the cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as
a warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling into
like danger; or I and all of us who have come here know already the
story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend, and we know,
too, your friendship, and the cause of his death, and the directions
he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may be gathered
how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and


the loyalty of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those
who pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to their eyes.
Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he was to be
buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left our direct road and
resolved to come and see with our eyes that which when heard of had so
moved our compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and
our desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you,
excellent Ambrosia, or at least I on my own account entreat you,
that instead of burning those papers you allow me to carry away some
of them.

And without waiting for the shepherd's answerhe stretched out
his hand and took up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing
which Ambrosio saidOut of courtesy, senor, I will grant your
request as to those you have taken, but it is idle to expect me to
abstain from burning the remainder.

Vivaldowho was eager to see what the papers containedopened
one of them at onceand saw that its title was "Lay of Despair."

Ambrosio hearing it saidThat is the last paper the unhappy man
wrote; and that you may see, senor, to what an end his misfortunes
brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for you will have
time enough for that while we are waiting for the grave to be dug.

I will do so very willingly,said Vivaldo; and as all the
bystanders were equally eager they gathered round himand hereading
in a loud voicefound that it ran as follows.

CHAPTER XIV

WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR

THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM

Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tonguefrom land to land proclaimed
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I sufferall that thou hast done
Forth shall the dread voice rolland bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
Then listennot to dulcet harmony
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.

The lion's roarthe fierce wolf's savage howl
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed
The crow's ill-boding croakthe hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove
The envied owl's sad notethe wail of woe


That rises from the dreary choir of Hell
Commingled in one soundconfusing sense
Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.


No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rollsor on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told
And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
Forthough it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless crueltymy dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.

Disdain hath power to killand patience dies
Slain by suspicionbe it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot;
And deathinevitablewaits in hall.
But Iby some strange miraclelive on
A prey to absencejealousydisdain;
Racked by suspicion as by certainty;
Forgottenleft to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thusthere comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;
Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe
All hope do I abjure for evermore.

Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well
When far more certain are the grounds of fear?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?
Who would not give free access to distrust
Seeing disdain unveiledand- bitter change!All
his suspicions turned to certainties
And the fair truth transformed into a lie?
Ohthou fierce tyrant of the realms of love
OhJealousy! put chains upon these hands
And bind me with thy strongest cordDisdain.
Butwoe is me! triumphant over all
My sufferings drown the memory of you.

And now I dieand since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death
Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.
I'll say that he is wise who loveth well
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.
I'll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind
And that her coldness is but my desert
And that by virtue of the pain be sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thusself-deludingand in bondage sore
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain


I'll give this soul and body to the winds
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.

Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become
Let not my deathif haply worth a tear
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know
Thy glory gains by my untimely end.

And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss
Come thirsting Tantaluscome Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stonecome Tityus
With vultureand with wheel Ixion come
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;
And all into this breast transfer their pains
And (if such tribute to despair be due)
Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate
And all the monstrous progeny of hell
The doleful concert join: a lover dead
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.

Lay of despairgrieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.

The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the listeners
though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he
had heard of Marcela's reserve and proprietyfor Chrysostom
complained in it of jealousysuspicionand absenceall to the
prejudice of the good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio
replied as one who knew well his friend's most secret thoughts
Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy
man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela, from whom be had
voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would act with him as
it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the
banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as
if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what
report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with
her envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of
being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful.

That is true,said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another
paper of those he had preserved from the firehe was stopped by a
marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented
itself to their eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were
digging the grave there appeared the shepherdess Marcelaso beautiful
that her beauty exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then
beheld her gazed upon her in wonder and silenceand those who were
accustomed to see her were not less amazed than those who had never
seen her before. But the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her
with manifest indignation:

Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see


if in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched
being thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel
work of thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless
Nero to look down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in
embers; or in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as
the ungrateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquin's? Tell us
quickly for what thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have,
for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in
life, I will make all these who call themselves his friends obey thee,
though he be dead.

I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named,
replied Marcelabut to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable
are all those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom's
death; and therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your
attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring the
truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say,
beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty
leads you to love me; and for the love you show me you say, and even
urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural understanding which
God has given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I
cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved for
its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it may
happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and
ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, I love thee
because thou art beautifulthou must love me though I be ugly." But
supposing the beauty equal on both sidesit does not follow that
the inclinations must be therefore alikefor it is not every beauty
that excites lovesome but pleasing the eye without winning the
affection; and if every sort of beauty excited love and won the heart
the will would wander vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any;
for as there is an infinity of beautiful objects there must be an
infinity of inclinationsand true loveI have heard it saidis
indivisibleand must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so
as I believe it to bewhy do you desire me to bend my will by
forcefor no other reason but that you say you love me? Nay- tell mehad
Heaven made me uglyas it has made me beautifulcould I with
justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreoveryou must remember
that the beauty I possess was no choice of mineforbe it what it
mayHeaven of its bounty gave it me without my asking or choosing it;
and as the viperthough it kills with itdoes not deserve to be
blamed for the poison it carriesas it is a gift of natureneither
do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest
woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not
burnthe other does not cutthose who do not come too near. Honour
and virtue are the ornaments of the mindwithout which the body
though it be sohas no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is
one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and
bodywhy should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to
gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his might
and energy to rob her of it? I was born freeand that I might live in
freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the
mountains I find societythe clear waters of the brooks are my
mirrorsand to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and
charms. I am a fire afar offa sword laid aside. Those whom I have
inspired with love by letting them see meI have by words undeceived
and if their longings live on hope- and I have given none to
Chrysostom or to any other- it cannot justly be said that the death of
any is my doingfor it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty
that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes
were honourableand that therefore I was bound to yield to themI
answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he
declared to me his purity of purposeI told him that mine was to live
in perpetual solitudeand that the earth alone should enjoy the


fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and ifafter
this open avowalhe chose to persist against hope and steer against
the windwhat wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his
infatuation? If I had encouraged himI should be false; if I had
gratified himI should have acted against my own better resolution
and purpose. He was persistent in spite of warninghe despaired
without being hated. Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his
suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who has been deceived
complainlet him give way to despair whose encouraged hopes have
proved vainlet him flatter himself whom I shall enticelet him
boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or
homicide to whom I make no promiseupon whom I practise no deception
whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far the will
of Heaven that I should love by fateand to expect me to love by
choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my
suitors on his own accountand let it be understood from this time
forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he
diesfor she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to
anyand candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls
me wild beast and basiliskleave me alone as something noxious and
evil; let him who calls me ungratefulwithhold his service; who calls
me waywardseek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruelpursue me
not; for this wild beastthis basiliskthis ungratefulcruel
wayward being has no kind of desire to seekserveknowor follow
them. If Chrysostom's impatience and violent passion killed himwhy
should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve
my purity in the society of the treeswhy should he who would have me
preserve it among menseek to rob me of it? I haveas you know
wealth of my ownand I covet not that of others; my taste is for
freedomand I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor
hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court thator trifle with
one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd girls of
these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my
desires are bounded by these mountainsand if they ever wander
hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavenssteps by which
the soul travels to its primeval abode."

With these wordsand not waiting to hear a replyshe turned and
passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard byleaving
all who were there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as
of her beauty. Some- those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched
by her bright eyes- made as though they would follow herheedless
of the frank declaration they had heard; seeing whichand deeming
this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of
distressed damselsDon Quixotelaying his hand on the hilt of his
swordexclaimed in a loud and distinct voice:

Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the
beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation.
She has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no
fault is to be found with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also
how far she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for
which reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should
in justice be honoured and esteemed by all the good people of the
world, for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to
such a virtuous resolution.

Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixoteor because
Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good friendnone
of the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot untilhaving finished
the grave and burned Chrysostom's papersthey laid his body in it
not without many tears from those who stood by. They closed the
grave with a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Ambrosio said he
meant to have preparedwith an epitaph which was to be to this effect:


Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies;
In life he was a shepherd swain
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungratefulcruelcoyand fair
Was she that drove him to despair
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.


They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and
branchesand all expressing their condolence with his friend
ambrosiotook their Vivaldo and his companion did the same; and Don
Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to the travellerswho
pressed him to come with them to Sevilleas being such a convenient
place for finding adventuresfor they presented themselves in every
street and round every corner oftener than anywhere else. Don
Quixote thanked them for their advice and for the disposition they
showed to do him a favourand said that for the present he would not
and must not go to Seville until he had cleared all these mountains of
highwaymen and robbersof whom report said they were full. Seeing his
good intentionthe travellers were unwilling to press him further
and once more bidding him farewellthey left him and pursued their
journeyin the course of which they did not fail to discuss the story
of Marcela and Chrysostom as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He
on his partresolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcelaand
make offer to her of all the service he could render her; but things
did not fall out with him as he expectedaccording to what is related
in the course of this veracious historyof which the Second Part ends
here.


CHAPTER XV


IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE
FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS


The sage Cide Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote
took leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial
of Chrysostomhe and his squire passed into the same wood which
they had seen the shepherdess Marcela enterand after having wandered
for more than two hours in all directions in search of her without
finding herthey came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass
beside which ran a pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled
them to pass there the hours of the noontide heatwhich by this
time was beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho
dismountedand turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the
grass that was there in abundancethey ransacked the alforjasand
without any ceremony very peacefully and sociably master and man
made their repast on what they found in them. Sancho had not thought
it worth while to hobble Rocinantefeeling surefrom what he knew of
his staidness and freedom from incontinencethat all the mares in the
Cordova pastures would not lead him into an impropriety. Chance
howeverand the devilwho is not always asleepso ordained it
that feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician ponies
belonging to certain Yanguesan carrierswhose way it is to take their
midday rest with their teams in places and spots where grass and water
abound; and that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited the
Yanguesans' purpose very well. It so happenedthenthat Rocinante
took a fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the poniesand



abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he scented themhe
without asking leave of his mastergot up a briskish little trot
and hastened to make known his wishes to them; theyhoweverit
seemedpreferred their pasture to himand received him with their
heels and teeth to such effect that they soon broke his girths and
left him naked without a saddle to cover him; but what must have
been worse to him was that the carriersseeing the violence he was
offering to their marescame running up armed with stakesand so
belaboured him that they brought him sorely battered to the ground.

By this time Don Quixote and Sanchowho had witnessed the
drubbing of Rocinantecame up pantingand said Don Quixote to
Sancho:

So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but
base folk of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully aid
me in taking due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocinante
before our eyes.

What the devil vengeance can we take,answered Sanchoif they
are more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps not
more than one and a half?

I count for a hundred,replied Don Quixoteand without more words
he drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans and excited and impelled
by the example of his masterSancho did the same; and to begin
withDon Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that laid open
the leather jerkin he woretogether with a great portion of his
shoulder. The Yanguesansseeing themselves assaulted by only two
men while they were so manybetook themselves to their stakesand
driving the two into the middle they began to lay on with great zeal
and energy; in factat the second blow they brought Sancho to the
groundand Don Quixote fared the same wayall his skill and high
mettle availing him nothingand fate willed it that he should fall at
the feet of Rocinantewho had not yet risen; whereby it may be seen
how furiously stakes can pound in angry boorish hands. Thenseeing
the mischief they had donethe Yanguesans with all the haste they
could loaded their team and pursued their journeyleaving the two
adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.

Sancho was the first to come toand finding himself close to his
master he called to him in a weak and doleful voiceSenor Don
Quixote, ah, Senor Don Quixote!

What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?answered Don Quixote in the
same feeble suffering tone as Sancho.

I would like, if it were possible,answered Sancho Panzayour
worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the fiery
Blas, if it be that you have any to hand there; perhaps it will
serve for broken bones as well as for wounds.

If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we want?
said Don Quixote; "but I swear to theeSancho Panzaon the faith
of a knight-errantere two days are overunless fortune orders
otherwiseI mean to have it in my possessionor my hand will have
lost its cunning."

But in how many does your worship think we shall have the use of
our feet?answered Sancho Panza.

For myself I must say I cannot guess how many,said the battered
knight Don Quixote; "but I take all the blame upon myselffor I had
no business to put hand to sword against men who where not dubbed


knights like myselfand so I believe that in punishment for having
transgressed the laws of chivalry the God of battles has permitted
this chastisement to be administered to me; for which reason
brother Sanchoit is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the
matter which I am now about to mention to theefor it is of much
importance to the welfare of both of us. It is at when thou shalt
see rabble of this sort offering us insult thou art not to wait till I
draw sword against themfor I shall not do so at all; but do thou
draw sword and chastise them to thy heart's contentand if any
knights come to their aid and defence I will take care to defend
thee and assail them with all my might; and thou hast already seen
by a thousand signs and proofs what the might of this strong arm of
mine is equal to"- so uplifted had the poor gentleman become through
the victory over the stout Biscayan.

But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master's admonition as to
let it pass without saying in replySenor, I am a man of peace, meek
and quiet, and I can put up with any affront because I have a wife and
children to support and bring up; so let it be likewise a hint to your
worship, as it cannot be a mandate, that on no account will I draw
sword either against clown or against knight, and that here before God
I forgive the insults that have been offered me, whether they have
been, are, or shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor,
noble or commoner, not excepting any rank or condition whatsoever.

To all which his master said in replyI wish I had breath enough
to speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on this side
would abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, the mistake thou
makest. Come now, sinner, suppose the wind of fortune, hitherto so
adverse, should turn in our favour, filling the sails of our desires
so that safely and without impediment we put into port in some one
of those islands I have promised thee, how would it be with thee if on
winning it I made thee lord of it? Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh
impossible through not being a knight nor having any desire to be one,
nor possessing the courage nor the will to avenge insults or defend
thy lordship; for thou must know that in newly conquered kingdoms
and provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never so quiet nor so
well disposed to the new lord that there is no fear of their making
some move to change matters once more, and try, as they say, what
chance may do for them; so it is essential that the new possessor
should have good sense to enable him to govern, and valour to attack
and defend himself, whatever may befall him.

In what has now befallen us,answered SanchoI'd have been
well pleased to have that good sense and that valour your worship
speaks of, but I swear on the faith of a poor man I am more fit for
plasters than for arguments. See if your worship can get up, and let
us help Rocinante, though he does not deserve it, for he was the
main cause of all this thrashing. I never thought it of Rocinante, for
I took him to be a virtuous person and as quiet as myself. After
all, they say right that it takes a long time to come to know
people, and that there is nothing sure in this life. Who would have
said that, after such mighty slashes as your worship gave that unlucky
knight-errant, there was coming, travelling post and at the very heels
of them, such a great storm of sticks as has fallen upon our
shoulders?

And yet thine, Sancho,replied Don Quixoteought to be used to
such squalls; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine linen, it is
plain they must feel more keenly the pain of this mishap, and if it
were not that I imagine- why do I say imagine?- know of a certainty
that all these annoyances are very necessary accompaniments of the
calling of arms, I would lay me down here to die of pure vexation.


To this the squire repliedSenor, as these mishaps are what one
reaps of chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or if they
have their own fixed times for coming to pass; because it seems to
me that after two harvests we shall be no good for the third, unless
God in his infinite mercy helps us.

Know, friend Sancho,answered Don Quixotethat the life of
knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and reverses, and
neither more nor less is it within immediate possibility for
knights-errant to become kings and emperors, as experience has shown
in the case of many different knights with whose histories I am
thoroughly acquainted; and I could tell thee now, if the pain would
let me, of some who simply by might of arm have risen to the high
stations I have mentioned; and those same, both before and after,
experienced divers misfortunes and miseries; for the valiant Amadis of
Gaul found himself in the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the
magician, who, it is positively asserted, holding him captive, gave
him more than two hundred lashes with the reins of his horse while
tied to one of the pillars of a court; and moreover there is a certain
recondite author of no small authority who says that the Knight of
Phoebus, being caught in a certain pitfall, which opened under his
feet in a certain castle, on falling found himself bound hand and foot
in a deep pit underground, where they administered to him one of those
things they call clysters, of sand and snow-water, that well-nigh
finished him; and if he had not been succoured in that sore
extremity by a sage, a great friend of his, it would have gone very
hard with the poor knight; so I may well suffer in company with such
worthy folk, for greater were the indignities which they had to suffer
than those which we suffer. For I would have thee know, Sancho, that
wounds caused by any instruments which happen by chance to be in
hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down in the law of the
duel in express words: if, for instance, the cobbler strikes another
with the last which he has in his hand, though it be in fact a piece
of wood, it cannot be said for that reason that he whom he struck with
it has been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst imagine that
because we have been drubbed in this affray we have therefore suffered
any indignity; for the arms those men carried, with which they pounded
us, were nothing more than their stakes, and not one of them, so far
as I remember, carried rapier, sword, or dagger.

They gave me no time to see that much,answered Sanchofor
hardly had I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the cross on my
shoulders with their sticks in such style that they took the sight out
of my eyes and the strength out of my feet, stretching me where I
now lie, and where thinking of whether all those stake-strokes were an
indignity or not gives me no uneasiness, which the pain of the blows
does, for they will remain as deeply impressed on my memory as on my
shoulders.

For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza,said Don Quixote
that there is no recollection which time does not put an end to,
and no pain which death does not remove.

And what greater misfortune can there be,replied Panzathan the
one that waits for time to put an end to it and death to remove it? If
our mishap were one of those that are cured with a couple of plasters,
it would not be so bad; but I am beginning to think that all the
plasters in a hospital almost won't be enough to put us right.

No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I
mean to do,returned Don Quixoteand let us see how Rocinante is,
for it seems to me that not the least share of this mishap has
fallen to the lot of the poor beast.


There is nothing wonderful in that,replied Sanchosince he is a
knight-errant too; what I wonder at is that my beast should have
come off scot-free where we come out scotched.

Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to bring
relief to it,said Don Quixote; "I say so because this little beast
may now supply the want of Rocinantecarrying me hence to some castle
where I may be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold it
any dishonour to be so mountedfor I remember having read how the
good old Silenusthe tutor and instructor of the gay god of laughter
when he entered the city of the hundred gateswent very contentedly
mounted on a handsome ass."

It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says,answered
Sanchobut there is a great difference between going mounted and
going slung like a sack of manure.

To which Don Quixote repliedWounds received in battle confer
honour instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza, say no more,
but, as I told thee before, get up as well as thou canst and put me on
top of thy beast in whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us
go hence ere night come on and surprise us in these wilds.

And yet I have heard your worship say,observed Panzathat it is
very meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and deserts, and
that they esteem it very good fortune.

That is,said Don Quixotewhen they cannot help it, or when they
are in love; and so true is this that there have been knights who have
remained two years on rocks, in sunshine and shade and all the
inclemencies of heaven, without their ladies knowing anything of it;
and one of these was Amadis, when, under the name of Beltenebros, he
took up his abode on the Pena Pobre for -I know not if it was eight
years or eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckoning; at any
rate he stayed there doing penance for I know not what pique the
Princess Oriana had against him; but no more of this now, Sancho,
and make haste before a mishap like Rocinante's befalls the ass.

The very devil would be in it in that case,said Sancho; and
letting off thirty "ohs and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty
maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it was that had brought him
there, he raised himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow
without power to bring himself upright, but with all his pains he
saddled his ass, who too had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the
excessive licence of the day; he next raised up Rocinante, and as
for him, had he possessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly
neither Sancho nor his master would have been behind him. To be brief,
Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante with a
leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded more or
less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road might
be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from good
to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in sight,
and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the
delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and
the dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they
had time to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his team
without any further controversy.

CHAPTER XVI


OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK
TO BE A CASTLE

The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho
what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only
that he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised.
The innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of
her calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt
for the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending
Don Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her
in taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant,
an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of
one eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to
be sure, made up for all her defects; she did not measure seven
palms from head to foot, and her shoulders, which overweighted her
somewhat, made her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This
graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very
bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of
having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which
there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was placed a little
beyond our Don Quixote's, and, though only made of the pack-saddles
and cloths of his mules, had much the advantage of it, as Don
Quixote's consisted simply of four rough boards on two not very even
trestles, a mattress, that for thinness might have passed for a quilt,
full of pellets which, were they not seen through the rents to be
wool, would to the touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets
made of buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which anyone
that chose might have counted without missing one in the reckoning.

On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the
hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to
toe, while Maritornes- for that was the name of the Asturian- held the
light for them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how
full of wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this
had more the look of blows than of a fall.

It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and
projections, and that each of them had left its mark. Pray
senora he added, manage to save some towas there will be no
want of some one to use itfor my loins too are rather sore."

Then you must have fallen too,said the hostess.

I did not fall,said Sancho Panzabut from the shock I got at
seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had had
a thousand thwacks.

That may well be,said the young girlfor it has many a time
happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never
coming to the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself
as weak and shaken as if I had really fallen.

There is the point, senora,replied Sancho Panzathat I
without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find
myself with scarcely less wheals than my master, Don Quixote.

How is the gentleman called?asked Maritornes the Asturian.

Don Quixote of La Mancha,answered Sancho Panzaand he is a
knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been
seen in the world this long time past.

What is a knight-adventurer?said the lass.


Are you so new in the world as not to know?answered Sancho Panza.
Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventurer is a
thing that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day
the most miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will
have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire.

Then how is it,said the hostessthat belonging to so good a
master as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as
a county?

It is too soon yet,answered Sanchofor we have only been a
month going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met with
nothing that can be called one, for it will happen that when one thing
is looked for another thing is found; however, if my master Don
Quixote gets well of this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse
of it, I would not change my hopes for the best title in Spain.

To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very attentively
and sitting up in bed as well as he couldand taking the hostess by
the hand he said to herBelieve me, fair lady, you may call yourself
fortunate in having in this castle of yours sheltered my person, which
is such that if I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is
commonly said, that self-praise debaseth; but my squire will inform
you who I am. I only tell you that I shall preserve for ever inscribed
on my memory the service you have rendered me in order to tender you
my gratitude while life shall last me; and would to Heaven love held
me not so enthralled and subject to its laws and to the eyes of that
fair ingrate whom I name between my teeth, but that those of this
lovely damsel might be the masters of my liberty.

The hostessher daughterand the worthy Maritornes listened in
bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant; for they understood
about as much of them as if he had been talking Greekthough they
could perceive they were all meant for expressions of good-will and
blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of languagethey
stared at him and wondered to themselvesfor he seemed to them a
man of a different sort from those they were used toand thanking him
in pothouse phrase for his civility they left himwhile the
Asturian gave her attention to Sanchowho needed it no less than
his master.

The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation that
nightand she had given him her word that when the guests were
quiet and the family asleep she would come in search of him and meet
his wishes unreservedly. And it is said of this good lass that she
never made promises of the kind without fulfilling themeven though
she made them in a forest and without any witness presentfor she
plumed herself greatly on being a lady and held it no disgrace to be
in such an employment as servant in an innbecauseshe said
misfortunes and ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard
narrowwretchedrickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the middle
of this star-lit stableand close beside it Sancho made hiswhich
merely consisted of a rush mat and a blanket that looked as if it
was of threadbare canvas rather than of wool. Next to these two beds
was that of the carriermade upas has been saidof the
pack-saddles and all the trappings of the two best mules he had
though there were twelve of themsleekplumpand in prime
conditionfor he was one of the rich carriers of Arevaloaccording
to the author of this historywho particularly mentions this
carrier because he knew him very welland they even say was in some
degree a relation of his; besides which Cide Hamete Benengeli was a
historian of great research and accuracy in all thingsas is very
evident since he would not pass over in silence those that have been
already mentionedhowever trifling and insignificant they might be


an example that might be followed by those grave historians who relate
transactions so curtly and briefly that we hardly get a taste of them
all the substance of the work being left in the inkstand from
carelessnessperversenessor ignorance. A thousand blessings on
the author of "Tablante de Ricamonte" and that of the other book in
which the deeds of the Conde Tomillas are recounted; with what
minuteness they describe everything!

To proceedthen: after having paid a visit to his team and given
them their second feedthe carrier stretched himself on his
pack-saddles and lay waiting for his conscientious Maritornes.
Sancho was by this time plastered and had lain downand though he
strove to sleep the pain of his ribs would not let himwhile Don
Quixote with the pain of his had his eyes as wide open as a hare's.
The inn was all in silenceand in the whole of it there was no
light except that given by a lantern that hung burning in the middle
of the gateway. This strange stillnessand the thoughtsalways
present to our knight's mindof the incidents described at every turn
in the books that were the cause of his misfortuneconjured up to his
imagination as extraordinary a delusion as can well be conceived
which was that he fancied himself to have reached a famous castle
(foras has been saidall the inns he lodged in were castles to
his eyes)and that the daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of
the lord of the castleand that shewon by his high-bred bearing
had fallen in love with himand had promised to come to his bed for a
while that night without the knowledge of her parents; and holding all
this fantasy that he had constructed as solid facthe began to feel
uneasy and to consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to
encounterand he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to his
lady Dulcinea del Tobosoeven though the queen Guinevere herself
and the dame Quintanona should present themselves before him.

While he was taken up with these vagariesthenthe time and the
hour- an unlucky one for him- arrived for the Asturian to comewho in
her smockwith bare feet and her hair gathered into a fustian coif
with noiseless and cautious steps entered the chamber where the
three were quarteredin quest of the carrier; but scarcely had she
gained the door when Don Quixote perceived herand sitting up in
his bed in spite of his plasters and the pain of his ribshe
stretched out his arms to receive his beauteous damsel. The
Asturianwho went all doubled up and in silence with her hands before
her feeling for her loverencountered the arms of Don Quixotewho
grasped her tightly by the wristand drawing her towards himwhile
she dared not utter a wordmade her sit down on the bed. He then felt
her smockand although it was of sackcloth it appeared to him to be
of the finest and softest silk: on her wrists she wore some glass
beadsbut to him they had the sheen of precious Orient pearls: her
hairwhich in some measure resembled a horse's manehe rated as
threads of the brightest gold of Arabywhose refulgence dimmed the
sun himself: her breathwhich no doubt smelt of yesterday's stale
saladseemed to him to diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her
mouth; andin shorthe drew her portrait in his imagination with the
same features and in the same style as that which he had seen in his
books of the other princesses whosmitten by lovecame with all
the adornments that are here set downto see the sorely wounded
knight; and so great was the poor gentleman's blindness that neither
touchnor smellnor anything else about the good lass that would
have made any but a carrier vomitwere enough to undeceive him; on
the contraryhe was persuaded he had the goddess of beauty in his
armsand holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say in low
tender voice:

Would that found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position
to repay such a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great


beauty, have granted me; but fortune, which is never weary of
persecuting the good, has chosen to place me upon this bed, where I
lie so bruised and broken that though my inclination would gladly
comply with yours it is impossible; besides, to this impossibility
another yet greater is to be added, which is the faith that I have
pledged to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most
secret thoughts; and were it not that this stood in the way I should
not be so insensible a knight as to miss the happy opportunity which
your great goodness has offered me.

Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held so fast
by Don Quixoteand not understanding or heeding the words he
addressed to hershe strove without speaking to free herself. The
worthy carrierwhose unholy thoughts kept him awakewas aware of his
doxy the moment she entered the doorand was listening attentively to
all Don Quixote said; and jealous that the Asturian should have broken
her word with him for anotherdrew nearer to Don Quixote's bed and
stood still to see what would come of this talk which he could not
understand; but when he perceived the wench struggling to get free and
Don Quixote striving to hold hernot relishing the joke he raised his
arm and delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the amorous
knight that be bathed all his mouth in bloodand not content with
this he mounted on his ribs and with his feet tramped all over them at
a pace rather smarter than a trot. The bed which was somewhat crazy
and not very firm on its feetunable to support the additional weight
of the carriercame to the groundand at the mighty crash of this
the innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be some brawl
of Maritornes'because after calling loudly to her he got no
answer. With this suspicion he got upand lighting a lamp hastened to
the quarter where he had heard the disturbance. The wenchseeing that
her master was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible
frightened and panic-stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panzawho
still sleptand crouching upon it made a ball of herself.

The innkeeper came in exclaimingWhere art thou, strumpet? Of
course this is some of thy work.At this Sancho awokeand feeling
this mass almost on top of him fancied he had the nightmare and
began to distribute fisticuffs all roundof which a certain share
fell upon Maritorneswhoirritated by the pain and flinging
modesty asidepaid back so many in return to Sancho that she woke him
up in spite of himself. He thenfinding himself so handledby whom
he knew notraising himself up as well as he couldgrappled with
Maritornesand he and she between them began the bitterest and
drollest scrimmage in the world. The carrierhoweverperceiving by
the light of the innkeeper candle how it fared with his ladylove
quitting Don Quixoteran to bring her the help she needed; and the
innkeeper did the same but with a different intentionfor his was
to chastise the lassas he believed that beyond a doubt she alone was
the cause of all the harmony. And soas the saying iscat to rat
rat to roperope to stickthe carrier pounded SanchoSancho the
lassshe himand the innkeeper herand all worked away so briskly
that they did not give themselves a moment's rest; and the best of
it was that the innkeeper's lamp went outand as they were left in
the dark they all laid on one upon the other in a mass so unmercifully
that there was not a sound spot left where a hand could light.

It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a
caudrillero of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of Toledowho
also hearing the extraordinary noise of the conflictseized his staff
and the tin case with his warrantsand made his way in the dark
into the room crying: "Hold! in the name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in
the name of the Holy Brotherhood!"

The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixotewho lay


stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down bedandhis
hand falling on the beard as he felt abouthe continued to cryHelp
for the Jurisdiction!but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold of
did not move or stirhe concluded that he was dead and that those
in the room were his murderersand with this suspicion he raised
his voice still highercalling outShut the inn gate; see that no
one goes out; they have killed a man here!This cry startled them
alland each dropped the contest at the point at which the voice
reached him. The innkeeper retreated to his roomthe carrier to his
pack-saddlesthe lass to her crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho
alone were unable to move from where they were. The cuadrillero on
this let go Don Quixote's beardand went out to look for a light to
search for and apprehend the culprits; but not finding oneas the
innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lantern on retreating to
his roomhe was compelled to have recourse to the hearthwhere after
much time and trouble he lit another lamp.

CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE
DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INNWHICH
TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE

By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the
same tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before
when he lay stretched "in the vale of the stakes he began calling to
him now, Sanchomy friendart thou asleep? sleepest thoufriend
Sancho?"

How can I sleep, curses on it!returned Sancho discontentedly
and bitterlywhen it is plain that all the devils have been at me
this night?

Thou mayest well believe that,answered Don Quixotebecause,
either I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must knowbut
this that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep
secret until after my death.

I swear it,answered Sancho.

I say so,continued Don Quixotebecause I hate taking away
anyone's good name.

I say,replied Sanchothat I swear to hold my tongue about it
till the end of your worship's days, and God grant I may be able to
let it out tomorrow.

Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat thou
wouldst see me dead so soon?

It is not for that,replied Sanchobut because I hate keeping
things long, and I don't want them to grow rotten with me from
over-keeping.

At any rate,said Don QuixoteI have more confidence in thy
affection and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this
night there befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could
describe, and to relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a
little while ago the daughter of the lord of this castle came to me,
and that she is the most elegant and beautiful damsel that could be
found in the wide world. What I could tell thee of the charms of her


person! of her lively wit! of other secret matters which, to
preserve the fealty I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass
over unnoticed and in silence! I will only tell thee that, either fate
being envious of so great a boon placed in my hands by good fortune,
or perhaps (and this is more probable) this castle being, as I have
already said, enchanted, at the time when I was engaged in the
sweetest and most amorous discourse with her, there came, without my
seeing or knowing whence it came, a hand attached to some arm of
some huge giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have
them all bathed in blood, and then pummelled me in such a way that I
am in a worse plight than yesterday when the carriers, on account of
Rocinante's misbehaviour, inflicted on us the injury thou knowest
of; whence conjecture that there must be some enchanted Moor
guarding the treasure of this damsel's beauty, and that it is not
for me.

Not for me either,said Sanchofor more than four hundred
Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes
and fancy-bread to it. But tell me, senor, what do you call this
excellent and rare adventure that has left us as we are left now?
Though your worship was not so badly off, having in your arms that
incomparable beauty you spoke of; but I, what did I have, except the
heaviest whacks I think I had in all my life? Unlucky me and the
mother that bore me! for I am not a knight-errant and never expect
to be one, and of all the mishaps, the greater part falls to my
share.

Then thou hast been thrashed too?said Don Quixote.

Didn't I say so? worse luck to my line!said Sancho.

Be not distressed, friend,said Don Quixotefor I will now
make the precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the
twinkling of an eye.

By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lampand
came in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as
Sancho caught sight of him at the doorseeing him coming in his
shirtwith a cloth on his headand a lamp in his handand a very
forbidding countenancehe said to his masterSenor, can it be
that this is the enchanted Moor coming back to give us more
castigation if there be anything still left in the ink-bottle?

It cannot be the Moor,answered Don Quixotefor those under
enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone.

If they don't let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt,
said Sancho; "if notlet my shoulders speak to the point."

Mine could speak too,said Don Quixotebut that is not a
sufficient reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted
Moor.

The officer came upand finding them engaged in such a peaceful
conversationstood amazed; though Don Quixoteto be surestill
lay on his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters.
The officer turned to him and saidWell, how goes it, good man?

I would speak more politely if I were you,replied Don Quixote;
is it the way of this country to address knights-errant in that
style, you booby?

The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a
sorry-looking individuallost his temperand raising the lamp full


of oilsmote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave
him a badly broken pate; thenall being in darknesshe went outand
Sancho Panza saidThat is certainly the enchanted Moor, Senor, and
he keeps the treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and
lamp-whacks.

That is the truth,answered Don Quixoteand there is no use in
troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or
vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find
no one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if
thou canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give
me a little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous
balsam, for indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am
losing much blood from the wound that phantom gave me.

Sancho got up with pain enough in his bonesand went after the
innkeeper in the darkand meeting the officerwho was looking to see
what had become of his enemyhe said to himSenor, whoever you are,
do us the favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt,
and wine, for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on
earth, who lies on yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted
Moor that is in this inn.

When the officer heard him talk in this wayhe took him for a man
out of his sensesand as day was now beginning to breakhe opened
the inn gateand calling the hosthe told him what this good man
wanted. The host furnished him with what he requiredand Sancho
brought it to Don Quixotewhowith his hand to his headwas
bewailing the pain of the blow of the lampwhich had done him no more
harm than raising a couple of rather large lumpsand what he
fancied blood was only the sweat that flowed from him in his
sufferings during the late storm. To be briefhe took the
materialsof which he made a compoundmixing them all and boiling
them a good while until it seemed to him they had come to
perfection. He then asked for some vial to pour it intoand as
there was not one in the innhe decided on putting it into a tin
oil-bottle or flask of which the host made him a free gift; and over
the flask he repeated more than eighty paternosters and as many more
ave-mariassalvesand credosaccompanying each word with a cross by
way of benedictionat all which there were present Sanchothe
innkeeperand the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now peacefully
engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules.

This being accomplishedhe felt anxious to make trial himselfon
the spotof the virtue of this precious balsamas he considered
itand so he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the
flask and remained in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but
scarcely had he done drinking when he began to vomit in such a way
that nothing was left in his stomachand with the pangs and spasms of
vomiting he broke into a profuse sweaton account of which he bade
them cover him up and leave him alone. They did soand he lay
sleeping more than three hoursat the end of which he awoke and
felt very great bodily relief and so much ease from his bruises that
he thought himself quite curedand verily believed he had hit upon
the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he might
thenceforwardwithout any fearface any kind of destructionbattle
or combathowever perilous it might be.

Sancho Panzawho also regarded the amendment of his master as
miraculousbegged him to give him what was left in the pigskinwhich
was no small quantity. Don Quixote consentedand hetaking it with
both handsin good faith and with a better willgulped down and
drained off very little less than his master. But the fact isthat
the stomach of poor Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of


his masterand sobefore vomitinghe was seized with such
gripings and retchingsand such sweats and faintnessthat verily and
truly be believed his last hour had comeand finding himself so
racked and tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given
it to him.

Don Quixote seeing him in this state saidIt is my belief, Sancho,
that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am
persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so.

If your worship knew that,returned Sancho- "woe betide me and all
my kindred!- why did you let me taste it?"

At this moment the draught took effectand the poor squire began to
discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had
thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for
nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and
convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end
had come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hoursat
the end of which he was leftnot like his masterbut so weak and
exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixotehoweverwhoas has
been saidfelt himself relieved and wellwas eager to take his
departure at once in quest of adventuresas it seemed to him that all
the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the world and those in
it who stood in need of his help and protectionall the more when
he had the security and confidence his balsam afforded him; and so
urged by this impulsehe saddled Rocinante himself and put the
pack-saddle on his squire's beastwhom likewise he helped to dress
and mount the ass; after which he mounted his horse and turning to a
corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood thereto serve
him by way of a lance. All that were in the innwho were more than
twenty personsstood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was
likewise observing himand he too never took his eyes off herand
from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the
depths of his bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain he
felt in his ribs; at any rate they who had seen him plastered the
night before thought so.

As soon as they were both mountedat the gate of the innhe called
to the host and said in a very grave and measured voiceMany and
great are the favours, Senor Alcaide, that I have received in this
castle of yours, and I remain under the deepest obligation to be
grateful to you for them all the days of my life; if I can repay
them in avenging you of any arrogant foe who may have wronged you,
know that my calling is no other than to aid the weak, to avenge those
who suffer wrong, and to chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and
if you find anything of this kind you need only tell me of it, and I
promise you by the order of knighthood which I have received to
procure you satisfaction and reparation to the utmost of your desire.

The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmnessSir Knight, I
do not want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any
is done me I can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only
thing I want is that you pay me the score that you have run up in
the inn last night, as well for the straw and barley for your two
beasts, as for supper and beds.

Then this is an inn?said Don Quixote.

And a very respectable one,said the innkeeper.

I have been under a mistake all this time,answered Don Quixote
for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but
since it appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be


done now is that you should excuse the payment, for I cannot
contravene the rule of knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and
up to the present I have read nothing to the contrary) that they never
paid for lodging or anything else in the inn where they might be;
for any hospitality that might be offered them is their due by law and
right in return for the insufferable toil they endure in seeking
adventures by night and by day, in summer and in winter, on foot and
on horseback, in hunger and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all
the inclemencies of heaven and all the hardships of earth.

I have little to do with that,replied the innkeeper; "pay me what
you owe meand let us have no more talk of chivalryfor all I care
about is to get my money."

You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper,said Don Quixoteand
putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he
rode out of the inn before anyone could stop himand pushed on some
distance without looking to see if his squire was following him.

The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get
payment of Sanchowho said that as his master would not pay neither
would hebecausebeing as he was squire to a knight-errantthe same
rule and reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not
paying anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed
very wrothand threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way
that he would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of
chivalry his master had received he would not pay a rapthough it
cost him his life; for the excellent and ancient usage of
knights-errant was not going to be violated by himnor should the
squires of such as were yet to come into the world ever complain of
him or reproach him with breaking so just a privilege.

The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among
the company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segoviathree
needle-makers from the Colt of Cordovaand two lodgers from the
Fair of Sevillelively fellowstender-heartedfond of a jokeand
playfulwhoalmost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse
made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his asswhile one of them
went in for the blanket of the host's bed; but on flinging him into it
they looked upand seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower what
they required for their workthey decided upon going out into the
yardwhich was bounded by the skyand thereputting Sancho in the
middle of the blanketthey began to raise him highmaking sport with
him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide.

The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they
reached the ears of his masterwhohalting to listen attentively
was persuaded that some new adventure was cominguntil he clearly
perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he
came up to the inn with a laborious gallopand finding it shut went
round it to see if he could find some way of getting in; but as soon
as he came to the wall of the yardwhich was not very highhe
discovered the game that was being played with his squire. He saw
him rising and falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness that
had his rage allowed himit is my belief he would have laughed. He
tried to climb from his horse on to the top of the wallbut he was so
bruised and battered that he could not even dismount; and so from
the back of his horse he began to utter such maledictions and
objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be
impossible to write down accurately: theyhoweverdid not stay their
laughter or their work for thisnor did the flying Sancho cease his
lamentationsmingled now with threatsnow with entreaties but all to
little purposeor none at alluntil from pure weariness they left
off. They then brought him his assand mounting him on top of it they


put his jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornesseeing him
so exhaustedthought fit to refresh him with a jug of waterand that
it might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took
itand as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the
cries of his master exclaimingSancho, my son, drink not water;
drink it not, my son, for it will kill thee; see, here I have the
blessed balsam (and he held up the flask of liquor), and with drinking
two drops of it thou wilt certainly be restored.

At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquintand in a still louder
voice saidCan it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a
knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have
left after last night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils,
and leave me to myself!and at one and the same instant he left off
talking and began drinking; but as at the first sup he perceived it
was water he did not care to go on with itand begged Maritornes to
fetch him some winewhich she did with right good willand paid
for it with her own money; for indeed they say of her thatthough she
was in that line of lifethere was some faint and distant resemblance
to a Christian about her. When Sancho had done drinking he dug his
heels into his assand the gate of the inn being thrown open he
passed out very well pleased at having paid nothing and carried his
pointthough it had been at the expense of his usual suretieshis
shoulders. It is true that the innkeeper detained his alforjas in
payment of what was owing to himbut Sancho took his departure in
such a flurry that he never missed them. The innkeeperas soon as
he saw him offwanted to bar the gate closebut the blanketers would
not agree to itfor they were fellows who would not have cared two
farthings for Don Quixoteeven had he been really one of the
knights-errant of the Round Table.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER
DON QUIXOTEAND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING

Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge
on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he saidI
have now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or
inn is beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously
diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings
of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that
when I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad
tragedy, it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even
dismount from Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I
swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to
climb up or dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that
those braggart thieves would have remembered their freak for ever,
even though in so doing I knew that I contravened the laws of
chivalry, which, as I have often told thee, do not permit a knight
to lay hands on him who is not one, save in case of urgent and great
necessity in defence of his own life and person.

I would have avenged myself too if I could,said Sancho
whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though
for my part I am persuaded those who amused themselves with me were
not phantoms or enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of
flesh and bone like ourselves; and they all had their names, for I
heard them name them when they were tossing me, and one was called
Pedro Martinez, and another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I
heard, was called Juan Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, senor, your


not being able to leap over the wall of the yard or dismount from your
horse came of something else besides enchantments; and what I make out
clearly from all this is, that these adventures we go seeking will
in the end lead us into such misadventures that we shall not know
which is our right foot; and that the best and wisest thing, according
to my small wits, would be for us to return home, now that it is
harvest-time, and attend to our business, and give over wandering from
Zeca to Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is.

How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,replied Don
Quixote; "hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when
thou shalt see with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to
wander in the pursuit of this calling; naytell mewhat greater
pleasure can there be in the worldor what delight can equal that
of winning a battleand triumphing over one's enemy? Nonebeyond all
doubt."

Very likely,answered Sanchothough I do not know it; all I know
is that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has
been one (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable
a number) we have never won any battle except the one with the
Biscayan, and even out of that your worship car-ne with half an ear
and half a helmet the less; and from that till now it has been all
cudgellings and more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting
the blanketing over and above, and falling in with enchanted persons
on whom I cannot avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your
worship calls it, of conquering an enemy is like.

That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,replied
Don Quixote; "but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some
sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take
effect upon him who carries itand it is even possible that fortune
may procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was called
'The Knight of the Burning Sword' which was one of the best swords
that ever knight in the world possessedforbesides having the
said virtueit cut like a razorand there was no armourhowever
strong and enchanted it might bethat could resist it."

Such is my luck,said Sanchothat even if that happened and your
worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out
serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the
squires, they might sup sorrow.

Fear not that, Sancho,said Don Quixote: "Heaven will deal
better by thee."

Thus talkingDon Quixote and his squire were going alongwhen
on the road they were followingDon Quixote perceived approaching
them a large and thick cloud of duston seeing which he turned to
Sancho and said:

This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my
fortune is reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as
much as on any other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on
which I shall do deeds that shall remain written in the book of fame
for all ages to come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises
yonder? Well, then, all that is churned up by a vast army composed
of various and countless nations that comes marching there.

According to that there must be two,said Sanchofor on this
opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of dust.

Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was trueand rejoicing
exceedinglyhe concluded that they were two armies about to engage


and encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and
seasons his fancy was full of the battlesenchantmentsadventures
crazy featslovesand defiances that are recorded in the books of
chivalryand everything he saidthoughtor did had reference to
such things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great
droves of sheep coming along the same road in opposite directions
whichbecause of the dustdid not become visible until they drew
nearbut Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies
that Sancho was led to believe it and sayWell, and what are we to
do, senor?

What?said Don Quixote: "give aid and assistance to the weak and
those who need it; and thou must knowSanchothat this which comes
opposite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron
lord of the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me
is that of his enemy the king of the GaramantasPentapolin of the
Bare Armfor he always goes into battle with his right arm bare."

But why are these two lords such enemies?

They are at enmity,replied Don Quixotebecause this Alifanfaron
is a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who
is a very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and
her father is unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he
first abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts
his own.

By my beard,said Sanchobut Pentapolin does quite right, and
I will help him as much as I can.

In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,said Don Quixote;
for to engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a
dubbed knight.

That I can well understand,answered Sancho; "but where shall we
put this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is
over? for I believe it has not been the custom so far to go into
battle on a beast of this kind."

That is true,said Don Quixoteand what you had best do with him
is to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for
the horses we shall have when we come out victors will be so many that
even Rocinante will run a risk of being changed for another. But
attend to me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of
the chief knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest
the better see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises
yonder, whence both armies may be seen.

They did soand placed themselves on a rising ground from which the
two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly
seen if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and
blinded the sight; neverthelessseeing in his imagination what he did
not see and what did not existhe began thus in a loud voice:

That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon
his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the
valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour
with flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on
an azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia;
that other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless
Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour
wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to
tradition, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the
ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his enemies. But


turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and
in the van of this other army the ever victorious and never vanquished
Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with
arms quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield
a cat or on a field tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the
beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the
peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the
other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger
and bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any
device, is a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by
name, lord of the baronies of Utrique; that other, who with
iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble parti-coloured
zebra, and for arms bears azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia,
Espartafilardo del Bosque, who bears for device on his shield an
asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that says, Rastrea mi
suerte.And so he went on naming a number of knights of one
squadron or the other out of his imaginationand to all he assigned
off-hand their armscoloursdevicesand mottoescarried away by
the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and without a pausehe
continuedPeople of divers nations compose this squadron in front;
here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus,
those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that sift the
pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool
banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various ways
divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless in
their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the Parthians and
the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever shift their
dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the Ethiopians
with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose features I
recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In this
other squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams of
the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances
with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice
in the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the
Tartesian plains abounding in pasture, those that take their
pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans
crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of
the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its
gentle current, those that feed their herds along the spreading
pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for its hidden course, those
that tremble with the cold of the pineclad Pyrenees or the dazzling
snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as many as all Europe includes
and contains.

Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to
each its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and
saturated with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza
hung upon his words without speakingand from time to time turned
to try if he could see the knights and giants his master was
describingand as he could not make out one of them he said to him:

Senor, devil take it if there's a sign of any man you talk of,
knight or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it's all enchantment,
like the phantoms last night.

How canst thou say that!answered Don Quixote; "dost thou not hear
the neighing of the steedsthe braying of the trumpetsthe roll of
the drums?"

I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,said
Sancho; which was truefor by this time the two flocks had come
close.

The fear thou art in, Sancho,said Don Quixoteprevents thee


from seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to
derange the senses and make things appear different from what they
are; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to
myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I
shall give my aid;and so saying he gave Rocinante the spurand
putting the lance in restshot down the slope like a thunderbolt.
Sancho shouted after himcryingCome back, Senor Don Quixote; I vow
to God they are sheep and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky
the father that begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no
giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole,
nor vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am
before God!But not for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn
back; on the contrary he went on shouting outHo, knights, ye who
follow and fight under the banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin
of the Bare Arm, follow me all; ye shall see how easily I shall give
him his revenge over his enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana.

So sayinghe dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewesand
began spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he
were transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and
drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was
no usethey ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with
stones as big as one's fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones
butletting drive right and left kept saying:

Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single
knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee
yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant
Pentapolin Garamanta.Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that
struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body.
Feeling himself so smittenhe imagined himself slain or badly wounded
for certainand recollecting his liquor he drew out his flaskand
putting it to his mouth began to pour the contents into his stomach;
but ere he had succeeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough
there came another almond which struck him on the hand and on the
flask so fairly that it smashed it to piecesknocking three or four
teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its courseand sorely crushing
two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of
the secondthat the poor knight in spite of himself came down
backwards off his horse. The shepherds came upand felt sure they had
killed him; so in all haste they collected their flock together
took up the dead beastsof which there were more than sevenand made
off without waiting to ascertain anything further.

All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats
his master was performingand tearing his beard and cursing the
hour and the occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him.
Seeing himthenbrought to the groundand that the shepherds had
taken themselves offhe ran to him and found him in very bad case
though not unconscious; and said he:

Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don Quixote; and that what
you were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?

That's how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify
things,answered Don Quixote; "thou must knowSanchothat it is a
very easy matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they
choose; and this malignant being who persecutes meenvious of the
glory he knew I was to win in this battlehas turned the squadrons of
the enemy into droves of sheep. At any ratedo this muchI beg of
theeSanchoto undeceive thyselfand see that what I say is true;
mount thy ass and follow them quietlyand thou shalt see that when
they have gone some little distance from this they will return to
their original shape andceasing to be sheepbecome men in all


respects as I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet
for I want thy help and assistance; come hitherand see how many of
my teeth and grinders are missingfor I feel as if there was not
one left in my mouth."

Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now
just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don
Quixotesoat the very instant when Sancho came to examine his
mouthhe discharged all its contents with more force than a musket
and full into the beard of the compassionate squire.

Holy Mary!cried Sanchowhat is this that has happened me?
Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the
mouth;but considering the matter a little more closely he
perceived by the colourtasteand smellthat it was not blood but
the balsam from the flask which he had seen him drink; and he was
taken with such a loathing that his stomach turnedand he vomited
up his inside over his very masterand both were left in a precious
state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something wherewith to clean
himselfand relieve his masterout of his alforjas; but not
finding themhe well-nigh took leave of his sensesand cursed
himself anewand in his heart resolved to quit his master and
return homeeven though he forfeited the wages of his service and all
hopes of the promised island.

Don Quixote now roseand putting his left hand to his mouth to keep
his teeth from falling out altogetherwith the other he laid hold
of the bridle of Rocinantewho had never stirred from his master's
side- so loyal and well-behaved was he- and betook himself to where
the squire stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheeklike
one in deep dejection. Seeing him in this moodlooking so sadDon
Quixote said to him:

Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another,
unless he does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us
are signs that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go
well with us, for it is impossible for good or evil to last for
ever; and hence it follows that the evil having lasted long, the
good must be now nigh at hand; so thou must not distress thyself at
the misfortunes which happen to me, since thou hast no share in them.

How have I not?replied Sancho; "was he whom they blanketed
yesterday perchance any other than my father's son? and the alforjas
that are missing to-day with all my treasuresdid they belong to
any other but myself?"

What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?said Don Quixote.

Yes, they are missing,answered Sancho.

In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,replied Don Quixote.

It would be so,answered Sanchoif there were none of the
herbs your worship says you know in these meadows, those with which
knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like
shortcomings.

For all that,answered Don QuixoteI would rather have just
now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards' heads,
than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna's
notes. Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along
with me, for God, who provides for all things, will not fail us
(more especially when we are so active in his service as we are),
since he fails not the midges of the air, nor the grubs of the


earth, nor the tadpoles of the water, and is so merciful that he
maketh his sun to rise on the good and on the evil, and sendeth rain
on the unjust and on the just.

Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant,said
Sancho.

Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho,said Don
Quixote; "for there were knights-errant in former times as well
qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an
encampmentas if they had graduated in the University of Paris;
whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pennor the
pen the lance."

Well, be it as your worship says,replied Sancho; "let us be off
now and find some place of shelter for the nightand God grant it may
be somewhere where there are no blanketsnor blanketeersnor
phantomsnor enchanted Moors; for if there aremay the devil take
the whole concern."

Ask that of God, my son,said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on
where thou wiltfor this time I leave our lodging to thy choice;
but reach me here thy handand feel with thy fingerand find out how
many of my teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of
the upper jawfor it is there I feel the pain."

Sancho put in his fingersand feeling about asked himHow many
grinders used your worship have on this side?

Four,replied Don Quixotebesides the back-tooth, all whole
and quite sound.

Mind what you are saying, senor.

I say four, if not five,answered Don Quixotefor never in my
life have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been
destroyed by any decay or rheum.

Well, then,said Sanchoin this lower side your worship has no
more than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor
any at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand.

Luckless that I am!said Don Quixotehearing the sad news his
squire gave him; "I had rather they despoiled me of an armso it were
not the sword-arm; for I tell theeSanchoa mouth without teeth is
like a mill without a millstoneand a tooth is much more to be prized
than a diamond; but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are
liable to all this. Mountfriendand lead the wayand I will follow
thee at whatever pace thou wilt."

Sancho did as he bade himand proceeded in the direction in which
he thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road
which was there very much frequented. As they went alongthenat a
slow pace- for the pain in Don Quixote's jaws kept him uneasy and
ill-disposed for speed- Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him
by talk of some kindand among the things he said to him was that
which will be told in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XIX

OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTERAND OF


THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODYTOGETHER WITH OTHER
NOTABLE OCCURRENCES

It seems to me, senor, that all these mishaps that have befallen us
of late have been without any doubt a punishment for the offence
committed by your worship against the order of chivalry in not keeping
the oath you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth or embrace the
queen, and all the rest of it that your worship swore to observe until
you had taken that helmet of Malandrino's, or whatever the Moor is
called, for I do not very well remember.

Thou art very right, Sancho,said Don Quixotebut to tell the
truth, it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest rely upon it
that the affair of the blanket happened to thee because of thy fault
in not reminding me of it in time; but I will make amends, for there
are ways of compounding for everything in the order of chivalry.

Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?said Sancho.

It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath,said Don
Quixote; "suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of
complicity; and whether or noit will not be ill done to provide
ourselves with a remedy."

In that case,said Sanchomind that your worship does not forget
this as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take it into
their heads to amuse themselves once more with me; or even with your
worship if they see you so obstinate.

While engaged in this and other talknight overtook them on the
road before they had reached or discovered any place of shelter; and
what made it still worse was that they were dying of hungerfor
with the loss of the alforjas they had lost their entire larder and
commissariat; and to complete the misfortune they met with an
adventure which without any invention had really the appearance of
one. It so happened that the night closed in somewhat darklybut
for all that they pushed onSancho feeling sure that as the road
was the king's highway they might reasonably expect to find some inn
within a league or two. Going alongthenin this waythe night
darkthe squire hungrythe master sharp-setthey saw coming towards
them on the road they were travelling a great number of lights which
looked exactly like stars in motion. Sancho was taken aback at the
sight of themnor did Don Quixote altogether relish them: the one
pulled up his ass by the halterthe other his hack by the bridleand
they stood stillwatching anxiously to see what all this would turn
out to beand found that the lights were approaching themand the
nearer they came the greater they seemedat which spectacle Sancho
began to shake like a man dosed with mercuryand Don Quixote's hair
stood on end; hehoweverplucking up spirit a littlesaid:

This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous
adventure, in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my
valour and resolution.

Unlucky me!answered Sancho; "if this adventure happens to be
one of phantomsas I am beginning to think it iswhere shall I
find the ribs to bear it?"

Be they phantoms ever so much,said Don QuixoteI will not
permit them to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they played
tricks with thee the time before, it was because I was unable to
leap the walls of the yard; but now we are on a wide plain, where I
shall be able to wield my sword as I please.


And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last time,
said Sanchowhat difference will it make being on the open plain
or not?

For all that,replied Don QuixoteI entreat thee, Sancho, to
keep a good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine is.

I will, please God,answered Sanchoand the two retiring to one
side of the road set themselves to observe closely what all these
moving lights might be; and very soon afterwards they made out some
twenty encamisadosall on horsebackwith lighted torches in their
handsthe awe-inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the
courage of Sanchowho began to chatter with his teeth like one in the
cold fit of an ague; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered
still more when they perceived distinctly that behind them there
came a litter covered over with black and followed by six more mounted
figures in mourning down to the very feet of their mules- for they
could perceive plainly they were not horses by the easy pace at
which they went. And as the encamisados came along they muttered to
themselves in a low plaintive tone. This strange spectacle at such
an hour and in such a solitary place was quite enough to strike terror
into Sancho's heartand even into his master's; and (save in Don
Quixote's case) did sofor all Sancho's resolution had now broken
down. It was just the opposite with his masterwhose imagination
immediately conjured up all this to him vividly as one of the
adventures of his books.

He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which was
borne some sorely wounded or slain knightto avenge whom was a task
reserved for him alone; and without any further reasoning he laid
his lance in restfixed himself firmly in his saddleand with
gallant spirit and bearing took up his position in the middle of the
road where the encamisados must of necessity pass; and as soon as he
saw them near at hand he raised his voice and said:

Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who
ye are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is ye carry upon that
bier, for, to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong
or some wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary
that I should know, either that I may chastise you for the evil ye
have done, or else that I may avenge you for the injury that has
been inflicted upon you.

We are in haste,answered one of the encamisadosand the inn
is far off, and we cannot stop to render you such an account as you
demand;and spurring his mule he moved on.

Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answerand seizing the
mule by the bridle he saidHalt, and be more mannerly, and render an
account of what I have asked of you; else, take my defiance to combat,
all of you.

The mule was shyand was so frightened at her bridle being seized
that rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over her haunches.
An attendant who was on footseeing the encamisado fallbegan to
abuse Don Quixotewho now moved to angerwithout any more ado
laying his lance in rest charged one of the men in mourning and
brought him badly wounded to the groundand as he wheeled round
upon the others the agility with which he attacked and routed them was
a sight to seefor it seemed just as if wings had that instant
grown upon Rocinanteso lightly and proudly did he bear himself.
The encamisados were all timid folk and unarmedso they speedily made
their escape from the fray and set off at a run across the plain
with their lighted torcheslooking exactly like maskers running on


some gala or festival night. The mournerstooenveloped and
swathed in their skirts and gownswere unable to bestir themselves
and so with entire safety to himself Don Quixote belaboured them all
and drove them off against their willfor they all thought it was
no man but a devil from hell come to carry away the dead body they had
in the litter.

Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of his
lordand said to himselfClearly this master of mine is as bold and
valiant as he says he is.

A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom the mule
had thrownby the light of which Don Quixote perceived himand
coming up to him he presented the point of the lance to his face
calling on him to yield himself prisoneror else he would kill him;
to which the prostrate man repliedI am prisoner enough as it is;
I cannot stir, for one of my legs is broken: I entreat you, if you
be a Christian gentleman, not to kill me, which will be committing
grave sacrilege, for I am a licentiate and I hold first orders.

Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?said
Don Quixote.

What, senor?said the other. "My bad luck."

Then still worse awaits you,said Don Quixoteif you do not
satisfy me as to all I asked you at first.

You shall be soon satisfied,said the licentiate; "you must
knowthenthat though just now I said I was a licentiateI am
only a bachelorand my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of
AlcobendasI come from the city of Baeza with eleven otherspriests
the same who fled with the torchesand we are going to the city of
Segovia accompanying a dead body which is in that litterand is
that of a gentleman who died in Baezawhere he was interred; and now
as I saidwe are taking his bones to their burial-placewhich is
in Segoviawhere he was born."

And who killed him?asked Don Quixote.

God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,answered the
bachelor.

In that case,said Don Quixotethe Lord has relieved me of the
task of avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he who slew
him having slain him, there is nothing for it but to be silent, and
shrug one's shoulders; I should do the same were he to slay myself;
and I would have your reverence know that I am a knight of La
Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and it is my business and calling to roam
the world righting wrongs and redressing injuries.

I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be,said the
bachelorfor from straight you have made me crooked, leaving me with
a broken leg that will never see itself straight again all the days of
its life; and the injury you have redressed in my case has been to
leave me injured in such a way that I shall remain injured for ever;
and the height of misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in
search of adventures.

Things do not all happen in the same way,answered Don Quixote;
it all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going, as you did, by
night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying,
covered with mourning, so that naturally you looked like something
evil and of the other world; and so I could not avoid doing my duty in


attacking you, and I should have attacked you even had I known
positively that you were the very devils of hell, for such I certainly
believed and took you to be.

As my fate has so willed it,said the bachelorI entreat you,
sir knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one for me, to
help me to get from under this mule that holds one of my legs caught
between the stirrup and the saddle.

I would have talked on till to-morrow,said Don Quixote; "how long
were you going to wait before telling me of your distress?"

He at once called to Sanchowhohoweverhad no mind to comeas
he was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mulewell laden
with provenderwhich these worthy gentlemen had brought with them.
Sancho made a bag of his coatandgetting together as much as he
couldand as the bag would holdhe loaded his beastand then
hastened to obey his master's calland helped him to remove the
bachelor from under the mule; then putting him on her back he gave him
the torchand Don Quixote bade him follow the track of his
companionsand beg pardon of them on his part for the wrong which
he could not help doing them.

And said SanchoIf by chance these gentlemen should want to know
who was the hero that served them so, your worship may tell them
that he is the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance.

The bachelor then took his departure.

I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote
Remember that you stand excommunicated for having laid violent
hands on a holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo.

I do not understand that Latin,answered Don Quixotebut I
know well I did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not
think I was committing an assault upon priests or things of the
Church, which, like a Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I
respect and revere, but upon phantoms and spectres of the other world;
but even so, I remember how it fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke
the chair of the ambassador of that king before his Holiness the Pope,
who excommunicated him for the same; and yet the good Roderick of
Vivar bore himself that day like a very noble and valiant knight.

On hearing this the bachelor took his departureas has been said
without making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had
induced him to call him the "Knight of the Rueful Countenance" more
then than at any other time.

I will tell you,answered Sancho; "it was because I have been
looking at you for some time by the light of the torch held by that
unfortunateand verily your worship has got of late the most
ill-favoured countenance I ever saw: it must be either owing to the
fatigue of this combator else to the want of teeth and grinders."

It is not that,replied Don Quixotebut because the sage whose
duty it will be to write the history of my achievements must have
thought it proper that I should take some distinctive name as all
knights of yore did; one being 'He of the Burning Sword,' another
'He of the Unicorn,' this one 'He of the Damsels,' that 'He of the
Phoenix,' another 'The Knight of the Griffin,' and another 'He of
the Death,' and by these names and designations they were known all
the world round; and so I say that the sage aforesaid must have put it
into your mouth and mind just now to call me 'The Knight of the Rueful


Countenance,' as I intend to call myself from this day forward; and
that the said name may fit me better, I mean, when the opportunity
offers, to have a very rueful countenance painted on my shield.

There is no occasion, senor, for wasting time or money on making
that countenance,said Sancho; "for all that need be done is for your
worship to show your ownface to faceto those who look at you
and without anything moreeither image or shieldthey will call
you 'Him of the Rueful Countenance' and believe me I am telling you
the truthfor I assure yousenor (and in good part be it said)
hunger and the loss of your grinders have given you such an
ill-favoured face thatas I saythe rueful picture may be very
well spared."

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved
to call himself by that nameand have his shield or buckler painted
as he had devised.

Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in the
litter were bones or notbut Sancho would not have itsaying:

Senor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely for
yourself than any of those I have seen: perhaps these people, though
beaten and routed, may bethink themselves that it is a single man that
has beaten them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart and
come in search of us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in
proper trim, the mountains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have
nothing more to do but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is,
the dead to the grave and the living to the loaf.

And driving his ass before him he begged his master to follow
whofeeling that Sancho was rightdid so without replying; and after
proceeding some little distance between two hills they found
themselves in a wide and retired valleywhere they alightedand
Sancho unloaded his beastand stretched upon the green grasswith
hunger for saucethey breakfasteddinedlunchedand supped all
at oncesatisfying their appetites with more than one store of cold
meat which the dead man's clerical gentlemen (who seldom put
themselves on short allowance) had brought with them on their
sumpter mule. But another piece of ill-luck befell themwhich
Sancho held the worst of alland that was that they had no wine to
drinknor even water to moisten their lips; and as thirst tormented
themSanchoobserving that the meadow where they were was full of
green and tender grasssaid what will be told in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XX

OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER
ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD

It cannot be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that there must
be hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be
well to move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we
may quench this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a
doubt is more distressing than hunger.

The advice seemed good to Don Quixoteandhe leading Rocinante
by the bridle and Sancho the ass by the halterafter he had packed
away upon him the remains of the supperthey advanced the meadow
feeling their wayfor the darkness of the night made it impossible to
see anything; but they had not gone two hundred paces when a loud


noise of wateras if falling from great rocksstruck their ears. The
sound cheered them greatly; but halting to make out by listening
from what quarter it came they heard unseasonably another noise
which spoiled the satisfaction the sound of the water gave them
especially for Sanchowho was by nature timid and faint-hearted. They
heardI saystrokes falling with a measured beatand a certain
rattling of iron and chains thattogether with the furious din of the
waterwould have struck terror into any heart but Don Quixote's.
The night wasas has been saiddarkand they had happened to
reach a spot in among some tall treeswhose leaves stirred by a
gentle breeze made a low ominous sound; so thatwhat with the
solitudethe placethe darknessthe noise of the waterand the
rustling of the leaveseverything inspired awe and dread; more
especially as they perceived that the strokes did not ceasenor the
wind lullnor morning approach; to all which might be added their
ignorance as to where they were. But Don Quixotesupported by his
intrepid heartleaped on Rocinanteand bracing his buckler on his
armbrought his pike to the slopeand saidFriend Sancho, know
that I by Heaven's will have been born in this our iron age to
revive revive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it is called;
I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds are
reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights of the
Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies; and he who is
to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes and
Tirantes, the Phoebuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of
famous knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in which
I live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure
their brightest deeds. Thou dost mark well, faithful and trusty
squire, the gloom of this night, its strange silence, the dull
confused murmur of those trees, the awful sound of that water in quest
of which we came, that seems as though it were precipitating and
dashing itself down from the lofty mountains of the Moon, and that
incessant hammering that wounds and pains our ears; which things all
together and each of itself are enough to instil fear, dread, and
dismay into the breast of Mars himself, much more into one not used to
hazards and adventures of the kind. Well, then, all this that I put
before thee is but an incentive and stimulant to my spirit, making
my heart burst in my bosom through eagerness to engage in this
adventure, arduous as it promises to be; therefore tighten Rocinante's
girths a little, and God be with thee; wait for me here three days and
no more, and if in that time I come not back, thou canst return to our
village, and thence, to do me a favour and a service, thou wilt go
to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable lady Dulcinea
that her captive knight hath died in attempting things that might make
him worthy of being called hers.

When Sancho heard his master's words he began to weep in the most
pathetic waysaying:

Senor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this so
dreadful adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can
easily turn about and take ourselves out of danger, even if we don't
drink for three days to come; and as there is no one to see us, all
the less will there be anyone to set us down as cowards; besides, I
have many a time heard the curate of our village, whom your worship
knows well, preach that he who seeks danger perishes in it; so it is
not right to tempt God by trying so tremendous a feat from which there
can be no escape save by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of
them for your worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was,
and bringing you out victorious and safe and sound from among all
those enemies that were with the dead man; and if all this does not
move or soften that hard heart, let this thought and reflection move
it, that you will have hardly quitted this spot when from pure fear
I shall yield my soul up to anyone that will take it. I left home


and wife and children to come and serve your worship, trusting to do
better and not worse; but as covetousness bursts the bag, it has
rent my hopes asunder, for just as I had them highest about getting
that wretched unlucky island your worship has so often promised me,
I see that instead and in lieu of it you mean to desert me now in a
place so far from human reach: for God's sake, master mine, deal not
so unjustly by me, and if your worship will not entirely give up
attempting this feat, at least put it off till morning, for by what
the lore I learned when I was a shepherd tells me it cannot want three
hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn is overhead and makes
midnight in the line of the left arm.

How canst thou see, Sancho,said Don Quixotewhere it makes that
line, or where this mouth or this occiput is that thou talkest of,
when the night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen in the
whole heaven?

That's true,said Sanchobut fear has sharp eyes, and sees
things underground, much more above in heavens; besides, there is good
reason to show that it now wants but little of day.

Let it want what it may,replied Don Quixoteit shall not be
said of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties turned me aside
from doing what was in accordance with knightly usage; and so I beg of
thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart
to undertake now this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will
take care to watch over my safety and console thy sorrow; what thou
hast to do is to tighten Rocinante's girths well, and wait here, for I
shall come back shortly, alive or dead.

Sancho perceiving it his master's final resolveand how little
his tearscounselsand entreaties prevailed with himdetermined
to have recourse to his own ingenuity and compel himif he could
to wait till daylight; and sowhile tightening the girths of the
horsehe quietly and without being feltwith his ass' halter tied
both Rocinante's legsso that when Don Quixote strove to go he was
unable as the horse could only move by jumps. Seeing the success of
his trickSancho Panza said:

See there, senor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so
ordered it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be obstinate,
and spur and strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as
they say, against the pricks.

Don Quixote at this grew desperatebut the more he drove his
heels into the horsethe less he stirred him; and not having any
suspicion of the tyinghe was fain to resign himself and wait till
daybreak or until Rocinante could movefirmly persuaded that all this
came of something other than Sancho's ingenuity. So he said to him
As it is so, Sancho, and as Rocinante cannot move, I am content to
wait till dawn smiles upon us, even though I weep while it delays
its coming.

There is no need to weep,answered Sanchofor I will amuse
your worship by telling stories from this till daylight, unless indeed
you like to dismount and lie down to sleep a little on the green grass
after the fashion of knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day
comes and the moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary
adventure you are looking forward to.

What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?said
Don Quixote. "Am Ithinkest thouone of those knights that take
their rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who art born to
sleepor do as thou wiltfor I will act as I think most consistent


with my character."

Be not angry, master mine,replied SanchoI did not mean to
say that;and coming close to him he laid one hand on the pommel of
the saddle and the other on the cantle so that he held his master's
left thigh in his embracenot daring to separate a finger's width
from him; so much afraid was he of the strokes which still resounded
with a regular beat. Don Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him
as he had proposedto which Sancho replied that he would if his dread
of what he heard would let him; "Still said he, I will strive to
tell a story whichif I can manage to relate itand nobody
interferes with the tellingis the best of storiesand let your
worship give me your attentionfor here I begin. What waswas; and
may the good that is to come be for alland the evil for him who goes
to look for it -your worship must know that the beginning the old folk
used to put to their tales was not just as each one pleased; it was
a maxim of Cato Zonzorino the Romanthat says 'the evil for him
that goes to look for it' and it comes as pat to the purpose now as
ring to fingerto show that your worship should keep quiet and not go
looking for evil in any quarterand that we should go back by some
other roadsince nobody forces us to follow this in which so many
terrors affright us."

Go on with thy story, Sancho,said Don Quixoteand leave the
choice of our road to my care.

I say then,continued Sanchothat in a village of Estremadura
there was a goat-shepherd -that is to say, one who tended goats- which
shepherd or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this
Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which
shepherdess called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and
this rich grazier-

If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho,said Don
Quixoterepeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not have
done these two days; go straight on with it, and tell it like a
reasonable man, or else say nothing.

Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am telling
this,answered Sanchoand I cannot tell it in any other, nor is
it right of your worship to ask me to make new customs.

Tell it as thou wilt,replied Don Quixote; "and as fate will
have it that I cannot help listening to theego on."

And so, lord of my soul,continued Sanchoas I have saidthis
shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdesswho was a wild
buxom lass with something of the look of a man about herfor she
had little moustaches; I fancy I see her now."

Then you knew her?said Don Quixote.

I did not know her,said Sanchobut he who told me the story
said it was so true and certain that when I told it to another I might
safely declare and swear I had seen it all myself. And so in course of
time, the devil, who never sleeps and puts everything in confusion,
contrived that the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned
into hatred and ill-will, and the reason, according to evil tongues,
was some little jealousy she caused him that crossed the line and
trespassed on forbidden ground; and so much did the shepherd hate
her from that time forward that, in order to escape from her, he
determined to quit the country and go where he should never set eyes
on her again. Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope, was
immediately smitten with love for him, though she had never loved


him before.

That is the natural way of women,said Don Quixoteto scorn
the one that loves them, and love the one that hates them: go on,
Sancho.

It came to pass,said Sanchothat the shepherd carried out his
intention, and driving his goats before him took his way across the
plains of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom of Portugal.
Torralva, who knew of it, went after him, and on foot and barefoot
followed him at a distance, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand and a
scrip round her neck, in which she carried, it is said, a bit of
looking-glass and a piece of a comb and some little pot or other of
paint for her face; but let her carry what she did, I am not going
to trouble myself to prove it; all I say is, that the shepherd, they
say, came with his flock to cross over the river Guadiana, which was
at that time swollen and almost overflowing its banks, and at the spot
he came to there was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or
his flock to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he
perceived that Torralva was approaching and would give him great
annoyance with her tears and entreaties; however, he went looking
about so closely that he discovered a fisherman who had alongside of
him a boat so small that it could only hold one person and one goat;
but for all that he spoke to him and agreed with him to carry
himself and his three hundred goats across. The fisherman got into the
boat and carried one goat over; he came back and carried another over;
he came back again, and again brought over another- let your worship
keep count of the goats the fisherman is taking across, for if one
escapes the memory there will be an end of the story, and it will be
impossible to tell another word of it. To proceed, I must tell you the
landing place on the other side was miry and slippery, and the
fisherman lost a great deal of time in going and coming; still he
returned for another goat, and another, and another.

Take it for granted he brought them all across,said Don
Quixoteand don't keep going and coming in this way, or thou wilt
not make an end of bringing them over this twelvemonth.

How many have gone across so far?said Sancho.

How the devil do I know?replied Don Quixote.

There it is,said Sanchowhat I told you, that you must keep a
good count; well then, by God, there is an end of the story, for there
is no going any farther.

How can that be?said Don Quixote; "is it so essential to the
story to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed overthat if
there be a mistake of one in the reckoningthou canst not go on
with it?"

No, senor, not a bit,replied Sancho; "for when I asked your
worship to tell me how many goats had crossedand you answered you
did not knowat that very instant all I had to say passed away out of
my memoryandfaiththere was much virtue in itand
entertainment."

So, then,said Don Quixotethe story has come to an end?

As much as my mother has,said Sancho.

In truth,said Don Quixotethou hast told one of the rarest
stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have
imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending it was never seen


nor will be in a lifetime; though I expected nothing else from thy
excellent understanding. But I do not wonder, for perhaps those
ceaseless strokes may have confused thy wits.

All that may be,replied Sanchobut I know that as to my
story, all that can be said is that it ends there where the mistake in
the count of the passage of the goats begins.

Let it end where it will, well and good,said Don Quixoteand
let us see if Rocinante can go;and again he spurred himand again
Rocinante made jumps and remained where he wasso well tied was he.

Just thenwhether it was the cold of the morning that was now
approachingor that he had eaten something laxative at supperor
that it was only natural (as is most likely)Sancho felt a desire
to do what no one could do for him; but so great was the fear that had
penetrated his hearthe dared not separate himself from his master by
as much as the black of his nail; to escape doing what he wanted
washoweveralso impossible; so what he did for peace's sake was
to remove his right handwhich held the back of the saddleand
with it to untie gently and silently the running string which alone
held up his breechesso that on loosening it they at once fell down
round his feet like fetters; he then raised his shirt as well as he
could and bared his hind quartersno slim ones. Butthis
accomplishedwhich he fancied was all he had to do to get out of this
terrible strait and embarrassmentanother still greater difficulty
presented itselffor it seemed to him impossible to relieve himself
without making some noiseand he ground his teeth and squeezed his
shoulders togetherholding his breath as much as he could; but in
spite of his precautions he was unlucky enough after all to make a
little noisevery different from that which was causing him so much
fear.

Don Quixotehearing itsaidWhat noise is that, Sancho?

I don't know, senor,said he; "it must be something newfor
adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle." Once more
he tried his luckand succeeded so wellthat without any further
noise or disturbance he found himself relieved of the burden that
had given him so much discomfort. But as Don Quixote's sense of
smell was as acute as his hearingand as Sancho was so closely linked
with him that the fumes rose almost in a straight lineit could not
be but that some should reach his noseand as soon as they did he
came to its relief by compressing it between his fingerssaying in
a rather snuffing toneSancho, it strikes me thou art in great
fear.

I am,answered Sancho; "but how does your worship perceive it
now more than ever?"

Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not of
ambergris,answered Don Quixote.

Very likely,said Sanchobut that's not my fault, but your
worship's, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at such
unwonted paces.

Then go back three or four, my friend,said Don Quixoteall the
time with his fingers to his nose; "and for the future pay more
attention to thy person and to what thou owest to mine; for it is my
great familiarity with thee that has bred this contempt."

I'll bet,replied Sanchothat your worship thinks I have done
something I ought not with my person.


It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,returned Don Quixote.

With this and other talk of the same sort master and man passed
the nighttill Sanchoperceiving that daybreak was coming on
apacevery cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up his breeches. As
soon as Rocinante found himself freethough by nature he was not at
all mettlesomehe seemed to feel lively and began pawing- for as to
caperingbegging his pardonhe knew not what it meant. Don
Quixotethenobserving that Rocinante could movetook it as a
good sign and a signal that he should attempt the dread adventure.
By this time day had fully broken and everything showed distinctly
and Don Quixote saw that he was among some tall treeschestnuts
which cast a very deep shade; he perceived likewise that the sound
of the strokes did not ceasebut could not discover what caused it
and so without any further delay he let Rocinante feel the spurand
once more taking leave of Sanchohe told him to wait for him there
three days at mostas he had said beforeand if he should not have
returned by that timehe might feel sure it had been God's will
that he should end his days in that perilous adventure. He again
repeated the message and commission with which he was to go on his
behalf to his lady Dulcineaand said he was not to be uneasy as to
the payment of his servicesfor before leaving home he had made his
willin which he would find himself fully recompensed in the matter
of wages in due proportion to the time he had served; but if God
delivered him safesoundand unhurt out of that dangerhe might
look upon the promised island as much more than certain. Sancho
began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting words of his
good masterand resolved to stay with him until the final issue and
end of the business. From these tears and this honourable resolve of
Sancho Panza's the author of this history infers that he must have
been of good birth and at least an old Christian; and the feeling he
displayed touched his but not so much as to make him show any
weakness; on the contraryhiding what he felt as well as he couldhe
began to move towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and
of the strokes seemed to come.

Sancho followed him on footleading by the halteras his custom
washis asshis constant comrade in prosperity or adversity; and
advancing some distance through the shady chestnut trees they came
upon a little meadow at the foot of some high rocksdown which a
mighty rush of water flung itself. At the foot of the rocks were
some rudely constructed houses looking more like ruins than houses
from among which camethey perceivedthe din and clatter of blows
which still continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at
the noise of the water and of the blowsbut quieting him Don
Quixote advanced step by step towards the housescommending himself
with all his heart to his ladyimploring her support in that dread
pass and enterpriseand on the way commending himself to Godtoo
not to forget him. Sancho who never quitted his sidestretched his
neck as far as he could and peered between the legs of Rocinante to
see if he could now discover what it was that caused him such fear and
apprehension. They went it might be a hundred paces fartherwhen on
turning a corner the true causebeyond the possibility of any
mistakeof that dread-sounding and to them awe-inspiring noise that
had kept them all the night in such fear and perplexityappeared
plain and obvious; and it was (ifreaderthou art not disgusted
and disappointed) six fulling hammers which by their alternate strokes
made all the din.

When Don Quixote perceived what it washe was struck dumb and rigid
from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and saw him with his head
bent down upon his breast in manifest mortification; and Don Quixote
glanced at Sancho and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth


full of laughterand evidently ready to explode with itand in spite
of his vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and
when Sancho saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had
to hold his sides with both hands to keep himself from bursting with
laughter. Four times he stoppedand as many times did his laughter
break out afresh with the same violence as at firstwhereat Don
Quixote grew furiousabove all when he heard him say mockinglyThou
must know, friend Sancho, that of Heaven's will I was born in this our
iron age to revive in it the golden or age of gold; I am he for whom
are reserved perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds;and here
he went on repeating the words that Don Quixote uttered the first time
they heard the awful strokes.

Don Quixotethenseeing that Sancho was turning him into ridicule
was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike and smote him
two such blows that ifinstead of catching them on his shoulders
he had caught them on his head there would have been no wages to
payunless indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting
an awkward return in earnest for his jestand fearing his master
might carry it still furthersaid to him very humblyCalm yourself,
sir, for by God I am only joking.

Well, then, if you are joking I am not,replied Don Quixote. "Look
heremy lively gentlemanif theseinstead of being fulling hammers
had been some perilous adventurehave I notthink youshown the
courage required for the attempt and achievement? Am Iperchance
beingas I ama gentlemanbound to know and distinguish sounds
and tell whether they come from fulling mills or not; and thatwhen
perhapsas is the caseI have never in my life seen any as you have
low boor as you arethat have been born and bred among them? But turn
me these six hammers into six giantsand bring them to beard me
one by one or all togetherand if I do not knock them head over
heelsthen make what mockery you like of me."

No more of that, senor,returned Sancho; "I own I went a little
too far with the joke. But tell meyour worshipnow that peace is
made between us (and may God bring you out of all the adventures
that may befall you as safe and sound as he has brought you out of
this one)was it not a thing to laugh atand is it not a good story
the great fear we were in?- at least that I was in; for as to your
worship I see now that you neither know nor understand what either
fear or dismay is."

I do not deny,said Don Quixotethat what happened to us may
be worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story about, for it
is not everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the right point of a
thing.

At any rate,said Sanchoyour worship knew how to hit the
right point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting me on the
shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness in dodging it. But
let that pass; all will come out in the scouring; for I have heard say
'he loves thee well that makes thee weep;' and moreover that it is the
way with great lords after any hard words they give a servant to
give him a pair of breeches; though I do not know what they give after
blows, unless it be that knights-errant after blows give islands, or
kingdoms on the mainland.

It may be on the dice,said Don Quixotethat all thou sayest
will come true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd enough to
know that our first movements are not in our own control; and one
thing for the future bear in mind, that thou curb and restrain thy
loquacity in my company; for in all the books of chivalry that I
have read, and they are innumerable, I never met with a squire who


talked so much to his lord as thou dost to thine; and in fact I feel
it to be a great fault of thine and of mine: of thine, that thou
hast so little respect for me; of mine, that I do not make myself more
respected. There was Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that
was Count of the Insula Firme, and we read of him that he always
addressed his lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and
his body bent double, more turquesco. And then, what shall we say of
Gasabal, the squire of Galaor, who was so silent that in order to
indicate to us the greatness of his marvellous taciturnity his name is
only once mentioned in the whole of that history, as long as it is
truthful? From all I have said thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there
must be a difference between master and man, between lord and
lackey, between knight and squire: so that from this day forward in
our intercourse we must observe more respect and take less
liberties, for in whatever way I may be provoked with you it will be
bad for the pitcher. The favours and benefits that I have promised you
will come in due time, and if they do not your wages at least will not
be lost, as I have already told you.

All that your worship says is very well,said Sanchobut I
should like to know (in case the time of favours should not come,
and it might be necessary to fall back upon wages) how much did the
squire of a knight-errant get in those days, and did they agree by the
month, or by the day like bricklayers?

I do not believe,replied Don Quixotethat such squires were
ever on wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I have now
mentioned thine in the sealed will I have left at home, it was with
a view to what may happen; for as yet I know not how chivalry will
turn out in these wretched times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to
suffer for trifles in the other world; for I would have thee know,
Sancho, that in this there is no condition more hazardous than that of
adventurers.

That is true,said Sanchosince the mere noise of the hammers of
a fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such a valiant
errant adventurer as your worship; but you may be sure I will not open
my lips henceforward to make light of anything of your worship's,
but only to honour you as my master and natural lord.

By so doing,replied Don Quixoteshalt thou live long on the
face of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be respected as
though they were parents.

CHAPTER XXI

WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S
HELMETTOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE
KNIGHT

It now began to rain a littleand Sancho was for going into the
fulling millsbut Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on
account of the late joke that he would not enter them on any
account; so turning aside to right they came upon another road
different from that which they had taken the night before. Shortly
afterwards Don Quixote perceived a man on horseback who wore on his
head something that shone like goldand the moment he saw him he
turned to Sancho and said:

I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being
maxims drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences,


especially that one that says, 'Where one door shuts, another
opens.' I say so because if last night fortune shut the door of the
adventure we were looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling
mills, it now opens wide another one for another better and more
certain adventure, and if I do not contrive to enter it, it will be my
own fault, and I cannot lay it to my ignorance of fulling mills, or
the darkness of the night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there
comes towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino,
concerning which I took the oath thou rememberest.

Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do,
said Sanchofor I don't want any more fulling mills to finish off
fulling and knocking our senses out.

The devil take thee, man,said Don Quixote; "what has a helmet
to do with fulling mills?"

I don't know,replied Sanchobut, faith, if I might speak as I
used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see
you were mistaken in what you say.

How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?returned
Don Quixote; "tell meseest thou not yonder knight coming towards
us on a dappled grey steedwho has upon his head a helmet of gold?"

What I see and make out,answered Sanchois only a man on a grey
ass like my own, who has something that shines on his head.

Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,said Don Quixote; "stand
to one side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see howwithout
saying a wordto save timeI shall bring this adventure to an
issue and possess myself of the helmet I have so longed for."

I will take care to stand aside,said Sancho; "but God grantI
say once morethat it may be marjoram and not fulling mills."

I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling
mills to me again,said Don Quixoteor I vow- and I say no more-
I'll full the soul out of you.

Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out
the vow he had hurled like a bowl at him.

The fact of the matter as regards the helmetsteedand knight that
Don Quixote sawwas this. In that neighbourhood there were two
villagesone of them so small that it had neither apothecary's shop
nor barberwhich the other that was close to it hadso the barber of
the larger served the smallerand in it there was a sick man who
required to be bled and another man who wanted to be shavedand on
this errand the barber was goingcarrying with him a brass basin; but
as luck would have itas he was on the way it began to rainand
not to spoil his hatwhich probably was a new onehe put the basin
on his headand being clean it glittered at half a league's distance.
He rode upon a grey assas Sancho saidand this was what made it
seem to Don Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and a
golden helmet; for everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy
chivalry and ill-errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight
draw nearwithout entering into any parley with himat Rocinante's
top speed he bore down upon him with the pike pointed lowfully
determined to run him through and throughand as he reached him
without checking the fury of his chargehe cried to him:

Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord
that which is so reasonably my due.


The barberwho without any expectation or apprehension of it saw
this apparition coming down upon himhad no other way of saving
himself from the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his
ass; and no sooner had he touched the ground than he sprang up more
nimbly than a deer and sped away across the plain faster than the
wind.

He left the basin on the groundwith which Don Quixote contented
himselfsaying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated
the beaverwhich finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts
off with its teeth that for whichby its natural instinctit knows
it is pursued.

He told Sancho to pick up the helmetand he taking it in his
hands said:

By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it
is worth a maravedis,and handed it to his masterwho immediately
put it on his headturning it roundnow this waynow thatin
search of fitmentand not finding it he saidClearly the pagan to
whose measure this famous head-piece was first forged must have had
a very large head; but the worst of it is half of it is wanting.

When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to
restrain his laughterbut remembering his master's wrath he checked
himself in the midst of it.

What art thou laughing at, Sancho?said Don Quixote.

I am laughing,said heto think of the great head the pagan must
have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular
barber's basin.

Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?said Don Quixote; "that
this wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange
accident have come into the hands of some one who was unable to
recognise or realise its valueand whonot knowing what he did
and seeing it to be of the purest goldmust have melted down one half
for the sake of what it might be worthand of the other made this
which is like a barber's basin as thou sayest; but be it as it mayto
me who recognise itits transformation makes no differencefor I
will set it to rights at the first village where there is a
blacksmithand in such style that that helmet the god of smithies
forged for the god of battles shall not surpass it or even come up
to it; and in the meantime I will wear it as well as I canfor
something is better than nothing; all the more as it will be quite
enough to protect me from any chance blow of a stone."

That is,said Sanchoif it is not shot with a sling as they were
in the battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your
worship's grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught
that made me vomit my bowels up.

It does not grieve me much to have lost it,said Don Quixotefor
thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory.

So have I,answered Sanchobut if ever I make it, or try it
again as long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no
intention of putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with
all my five senses, to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding
anyone: as to being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to
prevent mishaps of that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it
but to squeeze our shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes,


and let ourselves go where luck and the blanket may send us.

Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,said Don Quixote on hearing
thisfor once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it:
but know that it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to
attach importance to trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it,
what broken rib, what cracked head, that thou canst not forget that
jest? For jest and sport it was, properly regarded, and had I not seen
it in that light I would have returned and done more mischief in
revenging thee than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if
she were alive now, or if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend
upon it she would not be so famous for her beauty as she is;and here
he heaved a sigh and sent it aloft; and said SanchoLet it pass
for a jest as it cannot be revenged in earnest, but I know what sort
of jest and earnest it was, and I know it will never be rubbed out
of my memory any more than off my shoulders. But putting that aside,
will your worship tell me what are we to do with this dapple-grey
steed that looks like a grey ass, which that Martino that your worship
overthrew has left deserted here? for, from the way he took to his
heels and bolted, he is not likely ever to come back for it; and by my
beard but the grey is a good one.

I have never been in the habit,said Don Quixoteof taking spoil
of those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take
away their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be
that the victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is
lawful to take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war;
therefore, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt
have it to be; for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back
for it.

God knows I should like to take it,returned Sanchoor at
least to change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a
one: verily the laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be
stretched to let one ass be changed for another; I should like to know
if I might at least change trappings.

On that head I am not quite certain,answered Don Quixoteand
the matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou
mayest change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them.

So urgent is it,answered Sanchothat if they were for my own
person I could not want them more;and forthwithfortified by this
licencehe effected the mutatio capparumrigging out his beast to
the ninety-nines and making quite another thing of it. This donethey
broke their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered from
the sumpter muleand drank of the brook that flowed from the
fulling millswithout casting a look in that directionin such
loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused them; and
all anger and gloom removedthey mounted andwithout taking any
fixed road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing for true
knights-errant)they set outguided by Rocinante's willwhich
carried along with it that of his masternot to say that of the
asswhich always followed him wherever he ledlovingly and sociably;
nevertheless they returned to the high roadand pursued it at a
venture without any other aim.

As they went alongthenin this way Sancho said to his master
Senor, would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For
since you laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things
have gone to rot in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip
of my tongue that I don't want to be spoiled.

Say, on, Sancho,said Don Quixoteand be brief in thy discourse,


for there is no pleasure in one that is long.

Well then, senor,returned SanchoI say that for some days
past I have been considering how little is got or gained by going in
search of these adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds
and cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous are victoriously
achieved, there is no one to see or know of them, and so they must
be left untold for ever, to the loss of your worship's object and
the credit they deserve; therefore it seems to me it would be better
(saving your worship's better judgment) if we were to go and serve
some emperor or other great prince who may have some war on hand, in
whose service your worship may prove the worth of your person, your
great might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which the lord
in whose service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each
according to his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for
some one to set down your achievements in writing so as to preserve
their memory for ever. Of my own I say nothing, as they will not go
beyond squirely limits, though I make bold to say that, if it be the
practice in chivalry to write the achievements of squires, I think
mine must not be left out.

Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,answered Don Quixotebut before
that point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on
probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some,
name and fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to
the court of some great monarch the knight may be already known by his
deeds, and that the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of
the city, may all follow him and surround him, crying, 'This is the
Knight of the Sun'-or the Serpent, or any other title under which he
may have achieved great deeds. 'This,' they will say, 'is he who
vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty
strength; he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of the
long enchantment under which he had been for almost nine hundred
years.' So from one to another they will go proclaiming his
achievements; and presently at the tumult of the boys and the others
the king of that kingdom will appear at the windows of his royal
palace, and as soon as he beholds the knight, recognising him by his
arms and the device on his shield, he will as a matter of course
say, 'What ho! Forth all ye, the knights of my court, to receive the
flower of chivalry who cometh hither!' At which command all will issue
forth, and he himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will
embrace him closely, and salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and
will then lead him to the queen's chamber, where the knight will
find her with the princess her daughter, who will be one of the most
beautiful and accomplished damsels that could with the utmost pains be
discovered anywhere in the known world. Straightway it will come to
pass that she will fix her eyes upon the knight and he his upon her,
and each will seem to the other something more divine than human, and,
without knowing how or why they will be taken and entangled in the
inextricable toils of love, and sorely distressed in their hearts
not to see any way of making their pains and sufferings known by
speech. Thence they will lead him, no doubt, to some richly adorned
chamber of the palace, where, having removed his armour, they will
bring him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself, and if
he looked noble in his armour he will look still more so in a doublet.
When night comes he will sup with the king, queen, and princess; and
all the time he will never take his eyes off her, stealing stealthy
glances, unnoticed by those present, and she will do the same, and
with equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a damsel of great
discretion. The tables being removed, suddenly through the door of the
hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive dwarf followed by a
fair dame, between two giants, who comes with a certain adventure, the
work of an ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it shall be deemed
the best knight in the world.


The king will then command all those present to essay itand
none will bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger
knightto the great enhancement of his famewhereat the princess
will be overjoyed and will esteem herself happy and fortunate in
having fixed and placed her thoughts so high. And the best of it is
that this kingor princeor whatever he isis engaged in a very
bitter war with another as powerful as himselfand the stranger
knightafter having been some days at his courtrequests leave
from him to go and serve him in the said war. The king will grant it
very readilyand the knight will courteously kiss his hands for the
favour done to him; and that night he will take leave of his lady
the princess at the grating of the chamber where she sleepswhich
looks upon a gardenand at which he has already many times
conversed with herthe go-between and confidante in the matter
being a damsel much trusted by the princess. He will sighshe will
swoonthe damsel will fetch watermuch distressed because morning
approachesand for the honour of her lady he would not that they were
discovered; at last the princess will come to herself and will present
her white hands through the grating to the knightwho will kiss
them a thousand and a thousand timesbathing them with his tears.
It will be arranged between them how they are to inform each other
of their good or evil fortunesand the princess will entreat him to
make his absence as short as possiblewhich he will promise to do
with many oaths; once more he kisses her handsand takes his leave in
such grief that he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes him thence to
his chamberflings himself on his bedcannot sleep for sorrow at
partingrises early in the morninggoes to take leave of the king
queenand princessandas he takes his leave of the pairit is
told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a visit;
the knight thinks it is from grief at his departurehis heart is
piercedand he is hardly able to keep from showing his pain. The
confidante is presentobserves allgoes to tell her mistresswho
listens with tears and says that one of her greatest distresses is not
knowing who this knight isand whether he is of kingly lineage or
not; the damsel assures her that so much courtesygentlenessand
gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist in any
save one who was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus
relievedand she strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite
suspicion in her parentsand at the end of two days she appears in
public. Meanwhile the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the
warconquers the king's enemywins many citiestriumphs in many
battlesreturns to the courtsees his lady where he was wont to
see herand it is agreed that he shall demand her in marriage of
her parents as the reward of his services; the king is unwilling to
give heras he knows not who he isbut neverthelesswhether carried
off or in whatever other way it may bethe princess comes to be his
brideand her father comes to regard it as very good fortune; for
it so happens that this knight is proved to be the son of a valiant
king of some kingdomI know not whatfor I fancy it is not likely to
be on the map. The father diesthe princess inheritsand in two
words the knight becomes king. And here comes in at once the
bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all who have aided him in
rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his squire to a damsel of
the princess'swho will beno doubtthe one who was confidante in
their amourand is daughter of a very great duke."


That's what I want, and no mistake about it!said Sancho.
That's what I'm waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store
for your worship under the title of the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance.


Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,replied Don Quixotefor in the
same manner, and by the same steps as I have described here,



knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we
want now is to find out what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and
has a beautiful daughter; but there will be time enough to think of
that, for, as I have told thee, fame must be won in other quarters
before repairing to the court. There is another thing, too, that is
wanting; for supposing we find a king who is at war and has a
beautiful daughter, and that I have won incredible fame throughout the
universe, I know not how it can be made out that I am of royal
lineage, or even second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not be
willing to give me his daughter in marriage unless he is first
thoroughly satisfied on this point, however much my famous deeds may
deserve it; so that by this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm
has fairly earned. True it is I am a gentleman of known house, of
estate and property, and entitled to the five hundred sueldos mulct;
and it may be that the sage who shall write my history will so clear
up my ancestry and pedigree that I may find myself fifth or sixth in
descent from a king; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that there
are two kinds of lineages in the world; some there be tracing and
deriving their descent from kings and princes, whom time has reduced
little by little until they end in a point like a pyramid upside down;
and others who spring from the common herd and go on rising step by
step until they come to be great lords; so that the difference is that
the one were what they no longer are, and the others are what they
formerly were not. And I may be of such that after investigation my
origin may prove great and famous, with which the king, my
father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied; and should he
not be, the princess will so love me that even though she well knew me
to be the son of a water-carrier, she will take me for her lord and
husband in spite of her father; if not, then it comes to seizing her
and carrying her off where I please; for time or death will put an end
to the wrath of her parents.

It comes to this, too,said Sanchowhat some naughty people say,
'Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;' though it would
fit better to say, 'A clear escape is better than good men's prayers.'
I say so because if my lord the king, your worship's father-in-law,
will not condescend to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing
for it but, as your worship says, to seize her and transport her.
But the mischief is that until peace is made and you come into the
peaceful enjoyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as
far as rewards go, unless it be that the confidante damsel that is
to be his wife comes with the princess, and that with her he tides
over his bad luck until Heaven otherwise orders things; for his
master, I suppose, may as well give her to him at once for a lawful
wife.

Nobody can object to that,said Don Quixote.

Then since that may be,said Sanchothere is nothing for it
but to commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it
will.

God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants,said Don
Quixoteand mean be he who thinks himself mean.

In God's name let him be so,said Sancho: "I am an old
Christianand to fit me for a count that's enough."

And more than enough for thee,said Don Quixote; "and even wert
thou notit would make no differencebecause I being the king can
easily give thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by
theefor when I make thee a countthen thou art at once a gentleman;
and they may say what they willbut by my faith they will have to
call thee 'your lordship' whether they like it or not."


Not a doubt of it; and I'll know how to support the tittle,said
Sancho.

Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,said his master.

So be it,answered Sancho. "I say I will know how to behavefor
once in my life I was beadle of a brotherhoodand the beadle's gown
sat so well on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward
of the same brotherhood. What will it bethenwhen I put a duke's
robe on my backor dress myself in gold and pearls like a count? I
believe they'll come a hundred leagues to see me."

Thou wilt look well,said Don Quixotebut thou must shave thy
beard often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that
if thou dost not shave it every second day at least, they will see
what thou art at the distance of a musket shot.

What more will it be,said Sanchothan having a barber, and
keeping him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will
make him go behind me like a nobleman's equerry.

Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind
them?asked Don Quixote.

I will tell you,answered Sancho. "Years ago I was for a month
at the capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman
who they said was a very great manand a man following him on
horseback in every turn he tookjust as if he was his tail. I asked
why this man did not join the other maninstead of always going
behind him; they answered me that he was his equerryand that it
was the custom with nobles to have such persons behind themand
ever since then I know itfor I have never forgotten it."

Thou art right,said Don Quixoteand in the same way thou mayest
carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all
together, nor were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the
first count to have a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one's
beard is a greater trust than saddling one's horse.

Let the barber business be my look-out,said Sancho; "and your
worship's be it to strive to become a kingand make me a count."

So it shall be,answered Don Quixoteand raising his eyes he
saw what will be told in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XXII

OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO
AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO

Cide Hamete Benengelithe Arab and Manchegan authorrelates in
this most gravehigh-soundingminutedelightfuland original
history that after the discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La
Mancha and his squire Sancho Panza which is set down at the end of
chapter twenty-oneDon Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along
the road he was following some dozen men on foot strung together by
the necklike beadson a great iron chainand all with manacles
on their hands. With them there came also two men on horseback and two
on foot; those on horseback with wheel-lock musketsthose on foot
with javelins and swordsand as soon as Sancho saw them he said:


That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by
force of the king's orders.

How by force?asked Don Quixote; "is it possible that the king
uses force against anyone?"

I do not say that,answered Sanchobut that these are people
condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the king's galleys.

In fact,replied Don Quixotehowever it may be, these people are
going where they are taking them by force, and not of their own will.

Just so,said Sancho.

Then if so,said Don Quixotehere is a case for the exercise
of my office, to put down force and to succour and help the wretched.

Recollect, your worship,said SanchoJustice, which is the
king himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such persons, but
punishing them for their crimes.

The chain of galley slaves had by this time come upand Don Quixote
in very courteous language asked those who were in custody of it to be
good enough to tell him the reason or reasons for which they were
conducting these people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback
answered that they were galley slaves belonging to his majestythat
they were going to the galleysand that was all that was to be said
and all he had any business to know.

Nevertheless,replied Don QuixoteI should like to know from
each of them separately the reason of his misfortune;to this he
added more to the same effect to induce them to tell him what he
wanted so civilly that the other mounted guard said to him:

Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of
every one of these wretches, this is no time to take them out or
read them; come and ask themselves; they can tell if they choose,
and they will, for these fellows take a pleasure in doing and
talking about rascalities.

With this permissionwhich Don Quixote would have taken even had
they not granted ithe approached the chain and asked the first for
what offences he was now in such a sorry case.

He made answer that it was for being a lover.

For that only?replied Don Quixote; "whyif for being lovers they
send people to the galleys I might have been rowing in them long ago."

The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of,said the
galley slave; "mine was that I loved a washerwoman's basket of clean
linen so welland held it so close in my embracethat if the arm
of the law had not forced it from meI should never have let it go of
my own will to this moment; I was caught in the actthere was no
occasion for torturethe case was settledthey treated me to a
hundred lashes on the backand three years of gurapas besidesand
that was the end of it."

What are gurapas?asked Don Quixote.

Gurapas are galleys,answered the galley slavewho was a young
man of about four-and-twentyand said he was a native of Piedrahita.


Don Quixote asked the same question of the secondwho made no
replyso downcast and melancholy was he; but the first answered for
himand saidHe, sir, goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and
a singer.

What!said Don Quixotefor being musicians and singers are
people sent to the galleys too?

Yes, sir,answered the galley slavefor there is nothing worse
than singing under suffering.

On the contrary, I have heard say,said Don Quixotethat he
who sings scares away his woes.

Here it is the reverse,said the galley slave; "for he who sings
once weeps all his life."

I do not understand it,said Don Quixote; but one of the guards
said to himSir, to sing under suffering means with the non sancta
fraternity to confess under torture; they put this sinner to the
torture and he confessed his crime, which was being a cuatrero, that
is a cattle-stealer, and on his confession they sentenced him to six
years in the galleys, besides two bundred lashes that he has already
had on the back; and he is always dejected and downcast because the
other thieves that were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and
snub, and jeer, and despise him for confessing and not having spirit
enough to say nay; for, say they, 'nay' has no more letters in it than
'yea,' and a culprit is well off when life or death with him depends
on his own tongue and not on that of witnesses or evidence; and to
my thinking they are not very far out.

And I think so too,answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the
third he asked him what he had asked the othersand the man
answered very readily and unconcernedlyI am going for five years to
their ladyships the gurapas for the want of ten ducats.

I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble,
said Don Quixote.

That,said the galley slaveis like a man having money at sea
when he is dying of hunger and has no way of buying what he wants; I
say so because if at the right time I had had those twenty ducats that
your worship now offers me, I would have greased the notary's pen
and freshened up the attorney's wit with them, so that to-day I should
be in the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on
this road coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience- there,
that's enough of it.

Don Quixote passed on to the fourtha man of venerable aspect
with a white beard falling below his breastwho on hearing himself
asked the reason of his being there began to weep without answering
a wordbut the fifth acted as his tongue and saidThis worthy man
is going to the galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds
in ceremony and on horseback.

That means,said Sancho Panzaas I take it, to have been
exposed to shame in public.

Just so,replied the galley slaveand the offence for which they
gave him that punishment was having been an ear-broker, nay
body-broker; I mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as a pimp, and
for having besides a certain touch of the sorcerer about him.

If that touch had not been thrown in,said Don Quixotebe


would not deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather
to command and be admiral of them; for the office of pimp is no
ordinary one, being the office of persons of discretion, one very
necessary in a well-ordered state, and only to be exercised by persons
of good birth; nay, there ought to be an inspector and overseer of
them, as in other offices, and recognised number, as with the
brokers on change; in this way many of the evils would be avoided
which are caused by this office and calling being in the hands of
stupid and ignorant people, such as women more or less silly, and
pages and jesters of little standing and experience, who on the most
urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of contrivance is needed, let the
crumbs freeze on the way to their mouths, and know not which is
their right hand. I should like to go farther, and give reasons to
show that it is advisable to choose those who are to hold so necessary
an office in the state, but this is not the fit place for it; some day
I will expound the matter to some one able to see to and rectify it;
all I say now is, that the additional fact of his being a sorcerer has
removed the sorrow it gave me to see these white hairs and this
venerable countenance in so painful a position on account of his being
a pimp; though I know well there are no sorceries in the world that
can move or compel the will as some simple folk fancy, for our will is
free, nor is there herb or charm that can force it. All that certain
silly women and quacks do is to turn men mad with potions and poisons,
pretending that they have power to cause love, for, as I say, it is an
impossibility to compel the will.

It is true,said the good old manand indeed, sir, as far as the
charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp
I cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any harm by it,
for my only object was that all the world should enjoy itself and live
in peace and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good
intentions were unavailing to save me from going where I never
expect to come back from, with this weight of years upon me and a
urinary ailment that never gives me a moment's ease;and again he
fell to weeping as beforeand such compassion did Sancho feel for him
that he took out a real of four from his bosom and gave it to him in
alms.

Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime wasand the
man answered with no less but rather much more sprightliness than
the last one.

I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of
cousins of mine, and with a couple of other cousins who were none of
mine; in short, I carried the joke so far with them all that it
ended in such a complicated increase of kindred that no accountant
could make it clear: it was all proved against me, I got no favour,
I had no money, I was near having my neck stretched, they sentenced me
to the galleys for six years, I accepted my fate, it is the punishment
of my fault; I am a young man; let life only last, and with that all
will come right. If you, sir, have anything wherewith to help the
poor, God will repay it to you in heaven, and we on earth will take
care in our petitions to him to pray for the life and health of your
worship, that they may be as long and as good as your amiable
appearance deserves.

This one was in the dress of a studentand one of the guards said
he was a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.

Behind all these there came a man of thirtya very personable
fellowexcept that when he lookedhis eyes turned in a little one
towards the other. He was bound differently from the restfor he
had to his leg a chain so long that it was wound all round his body
and two rings on his neckone attached to the chainthe other to


what they call a "keep-friend" or "friend's foot from which hung two
irons reaching to his waist with two manacles fixed to them in which
his hands were secured by a big padlock, so that he could neither
raise his hands to his mouth nor lower his head to his hands. Don
Quixote asked why this man carried so many more chains than the
others. The guard replied that it was because he alone had committed
more crimes than all the rest put together, and was so daring and such
a villain, that though they marched him in that fashion they did not
feel sure of him, but were in dread of his making his escape.

What crimes can he have committed said Don Quixote, if they have
not deserved a heavier punishment than being sent to the galleys?"

He goes for ten years,replied the guardwhich is the same thing
as civil death, and all that need be said is that this good fellow
is the famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise called Ginesillo de
Parapilla.

Gently, senor commissary,said the galley slave at thislet us
have no fixing of names or surnames; my name is Gines, not
Ginesillo, and my family name is Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you
say; let each one mind his own business, and he will be doing enough.

Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra measure,
replied the commissaryif you don't want me to make you hold your
tongue in spite of your teeth.

It is easy to see,returned the galley slavethat man goes as
God pleases, but some one shall know some day whether I am called
Ginesillo de Parapilla or not.

Don't they call you so, you liar?said the guard.

They do,returned Ginesbut I will make them give over calling
me so, or I will be shaved, where, I only say behind my teeth. If you,
sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once, and God speed
you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this inquisitiveness about
the lives of others; if you want to know about mine, let me tell you I
am Gines de Pasamonte, whose life is written by these fingers.

He says true,said the commissaryfor he has himself written his
story as grand as you please, and has left the book in the prison in
pawn for two hundred reals.

And I mean to take it out of pawn,said Ginesthough it were
in for two hundred ducats.

Is it so good?said Don Quixote.

So good is it,replied Ginesthat a fig for 'Lazarillo de
Tormes,' and all of that kind that have been written, or shall be
written compared with it: all I will say about it is that it deals
with facts, and facts so neat and diverting that no lies could match
them.

And how is the book entitled?asked Don Quixote.

The 'Life of Gines de Pasamonte,'replied the subject of it.

And is it finished?asked Don Quixote.

How can it be finished,said the otherwhen my life is not yet
finished? All that is written is from my birth down to the point
when they sent me to the galleys this last time.


Then you have been there before?said Don Quixote.

In the service of God and the king I have been there for four years
before now, and I know by this time what the biscuit and courbash
are like,replied Gines; "and it is no great grievance to me to go
back to themfor there I shall have time to finish my book; I have
still many things left to sayand in the galleys of Spain there is
more than enough leisure; though I do not want much for what I have to
writefor I have it by heart."

You seem a clever fellow,said Don Quixote.

And an unfortunate one,replied Ginesfor misfortune always
persecutes good wit.

It persecutes rogues,said the commissary.

I told you already to go gently, master commissary,said
Pasamonte; "their lordships yonder never gave you that staff to
ill-treat us wretches herebut to conduct and take us where his
majesty orders you; if notby the life of-never mind-; it may be that
some day the stains made in the inn will come out in the scouring; let
everyone hold his tongue and behave well and speak better; and now let
us march onfor we have had quite enough of this entertainment."

The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for
his threatsbut Don Quixote came between themand begged him not
to ill-use himas it was not too much to allow one who had his
hands tied to have his tongue a trifle free; and turning to the
whole chain of them he said:

From all you have told me, dear brethren, make out clearly that
though they have punished you for your faults, the punishments you are
about to endure do not give you much pleasure, and that you go to them
very much against the grain and against your will, and that perhaps
this one's want of courage under torture, that one's want of money,
the other's want of advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the
judge may have been the cause of your ruin and of your failure to
obtain the justice you had on your side. All which presents itself now
to my mind, urging, persuading, and even compelling me to
demonstrate in your case the purpose for which Heaven sent me into the
world and caused me to make profession of the order of chivalry to
which I belong, and the vow I took therein to give aid to those in
need and under the oppression of the strong. But as I know that it
is a mark of prudence not to do by foul means what may be done by
fair, I will ask these gentlemen, the guards and commissary, to be
so good as to release you and let you go in peace, as there will be no
lack of others to serve the king under more favourable
circumstances; for it seems to me a hard case to make slaves of
those whom God and nature have made free. Moreover, sirs of the
guard,added Don Quixotethese poor fellows have done nothing to
you; let each answer for his own sins yonder; there is a God in Heaven
who will not forget to punish the wicked or reward the good; and it is
not fitting that honest men should be the instruments of punishment to
others, they being therein no way concerned. This request I make
thus gently and quietly, that, if you comply with it, I may have
reason for thanking you; and, if you will not voluntarily, this
lance and sword together with the might of my arm shall compel you
to comply with it by force.

Nice nonsense!said the commissary; "a fine piece of pleasantry he
has come out with at last! He wants us to let the king's prisoners go
as if we had any authority to release themor he to order us to do


so! Go your waysirand good luck to you; put that basin straight
that you've got on your headand don't go looking for three feet on a
cat."

'Tis you that are the catratand rascal replied Don Quixote,
and acting on the word he fell upon him so suddenly that without
giving him time to defend himself he brought him to the ground
sorely wounded with a lance-thrust; and lucky it was for him that it
was the one that had the musket. The other guards stood
thunderstruck and amazed at this unexpected event, but recovering
presence of mind, those on horseback seized their swords, and those on
foot their javelins, and attacked Don Quixote, who was waiting for
them with great calmness; and no doubt it would have gone badly with
him if the galley slaves, seeing the chance before them of
liberating themselves, had not effected it by contriving to break
the chain on which they were strung. Such was the confusion, that
the guards, now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking
loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did nothing
at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping hand
to release Gines de Pasamonte, who was the first to leap forth upon
the plain free and unfettered, and who, attacking the prostrate
commissary, took from him his sword and the musket, with which, aiming
at one and levelling at another, he, without ever discharging it,
drove every one of the guards off the field, for they took to
flight, as well to escape Pasamonte's musket, as the showers of stones
the now released galley slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was
greatly grieved at the affair, because he anticipated that those who
had fled would report the matter to the Holy Brotherhood, who at the
summons of the alarm-bell would at once sally forth in quest of the
offenders; and he said so to his master, and entreated him to leave
the place at once, and go into hiding in the sierra that was close by.

That is all very well said Don Quixote, but I know what must
be done now;" and calling together all the galley slaveswho were now
running riotand had stripped the commissary to the skinhe
collected them round him to hear what he had to sayand addressed
them as follows: "To be grateful for benefits received is the part
of persons of good birthand one of the sins most offensive to God is
ingratitude; I say so becausesirsye have already seen by
manifest proof the benefit ye have received of me; in return for which
I desireand it is my good pleasure thatladen with that chain which
I have taken off your necksye at once set out and proceed to the
city of El Tobosoand there present yourselves before the lady
Dulcinea del Tobosoand say to her that her knighthe of the
Rueful Countenancesends to commend himself to her; and that ye
recount to her in full detail all the particulars of this notable
adventureup to the recovery of your longed-for liberty; and this
done ye may go where ye willand good fortune attend you."

Gines de Pasamonte made answer for allsayingThat which you,
sir, our deliverer, demand of us, is of all impossibilities the most
impossible to comply with, because we cannot go together along the
roads, but only singly and separate, and each one his own way,
endeavouring to hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape
the Holy Brotherhood, which, no doubt, will come out in search of
us. What your worship may do, and fairly do, is to change this service
and tribute as regards the lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain
quantity of ave-marias and credos which we will say for your worship's
intention, and this is a condition that can be complied with by
night as by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to
imagine that we are going now to return to the flesh-pots of Egypt,
I mean to take up our chain and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine
that it is now night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and
to ask this of us is like asking pears of the elm tree.


Then by all that's good,said Don Quixote (now stirred to
wrath)Don son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or whatever
your name is, you will have to go yourself alone, with your tail
between your legs and the whole chain on your back.

Pasamontewho was anything but meek (being by this time
thoroughly convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in his
head as he had committed such a vagary as to set them free)finding
himself abused in this fashiongave the wink to his companionsand
falling back they began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate
that he was quite unable to protect himself with his bucklerand poor
Rocinante no more heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass.
Sancho planted himself behind his assand with him sheltered
himself from the hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don Quixote
was unable to shield himself so well but that more pebbles than I
could count struck him full on the body with such force that they
brought him to the ground; and the instant he fell the student pounced
upon himsnatched the basin from his headand with it struck three
or four blows on his shouldersand as many more on the ground
knocking it almost to pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket
that he wore over his armourand they would have stripped off his
stockings if his greaves had not prevented them. From Sancho they took
his coatleaving him in his shirt-sleeves; and dividing among
themselves the remaining spoils of the battlethey went each one
his own waymore solicitous about keeping clear of the Holy
Brotherhood they dreadedthan about burdening themselves with the
chainor going to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso. The ass and RocinanteSancho and Don Quixotewere all that
were left upon the spot; the ass with drooping headserious
shaking his ears from time to time as if he thought the storm of
stones that assailed them was not yet over; Rocinante stretched beside
his masterfor he too had been brought to the ground by a stone;
Sancho strippedand trembling with fear of the Holy Brotherhood;
and Don Quixote fuming to find himself so served by the very persons
for whom he had done so much.

CHAPTER XXIII

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENAWHICH WAS ONE OF
THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY

Seeing himself served in this wayDon Quixote said to his squire
I have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good to boors is to
throw water into the sea. If I had believed thy words, I should have
avoided this trouble; but it is done now, it is only to have
patience and take warning for the future.

Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk,returned
Sancho; "butas you say this mischief might have been avoided if
you had believed mebelieve me nowand a still greater one will be
avoided; for I tell you chivalry is of no account with the Holy
Brotherhoodand they don't care two maravedis for all the
knights-errant in the world; and I can tell you I fancy I hear their
arrows whistling past my ears this minute."

Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho,said Don Quixotebut lest
thou shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never do as thou dost
advise, this once I will take thy advice, and withdraw out of reach of
that fury thou so dreadest; but it must be on one condition, that
never, in life or in death, thou art to say to anyone that I retired


or withdrew from this danger out of fear, but only in compliance
with thy entreaties; for if thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie
therein, and from this time to that, and from that to this, I give
thee lie, and say thou liest and wilt lie every time thou thinkest
or sayest it; and answer me not again; for at the mere thought that
I am withdrawing or retiring from any danger, above all from this,
which does seem to carry some little shadow of fear with it, I am
ready to take my stand here and await alone, not only that Holy
Brotherhood you talk of and dread, but the brothers of the twelve
tribes of Israel, and the Seven Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux,
and all the brothers and brotherhoods in the world.


Senor,replied Sanchoto retire is not to flee, and there is
no wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it is the part of
wise men to preserve themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not risk all
in one day; and let me tell you, though I am a clown and a boor, I
have got some notion of what they call safe conduct; so repent not
of having taken my advice, but mount Rocinante if you can, and if
not I will help you; and follow me, for my mother-wit tells me we have
more need of legs than hands just now.


Don Quixote mounted without replyingandSancho leading the way on
his assthey entered the side of the Sierra Morenawhich was close
byas it was Sancho's design to cross it entirely and come out
again at El Viso or Almodovar del Campoand hide for some days
among its crags so as to escape the search of the Brotherhood should
they come to look for them. He was encouraged in this by perceiving
that the stock of provisions carried by the ass had come safe out of
the fray with the galley slavesa circumstance that he regarded as
a miracleseeing how they pillaged and ransacked.


That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morenawhere
it seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even some daysat
least as many as the stores he carried might lastand so they
encamped between two rocks and among some cork trees; but fatal
destinywhichaccording to the opinion of those who have not the
light of the true faithdirectsarrangesand settles everything
in its own wayso ordered it that Gines de Pasamontethe famous
knave and thief who by the virtue and madness of Don Quixote had
been released from the chaindriven by fear of the Holy
Brotherhoodwhich he had good reason to dreadresolved to take
hiding in the mountains; and his fate and fear led him to the same
spot to which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been led by theirs
just in time to recognise them and leave them to fall asleep: and as
the wicked are always ungratefuland necessity leads to evildoing
and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations of the future
Gineswho was neither grateful nor well-principledmade up his
mind to steal Sancho Panza's assnot troubling himself about
Rocinanteas being a prize that was no good either to pledge or sell.
While Sancho slept he stole his assand before day dawned he was
far out of reach.


Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth but
sadness to Sancho Panzafor he found that his Dapple was missingand
seeing himself bereft of him he began the saddest and most doleful
lament in the worldso loud that Don Quixote awoke at his
exclamations and heard him sayingO son of my bowels, born in my
very house, my children's plaything, my wife's joy, the envy of my
neighbours, relief of my burdens, and lastly, half supporter of
myself, for with the six-and-twenty maravedis thou didst earn me daily
I met half my charges.


Don Quixotewhen he heard the lament and learned the cause
consoled Sancho with the best arguments he couldentreating him to be



patientand promising to give him a letter of exchange ordering three
out of five ass-colts that he had at home to be given to him. Sancho
took comfort at thisdried his tearssuppressed his sobsand
returned thanks for the kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his
part was rejoiced to the heart on entering the mountainsas they
seemed to him to be just the place for the adventures he was in
quest of. They brought back to his memory the marvellous adventures
that had befallen knights-errant in like solitudes and wildsand he
went along reflecting on these thingsso absorbed and carried away by
them that he had no thought for anything else. Nor had Sancho any
other care (now that he fancied he was travelling in a safe quarter)
than to satisfy his appetite with such remains as were left of the
clerical spoilsand so he marched behind his master laden with what
Dapple used to carryemptying the sack and packing his paunchand so
long as he could go that wayhe would not have given a farthing to
meet with another adventure.

While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master had
haltedand was trying with the point of his pike to lift some bulky
object that lay upon the groundon which he hastened to join him
and help him if it were needfuland reached him just as with the
point of the pike he was raising a saddle-pad with a valise attached
to ithalf or rather wholly rotten and torn; but so heavy were they
that Sancho had to help to take them upand his master directed him
to see what the valise contained. Sancho did so with great alacrity
and though the valise was secured by a chain and padlockfrom its
torn and rotten condition he was able to see its contentswhich
were four shirts of fine hollandand other articles of linen no
less curious than clean; and in a handkerchief he found a good lot
of gold crownsand as soon as he saw them he exclaimed:

Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is good
for something!

Searching further he found a little memorandum book richly bound;
this Don Quixote asked of himtelling him to take the money and
keep it for himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favourand
cleared the valise of its linenwhich he stowed away in the provision
sack. Considering the whole matterDon Quixote observed:

It seems to me, Sancho- and it is impossible it can be otherwisethat
some strayed traveller must have crossed this sierra and been
attacked and slain by footpads, who brought him to this remote spot to
bury him.

That cannot be,answered Sanchobecause if they had been robbers
they would not have left this money.

Thou art right,said Don Quixoteand I cannot guess or explain
what this may mean; but stay; let us see if in this memorandum book
there is anything written by which we may be able to trace out or
discover what we want to know.

He opened itand the first thing he found in itwritten roughly
but in a very good handwas a sonnetand reading it aloud that
Sancho might hear ithe found that it ran as follows:

SONNET

Or Love is lacking in intelligence

Or to the height of cruelty attains

Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a Godit follows thence


That he knows alland certain it remains

No God loves cruelty; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments?
It were a falsehoodChloethee to name;

Such evil with such goodness cannot live;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame

I only know it is my fate to die.

To him who knows not whence his malady

A miracle alone a cure can give.

There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,said Sancho
unless by that clue there's in it, one may draw out the ball of the
whole matter.

What clue is there?said Don Quixote.

I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it,said Sancho.

I only said Chloe,replied Don Quixote; "and that no doubtis the
name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and
faithhe must be a tolerable poetor I know little of the craft."

Then your worship understands rhyming too?

And better than thou thinkest,replied Don Quixoteas thou shalt
see when thou carriest a letter written in verse from beginning to end
to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would have thee know, Sancho,
that all or most of the knights-errant in days of yore were great
troubadours and great musicians, for both of these accomplishments, or
more properly speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of
lovers-errant: true it is that the verses of the knights of old have
more spirit than neatness in them.

Read more, your worship,said Sanchoand you will find something
that will enlighten us.

Don Quixote turned the page and saidThis is prose and seems to be
a letter.

A correspondence letter, senor?

From the beginning it seems to be a love letter,replied Don
Quixote.

Then let your worship read it aloud,said Sanchofor I am very
fond of love matters.

With all my heart,said Don Quixoteand reading it aloud as
Sancho had requested himhe found it ran thus:

Thy false promise and my sure misforutne carry me to a place
whence the news of my death will reach thy ears before the words of my
complaint. Ungrateful onethou hast rejected me for one more wealthy
but not more worthy; but if virtue were esteemed wealth I should
neither envy the fortunes of others nor weep for misfortunes of my
own. What thy beauty raised up thy deeds have laid low; by it I
believed thee to be an angelby them I know thou art a woman. Peace
be with thee who hast sent war to meand Heaven grant that the deceit
of thy husband be ever hidden from theeso that thou repent not of
what thou hast doneand I reap not a revenge I would not have.

When he had finished the letterDon Quixote saidThere is less to


be gathered from this than from the verses, except that he who wrote
it is some rejected lover;and turning over nearly all the pages of
the book he found more verses and letterssome of which he could
readwhile others he could not; but they were all made up of
complaintslamentsmisgivingsdesires and aversionsfavours and
rejectionssome rapturoussome doleful. While Don Quixote examined
the bookSancho examined the valisenot leaving a corner in the
whole of it or in the pad that he did not searchpeer intoand
exploreor seam that he did not ripor tuft of wool that he did
not pick to pieceslest anything should escape for want of care and
pains; so keen was the covetousness excited in him by the discovery of
the crownswhich amounted to near a hundred; and though he found no
more bootyhe held the blanket flightsbalsam vomitsstake
benedictionscarriers' fisticuffsmissing alforjasstolen coatand
all the hungerthirstand weariness he had endured in the service of
his good mastercheap at the price; as he considered himself more
than fully indemnified for all by the payment he received in the
gift of the treasure-trove.

The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very anxious to
find out who the owner of the valise could beconjecturing from the
sonnet and letterfrom the money in goldand from the fineness of
the shirtsthat he must be some lover of distinction whom the scorn
and cruelty of his lady had driven to some desperate course; but as in
that uninhabited and rugged spot there was no one to be seen of whom
he could inquirehe saw nothing else for it but to push ontaking
whatever road Rocinante chose- which was where he could make his
way- firmly persuaded that among these wilds he could not fail to meet
some rare adventure. As he went alongthenoccupied with these
thoughtshe perceived on the summit of a height that rose before
their eyes a man who went springing from rock to rock and from tussock
to tussock with marvellous agility. As well as he could make out he
was uncladwith a thick black beardlong tangled hairand bare legs
and feethis thighs were covered by breeches apparently of tawny
velvet but so ragged that they showed his skin in several places. He
was bareheadedand notwithstanding the swiftness with which he passed
as has been describedthe Knight of the Rueful Countenance observed
and noted all these triflesand though he made the attempthe was
unable to follow himfor it was not granted to the feebleness of
Rocinante to make way over such rough groundhe beingmoreover
slow-paced and sluggish by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the
conclusion that this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of the
valiseand made up his mind to go in search of himeven though he
should have to wander a year in those mountains before he found him
and so he directed Sancho to take a short cut over one side of the
mountainwhile he himself went by the otherand perhaps by this
means they might light upon this man who had passed so quickly out
of their sight.

I could not do that,said Sanchofor when I separate from your
worship fear at once lays hold of me, and assails me with all sorts of
panics and fancies; and let what I now say be a notice that from
this time forth I am not going to stir a finger's width from your
presence.

It shall be so,said he of the Rueful Countenanceand I am
very glad that thou art willing to rely on my courage, which will
never fail thee, even though the soul in thy body fail thee; so come
on now behind me slowly as well as thou canst, and make lanterns of
thine eyes; let us make the circuit of this ridge; perhaps we shall
light upon this man that we saw, who no doubt is no other than the
owner of what we found.

To which Sancho made answerFar better would it be not to look for


him, for, if we find him, and he happens to be the owner of the money,
it is plain I must restore it; it would be better, therefore, that
without taking this needless trouble, I should keep possession of it
until in some other less meddlesome and officious way the real owner
may be discovered; and perhaps that will be when I shall have spent
it, and then the king will hold me harmless.

Thou art wrong there, Sancho,said Don Quixotefor now that we
have a suspicion who the owner is, and have him almost before us, we
are bound to seek him and make restitution; and if we do not see
him, the strong suspicion we have as to his being the owner makes us
as guilty as if he were so; and so, friend Sancho, let not our
search for him give thee any uneasiness, for if we find him it will
relieve mine.

And so saying he gave Rocinante the spurand Sancho followed him on
foot and loadedand after having partly made the circuit of the
mountain they found lying in a ravinedead and half devoured by
dogs and pecked by jackdawsa mule saddled and bridledall which
still further strengthened their suspicion that he who had fled was
the owner of the mule and the saddle-pad.

As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of a
shepherd watching his flockand suddenly on their left there appeared
a great number of goats and behind them on the summit of the
mountain the goatherd in charge of thema man advanced in years.
Don Quixote called aloud to him and begged him to come down to where
they stood. He shouted in returnasking what had brought them to that
spotseldom or never trodden except by the feet of goatsor of the
wolves and other wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return bade
him come downand they would explain all to him.

The goatherd descendedand reaching the place where Don Quixote
stoodhe saidI will wager you are looking at that hack mule that
lies dead in the hollow there, and, faith, it has been lying there now
these six months; tell me, have you come upon its master about here?

We have come upon nobody,answered Don Quixotenor on anything
except a saddle-pad and a little valise that we found not far from
this.

I found it too,said the goatherdbut I would not lift it nor go
near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with theft, for the
devil is crafty, and things rise up under one's feet to make one
fall without knowing why or wherefore.

That's exactly what I say,said Sancho; "I found it tooand I
would not go within a stone's throw of it; there I left itand
there it lies just as it wasfor I don't want a dog with a bell."

Tell me, good man,said Don Quixotedo you know who is the owner
of this property?

All I can tell you,said the goatherdis that about six months
ago, more or less, there arrived at a shepherd's hut three leagues,
perhaps, away from this, a youth of well-bred appearance and
manners, mounted on that same mule which lies dead here, and with
the same saddle-pad and valise which you say you found and did not
touch. He asked us what part of this sierra was the most rugged and
retired; we told him that it was where we now are; and so in truth
it is, for if you push on half a league farther, perhaps you will
not be able to find your way out; and I am wondering how you have
managed to come here, for there is no road or path that leads to
this spot. I say, then, that on hearing our answer the youth turned


about and made for the place we pointed out to him, leaving us all
charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his question and the
haste with which we saw him depart in the direction of the sierra; and
after that we saw him no more, until some days afterwards he crossed
the path of one of our shepherds, and without saying a word to him,
came up to him and gave him several cuffs and kicks, and then turned
to the ass with our provisions and took all the bread and cheese it
carried, and having done this made off back again into the sierra with
extraordinary swiftness. When some of us goatherds learned this we
went in search of him for about two days through the most remote
portion of this sierra, at the end of which we found him lodged in the
hollow of a large thick cork tree. He came out to meet us with great
gentleness, with his dress now torn and his face so disfigured and
burned by the sun, that we hardly recognised him but that his clothes,
though torn, convinced us, from the recollection we had of them,
that he was the person we were looking for. He saluted us courteously,
and in a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at seeing
him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon him in order
that he might work out a penance which for his many sins had been
imposed upon him. We asked him to tell us who he was, but we were
never able to find out from him: we begged of him too, when he was
in want of food, which he could not do without, to tell us where we
should find him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and
readiness; or if this were not to his taste, at least to come and
ask it of us and not take it by force from the shepherds. He thanked
us for the offer, begged pardon for the late assault, and promised for
the future to ask it in God's name without offering violence to
anybody. As for fixed abode, he said he had no other than that which
chance offered wherever night might overtake him; and his words
ended in an outburst of weeping so bitter that we who listened to
him must have been very stones had we not joined him in it,
comparing what we saw of him the first time with what we saw now; for,
as I said, he was a graceful and gracious youth, and in his
courteous and polished language showed himself to be of good birth and
courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that listened to him, even to
our rusticity his gentle bearing sufficed to make it plain.

But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became
silentkeeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some timeduring
which we stood still waiting anxiously to see what would come of
this abstraction; and with no little pityfor from his behaviournow
staring at the ground with fixed gaze and eyes wide open without
moving an eyelidagain closing themcompressing his lips and raising
his eyebrowswe could perceive plainly that a fit of madness of
some kind had come upon him; and before long he showed that what we
imagined was the truthfor he arose in a fury from the ground where
he had thrown himselfand attacked the first he found near him with
such rage and fierceness that if we had not dragged him off himhe
would have beaten or bitten him to deathall the while exclaiming
'Oh faithless Fernandoherehere shalt thou pay the penalty of the
wrong thou hast done me; these hands shall tear out that heart of
thineabode and dwelling of all iniquitybut of deceit and fraud
above all; and to these he added other words all in effect
upbraiding this Fernando and charging him with treachery and
faithlessness.

We forced him to release his hold with no little difficulty, and
without another word he left us, and rushing off plunged in among
these brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible for us to
follow him; from this we suppose that madness comes upon him from time
to time, and that some one called Fernando must have done him a
wrong of a grievous nature such as the condition to which it had
brought him seemed to show. All this has been since then confirmed
on those occasions, and they have been many, on which he has crossed


our path, at one time to beg the shepherds to give him some of the
food they carry, at another to take it from them by force; for when
there is a fit of madness upon him, even though the shepherds offer it
freely, he will not accept it but snatches it from them by dint of
blows; but when he is in his senses he begs it for the love of God,
courteously and civilly, and receives it with many thanks and not a
few tears. And to tell you the truth, sirs,continued the goatherd
it was yesterday that we resolved, I and four of the lads, two of
them our servants, and the other two friends of mine, to go in
search of him until we find him, and when we do to take him, whether
by force or of his own consent, to the town of Almodovar, which is
eight leagues from this, and there strive to cure him (if indeed his
malady admits of a cure), or learn when he is in his senses who he is,
and if he has relatives to whom we may give notice of his
misfortune. This, sirs, is all I can say in answer to what you have
asked me; and be sure that the owner of the articles you found is he
whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and so naked.

For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the man go
bounding along the mountain sideand he was now filled with amazement
at what he heard from the goatherdand more eager than ever to
discover who the unhappy madman was; and in his heart he resolved
as he had done beforeto search for him all over the mountainnot
leaving a corner or cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance
arranged matters better than he expected or hopedfor at that very
momentin a gorge on the mountain that opened where they stoodthe
youth he wished to find made his appearancecoming along talking to
himself in a way that would have been unintelligible near at hand
much more at a distance. His garb was what has been describedsave
that as he drew nearDon Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet
which he wore was amber-tannedfrom which he concluded that one who
wore such garments could not be of very low rank.

Approaching themthe youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice
but with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation with
equal politenessand dismounting from Rocinante advanced with
well-bred bearing and grace to embrace himand held him for some time
close in his arms as if he had known him for a long time. The other
whom we may call the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenanceas Don
Quixote was of the Ruefulafter submitting to the embrace pushed
him back a little andplacing his hands on Don Quixote's shoulders
stood gazing at him as if seeking to see whether he knew himnot less
amazedperhapsat the sight of the facefigureand armour of Don
Quixote than Don Quixote was at the sight of him. To be briefthe
first to speak after embracing was the Ragged Oneand he said what
will be told farther on.

CHAPTER XXIV

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA

The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don
Quixote listened to the ragged knight of the Sierrawho began by
saying:

Of a surety, senor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I thank
you for the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have shown me, and
would I were in a condition to requite with something more than
good-will that which you have displayed towards me in the cordial
reception you have given me; but my fate does not afford me any
other means of returning kindnesses done me save the hearty desire


to repay them.

Mine,replied Don Quixoteis to be of service to you, so much so
that I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I had found you,
and learned of you whether there is any kind of relief to be found for
that sorrow under which from the strangeness of your life you seem
to labour; and to search for you with all possible diligence, if
search had been necessary. And if your misfortune should prove to be
one of those that refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it
was my purpose to join you in lamenting and mourning over it, so far
as I could; for it is still some comfort in misfortune to find one who
can feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be
acknowledged with any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, senor, by
that which I perceive you possess in so high a degree, and likewise
conjure you by whatever you love or have loved best in life, to tell
me who you are and the cause that has brought you to live or die in
these solitudes like a brute beast, dwelling among them in a manner so
foreign to your condition as your garb and appearance show. And I
swear,added Don Quixoteby the order of knighthood which I have
received, and by my vocation of knight-errant, if you gratify me in
this, to serve you with all the zeal my calling demands of me,
either in relieving your misfortune if it admits of relief, or in
joining you in lamenting it as I promised to do.

The Knight of the Thickethearing him of the Rueful Countenance
talk in this straindid nothing but stare at himand stare at him
againand again survey him from head to foot; and when he had
thoroughly examined himhe said to him:

If you have anything to give me to eat, for God's sake give it
me, and after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledgment
of the goodwill you have displayed towards me.

Sancho from his sackand the goatherd from his pouchfurnished the
Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hungerand what they
gave him he ate like a half-witted beingso hastily that he took no
time between mouthfulsgorging rather than swallowing; and while he
ate neither he nor they who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he
had done he made signs to them to follow himwhich they didand he
led them to a green plot which lay a little farther off round the
corner of a rock. On reaching it he stretched himself upon the
grassand the others did the sameall keeping silenceuntil the
Ragged Onesettling himself in his placesaid:

If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the
surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to break the
thread of my sad story with any question or other interruption, for
the instant you do so the tale I tell will come to an end.

These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the tale his
squire had told himwhen he failed to keep count of the goats that
had crossed the river and the story remained unfinished; but to return
to the Ragged Onehe went on to say:

I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over the
story of my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves to
add fresh ones, and the less you question me the sooner shall I make
an end of the recital, though I shall not omit to relate anything of
importance in order fully to satisfy your curiosity.

Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the othersand with
this assurance he began as follows:

My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this


Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great
that my parents must have wept and my family grieved over it without
being able by their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of fortune can
do little to relieve reverses sent by Heaven. In that same country
there was a heaven in which love had placed all the glory I could
desire; such was the beauty of Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich
as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less firmness than was due to so
worthy a passion as mine. This Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and
adored from my earliest and tenderest years, and she loved me in all
the innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents were aware of
our feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them, for they saw
clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last to a marriage
between us, a thing that seemed almost prearranged by the equality
of our families and wealth. We grew up, and with our growth grew the
love between us, so that the father of Luscinda felt bound for
propriety's sake to refuse me admission to his house, in this
perhaps imitating the parents of that Thisbe so celebrated by the
poets, and this refusal but added love to love and flame to flame; for
though they enforced silence upon our tongues they could not impose it
upon our pens, which can make known the heart's secrets to a loved one
more freely than tongues; for many a time the presence of the object
of love shakes the firmest will and strikes dumb the boldest tongue.
Ah heavens! how many letters did I write her, and how many dainty
modest replies did I receive! how many ditties and love-songs did I
compose in which my heart declared and made known its feelings,
described its ardent longings, revelled in its recollections and
dallied with its desires! At length growing impatient and feeling my
heart languishing with longing to see her, I resolved to put into
execution and carry out what seemed to me the best mode of winning
my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my
lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me
for the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard
myself as honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my
father was alive it was his by right to make this demand, for if it
were not in accordance with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda was
not to be taken or given by stealth. I thanked him for his kindness,
reflecting that there was reason in what he said, and that my father
would assent to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that view
I went the very same instant to let him know what my desires were.
When I entered the room where he was I found him with an open letter
in his hand, which, before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying,
'By this letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke
Ricardo has to serve thee.' This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs,
probably know already, is a grandee of Spain who has his seat in the
best part of this Andalusia. I took and read the letter, which was
couched in terms so flattering that even I myself felt it would be
wrong in my father not to comply with the request the duke made in it,
which was that he would send me immediately to him, as he wished me to
become the companion, not servant, of his eldest son, and would take
upon himself the charge of placing me in a position corresponding to
the esteem in which he held me. On reading the letter my voice
failed me, and still more when I heard my father say, 'Two days
hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in accordance with the duke's
wish, and give thanks to God who is opening a road to thee by which
thou mayest attain what I know thou dost deserve; and to these words
he added others of fatherly counsel. The time for my departure
arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all that had
occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him to allow some
delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I should see what
the Duke Ricardo sought of me: he gave me the promise, and she
confirmed it with vows and swoonings unnumbered. Finally, I
presented myself to the duke, and was received and treated by him so
kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old servants
growing envious of me, and regarding the duke's inclination to show me


favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave
the greatest pleasure was the duke's second son, Fernando by name, a
gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very
soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by
everybody; for though the elder was attached to me, and showed me
kindness, he did not carry his affectionate treatment to the same
length as Don Fernando. It so happened, then, that as between
friends no secret remains unshared, and as the favour I enjoyed with
Don Fernando had grown into friendship, he made all his thoughts known
to me, and in particular a love affair which troubled his mind a
little. He was deeply in love with a peasant girl, a vassal of his
father's, the daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so beautiful,
modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her was able to
decide in which of these respects she was most highly gifted or most
excelled. The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of
Don Fernando to such a point that, in order to gain his object and
overcome her virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to
her to become her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to
attempt an impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I
strove by the best arguments and the most forcible examples I could
think of to restrain and dissuade him from such a course; but
perceiving I produced no effect I resolved to make the Duke Ricardo,
his father, acquainted with the matter; but Don Fernando, being
sharp-witted and shrewd, foresaw and apprehended this, perceiving that
by my duty as a good servant I was bound not to keep concealed a thing
so much opposed to the honour of my lord the duke; and so, to
mislead and deceive me, he told me he could find no better way of
effacing from his mind the beauty that so enslaved him than by
absenting himself for some months, and that he wished the absence to
be effected by our going, both of us, to my father's house under the
pretence, which he would make to the duke, of going to see and buy
some fine horses that there were in my city, which produces the best
in the world. When I heard him say so, even if his resolution had
not been so good a one I should have hailed it as one of the
happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my affection, seeing what
a favourable chance and opportunity it offered me of returning to
see my Luscinda. With this thought and wish I commended his idea and
encouraged his design, advising him to put it into execution as
quickly as possible, as, in truth, absence produced its effect in
spite of the most deeply rooted feelings. But, as afterwards appeared,
when he said this to me he had already enjoyed the peasant girl
under the title of husband, and was waiting for an opportunity of
making it known with safety to himself, being in dread of what his
father the duke would do when he came to know of his folly. It
happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most part
nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment,
comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love
takes to flight, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which
fixes no limit to true love- what I mean is that after Don Fernando
had enjoyed this peasant girl his passion subsided and his eagerness
cooled, and if at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in order
to cure his love, he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid keeping
his promise.

The duke gave him permissionand ordered me to accompany him; we
arrived at my cityand my father gave him the reception due to his
rank; I saw Luscinda without delayandthough it had not been dead
or deadenedmy love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I told the
story of it to Don Fernandofor I thought that in virtue of the great
friendship he bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from him. I
extolled her beautyher gaietyher witso warmlythat my praises
excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such attractions.
To my misfortune I yielded to itshowing her to him one night by
the light of a taper at a window where we used to talk to one another.


As she appeared to him in her dressing-gownshe drove all the
beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection; speech failed
himhis head turnedhe was spell-boundand in the end love-smitten
as you will see in the course of the story of my misfortune; and to
inflame still further his passionwhich he hid from me and revealed
to Heaven aloneit so happened that one day he found a note of hers
entreating me to demand her of her father in marriageso delicateso
modestand so tenderthat on reading it he told me that in
Luscinda alone were combined all the charms of beauty and
understanding that were distributed among all the other women in the
world. It is trueand I own it nowthat though I knew what good
cause Don Fernando had to praise Luscindait gave me uneasiness to
hear these praises from his mouthand I began to fearand with
reason to feel distrust of himfor there was no moment when he was
not ready to talk of Luscindaand he would start the subject
himself even though he dragged it in unseasonablya circumstance that
aroused in me a certain amount of jealousy; not that I feared any
change in the constancy or faith of Luscinda; but still my fate led me
to forebode what she assured me against. Don Fernando contrived always
to read the letters I sent to Luscinda and her answers to meunder
the pretence that he enjoyed the wit and sense of both. It so
happenedthenthat Luscinda having begged of me a book of chivalry
to readone that she was very fond ofAmadis of Gaul-"

Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentionedthan he
said:

Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story that the
Lady Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other laudation
would have been requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her
understanding, for it could not have been of the excellence you
describe had a taste for such delightful reading been wanting; so,
as far as I am concerned, you need waste no more words in describing
her beauty, worth, and intelligence; for, on merely hearing what her
taste was, I declare her to be the most beautiful and the most
intelligent woman in the world; and I wish your worship had, along
with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the worthy Don Rugel of Greece, for I
know the Lady Luscinda would greatly relish Daraida and Garaya, and
the shrewd sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and the admirable verses
of his bucolics, sung and delivered by him with such sprightliness,
wit, and ease; but a time may come when this omission can be remedied,
and to rectify it nothing more is needed than for your worship to be
so good as to come with me to my village, for there I can give you
more than three hundred books which are the delight of my soul and the
entertainment of my life;- though it occurs to me that I have not
got one of them now, thanks to the spite of wicked and envious
enchanters;- but pardon me for having broken the promise we made not
to interrupt your discourse; for when I hear chivalry or
knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about them than
the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those of the moon
moisture; pardon me, therefore, and proceed, for that is more to the
purpose now.

While Don Quixote was saying thisCardenio allowed his head to fall
upon his breastand seemed plunged in deep thought; and though
twice Don Quixote bade him go on with his storyhe neither looked
up nor uttered a word in reply; but after some time he raised his head
and saidI cannot get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the
world remove it, or make me think otherwise -and he would be a
blockhead who would hold or believe anything else than that that
arrant knave Master Elisabad made free with Queen Madasima.

That is not true, by all that's good,said Don Quixote in high
wrathturning upon him angrilyas his way was; "and it is a very


great slanderor rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a very
illustrious ladyand it is not to be supposed that so exalted a
princess would have made free with a quack; and whoever maintains
the contrary lies like a great scoundreland I will give him to
know iton foot or on horsebackarmed or unarmedby night or by
dayor as he likes best."

Cardenio was looking at him steadilyand his mad fit having now
come upon himhe had no disposition to go on with his storynor
would Don Quixote have listened to itso much had what he had heard
about Madasima disgusted him. Strange to sayhe stood up for her as
if she were in earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his
unholy books brought him. Cardeniothenbeingas I saidnow mad
when he heard himself given the lieand called a scoundrel and
other insulting namesnot relishing the jestsnatched up a stone
that he found near himand with it delivered such a blow on Don
Quixote's breast that he laid him on his back. Sancho Panzaseeing
his master treated in this fashionattacked the madman with his
closed fist; but the Ragged One received him in such a way that with a
blow of his fist he stretched him at his feetand then mounting
upon him crushed his ribs to his own satisfaction; the goatherdwho
came to the rescueshared the same fate; and having beaten and
pummelled them all he left them and quietly withdrew to his
hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho roseand with the rage he felt
at finding himself so belaboured without deserving itran to take
vengeance on the goatherdaccusing him of not giving them warning
that this man was at times taken with a mad fitfor if they had known
it they would have been on their guard to protect themselves. The
goatherd replied that he had said soand that if he had not heard
himthat was no fault of his. Sancho retortedand the goatherd
rejoinedand the altercation ended in their seizing each other by the
beardand exchanging such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not made
peace between themthey would have knocked one another to pieces.

Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,said Sancho
grappling with the goatherdfor of this fellow, who is a clown
like myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take satisfaction
for the affront he has offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like
an honest man.

That is true,said Don Quixotebut I know that he is not to
blame for what has happened.

With this he pacified themand again asked the goatherd if it would
be possible to find Cardenioas he felt the greatest anxiety to
know the end of his story. The goatherd told himas he had told him
beforethat there was no knowing of a certainty where his lair was;
but that if he wandered about much in that neighbourhood he could
not fail to fall in with him either in or out of his senses.

CHAPTER XXV

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT
OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENAAND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE
OF BELTENEBROS

Don Quixote took leave of the goatherdand once more mounting
Rocinante bade Sancho follow himwhich he having no assdid very
discontentedly. They proceeded slowlymaking their way into the
most rugged part of the mountainSancho all the while dying to have a
talk with his masterand longing for him to beginso that there


should be no breach of the injunction laid upon him; but unable to
keep silence so long he said to him:

Senor Don Quixote, give me your worship's blessing and dismissal,
for I'd like to go home at once to my wife and children with whom I
can at any rate talk and converse as much as I like; for to want me to
go through these solitudes day and night and not speak to you when I
have a mind is burying me alive. If luck would have it that animals
spoke as they did in the days of Guisopete, it would not be so bad,
because I could talk to Rocinante about whatever came into my head,
and so put up with my ill-fortune; but it is a hard case, and not to
be borne with patience, to go seeking adventures all one's life and
get nothing but kicks and blanketings, brickbats and punches, and with
all this to have to sew up one's mouth without daring to say what is
in one's heart, just as if one were dumb.

I understand thee, Sancho,replied Don Quixote; "thou art dying to
have the interdict I placed upon thy tongue removed; consider it
removedand say what thou wilt while we are wandering in these
mountains."

So be it,said Sancho; "let me speak nowfor God knows what
will happen by-and-by; and to take advantage of the permit at once
I askwhat made your worship stand up so for that Queen Majimasa
or whatever her name isor what did it matter whether that abbot
was a friend of hers or not? for if your worship had let that pass
-and you were not a judge in the matter- it is my belief the madman
would have gone on with his storyand the blow of the stoneand
the kicksand more than half a dozen cuffs would have been escaped."

In faith, Sancho,answered Don Quixoteif thou knewest as I do
what an honourable and illustrious lady Queen Madasima was, I know
thou wouldst say I had great patience that I did not break in pieces
the mouth that uttered such blasphemies, for a very great blasphemy it
is to say or imagine that a queen has made free with a surgeon. The
truth of the story is that that Master Elisabad whom the madman
mentioned was a man of great prudence and sound judgment, and served
as governor and physician to the queen, but to suppose that she was
his mistress is nonsense deserving very severe punishment; and as a
proof that Cardenio did not know what he was saying, remember when
he said it he was out of his wits.

That is what I say,said Sancho; "there was no occasion for
minding the words of a madman; for if good luck had not helped your
worshipand he had sent that stone at your head instead of at your
breasta fine way we should have been in for standing up for my
lady yonderGod confound her! And thenwould not Cardenio have
gone free as a madman?"

Against men in their senses or against madmen,said Don Quixote
every knight-errant is bound to stand up for the honour of women,
whoever they may be, much more for queens of such high degree and
dignity as Queen Madasima, for whom I have a particular regard on
account of her amiable qualities; for, besides being extremely
beautiful, she was very wise, and very patient under her
misfortunes, of which she had many; and the counsel and society of the
Master Elisabad were a great help and support to her in enduring her
afflictions with wisdom and resignation; hence the ignorant and
ill-disposed vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his
mistress; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hundred
times more, all who think and say so.

I neither say nor think so,said Sancho; "let them look to it;
with their bread let them eat it; they have rendered account to God


whether they misbehaved or not; I come from my vineyardI know
nothing; I am not fond of prying into other men's lives; he who buys
and lies feels it in his purse; moreovernaked was I bornnaked I
find myselfI neither lose nor gain; but if they didwhat is that to
me? many think there are flitches where there are no hooks; but who
can put gates to the open plain? moreover they said of God-"

God bless me,said Don Quixotewhat a set of absurdities thou
art stringing together! What has what we are talking about got to do
with the proverbs thou art threading one after the other? for God's
sake hold thy tongue, Sancho, and henceforward keep to prodding thy
ass and don't meddle in what does not concern thee; and understand
with all thy five senses that everything I have done, am doing, or
shall do, is well founded on reason and in conformity with the rules
of chivalry, for I understand them better than all the world that
profess them.

Senor,replied Sanchois it a good rule of chivalry that we
should go astray through these mountains without path or road, looking
for a madman who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to
finish what he began, not his story, but your worship's head and my
ribs, and end by breaking them altogether for us?

Peace, I say again, Sancho,said Don Quixotefor let me tell
thee it is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me
into these regions as that which I have of performing among them an
achievement wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the
known world; and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on
all that can make a knight-errant perfect and famous.

And is it very perilous, this achievement?

No,replied he of the Rueful Countenance; "though it may be in the
dice that we may throw deuce-ace instead of sixes; but all will depend
on thy diligence."

On my diligence!said Sancho.

Yes,said Don Quixotefor if thou dost return soon from the
place where I mean to send thee, my penance will be soon over, and
my glory will soon begin. But as it is not right to keep thee any
longer in suspense, waiting to see what comes of my words, I would
have thee know, Sancho, that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of
the most perfect knights-errant- I am wrong to say he was one; he
stood alone, the first, the only one, the lord of all that were in the
world in his time. A fig for Don Belianis, and for all who say he
equalled him in any respect, for, my oath upon it, they are
deceiving themselves! I say, too, that when a painter desires to
become famous in his art he endeavours to copy the originals of the
rarest painters that he knows; and the same rule holds good for all
the most important crafts and callings that serve to adorn a state;
thus must he who would be esteemed prudent and patient imitate
Ulysses, in whose person and labours Homer presents to us a lively
picture of prudence and patience; as Virgil, too, shows us in the
person of AEneas the virtue of a pious son and the sagacity of a brave
and skilful captain; not representing or describing them as they were,
but as they ought to be, so as to leave the example of their virtues
to posterity. In the same way Amadis was the polestar, day-star, sun
of valiant and devoted knights, whom all we who fight under the banner
of love and chivalry are bound to imitate. This, then, being so, I
consider, friend Sancho, that the knight-errant who shall imitate
him most closely will come nearest to reaching the perfection of
chivalry. Now one of the instances in which this knight most
conspicuously showed his prudence, worth, valour, endurance,


fortitude, and love, was when he withdrew, rejected by the Lady
Oriana, to do penance upon the Pena Pobre, changing his name into that
of Beltenebros, a name assuredly significant and appropriate to the
life which he had voluntarily adopted. So, as it is easier for me to
imitate him in this than in cleaving giants asunder, cutting off
serpents' heads, slaying dragons, routing armies, destroying fleets,
and breaking enchantments, and as this place is so well suited for a
similar purpose, I must not allow the opportunity to escape which
now so conveniently offers me its forelock.

What is it in reality,said Sanchothat your worship means to do
in such an out-of-the-way place as this?

Have I not told thee,answered Don Quixotethat I mean to
imitate Amadis here, playing the victim of despair, the madman, the
maniac, so as at the same time to imitate the valiant Don Roland, when
at the fountain he had evidence of the fair Angelica having
disgraced herself with Medoro and through grief thereat went mad,
and plucked up trees, troubled the waters of the clear springs, slew
destroyed flocks, burned down huts, levelled houses, dragged mares
after him, and perpetrated a hundred thousand other outrages worthy of
everlasting renown and record? And though I have no intention of
imitating Roland, or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he went by all these
names), step by step in all the mad things he did, said, and
thought, I will make a rough copy to the best of my power of all
that seems to me most essential; but perhaps I shall content myself
with the simple imitation of Amadis, who without giving way to any
mischievous madness but merely to tears and sorrow, gained as much
fame as the most famous.

It seems to me,said Sanchothat the knights who behaved in this
way had provocation and cause for those follies and penances; but what
cause has your worship for going mad? What lady has rejected you, or
what evidence have you found to prove that the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso has been trifling with Moor or Christian?

There is the point,replied Don Quixoteand that is the beauty
of this business of mine; no thanks to a knight-errant for going mad
when he has cause; the thing is to turn crazy without any provocation,
and let my lady know, if I do this in the dry, what I would do in
the moist; moreover I have abundant cause in the long separation I
have endured from my lady till death, Dulcinea del Toboso; for as thou
didst hear that shepherd Ambrosio say the other day, in absence all
ills are felt and feared; and so, friend Sancho, waste no time in
advising me against so rare, so happy, and so unheard-of an imitation;
mad I am, and mad I must be until thou returnest with the answer to
a letter that I mean to send by thee to my lady Dulcinea; and if it be
such as my constancy deserves, my insanity and penance will come to an
end; and if it be to the opposite effect, I shall become mad in
earnest, and, being so, I shall suffer no more; thus in whatever way
she may answer I shall escape from the struggle and affliction in
which thou wilt leave me, enjoying in my senses the boon thou
bearest me, or as a madman not feeling the evil thou bringest me.
But tell me, Sancho, hast thou got Mambrino's helmet safe? for I saw
thee take it up from the ground when that ungrateful wretch tried to
break it in pieces but could not, by which the fineness of its
temper may be seen.

To which Sancho made answerBy the living God, Sir Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, I cannot endure or bear with patience some of
the things that your worship says; and from them I begin to suspect
that all you tell me about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires,
and giving islands, and bestowing other rewards and dignities after
the custom of knights-errant, must be all made up of wind and lies,


and all pigments or figments, or whatever we may call them; for what
would anyone think that heard your worship calling a barber's basin
Mambrino's helmet without ever seeing the mistake all this time, but
that one who says and maintains such things must have his brains
addled? I have the basin in my sack all dinted, and I am taking it
home to have it mended, to trim my beard in it, if, by God's grace,
I am allowed to see my wife and children some day or other.

Look here, Sancho,said Don Quixoteby him thou didst swear by
just now I swear thou hast the most limited understanding that any
squire in the world has or ever had. Is it possible that all this time
thou hast been going about with me thou hast never found out that
all things belonging to knights-errant seem to be illusions and
nonsense and ravings, and to go always by contraries? And not
because it really is so, but because there is always a swarm of
enchanters in attendance upon us that change and alter everything with
us, and turn things as they please, and according as they are disposed
to aid or destroy us; thus what seems to thee a barber's basin seems
to me Mambrino's helmet, and to another it will seem something else;
and rare foresight it was in the sage who is on my side to make what
is really and truly Mambrine's helmet seem a basin to everybody,
for, being held in such estimation as it is, all the world would
pursue me to rob me of it; but when they see it is only a barber's
basin they do not take the trouble to obtain it; as was plainly
shown by him who tried to break it, and left it on the ground
without taking it, for, by my faith, had he known it he would never
have left it behind. Keep it safe, my friend, for just now I have no
need of it; indeed, I shall have to take off all this armour and
remain as naked as I was born, if I have a mind to follow Roland
rather than Amadis in my penance.

Thus talking they reached the foot of a high mountain which stood
like an isolated peak among the others that surrounded it. Past its
base there flowed a gentle brookall around it spread a meadow so
green and luxuriant that it was a delight to the eyes to look upon it
and forest trees in abundanceand shrubs and flowersadded to the
charms of the spot. Upon this place the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance fixed his choice for the performance of his penanceand
as he beheld it exclaimed in a loud voice as though he were out of his
senses:

This is the place, oh, ye heavens, that I select and choose for
bewailing the misfortune in which ye yourselves have plunged me:
this is the spot where the overflowings of mine eyes shall swell the
waters of yon little brook, and my deep and endless sighs shall stir
unceasingly the leaves of these mountain trees, in testimony and token
of the pain my persecuted heart is suffering. Oh, ye rural deities,
whoever ye be that haunt this lone spot, give ear to the complaint
of a wretched lover whom long absence and brooding jealousy have
driven to bewail his fate among these wilds and complain of the hard
heart of that fair and ungrateful one, the end and limit of all
human beauty! Oh, ye wood nymphs and dryads, that dwell in the
thickets of the forest, so may the nimble wanton satyrs by whom ye are
vainly wooed never disturb your sweet repose, help me to lament my
hard fate or at least weary not at listening to it! Oh, Dulcinea del
Toboso, day of my night, glory of my pain, guide of my path, star of
my fortune, so may Heaven grant thee in full all thou seekest of it,
bethink thee of the place and condition to which absence from thee has
brought me, and make that return in kindness that is due to my
fidelity! Oh, lonely trees, that from this day forward shall bear me
company in my solitude, give me some sign by the gentle movement of
your boughs that my presence is not distasteful to you! Oh, thou, my
squire, pleasant companion in my prosperous and adverse fortunes,
fix well in thy memory what thou shalt see me do here, so that thou


mayest relate and report it to the sole cause of all,and so saying
he dismounted from Rocinanteand in an instant relieved him of saddle
and bridleand giving him a slap on the croupsaidHe gives thee
freedom who is bereft of it himself, oh steed as excellent in deed
as thou art unfortunate in thy lot; begone where thou wilt, for thou
bearest written on thy forehead that neither Astolfo's hippogriff, nor
the famed Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear, could equal thee in
speed.

Seeing this Sancho saidGood luck to him who has saved us the
trouble of stripping the pack-saddle off Dapple! By my faith he
would not have gone without a slap on the croup and something said
in his praise; though if he were here I would not let anyone strip
him, for there would be no occasion, as he had nothing of the lover or
victim of despair about him, inasmuch as his master, which I was while
it was God's pleasure, was nothing of the sort; and indeed, Sir Knight
of the Rueful Countenance, if my departure and your worship's
madness are to come off in earnest, it will be as well to saddle
Rocinante again in order that he may supply the want of Dapple,
because it will save me time in going and returning: for if I go on
foot I don't know when I shall get there or when I shall get back,
as I am, in truth, a bad walker.

I declare, Sancho,returned Don Quixoteit shall be as thou
wilt, for thy plan does not seem to me a bad one, and three days hence
thou wilt depart, for I wish thee to observe in the meantime what I do
and say for her sake, that thou mayest be able to tell it.

But what more have I to see besides what I have seen?said Sancho.

Much thou knowest about it!said Don Quixote. "I have now got to
tear up my garmentsto scatter about my armourknock my head against
these rocksand more of the same sort of thingwhich thou must
witness."

For the love of God,said Sanchobe careful, your worship, how
you give yourself those knocks on the head, for you may come across
such a rock, and in such a way, that the very first may put an end
to the whole contrivance of this penance; and I should think, if
indeed knocks on the head seem necessary to you, and this business
cannot be done without them, you might be content -as the whole
thing is feigned, and counterfeit, and in joke- you might be
content, I say, with giving them to yourself in the water, or
against something soft, like cotton; and leave it all to me; for
I'll tell my lady that your worship knocked your head against a
point of rock harder than a diamond.

I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho,answered
Don Quixotebut I would have thee know that all these things I am
doing are not in joke, but very much in earnest, for anything else
would be a transgression of the ordinances of chivalry, which forbid
us to tell any lie whatever under the penalties due to apostasy; and
to do one thing instead of another is just the same as lying; so my
knocks on the head must be real, solid, and valid, without anything
sophisticated or fanciful about them, and it will be needful to
leave me some lint to dress my wounds, since fortune has compelled
us to do without the balsam we lost.

It was worse losing the ass,replied Sanchofor with him lint
and all were lost; but I beg of your worship not to remind me again of
that accursed liquor, for my soul, not to say my stomach, turns at
hearing the very name of it; and I beg of you, too, to reckon as
past the three days you allowed me for seeing the mad things you do,
for I take them as seen already and pronounced upon, and I will tell


wonderful stories to my lady; so write the letter and send me off at
once, for I long to return and take your worship out of this purgatory
where I am leaving you.

Purgatory dost thou call it, Sancho?said Don Quixoterather
call it hell, or even worse if there be anything worse.

For one who is in hell,said Sanchonulla est retentio, as I
have heard say.

I do not understand what retentio means,said Don Quixote.

Retentio,answered Sanchomeans that whoever is in hell never
comes nor can come out of it, which will be the opposite case with
your worship or my legs will be idle, that is if I have spurs to
enliven Rocinante: let me once get to El Toboso and into the
presence of my lady Dulcinea, and I will tell her such things of the
follies and madnesses (for it is all one) that your worship has done
and is still doing, that I will manage to make her softer than a glove
though I find her harder than a cork tree; and with her sweet and
honeyed answer I will come back through the air like a witch, and take
your worship out of this purgatory that seems to be hell but is not,
as there is hope of getting out of it; which, as I have said, those in
hell have not, and I believe your worship will not say anything to the
contrary.

That is true,said he of the Rueful Countenancebut how shall we
manage to write the letter?

And the ass-colt order too,added Sancho.

All shall be included,said Don Quixote; "and as there is no
paperit would be well done to write it on the leaves of treesas
the ancients didor on tablets of wax; though that would be as hard
to find just now as paper. But it has just occurred to me how it may
be conveniently and even more than conveniently writtenand that is
in the note-book that belonged to Cardenioand thou wilt take care to
have it copied on paperin a good handat the first village thou
comest to where there is a schoolmasteror if notany sacristan will
copy it; but see thou give it not to any notary to copyfor they
write a law hand that Satan could not make out."

But what is to be done about the signature?said Sancho.

The letters of Amadis were never signed,said Don Quixote.

That is all very well,said Sanchobut the order must needs be
signed, and if it is copied they will say the signature is false,
and I shall be left without ass-colts.

The order shall go signed in the same book,said Don Quixoteand
on seeing it my niece will make no difficulty about obeying it; as
to the loveletter thou canst put by way of signature, 'Yours till
death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.' And it will be no
great matter if it is in some other person's hand, for as well as I
recollect Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor in the whole course
of her life has she seen handwriting or letter of mine, for my love
and hers have been always platonic, not going beyond a modest look,
and even that so seldom that I can safely swear I have not seen her
four times in all these twelve years I have been loving her more
than the light of these eyes that the earth will one day devour; and
perhaps even of those four times she has not once perceived that I was
looking at her: such is the retirement and seclusion in which her
father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have brought


her up.

So, so!said Sancho; "Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter is the lady
Dulcinea del Tobosootherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?"

She it is,said Don Quixoteand she it is that is worthy to be
lady of the whole universe.

I know her well,said Sanchoand let me tell you she can fling a
crowbar as well as the lustiest lad in all the town. Giver of all
good! but she is a brave lass, and a right and stout one, and fit to
be helpmate to any knight-errant that is or is to be, who may make her
his lady: the whoreson wench, what sting she has and what a voice! I
can tell you one day she posted herself on the top of the belfry of
the village to call some labourers of theirs that were in a ploughed
field of her father's, and though they were better than half a
league off they heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the
tower; and the best of her is that she is not a bit prudish, for she
has plenty of affability, and jokes with everybody, and has a grin and
a jest for everything. So, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, I say
you not only may and ought to do mad freaks for her sake, but you have
a good right to give way to despair and hang yourself; and no one
who knows of it but will say you did well, though the devil should
take you; and I wish I were on my road already, simply to see her, for
it is many a day since I saw her, and she must be altered by this
time, for going about the fields always, and the sun and the air spoil
women's looks greatly. But I must own the truth to your worship, Senor
Don Quixote; until now I have been under a great mistake, for I
believed truly and honestly that the lady Dulcinea must be some
princess your worship was in love with, or some person great enough to
deserve the rich presents you have sent her, such as the Biscayan
and the galley slaves, and many more no doubt, for your worship must
have won many victories in the time when I was not yet your squire.
But all things considered, what good can it do the lady Aldonza
Lorenzo, I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, to have the vanquished
your worship sends or will send coming to her and going down on
their knees before her? Because may be when they came she'd be
hackling flax or threshing on the threshing floor, and they'd be
ashamed to see her, and she'd laugh, or resent the present.

I have before now told thee many times, Sancho,said Don
Quixotethat thou art a mighty great chatterer, and that with a
blunt wit thou art always striving at sharpness; but to show thee what
a fool thou art and how rational I am, I would have thee listen to a
short story. Thou must know that a certain widow, fair, young,
independent, and rich, and above all free and easy, fell in love
with a sturdy strapping young lay-brother; his superior came to know
of it, and one day said to the worthy widow by way of brotherly
remonstrance, 'I am surprised, senora, and not without good reason,
that a woman of such high standing, so fair, and so rich as you are,
should have fallen in love with such a mean, low, stupid fellow as
So-and-so, when in this house there are so many masters, graduates,
and divinity students from among whom you might choose as if they were
a lot of pears, saying this one I'll take, that I won't take;' but she
replied to him with great sprightliness and candour, 'My dear sir, you
are very much mistaken, and your ideas are very old-fashioned, if
you think that I have made a bad choice in So-and-so, fool as he
seems; because for all I want with him he knows as much and more
philosophy than Aristotle.' In the same way, Sancho, for all I want
with Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as good as the most exalted
princess on earth. It is not to be supposed that all those poets who
sang the praises of ladies under the fancy names they give them, had
any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the Amarillises, the
Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Filidas, and all


the rest of them, that the books, the ballads, the barber's shops, the
theatres are full of, were really and truly ladies of flesh and blood,
and mistresses of those that glorify and have glorified them?
Nothing of the kind; they only invent them for the most part to
furnish a subject for their verses, and that they may pass for lovers,
or for men valiant enough to be so; and so it suffices me to think and
believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair and virtuous; and as
to her pedigree it is very little matter, for no one will examine into
it for the purpose of conferring any order upon her, and I, for my
part, reckon her the most exalted princess in the world. For thou
shouldst know, Sancho, if thou dost not know, that two things alone
beyond all others are incentives to love, and these are great beauty
and a good name, and these two things are to be found in Dulcinea in
the highest degree, for in beauty no one equals her and in good name
few approach her; and to put the whole thing in a nutshell, I persuade
myself that all I say is as I say, neither more nor less, and I
picture her in my imagination as I would have her to be, as well in
beauty as in condition; Helen approaches her not nor does Lucretia
come up to her, nor any other of the famous women of times past,
Greek, Barbarian, or Latin; and let each say what he will, for if in
this I am taken to task by the ignorant, I shall not be censured by
the critical.

I say that your worship is entirely right,said Sanchoand
that I am an ass. But I know not how the name of ass came into my
mouth, for a rope is not to be mentioned in the house of him who has
been hanged; but now for the letter, and then, God be with you, I am
off.

Don Quixote took out the note-bookandretiring to one side
very deliberately began to write the letterand when he had
finished it he called to Sanchosaying he wished to read it to him
so that he might commit it to memoryin case of losing it on the
road; for with evil fortune like his anything might be apprehended. To
which Sancho repliedWrite it two or three times there in the book
and give it to me, and I will carry it very carefully, because to
expect me to keep it in my memory is all nonsense, for I have such a
bad one that I often forget my own name; but for all that repeat it to
me, as I shall like to hear it, for surely it will run as if it was in
print.

Listen,said Don Quixotethis is what it says:

DON QUIXOTE'S LETTER TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

Sovereign and exalted Lady,- The pierced by the point of absence,
the wounded to the heart's core, sends thee, sweetest Dulcinea del
Toboso, the health that he himself enjoys not. If thy beauty
despises me, if thy worth is not for me, if thy scorn is my
affliction, though I be sufficiently long-suffering, hardly shall I
endure this anxiety, which, besides being oppressive, is protracted.
My good squire Sancho will relate to thee in full, fair ingrate,
dear enemy, the condition to which I am reduced on thy account: if
it be thy pleasure to give me relief, I am thine; if not, do as may be
pleasing to thee; for by ending my life I shall satisfy thy cruelty
and my desire.

Thine till death

The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.


By the life of my father,said Sanchowhen he heard the letter
it is the loftiest thing I ever heard. Body of me! how your worship
says everything as you like in it! And how well you fit in 'The Knight
of the Rueful Countenance' into the signature. I declare your worship
is indeed the very devil, and there is nothing you don't know.

Everything is needed for the calling I follow,said Don Quixote.

Now then,said Sancholet your worship put the order for the
three ass-colts on the other side, and sign it very plainly, that they
may recognise it at first sight.

With all my heart,said Don Quixoteand as he had written it he
read it to this effect:

Mistress Niece,- By this first of ass-colts please pay to Sancho
Panza, my squire, three of the five I left at home in your charge:
said three ass-colts to be paid and delivered for the same number
received here in hand, which upon this and upon his receipt shall be
duly paid. Done in the heart of the Sierra Morena, the
twenty-seventh of August of this present year.

That will do,said Sancho; "now let your worship sign it."

There is no need to sign it,said Don Quixotebut merely to
put my flourish, which is the same as a signature, and enough for
three asses, or even three hundred.

I can trust your worship,returned Sancho; "let me go and saddle
Rocinanteand be ready to give me your blessingfor I mean to go
at once without seeing the fooleries your worship is going to do; I'll
say I saw you do so many that she will not want any more."

At any rate, Sancho,said Don QuixoteI should like- and there
is reason for it- I should like thee, I say, to see me stripped to the
skin and performing a dozen or two of insanities, which I can get done
in less than half an hour; for having seen them with thine own eyes,
thou canst then safely swear to the rest that thou wouldst add; and
I promise thee thou wilt not tell of as many as I mean to perform.

For the love of God, master mine,said Sancholet me not see
your worship stripped, for it will sorely grieve me, and I shall not
be able to keep from tears, and my head aches so with all I shed
last night for Dapple, that I am not fit to begin any fresh weeping;
but if it is your worship's pleasure that I should see some
insanities, do them in your clothes, short ones, and such as come
readiest to hand; for I myself want nothing of the sort, and, as I
have said, it will be a saving of time for my return, which will be
with the news your worship desires and deserves. If not, let the
lady Dulcinea look to it; if she does not answer reasonably, I swear
as solemnly as I can that I will fetch a fair answer out of her
stomach with kicks and cuffs; for why should it be borne that a
knight-errant as famous as your worship should go mad without rhyme or
reason for a -? Her ladyship had best not drive me to say it, for by
God I will speak out and let off everything cheap, even if it
doesn't sell: I am pretty good at that! she little knows me; faith, if
she knew me she'd be in awe of me.

In faith, Sancho,said Don Quixoteto all appearance thou art no
sounder in thy wits than I.

I am not so mad,answered Sanchobut I am more peppery; but
apart from all this, what has your worship to eat until I come back?


Will you sally out on the road like Cardenio to force it from the
shepherds?

Let not that anxiety trouble thee,replied Don Quixotefor
even if I had it I should not eat anything but the herbs and the
fruits which this meadow and these trees may yield me; the beauty of
this business of mine lies in not eating, and in performing other
mortifications.

Do you know what I am afraid of?said Sancho upon this; "that I
shall not be able to find my way back to this spot where I am
leaving youit is such an out-of-the-way place."

Observe the landmarks well,said Don Quixotefor I will try
not to go far from this neighbourhood, and I will even take care to
mount the highest of these rocks to see if I can discover thee
returning; however, not to miss me and lose thyself, the best plan
will be to cut some branches of the broom that is so abundant about
here, and as thou goest to lay them at intervals until thou hast
come out upon the plain; these will serve thee, after the fashion of
the clue in the labyrinth of Theseus, as marks and signs for finding
me on thy return.

So I will,said Sancho Panzaand having cut somehe asked his
master's blessingand not without many tears on both sidestook
his leave of himand mounting Rocinanteof whom Don Quixote
charged him earnestly to have as much care as of his own personhe
set out for the plainstrewing at intervals the branches of broom
as his master had recommended him; and so he went his waythough
Don Quixote still entreated him to see him do were it only a couple of
mad acts. He had not gone a hundred paceshoweverwhen he returned
and said:

I must say, senor, your worship said quite right, that in order
to be able to swear without a weight on my conscience that I had
seen you do mad things, it would be well for me to see if it were only
one; though in your worship's remaining here I have seen a very
great one.

Did I not tell thee so?said Don Quixote. "WaitSanchoand I
will do them in the saying of a credo and pulling off his breeches
in all haste he stripped himself to his skin and his shirt, and
then, without more ado, he cut a couple of gambados in the air, and
a couple of somersaults, heels over head, making such a display
that, not to see it a second time, Sancho wheeled Rocinante round, and
felt easy, and satisfied in his mind that he could swear he had left
his master mad; and so we will leave him to follow his road until
his return, which was a quick one.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE
PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA

Returning to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Countenance when
he found himself alone, the history says that when Don Quixote had
completed the performance of the somersaults or capers, naked from the
waist down and clothed from the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone
off without waiting to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to
the top of a high rock, and there set himself to consider what he
had several times before considered without ever coming to any


conclusion on the point, namely whether it would be better and more to
his purpose to imitate the outrageous madness of Roland, or the
melancholy madness of Amadis; and communing with himself he said:

What wonder is it if Roland was so good a knight and so valiant
as everyone says he waswhenafter allhe was enchantedand nobody
could kill him save by thrusting a corking pin into the sole of his
footand he always wore shoes with seven iron soles? Though cunning
devices did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpiowho knew all
about themand strangled him in his arms at Roncesvalles. But putting
the question of his valour asidelet us come to his losing his
witsfor certain it is that he did lose them in consequence of the
proofs he discovered at the fountainand the intelligence the
shepherd gave him of Angelica having slept more than two siestas
with Medoroa little curly-headed Moorand page to Agramante. If
he was persuaded that this was trueand that his lady had wronged
himit is no wonder that he should have gone mad; but Ihow am I
to imitate him in his madnessunless I can imitate him in the cause
of it? For my DulcineaI will venture to swearnever saw a Moor in
her lifeas he isin his proper costumeand she is this day as
the mother that bore herand I should plainly be doing her a wrong
iffancying anything elseI were to go mad with the same kind of
madness as Roland the Furious. On the other handI see that Amadis of
Gaulwithout losing his senses and without doing anything mad
acquired as a lover as much fame as the most famous; foraccording to
his historyon finding himself rejected by his lady Orianawho had
ordered him not to appear in her presence until it should be her
pleasureall he did was to retire to the Pena Pobre in company with a
hermitand there he took his fill of weeping until Heaven sent him
relief in the midst of his great grief and need. And if this be
trueas it iswhy should I now take the trouble to strip stark
nakedor do mischief to these trees which have done me no harmor
why am I to disturb the clear waters of these brooks which will give
me to drink whenever I have a mind? Long live the memory of Amadis and
let him be imitated so far as is possible by Don Quixote of La Mancha
of whom it will be saidas was said of the otherthat if he did
not achieve great thingshe died in attempting them; and if I am
not repulsed or rejected by my Dulcineait is enough for meas I
have saidto be absent from her. And sonow to business; come to
my memory ye deeds of Amadisand show me how I am to begin to imitate
you. I know already that what he chiefly did was to pray and commend
himself to God; but what am I to do for a rosaryfor I have not got
one?"

And then it occurred to him how he might make oneand that was by
tearing a great strip off the tail of his shirt which hung downand
making eleven knots on itone bigger than the restand this served
him for a rosary all the time he was thereduring which he repeated
countless ave-marias. But what distressed him greatly was not having
another hermit there to confess him and receive consolation from;
and so he solaced himself with pacing up and down the little meadow
and writing and carving on the bark of the trees and on the fine
sand a multitude of verses all in harmony with his sadnessand some
in praise of Dulcinea; butwhen he was found there afterwardsthe
only ones completely legible that could be discovered were those
that follow here:

Ye on the mountain side that grow
Ye green things alltreesshrubsand bushes
Are ye aweary of the woe
That this poor aching bosom crushes?
If it disturb youand I owe
Some reparationit may be a
Defence for me to let you know


Don Quixote's tears are on the flow
And all for distant Dulcinea
Del Toboso.

The lealest lover time can show
Doomed for a lady-love to languish
Among these solitudes doth go
A prey to every kind of anguish.
Why Love should like a spiteful foe

Thus use himhe hath no idea
But hogsheads full- this doth he know-
Don Quixote's tears are on the flow

And all for distant Dulcinea
Del Toboso.


Adventure-seeking doth he go
Up rugged heightsdown rocky valleys
But hill or daleor high or low
Mishap attendeth all his sallies:
Love still pursues him to and fro

And plies his cruel scourge- ah me! a
Relentless fatean endless woe;
Don Quixote's tears are on the flow

And all for distant Dulcinea
Del Toboso.


The addition of "Del Toboso" to Dulcinea's name gave rise to no
little laughter among those who found the above linesfor they
suspected Don Quixote must have fancied that unless he added "del
Toboso" when he introduced the name of Dulcinea the verse would be
unintelligible; which was indeed the factas he himself afterwards
admitted. He wrote many morebutas has been saidthese three
verses were all that could be plainly and perfectly deciphered. In
this wayand in sighing and calling on the fauns and satyrs of the
woods and the nymphs of the streamsand Echomoist and mournful
to answerconsoleand hear himas well as in looking for herbs to
sustain himhe passed his time until Sancho's return; and had that
been delayed three weeksas it was three daysthe Knight of the
Rueful Countenance would have worn such an altered countenance that
the mother that bore him would not have known him: and here it will be
well to leave himwrapped up in sighs and versesto relate how
Sancho Panza fared on his mission.

As for himcoming out upon the high roadhe made for El Toboso
and the next day reached the inn where the mishap of the blanket had
befallen him. As soon as he recognised it he felt as if he were once
more living through the airand he could not bring himself to enter
it though it was an hour when he might well have done sofor it was
dinner-timeand he longed to taste something hot as it had been all
cold fare with him for many days past. This craving drove him to
draw near to the innstill undecided whether to go in or notand
as he was hesitating there came out two persons who at once recognised
himand said one to the other:

Senor licentiate, is not he on the horse there Sancho Panza who,
our adventurer's housekeeper told us, went off with her master as
esquire?

So it is,said the licentiateand that is our friend Don
Quixote's horse;and if they knew him so well it was because they
were the curate and the barber of his own villagethe same who had
carried out the scrutiny and sentence upon the books; and as soon as
they recognised Sancho Panza and Rocinantebeing anxious to hear of


Don Quixotethey approachedand calling him by his name the curate
saidFriend Sancho Panza, where is your master?

Sancho recognised them at onceand determined to keep secret the
place and circumstances where and under which he had left his
masterso he replied that his master was engaged in a certain quarter
on a certain matter of great importance to him which he could not
disclose for the eyes in his head.

Nay, nay,said the barberif you don't tell us where he is,
Sancho Panza, we will suspect as we suspect already, that you have
murdered and robbed him, for here you are mounted on his horse; in
fact, you must produce the master of the hack, or else take the
consequences.

There is no need of threats with me,said Sanchofor I am not
a man to rob or murder anybody; let his own fate, or God who made him,
kill each one; my master is engaged very much to his taste doing
penance in the midst of these mountains; and then, offhand and without
stopping, he told them how he had left him, what adventures had
befallen him, and how he was carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with whom he was over
head and ears in love. They were both amazed at what Sancho Panza told
them; for though they were aware of Don Quixote's madness and the
nature of it, each time they heard of it they were filled with fresh
wonder. They then asked Sancho Panza to show them the letter he was
carrying to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. He said it was written in
a note-book, and that his master's directions were that he should have
it copied on paper at the first village he came to. On this the curate
said if he showed it to him, he himself would make a fair copy of
it. Sancho put his hand into his bosom in search of the note-book
but could not find it, nor, if he had been searching until now,
could he have found it, for Don Quixote had kept it, and had never
given it to him, nor had he himself thought of asking for it. When
Sancho discovered he could not find the book his face grew deadly
pale, and in great haste he again felt his body all over, and seeing
plainly it was not to be found, without more ado he seized his beard
with both hands and plucked away half of it, and then, as quick as
he could and without stopping, gave himself half a dozen cuffs on
the face and nose till they were bathed in blood.

Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what had happened
him that he gave himself such rough treatment.

What should happen me?" replied Sanchobut to have lost from
one hand to the other, in a moment, three ass-colts, each of them like
a castle?

How is that?said the barber.

I have lost the note-book,said Sanchothat contained the letter
to Dulcinea, and an order signed by my master in which he directed his
niece to give me three ass-colts out of four or five he had at
home;and he then told them about the loss of Dapple.

The curate consoled himtelling him that when his master was
found he would get him to renew the orderand make a fresh draft on
paperas was usual and customary; for those made in notebooks were
never accepted or honoured.

Sancho comforted himself with thisand said if that were so the
loss of Dulcinea's letter did not trouble him muchfor he had it
almost by heartand it could be taken down from him wherever and
whenever they liked.


Repeat it then, Sancho,said the barberand we will write it
down afterwards.

Sancho Panza stopped to scratch his head to bring back the letter to
his memoryand balanced himself now on one footnow the otherone
moment staring at the groundthe next at the skyand after having
half gnawed off the end of a finger and kept them in suspense
waiting for him to beginhe saidafter a long pauseBy God,
senor licentiate, devil a thing can I recollect of the letter; but
it said at the beginning, 'Exalted and scrubbing Lady.'

It cannot have said 'scrubbing,'said the barberbut
'superhuman' or 'sovereign.'

That is it,said Sancho; "thenas well as I rememberit went on
'The woundedand wanting of sleepand the piercedkisses your
worship's handsungrateful and very unrecognised fair one; and it
said something or other about health and sickness that he was
sending her; and from that it went tailing off until it ended with
'Yours till deaththe Knight of the Rueful Countenance."

It gave them no little amusementboth of themto see what a good
memory Sancho hadand they complimented him greatly upon itand
begged him to repeat the letter a couple of times moreso that they
too might get it by heart to write it out by-and-by. Sancho repeated
it three timesand as he diduttered three thousand more
absurdities; then he told them more about his master but he never said
a word about the blanketing that had befallen himself in that inn
into which he refused to enter. He told themmoreoverhow his
lordif he brought him a favourable answer from the lady Dulcinea del
Tobosowas to put himself in the way of endeavouring to become an
emperoror at least a monarch; for it had been so settled between
themand with his personal worth and the might of his arm it was an
easy matter to come to be one: and how on becoming one his lord was to
make a marriage for him (for he would be a widower by that timeas
a matter of course) and was to give him as a wife one of the damsels
of the empressthe heiress of some rich and grand state on the
mainlandhaving nothing to do with islands of any sortfor he did
not care for them now. All this Sancho delivered with so much
composure- wiping his nose from time to time- and with so little
common-sense that his two hearers were again filled with wonder at the
force of Don Quixote's madness that could run away with this poor
man's reason. They did not care to take the trouble of disabusing
him of his erroras they considered that since it did not in any
way hurt his conscience it would be better to leave him in itand
they would have all the more amusement in listening to his
simplicities; and so they bade him pray to God for his lord's
healthas it was a very likely and a very feasible thing for him in
course of time to come to be an emperoras he saidor at least an
archbishop or some other dignitary of equal rank.

To which Sancho made answerIf fortune, sirs, should bring
things about in such a way that my master should have a mind,
instead of being an emperor, to be an archbishop, I should like to
know what archbishops-errant commonly give their squires?

They commonly give them,said the curatesome simple benefice
or cureor some place as sacristan which brings them a good fixed
incomenot counting the altar feeswhich may be reckoned at as
much more."

But for that,said Sanchothe squire must be unmarried, and must
know, at any rate, how to help at mass, and if that be so, woe is


me, for I am married already and I don't know the first letter of
the A B C. What will become of me if my master takes a fancy to be
an archbishop and not an emperor, as is usual and customary with
knights-errant?

Be not uneasy, friend Sancho,said the barberfor we will
entreat your master, and advise him, even urging it upon him as a case
of conscience, to become an emperor and not an archbishop, because
it will be easier for him as he is more valiant than lettered.

So I have thought,said Sancho; "though I can tell you he is fit
for anything: what I mean to do for my part is to pray to our Lord
to place him where it may be best for himand where he may be able to
bestow most favours upon me."

You speak like a man of sense,said the curateand you will be
acting like a good Christian; but what must now be done is to take
steps to coax your master out of that useless penance you say he is
performing; and we had best turn into this inn to consider what plan
to adopt, and also to dine, for it is now time.

Sancho said they might go inbut that he would wait there
outsideand that he would tell them afterwards the reason why he
was unwillingand why it did not suit him to enter it; but be
begged them to bring him out something to eatand to let it be hot
and also to bring barley for Rocinante. They left him and went inand
presently the barber brought him out something to eat. By-and-by
after they had between them carefully thought over what they should do
to carry out their objectthe curate hit upon an idea very well
adapted to humour Don Quixoteand effect their purpose; and his
notionwhich he explained to the barberwas that he himself should
assume the disguise of a wandering damselwhile the other should
try as best he could to pass for a squireand that they should thus
proceed to where Don Quixote wasand hepretending to be an
aggrieved and distressed damselshould ask a favour of himwhich
as a valiant knight-errant he could not refuse to grant; and the
favour he meant to ask him was that he should accompany her whither
she would conduct himin order to redress a wrong which a wicked
knight had done herwhile at the same time she should entreat him not
to require her to remove her masknor ask her any question touching
her circumstances until he had righted her with the wicked knight. And
he had no doubt that Don Quixote would comply with any request made in
these termsand that in this way they might remove him and take him
to his own villagewhere they would endeavour to find out if his
extraordinary madness admitted of any kind of remedy.

CHAPTER XXVII

OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME;
TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY

The curate's plan did not seem a bad one to the barberbut on the
contrary so good that they immediately set about putting it in
execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the landladyleaving
her in pledge a new cassock of the curate's; and the barber made a
beard out of a grey-brown or red ox-tail in which the landlord used to
stick his comb. The landlady asked them what they wanted these
things forand the curate told her in a few words about the madness
of Don Quixoteand how this disguise was intended to get him away
from the mountain where he then was. The landlord and landlady
immediately came to the conclusion that the madman was their guest


the balsam man and master of the blanketed squireand they told the
curate all that had passed between him and themnot omitting what
Sancho had been so silent about. Finally the landlady dressed up the
curate in a style that left nothing to be desired; she put on him a
cloth petticoat with black velvet stripes a palm broadall slashed
and a bodice of green velvet set off by a binding of white satin
which as well as the petticoat must have been made in the time of king
Wamba. The curate would not let them hood himbut put on his head a
little quilted linen cap which he used for a night-capand bound
his forehead with a strip of black silkwhile with another he made
a mask with which he concealed his beard and face very well. He then
put on his hatwhich was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella
and enveloping himself in his cloak seated himself woman-fashion on
his mulewhile the barber mounted his with a beard down to the
waist of mingled red and whitefor it wasas has been saidthe tail
of a clay-red ox.

They took leave of alland of the good Maritorneswhosinner as
she waspromised to pray a rosary of prayers that God might grant
them success in such an arduous and Christian undertaking as that they
had in hand. But hardly had he sallied forth from the inn when it
struck the curate that he was doing wrong in rigging himself out in
that fashionas it was an indecorous thing for a priest to dress
himself that way even though much might depend upon it; and saying
so to the barber he begged him to change dressesas it was fitter
he should be the distressed damselwhile he himself would play the
squire's partwhich would be less derogatory to his dignity;
otherwise he was resolved to have nothing more to do with the
matterand let the devil take Don Quixote. Just at this moment Sancho
came upand on seeing the pair in such a costume he was unable to
restrain his laughter; the barberhoweveragreed to do as the curate
wishedandaltering their planthe curate went on to instruct him
how to play his part and what to say to Don Quixote to induce and
compel him to come with them and give up his fancy for the place he
had chosen for his idle penance. The barber told him he could manage
it properly without any instructionand as he did not care to dress
himself up until they were near where Don Quixote washe folded up
the garmentsand the curate adjusted his beardand they set out
under the guidance of Sancho Panzawho went along telling them of the
encounter with the madman they met in the Sierrasaying nothing
howeverabout the finding of the valise and its contents; for with
all his simplicity the lad was a trifle covetous.

The next day they reached the place where Sancho had laid the
broom-branches as marks to direct him to where he had left his master
and recognising it he told them that here was the entranceand that
they would do well to dress themselvesif that was required to
deliver his master; for they had already told him that going in this
guise and dressing in this way were of the highest importance in order
to rescue his master from the pernicious life he had adopted; and they
charged him strictly not to tell his master who they wereor that
he knew themand should he askas ask he wouldif he had given
the letter to Dulcineato say that he hadand thatas she did not
know how to readshe had given an answer by word of mouthsaying
that she commanded himon pain of her displeasureto come and see
her at once; and it was a very important matter for himselfbecause
in this way and with what they meant to say to him they felt sure of
bringing him back to a better mode of life and inducing him to take
immediate steps to become an emperor or monarchfor there was no fear
of his becoming an archbishop. All this Sancho listened to and fixed
it well in his memoryand thanked them heartily for intending to
recommend his master to be an emperor instead of an archbishopfor he
felt sure that in the way of bestowing rewards on their squires
emperors could do more than archbishops-errant. He saidtoothat


it would be as well for him to go on before them to find himand give
him his lady's answer; for that perhaps might be enough to bring him
away from the place without putting them to all this trouble. They
approved of what Sancho proposedand resolved to wait for him until
he brought back word of having found his master.

Sancho pushed on into the glens of the Sierraleaving them in one
through which there flowed a little gentle rivuletand where the
rocks and trees afforded a cool and grateful shade. It was an August
day with all the heat of oneand the heat in those parts is
intenseand the hour was three in the afternoonall which made the
spot the more inviting and tempted them to wait there for Sancho's
returnwhich they did. They were reposingthenin the shadewhen a
voice unaccompanied by the notes of any instrumentbut sweet and
pleasing in its tonereached their earsat which they were not a
little astonishedas the place did not seem to them likely quarters
for one who sang so well; for though it is often said that shepherds
of rare voice are to be found in the woods and fieldsthis is
rather a flight of the poet's fancy than the truth. And still more
surprised were they when they perceived that what they heard sung were
the verses not of rustic shepherdsbut of the polished wits of the
city; and so it provedfor the verses they heard were these:

What makes my quest of happiness seem vain?
Disdain.
What bids me to abandon hope of ease?
Jealousies.
What holds my heart in anguish of suspense?

Absence.
If that be sothen for my grief
Where shall I turn to seek relief
When hope on every side lies slain
By AbsenceJealousiesDisdain?


What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove?
Love.
What at my glory ever looks askance?
Chance.
Whence is permission to afflict me given?

Heaven.
If that be soI but await
The stroke of a resistless fate
Sinceworking for my woethese three
LoveChance and Heavenin league I see.


What must I do to find a remedy?
Die.
What is the lure for love when coy and strange?
Change.
Whatif all failwill cure the heart of sadness?

Madness.
If that be soit is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy:
Ask where it lies; the answer saith
In Changein Madnessor in Death.


The hourthe summer seasonthe solitary placethe voice and skill
of the singerall contributed to the wonder and delight of the two
listenerswho remained still waiting to hear something more; finding
howeverthat the silence continued some little timethey resolved to
go in search of the musician who sang with so fine a voice; but just
as they were about to do so they were checked by the same voicewhich
once more fell upon their earssinging this


SONNET

When heavenwardholy Friendshipthou didst go
Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky
And take thy seat among the saints on high

It was thy will to leave on earth below

Thy semblanceand upon it to bestow
Thy veilwherewith at times hypocrisy
Parading in thy shapedeceives the eye

And makes its vileness bright as virtue show.
Friendshipreturn to usor force the cheat
That wears it nowthy livery to restore


By aid whereof sincerity is slain.
If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit
This earth will be the prey of strife once more
As when primaeval discord held its reign.

The song ended with a deep sighand again the listeners remained
waiting attentively for the singer to resume; but perceiving that
the music had now turned to sobs and heart-rending moans they
determined to find out who the unhappy being could be whose voice
was as rare as his sighs were piteousand they had not proceeded
far when on turning the corner of a rock they discovered a man of
the same aspect and appearance as Sancho had described to them when he
told them the story of Cardenio. Heshowing no astonishment when he
saw themstood still with his head bent down upon his breast like one
in deep thoughtwithout raising his eyes to look at them after the
first glance when they suddenly came upon him. The curatewho was
aware of his misfortune and recognised him by the descriptionbeing a
man of good addressapproached him and in a few sensible words
entreated and urged him to quit a life of such miserylest he
should end it therewhich would be the greatest of all misfortunes.
Cardenio was then in his right mindfree from any attack of that
madness which so frequently carried him awayand seeing them
dressed in a fashion so unusual among the frequenters of those
wildscould not help showing some surpriseespecially when he
heard them speak of his case as if it were a well-known matter (for
the curate's words gave him to understand as much) so he replied to
them thus:

I see plainly, sirs, whoever you may be, that Heaven, whose care it
is to succour the good, and even the wicked very often, here, in
this remote spot, cut off from human intercourse, sends me, though I
deserve it not, those who seek to draw me away from this to some
better retreat, showing me by many and forcible arguments how
unreasonably I act in leading the life I do; but as they know, that if
I escape from this evil I shall fall into another still greater,
perhaps they will set me down as a weak-minded man, or, what is worse,
one devoid of reason; nor would it be any wonder, for I myself can
perceive that the effect of the recollection of my misfortunes is so
great and works so powerfully to my ruin, that in spite of myself I
become at times like a stone, without feeling or consciousness; and
I come to feel the truth of it when they tell me and show me proofs of
the things I have done when the terrible fit overmasters me; and all I
can do is bewail my lot in vain, and idly curse my destiny, and
plead for my madness by telling how it was caused, to any that care to
hear it; for no reasonable beings on learning the cause will wonder at
the effects; and if they cannot help me at least they will not blame
me, and the repugnance they feel at my wild ways will turn into pity
for my woes. If it be, sirs, that you are here with the same design as
others have come wah, before you proceed with your wise arguments, I


entreat you to hear the story of my countless misfortunes, for perhaps
when you have heard it you will spare yourselves the trouble you would
take in offering consolation to grief that is beyond the reach of it.

As theyboth of themdesired nothing more than to hear from his
own lips the cause of his sufferingthey entreated him to tell it
promising not to do anything for his relief or comfort that he did not
wish; and thereupon the unhappy gentleman began his sad story in
nearly the same words and manner in which he had related it to Don
Quixote and the goatherd a few days beforewhenthrough Master
Elisabadand Don Quixote's scrupulous observance of what was due to
chivalrythe tale was left unfinishedas this history has already
recorded; but now fortunately the mad fit kept offallowed him to
tell it to the end; and socoming to the incident of the note which
Don Fernando had found in the volume of "Amadis of Gaul Cardenio
said that he remembered it perfectly and that it was in these words:

Luscinda to Cardenio.

Every day I discover merits in you that oblige and compel me to
hold you in higher estimation; so if you desire to relieve me of
this obligation without cost to my honour, you may easily do so. I
have a father who knows you and loves me dearly, who without putting
any constraint on my inclination will grant what will be reasonable
for you to have, if it be that you value me as you say and as I
believe you do.

By this letter I was induced, as I told you, to demand Luscinda for
my wife, and it was through it that Luscinda came to be regarded by
Don Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women of the day,
and this letter it was that suggested his design of ruining me
before mine could be carried into effect. I told Don Fernando that all
Luscinda's father was waiting for was that mine should ask her of him,
which I did not dare to suggest to him, fearing that he would not
consent to do so; not because he did not know perfectly well the rank,
goodness, virtue, and beauty of Luscinda, and that she had qualities
that would do honour to any family in Spain, but because I was aware
that he did not wish me to marry so soon, before seeing what the
Duke Ricardo would do for me. In short, I told him I did not venture
to mention it to my father, as well on account of that difficulty,
as of many others that discouraged me though I knew not well what they
were, only that it seemed to me that what I desired was never to
come to pass. To all this Don Fernando answered that he would take
it upon himself to speak to my father, and persuade him to speak to
Luscinda's father. O, ambitious Marius! O, cruel Catiline! O, wicked
Sylla! O, perfidious Ganelon! O, treacherous Vellido! O, vindictive
Julian! O, covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel, vindictive, and perfidious,
wherein had this poor wretch failed in his fidelity, who with such
frankness showed thee the secrets and the joys of his heart? What
offence did I commit? What words did I utter, or what counsels did I
give that had not the furtherance of thy honour and welfare for
their aim? But, woe is me, wherefore do I complain? for sure it is
that when misfortunes spring from the stars, descending from on high
they fall upon us with such fury and violence that no power on earth
can check their course nor human device stay their coming. Who could
have thought that Don Fernando, a highborn gentleman, intelligent,
bound to me by gratitude for my services, one that could win the
object of his love wherever he might set his affections, could have
become so obdurate, as they say, as to rob me of my one ewe lamb
that was not even yet in my possession? But laying aside these useless
and unavailing reflections, let us take up the broken thread of my


unhappy story.

To proceedthen: Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle to
the execution of his treacherous and wicked designresolved to send
me to his elder brother under the pretext of asking money from him
to pay for six horses whichpurposelyand with the sole object of
sending me away that he might the better carry out his infernal
schemehe had purchased the very day he offered to speak to my
fatherand the price of which he now desired me to fetch. Could I
have anticipated this treachery? Could I by any chance have
suspected it? Nay; so far from thatI offered with the greatest
pleasure to go at oncein my satisfaction at the good bargain that
had been made. That night I spoke with Luscindaand told her what had
been agreed upon with Don Fernandoand how I had strong hopes of
our fair and reasonable wishes being realised. Sheas unsuspicious as
I was of the treachery of Don Fernandobade me try to return
speedilyas she believed the fulfilment of our desires would be
delayed only so long as my father put off speaking to hers. I know not
why it was that on saying this to me her eyes filled with tearsand
there came a lump in her throat that prevented her from uttering a
word of many more that it seemed to me she was striving to say to
me. I was astonished at this unusual turnwhich I never before
observed in her. for we always conversedwhenever good fortune and my
ingenuity gave us the chancewith the greatest gaiety and
cheerfulnessmingling tearssighsjealousiesdoubtsor fears with
our words; it was all on my part a eulogy of my good fortune that
Heaven should have given her to me for my mistress; I glorified her
beautyI extolled her worth and her understanding; and she paid me
back by praising in me what in her love for me she thought worthy of
praise; and besides we had a hundred thousand trifles and doings of
our neighbours and acquaintances to talk aboutand the utmost
extent of my boldness was to takealmost by forceone of her fair
white hands and carry it to my lipsas well as the closeness of the
low grating that separated us allowed me. But the night before the
unhappy day of my departure she weptshe moanedshe sighedand
she withdrew leaving me filled with perplexity and amazement
overwhelmed at the sight of such strange and affecting signs of
grief and sorrow in Luscinda; but not to dash my hopes I ascribed it
all to the depth of her love for me and the pain that separation gives
those who love tenderly. At last I took my departuresad and
dejectedmy heart filled with fancies and suspicionsbut not knowing
well what it was I suspected or fancied; plain omens pointing to the
sad event and misfortune that was awaiting me.

I reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don
Fernando's brother, and was kindly received but not promptly
dismissed, for he desired me to wait, very much against my will, eight
days in some place where the duke his father was not likely to see me,
as his brother wrote that the money was to be sent without his
knowledge; all of which was a scheme of the treacherous Don
Fernando, for his brother had no want of money to enable him to
despatch me at once.

The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of disobeying
itas it seemed to me impossible to endure life for so many days
separated from Luscindaespecially after leaving her in the sorrowful
mood I have described to you; nevertheless as a dutiful servant I
obeyedthough I felt it would be at the cost of my well-being. But
four days later there came a man in quest of me with a letter which he
gave meand which by the address I perceived to be from Luscinda
as the writing was hers. I opened it with fear and trepidation
persuaded that it must be something serious that had impelled her to
write to me when at a distanceas she seldom did so when I was
near. Before reading it I asked the man who it was that had given it


to himand how long he had been upon the road; he told me that as
he happened to be passing through one of the streets of the city at
the hour of noona very beautiful lady called to him from a window
and with tears in her eyes said to him hurriedly'Brotherif you
areas you seem to bea Christianfor the love of God I entreat you
to have this letter despatched without a moment's delay to the place
and person named in the addressall which is well knownand by
this you will render a great service to our Lord; and that you may
be at no inconvenience in doing so take what is in this handkerchief;'
and said he'with this she threw me a handkerchief out of the
window in which were tied up a hundred reals and this gold ring
which I bring here together with the letter I have given you. And then
without waiting for any answer she left the windowthough not
before she saw me take the letter and the handkerchiefand I had by
signs let her know that I would do as she bade me; and soseeing
myself so well paid for the trouble I would have in bringing it to
youand knowing by the address that it was to you it was sent (for
senorI know you very well)and also unable to resist that beautiful
lady's tearsI resolved to trust no one elsebut to come myself
and give it to youand in sixteen hours from the time when it was
given me I have made the journeywhichas you knowis eighteen
leagues.'

All the while the good-natured improvised courier was telling me
this, I hung upon his words, my legs trembling under me so that I
could scarcely stand. However, I opened the letter and read these
words:

'The promise Don Fernando gave you to urge your father to speak
to minehe has fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to
your advantage. I have to tell yousenorthat be has demanded me for
a wifeand my fatherled away by what he considers Don Fernando's
superiority over youhas favoured his suit so cordiallythat in
two days hence the betrothal is to take place with such secrecy and so
privately that the only witnesses are to be the Heavens above and a
few of the household. Picture to yourself the state I am in; judge
if it be urgent for you to come; the issue of the affair will show you
whether I love you or not. God grant this may come to your hand before
mine shall be forced to link itself with his who keeps so ill the
faith that he has pledged.'

Such, in brief, were the words of the letter, words that made me
set out at once without waiting any longer for reply or money; for I
now saw clearly that it was not the purchase of horses but of his
own pleasure that had made Don Fernando send me to his brother. The
exasperation I felt against Don Fernando, joined with the fear of
losing the prize I had won by so many years of love and devotion, lent
me wings; so that almost flying I reached home the same day, by the
hour which served for speaking with Luscinda. I arrived unobserved,
and left the mule on which I had come at the house of the worthy man
who had brought me the letter, and fortune was pleased to be for
once so kind that I found Luscinda at the grating that was the witness
of our loves. She recognised me at once, and I her, but not as she
ought to have recognised me, or I her. But who is there in the world
that can boast of having fathomed or understood the wavering mind
and unstable nature of a woman? Of a truth no one. To proceed: as soon
as Luscinda saw me she said, 'Cardenio, I am in my bridal dress, and
the treacherous Don Fernando and my covetous father are waiting for me
in the hall with the other witnesses, who shall be the witnesses of my
death before they witness my betrothal. Be not distressed, my
friend, but contrive to be present at this sacrifice, and if that
cannot be prevented by my words, I have a dagger concealed which


will prevent more deliberate violence, putting an end to my life and
giving thee a first proof of the love I have borne and bear thee.' I
replied to her distractedly and hastily, in fear lest I should not
have time to reply, 'May thy words be verified by thy deeds, lady; and
if thou hast a dagger to save thy honour, I have a sword to defend
thee or kill myself if fortune be against us.'

I think she could not have heard all these wordsfor I perceived
that they called her away in hasteas the bridegroom was waiting. Now
the night of my sorrow set inthe sun of my happiness went downI
felt my eyes bereft of sightmy mind of reason. I could not enter the
housenor was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important
it was that I should be present at what might take place on the
occasionI nerved myself as best I could and went infor I well knew
all the entrances and outlets; and besideswith the confusion that in
secret pervaded the house no one took notice of mesowithout
being seenI found an opportunity of placing myself in the recess
formed by a window of the hall itselfand concealed by the ends and
borders of two tapestriesfrom between which I couldwithout being
seensee all that took place in the room. Who could describe the
agitation of heart I suffered as I stood there- the thoughts that came
to me- the reflections that passed through my mind? They were such
as cannot benor were it well they should betold. Suffice it to say
that the bridegroom entered the hall in his usual dresswithout
ornament of any kind; as groomsman he had with him a cousin of
Luscinda's and except the servants of the house there was no one
else in the chamber. Soon afterwards Luscinda came out from an
antechamberattended by her mother and two of her damselsarrayed
and adorned as became her rank and beautyand in full festival and
ceremonial attire. My anxiety and distraction did not allow me to
observe or notice particularly what she wore; I could only perceive
the colourswhich were crimson and whiteand the glitter of the gems
and jewels on her head dress and apparelsurpassed by the rare beauty
of her lovely auburn hair that vying with the precious stones and
the light of the four torches that stood in the hall shone with a
brighter gleam than all. Oh memorymortal foe of my peace! why
bring before me now the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of
mine? Were it not bettercruel memoryto remind me and recall what
she then didthat stirred by a wrong so glaring I may seekif not
vengeance nowat least to rid myself of life? Be not wearysirs
of listening to these digressions; my sorrow is not one of those
that can or should be told tersely and brieflyfor to me each
incident seems to call for many words."

To this the curate replied that not only were they not weary of
listening to himbut that the details he mentioned interested them
greatlybeing of a kind by no means to be omitted and deserving of
the same attention as the main story.

To proceed, then,continued Cardenio: "all being assembled in
the hallthe priest of the parish came in and as he took the pair
by the hand to perform the requisite ceremonyat the words'Will
youSenora Luscindatake Senor Don Fernandohere presentfor
your lawful husbandas the holy Mother Church ordains?' I thrust my
head and neck out from between the tapestriesand with eager ears and
throbbing heart set myself to listen to Luscinda's answerawaiting in
her reply the sentence of death or the grant of life. Ohthat I had
but dared at that moment to rush forward crying aloud'Luscinda
Luscinda! have a care what thou dost; remember what thou owest me;
bethink thee thou art mine and canst not be another's; reflect that
thy utterance of "Yes" and the end of my life will come at the same
instant. Otreacherous Don Fernando! robber of my glorydeath of
my life! What seekest thou? Remember that thou canst not as a
Christian attain the object of thy wishesfor Luscinda is my bride


and I am her husband!' Fool that I am! now that I am far awayand out
of dangerI say I should have done what I did not do: now that I have
allowed my precious treasure to be robbed from meI curse the robber
on whom I might have taken vengeance had I as much heart for it as I
have for bewailing my fate; in shortas I was then a coward and a
foollittle wonder is it if I am now dying shame-stricken
remorsefuland mad.

The priest stood waiting for the answer of Luscinda, who for a long
time withheld it; and just as I thought she was taking out the
dagger to save her honour, or struggling for words to make some
declaration of the truth on my behalf, I heard her say in a faint
and feeble voice, 'I will:' Don Fernando said the same, and giving her
the ring they stood linked by a knot that could never be loosed. The
bridegroom then approached to embrace his bride; and she, pressing her
hand upon her heart, fell fainting in her mother's arms. It only
remains now for me to tell you the state I was in when in that consent
that I heard I saw all my hopes mocked, the words and promises of
Luscinda proved falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I had that
instant lost rendered impossible for ever. I stood stupefied, wholly
abandoned, it seemed, by Heaven, declared the enemy of the earth
that bore me, the air refusing me breath for my sighs, the water
moisture for my tears; it was only the fire that gathered strength
so that my whole frame glowed with rage and jealousy. They were all
thrown into confusion by Luscinda's fainting, and as her mother was
unlacing her to give her air a sealed paper was discovered in her
bosom which Don Fernando seized at once and began to read by the light
of one of the torches. As soon as he had read it he seated himself
in a chair, leaning his cheek on his hand in the attitude of one
deep in thought, without taking any part in the efforts that were
being made to recover his bride from her fainting fit.

Seeing all the household in confusionI ventured to come out
regardless whether I were seen or notand determinedif I wereto
do some frenzied deed that would prove to all the world the
righteous indignation of my breast in the punishment of the
treacherous Don Fernandoand even in that of the fickle fainting
traitress. But my fatedoubtless reserving me for greater sorrowsif
such there beso ordered it that just then I had enough and to
spare of that reason which has since been wanting to me; and so
without seeking to take vengeance on my greatest enemies (which
might have been easily takenas all thought of me was so far from
their minds)I resolved to take it upon myselfand on myself to
inflict the pain they deservedperhaps with even greater severity
than I should have dealt out to them had I then slain them; for sudden
pain is soon overbut that which is protracted by tortures is ever
slaying without ending life. In a wordI quitted the house and
reached that of the man with whom I had left my mule; I made him
saddle it for memounted without bidding him farewelland rode out
of the citylike another Lotnot daring to turn my head to look back
upon it; and when I found myself alone in the open countryscreened
by the darkness of the nightand tempted by the stillness to give
vent to my grief without apprehension or fear of being heard or
seenthen I broke silence and lifted up my voice in maledictions upon
Luscinda and Don Fernandoas if I could thus avenge the wrong they
had done me. I called her cruelungratefulfalsethanklessbut
above all covetoussince the wealth of my enemy had blinded the
eyes of her affectionand turned it from me to transfer it to one
to whom fortune had been more generous and liberal. And yetin the
midst of this outburst of execration and upbraidingI found excuses
for hersaying it was no wonder that a young girl in the seclusion of
her parents' housetrained and schooled to obey them alwaysshould
have been ready to yield to their wishes when they offered her for a
husband a gentleman of such distinctionwealthand noble birththat


if she had refused to accept him she would have been thought out of
her sensesor to have set her affection elsewherea suspicion
injurious to her fair name and fame. But then againI saidhad she
declared I was her husbandthey would have seen that in choosing me
she had not chosen so ill but that they might excuse herfor before
Don Fernando had made his offerthey themselves could not have
desiredif their desires had been ruled by reasona more eligible
husband for their daughter than I was; and shebefore taking the last
fatal step of giving her handmight easily have said that I had
already given her minefor I should have come forward to support
any assertion of hers to that effect. In shortI came to the
conclusion that feeble lovelittle reflectiongreat ambitionand
a craving for rankhad made her forget the words with which she had
deceived meencouraged and supported by my firm hopes and
honourable passion.

Thus soliloquising and agitated, I journeyed onward for the
remainder of the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the passes of
these mountains, among which I wandered for three days more without
taking any path or road, until I came to some meadows lying on I
know not which side of the mountains, and there I inquired of some
herdsmen in what direction the most rugged part of the range lay. They
told me that it was in this quarter, and I at once directed my
course hither, intending to end my life here; but as I was making my
way among these crags, my mule dropped dead through fatigue and
hunger, or, as I think more likely, in order to have done with such
a worthless burden as it bore in me. I was left on foot, worn out,
famishing, without anyone to help me or any thought of seeking help:
and so thus I lay stretched on the ground, how long I know not,
after which I rose up free from hunger, and found beside me some
goatherds, who no doubt were the persons who had relieved me in my
need, for they told me how they had found me, and how I had been
uttering ravings that showed plainly I had lost my reason; and since
then I am conscious that I am not always in full possession of it, but
at times so deranged and crazed that I do a thousand mad things,
tearing my clothes, crying aloud in these solitudes, cursing my
fate, and idly calling on the dear name of her who is my enemy, and
only seeking to end my life in lamentation; and when I recover my
senses I find myself so exhausted and weary that I can scarcely
move. Most commonly my dwelling is the hollow of a cork tree large
enough to shelter this miserable body; the herdsmen and goatherds
who frequent these mountains, moved by compassion, furnish me with
food, leaving it by the wayside or on the rocks, where they think I
may perhaps pass and find it; and so, even though I may be then out of
my senses, the wants of nature teach me what is required to sustain
me, and make me crave it and eager to take it. At other times, so they
tell me when they find me in a rational mood, I sally out upon the
road, and though they would gladly give it me, I snatch food by
force from the shepherds bringing it from the village to their huts.
Thus do pass the wretched life that remains to me, until it be
Heaven's will to bring it to a close, or so to order my memory that
I no longer recollect the beauty and treachery of Luscinda, or the
wrong done me by Don Fernando; for if it will do this without
depriving me of life, I will turn my thoughts into some better
channel; if not, I can only implore it to have full mercy on my
soul, for in myself I feel no power or strength to release my body
from this strait in which I have of my own accord chosen to place it.

Suchsirsis the dismal story of my misfortune: say if it be
one that can be told with less emotion than you have seen in me; and
do not trouble yourselves with urging or pressing upon me what
reason suggests as likely to serve for my relieffor it will avail me
as much as the medicine prescribed by a wise physician avails the sick
man who will not take it. I have no wish for health without


Luscinda; and since it is her pleasure to be another'swhen she is or
should be minelet it be mine to be a prey to misery when I might
have enjoyed happiness. She by her fickleness strove to make my ruin
irretrievable; I will strive to gratify her wishes by seeking
destruction; and it will show generations to come that I alone was
deprived of that of which all others in misfortune have a
superabundancefor to them the impossibility of being consoled is
itself a consolationwhile to me it is the cause of greater sorrows
and sufferingsfor I think that even in death there will not be an
end of them."

Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and storyas
full of misfortune as it was of love; but just as the curate was going
to address some words of comfort to himhe was stopped by a voice
that reached his earsaying in melancholy tones what will be told
in the Fourth Part of this narrative; for at this point the sage and
sagacious historianCide Hamete Benengelibrought the Third to a
conclusion.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE
CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA

Happy and fortunate were the times when that most daring knight
Don Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world; for by reason of his
having formed a resolution so honourable as that of seeking to
revive and restore to the world the long-lost and almost defunct order
of knight-errantrywe now enjoy in this age of oursso poor in light
entertainmentnot only the charm of his veracious historybut also
of the tales and episodes contained in it which arein a measure
no less pleasingingeniousand truthfulthan the history itself;
whichresuming its threadcardedspunand woundrelates that just
as the curate was going to offer consolation to Cardeniohe was
interrupted by a voice that fell upon his ear saying in plaintive
tones:

O God! is it possible I have found a place that may serve as a
secret grave for the weary load of this body that I support so
unwillingly? If the solitude these mountains promise deceives me
not, it is so; ah! woe is me! how much more grateful to my mind will
be the society of these rocks and brakes that permit me to complain of
my misfortune to Heaven, than that of any human being, for there is
none on earth to look to for counsel in doubt, comfort in sorrow, or
relief in distress!

All this was heard distinctly by the curate and those with him
and as it seemed to them to be uttered close byas indeed it was
they got up to look for the speakerand before they had gone twenty
paces they discovered behind a rockseated at the foot of an ash
treea youth in the dress of a peasantwhose face they were unable
at the moment to see as he was leaning forwardbathing his feet in
the brook that flowed past. They approached so silently that he did
not perceive thembeing fully occupied in bathing his feetwhich
were so fair that they looked like two pieces of shining crystal
brought forth among the other stones of the brook. The whiteness and
beauty of these feet struck them with surprisefor they did not
seem to have been made to crush clods or to follow the plough and
the oxen as their owner's dress suggested; and sofinding they had
not been noticedthe curatewho was in frontmade a sign to the
other two to conceal themselves behind some fragments of rock that lay
there; which they didobserving closely what the youth was about.


He had on a loose double-skirted dark brown jacket bound tight to
his body with a white cloth; he wore besides breeches and gaiters of
brown clothand on his head a brown montera; and he had the gaiters
turned up as far as the middle of the legwhich verily seemed to be
of pure alabaster.

As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feethe wiped them
with a towel he took from under the monteraon taking off which he
raised his faceand those who were watching him had an opportunity of
seeing a beauty so exquisite that Cardenio said to the curate in a
whisper:

As this is not Luscinda, it is no human creature but a divine
being.

The youth then took off the monteraand shaking his head from
side to side there broke loose and spread out a mass of hair that
the beams of the sun might have envied; by this they knew that what
had seemed a peasant was a lovely womannay the most beautiful the
eyes of two of them had ever beheldor even Cardenio's if they had
not seen and known Luscindafor he afterwards declared that only
the beauty of Luscinda could compare with this. The long auburn
tresses not only covered her shouldersbut such was their length
and abundanceconcealed her all round beneath their massesso that
except the feet nothing of her form was visible. She now used her
hands as a comband if her feet had seemed like bits of crystal in
the waterher hands looked like pieces of driven snow among her
locks; all which increased not only the admiration of the three
beholdersbut their anxiety to learn who she was. With this object
they resolved to show themselvesand at the stir they made in getting
upon their feet the fair damsel raised her headand parting her
hair from before her eyes with both handsshe looked to see who had
made the noiseand the instant she perceived them she started to
her feetand without waiting to put on her shoes or gather up her
hairhastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that she had
beside herandscared and alarmedendeavoured to take flight; but
before she had gone six paces she fell to the groundher delicate
feet being unable to bear the roughness of the stones; seeing which
the three hastened towards herand the curate addressing her first
said:

Stay, senora, whoever you may be, for those whom you see here
only desire to be of service to you; you have no need to attempt a
flight so heedless, for neither can your feet bear it, nor we allow
it.

Taken by surprise and bewilderedshe made no reply to these
words. Theyhowevercame towards herand the curate taking her hand
went on to say:

What your dress would hide, senora, is made known to us by your
hair; a clear proof that it can be no trifling cause that has
disguised your beauty in a garb so unworthy of it, and sent it into
solitudes like these where we have had the good fortune to find you,
if not to relieve your distress, at least to offer you comfort; for no
distress, so long as life lasts, can be so oppressive or reach such
a height as to make the sufferer refuse to listen to comfort offered
with good intention. And so, senora, or senor, or whatever you
prefer to be, dismiss the fears that our appearance has caused you and
make us acquainted with your good or evil fortunes, for from all of us
together, or from each one of us, you will receive sympathy in your
trouble.

While the curate was speakingthe disguised damsel stood as if


spell-boundlooking at them without opening her lips or uttering a
wordjust like a village rustic to whom something strange that he has
never seen before has been suddenly shown; but on the curate
addressing some further words to the same effect to hersighing
deeply she broke silence and said:

Since the solitude of these mountains has been unable to conceal
me, and the escape of my dishevelled tresses will not allow my
tongue to deal in falsehoods, it would be idle for me now to make
any further pretence of what, if you were to believe me, you would
believe more out of courtesy than for any other reason. This being so,
I say I thank you, sirs, for the offer you have made me, which
places me under the obligation of complying with the request you
have made of me; though I fear the account I shall give you of my
misfortunes will excite in you as much concern as compassion, for
you will be unable to suggest anything to remedy them or any
consolation to alleviate them. However, that my honour may not be left
a matter of doubt in your minds, now that you have discovered me to be
a woman, and see that I am young, alone, and in this dress, things
that taken together or separately would be enough to destroy any
good name, I feel bound to tell what I would willingly keep secret
if I could.

All this she who was now seen to be a lovely woman delivered without
any hesitationwith so much ease and in so sweet a voice that they
were not less charmed by her intelligence than by her beautyand as
they again repeated their offers and entreaties to her to fulfil her
promiseshe without further pressingfirst modestly covering her
feet and gathering up her hairseated herself on a stone with the
three placed around herandafter an effort to restrain some tears
that came to her eyesin a clear and steady voice began her story
thus:

In this Andalusia there is a town from which a duke takes a title
which makes him one of those that are called Grandees of Spain. This
nobleman has two sons, the elder heir to his dignity and apparently to
his good qualities; the younger heir to I know not what, unless it
be the treachery of Vellido and the falsehood of Ganelon. My parents
are this lord's vassals, lowly in origin, but so wealthy that if birth
had conferred as much on them as fortune, they would have had
nothing left to desire, nor should I have had reason to fear trouble
like that in which I find myself now; for it may be that my ill
fortune came of theirs in not having been nobly born. It is true
they are not so low that they have any reason to be ashamed of their
condition, but neither are they so high as to remove from my mind
the impression that my mishap comes of their humble birth. They are,
in short, peasants, plain homely people, without any taint of
disreputable blood, and, as the saying is, old rusty Christians, but
so rich that by their wealth and free-handed way of life they are
coming by degrees to be considered gentlefolk by birth, and even by
position; though the wealth and nobility they thought most of was
having me for their daughter; and as they have no other child to
make their heir, and are affectionate parents, I was one of the most
indulged daughters that ever parents indulged.

I was the mirror in which they beheld themselvesthe staff of
their old ageand the object in whichwith submission to Heavenall
their wishes centredand mine were in accordance with theirsfor I
knew their worth; and as I was mistress of their heartsso was I also
of their possessions. Through me they engaged or dismissed their
servants; through my hands passed the accounts and returns of what was
sown and reaped; the oil-millsthe wine-pressesthe count of the
flocks and herdsthe beehivesall in short that a rich farmer like
my father has or can haveI had under my careand I acted as steward


and mistress with an assiduity on my part and satisfaction on theirs
that I cannot well describe to you. The leisure hours left to me after
I had given the requisite orders to the head-shepherdsoverseersand
other labourersI passed in such employments as are not only
allowable but necessary for young girlsthose that the needle
embroidery cushionand spinning wheel usually affordand if to
refresh my mind I quitted them for a whileI found recreation in
reading some devotional book or playing the harpfor experience
taught me that music soothes the troubled mind and relieves
weariness of spirit. Such was the life I led in my parents' house
and if I have depicted it thus minutelyit is not out of ostentation
or to let you know that I am richbut that you may see howwithout
any fault of mineI have fallen from the happy condition I have
describedto the misery I am in at present. The truth isthat
while I was leading this busy lifein a retirement that might compare
with that of a monasteryand unseen as I thought by any except the
servants of the house (for when I went to Mass it was so early in
the morningand I was so closely attended by my mother and the
women of the householdand so thickly veiled and so shythat my eyes
scarcely saw more ground than I trod on)in spite of all thisthe
eyes of loveor idlenessmore properly speakingthat the lynx's
cannot rivaldiscovered mewith the help of the assiduity of Don
Fernando; for that is the name of the younger son of the duke I told
of."

The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fernando
Cardenio changed colour and broke into a sweatwith such signs of
emotion that the curate and the barberwho observed itfeared that
one of the mad fits which they heard attacked him sometimes was coming
upon him; but Cardenio showed no further agitation and remained quiet
regarding the peasant girl with fixed attentionfor he began to
suspect who she was. Shehoweverwithout noticing the excitement
of Cardeniocontinuing her storywent on to say:

And they had hardly discovered me, when, as he owned afterwards, he
was smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in which it
displayed itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long recital of my
woes, I will pass over in silence all the artifices employed by Don
Fernando for declaring his passion for me. He bribed all the
household, he gave and offered gifts and presents to my parents; every
day was like a holiday or a merry-making in our street; by night no
one could sleep for the music; the love letters that used to come to
my hand, no one knew how, were innumerable, full of tender pleadings
and pledges, containing more promises and oaths than there were
letters in them; all which not only did not soften me, but hardened my
heart against him, as if he had been my mortal enemy, and as if
everything he did to make me yield were done with the opposite
intention. Not that the high-bred bearing of Don Fernando was
disagreeable to me, or that I found his importunities wearisome; for
it gave me a certain sort of satisfaction to find myself so sought and
prized by a gentleman of such distinction, and I was not displeased at
seeing my praises in his letters (for however ugly we women may be, it
seems to me it always pleases us to hear ourselves called beautiful)
but that my own sense of right was opposed to all this, as well as the
repeated advice of my parents, who now very plainly perceived Don
Fernando's purpose, for he cared very little if all the world knew it.
They told me they trusted and confided their honour and good name to
my virtue and rectitude alone, and bade me consider the disparity
between Don Fernando and myself, from which I might conclude that
his intentions, whatever he might say to the contrary, had for their
aim his own pleasure rather than my advantage; and if I were at all
desirous of opposing an obstacle to his unreasonable suit, they were
ready, they said, to marry me at once to anyone I preferred, either
among the leading people of our own town, or of any of those in the


neighbourhood; for with their wealth and my good name, a match might
be looked for in any quarter. This offer, and their sound advice
strengthened my resolution, and I never gave Don Fernando a word in
reply that could hold out to him any hope of success, however remote.

All this caution of minewhich he must have taken for coynesshad
apparently the effect of increasing his wanton appetite- for that is
the name I give to his passion for me; had it been what he declared it
to beyou would not know of it nowbecause there would have been
no occasion to tell you of it. At length he learned that my parents
were contemplating marriage for me in order to put an end to his hopes
of obtaining possession of meor at least to secure additional
protectors to watch over meand this intelligence or suspicion made
him act as you shall hear. One nightas I was in my chamber with no
other companion than a damsel who waited on mewith the doors
carefully locked lest my honour should be imperilled through any
carelessnessI know not nor can conceive how it happenedbutwith
all this seclusion and these precautionsand in the solitude and
silence of my retirementI found him standing before mea vision
that so astounded me that it deprived my eyes of sightand my
tongue of speech. I had no power to utter a crynorI thinkdid
he give me time to utter oneas he immediately approached meand
taking me in his arms (foroverwhelmed as I wasI was powerlessI
sayto help myself)he began to make such professions to me that I
know not how falsehood could have had the power of dressing them up to
seem so like truth; and the traitor contrived that his tears should
vouch for his wordsand his sighs for his sincerity.

I, a poor young creature alone, ill versed among my people in cases
such as this, began, I know not how, to think all these lying
protestations true, though without being moved by his sighs and
tears to anything more than pure compassion; and so, as the first
feeling of bewilderment passed away, and I began in some degree to
recover myself, I said to him with more courage than I thought I could
have possessed, 'If, as I am now in your arms, senor, I were in the
claws of a fierce lion, and my deliverance could be procured by
doing or saying anything to the prejudice of my honour, it would no
more be in my power to do it or say it, than it would be possible that
what was should not have been; so then, if you hold my body clasped in
your arms, I hold my soul secured by virtuous intentions, very
different from yours, as you will see if you attempt to carry them
into effect by force. I am your vassal, but I am not your slave;
your nobility neither has nor should have any right to dishonour or
degrade my humble birth; and low-born peasant as I am, I have my
self-respect as much as you, a lord and gentleman: with me your
violence will be to no purpose, your wealth will have no weight,
your words will have no power to deceive me, nor your sighs or tears
to soften me: were I to see any of the things I speak of in him whom
my parents gave me as a husband, his will should be mine, and mine
should be bounded by his; and my honour being preserved even though my
inclinations were not would willingly yield him what you, senor, would
now obtain by force; and this I say lest you should suppose that any
but my lawful husband shall ever win anything of me.' 'If that,'
said this disloyal gentleman, 'be the only scruple you feel, fairest
Dorothea' (for that is the name of this unhappy being), 'see here I
give you my hand to be yours, and let Heaven, from which nothing is
hid, and this image of Our Lady you have here, be witnesses of this
pledge.'

When Cardenio heard her say she was called Dorotheahe showed fresh
agitation and felt convinced of the truth of his former suspicionbut
he was unwilling to interrupt the storyand wished to hear the end of
what he already all but knewso he merely said:


What! is Dorothea your name, senora? I have heard of another of the
same name who can perhaps match your misfortunes. But proceed;
by-and-by I may tell you something that will astonish you as much as
it will excite your compassion.

Dorothea was struck by Cardenio's words as well as by his strange
and miserable attireand begged him if he knew anything concerning
her to tell it to her at oncefor if fortune had left her any
blessing it was courage to bear whatever calamity might fall upon her
as she felt sure that none could reach her capable of increasing in
any degree what she endured already.

I would not let the occasion pass, senora,replied Cardenioof
telling you what I think, if what I suspect were the truth, but so far
there has been no opportunity, nor is it of any importance to you to
know it.

Be it as it may,replied Dorotheawhat happened in my story
was that Don Fernando, taking an image that stood in the chamber,
placed it as a witness of our betrothal, and with the most binding
words and extravagant oaths gave me his promise to become my
husband; though before he had made an end of pledging himself I bade
him consider well what he was doing, and think of the anger his father
would feel at seeing him married to a peasant girl and one of his
vassals; I told him not to let my beauty, such as it was, blind him,
for that was not enough to furnish an excuse for his transgression;
and if in the love he bore me he wished to do me any kindness, it
would be to leave my lot to follow its course at the level my
condition required; for marriages so unequal never brought
happiness, nor did they continue long to afford the enjoyment they
began with.

All this that I have now repeated I said to himand much more
which I cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to
forego his purpose; he who has no intention of paying does not trouble
himself about difficulties when he is striking the bargain. At the
same time I argued the matter briefly in my own mindsaying to
myself'I shall not be the first who has risen through marriage
from a lowly to a lofty stationnor will Don Fernando be the first
whom beauty oras is more likelya blind attachmenthas led to mate
himself below his rank. Thensince I am introducing no new usage or
practiceI may as well avail myself of the honour that chance
offers mefor even though his inclination for me should not outlast
the attainment of his wishesI shall beafter allhis wife before
God. And if I strive to repel him by scornI can see thatfair means
failinghe is in a mood to use forceand I shall be left dishonoured
and without any means of proving my innocence to those who cannot know
how innocently I have come to be in this position; for what
arguments would persuade my parents that this gentleman entered my
chamber without my consent?'

All these questions and answers passed through my mind in a moment;
but the oaths of Don Fernando, the witnesses he appealed to, the tears
he shed, and lastly the charms of his person and his high-bred
grace, which, accompanied by such signs of genuine love, might well
have conquered a heart even more free and coy than mine- these were
the things that more than all began to influence me and lead me
unawares to my ruin. I called my waiting-maid to me, that there
might be a witness on earth besides those in Heaven, and again Don
Fernando renewed and repeated his oaths, invoked as witnesses fresh
saints in addition to the former ones, called down upon himself a
thousand curses hereafter should he fail to keep his promise, shed
more tears, redoubled his sighs and pressed me closer in his arms,
from which he had never allowed me to escape; and so I was left by


my maid, and ceased to be one, and he became a traitor and a
perjured man.

The day which followed the night of my misfortune did not come so
quicklyI imagineas Don Fernando wishedfor when desire has
attained its objectthe greatest pleasure is to fly from the scene of
pleasure. I say so because Don Fernando made all haste to leave me
and by the adroitness of my maidwho was indeed the one who had
admitted himgained the street before daybreak; but on taking leave
of me he told methough not with as much earnestness and fervour as
when he camethat I might rest assured of his faith and of the
sanctity and sincerity of his oaths; and to confirm his words he
drew a rich ring off his finger and placed it upon mine. He then
took his departure and I was leftI know not whether sorrowful or
happy; all I can say isI was left agitated and troubled in mind
and almost bewildered by what had taken placeand I had not the
spiritor else it did not occur to meto chide my maid for the
treachery she had been guilty of in concealing Don Fernando in my
chamber; for as yet I was unable to make up my mind whether what had
befallen me was for good or evil. I told Don Fernando at partingthat
as I was now hishe might see me on other nights in the same way
until it should be his pleasure to let the matter become known; but
except the following nighthe came no morenor for more than a month
could I catch a glimpse of him in the street or in churchwhile I
wearied myself with watching for one; although I knew he was in the
townand almost every day went out huntinga pastime he was very
fond of. I remember well how sad and dreary those days and hours
were to me; I remember well how I began to doubt as they went by
and even to lose confidence in the faith of Don Fernando; and I
remembertoohow my maid heard those words in reproof of her
audacity that she had not heard beforeand how I was forced to put
a constraint on my tears and on the expression of my countenance
not to give my parents cause to ask me why I was so melancholyand
drive me to invent falsehoods in reply. But all this was suddenly
brought to an endfor the time came when all such considerations were
disregardedand there was no further question of honourwhen my
patience gave way and the secret of my heart became known abroad.
The reason wasthat a few days later it was reported in the town that
Don Fernando had been married in a neighbouring city to a maiden of
rare beautythe daughter of parents of distinguished positionthough
not so rich that her portion would entitle her to look for so
brilliant a match; it was saidtoothat her name was Luscindaand
that at the betrothal some strange things had happened."

Cardenio heard the name of Luscindabut he only shrugged his
shouldersbit his lipsbent his browsand before long two streams
of tears escaped from his eyes. Dorotheahoweverdid not interrupt
her storybut went on in these words:

This sad intelligence reached my ears, and, instead of being struck
with a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that I
scarcely restrained myself from rushing out into the streets, crying
aloud and proclaiming openly the perfidy and treachery of which I
was the victim; but this transport of rage was for the time checked by
a resolution I formed, to be carried out the same night, and that
was to assume this dress, which I got from a servant of my father's,
one of the zagals, as they are called in farmhouses, to whom I
confided the whole of my misfortune, and whom I entreated to accompany
me to the city where I heard my enemy was. He, though he
remonstrated with me for my boldness, and condemned my resolution,
when he saw me bent upon my purpose, offered to bear me company, as he
said, to the end of the world. I at once packed up in a linen
pillow-case a woman's dress, and some jewels and money to provide
for emergencies, and in the silence of the night, without letting my


treacherous maid know, I sallied forth from the house, accompanied
by my servant and abundant anxieties, and on foot set out for the
city, but borne as it were on wings by my eagerness to reach it, if
not to prevent what I presumed to be already done, at least to call
upon Don Fernando to tell me with what conscience he had done it. I
reached my destination in two days and a half, and on entering the
city inquired for the house of Luscinda's parents. The first person
I asked gave me more in reply than I sought to know; he showed me
the house, and told me all that had occurred at the betrothal of the
daughter of the family, an affair of such notoriety in the city that
it was the talk of every knot of idlers in the street. He said that on
the night of Don Fernando's betrothal with Luscinda, as soon as she
had consented to be his bride by saying 'Yes,' she was taken with a
sudden fainting fit, and that on the bridegroom approaching to
unlace the bosom of her dress to give her air, he found a paper in her
own handwriting, in which she said and declared that she could not
be Don Fernando's bride, because she was already Cardenio's, who,
according to the man's account, was a gentleman of distinction of
the same city; and that if she had accepted Don Fernando, it was
only in obedience to her parents. In short, he said, the words of
the paper made it clear she meant to kill herself on the completion of
the betrothal, and gave her reasons for putting an end to herself
all which was confirmed, it was said, by a dagger they found somewhere
in her clothes. On seeing this, Don Fernando, persuaded that
Luscinda had befooled, slighted, and trifled with him, assailed her
before she had recovered from her swoon, and tried to stab her with
the dagger that had been found, and would have succeeded had not her
parents and those who were present prevented him. It was said,
moreover, that Don Fernando went away at once, and that Luscinda did
not recover from her prostration until the next day, when she told her
parents how she was really the bride of that Cardenio I have
mentioned. I learned besides that Cardenio, according to report, had
been present at the betrothal; and that upon seeing her betrothed
contrary to his expectation, he had quitted the city in despair,
leaving behind him a letter declaring the wrong Luscinda had done him,
and his intention of going where no one should ever see him again. All
this was a matter of notoriety in the city, and everyone spoke of
it; especially when it became known that Luscinda was missing from her
father's house and from the city, for she was not to be found
anywhere, to the distraction of her parents, who knew not what steps
to take to recover her. What I learned revived my hopes, and I was
better pleased not to have found Don Fernando than to find him
married, for it seemed to me that the door was not yet entirely shut
upon relief in my case, and I thought that perhaps Heaven had put this
impediment in the way of the second marriage, to lead him to recognise
his obligations under the former one, and reflect that as a
Christian he was bound to consider his soul above all human objects.
All this passed through my mind, and I strove to comfort myself
without comfort, indulging in faint and distant hopes of cherishing
that life that I now abhor.

But while I was in the cityuncertain what to doas I could not
find Don FernandoI heard notice given by the public crier offering a
great reward to anyone who should find meand giving the
particulars of my age and of the very dress I wore; and I heard it
said that the lad who came with me had taken me away from my
father's house; a thing that cut me to the heartshowing how low my
good name had fallensince it was not enough that I should lose it by
my flightbut they must add with whom I had fledand that one so
much beneath me and so unworthy of my consideration. The instant I
heard the notice I quitted the city with my servantwho now began
to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to meand the same night
for fear of discoverywe entered the most thickly wooded part of
these mountains. Butas is commonly saidone evil calls up another


and the end of one misfortune is apt to be the beginning of one
still greaterand so it proved in my case; for my worthy servant
until then so faithful and trusty when he found me in this lonely
spotmoved more by his own villainy than by my beautysought to take
advantage of the opportunity which these solitudes seemed to present
himand with little shame and less fear of God and respect for me
began to make overtures to me; and finding that I replied to the
effrontery of his proposals with justly severe languagehe laid aside
the entreaties which he had employed at firstand began to use
violence. But just Heaventhat seldom fails to watch over and aid
good intentionsso aided mine that with my slight strength and with
little exertion I pushed him over a precipicewhere I left him
whether dead or alive I know not; and thenwith greater speed than
seemed possible in my terror and fatigueI made my way into the
mountainswithout any other thought or purpose save that of hiding
myself among themand escaping my father and those despatched in
search of me by his orders. It is now I know not how many months since
with this object I came herewhere I met a herdsman who engaged me as
his servant at a place in the heart of this Sierraand all this
time I have been serving him as herdstriving to keep always afield
to hide these locks which have now unexpectedly betrayed me. But all
my care and pains were unavailingfor my master made the discovery
that I was not a manand harboured the same base designs as my
servant; and as fortune does not always supply a remedy in cases of
difficultyand I had no precipice or ravine at hand down which to
fling the master and cure his passionas I had in the servant's case
I thought it a lesser evil to leave him and again conceal myself among
these cragsthan make trial of my strength and argument with him. So
as I sayonce more I went into hiding to seek for some place where
I might with sighs and tears implore Heaven to have pity on my misery
and grant me help and strength to escape from itor let me die
among the solitudesleaving no trace of an unhappy being whoby no
fault of hershas furnished matter for talk and scandal at home and
abroad."

CHAPTER XXIX

WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR
LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF

Such, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures; judge for
yourselves now whether the sighs and lamentations you heard, and the
tears that flowed from my eyes, had not sufficient cause even if I had
indulged in them more freely; and if you consider the nature of my
misfortune you will see that consolation is idle, as there is no
possible remedy for it. All I ask of you is, what you may easily and
reasonably do, to show me where I may pass my life unharassed by the
fear and dread of discovery by those who are in search of me; for
though the great love my parents bear me makes me feel sure of being
kindly received by them, so great is my feeling of shame at the mere
thought that I cannot present myself before them as they expect,
that I had rather banish myself from their sight for ever than look
them in the face with the reflection that they beheld mine stripped of
that purity they had a right to expect in me.

With these words she became silentand the colour that overspread
her face showed plainly the pain and shame she was suffering at heart.
In theirs the listeners felt as much pity as wonder at her
misfortunes; but as the curate was just about to offer her some
consolation and advice Cardenio forestalled himsayingSo then,
senora, you are the fair Dorothea, the only daughter of the rich


Clenardo?Dorothea was astonished at hearing her father's nameand
at the miserable appearance of him who mentioned itfor it has been
already said how wretchedly clad Cardenio was; so she said to him:

And who may you be, brother, who seem to know my father's name so
well? For so far, if I remember rightly, I have not mentioned it in
the whole story of my misfortunes.

I am that unhappy being, senora,replied Cardeniowhom, as you
have said, Luscinda declared to be her husband; I am the unfortunate
Cardenio, whom the wrong-doing of him who has brought you to your
present condition has reduced to the state you see me in, bare,
ragged, bereft of all human comfort, and what is worse, of reason, for
I only possess it when Heaven is pleased for some short space to
restore it to me. I, Dorothea, am he who witnessed the wrong done by
Don Fernando, and waited to hear the 'Yes' uttered by which Luscinda
owned herself his betrothed: I am he who had not courage enough to see
how her fainting fit ended, or what came of the paper that was found
in her bosom, because my heart had not the fortitude to endure so many
strokes of ill-fortune at once; and so losing patience I quitted the
house, and leaving a letter with my host, which I entreated him to
place in Luscinda's hands, I betook myself to these solitudes,
resolved to end here the life I hated as if it were my mortal enemy.
But fate would not rid me of it, contenting itself with robbing me
of my reason, perhaps to preserve me for the good fortune I have had
in meeting you; for if that which you have just told us be true, as
I believe it to be, it may be that Heaven has yet in store for both of
us a happier termination to our misfortunes than we look for;
because seeing that Luscinda cannot marry Don Fernando, being mine, as
she has herself so openly declared, and that Don Fernando cannot marry
her as he is yours, we may reasonably hope that Heaven will restore to
us what is ours, as it is still in existence and not yet alienated
or destroyed. And as we have this consolation springing from no very
visionary hope or wild fancy, I entreat you, senora, to form new
resolutions in your better mind, as I mean to do in mine, preparing
yourself to look forward to happier fortunes; for I swear to you by
the faith of a gentleman and a Christian not to desert you until I see
you in possession of Don Fernando, and if I cannot by words induce him
to recognise his obligation to you, in that case to avail myself of
the right which my rank as a gentleman gives me, and with just cause
challenge him on account of the injury he has done you, not
regarding my own wrongs, which I shall leave to Heaven to avenge,
while I on earth devote myself to yours.

Cardenio's words completed the astonishment of Dorotheaand not
knowing how to return thanks for such an offershe attempted to
kiss his feet; but Cardenio would not permit itand the licentiate
replied for bothcommended the sound reasoning of Cardenioand
lastlybeggedadvisedand urged them to come with him to his
villagewhere they might furnish themselves with what they needed
and take measures to discover Don Fernandoor restore Dorothea to her
parentsor do what seemed to them most advisable. Cardenio and
Dorothea thanked himand accepted the kind offer he made them; and
the barberwho had been listening to all attentively and in
silenceon his part some kindly words alsoand with no less
good-will than the curate offered his services in any way that might
be of use to them. He also explained to them in a few words the object
that had brought them thereand the strange nature of Don Quixote's
madnessand how they were waiting for his squirewho had gone in
search of him. Like the recollection of a dreamthe quarrel he had
had with Don Quixote came back to Cardenio's memoryand he
described it to the others; but he was unable to say what the
dispute was about.


At this moment they heard a shoutand recognised it as coming
from Sancho Panzawhonot finding them where he had left themwas
calling aloud to them. They went to meet himand in answer to their
inquiries about Don Quixotebe told them how he had found him
stripped to his shirtlankyellowhalf dead with hungerand
sighing for his lady Dulcinea; and although he had told him that she
commanded him to quit that place and come to El Tobosowhere she
was expecting himhe had answered that he was determined not to
appear in the presence of her beauty until he had done deeds to make
him worthy of her favour; and if this went onSancho saidhe ran the
risk of not becoming an emperor as in duty boundor even an
archbishopwhich was the least he could be; for which reason they
ought to consider what was to be done to get him away from there.
The licentiate in reply told him not to be uneasyfor they would
fetch him away in spite of himself. He then told Cardenio and Dorothea
what they had proposed to do to cure Don Quixoteor at any rate
take him home; upon which Dorothea said that she could play the
distressed damsel better than the barber; especially as she had
there the dress in which to do it to the lifeand that they might
trust to her acting the part in every particular requisite for
carrying out their schemefor she had read a great many books of
chivalryand knew exactly the style in which afflicted damsels begged
boons of knights-errant.

In that case,said the curatethere is nothing more required
than to set about it at once, for beyond a doubt fortune is
declaring itself in our favour, since it has so unexpectedly begun
to open a door for your relief, and smoothed the way for us to our
object.

Dorothea then took out of her pillow-case a complete petticoat of
some rich stuffand a green mantle of some other fine materialand a
necklace and other ornaments out of a little boxand with these in an
instant she so arrayed herself that she looked like a great and rich
lady. All thisand moreshe saidshe had taken from home in case of
needbut that until then she had had no occasion to make use of it.
They were all highly delighted with her graceairand beautyand
declared Don Fernando to be a man of very little taste when he
rejected such charms. But the one who admired her most was Sancho
Panzafor it seemed to him (what indeed was true) that in all the
days of his life he had never seen such a lovely creature; and he
asked the curate with great eagerness who this beautiful lady wasand
what she wanted in these out-of-the-way quarters.

This fair lady, brother Sancho,replied the curateis no less
a personage than the heiress in the direct male line of the great
kingdom of Micomicon, who has come in search of your master to beg a
boon of him, which is that he redress a wrong or injury that a
wicked giant has done her; and from the fame as a good knight which
your master has acquired far and wide, this princess has come from
Guinea to seek him.

A lucky seeking and a lucky finding!said Sancho Panza at this;
especially if my master has the good fortune to redress that
injury, and right that wrong, and kill that son of a bitch of a
giant your worship speaks of; as kill him he will if he meets him,
unless, indeed, he happens to be a phantom; for my master has no power
at all against phantoms. But one thing among others I would beg of
you, senor licentiate, which is, that, to prevent my master taking a
fancy to be an archbishop, for that is what I'm afraid of, your
worship would recommend him to marry this princess at once; for in
this way he will be disabled from taking archbishop's orders, and will
easily come into his empire, and I to the end of my desires; I have
been thinking over the matter carefully, and by what I can make out


I find it will not do for me that my master should become an
archbishop, because I am no good for the Church, as I am married;
and for me now, having as I have a wife and children, to set about
obtaining dispensations to enable me to hold a place of profit under
the Church, would be endless work; so that, senor, it all turns on
my master marrying this lady at once- for as yet I do not know her
grace, and so I cannot call her by her name.


She is called the Princess Micomicona,said the curate; "for as
her kingdom is Micomiconit is clear that must be her name."


There's no doubt of that,replied Sanchofor I have known many
to take their name and title from the place where they were born and
call themselves Pedro of Alcala, Juan of Ubeda, and Diego of
Valladolid; and it may be that over there in Guinea queens have the
same way of taking the names of their kingdoms.


So it may,said the curate; "and as for your master's marrying
I will do all in my power towards it:" with which Sancho was as much
pleased as the curate was amazed at his simplicity and at seeing
what a hold the absurdities of his master had taken of his fancy
for he had evidently persuaded himself that he was going to be an
emperor.


By this time Dorothea had seated herself upon the curate's muleand
the barber had fitted the ox-tail beard to his faceand they now told
Sancho to conduct them to where Don Quixote waswarning him not to
say that he knew either the licentiate or the barberas his
master's becoming an emperor entirely depended on his not
recognising them; neither the curate nor Cardeniohoweverthought
fit to go with them; Cardenio lest he should remind Don Quixote of the
quarrel he had with himand the curate as there was no necessity
for his presence just yetso they allowed the others to go on
before themwhile they themselves followed slowly on foot. The curate
did not forget to instruct Dorothea how to actbut she said they
might make their minds easyas everything would be done exactly as
the books of chivalry required and described.


They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they
discovered Don Quixote in a wilderness of rocksby this time clothed
but without his armour; and as soon as Dorothea saw him and was told
by Sancho that that was Don Quixoteshe whipped her palfreythe
well-bearded barber following herand on coming up to him her
squire sprang from his mule and came forward to receive her in his
armsand she dismounting with great ease of manner advanced to
kneel before the feet of Don Quixote; and though he strove to raise
her upshe without rising addressed him in this fashion:


From this spot I will not rise, valiant and doughty knight, until
your goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to
the honour and renown of your person and render a service to the
most disconsolate and afflicted damsel the sun has seen; and if the
might of your strong arm corresponds to the repute of your immortal
fame, you are bound to aid the helpless being who, led by the savour
of your renowned name, hath come from far distant lands to seek your
aid in her misfortunes.


I will not answer a word, beauteous lady,replied Don Quixote
nor will I listen to anything further concerning you, until you
rise from the earth.


I will not rise, senor,answered the afflicted damselunless
of your courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me.



I grant and accord it,said Don Quixoteprovided without
detriment or prejudice to my king, my country, or her who holds the
key of my heart and freedom, it may be complied with.

It will not be to the detriment or prejudice of any of them, my
worthy lord,said the afflicted damsel; and here Sancho Panza drew
close to his master's ear and said to him very softlyYour worship
may very safely grant the boon she asks; it's nothing at all; only
to kill a big giant; and she who asks it is the exalted Princess
Micomicona, queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon of Ethiopia.

Let her be who she may,replied Don QuixoteI will do what is my
bounden duty, and what my conscience bids me, in conformity with
what I have professed;and turning to the damsel he saidLet your
great beauty rise, for I grant the boon which you would ask of me.

Then what I ask,said the damselis that your magnanimous person
accompany me at once whither I will conduct you, and that you
promise not to engage in any other adventure or quest until you have
avenged me of a traitor who against all human and divine law, has
usurped my kingdom.

I repeat that I grant it,replied Don Quixote; "and solady
you may from this day forth lay aside the melancholy that distresses
youand let your failing hopes gather new life and strengthfor with
the help of God and of my arm you will soon see yourself restored to
your kingdomand seated upon the throne of your ancient and mighty
realmnotwithstanding and despite of the felons who would gainsay it;
and now hands to the workfor in delay there is apt to be danger."

The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss his
hands; but Don Quixotewho was in all things a polished and courteous
knightwould by no means allow itbut made her rise and embraced her
with great courtesy and politenessand ordered Sancho to look to
Rocinante's girthsand to arm him without a moment's delay. Sancho
took down the armourwhich was hung up on a tree like a trophyand
having seen to the girths armed his master in a tricewho as soon
as he found himself in his armour exclaimed:

Let us be gone in the name of God to bring aid to this great lady.

The barber was all this time on his knees at great pains to hide his
laughter and not let his beard fallfor had it fallen maybe their
fine scheme would have come to nothing; but now seeing the boon
grantedand the promptitude with which Don Quixote prepared to set
out in compliance with ithe rose and took his lady's handand
between them they placed her upon the mule. Don Quixote then mounted
Rocinanteand the barber settled himself on his beastSancho being
left to go on footwhich made him feel anew the loss of his Dapple
finding the want of him now. But he bore all with cheerfulness
being persuaded that his master had now fairly started and was just on
the point of becoming an emperor; for he felt no doubt at all that
he would marry this princessand be king of Micomicon at least. The
only thing that troubled him was the reflection that this kingdom
was in the land of the blacksand that the people they would give him
for vassals would be all black; but for this he soon found a remedy in
his fancyand said he to himselfWhat is it to me if my vassals are
blacks? What more have I to do than make a cargo of them and carry
them to Spain, where I can sell them and get ready money for them, and
with it buy some title or some office in which to live at ease all the
days of my life? Not unless you go to sleep and haven't the wit or
skill to turn things to account and sell three, six, or ten thousand
vassals while you would he talking about it! By God I will stir them
up, big and little, or as best I can, and let them be ever so black


I'll turn them into white or yellow. Come, come, what a fool I am!
And so he jogged onso occupied with his thoughts and easy in his
mind that he forgot all about the hardship of travelling on foot.

Cardenio and the curate were watching all this from among some
bushesnot knowing how to join company with the others; but the
curatewho was very fertile in devicessoon hit upon a way of
effecting their purposeand with a pair of scissors he had in a
case he quickly cut off Cardenio's beardand putting on him a grey
jerkin of his own he gave him a black cloakleaving himself in his
breeches and doubletwhile Cardenio's appearance was so different
from what it had been that he would not have known himself had he seen
himself in a mirror. Having effected thisalthough the others had
gone on ahead while they were disguising themselvesthey easily
came out on the high road before themfor the brambles and awkward
places they encountered did not allow those on horseback to go as fast
as those on foot. They then posted themselves on the level ground at
the outlet of the Sierraand as soon as Don Quixote and his
companions emerged from it the curate began to examine him very
deliberatelyas though he were striving to recognise himand after
having stared at him for some time he hastened towards him with open
arms exclaimingA happy meeting with the mirror of chivalry, my
worthy compatriot Don Quixote of La Mancha, the flower and cream of
high breeding, the protection and relief of the distressed, the
quintessence of knights-errant!And so saying he clasped in his
arms the knee of Don Quixote's left leg. Heastonished at the
stranger's words and behaviourlooked at him attentivelyand at
length recognised himvery much surprised to see him thereand
made great efforts to dismount. Thishoweverthe curate would not
allowon which Don Quixote saidPermit me, senor licentiate, for it
is not fitting that I should be on horseback and so reverend a
person as your worship on foot.

On no account will I allow it,said the curate; "your mightiness
must remain on horsebackfor it is on horseback you achieve the
greatest deeds and adventures that have been beheld in our age; as for
mean unworthy priestit will serve me well enough to mount on the
haunches of one of the mules of these gentlefolk who accompany your
worshipif they have no objectionand I will fancy I am mounted on
the steed Pegasusor on the zebra or charger that bore the famous
MoorMuzaraquewho to this day lies enchanted in the great hill of
Zulemaa little distance from the great Complutum."

Nor even that will I consent to, senor licentiate,answered Don
Quixoteand I know it will be the good pleasure of my lady the
princess, out of love for me, to order her squire to give up the
saddle of his mule to your worship, and he can sit behind if the beast
will bear it.

It will, I am sure,said the princessand I am sure, too, that I
need not order my squire, for he is too courteous and considerate to
allow a Churchman to go on foot when he might be mounted.

That he is,said the barberand at once alightinghe offered his
saddle to the curatewho accepted it without much entreaty; but
unfortunately as the barber was mounting behindthe mulebeing as it
happened a hired onewhich is the same thing as saying
ill-conditionedlifted its hind hoofs and let fly a couple of kicks
in the airwhich would have made Master Nicholas wish his
expedition in quest of Don Quixote at the devil had they caught him on
the breast or head. As it wasthey so took him by surprise that he
came to the groundgiving so little heed to his beard that it fell
offand all he could do when he found himself without it was to cover
his face hastily with both his hands and moan that his teeth were


knocked out. Don Quixote when he saw all that bundle of beard
detachedwithout jaws or bloodfrom the face of the fallen squire
exclaimed:

By the living God, but this is a great miracle! it has knocked
off and plucked away the beard from his face as if it had been
shaved off designedly.

The curateseeing the danger of discovery that threatened his
schemeat once pounced upon the beard and hastened with it to where
Master Nicholas laystill uttering moansand drawing his head to his
breast had it on in an instantmuttering over him some words which he
said were a certain special charm for sticking on beardsas they
would see; and as soon as he had it fixed he left himand the
squire appeared well bearded and whole as beforewhereat Don
Quixote was beyond measure astonishedand begged the curate to
teach him that charm when he had an opportunityas he was persuaded
its virtue must extend beyond the sticking on of beardsfor it was
clear that where the beard had been stripped off the flesh must have
remained torn and laceratedand when it could heal all that it must
be good for more than beards.

And so it is,said the curateand he promised to teach it to
him on the first opportunity. They then agreed that for the present
the curate should mountand that the three should ride by turns until
they reached the innwhich might be about six leagues from where they
were.

Three then being mountedthat is to sayDon Quixotethe princess
and the curateand three on footCardeniothe barberand Sancho
PanzaDon Quixote said to the damsel:

Let your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is most pleasing
to you;but before she could answer the licentiate said:

Towards what kingdom would your ladyship direct our course? Is it
perchance towards that of Micomicon? It must be, or else I know little
about kingdoms.

Shebeing ready on all pointsunderstood that she was to answer
Yes,so she said "Yessenormy way lies towards that kingdom."

In that case,said the curatewe must pass right through my
village, and there your worship will take the road to Cartagena, where
you will be able to embark, fortune favouring; and if the wind be fair
and the sea smooth and tranquil, in somewhat less than nine years
you may come in sight of the great lake Meona, I mean Meotides,
which is little more than a hundred days' journey this side of your
highness's kingdom.

Your worship is mistaken, senor,said she; "for it is not two
years since I set out from itand though I never had good weather
nevertheless I am here to behold what I so longed forand that is
my lord Don Quixote of La Manchawhose fame came to my ears as soon
as I set foot in Spain and impelled me to go in search of himto
commend myself to his courtesyand entrust the justice of my cause to
the might of his invincible arm."

Enough; no more praise,said Don Quixote at thisfor I hate
all flattery; and though this may not be so, still language of the
kind is offensive to my chaste ears. I will only say, senora, that
whether it has might or not, that which it may or may not have shall
be devoted to your service even to death; and now, leaving this to its
proper season, I would ask the senor licentiate to tell me what it


is that has brought him into these parts, alone, unattended, and so
lightly clad that I am filled with amazement.

I will answer that briefly,replied the curate; "you must know
thenSenor Don Quixotethat Master Nicholasour friend and
barberand I were going to Seville to receive some money that a
relative of mine who went to the Indies many years ago had sent me
and not such a small sum but that it was over sixty thousand pieces of
eightfull weightwhich is something; and passing by this place
yesterday we were attacked by four footpadswho stripped us even to
our beardsand them they stripped off so that the barber found it
necessary to put on a false oneand even this young man here"pointing
to Cardenio- "they completely transformed. But the best of it
isthe story goes in the neighbourhood that those who attacked us
belong to a number of galley slaves whothey saywere set free
almost on the very same spot by a man of such valour thatin spite of
the commissary and of the guardshe released the whole of them; and
beyond all doubt he must have been out of his sensesor he must be as
great a scoundrel as theyor some man without heart or conscience
to let the wolf loose among the sheepthe fox among the hensthe fly
among the honey. He has defrauded justiceand opposed his king and
lawful masterfor he opposed his just commands; he hasI sayrobbed
the galleys of their feetstirred up the Holy Brotherhood which for
many years past has been quietandlastlyhas done a deed by
which his soul may be lost without any gain to his body." Sancho had
told the curate and the barber of the adventure of the galley
slaveswhichso much to his gloryhis master had achievedand
hence the curate in alluding to it made the most of it to see what
would be said or done by Don Quixote; who changed colour at every
wordnot daring to say that it was he who had been the liberator of
those worthy people. "Thesethen said the curate, were they who
robbed us; and God in his mercy pardon him who would not let them go
to the punishment they deserved."

CHAPTER XXX

WHICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEAWITH OTHER
MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING

The curate had hardly ceased speakingwhen Sancho saidIn
faith, then, senor licentiate, he who did that deed was my master; and
it was not for want of my telling him beforehand and warning him to
mind what he was about, and that it was a sin to set them at
liberty, as they were all on the march there because they were special
scoundrels.

Blockhead!said Don Quixote at thisit is no business or concern
of knights-errant to inquire whether any persons in affliction, in
chains, or oppressed that they may meet on the high roads go that
way and suffer as they do because of their faults or because of
their misfortunes. It only concerns them to aid them as persons in
need of help, having regard to their sufferings and not to their
rascalities. I encountered a chaplet or string of miserable and
unfortunate people, and did for them what my sense of duty demands
of me, and as for the rest be that as it may; and whoever takes
objection to it, saving the sacred dignity of the senor licentiate and
his honoured person, I say he knows little about chivalry and lies
like a whoreson villain, and this I will give him to know to the
fullest extent with my sword;and so saying he settled himself in his
stirrups and pressed down his morion; for the barber's basinwhich
according to him was Mambrino's helmethe carried hanging at the
saddle-bow until he could repair the damage done to it by the galley
slaves.


Dorotheawho was shrewd and sprightlyand by this time
thoroughly understood Don Quixote's crazy turnand that all except
Sancho Panza were making game of himnot to be behind the rest said
to himon observing his irritationSir Knight, remember the boon
you have promised me, and that in accordance with it you must not
engage in any other adventure, be it ever so pressing; calm
yourself, for if the licentiate had known that the galley slaves had
been set free by that unconquered arm he would have stopped his
mouth thrice over, or even bitten his tongue three times before he
would have said a word that tended towards disrespect of your
worship.

That I swear heartily,said the curateand I would have even
plucked off a moustache.

I will hold my peace, senora,said Don Quixoteand I will curb
the natural anger that had arisen in my breast, and will proceed in
peace and quietness until I have fulfilled my promise; but in return
for this consideration I entreat you to tell me, if you have no
objection to do so, what is the nature of your trouble, and how
many, who, and what are the persons of whom I am to require due
satisfaction, and on whom I am to take vengeance on your behalf?

That I will do with all my heart,replied Dorotheaif it will
not be wearisome to you to hear of miseries and misfortunes.

It will not be wearisome, senora,said Don Quixote; to which
Dorothea repliedWell, if that be so, give me your attention.As
soon as she said thisCardenio and the barber drew close to her side
eager to hear what sort of story the quick-witted Dorothea would
invent for herself; and Sancho did the samefor he was as much
taken in by her as his master; and she having settled herself
comfortably in the saddleand with the help of coughing and other
preliminaries taken time to thinkbegan with great sprightliness of
manner in this fashion.

First of all, I would have you know, sirs, that my name is-and
here she stopped for a momentfor she forgot the name the curate
had given her; but he came to her reliefseeing what her difficulty
wasand saidIt is no wonder, senora, that your highness should
be confused and embarrassed in telling the tale of your misfortunes;
for such afflictions often have the effect of depriving the
sufferers of memory, so that they do not even remember their own
names, as is the case now with your ladyship, who has forgotten that
she is called the Princess Micomicona, lawful heiress of the great
kingdom of Micomicon; and with this cue your highness may now recall
to your sorrowful recollection all you may wish to tell us.

That is the truth,said the damsel; "but I think from this on I
shall have no need of any promptingand I shall bring my true story
safe into portand here it is. The king my fatherwho was called
Tinacrio the Sapientwas very learned in what they call magic arts
and became aware by his craft that my motherwho was called Queen
Jaramillawas to die before he didand that soon after he too was to
depart this lifeand I was to be left an orphan without father or
mother. But all thishe declareddid not so much grieve or
distress him as his certain knowledge that a prodigious giantthe
lord of a great island close to our kingdomPandafilando of the Scowl
by name -for it is averred thatthough his eyes are properly placed
and straighthe always looks askew as if he squintedand this he
does out of malignityto strike fear and terror into those he looks
at- that he knewI saythat this giant on becoming aware of my
orphan condition would overrun my kingdom with a mighty force and


strip me of allnot leaving me even a small village to shelter me;
but that I could avoid all this ruin and misfortune if I were
willing to marry him; howeveras far as he could seehe never
expected that I would consent to a marriage so unequal; and he said no
more than the truth in thisfor it has never entered my mind to marry
that giantor any otherlet him be ever so great or enormous. My
father saidtoothat when he was deadand I saw Pandafilando
about to invade my kingdomI was not to wait and attempt to defend
myselffor that would be destructive to mebut that I should leave
the kingdom entirely open to him if I wished to avoid the death and
total destruction of my good and loyal vassalsfor there would be
no possibility of defending myself against the giant's devilish power;
and that I should at once with some of my followers set out for Spain
where I should obtain relief in my distress on finding a certain
knight-errant whose fame by that time would extend over the whole
kingdomand who would be calledif I remember rightlyDon Azote
or Don Gigote."

'Don Quixote,' he must have said, senora,observed Sancho at this
otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.

That is it,said Dorothea; "he saidmoreoverthat he would be
tall of stature and lank featured; and that on his right side under
the left shoulderor thereaboutshe would have a grey mole with
hairs like bristles."

On hearing thisDon Quixote said to his squireHere, Sancho my
son, bear a hand and help me to strip, for I want to see if I am the
knight that sage king foretold.

What does your worship want to strip for?said Dorothea.

To see if I have that mole your father spoke of,answered Don
Quixote.

There is no occasion to strip,said Sancho; "for I know your
worship has just such a mole on the middle of your backbonewhich
is the mark of a strong man."

That is enough,said Dorotheafor with friends we must not
look too closely into trifles; and whether it be on the shoulder or on
the backbone matters little; it is enough if there is a mole, be it
where it may, for it is all the same flesh; no doubt my good father
hit the truth in every particular, and I have made a lucky hit in
commending myself to Don Quixote; for he is the one my father spoke
of, as the features of his countenance correspond with those
assigned to this knight by that wide fame he has acquired not only
in Spain but in all La Mancha; for I had scarcely landed at Osuna when
I heard such accounts of his achievements, that at once my heart
told me he was the very one I had come in search of.

But how did you land at Osuna, senora,asked Don Quixotewhen it
is not a seaport?

But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her
sayingThe princess meant to say that after she had landed at Malaga
the first place where she heard of your worship was Osuna.

That is what I meant to say,said Dorothea.

And that would be only natural,said the curate. "Will your
majesty please proceed?"

There is no more to add,said Dorotheasave that in finding


Don Quixote I have had such good fortune, that I already reckon and
regard myself queen and mistress of my entire dominions, since of
his courtesy and magnanimity he has granted me the boon of
accompanying me whithersoever I may conduct him, which will be only to
bring him face to face with Pandafilando of the Scowl, that he may
slay him and restore to me what has been unjustly usurped by him:
for all this must come to pass satisfactorily since my good father
Tinacrio the Sapient foretold it, who likewise left it declared in
writing in Chaldee or Greek characters (for I cannot read them),
that if this predicted knight, after having cut the giant's throat,
should be disposed to marry me I was to offer myself at once without
demur as his lawful wife, and yield him possession of my kingdom
together with my person.

What thinkest thou now, friend Sancho?said Don Quixote at this.
Hearest thou that? Did I not tell thee so? See how we have already
got a kingdom to govern and a queen to marry!

On my oath it is so,said Sancho; "and foul fortune to him who
won't marry after slitting Senor Pandahilado's windpipe! And thenhow
illfavoured the queen is! I wish the fleas in my bed were that sort!"

And so saying he cut a couple of capers in the air with every sign
of extreme satisfactionand then ran to seize the bridle of
Dorothea's muleand checking it fell on his knees before herbegging
her to give him her hand to kiss in token of his acknowledgment of her
as his queen and mistress. Which of the bystanders could have helped
laughing to see the madness of the master and the simplicity of the
servant? Dorothea therefore gave her handand promised to make him
a great lord in her kingdomwhen Heaven should be so good as to
permit her to recover and enjoy itfor which Sancho returned thanks
in words that set them all laughing again.

This, sirs,continued Dorotheais my story; it only remains to
tell you that of all the attendants I took with me from my kingdom I
have none left except this well-bearded squire, for all were drowned
in a great tempest we encountered when in sight of port; and he and
I came to land on a couple of planks as if by a miracle; and indeed
the whole course of my life is a miracle and a mystery as you may have
observed; and if I have been over minute in any respect or not as
precise as I ought, let it be accounted for by what the licentiate
said at the beginning of my tale, that constant and excessive troubles
deprive the sufferers of their memory.

They shall not deprive me of mine, exalted and worthy princess,
said Don Quixotehowever great and unexampled those which I shall
endure in your service may be; and here I confirm anew the boon I have
promised you, and I swear to go with you to the end of the world until
I find myself in the presence of your fierce enemy, whose haughty head
I trust by the aid of my arm to cut off with the edge of this- I
will not say good sword, thanks to Gines de Pasamonte who carried away
mine- (this he said between his teethand then continued)and when
it has been cut off and you have been put in peaceful possession of
your realm it shall be left to your own decision to dispose of your
person as may be most pleasing to you; for so long as my memory is
occupied, my will enslaved, and my understanding enthralled by her-
I say no more- it is impossible for me for a moment to contemplate
marriage, even with a Phoenix.

The last words of his master about not wanting to marry were so
disagreeable to Sancho that raising his voice he exclaimed with
great irritation:

By my oath, Senor Don Quixote, you are not in your right senses;


for how can your worship possibly object to marrying such an exalted
princess as this? Do you think Fortune will offer you behind every
stone such a piece of luck as is offered you now? Is my lady
Dulcinea fairer, perchance? Not she; nor half as fair; and I will even
go so far as to say she does not come up to the shoe of this one here.
A poor chance I have of getting that county I am waiting for if your
worship goes looking for dainties in the bottom of the sea. In the
devil's name, marry, marry, and take this kingdom that comes to hand
without any trouble, and when you are king make me a marquis or
governor of a province, and for the rest let the devil take it all.

Don Quixotewhen he heard such blasphemies uttered against his lady
Dulcineacould not endure itand lifting his pikewithout saying
anything to Sancho or uttering a wordhe gave him two such thwacks
that he brought him to the ground; and had it not been that Dorothea
cried out to him to spare him he would have no doubt taken his life on
the spot.

Do you think,he said to him after a pauseyou scurvy clown,
that you are to be always interfering with me, and that you are to
be always offending and I always pardoning? Don't fancy it, impious
scoundrel, for that beyond a doubt thou art, since thou hast set thy
tongue going against the peerless Dulcinea. Know you not, lout,
vagabond, beggar, that were it not for the might that she infuses into
my arm I should not have strength enough to kill a flea? Say,
scoffer with a viper's tongue, what think you has won this kingdom and
cut off this giant's head and made you a marquis (for all this I count
as already accomplished and decided), but the might of Dulcinea,
employing my arm as the instrument of her achievements? She fights
in me and conquers in me, and I live and breathe in her, and owe my
life and being to her. O whoreson scoundrel, how ungrateful you are,
you see yourself raised from the dust of the earth to be a titled
lord, and the return you make for so great a benefit is to speak
evil of her who has conferred it upon you!

Sancho was not so stunned but that he heard all his master saidand
rising with some degree of nimbleness he ran to place himself behind
Dorothea's palfreyand from that position he said to his master:

Tell me, senor; if your worship is resolved not to marry this great
princess, it is plain the kingdom will not be yours; and not being so,
how can you bestow favours upon me? That is what I complain of. Let
your worship at any rate marry this queen, now that we have got her
here as if showered down from heaven, and afterwards you may go back
to my lady Dulcinea; for there must have been kings in the world who
kept mistresses. As to beauty, I have nothing to do with it; and if
the truth is to be told, I like them both; though I have never seen
the lady Dulcinea.

How! never seen her, blasphemous traitor!exclaimed Don Quixote;
hast thou not just now brought me a message from her?

I mean,said Sanchothat I did not see her so much at my leisure
that I could take particular notice of her beauty, or of her charms
piecemeal; but taken in the lump I like her.

Now I forgive thee,said Don Quixote; "and do thou forgive me
the injury I have done thee; for our first impulses are not in our
control."

That I see,replied Sanchoand with me the wish to speak is
always the first impulse, and I cannot help saying, once at any
rate, what I have on the tip of my tongue.


For all that, Sancho,said Don Quixotetake heed of what thou
sayest, for the pitcher goes so often to the well- I need say no
more to thee.

Well, well,said SanchoGod is in heaven, and sees all tricks,
and will judge who does most harm, I in not speaking right, or your
worship in not doing it.

That is enough,said Dorothea; "runSanchoand kiss your
lord's hand and beg his pardonand henceforward be more circumspect
with your praise and abuse; and say nothing in disparagement of that
lady Tobosoof whom I know nothing save that I am her servant; and
put your trust in Godfor you will not fail to obtain some dignity so
as to live like a prince."

Sancho advanced hanging his head and begged his master's handwhich
Don Quixote with dignity presented to himgiving him his blessing
as soon as he had kissed it; he then bade him go on ahead a littleas
he had questions to ask him and matters of great importance to discuss
with him. Sancho obeyedand when the two had gone some distance in
advance Don Quixote said to himSince thy return I have had no
opportunity or time to ask thee many particulars touching thy
mission and the answer thou hast brought back, and now that chance has
granted us the time and opportunity, deny me not the happiness thou
canst give me by such good news.

Let your worship ask what you will,answered Sanchofor I
shall find a way out of all as as I found a way in; but I implore you,
senor, not not to be so revengeful in future.

Why dost thou say that, Sancho?said Don Quixote.

I say it,he returnedbecause those blows just now were more
because of the quarrel the devil stirred up between us both the
other night, than for what I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I
love and reverence as I would a relic- though there is nothing of that
about her- merely as something belonging to your worship.

Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho,said Don
Quixotefor it is displeasing to me; I have already pardoned thee
for that, and thou knowest the common saying, 'for a fresh sin a fresh
penance.'

While this was going on they saw coming along the road they were
following a man mounted on an asswho when he came close seemed to be
a gipsy; but Sancho Panzawhose eyes and heart were there wherever he
saw assesno sooner beheld the man than he knew him to be Gines de
Pasamonte; and by the thread of the gipsy he got at the ballhis ass
for it wasin factDapple that carried Pasamontewho to escape
recognition and to sell the ass had disguised himself as a gipsy
being able to speak the gipsy languageand many moreas well as if
they were his own. Sancho saw him and recognised himand the
instant he did so he shouted to himGinesillo, you thief, give up my
treasure, release my life, embarrass thyself not with my repose,
quit my ass, leave my delight, be off, rip, get thee gone, thief,
and give up what is not thine.

There was no necessity for so many words or objurgationsfor at the
first one Gines jumped downand at a like racing speed made off and
got clear of them all. Sancho hastened to his Dappleand embracing
him he saidHow hast thou fared, my blessing, Dapple of my eyes,
my comrade?all the while kissing him and caressing him as if he were
a human being. The ass held his peaceand let himself be kissed and
caressed by Sancho without answering a single word. They all came up


and congratulated him on having found DappleDon Quixote
especiallywho told him that notwithstanding this he would not cancel
the order for the three ass-coltsfor which Sancho thanked him.

While the two had been going along conversing in this fashionthe
curate observed to Dorothea that she had shown great clevernessas
well in the story itself as in its concisenessand the resemblance it
bore to those of the books of chivalry. She said that she had many
times amused herself reading them; but that she did not know the
situation of the provinces or seaportsand so she had said at
haphazard that she had landed at Osuna.

So I saw,said the curateand for that reason I made haste to
say what I did, by which it was all set right. But is it not a strange
thing to see how readily this unhappy gentleman believes all these
figments and lies, simply because they are in the style and manner
of the absurdities of his books?

So it is,said Cardenio; "and so uncommon and unexampledthat
were one to attempt to invent and concoct it in fictionI doubt if
there be any wit keen enough to imagine it."

But another strange thing about it,said the curateis that,
apart from the silly things which this worthy gentleman says in
connection with his craze, when other subjects are dealt with, he
can discuss them in a perfectly rational manner, showing that his mind
is quite clear and composed; so that, provided his chivalry is not
touched upon, no one would take him to be anything but a man of
thoroughly sound understanding.

While they were holding this conversation Don Quixote continued
his with Sanchosaying:

Friend Panza, let us forgive and forget as to our quarrels, and
tell me now, dismissing anger and irritation, where, how, and when
didst thou find Dulcinea? What was she doing? What didst thou say to
her? What did she answer? How did she look when she was reading my
letter? Who copied it out for thee? and everything in the matter
that seems to thee worth knowing, asking, and learning; neither adding
nor falsifying to give me pleasure, nor yet curtailing lest you should
deprive me of it.

Senor,replied Sanchoif the truth is to be told, nobody
copied out the letter for me, for I carried no letter at all.

It is as thou sayest,said Don Quixotefor the note-book in
which I wrote it I found in my own possession two days after thy
departure, which gave me very great vexation, as I knew not what
thou wouldst do on finding thyself without any letter; and I made sure
thou wouldst return from the place where thou didst first miss it.

So I should have done,said Sanchoif I had not got it by
heart when your worship read it to me, so that I repeated it to a
sacristan, who copied it out for me from hearing it, so exactly that
he said in all the days of his life, though he had read many a
letter of excommunication, he had never seen or read so pretty a
letter as that.

And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Sancho?said Don
Quixote.

No, senor,replied Sanchofor as soon as I had repeated it,
seeing there was no further use for it, I set about forgetting it; and
if I recollect any of it, it is that about 'Scrubbing,'I mean to say


'Sovereign Lady,' and the end 'Yours till death, the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance;' and between these two I put into it more than
three hundred 'my souls' and 'my life's' and 'my eyes.

CHAPTER XXXI

OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA
HIS SQUIRETOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

All that is not unsatisfactory to me,said Don Quixote. "Go on;
thou didst reach her; and what was that queen of beauty doing?
Surely thou didst find her stringing pearlsor embroidering some
device in gold thread for this her enslaved knight."

I did not,said Sanchobut I found her winnowing two bushels
of wheat in the yard of her house.

Then depend upon it,said Don Quixotethe grains of that wheat
were pearls when touched by her hands; and didst thou look, friend?
was it white wheat or brown?

It was neither, but red,said Sancho.

Then I promise thee,said Don Quixotethat, winnowed by her
hands, beyond a doubt the bread it made was of the whitest; but go on;
when thou gavest her my letter, did she kiss it? Did she place it on
her head? Did she perform any ceremony befitting it, or what did she
do?

When I went to give it to her,replied Sanchoshe was hard at it
swaying from side to side with a lot of wheat she had in the sieve,
and she said to me, 'Lay the letter, friend, on the top of that
sack, for I cannot read it until I have done sifting all this.

Discreet lady!said Don Quixote; "that was in order to read it
at her leisure and enjoy it; proceedSancho; while she was engaged in
her occupation what converse did she hold with thee? What did she
ask about meand what answer didst thou give? Make haste; tell me
alland let not an atom be left behind in the ink-bottle."

She asked me nothing,said Sancho; "but I told her how your
worship was left doing penance in her servicenaked from the waist
upin among these mountains like a savagesleeping on the ground
not eating bread off a tablecloth nor combing your beardweeping
and cursing your fortune."

In saying I cursed my fortune thou saidst wrong,said Don Quixote;
for rather do I bless it and shall bless it all the days of my life
for having made me worthy of aspiring to love so lofty a lady as
Dulcinea del Toboso.

And so lofty she is,said Sanchothat she overtops me by more
than a hand's-breadth.

What! Sancho,said Don Quixotedidst thou measure with her?

I measured in this way,said Sancho; "going to help her to put a
sack of wheat on the back of an asswe came so close together that
I could see she stood more than a good palm over me."

Well!said Don Quixoteand doth she not of a truth accompany and


adorn this greatness with a thousand million charms of mind! But one
thing thou wilt not deny, Sancho; when thou camest close to her
didst thou not perceive a Sabaean odour, an aromatic fragrance, a, I
know not what, delicious, that I cannot find a name for; I mean a
redolence, an exhalation, as if thou wert in the shop of some dainty
glover?

All I can say is,said Sanchothat I did perceive a little
odour, something goaty; it must have been that she was all in a
sweat with hard work.

It could not be that,said Don Quixotebut thou must have been
suffering from cold in the head, or must have smelt thyself; for I
know well what would be the scent of that rose among thorns, that lily
of the field, that dissolved amber.

Maybe so,replied Sancho; "there often comes from myself that same
odour which then seemed to me to come from her grace the lady
Dulcinea; but that's no wonderfor one devil is like another."

Well then,continued Don Quixotenow she has done sifting the
corn and sent it to the mill; what did she do when she read the
letter?

As for the letter,said Sanchoshe did not read it, for she said
she could neither read nor write; instead of that she tore it up
into small pieces, saying that she did not want to let anyone read
it lest her secrets should become known in the village, and that
what I had told her by word of mouth about the love your worship
bore her, and the extraordinary penance you were doing for her sake,
was enough; and, to make an end of it, she told me to tell your
worship that she kissed your hands, and that she had a greater
desire to see you than to write to you; and that therefore she
entreated and commanded you, on sight of this present, to come out
of these thickets, and to have done with carrying on absurdities,
and to set out at once for El Toboso, unless something else of greater
importance should happen, for she had a great desire to see your
worship. She laughed greatly when I told her how your worship was
called The Knight of the Rueful Countenance; I asked her if that
Biscayan the other day had been there; and she told me he had, and
that he was an honest fellow; I asked her too about the galley slaves,
but she said she had not seen any as yet.

So far all goes well,said Don Quixote; "but tell me what jewel
was it that she gave thee on taking thy leavein return for thy
tidings of me? For it is a usual and ancient custom with knights and
ladies errant to give the squiresdamselsor dwarfs who bring
tidings of their ladies to the knightsor of their knights to the
ladiessome rich jewel as a guerdon for good news' and
acknowledgment of the message."

That is very likely,said Sanchoand a good custom it was, to my
mind; but that must have been in days gone by, for now it would seem
to be the custom only to give a piece of bread and cheese; because
that was what my lady Dulcinea gave me over the top of the yard-wall
when I took leave of her; and more by token it was sheep's-milk
cheese.

She is generous in the extreme,said Don Quixoteand if she
did not give thee a jewel of gold, no doubt it must have been
because she had not one to hand there to give thee; but sleeves are
good after Easter; I shall see her and all shall be made right. But
knowest thou what amazes me, Sancho? It seems to me thou must have
gone and come through the air, for thou hast taken but little more


than three days to go to El Toboso and return, though it is more
than thirty leagues from here to there. From which I am inclined to
think that the sage magician who is my friend, and watches over my
interests (for of necessity there is and must be one, or else I should
not be a right knight-errant), that this same, I say, must have helped
thee to travel without thy knowledge; for some of these sages will
catch up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and without his
knowing how or in what way it happened, he wakes up the next day
more than a thousand leagues away from the place where he went to
sleep. And if it were not for this, knights-errant would not be able
to give aid to one another in peril, as they do at every turn. For a
knight, maybe, is fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some
dragon, or fierce serpent, or another knight, and gets the worst of
the battle, and is at the point of death; but when he least looks
for it, there appears over against him on a cloud, or chariot of fire,
another knight, a friend of his, who just before had been in
England, and who takes his part, and delivers him from death; and at
night he finds himself in his own quarters supping very much to his
satisfaction; and yet from one place to the other will have been two
or three thousand leagues. And all this is done by the craft and skill
of the sage enchanters who take care of those valiant knights; so
that, friend Sancho, I find no difficulty in believing that thou
mayest have gone from this place to El Toboso and returned in such a
short time, since, as I have said, some friendly sage must have
carried thee through the air without thee perceiving it.

That must have been it,said Sanchofor indeed Rocinante went
like a gipsy's ass with quicksilver in his ears.

Quicksilver!said Don Quixoteaye and what is more, a legion
of devils, folk that can travel and make others travel without being
weary, exactly as the whim seizes them. But putting this aside, what
thinkest thou I ought to do about my lady's command to go and see her?
For though I feel that I am bound to obey her mandate, I feel too that
I am debarred by the boon I have accorded to the princess that
accompanies us, and the law of chivalry compels me to have regard
for my word in preference to my inclination; on the one hand the
desire to see my lady pursues and harasses me, on the other my
solemn promise and the glory I shall win in this enterprise urge and
call me; but what I think I shall do is to travel with all speed and
reach quickly the place where this giant is, and on my arrival I shall
cut off his head, and establish the princess peacefully in her
realm, and forthwith I shall return to behold the light that
lightens my senses, to whom I shall make such excuses that she will be
led to approve of my delay, for she will see that it entirely tends to
increase her glory and fame; for all that I have won, am winning, or
shall win by arms in this life, comes to me of the favour she
extends to me, and because I am hers.

Ah! what a sad state your worship's brains are in!said Sancho.
Tell me, senor, do you mean to travel all that way for nothing, and
to let slip and lose so rich and great a match as this where they give
as a portion a kingdom that in sober truth I have heard say is more
than twenty thousand leagues round about, and abounds with all
things necessary to support human life, and is bigger than Portugal
and Castile put together? Peace, for the love of God! Blush for what
you have said, and take my advice, and forgive me, and marry at once
in the first village where there is a curate; if not, here is our
licentiate who will do the business beautifully; remember, I am old
enough to give advice, and this I am giving comes pat to the
purpose; for a sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the
wing, and he who has the good to his hand and chooses the bad, that
the good he complains of may not come to him.


Look here, Sancho,said Don Quixote. "If thou art advising me to
marryin order that immediately on slaying the giant I may become
kingand be able to confer favours on theeand give thee what I have
promisedlet me tell thee I shall be able very easily to satisfy
thy desires without marrying; for before going into battle I will make
it a stipulation thatif I come out of it victoriouseven I do not
marrythey shall give me a portion portion of the kingdomthat I may
bestow it upon whomsoever I chooseand when they give it to me upon
whom wouldst thou have me bestow it but upon thee?"

That is plain speaking,said Sancho; "but let your worship take
care to choose it on the seacoastso that if I don't like the lifeI
may be able to ship off my black vassals and deal with them as I
have said; don't mind going to see my lady Dulcinea nowbut go and
kill this giant and let us finish off this business; for by God it
strikes me it will be one of great honour and great profit."

I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho,said Don Quixoteand
I will take thy advice as to accompanying the princess before going to
see Dulcinea; but I counsel thee not to say anything to any one, or to
those who are with us, about what we have considered and discussed,
for as Dulcinea is so decorous that she does not wish her thoughts
to be known it is not right that I or anyone for me should disclose
them.

Well then, if that be so,said Sanchohow is it that your
worship makes all those you overcome by your arm go to present
themselves before my lady Dulcinea, this being the same thing as
signing your name to it that you love her and are her lover? And as
those who go must perforce kneel before her and say they come from
your worship to submit themselves to her, how can the thoughts of both
of you be hid?

O, how silly and simple thou art!said Don Quixote; "seest thou
notSanchothat this tends to her greater exaltation? For thou
must know that according to our way of thinking in chivalryit is a
high honour to a lady to have many knights-errant in her service
whose thoughts never go beyond serving her for her own sakeand who
look for no other reward for their great and true devotion than that
she should be willing to accept them as her knights."

It is with that kind of love,said SanchoI have heard preachers
say we ought to love our Lord, for himself alone, without being
moved by the hope of glory or the fear of punishment; though for my
part, I would rather love and serve him for what he could do.

The devil take thee for a clown!said Don Quixoteand what
shrewd things thou sayest at times! One would think thou hadst
studied.

In faith, then, I cannot even read.

Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a whileas they
wanted to halt and drink at a little spring there was there. Don
Quixote drew upnot a little to the satisfaction of Sanchofor he
was by this time weary of telling so many liesand in dread of his
master catching him trippingfor though he knew that Dulcinea was a
peasant girl of El Tobosohe had never seen her in all his life.
Cardenio had now put on the clothes which Dorothea was wearing when
they found herand though they were not very goodthey were far
better than those he put off. They dismounted together by the side
of the springand with what the curate had provided himself with at
the inn they appeasedthough not very wellthe keen appetite they
all of them brought with them.


While they were so employed there happened to come by a youth
passing on his waywho stopping to examine the party at the spring
the next moment ran to Don Quixote and clasping him round the legs
began to weep freelysayingO, senor, do you not know me? Look at
me well; I am that lad Andres that your worship released from the
oak-tree where I was tied.

Don Quixote recognised himand taking his hand he turned to those
present and said: "That your worships may see how important it is to
have knights-errant to redress the wrongs and injuries done by
tyrannical and wicked men in this worldI may tell you that some days
ago passing through a woodI heard cries and piteous complaints as of
a person in pain and distress; I immediately hastenedimpelled by
my bounden dutyto the quarter whence the plaintive accents seemed to
me to proceedand I found tied to an oak this lad who now stands
before youwhich in my heart I rejoice atfor his testimony will not
permit me to depart from the truth in any particular. He wasI say
tied to an oaknaked from the waist upand a clownwhom I
afterwards found to be his masterwas scarifying him by lashes with
the reins of his mare. As soon as I saw him I asked the reason of so
cruel a flagellation. The boor replied that he was flogging him
because he was his servant and because of carelessness that
proceeded rather from dishonesty than stupidity; on which this boy
said'Senorhe flogs me only because I ask for my wages.' The master
made I know not what speeches and explanationswhichthough I
listened to themI did not accept. In shortI compelled the clown to
unbind himand to swear he would take him with himand pay him
real by realand perfumed into the bargain. Is not all this true
Andres my son? Didst thou not mark with what authority I commanded
himand with what humility he promised to do all I enjoined
specifiedand required of him? Answer without hesitation; tell
these gentlemen what took placethat they may see that it is as great
an advantage as I say to have knights-errant abroad."

All that your worship has said is quite true,answered the lad;
but the end of the business turned out just the opposite of what your
worship supposes.

How! the opposite?said Don Quixote; "did not the clown pay thee
then?"

Not only did he not pay me,replied the ladbut as soon as
your worship had passed out of the wood and we were alone, he tied
me up again to the same oak and gave me a fresh flogging, that left me
like a flayed Saint Bartholomew; and every stroke he gave me he
followed up with some jest or gibe about having made a fool of your
worship, and but for the pain I was suffering I should have laughed at
the things he said. In short he left me in such a condition that I
have been until now in a hospital getting cured of the injuries
which that rascally clown inflicted on me then; for all which your
worship is to blame; for if you had gone your own way and not come
where there was no call for you, nor meddled in other people's
affairs, my master would have been content with giving me one or two
dozen lashes, and would have then loosed me and paid me what he owed
me; but when your worship abused him so out of measure, and gave him
so many hard words, his anger was kindled; and as he could not revenge
himself on you, as soon as he saw you had left him the storm burst
upon me in such a way, that I feel as if I should never be a man
again.

The mischief,said Don Quixotelay in my going away; for I
should not have gone until I had seen thee paid; because I ought to
have known well by long experience that there is no clown who will


keep his word if he finds it will not suit him to keep it; but thou
rememberest, Andres, that I swore if he did not pay thee I would go
and seek him, and find him though he were to hide himself in the
whale's belly.

That is true,said Andres; "but it was of no use."

Thou shalt see now whether it is of use or not,said Don
Quixote; and so sayinghe got up hastily and bade Sancho bridle
Rocinantewho was browsing while they were eating. Dorothea asked him
what he meant to do. He replied that he meant to go in search of
this clown and chastise him for such iniquitous conductand see
Andres paid to the last maravedidespite and in the teeth of all
the clowns in the world. To which she replied that he must remember
that in accordance with his promise he could not engage in any
enterprise until he had concluded hers; and that as he knew this
better than anyonehe should restrain his ardour until his return
from her kingdom.

That is true,said Don Quixoteand Andres must have patience
until my return as you say, senora; but I once more swear and
promise not to stop until I have seen him avenged and paid.

I have no faith in those oaths,said Andres; "I would rather
have now something to help me to get to Seville than all the
revenges in the world; if you have here anything to eat that I can
take with megive it meand God be with your worship and all
knights-errant; and may their errands turn out as well for
themselves as they have for me."

Sancho took out from his store a piece of bread and another of
cheeseand giving them to the lad he saidHere, take this,
brother Andres, for we have all of us a share in your misfortune.

Why, what share have you got?

This share of bread and cheese I am giving you,answered Sancho;
and God knows whether I shall feel the want of it myself or not;
for I would have you know, friend, that we squires to knights-errant
have to bear a great deal of hunger and hard fortune, and even other
things more easily felt than told.

Andres seized his bread and cheeseand seeing that nobody gave
him anything morebent his headand took hold of the roadas the
saying is. Howeverbefore leaving he saidFor the love of God,
sir knight-errant, if you ever meet me again, though you may see
them cutting me to pieces, give me no aid or succour, but leave me
to my misfortune, which will not be so great but that a greater will
come to me by being helped by your worship, on whom and all the
knights-errant that have ever been born God send his curse.

Don Quixote was getting up to chastise himbut he took to his heels
at such a pace that no one attempted to follow him; and mightily
chapfallen was Don Quixote at Andres' storyand the others had to
take great care to restrain their laughter so as not to put him
entirely out of countenance.

CHAPTER XXXII

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN


Their dainty repast being finishedthey saddled at onceand
without any adventure worth mentioning they reached next day the
innthe object of Sancho Panza's fear and dread; but though he
would have rather not entered itthere was no help for it. The
landladythe landlordtheir daughterand Maritorneswhen they
saw Don Quixote and Sancho comingwent out to welcome them with signs
of hearty satisfactionwhich Don Quixote received with dignity and
gravityand bade them make up a better bed for him than the last
time: to which the landlady replied that if he paid better than he did
the last time she would give him one fit for a prince. Don Quixote
said he wouldso they made up a tolerable one for him in the same
garret as before; and he lay down at oncebeing sorely shaken and
in want of sleep.

No sooner was the door shut upon him than the landlady made at the
barberand seizing him by the beardsaid:

By my faith you are not going to make a beard of my tail any
longer; you must give me back tail, for it is a shame the way that
thing of my husband's goes tossing about on the floor; I mean the comb
that I used to stick in my good tail.

But for all she tugged at it the barber would not give it up until
the licentiate told him to let her have itas there was now no
further occasion for that stratagembecause he might declare
himself and appear in his own characterand tell Don Quixote that
he had fled to this inn when those thieves the galley slaves robbed
him; and should he ask for the princess's squirethey could tell
him that she had sent him on before her to give notice to the people
of her kingdom that she was comingand bringing with her the
deliverer of them all. On this the barber cheerfully restored the tail
to the landladyand at the same time they returned all the
accessories they had borrowed to effect Don Quixote's deliverance. All
the people of the inn were struck with astonishment at the beauty of
Dorotheaand even at the comely figure of the shepherd Cardenio.
The curate made them get ready such fare as there was in the inn
and the landlordin hope of better paymentserved them up a
tolerably good dinner. All this time Don Quixote was asleepand
they thought it best not to waken himas sleeping would now do him
more good than eating.

While at dinnerthe company consisting of the landlordhis wife
their daughterMaritornesand all the travellersthey discussed the
strange craze of Don Quixote and the manner in which he had been
found; and the landlady told them what had taken place between him and
the carrier; and thenlooking round to see if Sancho was there
when she saw he was notshe gave them the whole story of his
blanketingwhich they received with no little amusement. But on the
curate observing that it was the books of chivalry which Don Quixote
had read that had turned his brainthe landlord said:

I cannot understand how that can be, for in truth to my mind
there is no better reading in the world, and I have here two or
three of them, with other writings that are the very life, not only of
myself but of plenty more; for when it is harvest-time, the reapers
flock here on holidays, and there is always one among them who can
read and who takes up one of these books, and we gather round him,
thirty or more of us, and stay listening to him with a delight that
makes our grey hairs grow young again. At least I can say for myself
that when I hear of what furious and terrible blows the knights
deliver, I am seized with the longing to do the same, and I would like
to be hearing about them night and day.

And I just as much,said the landladybecause I never have a


quiet moment in my house except when you are listening to some one
reading; for then you are so taken up that for the time being you
forget to scold.

That is true,said Maritornes; "andfaithI relish hearing these
things greatly toofor they are very pretty; especially when they
describe some lady or another in the arms of her knight under the
orange treesand the duenna who is keeping watch for them half dead
with envy and fright; all this I say is as good as honey."

And you, what do you think, young lady?said the curate turning to
the landlord's daughter.

I don't know indeed, senor,said she; "I listen tooand to tell
the truththough I do not understand itI like hearing it; but it is
not the blows that my father likes that I likebut the laments the
knights utter when they are separated from their ladies; and indeed
they sometimes make me weep with the pity I feel for them."

Then you would console them if it was for you they wept, young
lady?said Dorothea.

I don't know what I should do,said the girl; "I only know that
there are some of those ladies so cruel that they call their knights
tigers and lions and a thousand other foul names: and Jesus! I don't
know what sort of folk they can beso unfeeling and heartlessthat
rather than bestow a glance upon a worthy man they leave him to die or
go mad. I don't know what is the good of such prudery; if it is for
honour's sakewhy not marry them? That's all they want."

Hush, child,said the landlady; "it seems to me thou knowest a
great deal about these thingsand it is not fit for girls to know
or talk so much."

As the gentleman asked me, I could not help answering him,said
the girl.

Well then,said the curatebring me these books, senor landlord,
for I should like to see them.

With all my heart,said heand going into his own room he brought
out an old valise secured with a little chainon opening which the
curate found in it three large books and some manuscripts written in a
very good hand. The first that he opened he found to be "Don
Cirongilio of Thrace and the second Don Felixmarte of Hircania
and the other the History of the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de
Cordovawith the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes."

When the curate read the two first titles he looked over at the
barber and saidWe want my friend's housekeeper and niece here now.

Nay,said the barberI can do just as well to carry them to
the yard or to the hearth, and there is a very good fire there.

What! your worship would burn my books!said the landlord.

Only these two,said the curateDon Cirongilio, and Felixmarte.

Are my books, then, heretics or phlegmaties that you want to burn
them?said the landlord.

Schismatics you mean, friend,said the barbernot phlegmatics.

That's it,said the landlord; "but if you want to burn anylet it


be that about the Great Captain and that Diego Garcia; for I would
rather have a child of mine burnt than either of the others."

Brother,said the curatethose two books are made up of lies,
and are full of folly and nonsense; but this of the Great Captain is a
true history, and contains the deeds of Gonzalo Hernandez of
Cordova, who by his many and great achievements earned the title all
over the world of the Great Captain, a famous and illustrious name,
and deserved by him alone; and this Diego Garcia de Paredes was a
distinguished knight of the city of Trujillo in Estremadura, a most
gallant soldier, and of such bodily strength that with one finger he
stopped a mill-wheel in full motion; and posted with a two-handed
sword at the foot of a bridge he kept the whole of an immense army
from passing over it, and achieved such other exploits that if,
instead of his relating them himself with the modesty of a knight
and of one writing his own history, some free and unbiassed writer had
recorded them, they would have thrown into the shade all the deeds
of the Hectors, Achilleses, and Rolands.

Tell that to my father,said the landlord. "There's a thing to
be astonished at! Stopping a mill-wheel! By God your worship should
read what I have read of Felixmarte of Hircaniahow with one single
backstroke he cleft five giants asunder through the middle as if
they had been made of bean-pods like the little friars the children
make; and another time he attacked a very great and powerful army
in which there were more than a million six hundred thousand soldiers
all armed from head to footand he routed them all as if they had
been flocks of sheep. And thenwhat do you say to the good Cirongilio
of Thracethat was so stout and bold; as may be seen in the book
where it is related that as he was sailing along a river there came up
out of the midst of the water against him a fiery serpentand he
as soon as he saw itflung himself upon it and got astride of its
scaly shouldersand squeezed its throat with both hands with such
force that the serpentfinding he was throttling ithad nothing
for it but to let itself sink to the bottom of the rivercarrying
with it the knight who would not let go his hold; and when they got
down there he found himself among palaces and gardens so pretty that
it was a wonder to see; and then the serpent changed itself into an
old ancient manwho told him such things as were never heard. Hold
your peacesenor; for if you were to hear this you would go mad
with delight. A couple of figs for your Great Captain and your Diego
Garcia!"

Hearing this Dorothea said in a whisper to CardenioOur landlord
is almost fit to play a second part to Don Quixote.

I think so,said Cardeniofor, as he shows, he accepts it as a
certainty that everything those books relate took place exactly as
it is written down; and the barefooted friars themselves would not
persuade him to the contrary.

But consider, brother, said the curate once more, there never
was any Felixmarte of Hircania in the worldnor any Cirongilio of
Thraceor any of the other knights of the same sortthat the books
of chivalry talk of; the whole thing is the fabrication and
invention of idle witsdevised by them for the purpose you describe
of beguiling the timeas your reapers do when they read; for I
swear to you in all seriousness there never were any such knights in
the worldand no such exploits or nonsense ever happened anywhere."

Try that bone on another dog,said the landlord; "as if I did
not know how many make fiveand where my shoe pinches me; don't think
to feed me with papfor by God I am no fool. It is a good joke for
your worship to try and persuade me that everything these good books


say is nonsense and liesand they printed by the license of the Lords
of the Royal Councilas if they were people who would allow such a
lot of lies to be printed all togetherand so many battles and
enchantments that they take away one's senses."

I have told you, friend,said the curatethat this is done to
divert our idle thoughts; and as in well-ordered states games of
chess, fives, and billiards are allowed for the diversion of those who
do not care, or are not obliged, or are unable to work, so books of
this kind are allowed to be printed, on the supposition that, what
indeed is the truth, there can be nobody so ignorant as to take any of
them for true stories; and if it were permitted me now, and the
present company desired it, I could say something about the
qualities books of chivalry should possess to be good ones, that would
be to the advantage and even to the taste of some; but I hope the time
will come when I can communicate my ideas to some one who may be
able to mend matters; and in the meantime, senor landlord, believe
what I have said, and take your books, and make up your mind about
their truth or falsehood, and much good may they do you; and God grant
you may not fall lame of the same foot your guest Don Quixote halts
on.

No fear of that,returned the landlord; "I shall not be so mad
as to make a knight-errant of myself; for I see well enough that
things are not now as they used to be in those dayswhen they say
those famous knights roamed about the world."

Sancho had made his appearance in the middle of this conversation
and he was very much troubled and cast down by what he heard said
about knights-errant being now no longer in vogueand all books of
chivalry being folly and lies; and he resolved in his heart to wait
and see what came of this journey of his master'sand if it did not
turn out as happily as his master expectedhe determined to leave him
and go back to his wife and children and his ordinary labour.

The landlord was carrying away the valise and the booksbut the
curate said to himWait; I want to see what those papers are that
are written in such a good hand.The landlord taking them out
handed them to him to readand he perceived they were a work of about
eight sheets of manuscriptwithin large letters at the beginning
the title of "Novel of the Ill-advised Curiosity." The curate read
three or four lines to himselfand saidI must say the title of
this novel does not seem to me a bad one, and I feel an inclination to
read it all.To which the landlord repliedThen your reverence will
do well to read it, for I can tell you that some guests who have
read it here have been much pleased with it, and have begged it of
me very earnestly; but I would not give it, meaning to return it to
the person who forgot the valise, books, and papers here, for maybe he
will return here some time or other; and though I know I shall miss
the books, faith I mean to return them; for though I am an
innkeeper, still I am a Christian.

You are very right, friend,said the curate; "but for all thatif
the novel pleases me you must let me copy it."

With all my heart,replied the host.

While they were talking Cardenio had taken up the novel and begun to
read itand forming the same opinion of it as the curatehe begged
him to read it so that they might all hear it.

I would read it,said the curateif the time would not be better
spent in sleeping.


It will be rest enough for me,said Dorotheato while away the
time by listening to some tale, for my spirits are not yet tranquil
enough to let me sleep when it would be seasonable.

Well then, in that case,said the curateI will read it, if it
were only out of curiosity; perhaps it may contain something
pleasant.

Master Nicholas added his entreaties to the same effectand
Sancho too; seeing whichand considering that he would give
pleasure to alland receive it himselfthe curate saidWell
then, attend to me everyone, for the novel begins thus.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"

In Florencea rich and famous city of Italy in the province
called Tuscanythere lived two gentlemen of wealth and quality
Anselmo and Lothariosuch great friends that by way of distinction
they were called by all that knew them "The Two Friends." They were
unmarriedyoungof the same age and of the same tasteswhich was
enough to account for the reciprocal friendship between them. Anselmo
it is truewas somewhat more inclined to seek pleasure in love than
Lothariofor whom the pleasures of the chase had more attraction; but
on occasion Anselmo would forego his own tastes to yield to those of
Lotharioand Lothario would surrender his to fall in with those of
Anselmoand in this way their inclinations kept pace one with the
other with a concord so perfect that the best regulated clock could
not surpass it.

Anselmo was deep in love with a high-born and beautiful maiden of
the same citythe daughter of parents so estimableand so
estimable herselfthat he resolvedwith the approval of his friend
Lothariowithout whom he did nothingto ask her of them in marriage
and did soLothario being the bearer of the demandand conducting
the negotiation so much to the satisfaction of his friend that in a
short time he was in possession of the object of his desiresand
Camilla so happy in having won Anselmo for her husbandthat she
gave thanks unceasingly to heaven and to Lotharioby whose means such
good fortune had fallen to her. The first few daysthose of a wedding
being usually days of merry-makingLothario frequented his friend
Anselmo's house as he had been wontstriving to do honour to him
and to the occasionand to gratify him in every way he could; but
when the wedding days were over and the succession of visits and
congratulations had slackenedhe began purposely to leave off going
to the house of Anselmofor it seemed to himas it naturally would
to all men of sensethat friends' houses ought not to be visited
after marriage with the same frequency as in their masters' bachelor
days: becausethough true and genuine friendship cannot and should
not be in any way suspiciousstill a married man's honour is a
thing of such delicacy that it is held liable to injury from brothers
much more from friends. Anselmo remarked the cessation of Lothario's
visitsand complained of it to himsaying that if he had known
that marriage was to keep him from enjoying his society as he usedhe
would have never married; and thatif by the thorough harmony that
subsisted between them while he was a bachelor they had earned such
a sweet name as that of "The Two Friends he should not allow a title
so rare and so delightful to be lost through a needless anxiety to act
circumspectly; and so he entreated him, if such a phrase was allowable
between them, to be once more master of his house and to come in and


go out as formerly, assuring him that his wife Camilla had no other
desire or inclination than that which he would wish her to have, and
that knowing how sincerely they loved one another she was grieved to
see such coldness in him.

To all this and much more that Anselmo said to Lothario to
persuade him to come to his house as he had been in the habit of
doing, Lothario replied with so much prudence, sense, and judgment,
that Anselmo was satisfied of his friend's good intentions, and it was
agreed that on two days in the week, and on holidays, Lothario
should come to dine with him; but though this arrangement was made
between them Lothario resolved to observe it no further than he
considered to be in accordance with the honour of his friend, whose
good name was more to him than his own. He said, and justly, that a
married man upon whom heaven had bestowed a beautiful wife should
consider as carefully what friends he brought to his house as what
female friends his wife associated with, for what cannot be done or
arranged in the market-place, in church, at public festivals or at
stations (opportunities that husbands cannot always deny their wives),
may be easily managed in the house of the female friend or relative in
whom most confidence is reposed. Lothario said, too, that every
married man should have some friend who would point out to him any
negligence he might be guilty of in his conduct, for it will sometimes
happen that owing to the deep affection the husband bears his wife
either he does not caution her, or, not to vex her, refrains from
telling her to do or not to do certain things, doing or avoiding which
may be a matter of honour or reproach to him; and errors of this
kind he could easily correct if warned by a friend. But where is
such a friend to be found as Lothario would have, so judicious, so
loyal, and so true?

Of a truth I know not; Lothario alone was such a one, for with the
utmost care and vigilance he watched over the honour of his friend,
and strove to diminish, cut down, and reduce the number of days for
going to his house according to their agreement, lest the visits of
a young man, wealthy, high-born, and with the attractions he was
conscious of possessing, at the house of a woman so beautiful as
Camilla, should be regarded with suspicion by the inquisitive and
malicious eyes of the idle public. For though his integrity and
reputation might bridle slanderous tongues, still he was unwilling
to hazard either his own good name or that of his friend; and for this
reason most of the days agreed upon he devoted to some other
business which he pretended was unavoidable; so that a great portion
of the day was taken up with complaints on one side and excuses on the
other. It happened, however, that on one occasion when the two were
strolling together outside the city, Anselmo addressed the following
words to Lothario.

Thou mayest supposeLothario my friendthat I am unable to give
sufficient thanks for the favours God has rendered me in making me the
son of such parents as mine wereand bestowing upon me with no
niggard hand what are called the gifts of nature as well as those of
fortuneand above all for what he has done in giving me thee for a
friend and Camilla for a wife- two treasures that I valueif not as
highly as I oughtat least as highly as I am able. And yetwith
all these good thingswhich are commonly all that men need to
enable them to live happilyI am the most discontented and
dissatisfied man in the whole world; forI know not how long sinceI
have been harassed and oppressed by a desire so strange and so
unusualthat I wonder at myself and blame and chide myself when I
am aloneand strive to stifle it and hide it from my own thoughts
and with no better success than if I were endeavouring deliberately to
publish it to all the world; and asin shortit must come outI
would confide it to thy safe keepingfeeling sure that by this means


and by thy readiness as a true friend to afford me reliefI shall
soon find myself freed from the distress it causes meand that thy
care will give me happiness in the same degree as my own folly has
caused me misery."

The words of Anselmo struck Lothario with astonishmentunable as he
was to conjecture the purport of such a lengthy preamble; and though
be strove to imagine what desire it could be that so troubled his
friendhis conjectures were all far from the truthand to relieve
the anxiety which this perplexity was causing himhe told him he
was doing a flagrant injustice to their great friendship in seeking
circuitous methods of confiding to him his most hidden thoughtsfor
be well knew he might reckon upon his counsel in diverting themor
his help in carrying them into effect.

That is the truth,replied Anselmoand relying upon that I
will tell thee, friend Lothario, that the desire which harasses me
is that of knowing whether my wife Camilla is as good and as perfect
as I think her to be; and I cannot satisfy myself of the truth on this
point except by testing her in such a way that the trial may prove the
purity of her virtue as the fire proves that of gold; because I am
persuaded, my friend, that a woman is virtuous only in proportion as
she is or is not tempted; and that she alone is strong who does not
yield to the promises, gifts, tears, and importunities of earnest
lovers; for what thanks does a woman deserve for being good if no
one urges her to be bad, and what wonder is it that she is reserved
and circumspect to whom no opportunity is given of going wrong and who
knows she has a husband that will take her life the first time he
detects her in an impropriety? I do not therefore hold her who is
virtuous through fear or want of opportunity in the same estimation as
her who comes out of temptation and trial with a crown of victory; and
so, for these reasons and many others that I could give thee to
justify and support the opinion I hold, I am desirous that my wife
Camilla should pass this crisis, and be refined and tested by the fire
of finding herself wooed and by one worthy to set his affections
upon her; and if she comes out, as I know she will, victorious from
this struggle, I shall look upon my good fortune as unequalled, I
shall be able to say that the cup of my desire is full, and that the
virtuous woman of whom the sage says 'Who shall find her?' has
fallen to my lot. And if the result be the contrary of what I
expect, in the satisfaction of knowing that I have been right in my
opinion, I shall bear without complaint the pain which my so dearly
bought experience will naturally cause me. And, as nothing of all thou
wilt urge in opposition to my wish will avail to keep me from carrying
it into effect, it is my desire, friend Lothario, that thou shouldst
consent to become the instrument for effecting this purpose that I
am bent upon, for I will afford thee opportunities to that end, and
nothing shall be wanting that I may think necessary for the pursuit of
a virtuous, honourable, modest and high-minded woman. And among
other reasons, I am induced to entrust this arduous task to thee by
the consideration that if Camilla be conquered by thee the conquest
will not be pushed to extremes, but only far enough to account that
accomplished which from a sense of honour will be left undone; thus
I shall not be wronged in anything more than intention, and my wrong
will remain buried in the integrity of thy silence, which I know
well will be as lasting as that of death in what concerns me. If,
therefore, thou wouldst have me enjoy what can be called life, thou
wilt at once engage in this love struggle, not lukewarmly nor
slothfully, but with the energy and zeal that my desire demands, and
with the loyalty our friendship assures me of.

Such were the words Anselmo addressed to Lothariowho listened to
them with such attention thatexcept to say what has been already
mentionedhe did not open his lips until the other had finished. Then


perceiving that he had no more to sayafter regarding him for awhile
as one would regard something never before seen that excited wonder
and amazementhe said to himI cannot persuade myself, Anselmo my
friend, that what thou hast said to me is not in jest; if I thought
that thou wert speaking seriously I would not have allowed thee to
go so far; so as to put a stop to thy long harangue by not listening
to thee I verily suspect that either thou dost not know me, or I do
not know thee; but no, I know well thou art Anselmo, and thou
knowest that I am Lothario; the misfortune is, it seems to me, that
thou art not the Anselmo thou wert, and must have thought that I am
not the Lothario I should be; for the things that thou hast said to me
are not those of that Anselmo who was my friend, nor are those that
thou demandest of me what should be asked of the Lothario thou
knowest. True friends will prove their friends and make use of them,
as a poet has said, usque ad aras; whereby he meant that they will not
make use of their friendship in things that are contrary to God's
will. If this, then, was a heathen's feeling about friendship, how
much more should it be a Christian's, who knows that the divine must
not be forfeited for the sake of any human friendship? And if a friend
should go so far as to put aside his duty to Heaven to fulfil his duty
to his friend, it should not be in matters that are trifling or of
little moment, but in such as affect the friend's life and honour. Now
tell me, Anselmo, in which of these two art thou imperilled, that I
should hazard myself to gratify thee, and do a thing so detestable
as that thou seekest of me? Neither forsooth; on the contrary, thou
dost ask of me, so far as I understand, to strive and labour to rob
thee of honour and life, and to rob myself of them at the same time;
for if I take away thy honour it is plain I take away thy life, as a
man without honour is worse than dead; and being the instrument, as
thou wilt have it so, of so much wrong to thee, shall not I, too, be
left without honour, and consequently without life? Listen to me,
Anselmo my friend, and be not impatient to answer me until I have said
what occurs to me touching the object of thy desire, for there will be
time enough left for thee to reply and for me to hear.

Be it so,said Anselmosay what thou wilt.

Lothario then went on to sayIt seems to me, Anselmo, that thine
is just now the temper of mind which is always that of the Moors,
who can never be brought to see the error of their creed by quotations
from the Holy Scriptures, or by reasons which depend upon the
examination of the understanding or are founded upon the articles of
faith, but must have examples that are palpable, easy, intelligible,
capable of proof, not admitting of doubt, with mathematical
demonstrations that cannot be denied, like, 'If equals be taken from
equals, the remainders are equal:' and if they do not understand
this in words, and indeed they do not, it has to be shown to them with
the hands, and put before their eyes, and even with all this no one
succeeds in convincing them of the truth of our holy religion. This
same mode of proceeding I shall have to adopt with thee, for the
desire which has sprung up in thee is so absurd and remote from
everything that has a semblance of reason, that I feel it would be a
waste of time to employ it in reasoning with thy simplicity, for at
present I will call it by no other name; and I am even tempted to
leave thee in thy folly as a punishment for thy pernicious desire; but
the friendship I bear thee, which will not allow me to desert thee
in such manifest danger of destruction, keeps me from dealing so
harshly by thee. And that thou mayest clearly see this, say,
Anselmo, hast thou not told me that I must force my suit upon a modest
woman, decoy one that is virtuous, make overtures to one that is
pure-minded, pay court to one that is prudent? Yes, thou hast told
me so. Then, if thou knowest that thou hast a wife, modest,
virtuous, pure-minded and prudent, what is it that thou seekest? And
if thou believest that she will come forth victorious from all my


attacks- as doubtless she would- what higher titles than those she
possesses now dost thou think thou canst upon her then, or in what
will she be better then than she is now? Either thou dost not hold her
to be what thou sayest, or thou knowest not what thou dost demand.
If thou dost not hold her to be what thou why dost thou seek to
prove her instead of treating her as guilty in the way that may seem
best to thee? but if she be as virtuous as thou believest, it is an
uncalled-for proceeding to make trial of truth itself, for, after
trial, it will but be in the same estimation as before. Thus, then, it
is conclusive that to attempt things from which harm rather than
advantage may come to us is the part of unreasoning and reckless
minds, more especially when they are things which we are not forced or
compelled to attempt, and which show from afar that it is plainly
madness to attempt them.

Difficulties are attempted either for the sake of God or for the
sake of the worldor for both; those undertaken for God's sake are
those which the saints undertake when they attempt to live the lives
of angels in human bodies; those undertaken for the sake of the
world are those of the men who traverse such a vast expanse of
watersuch a variety of climatesso many strange countriesto
acquire what are called the blessings of fortune; and those undertaken
for the sake of God and the world together are those of brave
soldierswho no sooner do they see in the enemy's wall a breach as
wide as a cannon ball could makethancasting aside all fear
without hesitatingor heeding the manifest peril that threatens them
borne onward by the desire of defending their faiththeir country
and their kingthey fling themselves dauntlessly into the midst of
the thousand opposing deaths that await them. Such are the things that
men are wont to attemptand there is honourglorygainin
attempting themhowever full of difficulty and peril they may be; but
that which thou sayest it is thy wish to attempt and carry out will
not win thee the glory of God nor the blessings of fortune nor fame
among men; for even if the issue he as thou wouldst have itthou wilt
be no happierricheror more honoured than thou art this moment; and
if it be otherwise thou wilt be reduced to misery greater than can
be imaginedfor then it will avail thee nothing to reflect that no
one is aware of the misfortune that has befallen thee; it will suffice
to torture and crush thee that thou knowest it thyself. And in
confirmation of the truth of what I saylet me repeat to thee a
stanza made by the famous poet Luigi Tansillo at the end of the
first part of his 'Tears of Saint Peter' which says thus:

The anguish and the shame but greater grew

In Peter's heart as morning slowly came;
No eye was there to see himwell he knew

Yet he himself was to himself a shame;
Exposed to all men's gazeor screened from view

A noble heart will feel the pang the same;
A prey to shame the sinning soul will be
Though none but heaven and earth its shame can see.

Thus by keeping it secret thou wilt not escape thy sorrowbut
rather thou wilt shed tears unceasinglyif not tears of the eyes
tears of blood from the heartlike those shed by that simple doctor
our poet tells us ofthat tried the test of the cupwhich the wise
Rinaldobetter advisedrefused to do; for though this may be a
poetic fiction it contains a moral lesson worthy of attention and
study and imitation. Moreover by what I am about to say to thee thou
wilt be led to see the great error thou wouldst commit.

Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or good fortune had made thee master
and lawful owner of a diamond of the finest quality, with the
excellence and purity of which all the lapidaries that had seen it had


been satisfied, saying with one voice and common consent that in
purity, quality, and fineness, it was all that a stone of the kind
could possibly be, thou thyself too being of the same belief, as
knowing nothing to the contrary, would it be reasonable in thee to
desire to take that diamond and place it between an anvil and a
hammer, and by mere force of blows and strength of arm try if it
were as hard and as fine as they said? And if thou didst, and if the
stone should resist so silly a test, that would add nothing to its
value or reputation; and if it were broken, as it might be, would
not all be lost? Undoubtedly it would, leaving its owner to be rated
as a fool in the opinion of all. Consider, then, Anselmo my friend,
that Camilla is a diamond of the finest quality as well in thy
estimation as in that of others, and that it is contrary to reason
to expose her to the risk of being broken; for if she remains intact
she cannot rise to a higher value than she now possesses; and if she
give way and be unable to resist, bethink thee now how thou wilt be
deprived of her, and with what good reason thou wilt complain of
thyself for having been the cause of her ruin and thine own.
Remember there is no jewel in the world so precious as a chaste and
virtuous woman, and that the whole honour of women consists in
reputation; and since thy wife's is of that high excellence that
thou knowest, wherefore shouldst thou seek to call that truth in
question? Remember, my friend, that woman is an imperfect animal,
and that impediments are not to be placed in her way to make her
trip and fall, but that they should be removed, and her path left
clear of all obstacles, so that without hindrance she may run her
course freely to attain the desired perfection, which consists in
being virtuous. Naturalists tell us that the ermine is a little animal
which has a fur of purest white, and that when the hunters wish to
take it, they make use of this artifice. Having ascertained the places
which it frequents and passes, they stop the way to them with mud, and
then rousing it, drive it towards the spot, and as soon as the
ermine comes to the mud it halts, and allows itself to be taken
captive rather than pass through the mire, and spoil and sully its
whiteness, which it values more than life and liberty. The virtuous
and chaste woman is an ermine, and whiter and purer than snow is the
virtue of modesty; and he who wishes her not to lose it, but to keep
and preserve it, must adopt a course different from that employed with
the ermine; he must not put before her the mire of the gifts and
attentions of persevering lovers, because perhaps- and even without
a perhaps- she may not have sufficient virtue and natural strength
in herself to pass through and tread under foot these impediments;
they must be removed, and the brightness of virtue and the beauty of a
fair fame must be put before her. A virtuous woman, too, is like a
mirror, of clear shining crystal, liable to be tarnished and dimmed by
every breath that touches it. She must be treated as relics are;
adored, not touched. She must be protected and prized as one
protects and prizes a fair garden full of roses and flowers, the owner
of which allows no one to trespass or pluck a blossom; enough for
others that from afar and through the iron grating they may enjoy
its fragrance and its beauty. Finally let me repeat to thee some
verses that come to my mind; I heard them in a modern comedy, and it
seems to me they bear upon the point we are discussing. A prudent
old man was giving advice to another, the father of a young girl, to
lock her up, watch over her and keep her in seclusion, and among other
arguments he used these:

Woman is a thing of glass;
But her brittleness 'tis best
Not too curiously to test:


Who knows what may come to pass?

Breaking is an easy matter,
And it's folly to expose



What you cannot mend to blows;
What you can't make whole to shatter.


This, then, all may hold as true,

And the reason's plain to see;

For if Danaes there be,

There are golden showers too.

All that I have said to thee so farAnselmohas had reference
to what concerns thee; now it is right that I should say something
of what regards myself; and if I be prolixpardon mefor the
labyrinth into which thou hast entered and from which thou wouldst
have me extricate thee makes it necessary.

Thou dost reckon me thy friend, and thou wouldst rob me of
honour, a thing wholly inconsistent with friendship; and not only dost
thou aim at this, but thou wouldst have me rob thee of it also. That
thou wouldst rob me of it is clear, for when Camilla sees that I pay
court to her as thou requirest, she will certainly regard me as a
man without honour or right feeling, since I attempt and do a thing so
much opposed to what I owe to my own position and thy friendship. That
thou wouldst have me rob thee of it is beyond a doubt, for Camilla,
seeing that I press my suit upon her, will suppose that I have
perceived in her something light that has encouraged me to make
known to her my base desire; and if she holds herself dishonoured, her
dishonour touches thee as belonging to her; and hence arises what so
commonly takes place, that the husband of the adulterous woman, though
he may not be aware of or have given any cause for his wife's
failure in her duty, or (being careless or negligent) have had it in
his power to prevent his dishonour, nevertheless is stigmatised by a
vile and reproachful name, and in a manner regarded with eyes of
contempt instead of pity by all who know of his wife's guilt, though
they see that he is unfortunate not by his own fault, but by the
lust of a vicious consort. But I will tell thee why with good reason
dishonour attaches to the husband of the unchaste wife, though he know
not that she is so, nor be to blame, nor have done anything, or
given any provocation to make her so; and be not weary with
listening to me, for it will be for thy good.

When God created our first parent in the earthly paradisethe Holy
Scripture says that he infused sleep into Adam and while he slept took
a rib from his left side of which he formed our mother Eveand when
Adam awoke and beheld her he said'This is flesh of my fleshand
bone of my bone.' And God said 'For this shall a man leave his
father and his motherand they shall be two in one flesh; and then
was instituted the divine sacrament of marriagewith such ties that
death alone can loose them. And such is the force and virtue of this
miraculous sacrament that it makes two different persons one and the
same flesh; and even more than this when the virtuous are married; for
though they have two souls they have but one will. And hence it
follows that as the flesh of the wife is one and the same with that of
her husband the stains that may come upon itor the injuries it
incurs fall upon the husband's fleshthough heas has been saidmay
have given no cause for them; for as the pain of the foot or any
member of the body is felt by the whole bodybecause all is one
fleshas the head feels the hurt to the ankle without having caused
itso the husbandbeing one with hershares the dishonour of the
wife; and as all worldly honour or dishonour comes of flesh and blood
and the erring wife's is of that kindthe husband must needs bear his
part of it and be held dishonoured without knowing it. Seethen
Anselmothe peril thou art encountering in seeking to disturb the
peace of thy virtuous consort; see for what an empty and ill-advised
curiosity thou wouldst rouse up passions that now repose in quiet in


the breast of thy chaste wife; reflect that what thou art staking
all to win is littleand what thou wilt lose so much that I leave
it undescribednot having the words to express it. But if all I
have said be not enough to turn thee from thy vile purposethou
must seek some other instrument for thy dishonour and misfortune;
for such I will not consent to bethough I lose thy friendshipthe
greatest loss that I can conceive."

Having said thisthe wise and virtuous Lothario was silentand
Anselmotroubled in mind and deep in thoughtwas unable for a
while to utter a word in reply; but at length he saidI have
listened, Lothario my friend, attentively, as thou hast seen, to
what thou hast chosen to say to me, and in thy arguments, examples,
and comparisons I have seen that high intelligence thou dost
possess, and the perfection of true friendship thou hast reached;
and likewise I see and confess that if I am not guided by thy opinion,
but follow my own, I am flying from the good and pursuing the evil.
This being so, thou must remember that I am now labouring under that
infirmity which women sometimes suffer from, when the craving seizes
them to eat clay, plaster, charcoal, and things even worse, disgusting
to look at, much more to eat; so that it will be necessary to have
recourse to some artifice to cure me; and this can be easily
effected if only thou wilt make a beginning, even though it be in a
lukewarm and make-believe fashion, to pay court to Camilla, who will
not be so yielding that her virtue will give way at the first
attack: with this mere attempt I shall rest satisfied, and thou wilt
have done what our friendship binds thee to do, not only in giving
me life, but in persuading me not to discard my honour. And this
thou art bound to do for one reason alone, that, being, as I am,
resolved to apply this test, it is not for thee to permit me to reveal
my weakness to another, and so imperil that honour thou art striving
to keep me from losing; and if thine may not stand as high as it ought
in the estimation of Camilla while thou art paying court to her,
that is of little or no importance, because ere long, on finding in
her that constancy which we expect, thou canst tell her the plain
truth as regards our stratagem, and so regain thy place in her esteem;
and as thou art venturing so little, and by the venture canst afford
me so much satisfaction, refuse not to undertake it, even if further
difficulties present themselves to thee; for, as I have said, if
thou wilt only make a beginning I will acknowledge the issue decided.

Lothario seeing the fixed determination of Anselmoand not
knowing what further examples to offer or arguments to urge in order
to dissuade him from itand perceiving that he threatened to
confide his pernicious scheme to some one elseto avoid a greater
evil resolved to gratify him and do what he askedintending to manage
the business so as to satisfy Anselmo without corrupting the mind of
Camilla; so in reply he told him not to communicate his purpose to any
otherfor he would undertake the task himselfand would begin it
as soon as he pleased. Anselmo embraced him warmly and affectionately
and thanked him for his offer as if he had bestowed some great
favour upon him; and it was agreed between them to set about it the
next dayAnselmo affording opportunity and time to Lothario to
converse alone with Camillaand furnishing him with money and
jewels to offer and present to her. He suggestedtoothat he
should treat her to musicand write verses in her praiseand if he
was unwilling to take the trouble of composing themhe offered to
do it himself. Lothario agreed to all with an intention very different
from what Anselmo supposedand with this understanding they
returned to Anselmo's housewhere they found Camilla awaiting her
husband anxiously and uneasilyfor he was later than usual in
returning that day. Lothario repaired to his own houseand Anselmo
remained in hisas well satisfied as Lothario was troubled in mind;
for he could see no satisfactory way out of this ill-advised business.


That nighthoweverhe thought of a plan by which he might deceive
Anselmo without any injury to Camilla. The next day he went to dine
with his friendand was welcomed by Camillawho received and treated
him with great cordialityknowing the affection her husband felt
for him. When dinner was over and the cloth removedAnselmo told
Lothario to stay there with Camilla while he attended to some pressing
businessas he would return in an hour and a half. Camilla begged him
not to goand Lothario offered to accompany himbut nothing could
persuade Anselmowho on the contrary pressed Lothario to remain
waiting for him as he had a matter of great importance to discuss with
him. At the same time he bade Camilla not to leave Lothario alone
until he came back. In short he contrived to put so good a face on the
reasonor the follyof his absence that no one could have
suspected it was a pretence.

Anselmo took his departureand Camilla and Lothario were left alone
at the tablefor the rest of the household had gone to dinner.
Lothario saw himself in the lists according to his friend's wish
and facing an enemy that could by her beauty alone vanquish a squadron
of armed knights; judge whether he had good reason to fear; but what
he did was to lean his elbow on the arm of the chairand his cheek
upon his handandasking Camilla's pardon for his ill mannershe
said he wished to take a little sleep until Anselmo returned.
Camilla in reply said he could repose more at his ease in the
reception-room than in his chairand begged of him to go in and sleep
there; but Lothario declinedand there he remained asleep until the
return of Anselmowho finding Camilla in her own roomand Lothario
asleepimagined that he had stayed away so long as to have afforded
them time enough for conversation and even for sleepand was all
impatience until Lothario should wake upthat he might go out with
him and question him as to his success. Everything fell out as he
wished; Lothario awokeand the two at once left the houseand
Anselmo asked what he was anxious to knowand Lothario in answer told
him that he had not thought it advisable to declare himself entirely
the first timeand therefore had only extolled the charms of Camilla
telling her that all the city spoke of nothing else but her beauty and
witfor this seemed to him an excellent way of beginning to gain
her good-will and render her disposed to listen to him with pleasure
the next timethus availing himself of the device the devil has
recourse to when he would deceive one who is on the watch; for he
being the angel of darkness transforms himself into an angel of light
andunder cover of a fair seemingdiscloses himself at lengthand
effects his purpose if at the beginning his wiles are not
discovered. All this gave great satisfaction to Anselmoand he said
he would afford the same opportunity every daybut without leaving
the housefor he would find things to do at home so that Camilla
should not detect the plot.

Thusthenseveral days went byand Lothariowithout uttering a
word to Camillareported to Anselmo that he had talked with her and
that he had never been able to draw from her the slightest
indication of consent to anything dishonourablenor even a sign or
shadow of hope; on the contraryhe said she would inform her
husband of it.

So far well,said Anselmo; "Camilla has thus far resisted words;
we must now see how she will resist deeds. I will give you to-morrow
two thousand crowns in gold for you to offer or even presentand as
many more to buy jewels to lure herfor women are fond of being
becomingly attired and going gaily dressedand all the more so if
they are beautifulhowever chaste they may be; and if she resists
this temptationI will rest satisfied and will give you no more
trouble."


Lothario replied that now he had begun he would carry on the
undertaking to the endthough he perceived he was to come out of it
wearied and vanquished. The next day he received the four thousand
crownsand with them four thousand perplexitiesfor he knew not what
to say by way of a new falsehood; but in the end he made up his mind
to tell him that Camilla stood as firm against gifts and promises as
against wordsand that there was no use in taking any further
troublefor the time was all spent to no purpose.

But chancedirecting things in a different mannerso ordered it
that Anselmohaving left Lothario and Camilla alone as on other
occasionsshut himself into a chamber and posted himself to watch and
listen through the keyhole to what passed between themand
perceived that for more than half an hour Lothario did not utter a
word to Camillanor would utter a word though he were to be there for
an age; and he came to the conclusion that what his friend had told
him about the replies of Camilla was all invention and falsehood
and to ascertain if it were sohe came outand calling Lothario
aside asked him what news he had and in what humour Camilla was.
Lothario replied that he was not disposed to go on with the
businessfor she had answered him so angrily and harshly that he
had no heart to say anything more to her.

Ah, Lothario, Lothario,said Anselmohow ill dost thou meet
thy obligations to me, and the great confidence I repose in thee! I
have been just now watching through this keyhole, and I have seen that
thou has not said a word to Camilla, whence I conclude that on the
former occasions thou hast not spoken to her either, and if this be
so, as no doubt it is, why dost thou deceive me, or wherefore
seekest thou by craft to deprive me of the means I might find of
attaining my desire?

Anselmo said no morebut he had said enough to cover Lothario
with shame and confusionand hefeeling as it were his honour
touched by having been detected in a lieswore to Anselmo that he
would from that moment devote himself to satisfying him without any
deceptionas he would see if he had the curiosity to watch; though he
need not take the troublefor the pains he would take to satisfy
him would remove all suspicions from his mind. Anselmo believed him
and to afford him an opportunity more free and less liable to
surprisehe resolved to absent himself from his house for eight days
betaking himself to that of a friend of his who lived in a village not
far from the city; andthe better to account for his departure to
Camillahe so arranged it that the friend should send him a very
pressing invitation.

Unhappyshortsighted Anselmowhat art thou doingwhat art thou
plottingwhat art thou devising? Bethink thee thou art working
against thyselfplotting thine own dishonourdevising thine own
ruin. Thy wife Camilla is virtuousthou dost possess her in peace and
quietnessno one assails thy happinessher thoughts wander not
beyond the walls of thy housethou art her heaven on earththe
object of her wishesthe fulfilment of her desiresthe measure
wherewith she measures her willmaking it conform in all things to
thine and Heaven's. Ifthenthe mine of her honourbeauty
virtueand modesty yields thee without labour all the wealth it
contains and thou canst wish forwhy wilt thou dig the earth in
search of fresh veinsof new unknown treasurerisking the collapse
of allsince it but rests on the feeble props of her weak nature?
Bethink thee that from him who seeks impossibilities that which is
possible may with justice be withheldas was better expressed by a
poet who said:
'Tis mine to seek for life in death

Health in disease seek II seek in prison freedom's breath


In traitors loyalty.

So Fate that ever scorns to grant
Or grace or boon to meSince what can never be I want
Denies me what might be.

The next day Anselmo took his departure for the villageleaving
instructions with Camilla that during his absence Lothario would
come to look after his house and to dine with herand that she was to
treat him as she would himself. Camilla was distressedas a
discreet and right-minded woman would beat the orders her husband
left herand bade him remember that it was not becoming that anyone
should occupy his seat at the table during his absenceand if he
acted thus from not feeling confidence that she would be able to
manage his houselet him try her this timeand he would find by
experience that she was equal to greater responsibilities. Anselmo
replied that it was his pleasure to have it soand that she had
only to submit and obey. Camilla said she would do sothough
against her will.

Anselmo wentand the next day Lothario came to his housewhere
he was received by Camilla with a friendly and modest welcome; but she
never suffered Lothario to see her alonefor she was always
attended by her men and women servantsespecially by a handmaid of
hersLeonela by nameto whom she was much attached (for they had
been brought up together from childhood in her father's house)and
whom she had kept with her after her marriage with Anselmo. The
first three days Lothario did not speak to herthough he might have
done so when they removed the cloth and the servants retired to dine
hastily; for such were Camilla's orders; nay moreLeonela had
directions to dine earlier than Camilla and never to leave her side.
Shehoweverhaving her thoughts fixed upon other things more to
her tasteand wanting that time and opportunity for her own
pleasuresdid not always obey her mistress's commandsbut on the
contrary left them aloneas if they had ordered her to do so; but the
modest bearing of Camillathe calmness of her countenancethe
composure of her aspect were enough to bridle the tongue of
Lothario. But the influence which the many virtues of Camilla
exerted in imposing silence on Lothario's tongue proved mischievous
for both of themfor if his tongue was silent his thoughts were busy
and could dwell at leisure upon the perfections of Camilla's
goodness and beauty one by onecharms enough to warm with love a
marble statuenot to say a heart of flesh. Lothario gazed upon her
when he might have been speaking to herand thought how worthy of
being loved she was; and thus reflection began little by little to
assail his allegiance to Anselmoand a thousand times he thought of
withdrawing from the city and going where Anselmo should never see him
nor he see Camilla. But already the delight he found in gazing on
her interposed and held him fast. He put a constraint upon himself
and struggled to repel and repress the pleasure he found in
contemplating Camilla; when alone he blamed himself for his
weaknesscalled himself a bad friendnay a bad Christian; then he
argued the matter and compared himself with Anselmo; always coming
to the conclusion that the folly and rashness of Anselmo had been
worse than his faithlessnessand that if he could excuse his
intentions as easily before God as with manhe had no reason to
fear any punishment for his offence.

In short the beauty and goodness of Camillajoined with the
opportunity which the blind husband had placed in his handsoverthrew
the loyalty of Lothario; and giving heed to nothing save the object
towards which his inclinations led himafter Anselmo had been three
days absentduring which he had been carrying on a continual struggle
with his passionhe began to make love to Camilla with so much


vehemence and warmth of language that she was overwhelmed with
amazementand could only rise from her place and retire to her room
without answering him a word. But the hope which always springs up
with love was not weakened in Lothario by this repelling demeanour; on
the contrary his passion for Camilla increasedand she discovering in
him what she had never expectedknew not what to do; and
considering it neither safe nor right to give him the chance or
opportunity of speaking to her againshe resolved to sendas she did
that very nightone of her servants with a letter to Anselmoin
which she addressed the following words to him.

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"

It is commonly said that an army looks ill without its general
and a castle without its castellan, and I say that a young married
woman looks still worse without her husband unless there are very good
reasons for it. I find myself so ill at ease without you, and so
incapable of enduring this separation, that unless you return
quickly I shall have to go for relief to my parents' house, even if
I leave yours without a protector; for the one you left me, if
indeed he deserved that title, has, I think, more regard to his own
pleasure than to what concerns you: as you are possessed of
discernment I need say no more to you, nor indeed is it fitting I
should say more.

Anselmo received this letterand from it he gathered that
Lothario had already begun his task and that Camilla must have replied
to him as he would have wished; and delighted beyond measure at such
intelligence he sent word to her not to leave his house on any
accountas he would very shortly return. Camilla was astonished at
Anselmo's replywhich placed her in greater perplexity than before
for she neither dared to remain in her own housenor yet to go to her
parents'; for in remaining her virtue was imperilledand in going she
was opposing her husband's commands. Finally she decided upon what was
the worse course for herto remainresolving not to fly from the
presence of Lothariothat she might not give food for gossip to her
servants; and she now began to regret having written as she had to her
husbandfearing he might imagine that Lothario had perceived in her
some lightness which had impelled him to lay aside the respect he owed
her; but confident of her rectitude she put her trust in God and in
her own virtuous intentionswith which she hoped to resist in silence
all the solicitations of Lothariowithout saying anything to her
husband so as not to involve him in any quarrel or trouble; and she
even began to consider how to excuse Lothario to Anselmo when he
should ask her what it was that induced her to write that letter. With
these resolutionsmore honourable than judicious or effectualshe
remained the next day listening to Lothariowho pressed his suit so
strenuously that Camilla's firmness began to waverand her virtue had
enough to do to come to the rescue of her eyes and keep them from
showing signs of a certain tender compassion which the tears and
appeals of Lothario had awakened in her bosom. Lothario observed all
thisand it inflamed him all the more. In short he felt that while
Anselmo's absence afforded time and opportunity he must press the
siege of the fortressand so he assailed her self-esteem with praises
of her beautyfor there is nothing that more quickly reduces and
levels the castle towers of fair women's vanity than vanity itself
upon the tongue of flattery. In fact with the utmost assiduity he
undermined the rock of her purity with such engines that had Camilla
been of brass she must have fallen. He wepthe entreatedhe
promisedhe flatteredhe importunedhe pretended with so much


feeling and apparent sinceritythat he overthrew the virtuous
resolves of Camilla and won the triumph he least expected and most
longed for. Camilla yieldedCamilla fell; but what wonder if the
friendship of Lothario could not stand firm? A clear proof to us
that the passion of love is to be conquered only by flying from it
and that no one should engage in a struggle with an enemy so mighty;
for divine strength is needed to overcome his human power. Leonela
alone knew of her mistress's weaknessfor the two false friends and
new lovers were unable to conceal it. Lothario did not care to tell
Camilla the object Anselmo had in viewnor that he had afforded him
the opportunity of attaining such a resultlest she should undervalue
his love and think that it was by chance and without intending it
and not of his own accord that he had made love to her.

A few days later Anselmo returned to his house and did not
perceive what it had lostthat which he so lightly treated and so
highly prized. He went at once to see Lotharioand found him at home;
they embraced each otherand Anselmo asked for the tidings of his
life or his death.

The tidings I have to give thee, Anselmo my friend,said Lothario
are that thou dost possess a wife that is worthy to be the pattern
and crown of all good wives. The words that I have addressed to her
were borne away on the wind, my promises have been despised, my
presents have been refused, such feigned tears as I shed have been
turned into open ridicule. In short, as Camilla is the essence of
all beauty, so is she the treasure-house where purity dwells, and
gentleness and modesty abide with all the virtues that can confer
praise, honour, and happiness upon a woman. Take back thy money, my
friend; here it is, and I have had no need to touch it, for the
chastity of Camilla yields not to things so base as gifts or promises.
Be content, Anselmo, and refrain from making further proof; and as
thou hast passed dryshod through the sea of those doubts and
suspicions that are and may be entertained of women, seek not to
plunge again into the deep ocean of new embarrassments, or with
another pilot make trial of the goodness and strength of the bark that
Heaven has granted thee for thy passage across the sea of this
world; but reckon thyself now safe in port, moor thyself with the
anchor of sound reflection, and rest in peace until thou art called
upon to pay that debt which no nobility on earth can escape paying.

Anselmo was completely satisfied by the words of Lotharioand
believed them as fully as if they had been spoken by an oracle;
nevertheless he begged of him not to relinquish the undertaking
were it but for the sake of curiosity and amusement; though
thenceforward he need not make use of the same earnest endeavours as
before; all he wished him to do was to write some verses to her
praising her under the name of Chlorisfor he himself would give
her to understand that he was in love with a lady to whom he had given
that name to enable him to sing her praises with the decorum due to
her modesty; and if Lothario were unwilling to take the trouble of
writing the verses he would compose them himself.

That will not be necessary,said Lothariofor the muses are
not such enemies of mine but that they visit me now and then in the
course of the year. Do thou tell Camilla what thou hast proposed about
a pretended amour of mine; as for the verses will make them, and if
not as good as the subject deserves, they shall be at least the best I
can produce.An agreement to this effect was made between the
friendsthe ill-advised one and the treacherousand Anselmo
returning to his house asked Camilla the question she already wondered
he had not asked before- what it was that had caused her to write
the letter she had sent him. Camilla replied that it had seemed to her
that Lothario looked at her somewhat more freely than when he had been


at home; but that now she was undeceived and believed it to have
been only her own imaginationfor Lothario now avoided seeing heror
being alone with her. Anselmo told her she might be quite easy on
the score of that suspicionfor he knew that Lothario was in love
with a damsel of rank in the city whom he celebrated under the name of
Chlorisand that even if he were nothis fidelity and their great
friendship left no room for fear. Had not Camillahoweverbeen
informed beforehand by Lothario that this love for Chloris was a
pretenceand that he himself had told Anselmo of it in order to be
able sometimes to give utterance to the praises of Camilla herselfno
doubt she would have fallen into the despairing toils of jealousy; but
being forewarned she received the startling news without uneasiness.

The next day as the three were at table Anselmo asked Lothario to
recite something of what he had composed for his mistress Chloris; for
as Camilla did not know herhe might safely say what he liked.

Even did she know her,returned LotharioI would hide nothing,
for when a lover praises his lady's beauty, and charges her with
cruelty, he casts no imputation upon her fair name; at any rate, all I
can say is that yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of this
Chloris, which goes thus:

SONNET

At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes
Of happier mortals balmy slumbers close,
The weary tale of my unnumbered woes

To Chloris and to Heaven is wont to rise.

And when the light of day returning dyes
The portals of the east with tints of rose,
With undiminished force my sorrow flows

In broken accents and in burning sighs.
And when the sun ascends his star-girt throne,
And on the earth pours down his midday beams,
Noon but renews my wailing and my tears;
And with the night again goes up my moan.
Yet ever in my agony it seems
To me that neither Heaven nor Chloris hears.

The sonnet pleased Camillaand still more Anselmofor he praised
it and said the lady was excessively cruel who made no return for
sincerity so manifest. On which Camilla saidThen all that
love-smitten poets say is true?

As poets they do not tell the truth,replied Lothario; "but as
lovers they are not more defective in expression than they are
truthful."

There is no doubt of that,observed Anselmoanxious to support
and uphold Lothario's ideas with Camillawho was as regardless of his
design as she was deep in love with Lothario; and so taking delight in
anything that was hisand knowing that his thoughts and writings
had her for their objectand that she herself was the real Chloris
she asked him to repeat some other sonnet or verses if he
recollected any.

I do,replied Lothariobut I do not think it as good as the
first one, or, more correctly speaking, less bad; but you can easily
judge, for it is this.


SONNET

I know that I am doomed; death is to me
As certain as that thou, ungrateful fair,
Dead at thy feet shouldst see me lying, ere

My heart repented of its love for thee.

If buried in oblivion I should be,
Bereft of life, fame, favour, even there
It would be found that I thy image bear

Deep graven in my breast for all to see.
This like some holy relic do I prize
To save me from the fate my truth entails,
Truth that to thy hard heart its vigour owes.
Alas for him that under lowering skies,
In peril o'er a trackless ocean sails,
Where neither friendly port nor pole-star shows.

Anselmo praised this second sonnet tooas he had praised the first;
and so he went on adding link after link to the chain with which he
was binding himself and making his dishonour secure; for when Lothario
was doing most to dishonour him he told him he was most honoured;
and thus each step that Camilla descended towards the depths of her
abasementshe mountedin his opiniontowards the summit of virtue
and fair fame.

It so happened that finding herself on one occasion alone with her
maidCamilla said to herI am ashamed to think, my dear Leonela,
how lightly I have valued myself that I did not compel Lothario to
purchase by at least some expenditure of time that full possession
of me that I so quickly yielded him of my own free will. I fear that
he will think ill of my pliancy or lightness, not considering the
irresistible influence he brought to bear upon me.

Let not that trouble you, my lady,said Leonelafor it does
not take away the value of the thing given or make it the less
precious to give it quickly if it be really valuable and worthy of
being prized; nay, they are wont to say that he who gives quickly
gives twice.

They say also,said Camillathat what costs little is valued
less.

That saying does not hold good in your case,replied Leonelafor
love, as I have heard say, sometimes flies and sometimes walks; with
this one it runs, with that it moves slowly; some it cools, others
it burns; some it wounds, others it slays; it begins the course of its
desires, and at the same moment completes and ends it; in the
morning it will lay siege to a fortress and by night will have taken
it, for there is no power that can resist it; so what are you in dread
of, what do you fear, when the same must have befallen Lothario,
love having chosen the absence of my lord as the instrument for
subduing you? and it was absolutely necessary to complete then what
love had resolved upon, without affording the time to let Anselmo
return and by his presence compel the work to be left unfinished;
for love has no better agent for carrying out his designs than
opportunity; and of opportunity he avails himself in all his feats,
especially at the outset. All this I know well myself, more by
experience than by hearsay, and some day, senora, I will enlighten you
on the subject, for I am of your flesh and blood too. Moreover, lady
Camilla, you did not surrender yourself or yield so quickly but that
first you saw Lothario's whole soul in his eyes, in his sighs, in
his words, his promises and his gifts, and by it and his good
qualities perceived how worthy he was of your love. This, then,


being the case, let not these scrupulous and prudish ideas trouble
your imagination, but be assured that Lothario prizes you as you do
him, and rest content and satisfied that as you are caught in the
noose of love it is one of worth and merit that has taken you, and one
that has not only the four S's that they say true lovers ought to
have, but a complete alphabet; only listen to me and you will see
how I can repeat it by rote. He is to my eyes and thinking, Amiable,
Brave, Courteous, Distinguished, Elegant, Fond, Gay, Honourable,
Illustrious, Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, Polite, Quickwitted, Rich, and
the S's according to the saying, and then Tender, Veracious: X does
not suit him, for it is a rough letter; Y has been given already;
and Z Zealous for your honour.

Camilla laughed at her maid's alphabetand perceived her to be more
experienced in love affairs than she saidwhich she admitted
confessing to Camilla that she had love passages with a young man of
good birth of the same city. Camilla was uneasy at thisdreading lest
it might prove the means of endangering her honourand asked
whether her intrigue had gone beyond wordsand she with little
shame and much effrontery said it had; for certain it is that
ladies' imprudences make servants shamelesswhowhen they see
their mistresses make a false stepthink nothing of going astray
themselvesor of its being known. All that Camilla could do was to
entreat Leonela to say nothing about her doings to him whom she called
her loverand to conduct her own affairs secretly lest they should
come to the knowledge of Anselmo or of Lothario. Leonela said she
wouldbut kept her word in such a way that she confirmed Camilla's
apprehension of losing her reputation through her means; for this
abandoned and bold Leonelaas soon as she perceived that her
mistress's demeanour was not what it was wont to behad the
audacity to introduce her lover into the houseconfident that even if
her mistress saw him she would not dare to expose him; for the sins of
mistresses entail this mischief among others; they make themselves the
slaves of their own servantsand are obliged to hide their laxities
and depravities; as was the case with Camillawho though she
perceivednot once but many timesthat Leonela was with her lover in
some room of the housenot only did not dare to chide herbut
afforded her opportunities for concealing him and removed all
difficultieslest he should be seen by her husband. She was unable
howeverto prevent him from being seen on one occasionas he sallied
forth at daybreakby Lothariowhonot knowing who he wasat
first took him for a spectre; butas soon as he saw him hasten
awaymuffling his face with his cloak and concealing himself
carefully and cautiouslyhe rejected this foolish ideaand adopted
anotherwhich would have been the ruin of all had not Camilla found a
remedy. It did not occur to Lothario that this man he had seen issuing
at such an untimely hour from Anselmo's house could have entered it on
Leonela's accountnor did he even remember there was such a person as
Leonela; all he thought was that as Camilla had been light and
yielding with himso she had been with another; for this further
penalty the erring woman's sin brings with itthat her honour is
distrusted even by him to whose overtures and persuasions she has
yielded; and he believes her to have surrendered more easily to
othersand gives implicit credence to every suspicion that comes into
his mind. All Lothario's good sense seems to have failed him at this
juncture; all his prudent maxims escaped his memory; for without
once reflecting rationallyand without more adoin his impatience
and in the blindness of the jealous rage that gnawed his heartand
dying to revenge himself upon Camillawho had done him no wrong
before Anselmo had risen he hastened to him and said to himKnow,
Anselmo, that for several days past I have been struggling with
myself, striving to withhold from thee what it is no longer possible
or right that I should conceal from thee. Know that Camilla's fortress
has surrendered and is ready to submit to my will; and if I have


been slow to reveal this fact to thee, it was in order to see if it
were some light caprice of hers, or if she sought to try me and
ascertain if the love I began to make to her with thy permission was
made with a serious intention. I thought, too, that she, if she were
what she ought to be, and what we both believed her, would have ere
this given thee information of my addresses; but seeing that she
delays, I believe the truth of the promise she has given me that the
next time thou art absent from the house she will grant me an
interview in the closet where thy jewels are kept (and it was true
that Camilla used to meet him there); but I do not wish thee to rush
precipitately to take vengeance, for the sin is as yet only
committed in intention, and Camilla's may change perhaps between
this and the appointed time, and repentance spring up in its place. As
hitherto thou hast always followed my advice wholly or in part, follow
and observe this that I will give thee now, so that, without
mistake, and with mature deliberation, thou mayest satisfy thyself
as to what may seem the best course; pretend to absent thyself for two
or three days as thou hast been wont to do on other occasions, and
contrive to hide thyself in the closet; for the tapestries and other
things there afford great facilities for thy concealment, and then
thou wilt see with thine own eyes and I with mine what Camilla's
purpose may be. And if it be a guilty one, which may be feared
rather than expected, with silence, prudence, and discretion thou
canst thyself become the instrument of punishment for the wrong done
thee.

Anselmo was amazedoverwhelmedand astounded at the words of
Lothariowhich came upon him at a time when he least expected to hear
themfor he now looked upon Camilla as having triumphed over the
pretended attacks of Lotharioand was beginning to enjoy the glory of
her victory. He remained silent for a considerable timelooking on
the ground with fixed gazeand at length saidThou hast behaved,
Lothario, as I expected of thy friendship: I will follow thy advice in
everything; do as thou wilt, and keep this secret as thou seest it
should be kept in circumstances so unlooked for.

Lothario gave him his wordbut after leaving him he repented
altogether of what he had said to himperceiving how foolishly he had
actedas he might have revenged himself upon Camilla in some less
cruel and degrading way. He cursed his want of sensecondemned his
hasty resolutionand knew not what course to take to undo the
mischief or find some ready escape from it. At last he decided upon
revealing all to Camillaandas there was no want of opportunity for
doing sohe found her alone the same day; but sheas soon as she had
the chance of speaking to himsaidLothario my friend, I must
tell thee I have a sorrow in my heart which fills it so that it
seems ready to burst; and it will be a wonder if it does not; for
the audacity of Leonela has now reached such a pitch that every
night she conceals a gallant of hers in this house and remains with
him till morning, at the expense of my reputation; inasmuch as it is
open to anyone to question it who may see him quitting my house at
such unseasonable hours; but what distresses me is that I cannot
punish or chide her, for her privity to our intrigue bridles my
mouth and keeps me silent about hers, while I am dreading that some
catastrophe will come of it.

As Camilla said this Lothario at first imagined it was some device
to delude him into the idea that the man he had seen going out was
Leonela's lover and not hers; but when he saw how she wept and
sufferedand begged him to help herhe became convinced of the
truthand the conviction completed his confusion and remorse;
howeverhe told Camilla not to distress herselfas he would take
measures to put a stop to the insolence of Leonela. At the same time
he told her whatdriven by the fierce rage of jealousyhe had said


to Anselmoand how he had arranged to hide himself in the closet that
he might there see plainly how little she preserved her fidelity to
him; and he entreated her pardon for this madnessand her advice as
to how to repair itand escape safely from the intricate labyrinth in
which his imprudence had involved him. Camilla was struck with alarm
at hearing what Lothario saidand with much angerand great good
senseshe reproved him and rebuked his base design and the foolish
and mischievous resolution he had made; but as woman has by nature a
nimbler wit than man for good and for evilthough it is apt to fail
when she sets herself deliberately to reasonCamilla on the spur of
the moment thought of a way to remedy what was to all appearance
irremediableand told Lothario to contrive that the next day
Anselmo should conceal himself in the place he mentionedfor she
hoped from his concealment to obtain the means of their enjoying
themselves for the future without any apprehension; and without
revealing her purpose to him entirely she charged him to be careful
as soon as Anselmo was concealedto come to her when Leonela should
call himand to all she said to him to answer as he would have
answered had he not known that Anselmo was listening. Lothario pressed
her to explain her intention fullyso that he might with more
certainty and precaution take care to do what he saw to be needful.

I tell you,said Camillathere is nothing to take care of except
to answer me what I shall ask you;for she did not wish to explain to
him beforehand what she meant to dofearing lest he should be
unwilling to follow out an idea which seemed to her such a good one
and should try or devise some other less practicable plan.

Lothario then retiredand the next day Anselmounder pretence of
going to his friend's country housetook his departureand then
returned to conceal himselfwhich he was able to do easilyas
Camilla and Leonela took care to give him the opportunity; and so he
placed himself in hiding in the state of agitation that it may be
imagined he would feel who expected to see the vitals of his honour
laid bare before his eyesand found himself on the point of losing
the supreme blessing he thought he possessed in his beloved Camilla.
Having made sure of Anselmo's being in his hiding-placeCamilla and
Leonela entered the closetand the instant she set foot within it
Camilla saidwith a deep sighAh! dear Leonela, would it not be
better, before I do what I am unwilling you should know lest you
should seek to prevent it, that you should take Anselmo's dagger
that I have asked of you and with it pierce this vile heart of mine?
But no; there is no reason why I should suffer the punishment of
another's fault. I will first know what it is that the bold licentious
eyes of Lothario have seen in me that could have encouraged him to
reveal to me a design so base as that which he has disclosed
regardless of his friend and of my honour. Go to the window,
Leonela, and call him, for no doubt he is in the street waiting to
carry out his vile project; but mine, cruel it may be, but honourable,
shall be carried out first.

Ah, senora,said the crafty Leonelawho knew her partwhat is
it you want to do with this dagger? Can it be that you mean to take
your own life, or Lothario's? for whichever you mean to do, it will
lead to the loss of your reputation and good name. It is better to
dissemble your wrong and not give this wicked man the chance of
entering the house now and finding us alone; consider, senora, we
are weak women and he is a man, and determined, and as he comes with
such a base purpose, blind and urged by passion, perhaps before you
can put yours into execution he may do what will be worse for you than
taking your life. Ill betide my master, Anselmo, for giving such
authority in his house to this shameless fellow! And supposing you
kill him, senora, as I suspect you mean to do, what shall we do with
him when he is dead?


What, my friend?replied Camillawe shall leave him for
Anselmo to bury him; for in reason it will be to him a light labour to
hide his own infamy under ground. Summon him, make haste, for all
the time I delay in taking vengeance for my wrong seems to me an
offence against the loyalty I owe my husband.

Anselmo was listening to all thisand every word that Camilla
uttered made him change his mind; but when he heard that it was
resolved to kill Lothario his first impulse was to come out and show
himself to avert such a disaster; but in his anxiety to see the
issue of a resolution so bold and virtuous he restrained himself
intending to come forth in time to prevent the deed. At this moment
Camillathrowing herself upon a bed that was close byswooned
awayand Leonela began to weep bitterlyexclaimingWoe is me! that
I should be fated to have dying here in my arms the flower of virtue
upon earth, the crown of true wives, the pattern of chastity!with
more to the same effectso that anyone who heard her would have taken
her for the most tender-hearted and faithful handmaid in the world
and her mistress for another persecuted Penelope.

Camilla was not long in recovering from her fainting fit and on
coming to herself she saidWhy do you not go, Leonela, to call
hither that friend, the falsest to his friend the sun ever shone
upon or night concealed? Away, run, haste, speed! lest the fire of
my wrath burn itself out with delay, and the righteous vengeance
that I hope for melt away in menaces and maledictions.

I am just going to call him, senora,said Leonela; "but you must
first give me that daggerlest while I am gone you should by means of
it give cause to all who love you to weep all their lives."

Go in peace, dear Leonela, I will not do so,said Camillafor
rash and foolish as I may be, to your mind, in defending my honour,
I am not going to be so much so as that Lucretia who they say killed
herself without having done anything wrong, and without having first
killed him on whom the guilt of her misfortune lay. I shall die, if
I am to die; but it must be after full vengeance upon him who has
brought me here to weep over audacity that no fault of mine gave birth
to.

Leonela required much pressing before she would go to summon
Lothariobut at last she wentand while awaiting her return
Camilla continuedas if speaking to herselfGood God! would it
not have been more prudent to have repulsed Lothario, as I have done
many a time before, than to allow him, as I am now doing, to think
me unchaste and vile, even for the short time I must wait until I
undeceive him? No doubt it would have been better; but I should not be
avenged, nor the honour of my husband vindicated, should he find so
clear and easy an escape from the strait into which his depravity
has led him. Let the traitor pay with his life for the temerity of his
wanton wishes, and let the world know (if haply it shall ever come
to know) that Camilla not only preserved her allegiance to her
husband, but avenged him of the man who dared to wrong him. Still, I
think it might be better to disclose this to Anselmo. But then I
have called his attention to it in the letter I wrote to him in the
country, and, if he did nothing to prevent the mischief I there
pointed out to him, I suppose it was that from pure goodness of
heart and trustfulness he would not and could not believe that any
thought against his honour could harbour in the breast of so stanch
a friend; nor indeed did I myself believe it for many days, nor should
I have ever believed it if his insolence had not gone so far as to
make it manifest by open presents, lavish promises, and ceaseless
tears. But why do I argue thus? Does a bold determination stand in


need of arguments? Surely not. Then traitors avaunt! Vengeance to my
aid! Let the false one come, approach, advance, die, yield up his
life, and then befall what may. Pure I came to him whom Heaven
bestowed upon me, pure I shall leave him; and at the worst bathed in
my own chaste blood and in the foul blood of the falsest friend that
friendship ever saw in the world;and as she uttered these words
she paced the room holding the unsheathed daggerwith such
irregular and disordered stepsand such gestures that one would
have supposed her to have lost her sensesand taken her for some
violent desperado instead of a delicate woman.

Anselmohidden behind some tapestries where he had concealed
himselfbeheld and was amazed at alland already felt that what he
had seen and heard was a sufficient answer to even greater suspicions;
and he would have been now well pleased if the proof afforded by
Lothario's coming were dispensed withas he feared some sudden
mishap; but as he was on the point of showing himself and coming forth
to embrace and undeceive his wife he paused as he saw Leonela
returningleading Lothario. Camilla when she saw himdrawing a
long line in front of her on the floor with the daggersaid to him
Lothario, pay attention to what I say to thee: if by any chance
thou darest to cross this line thou seest, or even approach it, the
instant I see thee attempt it that same instant will I pierce my bosom
with this dagger that I hold in my hand; and before thou answerest
me a word desire thee to listen to a few from me, and afterwards
thou shalt reply as may please thee. First, I desire thee to tell
me, Lothario, if thou knowest my husband Anselmo, and in what light
thou regardest him; and secondly I desire to know if thou knowest me
too. Answer me this, without embarrassment or reflecting deeply what
thou wilt answer, for they are no riddles I put to thee.

Lothario was not so dull but that from the first moment when Camilla
directed him to make Anselmo hide himself he understood what she
intended to doand therefore he fell in with her idea so readily
and promptly that between them they made the imposture look more
true than truth; so he answered her thus: "I did not thinkfair
Camillathat thou wert calling me to ask questions so remote from the
object with which I come; but if it is to defer the promised reward
thou art doing sothou mightst have put it off still longerfor
the longing for happiness gives the more distress the nearer comes the
hope of gaining it; but lest thou shouldst say that I do not answer
thy questionsI say that I know thy husband Anselmoand that we have
known each other from our earliest years; I will not speak of what
thou too knowestof our friendshipthat I may not compel myself to
testify against the wrong that lovethe mighty excuse for greater
errorsmakes me inflict upon him. Thee I know and hold in the same
estimation as he doesfor were it not so I had not for a lesser prize
acted in opposition to what I owe to my station and the holy laws of
true friendshipnow broken and violated by me through that powerful
enemylove."

If thou dost confess that,returned Camillamortal enemy of
all that rightly deserves to be loved, with what face dost thou dare
to come before one whom thou knowest to be the mirror wherein he is
reflected on whom thou shouldst look to see how unworthily thou him?
But, woe is me, I now comprehend what has made thee give so little
heed to what thou owest to thyself; it must have been some freedom
of mine, for I will not call it immodesty, as it did not proceed
from any deliberate intention, but from some heedlessness such as
women are guilty of through inadvertence when they think they have
no occasion for reserve. But tell me, traitor, when did I by word or
sign give a reply to thy prayers that could awaken in thee a shadow of
hope of attaining thy base wishes? When were not thy professions of
love sternly and scornfully rejected and rebuked? When were thy


frequent pledges and still more frequent gifts believed or accepted?
But as I am persuaded that no one can long persevere in the attempt to
win love unsustained by some hope, I am willing to attribute to myself
the blame of thy assurance, for no doubt some thoughtlessness of
mine has all this time fostered thy hopes; and therefore will I punish
myself and inflict upon myself the penalty thy guilt deserves. And
that thou mayest see that being so relentless to myself I cannot
possibly be otherwise to thee, I have summoned thee to be a witness of
the sacrifice I mean to offer to the injured honour of my honoured
husband, wronged by thee with all the assiduity thou wert capable
of, and by me too through want of caution in avoiding every
occasion, if I have given any, of encouraging and sanctioning thy base
designs. Once more I say the suspicion in my mind that some imprudence
of mine has engendered these lawless thoughts in thee, is what
causes me most distress and what I desire most to punish with my own
hands, for were any other instrument of punishment employed my error
might become perhaps more widely known; but before I do so, in my
death I mean to inflict death, and take with me one that will fully
satisfy my longing for the revenge I hope for and have; for I shall
see, wheresoever it may be that I go, the penalty awarded by
inflexible, unswerving justice on him who has placed me in a
position so desperate.

As she uttered these wordswith incredible energy and swiftness she
flew upon Lothario with the naked daggerso manifestly bent on
burying it in his breast that he was almost uncertain whether these
demonstrations were real or feignedfor he was obliged to have
recourse to all his skill and strength to prevent her from striking
him; and with such reality did she act this strange farce and
mystification thatto give it a colour of truthshe determined to
stain it with her own blood; for perceivingor pretendingthat she
could not wound Lotharioshe saidFate, it seems, will not grant my
just desire complete satisfaction, but it will not be able to keep
me from satisfying it partially at least;and making an effort to
free the hand with the dagger which Lothario held in his graspshe
released itand directing the point to a place where it could not
inflict a deep woundshe plunged it into her left side high up
close to the shoulderand then allowed herself to fall to the
ground as if in a faint.

Leonela and Lothario stood amazed and astounded at the
catastropheand seeing Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed
in her blood they were still uncertain as to the true nature of the
act. Lotharioterrified and breathlessran in haste to pluck out the
dagger; but when he saw how slight the wound was he was relieved of
his fears and once more admired the subtletycoolnessand ready
wit of the fair Camilla; and the better to support the part he had
to play he began to utter profuse and doleful lamentations over her
body as if she were deadinvoking maledictions not only on himself
but also on him who had been the means of placing him in such a
position: and knowing that his friend Anselmo heard him he spoke in
such a way as to make a listener feel much more pity for him than
for Camillaeven though he supposed her dead. Leonela took her up
in her arms and laid her on the bedentreating Lothario to go in
quest of some one to attend to her wound in secretand at the same
time asking his advice and opinion as to what they should say to
Anselmo about his lady's wound if he should chance to return before it
was healed. He replied they might say what they likedfor he was
not in a state to give advice that would be of any use; all he could
tell her was to try and stanch the bloodas he was going where he
should never more be seen; and with every appearance of deep grief and
sorrow he left the house; but when he found himself aloneand where
there was nobody to see himhe crossed himself unceasinglylost in
wonder at the adroitness of Camilla and the consistent acting of


Leonela. He reflected how convinced Anselmo would be that he had a
second Portia for a wifeand he looked forward anxiously to meeting
him in order to rejoice together over falsehood and truth the most
craftily veiled that could be imagined.

Leonelaas he told herstanched her lady's bloodwhich was no
more than sufficed to support her deception; and washing the wound
with a little wine she bound it up to the best of her skilltalking
all the time she was tending her in a strain thateven if nothing
else had been said beforewould have been enough to assure Anselmo
that he had in Camilla a model of purity. To Leonela's words Camilla
added her owncalling herself cowardly and wanting in spiritsince
she had not enough at the time she had most need of it to rid
herself of the life she so much loathed. She asked her attendant's
advice as to whether or not she ought to inform her beloved husband of
all that had happenedbut the other bade her say nothing about itas
she would lay upon him the obligation of taking vengeance on Lothario
which he could not do but at great risk to himself; and it was the
duty of a true wife not to give her husband provocation to quarrel
buton the contraryto remove it as far as possible from him.

Camilla replied that she believed she was right and that she would
follow her advicebut at any rate it would be well to consider how
she was to explain the wound to Anselmofor he could not help
seeing it; to which Leonela answered that she did not know how to tell
a lie even in jest.

How then can I know, my dear?said Camillafor I should not dare
to forge or keep up a falsehood if my life depended on it. If we can
think of no escape from this difficulty, it will be better to tell him
the plain truth than that he should find us out in an untrue story.

Be not uneasy, senora,said Leonela; "between this and to-morrow I
will think of what we must say to himand perhaps the wound being
where it is it can be hidden from his sightand Heaven will be
pleased to aid us in a purpose so good and honourable. Compose
yourselfsenoraand endeavour to calm your excitement lest my lord
find you agitated; and leave the rest to my care and God'swho always
supports good intentions."

Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played
out the tragedy of the death of his honourwhich the performers acted
with such wonderfully effective truth that it seemed as if they had
become the realities of the parts they played. He longed for night and
an opportunity of escaping from the house to go and see his good
friend Lotharioand with him give vent to his joy over the precious
pearl he had gained in having established his wife's purity. Both
mistress and maid took care to give him time and opportunity to get
awayand taking advantage of it he made his escapeand at once
went in quest of Lotharioand it would be impossible to describe
how he embraced him when he found himand the things he said to him
in the joy of his heartand the praises he bestowed upon Camilla; all
which Lothario listened to without being able to show any pleasure
for he could not forget how deceived his friend wasand how
dishonourably he had wronged him; and though Anselmo could see that
Lothario was not gladstill he imagined it was only because he had
left Camilla wounded and had been himself the cause of it; and so
among other things he told him not to be distressed about Camilla's
accidentforas they had agreed to hide it from himthe wound was
evidently trifling; and that being sohe had no cause for fearbut
should henceforward be of good cheer and rejoice with himseeing that
by his means and adroitness he found himself raised to the greatest
height of happiness that he could have ventured to hope forand
desired no better pastime than making verses in praise of Camilla that


would preserve her name for all time to come. Lothario commended his
purposeand promised on his own part to aid him in raising a monument
so glorious.

And so Anselmo was left the most charmingly hoodwinked man there
could be in the world. He himselfpersuaded he was conducting the
instrument of his gloryled home by the hand him who had been the
utter destruction of his good name; whom Camilla received with averted
countenancethough with smiles in her heart. The deception was
carried on for some timeuntil at the end of a few months Fortune
turned her wheel and the guilt which had been until then so
skilfully concealed was published abroadand Anselmo paid with his
life the penalty of his ill-advised curiosity.

CHAPTER XXXV

WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD
WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINEAND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF "THE
ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" TO A CLOSE

There remained but little more of the novel to be readwhen
Sancho Panza burst forth in wild excitement from the garret where
Don Quixote was lyingshoutingRun, sirs! quick; and help my
master, who is in the thick of the toughest and stiffest battle I ever
laid eyes on. By the living God he has given the giant, the enemy of
my lady the Princess Micomicona, such a slash that he has sliced his
head clean off as if it were a turnip.

What are you talking about, brother?said the curatepausing as
he was about to read the remainder of the novel. "Are you in your
sensesSancho? How the devil can it be as you saywhen the giant
is two thousand leagues away?"

Here they heard a loud noise in the chamberand Don Quixote
shouting outStand, thief, brigand, villain; now I have got thee,
and thy scimitar shall not avail thee!And then it seemed as though
he were slashing vigorously at the wall.

Don't stop to listen,said Sanchobut go in and part them or
help my master: though there is no need of that now, for no doubt
the giant is dead by this time and giving account to God of his past
wicked life; for I saw the blood flowing on the ground, and the head
cut off and fallen on one side, and it is as big as a large
wine-skin.

May I die,said the landlord at thisif Don Quixote or Don Devil
has not been slashing some of the skins of red wine that stand full at
his bed's head, and the spilt wine must be what this good fellow takes
for blood;and so saying he went into the room and the rest after
himand there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume in
the world. He was in his shirtwhich was not long enough in front
to cover his thighs completely and was six fingers shorter behind; his
legs were very long and leancovered with hairand anything but
clean; on his head he had a little greasy red cap that belonged to the
hostround his left arm he had rolled the blanket of the bedto
which Sanchofor reasons best known to himselfowed a grudgeand in
his right hand he held his unsheathed swordwith which he was
slashing about on all sidesuttering exclamations as if he were
actually fighting some giant: and the best of it was his eyes were not
openfor he was fast asleepand dreaming that he was doing battle
with the giant. For his imagination was so wrought upon by the


adventure he was going to accomplishthat it made him dream he had
already reached the kingdom of Micomiconand was engaged in combat
with his enemy; and believing he was laying on the gianthe had given
so many sword cuts to the skins that the whole room was full of
wine. On seeing this the landlord was so enraged that he fell on Don
Quixoteand with his clenched fist began to pummel him in such a way
that if Cardenio and the curate had not dragged him offhe would have
brought the war of the giant to an end. But in spite of all the poor
gentleman never woke until the barber brought a great pot of cold
water from the well and flung it with one dash all over his bodyon
which Don Quixote woke upbut not so completely as to understand what
was the matter. Dorotheaseeing how short and slight his attire
waswould not go in to witness the battle between her champion and
her opponent. As for Sanchohe went searching all over the floor
for the head of the giantand not finding it he saidI see now that
it's all enchantment in this house; for the last time, on this very
spot where I am now, I got ever so many thumps without knowing who
gave them to me, or being able to see anybody; and now this head is
not to be seen anywhere about, though I saw it cut off with my own
eyes and the blood running from the body as if from a fountain.

What blood and fountains are you talking about, enemy of God and
his saints?said the landlord. "Don't you seeyou thiefthat the
blood and the fountain are only these skins here that have been
stabbed and the red wine swimming all over the room?- and I wish I saw
the soul of him that stabbed them swimming in hell."

I know nothing about that,said Sancho; "all I know is it will
be my bad luck that through not finding this head my county will
melt away like salt in water;"- for Sancho awake was worse than his
master asleepso much had his master's promises addled his wits.

The landlord was beside himself at the coolness of the squire and
the mischievous doings of the masterand swore it should not be
like the last time when they went without paying; and that their
privileges of chivalry should not hold good this time to let one or
other of them off without payingeven to the cost of the plugs that
would have to be put to the damaged wine-skins. The curate was holding
Don Quixote's handswhofancying he had now ended the adventure
and was in the presence of the Princess Micomiconaknelt before the
curate and saidExalted and beauteous lady, your highness may live
from this day forth fearless of any harm this base being could do you;
and I too from this day forth am released from the promise I gave you,
since by the help of God on high and by the favour of her by whom I
live and breathe, I have fulfilled it so successfully.

Did not I say so?said Sancho on hearing this. "You see I wasn't
drunk; there you see my master has already salted the giant; there's
no doubt about the bulls; my county is all right!"

Who could have helped laughing at the absurdities of the pair
master and man? And laugh they didall except the landlordwho
cursed himself; but at length the barberCardenioand the curate
contrived with no small trouble to get Don Quixote on the bedand
he fell asleep with every appearance of excessive weariness. They left
him to sleepand came out to the gate of the inn to console Sancho
Panza on not having found the head of the giant; but much more work
had they to appease the landlordwho was furious at the sudden
death of his wine-skins; and said the landlady half scoldinghalf
cryingAt an evil moment and in an unlucky hour he came into my
house, this knight-errant- would that I had never set eyes on him, for
dear he has cost me; the last time he went off with the overnight
score against him for supper, bed, straw, and barley, for himself
and his squire and a hack and an ass, saying he was a knight


adventurer- God send unlucky adventures to him and all the adventurers
in the world- and therefore not bound to pay anything, for it was so
settled by the knight-errantry tariff: and then, all because of him,
came the other gentleman and carried off my tail, and gives it back
more than two cuartillos the worse, all stripped of its hair, so
that it is no use for my husband's purpose; and then, for a
finishing touch to all, to burst my wine-skins and spill my wine! I
wish I saw his own blood spilt! But let him not deceive himself,
for, by the bones of my father and the shade of my mother, they
shall pay me down every quarts; or my name is not what it is, and I am
not my father's daughter.All this and more to the same effect the
landlady delivered with great irritationand her good maid Maritornes
backed her upwhile the daughter held her peace and smiled from
time to time. The curate smoothed matters by promising to make good
all losses to the best of his powernot only as regarded the
wine-skins but also the wineand above all the depreciation of the
tail which they set such store by. Dorothea comforted Sancho
telling him that she pledged herselfas soon as it should appear
certain that his master had decapitated the giantand she found
herself peacefully established in her kingdomto bestow upon him
the best county there was in it. With this Sancho consoled himself
and assured the princess she might rely upon it that he had seen the
head of the giantand more by token it had a beard that reached to
the girdleand that if it was not to be seen now it was because
everything that happened in that house went by enchantmentas he
himself had proved the last time he had lodged there. Dorothea said
she fully believed itand that he need not be uneasyfor all would
go well and turn out as he wished. All therefore being appeasedthe
curate was anxious to go on with the novelas he saw there was but
little more left to read. Dorothea and the others begged him to finish
itand heas he was willing to please themand enjoyed reading it
himselfcontinued the tale in these words:

The result wasthat from the confidence Anselmo felt in Camilla's
virtuehe lived happy and free from anxietyand Camilla purposely
looked coldly on Lothariothat Anselmo might suppose her feelings
towards him to be the opposite of what they were; and the better to
support the positionLothario begged to be excused from coming to the
houseas the displeasure with which Camilla regarded his presence was
plain to be seen. But the befooled Anselmo said he would on no account
allow such a thingand so in a thousand ways he became the author
of his own dishonourwhile he believed he was insuring his happiness.
Meanwhile the satisfaction with which Leonela saw herself empowered to
carry on her amour reached such a height thatregardless of
everything elseshe followed her inclinations unrestrainedlyfeeling
confident that her mistress would screen herand even show her how to
manage it safely. At last one night Anselmo heard footsteps in
Leonela's roomand on trying to enter to see who it washe found
that the door was held against himwhich made him all the more
determined to open it; and exerting his strength he forced it open
and entered the room in time to see a man leaping through the window
into the street. He ran quickly to seize him or discover who he was
but he was unable to effect either purposefor Leonela flung her arms
round him cryingBe calm, senor; do not give way to passion or
follow him who has escaped from this; he belongs to me, and in fact he
is my husband.

Anselmo would not believe itbut blind with rage drew a dagger
and threatened to stab Leonelabidding her tell the truth or he would
kill her. Shein her fearnot knowing what she was saying
exclaimedDo not kill me, senor, for I can tell you things more
important than any you can imagine.


Tell me then at once or thou diest,said Anselmo.

It would be impossible for me now,said LeonelaI am so
agitated: leave me till to-morrow, and then you shall hear from me
what will fill you with astonishment; but rest assured that he who
leaped through the window is a young man of this city, who has given
me his promise to become my husband.

Anselmo was appeased with thisand was content to wait the time she
asked of himfor he never expected to hear anything against
Camillaso satisfied and sure of her virtue was he; and so he quitted
the roomand left Leonela locked intelling her she should not
come out until she had told him all she had to make known to him. He
went at once to see Camillaand tell heras he didall that had
passed between him and her handmaidand the promise she had given him
to inform him matters of serious importance.

There is no need of saying whether Camilla was agitated or not
for so great was her fear and dismaythatmaking sureas she had
good reason to dothat Leonela would tell Anselmo all she knew of her
faithlessnessshe had not the courage to wait and see if her
suspicions were confirmed; and that same nightas soon as she thought
that Anselmo was asleepshe packed up the most valuable jewels she
had and some moneyand without being observed by anybody escaped from
the house and betook herself to Lothario'sto whom she related what
had occurredimploring him to convey her to some place of safety or
fly with her where they might be safe from Anselmo. The state of
perplexity to which Camilla reduced Lothario was such that he was
unable to utter a word in replystill less to decide upon what he
should do. At length he resolved to conduct her to a convent of
which a sister of his was prioress; Camilla agreed to thisand with
the speed which the circumstances demandedLothario took her to the
convent and left her thereand then himself quitted the city
without letting anyone know of his departure.

As soon as daylight came Anselmowithout missing Camilla from his
siderose cager to learn what Leonela had to tell himand hastened
to the room where he had locked her in. He opened the doorentered
but found no Leonela; all he found was some sheets knotted to the
windowa plain proof that she had let herself down from it and
escaped. He returneduneasyto tell Camillabut not finding her
in bed or anywhere in the house he was lost in amazement. He asked the
servants of the house about herbut none of them could give him any
explanation. As he was going in search of Camilla it happened by
chance that he observed her boxes were lying openand that the
greater part of her jewels were gone; and now he became fully aware of
his disgraceand that Leonela was not the cause of his misfortune;
andjust as he waswithout delaying to dress himself completely
he repairedsad at heart and dejectedto his friend Lothario to make
known his sorrow to him; but when he failed to find him and the
servants reported that he had been absent from his house all night and
had taken with him all the money he hadhe felt as though he were
losing his senses; and to make all complete on returning to his own
house he found it deserted and emptynot one of all his servants
male or femaleremaining in it. He knew not what to thinkor sayor
doand his reason seemed to be deserting him little by little. He
reviewed his positionand saw himself in a moment left without
wifefriendor servantsabandonedhe feltby the heaven above
himand more than all robbed of his honourfor in Camilla's
disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long reflection he resolved
at last to go to his friend's villagewhere he had been staying
when he afforded opportunities for the contrivance of this
complication of misfortune. He locked the doors of his house
mounted his horseand with a broken spirit set out on his journey;


but he had hardly gone half-way whenharassed by his reflections
he had to dismount and tie his horse to a treeat the foot of which
he threw himselfgiving vent to piteous heartrending sighs; and there
he remained till nearly nightfallwhen he observed a man
approaching on horseback from the cityof whomafter saluting him
he asked what was the news in Florence.


The citizen repliedThe strangest that have been heard for many
a day; for it is reported abroad that Lothario, the great friend of
the wealthy Anselmo, who lived at San Giovanni, carried off last night
Camilla, the wife of Anselmo, who also has disappeared. All this has
been told by a maid-servant of Camilla's, whom the governor found last
night lowering herself by a sheet from the windows of Anselmo's house.
I know not indeed, precisely, how the affair came to pass; all I
know is that the whole city is wondering at the occurrence, for no one
could have expected a thing of the kind, seeing the great and intimate
friendship that existed between them, so great, they say, that they
were called 'The Two Friends.'


Is it known at all,said Anselmowhat road Lothario and
Camilla took?


Not in the least,said the citizenthough the governor has
been very active in searching for them.


God speed you, senor,said Anselmo.


God be with you,said the citizen and went his way.


This disastrous intelligence almost robbed Anselmo not only of his
senses but of his life. He got up as well as he was able and reached
the house of his friendwho as yet knew nothing of his misfortune
but seeing him come palewornand haggardperceived that he was
suffering some heavy affliction. Anselmo at once begged to be
allowed to retire to restand to be given writing materials. His wish
was complied with and he was left lying down and alonefor he desired
thisand even that the door should be locked. Finding himself alone
he so took to heart the thought of his misfortune that by the signs of
death he felt within him he knew well his life was drawing to a close
and therefore he resolved to leave behind him a declaration of the
cause of his strange end. He began to writebut before he had put
down all he meant to sayhis breath failed him and he yielded up
his lifea victim to the suffering which his ill-advised curiosity
had entailed upon him. The master of the house observing that it was
now late and that Anselmo did not calldetermined to go in and
ascertain if his indisposition was increasingand found him lying
on his facehis body partly in the bedpartly on the
writing-tableon which he lay with the written paper open and the pen
still in his hand. Having first called to him without receiving any
answerhis host approached himand taking him by the handfound
that it was coldand saw that he was dead. Greatly surprised and
distressed he summoned the household to witness the sad fate which had
befallen Anselmo; and then he read the paperthe handwriting of which
he recognised as hisand which contained these words:


A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of life. If the news
of my death should reach the ears of Camilla, let her know that I
forgive her, for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor ought I to
have required her to perform them; and since I have been the author of
my own dishonour, there is no reason why-


So far Anselmo had writtenand thus it was plain that at this
pointbefore he could finish what he had to sayhis life came to
an end. The next day his friend sent intelligence of his death to



his relativeswho had already ascertained his misfortuneas well
as the convent where Camilla lay almost on the point of accompanying
her husband on that inevitable journeynot on account of the
tidings of his deathbut because of those she received of her lover's
departure. Although she saw herself a widowit is said she refused
either to quit the convent or take the veiluntilnot long
afterwardsintelligence reached her that Lothario had been killed
in a battle in which M. de Lautrec had been recently engaged with
the Great Captain Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova in the kingdom of
Napleswhither her too late repentant lover had repaired. On learning
this Camilla took the veiland shortly afterwards diedworn out by
grief and melancholy. This was the end of all threean end that
came of a thoughtless beginning.

I like this novel,said the curate; "but I cannot persuade
myself of its truth; and if it has been inventedthe author's
invention is faultyfor it is impossible to imagine any husband so
foolish as to try such a costly experiment as Anselmo's. If it had
been represented as occurring between a gallant and his mistress it
might pass; but between husband and wife there is something of an
impossibility about it. As to the way in which the story is told
howeverI have no fault to find."

CHAPTER XXXVI

WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

Just at that instant the landlordwho was standing at the gate of
the innexclaimedHere comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop
here we may say gaudeamus.

What are they?said Cardenio.

Four men,said the landlordriding a la jineta, with lances
and bucklers, and all with black veils, and with them there is a woman
in white on a side-saddle, whose face is also veiled, and two
attendants on foot.

Are they very near?said the curate.

So near,answered the landlordthat here they come.

Hearing this Dorothea covered her faceand Cardenio retreated
into Don Quixote's roomand they hardly had time to do so before
the whole party the host had described entered the innand the four
that were on horsebackwho were of highbred appearance and bearing
dismountedand came forward to take down the woman who rode on the
side-saddleand one of them taking her in his arms placed her in a
chair that stood at the entrance of the room where Cardenio had hidden
himself. All this time neither she nor they had removed their veils or
spoken a wordonly on sitting down on the chair the woman gave a deep
sigh and let her arms fall like one that was ill and weak. The
attendants on foot then led the horses away to the stable. Observing
this the curatecurious to know who these people in such a dress
and preserving such silence werewent to where the servants were
standing and put the question to one of themwho answered him.

Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who they are, I only know they seem
to be people of distinction, particularly he who advanced to take
the lady you saw in his arms; and I say so because all the rest show


him respect, and nothing is done except what he directs and orders.

And the lady, who is she?asked the curate.

That I cannot tell you either,said the servantfor I have not
seen her face all the way: I have indeed heard her sigh many times and
utter such groans that she seems to be giving up the ghost every time;
but it is no wonder if we do not know more than we have told you, as
my comrade and I have only been in their company two days, for
having met us on the road they begged and persuaded us to accompany
them to Andalusia, promising to pay us well.

And have you heard any of them called by his name?asked the
curate.

No, indeed,replied the servant; "they all preserve a marvellous
silence on the roadfor not a sound is to be heard among them
except the poor lady's sighs and sobswhich make us pity her; and
we feel sure that wherever it is she is goingit is against her will
and as far as one can judge from her dress she is a nun orwhat is
more likelyabout to become one; and perhaps it is because taking the
vows is not of her own free willthat she is so unhappy as she
seems to be."

That may well be,said the curateand leaving them he returned to
where Dorothea waswhohearing the veiled lady sighmoved by
natural compassion drew near to her and saidWhat are you
suffering from, senora? If it be anything that women are accustomed
and know how to relieve, I offer you my services with all my heart.

To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea repeated
her offers more earnestly she still kept silenceuntil the
gentleman with the veilwhothe servant saidwas obeyed by the
restapproached and said to DorotheaDo not give yourself the
trouble, senora, of making any offers to that woman, for it is her way
to give no thanks for anything that is done for her; and do not try to
make her answer unless you want to hear some lie from her lips.

I have never told a lie,was the immediate reply of her who had
been silent until now; "on the contraryit is because I am so
truthful and so ignorant of lying devices that I am now in this
miserable condition; and this I call you yourself to witnessfor it
is my unstained truth that has made you false and a liar."

Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctlybeing quite close
to the speakerfor there was only the door of Don Quixote's room
between themand the instant he did souttering a loud exclamation
he criedGood God! what is this I hear? What voice is this that
has reached my ears?Startled at the voice the lady turned her
head; and not seeing the speaker she stood up and attempted to enter
the room; observing which the gentleman held her backpreventing
her from moving a step. In her agitation and sudden movement the
silk with which she had covered her face fell off and disclosed a
countenance of incomparable and marvellous beautybut pale and
terrified; for she kept turning her eyeseverywhere she could
direct her gazewith an eagerness that made her look as if she had
lost her sensesand so marked that it excited the pity of Dorothea
and all who beheld herthough they knew not what caused it. The
gentleman grasped her firmly by the shouldersand being so fully
occupied with holding her backhe was unable to put a hand to his
veil which was falling offas it did at length entirelyand
Dorotheawho was holding the lady in her armsraising her eyes saw
that he who likewise held her was her husbandDon Fernando. The
instant she recognised himwith a prolonged plaintive cry drawn


from the depths of her heartshe fell backwards faintingand but for
the barber being close by to catch her in his armsshe would have
fallen completely to the ground. The curate at once hastened to
uncover her face and throw water on itand as he did so Don Fernando
for he it was who held the other in his armsrecognised her and stood
as if death-stricken by the sight; nothoweverrelaxing his grasp of
Luscindafor it was she that was struggling to release herself from
his holdhaving recognised Cardenio by his voiceas he had
recognised her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea's cry as she fell
faintingand imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth
in terror from the roomand the first thing he saw was Don Fernando
with Luscinda in his arms. Don Fernandotooknew Cardenio at once;
and all threeLuscindaCardenioand Dorotheastood in silent
amazement scarcely knowing what had happened to them.

They gazed at one another without speakingDorothea at Don
FernandoDon Fernando at CardenioCardenio at Luscindaand Luscinda
at Cardenio. The first to break silence was Luscindawho thus
addressed Don Fernando: "Leave meSenor Don Fernandofor the sake of
what you owe to yourself; if no other reason will induce youleave me
to cling to the wall of which I am the ivyto the support from
which neither your importunitiesnor your threatsnor your promises
nor your gifts have been able to detach me. See how Heavenby ways
strange and hidden from our sighthas brought me face to face with my
true husband; and well you know by dear-bought experience that death
alone will be able to efface him from my memory. May this plain
declarationthenlead youas you can do nothing elseto turn
your love into rageyour affection into resentmentand so to take my
life; for if I yield it up in the presence of my beloved husband I
count it well bestowed; it may be by my death he will be convinced
that I kept my faith to him to the last moment of life."

Meanwhile Dorothea had come to herselfand had heard Luscinda's
wordsby means of which she divined who she was; but seeing that
Don Fernando did not yet release her or reply to hersummoning up her
resolution as well as she could she rose and knelt at his feetand
with a flood of bright and touching tears addressed him thus:

If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou holdest eclipsed in
thine arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of sight thou wouldst
have seen by this time that she who kneels at thy feet is, so long
as thou wilt have it so, the unhappy and unfortunate Dorothea. I am
that lowly peasant girl whom thou in thy goodness or for thy
pleasure wouldst raise high enough to call herself thine; I am she who
in the seclusion of innocence led a contented life until at the
voice of thy importunity, and thy true and tender passion, as it
seemed, she opened the gates of her modesty and surrendered to thee
the keys of her liberty; a gift received by thee but thanklessly, as
is clearly shown by my forced retreat to the place where thou dost
find me, and by thy appearance under the circumstances in which I
see thee. Nevertheless, I would not have thee suppose that I have come
here driven by my shame; it is only grief and sorrow at seeing
myself forgotten by thee that have led me. It was thy will to make
me thine, and thou didst so follow thy will, that now, even though
thou repentest, thou canst not help being mine. Bethink thee, my lord,
the unsurpassable affection I bear thee may compensate for the
beauty and noble birth for which thou wouldst desert me. Thou canst
not be the fair Luscinda's because thou art mine, nor can she be thine
because she is Cardenio's; and it will be easier, remember, to bend
thy will to love one who adores thee, than to lead one to love thee
who abhors thee now. Thou didst address thyself to my simplicity, thou
didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert not ignorant of my station,
well dost thou know how I yielded wholly to thy will; there is no
ground or reason for thee to plead deception, and if it be so, as it


is, and if thou art a Christian as thou art a gentleman, why dost thou
by such subterfuges put off making me as happy at last as thou didst
at first? And if thou wilt not have me for what I am, thy true and
lawful wife, at least take and accept me as thy slave, for so long
as I am thine I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do not by
deserting me let my shame become the talk of the gossips in the
streets; make not the old age of my parents miserable; for the loyal
services they as faithful vassals have ever rendered thine are not
deserving of such a return; and if thou thinkest it will debase thy
blood to mingle it with mine, reflect that there is little or no
nobility in the world that has not travelled the same road, and that
in illustrious lineages it is not the woman's blood that is of
account; and, moreover, that true nobility consists in virtue, and
if thou art wanting in that, refusing me what in justice thou owest
me, then even I have higher claims to nobility than thine. To make
an end, senor, these are my last words to thee: whether thou wilt,
or wilt not, I am thy wife; witness thy words, which must not and
ought not to be false, if thou dost pride thyself on that for want
of which thou scornest me; witness the pledge which thou didst give
me, and witness Heaven, which thou thyself didst call to witness the
promise thou hadst made me; and if all this fail, thy own conscience
will not fail to lift up its silent voice in the midst of all thy
gaiety, and vindicate the truth of what I say and mar thy highest
pleasure and enjoyment.

All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such earnest
feeling and such tears that all presenteven those who came with
Don Fernandowere constrained to join her in them. Don Fernando
listened to her without replyinguntilceasing to speakshe gave
way to such sobs and sighs that it must have been a heart of brass
that was not softened by the sight of so great sorrow. Luscinda
stood regarding her with no less compassion for her sufferings than
admiration for her intelligence and beautyand would have gone to her
to say some words of comfort to herbut was prevented by Don
Fernando's grasp which held her fast. Heoverwhelmed with confusion
and astonishmentafter regarding Dorothea for some moments with a
fixed gazeopened his armsandreleasing Luscindaexclaimed:

Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast conquered, for it
is impossible to have the heart to deny the united force of so many
truths.

Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the ground
when Don Fernando released herbut Cardeniowho stood nearhaving
retreated behind Don Fernando to escape recognitioncasting fear
aside and regardless of what might happenran forward to support her
and said as he clasped her in his armsIf Heaven in its compassion
is willing to let thee rest at last, mistress of my heart, true,
constant, and fair, nowhere canst thou rest more safely than in
these arms that now receive thee, and received thee before when
fortune permitted me to call thee mine.

At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenioat first beginning to
recognise him by his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes
that it was heand hardly knowing what she didand heedless of all
considerations of decorumshe flung her arms around his neck and
pressing her face close to hissaidYes, my dear lord, you are
the true master of this your slave, even though adverse fate interpose
again, and fresh dangers threaten this life that hangs on yours.

A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that stood
aroundfilled with surprise at an incident so unlooked for.
Dorothea fancied that Don Fernando changed colour and looked as though
he meant to take vengeance on Cardeniofor she observed him put his


hand to his sword; and the instant the idea struck herwith wonderful
quickness she clasped him round the kneesand kissing them and
holding him so as to prevent his movingshe saidwhile her tears
continued to flowWhat is it thou wouldst do, my only refuge, in
this unforeseen event? Thou hast thy wife at thy feet, and she whom
thou wouldst have for thy wife is in the arms of her husband:
reflect whether it will be right for thee, whether it will be possible
for thee to undo what Heaven has done, or whether it will be
becoming in thee to seek to raise her to be thy mate who in spite of
every obstacle, and strong in her truth and constancy, is before thine
eyes, bathing with the tears of love the face and bosom of her
lawful husband. For God's sake I entreat of thee, for thine own I
implore thee, let not this open manifestation rouse thy anger; but
rather so calm it as to allow these two lovers to live in peace and
quiet without any interference from thee so long as Heaven permits
them; and in so doing thou wilt prove the generosity of thy lofty
noble spirit, and the world shall see that with thee reason has more
influence than passion.

All the time Dorothea was speakingCardeniothough he held
Luscinda in his armsnever took his eyes off Don Fernando
determinedif he saw him make any hostile movementto try and defend
himself and resist as best he could all who might assail himthough
it should cost him his life. But now Don Fernando's friendsas well
as the curate and the barberwho had been present all the while
not forgetting the worthy Sancho Panzaran forward and gathered round
Don Fernandoentreating him to have regard for the tears of Dorothea
and not suffer her reasonable hopes to be disappointedsinceas they
firmly believedwhat she said was but the truth; and bidding him
observe that it was notas it might seemby accidentbut by a
special disposition of Providence that they had all met in a place
where no one could have expected a meeting. And the curate bade him
remember that only death could part Luscinda from Cardenio; that
even if some sword were to separate them they would think their
death most happy; and that in a case that admitted of no remedy his
wisest course wasby conquering and putting a constraint upon
himselfto show a generous mindand of his own accord suffer these
two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had granted them. He bade him
tooturn his eyes upon the beauty of Dorothea and he would see that
few if any could equal much less excel her; while to that beauty
should be added her modesty and the surpassing love she bore him.
But besides all thishe reminded him that if he prided himself on
being a gentleman and a Christianhe could not do otherwise than keep
his plighted word; and that in doing so he would obey God and meet the
approval of all sensible peoplewho know and recognised it to be
the privilege of beautyeven in one of humble birthprovided
virtue accompany itto be able to raise itself to the level of any
rankwithout any slur upon him who places it upon an equality with
himself; and furthermore that when the potent sway of passion
asserts itselfso long as there be no mixture of sin in ithe is not
to be blamed who gives way to it.

To be briefthey added to these such other forcible arguments
that Don Fernando's manly heartbeing after all nourished by noble
bloodwas touchedand yielded to the truth whicheven had he wished
ithe could not gainsay; and he showed his submissionand acceptance
of the good advice that had been offered to himby stooping down
and embracing Dorotheasaying to herRise, dear lady, it is not
right that what I hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet;
and if until now I have shown no sign of what I own, it may have
been by Heaven's decree in order that, seeing the constancy with which
you love me, I may learn to value you as you deserve. What I entreat
of you is that you reproach me not with my transgression and
grievous wrong-doing; for the same cause and force that drove me to


make you mine impelled me to struggle against being yours; and to
prove this, turn and look at the eyes of the now happy Luscinda, and
you will see in them an excuse for all my errors: and as she has found
and gained the object of her desires, and I have found in you what
satisfies all my wishes, may she live in peace and contentment as many
happy years with her Cardenio, as on my knees I pray Heaven to allow
me to live with my Dorothea;and with these words he once more
embraced her and pressed his face to hers with so much tenderness that
he had to take great heed to keep his tears from completing the
proof of his love and repentance in the sight of all. Not so Luscinda
and Cardenioand almost all the othersfor they shed so many
tearssome in their own happinesssome at that of the othersthat
one would have supposed a heavy calamity had fallen upon them all.
Even Sancho Panza was weeping; though afterwards he said he only
wept because he saw that Dorothea was not as he fancied the queen
Micomiconaof whom he expected such great favours. Their wonder as
well as their weeping lasted some timeand then Cardenio and Luscinda
went and fell on their knees before Don Fernandoreturning him thanks
for the favour he had rendered them in language so grateful that he
knew not how to answer themand raising them up embraced them with
every mark of affection and courtesy.

He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a place so far
removed from her own homeand she in a few fitting words told all
that she had previously related to Cardeniowith which Don Fernando
and his companions were so delighted that they wished the story had
been longer; so charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures.
When she had finished Don Fernando recounted what had befallen him
in the city after he had found in Luscinda's bosom the paper in
which she declared that she was Cardenio's wifeand never could be
his. He said he meant to kill herand would have done so had he not
been prevented by her parentsand that he quitted the house full of
rage and shameand resolved to avenge himself when a more
convenient opportunity should offer. The next day he learned that
Luscinda had disappeared from her father's houseand that no one
could tell whither she had gone. Finallyat the end of some months he
ascertained that she was in a convent and meant to remain there all
the rest of her lifeif she were not to share it with Cardenio; and
as soon as he had learned thistaking these three gentlemen as his
companionshe arrived at the place where she wasbut avoided
speaking to herfearing that if it were known he was there stricter
precautions would be taken in the convent; and watching a time when
the porter's lodge was open he left two to guard the gateand he
and the other entered the convent in quest of Luscindawhom they
found in the cloisters in conversation with one of the nunsand
carrying her off without giving her time to resistthey reached a
place with her where they provided themselves with what they
required for taking her away; all which they were able to do in
complete safetyas the convent was in the country at a considerable
distance from the city. He added that when Luscinda found herself in
his power she lost all consciousnessand after returning to herself
did nothing but weep and sigh without speaking a word; and thus in
silence and tears they reached that innwhich for him was reaching
heaven where all the mischances of earth are over and at an end.

CHAPTER XXXVII

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA
WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES

To all this Sancho listened with no little sorrow at heart to see


how his hopes of dignity were fading away and vanishing in smoke
and how the fair Princess Micomicona had turned into Dorotheaand the
giant into Don Fernandowhile his master was sleeping tranquilly
totally unconscious of all that had come to pass. Dorothea was
unable to persuade herself that her present happiness was not all a
dream; Cardenio was in a similar state of mindand Luscinda's
thoughts ran in the same direction. Don Fernando gave thanks to Heaven
for the favour shown to him and for having been rescued from the
intricate labyrinth in which he had been brought so near the
destruction of his good name and of his soul; and in short everybody
in the inn was full of contentment and satisfaction at the happy issue
of such a complicated and hopeless business. The curate as a
sensible man made sound reflections upon the whole affairand
congratulated each upon his good fortune; but the one that was in
the highest spirits and good humour was the landladybecause of the
promise Cardenio and the curate had given her to pay for all the
losses and damage she had sustained through Don Quixote's means.
Sanchoas has been already saidwas the only one who was distressed
unhappyand dejected; and so with a long face he went in to his
masterwho had just awokeand said to him:

Sir Rueful Countenance, your worship may as well sleep on as much
as you like, without troubling yourself about killing any giant or
restoring her kingdom to the princess; for that is all over and
settled now.

I should think it was,replied Don Quixotefor I have had the
most prodigious and stupendous battle with the giant that I ever
remember having had all the days of my life; and with one back-strokeswish!-
I brought his head tumbling to the ground, and so much blood
gushed forth from him that it ran in rivulets over the earth like
water.

Like red wine, your worship had better say,replied Sancho;
for I would have you know, if you don't know it, that the dead
giant is a hacked wine-skin, and the blood four-and-twenty gallons
of red wine that it had in its belly, and the cut-off head is the
bitch that bore me; and the devil take it all.

What art thou talking about, fool?said Don Quixote; "art thou
in thy senses?"

Let your worship get up,said Sanchoand you will see the nice
business you have made of it, and what we have to pay; and you will
see the queen turned into a private lady called Dorothea, and other
things that will astonish you, if you understand them.

I shall not be surprised at anything of the kind,returned Don
Quixote; "for if thou dost remember the last time we were here I
told thee that everything that happened here was a matter of
enchantmentand it would be no wonder if it were the same now."

I could believe all that,replied Sanchoif my blanketing was
the same sort of thing also; only it wasn't, but real and genuine; for
I saw the landlord, Who is here to-day, holding one end of the blanket
and jerking me up to the skies very neatly and smartly, and with as
much laughter as strength; and when it comes to be a case of knowing
people, I hold for my part, simple and sinner as I am, that there is
no enchantment about it at all, but a great deal of bruising and bad
luck.

Well, well, God will give a remedy,said Don Quixote; "hand me
my clothes and let me go outfor I want to see these
transformations and things thou speakest of."


Sancho fetched him his clothes; and while he was dressingthe
curate gave Don Fernando and the others present an account of Don
Quixote's madness and of the stratagem they had made use of to
withdraw him from that Pena Pobre where he fancied himself stationed
because of his lady's scorn. He described to them also nearly all
the adventures that Sancho had mentionedat which they marvelled
and laughed not a littlethinking itas all didthe strangest
form of madness a crazy intellect could be capable of. But nowthe
curate saidthat the lady Dorothea's good fortune prevented her
from proceeding with their purposeit would be necessary to devise or
discover some other way of getting him home.

Cardenio proposed to carry out the scheme they had begunand
suggested that Luscinda would act and support Dorothea's part
sufficiently well.

No,said Don Fernandothat must not be, for I want Dorothea to
follow out this idea of hers; and if the worthy gentleman's village is
not very far off, I shall be happy if I can do anything for his
relief.

It is not more than two days' journey from this,said the curate.

Even if it were more,said Don FernandoI would gladly travel so
far for the sake of doing so good a work.

At this moment Don Quixote came out in full panoplywith
Mambrino's helmetall dinted as it wason his headhis buckler on
his armand leaning on his staff or pike. The strange figure he
presented filled Don Fernando and the rest with amazement as they
contemplated his lean yellow face half a league longhis armour of
all sortsand the solemnity of his deportment. They stood silent
waiting to see what he would sayand hefixing his eyes on the air
Dorotheaaddressed her with great gravity and composure:

I am informed, fair lady, by my squire here that your greatness has
been annihilated and your being abolished, since, from a queen and
lady of high degree as you used to be, you have been turned into a
private maiden. If this has been done by the command of the magician
king your father, through fear that I should not afford you the aid
you need and are entitled to, I may tell you he did not know and
does not know half the mass, and was little versed in the annals of
chivalry; for, if he had read and gone through them as attentively and
deliberately as I have, he would have found at every turn that knights
of less renown than mine have accomplished things more difficult: it
is no great matter to kill a whelp of a giant, however arrogant he may
be; for it is not many hours since I myself was engaged with one, and-
I will not speak of it, that they may not say I am lying; time,
however, that reveals all, will tell the tale when we least expect
it.

You were engaged with a couple of wine-skins, and not a giant,
said the landlord at this; but Don Fernando told him to hold his
tongue and on no account interrupt Don Quixotewho continuedI
say in conclusion, high and disinherited lady, that if your father has
brought about this metamorphosis in your person for the reason I
have mentioned, you ought not to attach any importance to it; for
there is no peril on earth through which my sword will not force a
way, and with it, before many days are over, I will bring your enemy's
head to the ground and place on yours the crown of your kingdom.

Don Quixote said no moreand waited for the reply of the
princesswho aware of Don Fernando's determination to carry on the


deception until Don Quixote had been conveyed to his homewith
great ease of manner and gravity made answerWhoever told you,
valiant Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that I had undergone any
change or transformation did not tell you the truth, for I am the same
as I was yesterday. It is true that certain strokes of good fortune,
that have given me more than I could have hoped for, have made some
alteration in me; but I have not therefore ceased to be what I was
before, or to entertain the same desire I have had all through of
availing myself of the might of your valiant and invincible arm. And
so, senor, let your goodness reinstate the father that begot me in
your good opinion, and be assured that he was a wise and prudent
man, since by his craft he found out such a sure and easy way of
remedying my misfortune; for I believe, senor, that had it not been
for you I should never have lit upon the good fortune I now possess;
and in this I am saying what is perfectly true; as most of these
gentlemen who are present can fully testify. All that remains is to
set out on our journey to-morrow, for to-day we could not make much
way; and for the rest of the happy result I am looking forward to, I
trust to God and the valour of your heart.

So said the sprightly Dorotheaand on hearing her Don Quixote
turned to Sanchoand said to himwith an angry airI declare
now, little Sancho, thou art the greatest little villain in Spain.
Say, thief and vagabond, hast thou not just now told me that this
princess had been turned into a maiden called Dorothea, and that the
head which I am persuaded I cut off from a giant was the bitch that
bore thee, and other nonsense that put me in the greatest perplexity I
have ever been in all my life? I vow(and here he looked to heaven
and ground his teeth) "I have a mind to play the mischief with thee
in a way that will teach sense for the future to all lying squires
of knights-errant in the world."

Let your worship be calm, senor,returned Sanchofor it may well
be that I have been mistaken as to the change of the lady princess
Micomicona; but as to the giant's head, or at least as to the piercing
of the wine-skins, and the blood being red wine, I make no mistake, as
sure as there is a God; because the wounded skins are there at the
head of your worship's bed, and the wine has made a lake of the
room; if not you will see when the eggs come to be fried; I mean
when his worship the landlord calls for all the damages: for the rest,
I am heartily glad that her ladyship the queen is as she was, for it
concerns me as much as anyone.

I tell thee again, Sancho, thou art a fool,said Don Quixote;
forgive me, and that will do.

That will do,said Don Fernando; "let us say no more about it; and
as her ladyship the princess proposes to set out to-morrow because
it is too late to-dayso be itand we will pass the night in
pleasant conversationand to-morrow we will all accompany Senor Don
Quixote; for we wish to witness the valiant and unparalleled
achievements he is about to perform in the course of this mighty
enterprise which he has undertaken."

It is I who shall wait upon and accompany you,said Don Quixote;
and I am much gratified by the favour that is bestowed upon me, and
the good opinion entertained of me, which I shall strive to justify or
it shall cost me my life, or even more, if it can possibly cost me
more.

Many were the compliments and expressions of politeness that
passed between Don Quixote and Don Fernando; but they were brought
to an end by a traveller who at this moment entered the innand who
seemed from his attire to be a Christian lately come from the


country of the Moorsfor he was dressed in a short-skirted coat of
blue cloth with half-sleeves and without a collar; his breeches were
also of blue clothand his cap of the same colourand he wore yellow
buskins and had a Moorish cutlass slung from a baldric across his
breast. Behind himmounted upon an assthere came a woman dressed in
Moorish fashionwith her face veiled and a scarf on her headand
wearing a little brocaded capand a mantle that covered her from
her shoulders to her feet. The man was of a robust and
well-proportioned framein age a little over fortyrather swarthy in
complexionwith long moustaches and a full beardandin short
his appearance was such that if he had been well dressed he would have
been taken for a person of quality and good birth. On entering he
asked for a roomand when they told him there was none in the inn
he seemed distressedand approaching her who by her dress seemed to
be a Moor he her down from saddle in his arms. LuscindaDorotheathe
landladyher daughter and Maritornesattracted by the strangeand
to them entirely new costumegathered round her; and Dorotheawho
was always kindlycourteousand quick-wittedperceiving that both
she and the man who had brought her were annoyed at not finding a
roomsaid to herDo not be put out, senora, by the discomfort and
want of luxuries here, for it is the way of road-side inns to be
without them; still, if you will be pleased to share our lodging
with us (pointing to Luscinda) perhaps you will have found worse
accommodation in the course of your journey.

To this the veiled lady made no reply; all she did was to rise
from her seatcrossing her hands upon her bosombowing her head
and bending her body as a sign that she returned thanks. From her
silence they concluded that she must be a Moor and unable to speak a
Christian tongue.

At this moment the captive came uphaving been until now
otherwise engagedand seeing that they all stood round his
companion and that she made no reply to what they addressed to herhe
saidLadies, this damsel hardly understands my language and can
speak none but that of her own country, for which reason she does
not and cannot answer what has been asked of her.

Nothing has been asked of her,returned Luscinda; "she has only
been offered our company for this evening and a share of the
quarters we occupywhere she shall be made as comfortable as the
circumstances allowwith the good-will we are bound to show all
strangers that stand in need of itespecially if it be a woman to
whom the service is rendered."

On her part and my own, senora,replied the captiveI kiss
your hands, and I esteem highly, as I ought, the favour you have
offered, which, on such an occasion and coming from persons of your
appearance, is, it is plain to see, a very great one.

Tell me, senor,said Dorotheais this lady a Christian or a
Moor? for her dress and her silence lead us to imagine that she is
what we could wish she was not.

In dress and outwardly,said heshe is a Moor, but at heart
she is a thoroughly good Christian, for she has the greatest desire to
become one.

Then she has not been baptised?returned Luscinda.

There has been no opportunity for that,replied the captive
since she left Algiers, her native country and home; and up to the
present she has not found herself in any such imminent danger of death
as to make it necessary to baptise her before she has been


instructed in all the ceremonies our holy mother Church ordains;
but, please God, ere long she shall be baptised with the solemnity
befitting her which is higher than her dress or mine indicates.

By these words he excited a desire in all who heard himto know who
the Moorish lady and the captive werebut no one liked to ask just
thenseeing that it was a fitter moment for helping them to rest
themselves than for questioning them about their lives. Dorothea
took the Moorish lady by the hand and leading her to a seat beside
herselfrequested her to remove her veil. She looked at the captive
as if to ask him what they meant and what she was to do. He said to
her in Arabic that they asked her to take off her veiland
thereupon she removed it and disclosed a countenance so lovelythat
to Dorothea she seemed more beautiful than Luscindaand to Luscinda
more beautiful than Dorotheaand all the bystanders felt that if
any beauty could compare with theirs it was the Moorish lady'sand
there were even those who were inclined to give it somewhat the
preference. And as it is the privilege and charm of beauty to win
the heart and secure good-willall forthwith became eager to show
kindness and attention to the lovely Moor.

Don Fernando asked the captive what her name wasand he replied
that it was Lela Zoraida; but the instant she heard himshe guessed
what the Christian had askedand said hastilywith some
displeasure and energyNo, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria!giving them
to understand that she was called "Maria" and not "Zoraida." These
wordsand the touching earnestness with which she uttered them
drew more than one tear from some of the listenersparticularly the
womenwho are by nature tender-hearted and compassionate. Luscinda
embraced her affectionatelysayingYes, yes, Maria, Maria,to
which the Moor repliedYes, yes, Maria; Zoraida macange,which
means "not Zoraida."

Night was now approachingand by the orders of those who
accompanied Don Fernando the landlord had taken care and pains to
prepare for them the best supper that was in his power. The hour
therefore having arrived they all took their seats at a long table
like a refectory onefor round or square table there was none in
the innand the seat of honour at the head of itthough he was for
refusing itthey assigned to Don Quixotewho desired the lady
Micomicona to place herself by his sideas he was her protector.
Luscinda and Zoraida took their places next heropposite to them were
Don Fernando and Cardenioand next the captive and the other
gentlemenand by the side of the ladiesthe curate and the barber.
And so they supped in high enjoymentwhich was increased when they
observed Don Quixote leave off eatingandmoved by an impulse like
that which made him deliver himself at such length when he supped with
the goatherdsbegin to address them:

Verily, gentlemen, if we reflect upon it, great and marvellous
are the things they see, who make profession of the order of
knight-errantry. Say, what being is there in this world, who
entering the gate of this castle at this moment, and seeing us as we
are here, would suppose or imagine us to be what we are? Who would say
that this lady who is beside me was the great queen that we all know
her to be, or that I am that Knight of the Rueful Countenance,
trumpeted far and wide by the mouth of Fame? Now, there can be no
doubt that this art and calling surpasses all those that mankind has
invented, and is the more deserving of being held in honour in
proportion as it is the more exposed to peril. Away with those who
assert that letters have the preeminence over arms; I will tell
them, whosoever they may be, that they know not what they say. For the
reason which such persons commonly assign, and upon which they chiefly
rest, is, that the labours of the mind are greater than those of the


body, and that arms give employment to the body alone; as if the
calling were a porter's trade, for which nothing more is required than
sturdy strength; or as if, in what we who profess them call arms,
there were not included acts of vigour for the execution of which high
intelligence is requisite; or as if the soul of the warrior, when he
has an army, or the defence of a city under his care, did not exert
itself as much by mind as by body. Nay; see whether by bodily strength
it be possible to learn or divine the intentions of the enemy, his
plans, stratagems, or obstacles, or to ward off impending mischief;
for all these are the work of the mind, and in them the body has no
share whatever. Since, therefore, arms have need of the mind, as
much as letters, let us see now which of the two minds, that of the
man of letters or that of the warrior, has most to do; and this will
be seen by the end and goal that each seeks to attain; for that
purpose is the more estimable which has for its aim the nobler object.
The end and goal of letters- I am not speaking now of divine
letters, the aim of which is to raise and direct the soul to Heaven;
for with an end so infinite no other can be compared- I speak of human
letters, the end of which is to establish distributive justice, give
to every man that which is his, and see and take care that good laws
are observed: an end undoubtedly noble, lofty, and deserving of high
praise, but not such as should be given to that sought by arms,
which have for their end and object peace, the greatest boon that
men can desire in this life. The first good news the world and mankind
received was that which the angels announced on the night that was our
day, when they sang in the air, 'Glory to God in the highest, and
peace on earth to men of good-will;' and the salutation which the
great Master of heaven and earth taught his disciples and chosen
followers when they entered any house, was to say, 'Peace be on this
house;' and many other times he said to them, 'My peace I give unto
you, my peace I leave you, peace be with you;' a jewel and a
precious gift given and left by such a hand: a jewel without which
there can be no happiness either on earth or in heaven. This peace
is the true end of war; and war is only another name for arms. This,
then, being admitted, that the end of war is peace, and that so far it
has the advantage of the end of letters, let us turn to the bodily
labours of the man of letters, and those of him who follows the
profession of arms, and see which are the greater.

Don Quixote delivered his discourse in such a manner and in such
correct languagethat for the time being he made it impossible for
any of his hearers to consider him a madman; on the contraryas
they were mostly gentlemento whom arms are an appurtenance by birth
they listened to him with great pleasure as he continued: "Herethen
I say is what the student has to undergo; first of all poverty: not
that all are poorbut to put the case as strongly as possible: and
when I have said that he endures povertyI think nothing more need be
said about his hard fortunefor he who is poor has no share of the
good things of life. This poverty he suffers from in various ways
hungeror coldor nakednessor all together; but for all that it is
not so extreme but that he gets something to eatthough it may be
at somewhat unseasonable hours and from the leavings of the rich;
for the greatest misery of the student is what they themselves call
'going out for soup' and there is always some neighbour's brazier
or hearth for themwhichif it does not warmat least tempers the
cold to themand lastlythey sleep comfortably at night under a
roof. I will not go into other particularsas for example want of
shirtsand no superabundance of shoesthin and threadbare
garmentsand gorging themselves to surfeit in their voracity when
good luck has treated them to a banquet of some sort. By this road
that I have describedrough and hardstumbling herefalling
theregetting up again to fall againthey reach the rank they
desireand that once attainedwe have seen many who have passed
these Syrtes and Scyllas and Charybdisesas if borne flying on the


wings of favouring fortune; we have seen themI sayruling and
governing the world from a chairtheir hunger turned into satiety
their cold into comforttheir nakedness into fine raimenttheir
sleep on a mat into repose in holland and damaskthe justly earned
reward of their virtue; butcontrasted and compared with what the
warrior undergoesall they have undergone falls far short of itas I
am now about to show."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON
ARMS AND LETTERS

Continuing his discourse Don Quixote said: "As we began in the
student's case with poverty and its accompanimentslet us see now
if the soldier is richerand we shall find that in poverty itself
there is no one poorer; for he is dependent on his miserable pay
which comes late or neveror else on what he can plunderseriously
imperilling his life and conscience; and sometimes his nakedness
will be so great that a slashed doublet serves him for uniform and
shirtand in the depth of winter he has to defend himself against the
inclemency of the weather in the open field with nothing better than
the breath of his mouthwhich I need not saycoming from an empty
placemust come out coldcontrary to the laws of nature. To be
sure he looks forward to the approach of night to make up for all
these discomforts on the bed that awaits himwhichunless by some
fault of hisnever sins by being over narrowfor he can easily
measure out on the ground as he likesand roll himself about in it to
his heart's content without any fear of the sheets slipping away
from him. Thenafter all thissuppose the day and hour for taking
his degree in his calling to have come; suppose the day of battle to
have arrivedwhen they invest him with the doctor's cap made of lint
to mend some bullet-holeperhapsthat has gone through his
templesor left him with a crippled arm or leg. Or if this does not
happenand merciful Heaven watches over him and keeps him safe and
soundit may be he will be in the same poverty he was in before
and he must go through more engagements and more battlesand come
victorious out of all before he betters himself; but miracles of
that sort are seldom seen. For tell mesirsif you have ever
reflected upon itby how much do those who have gained by war fall
short of the number of those who have perished in it? No doubt you
will reply that there can be no comparisonthat the dead cannot be
numberedwhile the living who have been rewarded may be summed up
with three figures. All which is the reverse in the case of men of
letters; for by skirtsto say nothing of sleevesthey all find means
of support; so that though the soldier has more to endurehis
reward is much less. But against all this it may be urged that it is
easier to reward two thousand soldiersfor the former may be
remunerated by giving them placeswhich must perforce be conferred
upon men of their callingwhile the latter can only be recompensed
out of the very property of the master they serve; but this
impossibility only strengthens my argument.

Putting this, however, aside, for it is a puzzling question for
which it is difficult to find a solution, let us return to the
superiority of arms over letters, a matter still undecided, so many
are the arguments put forward on each side; for besides those I have
mentioned, letters say that without them arms cannot maintain
themselves, for war, too, has its laws and is governed by them, and
laws belong to the domain of letters and men of letters. To this
arms make answer that without them laws cannot be maintained, for by


arms states are defended, kingdoms preserved, cities protected,
roads made safe, seas cleared of pirates; and, in short, if it were
not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, ways by sea and
land would be exposed to the violence and confusion which war brings
with it, so long as it lasts and is free to make use of its privileges
and powers. And then it is plain that whatever costs most is valued
and deserves to be valued most. To attain to eminence in letters costs
a man time, watching, hunger, nakedness, headaches, indigestions,
and other things of the sort, some of which I have already referred
to. But for a man to come in the ordinary course of things to be a
good soldier costs him all the student suffers, and in an incomparably
higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk of losing his
life. For what dread of want or poverty that can reach or harass the
student can compare with what the soldier feels, who finds himself
beleaguered in some stronghold mounting guard in some ravelin or
cavalier, knows that the enemy is pushing a mine towards the post
where he is stationed, and cannot under any circumstances retire or
fly from the imminent danger that threatens him? All he can do is to
inform his captain of what is going on so that he may try to remedy it
by a counter-mine, and then stand his ground in fear and expectation
of the moment when he will fly up to the clouds without wings and
descend into the deep against his will. And if this seems a trifling
risk, let us see whether it is equalled or surpassed by the
encounter of two galleys stem to stem, in the midst of the open sea,
locked and entangled one with the other, when the soldier has no
more standing room than two feet of the plank of the spur; and yet,
though he sees before him threatening him as many ministers of death
as there are cannon of the foe pointed at him, not a lance length from
his body, and sees too that with the first heedless step he will go
down to visit the profundities of Neptune's bosom, still with
dauntless heart, urged on by honour that nerves him, he makes
himself a target for all that musketry, and struggles to cross that
narrow path to the enemy's ship. And what is still more marvellous, no
sooner has one gone down into the depths he will never rise from
till the end of the world, than another takes his place; and if he too
falls into the sea that waits for him like an enemy, another and
another will succeed him without a moment's pause between their
deaths: courage and daring the greatest that all the chances of war
can show. Happy the blest ages that knew not the dread fury of those
devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am persuaded is in
hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention, by which he
made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the life of a gallant
gentleman; and that, when he knows not how or whence, in the height of
the ardour and enthusiasm that fire and animate brave hearts, there
should come some random bullet, discharged perhaps by one who fled
in terror at the flash when he fired off his accursed machine, which
in an instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life of one
who deserved to live for ages to come. And thus when I reflect on
this, I am almost tempted to say that in my heart I repent of having
adopted this profession of knight-errant in so detestable an age as we
live in now; for though no peril can make me fear, still it gives me
some uneasiness to think that powder and lead may rob me of the
opportunity of making myself famous and renowned throughout the
known earth by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword. But
Heaven's will be done; if I succeed in my attempt I shall be all the
more honoured, as I have faced greater dangers than the knights-errant
of yore exposed themselves to.

All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others
suppedforgetting to raise a morsel to his lipsthough Sancho more
than once told him to eat his supperas he would have time enough
afterwards to say all he wanted. It excited fresh pity in those who
had heard him to see a man of apparently sound senseand with
rational views on every subject he discussedso hopelessly wanting in


allwhen his wretched unlucky chivalry was in question. The curate
told him he was quite right in all he had said in favour of arms
and that he himselfthough a man of letters and a graduatewas of
the same opinion.

They finished their supperthe cloth was removedand while the
hostessher daughterand Maritornes were getting Don Quixote of La
Mancha's garret readyin which it was arranged that the women were to
be quartered by themselves for the nightDon Fernando begged the
captive to tell them the story of his lifefor it could not fail to
be strange and interestingto judge by the hints he had let fall on
his arrival in company with Zoraida. To this the captive replied
that he would very willingly yield to his requestonly he feared
his tale would not give them as much pleasure as he wished;
neverthelessnot to be wanting in compliancehe would tell it. The
curate and the others thanked him and added their entreatiesand he
finding himself so pressed said there was no occasion askwhere a
command had such weightand addedIf your worships will give me
your attention you will hear a true story which, perhaps, fictitious
ones constructed with ingenious and studied art cannot come up to.
These words made them settle themselves in their places and preserve a
deep silenceand he seeing them waiting on his words in mute
expectationbegan thus in a pleasant quiet voice.

CHAPTER XXXIX

WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES

My family had its origin in a village in the mountains of Leon
and nature had been kinder and more generous to it than fortune;
though in the general poverty of those communities my father passed
for being even a rich man; and he would have been so in reality had he
been as clever in preserving his property as he was in spending it.
This tendency of his to be liberal and profuse he had acquired from
having been a soldier in his youthfor the soldier's life is a school
in which the niggard becomes free-handed and the free-handed prodigal;
and if any soldiers are to be found who are misersthey are
monsters of rare occurrence. My father went beyond liberality and
bordered on prodigalitya disposition by no means advantageous to a
married man who has children to succeed to his name and position. My
father had threeall sonsand all of sufficient age to make choice
of a profession. Findingthenthat he was unable to resist his
propensityhe resolved to divest himself of the instrument and
cause of his prodigality and lavishnessto divest himself of
wealthwithout which Alexander himself would have seemed
parsimonious; and so calling us all three aside one day into a room
he addressed us in words somewhat to the following effect:

My sons, to assure you that I love you, no more need be known or
said than that you are my sons; and to encourage a suspicion that I do
not love you, no more is needed than the knowledge that I have no
self-control as far as preservation of your patrimony is concerned;
therefore, that you may for the future feel sure that I love you
like a father, and have no wish to ruin you like a stepfather, I
propose to do with you what I have for some time back meditated, and
after mature deliberation decided upon. You are now of an age to
choose your line of life or at least make choice of a calling that
will bring you honour and profit when you are older; and what I have
resolved to do is to divide my property into four parts; three I
will give to you, to each his portion without making any difference,
and the other I will retain to live upon and support myself for


whatever remainder of life Heaven may be pleased to grant me. But I
wish each of you on taking possession of the share that falls to him
to follow one of the paths I shall indicate. In this Spain of ours
there is a proverb, to my mind very true- as they all are, being short
aphorisms drawn from long practical experience- and the one I refer to
says, 'The church, or the sea, or the king's house;' as much as to
say, in plainer language, whoever wants to flourish and become rich,
let him follow the church, or go to sea, adopting commerce as his
calling, or go into the king's service in his household, for they say,
'Better a king's crumb than a lord's favour.' I say so because it is
my will and pleasure that one of you should follow letters, another
trade, and the third serve the king in the wars, for it is a difficult
matter to gain admission to his service in his household, and if war
does not bring much wealth it confers great distinction and fame.
Eight days hence I will give you your full shares in money, without
defrauding you of a farthing, as you will see in the end. Now tell
me if you are willing to follow out my idea and advice as I have
laid it before you.

Having called upon me as the eldest to answerIafter urging him
not to strip himself of his property but to spend it all as he
pleasedfor we were young men able to gain our livingconsented to
comply with his wishesand said that mine were to follow the
profession of arms and thereby serve God and my king. My second
brother having made the same proposaldecided upon going to the
Indiesembarking the portion that fell to him in trade. The youngest
and in my opinion the wisestsaid he would rather follow the
churchor go to complete his studies at Salamanca. As soon as we
had come to an understandingand made choice of our professionsmy
father embraced us alland in the short time he mentioned carried
into effect all he had promised; and when he had given to each his
sharewhich as well as I remember was three thousand ducats apiece in
cash (for an uncle of ours bought the estate and paid for it downnot
to let it go out of the family)we all three on the same day took
leave of our good father; and at the same timeas it seemed to me
inhuman to leave my father with such scanty means in his old ageI
induced him to take two of my three thousand ducatsas the
remainder would be enough to provide me with all a soldier needed.
My two brothersmoved by my examplegave him each a thousand ducats
so that there was left for my father four thousand ducats in money
besides three thousandthe value of the portion that fell to him
which he preferred to retain in land instead of selling it. Finally
as I saidwe took leave of himand of our uncle whom I have
mentionednot without sorrow and tears on both sidesthey charging
us to let them know whenever an opportunity offered how we fared
whether well or ill. We promised to do soand when he had embraced us
and given us his blessingone set out for Salamancathe other for
Sevilleand I for Alicantewhere I had heard there was a Genoese
vessel taking in a cargo of wool for Genoa.

It is now some twenty-two years since I left my father's house
and all that timethough I have written several lettersI have had
no news whatever of him or of my brothers; my own adventures during
that period I will now relate briefly. I embarked at Alicantereached
Genoa after a prosperous voyageand proceeded thence to Milan
where I provided myself with arms and a few soldier's accoutrements;
thence it was my intention to go and take service in Piedmontbut
as I was already on the road to Alessandria della PagliaI learned
that the great Duke of Alva was on his way to Flanders. I changed my
plansjoined himserved under him in the campaigns he madewas
present at the deaths of the Counts Egmont and Hornand was
promoted to be ensign under a famous captain of GuadalajaraDiego
de Urbina by name. Some time after my arrival in Flanders news came of
the league that his Holiness Pope Pius V of happy memoryhad made


with Venice and Spain against the common enemythe Turkwho had just
then with his fleet taken the famous island of Cypruswhich
belonged to the Venetiansa loss deplorable and disastrous. It was
known as a fact that the Most Serene Don John of Austrianatural
brother of our good king Don Philipwas coming as
commander-in-chief of the allied forcesand rumours were abroad of
the vast warlike preparations which were being madeall which stirred
my heart and filled me with a longing to take part in the campaign
which was expected; and though I had reason to believeand almost
certain promisesthat on the first opportunity that presented
itself I should be promoted to be captainI preferred to leave all
and betake myselfas I didto Italy; and it was my good fortune that
Don John had just arrived at Genoaand was going on to Naples to join
the Venetian fleetas he afterwards did at Messina. I may sayin
shortthat I took part in that glorious expeditionpromoted by
this time to be a captain of infantryto which honourable charge my
good luck rather than my merits raised me; and that day- so
fortunate for Christendombecause then all the nations of the earth
were disabused of the error under which they lay in imagining the
Turks to be invincible on sea-on that dayI sayon which the Ottoman
pride and arrogance were brokenamong all that were there made
happy (for the Christians who died that day were happier than those
who remained alive and victorious) I alone was miserable; forinstead
of some naval crown that I might have expected had it been in Roman
timeson the night that followed that famous day I found myself
with fetters on my feet and manacles on my hands.

It happened in this way: El Uchalithe king of Algiersa daring
and successful corsairhaving attacked and taken the leading
Maltese galley (only three knights being left alive in itand they
badly wounded)the chief galley of John Andreaon board of which I
and my company were placedcame to its reliefand doing as was bound
to do in such a caseI leaped on board the enemy's galleywhich
sheering off from that which had attacked itprevented my men from
following meand so I found myself alone in the midst of my
enemieswho were in such numbers that I was unable to resist; in
short I was takencovered with wounds; El Uchalias you know
sirsmade his escape with his entire squadronand I was left a
prisoner in his powerthe only sad being among so many filled with
joyand the only captive among so many free; for there were fifteen
thousand Christiansall at the oar in the Turkish fleetthat
regained their longed-for liberty that day.

They carried me to Constantinoplewhere the Grand TurkSelimmade
my master general at sea for having done his duty in the battle and
carried off as evidence of his bravery the standard of the Order of
Malta. The following yearwhich was the year seventy-twoI found
myself at Navarino rowing in the leading galley with the three
lanterns. There I saw and observed how the opportunity of capturing
the whole Turkish fleet in harbour was lost; for all the marines and
janizzaries that belonged to it made sure that they were about to be
attacked inside the very harbourand had their kits and pasamaques
or shoesready to flee at once on shore without waiting to be
assailedin so great fear did they stand of our fleet. But Heaven
ordered it otherwisenot for any fault or neglect of the general
who commanded on our sidebut for the sins of Christendomand
because it was God's will and pleasure that we should always have
instruments of punishment to chastise us. As it wasEl Uchali took
refuge at Modonwhich is an island near Navarinoand landing
forces fortified the mouth of the harbour and waited quietly until Don
John retired. On this expedition was taken the galley called the
Prizewhose captain was a son of the famous corsair Barbarossa. It
was taken by the chief Neapolitan galley called the She-wolf
commanded by that thunderbolt of warthat father of his menthat


successful and unconquered captain Don Alvaro de BazanMarquis of
Santa Cruz; and I cannot help telling you what took place at the
capture of the Prize.

The son of Barbarossa was so crueland treated his slaves so badly
thatwhen those who were at the oars saw that the She-wolf galley was
bearing down upon them and gaining upon themthey all at once dropped
their oars and seized their captain who stood on the stage at the
end of the gangway shouting to them to row lustily; and passing him on
from bench to benchfrom the poop to the prowthey so bit him that
before he had got much past the mast his soul had already got to hell;
so greatas I saidwas the cruelty with which he treated themand
the hatred with which they hated him.

We returned to Constantinopleand the following year
seventy-threeit became known that Don John had seized Tunis and
taken the kingdom from the Turksand placed Muley Hamet in
possessionputting an end to the hopes which Muley Hamidathe
cruelest and bravest Moor in the worldentertained of returning to
reign there. The Grand Turk took the loss greatly to heartand with
the cunning which all his race possesshe made peace with the
Venetians (who were much more eager for it than he was)and the
following yearseventy-fourhe attacked the Goletta and the fort
which Don John had left half built near Tunis. While all these
events were occurringI was labouring at the oar without any hope
of freedom; at least I had no hope of obtaining it by ransomfor I
was firmly resolved not to write to my father telling him of my
misfortunes. At length the Goletta felland the fort fellbefore
which places there were seventy-five thousand regular Turkish
soldiersand more than four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs from all
parts of Africaand in the train of all this great host such
munitions and engines of warand so many pioneers that with their
hands they might have covered the Goletta and the fort with handfuls
of earth. The first to fall was the Golettauntil then reckoned
impregnableand it fellnot by any fault of its defenderswho did
all that they could and should have donebut because experiment
proved how easily entrenchments could be made in the desert sand
there; for water used to be found at two palms depthwhile the
Turks found none at two yards; and so by means of a quantity of
sandbags they raised their works so high that they commanded the walls
of the fortsweeping them as if from a cavalierso that no one was
able to make a stand or maintain the defence.

It was a common opinion that our men should not have shut themselves
up in the Golettabut should have waited in the open at the
landing-place; but those who say so talk at random and with little
knowledge of such matters; for if in the Goletta and in the fort there
were barely seven thousand soldiershow could such a small number
however resolutesally out and hold their own against numbers like
those of the enemy? And how is it possible to help losing a stronghold
that is not relievedabove all when surrounded by a host of
determined enemies in their own country? But many thoughtand I
thought so toothat it was special favour and mercy which Heaven
showed to Spain in permitting the destruction of that source and
hiding place of mischiefthat devourerspongeand moth of countless
moneyfruitlessly wasted there to no other purpose save preserving
the memory of its capture by the invincible Charles V; as if to make
that eternalas it is and will bethese stones were needed to
support it. The fort also fell; but the Turks had to win it inch by
inchfor the soldiers who defended it fought so gallantly and stoutly
that the number of the enemy killed in twenty-two general assaults
exceeded twenty-five thousand. Of three hundred that remained alive
not one was taken unwoundeda clear and manifest proof of their
gallantry and resolutionand how sturdily they had defended


themselves and held their post. A small fort or tower which was in the
middle of the lagoon under the command of Don Juan Zanogueraa
Valencian gentleman and a famous soldiercapitulated upon terms. They
took prisoner Don Pedro Puertocarrerocommandant of the Goletta
who had done all in his power to defend his fortressand took the
loss of it so much to heart that he died of grief on the way to
Constantinoplewhere they were carrying him a prisoner. They also
took the commandant of the fortGabrio Cerbellon by namea
Milanese gentlemana great engineer and a very brave soldier. In
these two fortresses perished many persons of noteamong whom was
Pagano Doriaknight of the Order of St. Johna man of generous
dispositionas was shown by his extreme liberality to his brother
the famous John Andrea Doria; and what made his death the more sad was
that he was slain by some Arabs to whomseeing that the fort was
now losthe entrusted himselfand who offered to conduct him in
the disguise of a Moor to Tabarcaa small fort or station on the
coast held by the Genoese employed in the coral fishery. These Arabs
cut off his head and carried it to the commander of the Turkish fleet
who proved on them the truth of our Castilian proverbthat "though
the treason may pleasethe traitor is hated;" for they say he ordered
those who brought him the present to be hanged for not having
brought him alive.

Among the Christians who were taken in the fort was one named Don
Pedro de Aguilara native of some placeI know not whatin
Andalusiawho had been ensign in the forta soldier of great
repute and rare intelligencewho had in particular a special gift for
what they call poetry. I say so because his fate brought him to my
galley and to my benchand made him a slave to the same master; and
before we left the port this gentleman composed two sonnets by way
of epitaphsone on the Goletta and the other on the fort; indeedI
may as well repeat themfor I have them by heartand I think they
will be liked rather than disliked.

The instant the captive mentioned the name of Don Pedro de
AguilarDon Fernando looked at his companions and they all three
smiled; and when he came to speak of the sonnets one of them said
Before your worship proceeds any further I entreat you to tell me
what became of that Don Pedro de Aguilar you have spoken of.

All I know is,replied the captivethat after having been in
Constantinople two years, he escaped in the disguise of an Arnaut,
in company with a Greek spy; but whether he regained his liberty or
not I cannot tell, though I fancy he did, because a year afterwards
I saw the Greek at Constantinople, though I was unable to ask him what
the result of the journey was.

Well then, you are right,returned the gentlemanfor that Don
Pedro is my brother, and he is now in our village in good health,
rich, married, and with three children.

Thanks be to God for all the mercies he has shown him,said the
captive; "for to my mind there is no happiness on earth to compare
with recovering lost liberty."

And what is more,said the gentlemanI know the sonnets my
brother made.

Then let your worship repeat them,said the captivefor you will
recite them better than I can.

With all my heart,said the gentleman; "that on the Goletta runs
thus."


CHAPTER XL

IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED.

SONNET

Blest souls, that, from this mortal husk set free,

In guerdon of brave deeds beatified,

Above this lowly orb of ours abide
Made heirs of heaven and immortality,
With noble rage and ardour glowing ye

Your strength, while strength was yours, in battle plied,

And with your own blood and the foeman's dyed
The sandy soil and the encircling sea.
It was the ebbing life-blood first that failed
The weary arms; the stout hearts never quailed.

Though vanquished, yet ye earned the victor's crown:
Though mourned, yet still triumphant was your fall
For there ye won, between the sword and wall,

In Heaven glory and on earth renown.

That is it exactly, according to my recollection,said the
captive.

Well then, that on the fort,said the gentlemanif my memory
serves me, goes thus:

SONNET

Up from this wasted soilthis shattered shell

Whose walls and towers here in ruin lie

Three thousand soldier souls took wing on high
In the bright mansions of the blest to dwell.
The onslaught of the foeman to repel

By might of arm all vainly did they try

And when at length 'twas left them but to die
Wearied and few the last defenders fell.
And this same arid soil hath ever been
A haunt of countless mournful memories

As well in our day as in days of yore.
But never yet to Heaven it sentI ween
From its hard bosom purer souls than these

Or braver bodies on its surface bore."

The sonnets were not dislikedand the captive was rejoiced at
the tidings they gave him of his comradeand continuing his tale
he went on to say:

The Goletta and the fort being thus in their handsthe Turks gave
orders to dismantle the Goletta- for the fort was reduced to such a
state that there was nothing left to level- and to do the work more
quickly and easily they mined it in three places; but nowhere were
they able to blow up the part which seemed to be the least strong
that is to saythe old wallswhile all that remained standing of the


new fortifications that the Fratin had made came to the ground with
the greatest ease. Finally the fleet returned victorious and
triumphant to Constantinopleand a few months later died my master
El Uchaliotherwise Uchali Fartaxwhich means in Turkish "the scabby
renegade;" for that he was; it is the practice with the Turks to
name people from some defect or virtue they may possess; the reason
being that there are among them only four surnames belonging to
families tracing their descent from the Ottoman houseand the others
as I have saidtake their names and surnames either from bodily
blemishes or moral qualities. This "scabby one" rowed at the oar as
a slave of the Grand Signor's for fourteen yearsand when over
thirty-four years of agein resentment at having been struck by a
Turk while at the oarturned renegade and renounced his faith in
order to be able to revenge himself; and such was his valour that
without owing his advancement to the base ways and means by which most
favourites of the Grand Signor rise to powerhe came to be king of
Algiersand afterwards general-on-seawhich is the third place of
trust in the realm. He was a Calabrian by birthand a worthy man
morallyand he treated his slaves with great humanity. He had three
thousand of themand after his death they were dividedas he
directed by his willbetween the Grand Signor (who is heir of all who
die and shares with the children of the deceased) and his renegades. I
fell to the lot of a Venetian renegade whowhen a cabin boy on
board a shiphad been taken by Uchali and was so much beloved by
him that he became one of his most favoured youths. He came to be
the most cruel renegade I ever saw: his name was Hassan Agaand he
grew very rich and became king of Algiers. With him I went there
from Constantinoplerather glad to be so near Spainnot that I
intended to write to anyone about my unhappy lotbut to try if
fortune would be kinder to me in Algiers than in Constantinoplewhere
I had attempted in a thousand ways to escape without ever finding a
favourable time or chance; but in Algiers I resolved to seek for other
means of effecting the purpose I cherished so dearly; for the hope
of obtaining my liberty never deserted me; and when in my plots and
schemes and attempts the result did not answer my expectations
without giving way to despair I immediately began to look out for or
conjure up some new hope to support mehowever faint or feeble it
might be.

In this way I lived on immured in a building or prison called by the
Turks a bano in which they confine the Christian captivesas well
those that are the king's as those belonging to private individuals
and also what they call those of the Almacenwhich is as much as to
say the slaves of the municipalitywho serve the city in the public
works and other employments; but captives of this kind recover their
liberty with great difficultyforas they are public property and
have no particular masterthere is no one with whom to treat for
their ransomeven though they may have the means. To these banos
as I have saidsome private individuals of the town are in the
habit of bringing their captivesespecially when they are to be
ransomed; because there they can keep them in safety and comfort until
their ransom arrives. The king's captives alsothat are on ransomdo
not go out to work with the rest of the crewunless when their ransom
is delayed; for thento make them write for it more pressingly
they compel them to work and go for woodwhich is no light labour.

Ihoweverwas one of those on ransomfor when it was discovered
that I was a captainalthough I declared my scanty means and want
of fortunenothing could dissuade them from including me among the
gentlemen and those waiting to be ransomed. They put a chain on me
more as a mark of this than to keep me safeand so I passed my life
in that bano with several other gentlemen and persons of quality
marked out as held to ransom; but though at timesor rather almost
alwayswe suffered from hunger and scanty clothingnothing


distressed us so much as hearing and seeing at every turn the
unexampled and unheard-of cruelties my master inflicted upon the
Christians. Every day he hanged a manimpaled onecut off the ears
of another; and all with so little provocationor so entirely without
anythat the Turks acknowledged he did it merely for the sake of
doing itand because he was by nature murderously disposed towards
the whole human race. The only one that fared at all well with him was
a Spanish soldiersomething de Saavedra by nameto whom he never
gave a blow himselfor ordered a blow to be givenor addressed a
hard wordalthough he had done things that will dwell in the memory
of the people there for many a yearand all to recover his liberty;
and for the least of the many things he did we all dreaded that he
would be impaledand he himself was in fear of it more than once; and
only that time does not allowI could tell you now something of
what that soldier didthat would interest and astonish you much
more than the narration of my own tale.

To go on with my story; the courtyard of our prison was overlooked
by the windows of the house belonging to a wealthy Moor of high
position; and theseas is usual in Moorish houseswere rather
loopholes than windowsand besides were covered with thick and
close lattice-work. It so happenedthenthat as I was one day on the
terrace of our prison with three other comradestryingto pass
away the timehow far we could leap with our chainswe being
alonefor all the other Christians had gone out to workI chanced to
raise my eyesand from one of these little closed windows I saw a
reed appear with a cloth attached to the end of itand it kept waving
to and froand moving as if making signs to us to come and take it.
We watched itand one of those who were with me went and stood
under the reed to see whether they would let it dropor what they
would dobut as he did so the reed was raised and moved from side
to sideas if they meant to say "no" by a shake of the head. The
Christian came backand it was again loweredmaking the same
movements as before. Another of my comrades wentand with him the
same happened as with the firstand then the third went forward
but with the same result as the first and second. Seeing this I did
not like not to try my luckand as soon as I came under the reed it
was dropped and fell inside the bano at my feet. I hastened to untie
the clothin which I perceived a knotand in this were ten cianis
which are coins of base goldcurrent among the Moorsand each
worth ten reals of our money.

It is needless to say I rejoiced over this godsendand my joy was
not less than my wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fortune
could have come to usbut to me specially; for the evident
unwillingness to drop the reed for any but me showed that it was for
me the favour was intended. I took my welcome moneybroke the reed
and returned to the terraceand looking up at the windowI saw a
very white hand put out that opened and shut very quickly. From this
we gathered or fancied that it must be some woman living in that house
that had done us this kindnessand to show that we were grateful
for itwe made salaams after the fashion of the Moorsbowing the
headbending the bodyand crossing the arms on the breast. Shortly
afterwards at the same window a small cross made of reeds was put
out and immediately withdrawn. This sign led us to believe that some
Christian woman was a captive in the houseand that it was she who
had been so good to us; but the whiteness of the hand and the
bracelets we had perceived made us dismiss that ideathough we
thought it might be one of the Christian renegades whom their
masters very often take as lawful wivesand gladlyfor they prefer
them to the women of their own nation. In all our conjectures we
were wide of the truth; so from that time forward our sole
occupation was watching and gazing at the window where the cross had
appeared to usas if it were our pole-star; but at least fifteen days


passed without our seeing either it or the handor any other sign and
though meanwhile we endeavoured with the utmost pains to ascertain who
it was that lived in the houseand whether there were any Christian
renegade in itnobody could ever tell us anything more than that he
who lived there was a rich Moor of high positionHadji Morato by
nameformerly alcaide of La Pataan office of high dignity among
them. But when we least thought it was going to rain any more cianis
from that quarterwe saw the reed suddenly appear with another
cloth tied in a larger knot attached to itand this at a time when
as on the former occasionthe bano was deserted and unoccupied.

We made trial as beforeeach of the same three going forward before
I did; but the reed was delivered to none but meand on my approach
it was let drop. I untied the knot and I found forty Spanish gold
crowns with a paper written in Arabicand at the end of the writing
there was a large cross drawn. I kissed the crosstook the crowns and
returned to the terraceand we all made our salaams; again the hand
appearedI made signs that I would read the paperand then the
window was closed. We were all puzzledthough filled with joy at what
had taken place; and as none of us understood Arabicgreat was our
curiosity to know what the paper containedand still greater the
difficulty of finding some one to read it. At last I resolved to
confide in a renegadea native of Murciawho professed a very
great friendship for meand had given pledges that bound him to
keep any secret I might entrust to him; for it is the custom with some
renegadeswhen they intend to return to Christian territoryto carry
about them certificates from captives of mark testifyingin
whatever form they canthat such and such a renegade is a worthy
man who has always shown kindness to Christiansand is anxious to
escape on the first opportunity that may present itself. Some obtain
these testimonials with good intentionsothers put them to a
cunning use; for when they go to pillage on Christian territoryif
they chance to be cast awayor taken prisonersthey produce their
certificates and say that from these papers may be seen the object
they came forwhich was to remain on Christian groundand that it
was to this end they joined the Turks in their foray. In this way they
escape the consequences of the first outburst and make their peace
with the Church before it does them any harmand then when they
have the chance they return to Barbary to become what they were
before. Othershoweverthere are who procure these papers and make
use of them honestlyand remain on Christian soil. This friend of
minethenwas one of these renegades that I have described; he had
certificates from all our comradesin which we testified in his
favour as strongly as we could; and if the Moors had found the
papers they would have burned him alive.

I knew that he understood Arabic very welland could not only speak
but also write it; but before I disclosed the whole matter to himI
asked him to read for me this paper which I had found by accident in a
hole in my cell. He opened it and remained some time examining it
and muttering to himself as he translated it. I asked him if he
understood itand he told me he did perfectly welland that if I
wished him to tell me its meaning word for wordI must give him pen
and ink that he might do it more satisfactorily. We at once gave him
what he requiredand he set about translating it bit by bitand when
he had done he said:

All that is here in Spanish is what the Moorish paper contains, and
you must bear in mind that when it says 'Lela
Marien' it means 'Our Lady the Virgin Mary.'

We read the paper and it ran thus:

When I was a child my father had a slave who taught me to pray


the Christian prayer in my own language, and told me many things about
Lela Marien. The Christian died, and I know that she did not go to the
fire, but to Allah, because since then I have seen her twice, and
she told me to go to the land of the Christians to see Lela Marien,
who had great love for me. I know not how to go. I have seen many
Christians, but except thyself none has seemed to me to be a
gentleman. I am young and beautiful, and have plenty of money to
take with me. See if thou canst contrive how we may go, and if thou
wilt thou shalt be my husband there, and if thou wilt not it will
not distress me, for Lela Marien will find me some one to marry me.
I myself have written this: have a care to whom thou givest it to
read: trust no Moor, for they are all perfidious. I am greatly
troubled on this account, for I would not have thee confide in anyone,
because if my father knew it he would at once fling me down a well and
cover me with stones. I will put a thread to the reed; tie the
answer to it, and if thou hast no one to write for thee in Arabic,
tell it to me by signs, for Lela Marien will make me understand
thee. She and Allah and this cross, which I often kiss as the
captive bade me, protect thee.

Judgesirswhether we had reason for surprise and joy at the words
of this paper; and both one and the other were so greatthat the
renegade perceived that the paper had not been found by chancebut
had been in reality addressed to some one of usand he begged us
if what he suspected were the truthto trust him and tell him all
for he would risk his life for our freedom; and so saying he took
out from his breast a metal crucifixand with many tears swore by the
God the image representedin whomsinful and wicked as he washe
truly and faithfully believedto be loyal to us and keep secret
whatever we chose to reveal to him; for he thought and almost
foresaw that by means of her who had written that paperhe and all of
us would obtain our libertyand he himself obtain the object he so
much desiredhis restoration to the bosom of the Holy Mother
Churchfrom which by his own sin and ignorance he was now severed
like a corrupt limb. The renegade said this with so many tears and
such signs of repentancethat with one consent we all agreed to
tell him the whole truth of the matterand so we gave him a full
account of allwithout hiding anything from him. We pointed out to
him the window at which the reed appearedand he by that means took
note of the houseand resolved to ascertain with particular care
who lived in it. We agreed also that it would be advisable to answer
the Moorish lady's letterand the renegade without a moment's delay
took down the words I dictated to himwhich were exactly what I shall
tell youfor nothing of importance that took place in this affair has
escaped my memoryor ever will while life lasts. Thisthenwas
the answer returned to the Moorish lady:

The true Allah protect thee, Lady, and that blessed Marien who is
the true mother of God, and who has put it into thy heart to go to the
land of the Christians, because she loves thee. Entreat her that she
be pleased to show thee how thou canst execute the command she gives
thee, for she will, such is her goodness. On my own part, and on
that of all these Christians who are with me, I promise to do all that
we can for thee, even to death. Fail not to write to me and inform
me what thou dost mean to do, and I will always answer thee; for the
great Allah has given us a Christian captive who can speak and write
thy language well, as thou mayest see by this paper; without fear,
therefore, thou canst inform us of all thou wouldst. As to what thou
sayest, that if thou dost reach the land of the Christians thou wilt
be my wife, I give thee my promise upon it as a good Christian; and
know that the Christians keep their promises better than the Moors.
Allah and Marien his mother watch over thee, my Lady.

The paper being written and folded I waited two days until the


bano was empty as beforeand immediately repaired to the usual walk
on the terrace to see if there were any sign of the reedwhich was
not long in making its appearance. As soon as I saw italthough I
could not distinguish who put it outI showed the paper as a sign
to attach the threadbut it was already fixed to the reedand to
it I tied the paper; and shortly afterwards our star once more made
its appearance with the white flag of peacethe little bundle. It was
droppedand I picked it upand found in the clothin gold and
silver coins of all sortsmore than fifty crownswhich fifty times
more strengthened our joy and doubled our hope of gaining our liberty.
That very night our renegade returned and said he had learned that the
Moor we had been told of lived in that housethat his name was
Hadji Moratothat he was enormously richthat he had one only
daughter the heiress of all his wealthand that it was the general
opinion throughout the city that she was the most beautiful woman in
Barbaryand that several of the viceroys who came there had sought
her for a wifebut that she had been always unwilling to marry; and
he had learnedmoreoverthat she had a Christian slave who was now
dead; all which agreed with the contents of the paper. We
immediately took counsel with the renegade as to what means would have
to be adopted in order to carry off the Moorish lady and bring us
all to Christian territory; and in the end it was agreed that for
the present we should wait for a second communication from Zoraida
(for that was the name of her who now desires to be called Maria)
because we saw clearly that she and no one else could find a way out
of all these difficulties. When we had decided upon this the
renegade told us not to be uneasyfor he would lose his life or
restore us to liberty. For four days the bano was filled with
peoplefor which reason the reed delayed its appearance for four
daysbut at the end of that timewhen the bano wasas it
generally wasemptyit appeared with the cloth so bulky that it
promised a happy birth. Reed and cloth came down to meand I found
another paper and a hundred crowns in goldwithout any other coin.
The renegade was presentand in our cell we gave him the paper to
readwhich was to this effect:

I cannot think of a plan, senor, for our going to Spain, nor has
Lela Marien shown me one, though I have asked her. All that can be
done is for me to give you plenty of money in gold from this window.
With it ransom yourself and your friends, and let one of you go to the
land of the Christians, and there buy a vessel and come back for the
others; and he will find me in my father's garden, which is at the
Babazon gate near the seashore, where I shall be all this summer
with my father and my servants. You can carry me away from there by
night without any danger, and bring me to the vessel. And remember
thou art to be my husband, else I will pray to Marien to punish
thee. If thou canst not trust anyone to go for the vessel, ransom
thyself and do thou go, for I know thou wilt return more surely than
any other, as thou art a gentleman and a Christian. Endeavour to
make thyself acquainted with the garden; and when I see thee walking
yonder I shall know that the bano is empty and I will give thee
abundance of money. Allah protect thee, senor.

These were the words and contents of the second paperand on
hearing themeach declared himself willing to be the ransomed one
and promised to go and return with scrupulous good faith; and I too
made the same offer; but to all this the renegade objectedsaying
that he would not on any account consent to one being set free
before all went togetheras experience had taught him how ill those
who have been set free keep promises which they made in captivity; for
captives of distinction frequently had recourse to this planpaying
the ransom of one who was to go to Valencia or Majorca with money to
enable him to arm a bark and return for the others who had ransomed
himbut who never came back; for recovered liberty and the dread of


losing it again efface from the memory all the obligations in the
world. And to prove the truth of what he saidhe told us briefly what
had happened to a certain Christian gentleman almost at that very
timethe strangest case that had ever occurred even therewhere
astonishing and marvellous things are happening every instant. In
shorthe ended by saying that what could and ought to be done was
to give the money intended for the ransom of one of us Christians to
himso that he might with it buy a vessel there in Algiers under
the pretence of becoming a merchant and trader at Tetuan and along the
coast; and when master of the vesselit would be easy for him to
hit on some way of getting us all out of the bano and putting us on
board; especially if the Moorish lady gaveas she saidmoney
enough to ransom allbecause once free it would be the easiest
thing in the world for us to embark even in open day; but the greatest
difficulty was that the Moors do not allow any renegade to buy or
own any craftunless it be a large vessel for going on roving
expeditionsbecause they are afraid that anyone who buys a small
vesselespecially if he be a Spaniardonly wants it for the
purpose of escaping to Christian territory. This however he could
get over by arranging with a Tagarin Moor to go shares with him in the
purchase of the vesseland in the profit on the cargo; and under
cover of this he could become master of the vesselin which case he
looked upon all the rest as accomplished. But though to me and my
comrades it had seemed a better plan to send to Majorca for the
vesselas the Moorish lady suggestedwe did not dare to oppose
himfearing that if we did not do as he said he would denounce us
and place us in danger of losing all our lives if he were to
disclose our dealings with Zoraidafor whose life we would have all
given our own. We therefore resolved to put ourselves in the hands
of God and in the renegade's; and at the same time an answer was given
to Zoraidatelling her that we would do all she recommendedfor
she had given as good advice as if Lela Marien had delivered itand
that it depended on her alone whether we were to defer the business or
put it in execution at once. I renewed my promise to be her husband;
and thus the next day that the bano chanced to be empty she at
different times gave us by means of the reed and cloth two thousand
gold crowns and a paper in which she said that the next Jumathat
is to say Fridayshe was going to her father's gardenbut that
before she went she would give us more money; and if it were not
enough we were to let her knowas she would give us as much as we
askedfor her father had so much he would not miss itand besides
she kept all the keys.

We at once gave the renegade five hundred crowns to buy the
vesseland with eight hundred I ransomed myselfgiving the money
to a Valencian merchant who happened to be in Algiers at the timeand
who had me released on his wordpledging it that on the arrival of
the first ship from Valencia he would pay my ransom; for if he had
given the money at once it would have made the king suspect that my
ransom money had been for a long time in Algiersand that the
merchant had for his own advantage kept it secret. In fact my master
was so difficult to deal with that I dared not on any account pay down
the money at once. The Thursday before the Friday on which the fair
Zoraida was to go to the garden she gave us a thousand crowns more
and warned us of her departurebegging meif I were ransomedto
find out her father's garden at onceand by all means to seek an
opportunity of going there to see her. I answered in a few words
that I would do soand that she must remember to commend us to Lela
Marien with all the prayers the captive had taught her. This having
been donesteps were taken to ransom our three comradesso as to
enable them to quit the banoand lestseeing me ransomed and
themselves notthough the money was forthcomingthey should make a
disturbance about it and the devil should prompt them to do
something that might injure Zoraida; for though their position might


be sufficient to relieve me from this apprehensionnevertheless I was
unwilling to run any risk in the matter; and so I had them ransomed in
the same way as I washanding over all the money to the merchant so
that he might with safety and confidence give security; without
howeverconfiding our arrangement and secret to himwhich might have
been dangerous.

CHAPTER XLI

IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES

Before fifteen days were over our renegade had already purchased
an excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons; and to
make the transaction safe and lend a colour to ithe thought it
well to makeas he dida voyage to a place called Shersheltwenty
leagues from Algiers on the Oran sidewhere there is an extensive
trade in dried figs. Two or three times he made this voyage in company
with the Tagarin already mentioned. The Moors of Aragon are called
Tagarins in Barbaryand those of Granada Mudejars; but in the Kingdom
of Fez they call the Mudejars Elchesand they are the people the king
chiefly employs in war. To proceed: every time he passed with his
vessel he anchored in a cove that was not two crossbow shots from
the garden where Zoraida was waiting; and there the renegadetogether
with the two Moorish lads that rowedused purposely to station
himselfeither going through his prayersor else practising as a
part what he meant to perform in earnest. And thus he would go to
Zoraida's garden and ask for fruitwhich her father gave himnot
knowing him; but thoughas he afterwards told mehe sought to
speak to Zoraidaand tell her who he wasand that by my orders he
was to take her to the land of the Christiansso that she might
feel satisfied and easyhe had never been able to do so; for the
Moorish women do not allow themselves to be seen by any Moor or
Turkunless their husband or father bid them: with Christian captives
they permit freedom of intercourse and communicationeven more than
might be considered proper. But for my part I should have been sorry
if he had spoken to herfor perhaps it might have alarmed her to find
her affairs talked of by renegades. But Godwho ordered it otherwise
afforded no opportunity for our renegade's well-meant purpose; and he
seeing how safely he could go to Shershel and returnand anchor
when and how and where he likedand that the Tagarin his partner
had no will but hisand thatnow I was ransomedall we wanted was
to find some Christians to rowtold me to look out for any I should
he willing to take with meover and above those who had been
ransomedand to engage them for the next Fridaywhich he fixed
upon for our departure. On this I spoke to twelve Spaniardsall stout
rowersand such as could most easily leave the city; but it was no
easy matter to find so many just thenbecause there were twenty ships
out on a cruise and they had taken all the rowers with them; and these
would not have been found were it not that their master remained at
home that summer without going to sea in order to finish a galliot
that he had upon the stocks. To these men I said nothing more than
that the next Friday in the evening they were to come out stealthily
one by one and hang about Hadji Morato's gardenwaiting for me
there until I came. These directions I gave each one separately
with orders that if they saw any other Christians there they were
not to say anything to them except that I had directed them to wait at
that spot.

This preliminary having been settledanother still more necessary
step had to be takenwhich was to let Zoraida know how matters
stood that she might be prepared and forewarnedso as not to be taken


by surprise if we were suddenly to seize upon her before she thought
the Christians' vessel could have returned. I determinedtherefore
to go to the garden and try if I could speak to her; and the day
before my departure I went there under the pretence of gathering
herbs. The first person I met was her fatherwho addressed me in
the language that all over Barbary and even in Constantinople is the
medium between captives and Moorsand is neither Morisco nor
Castiliannor of any other nationbut a mixture of all languagesby
means of which we can all understand one another. In this sort of
languageI sayhe asked me what I wanted in his gardenand to
whom I belonged. I replied that I was a slave of the Arnaut Mami
(for I knew as a certainty that he was a very great friend of his)
and that I wanted some herbs to make a salad. He asked me then whether
I were on ransom or notand what my master demanded for me. While
these questions and answers were proceedingthe fair Zoraidawho had
already perceived me some time beforecame out of the house in the
gardenand as Moorish women are by no means particular about
letting themselves be seen by Christiansoras I have said before
at all coyshe had no hesitation in coming to where her father
stood with me; moreover her fatherseeing her approaching slowly
called to her to come. It would be beyond my power now to describe
to you the great beautythe high-bred airthe brilliant attire of my
beloved Zoraida as she presented herself before my eyes. I will
content myself with saying that more pearls hung from her fair neck
her earsand her hair than she had hairs on her head. On her
ankleswhich as is customary were bareshe had carcajes (for so
bracelets or anklets are called in Morisco) of the purest goldset
with so many diamonds that she told me afterwards her father valued
them at ten thousand doubloonsand those she had on her wrists were
worth as much more. The pearls were in profusion and very finefor
the highest display and adornment of the Moorish women is decking
themselves with rich pearls and seed-pearls; and of these there are
therefore more among the Moors than among any other people.
Zoraida's father had to the reputation of possessing a great number
and the purest in all Algiersand of possessing also more than two
hundred thousand Spanish crowns; and shewho is now mistress of me
onlywas mistress of all this. Whether thus adorned she would have
been beautiful or notand what she must have been in her
prosperitymay be imagined from the beauty remaining to her after
so many hardships; foras everyone knowsthe beauty of some women
has its times and its seasonsand is increased or diminished by
chance causes; and naturally the emotions of the mind will heighten or
impair itthough indeed more frequently they totally destroy it. In a
word she presented herself before me that day attired with the
utmost splendourand supremely beautiful; at any rateshe seemed
to me the most beautiful object I had ever seen; and whenbesides
I thought of all I owed to her I felt as though I had before me some
heavenly being come to earth to bring me relief and happiness.

As she approached her father told her in his own language that I was
a captive belonging to his friend the Arnaut Mamiand that I had come
for salad.

She took up the conversationand in that mixture of tongues I
have spoken of she asked me if I was a gentlemanand why I was not
ransomed.

I answered that I was already ransomedand that by the price it
might be seen what value my master set on meas I had given one
thousand five hundred zoltanis for me; to which she repliedHadst
thou been my father's, I can tell thee, I would not have let him
part with thee for twice as much, for you Christians always tell
lies about yourselves and make yourselves out poor to cheat the
Moors.


That may be, lady,said I; "but indeed I dealt truthfully with
my masteras I do and mean to do with everybody in the world."

And when dost thou go?said Zoraida.

To-morrow, I think,said Ifor there is a vessel here from
France which sails to-morrow, and I think I shall go in her.

Would it not be better,said Zoraidato wait for the arrival
of ships from Spain and go with them and not with the French who are
not your friends?

No,said I; "though if there were intelligence that a vessel
were now coming from Spain it is true I mightperhapswait for it;
howeverit is more likely I shall depart to-morrowfor the longing I
feel to return to my country and to those I love is so great that it
will not allow me to wait for another opportunityhowever more
convenientif it be delayed."

No doubt thou art married in thine own country,said Zoraidaand
for that reason thou art anxious to go and see thy wife.

I am not married,I repliedbut I have given my promise to marry
on my arrival there.

And is the lady beautiful to whom thou hast given it?said
Zoraida.

So beautiful,said Ithat, to describe her worthily and tell
thee the truth, she is very like thee.

At this her father laughed very heartily and saidBy Allah,
Christian, she must be very beautiful if she is like my daughter,
who is the most beautiful woman in all this kingdom: only look at
her well and thou wilt see I am telling the truth.

Zoraida's father as the better linguist helped to interpret most
of these words and phrasesfor though she spoke the bastard language
thatas I have saidis employed thereshe expressed her meaning
more by signs than by words.

While we were still engaged in this conversationa Moor came
running upexclaiming that four Turks had leaped over the fence or
wall of the gardenand were gathering the fruit though it was not yet
ripe. The old man was alarmed and Zoraida toofor the Moors commonly
andso to speakinstinctively have a dread of the Turksbut
particularly of the soldierswho are so insolent and domineering to
the Moors who are under their power that they treat them worse than if
they were their slaves. Her father said to ZoraidaDaughter,
retire into the house and shut thyself in while I go and speak to
these dogs; and thou, Christian, pick thy herbs, and go in peace,
and Allah bring thee safe to thy own country.

I bowedand he went away to look for the Turksleaving me alone
with Zoraidawho made as if she were about to retire as her father
bade her; but the moment he was concealed by the trees of the
gardenturning to me with her eyes full of tears she saidTameji
cristianotameji?" that is to sayArt thou going, Christian, art
thou going?

I made answerYes, lady, but not without thee, come what may: be
on the watch for me on the next Juma, and be not alarmed when thou
seest us; for most surely we shall go to the land of the Christians.


This I said in such a way that she understood perfectly all that
passed between usand throwing her arm round my neck she began with
feeble steps to move towards the house; but as fate would have it (and
it might have been very unfortunate if Heaven had not otherwise
ordered it)just as we were moving on in the manner and position I
have describedwith her arm round my neckher fatheras he returned
after having sent away the Turkssaw how we were walking and we
perceived that he saw us; but Zoraidaready and quickwittedtook
care not to remove her arm from my neckbut on the contrary drew
closer to me and laid her head on my breastbending her knees a
little and showing all the signs and tokens of aintingwhile I at the
same time made it seem as though I were supporting her against my
will. Her father came running up to where we wereand seeing his
daughter in this state asked what was the matter with her; she
howevergiving no answerhe saidNo doubt she has fainted in alarm
at the entrance of those dogs,and taking her from mine he drew her
to his own breastwhile she sighingher eyes still wet with tears
said againAmeji, cristiano, ameji- "GoChristiango." To this
her father repliedThere is no need, daughter, for the Christian
to go, for he has done thee no harm, and the Turks have now gone; feel
no alarm, there is nothing to hurt thee, for as I say, the Turks at my
request have gone back the way they came.

It was they who terrified her, as thou hast said, senor,said I to
her father; "but since she tells me to goI have no wish to displease
her: peace be with theeand with thy leave I will come back to this
garden for herbs if need befor my master says there are nowhere
better herbs for salad then here."

Come back for any thou hast need of,replied Hadji Morato; "for my
daughter does not speak thus because she is displeased with thee or
any Christian: she only meant that the Turks should gonot thou; or
that it was time for thee to look for thy herbs."

With this I at once took my leave of both; and shelooking as
though her heart were breakingretired with her father. While
pretending to look for herbs I made the round of the garden at my
easeand studied carefully all the approaches and outletsand the
fastenings of the house and everything that could be taken advantage
of to make our task easy. Having done so I went and gave an account of
all that had taken place to the renegade and my comradesand looked
forward with impatience to the hour whenall fear at an endI should
find myself in possession of the prize which fortune held out to me in
the fair and lovely Zoraida. The time passed at lengthand the
appointed day we so longed for arrived; andall following out the
arrangement and plan whichafter careful consideration and many a
long discussionwe had decided uponwe succeeded as fully as we
could have wished; for on the Friday following the day upon which I
spoke to Zoraida in the gardenthe renegade anchored his vessel at
nightfall almost opposite the spot where she was. The Christians who
were to row were ready and in hiding in different places round
aboutall waiting for meanxious and elatedand eager to attack the
vessel they had before their eyes; for they did not know the
renegade's planbut expected that they were to gain their liberty
by force of arms and by killing the Moors who were on board the
vessel. As soonthenas I and my comrades made our appearanceall
those that were in hiding seeing us came and joined us. It was now the
time when the city gates are shutand there was no one to be seen
in all the space outside. When we were collected together we debated
whether it would be better first to go for Zoraidaor to make
prisoners of the Moorish rowers who rowed in the vessel; but while
we were still uncertain our renegade came up asking us what kept us
as it was now the timeand all the Moors were off their guard and


most of them asleep. We told him why we hesitatedbut he said it
was of more importance first to secure the vesselwhich could be done
with the greatest ease and without any dangerand then we could go
for Zoraida. We all approved of what he saidand so without further
delayguided by him we made for the vesseland he leaping on board
firstdrew his cutlass and said in MoriscoLet no one stir from
this if he does not want it to cost him his life.By this almost
all the Christians were on boardand the Moorswho were
faintheartedhearing their captain speak in this waywere cowedand
without any one of them taking to his arms (and indeed they had few or
hardly any) they submitted without saying a word to be bound by the
Christianswho quickly secured themthreatening them that if they
raised any kind of outcry they would be all put to the sword. This
having been accomplishedand half of our party being left to keep
guard over themthe rest of usagain taking the renegade as our
guidehastened towards Hadji Morato's gardenand as good luck
would have iton trying the gate it opened as easily as if it had not
been locked; and soquite quietly and in silencewe reached the
house without being perceived by anybody. The lovely Zoraida was
watching for us at a windowand as soon as she perceived that there
were people thereshe asked in a low voice if we were "Nizarani
as much as to say or ask if we were Christians. I answered that we
were, and begged her to come down. As soon as she recognised me she
did not delay an instant, but without answering a word came down
immediately, opened the door and presented herself before us all, so
beautiful and so richly attired that I cannot attempt to describe her.
The moment I saw her I took her hand and kissed it, and the renegade
and my two comrades did the same; and the rest, who knew nothing of
the circumstances, did as they saw us do, for it only seemed as if
we were returning thanks to her, and recognising her as the giver of
our liberty. The renegade asked her in the Morisco language if her
father was in the house. She replied that he was and that he was
asleep.

Then it will be necessary to waken him and take him with us
said the renegade, and everything of value in this fair mansion."

Nay,said shemy father must not on any account be touched,
and there is nothing in the house except what I shall take, and that
will be quite enough to enrich and satisfy all of you; wait a little
and you shall see,and so saying she went intelling us she would
return immediately and bidding us keep quiet making any noise.

I asked the renegade what had passed between themand when he
told meI declared that nothing should be done except in accordance
with the wishes of Zoraidawho now came back with a little trunk so
full of gold crowns that she could scarcely carry it. Unfortunately
her father awoke while this was going onand hearing a noise in the
gardencame to the windowand at once perceiving that all those
who were there were Christiansraising a prodigiously loud outcryhe
began to call out in ArabicChristians, Christians! thieves,
thieves!by which cries we were all thrown into the greatest fear and
embarrassment; but the renegade seeing the danger we were in and how
important it was for him to effect his purpose before we were heard
mounted with the utmost quickness to where Hadji Morato wasand
with him went some of our party; Ihoweverdid not dare to leave
Zoraidawho had fallen almost fainting in my arms. To be briefthose
who had gone upstairs acted so promptly that in an instant they came
downcarrying Hadji Morato with his hands bound and a napkin tied
over his mouthwhich prevented him from uttering a wordwarning
him at the same time that to attempt to speak would cost him his life.
When his daughter caught sight of him she covered her eyes so as not
to see himand her father was horror-strickennot knowing how
willingly she had placed herself in our hands. But it was now most


essential for us to be on the moveand carefully and quickly we
regained the vesselwhere those who had remained on board were
waiting for us in apprehension of some mishap having befallen us. It
was barely two hours after night set in when we were all on board
the vesselwhere the cords were removed from the hands of Zoraida's
fatherand the napkin from his mouth; but the renegade once more told
him not to utter a wordor they would take his life. Hewhen he
saw his daughter therebegan to sigh piteouslyand still more when
he perceived that I held her closely embraced and that she lay quiet
without resisting or complainingor showing any reluctance;
nevertheless he remained silent lest they should carry into effect the
repeated threats the renegade had addressed to him.

Finding herself now on boardand that we were about to give way
with the oarsZoraidaseeing her father thereand the other Moors
boundbade the renegade ask me to do her the favour of releasing
the Moors and setting her father at libertyfor she would rather
drown herself in the sea than suffer a father that had loved her so
dearly to be carried away captive before her eyes and on her
account. The renegade repeated this to meand I replied that I was
very willing to do so; but he replied that it was not advisable
because if they were left there they would at once raise the country
and stir up the cityand lead to the despatch of swift cruisers in
pursuitand our being takenby sea or landwithout any
possibility of escape; and that all that could be done was to set them
free on the first Christian ground we reached. On this point we all
agreed; and Zoraidato whom it was explainedtogether with the
reasons that prevented us from doing at once what she desiredwas
satisfied likewise; and then in glad silence and with cheerful
alacrity each of our stout rowers took his oarand commending
ourselves to God with all our heartswe began to shape our course for
the island of Majorcathe nearest Christian land. Owinghowever
to the Tramontana rising a littleand the sea growing somewhat rough
it was impossible for us to keep a straight course for Majorcaand we
were compelled to coast in the direction of Orannot without great
uneasiness on our part lest we should be observed from the town of
Shershelwhich lies on that coastnot more than sixty miles from
Algiers. Moreover we were afraid of meeting on that course one of
the galliots that usually come with goods from Tetuan; although each
of us for himself and all of us together felt confident thatif we
were to meet a merchant galliotso that it were not a cruisernot
only should we not be lostbut that we should take a vessel in
which we could more safely accomplish our voyage. As we pursued our
course Zoraida kept her head between my hands so as not to see her
fatherand I felt that she was praying to Lela Marien to help us.

We might have made about thirty miles when daybreak found us some
three musket-shots off the landwhich seemed to us desertedand
without anyone to see us. For all thathoweverby hard rowing we put
out a little to seafor it was now somewhat calmerand having gained
about two leagues the word was given to row by batcheswhile we ate
somethingfor the vessel was well provided; but the rowers said it
was not a time to take any rest; let food be served out to those who
were not rowingbut they would not leave their oars on any account.
This was donebut now a stiff breeze began to blowwhich obliged
us to leave off rowing and make sail at once and steer for Oranas it
was impossible to make any other course. All this was done very
promptlyand under sail we ran more than eight miles an hour
without any fearexcept that of coming across some vessel out on a
roving expedition. We gave the Moorish rowers some foodand the
renegade comforted them by telling them that they were not held as
captivesas we should set them free on the first opportunity.

The same was said to Zoraida's fatherwho repliedAnything


else, Christian, I might hope for or think likely from your generosity
and good behaviour, but do not think me so simple as to imagine you
will give me my liberty; for you would have never exposed yourselves
to the danger of depriving me of it only to restore it to me so
generously, especially as you know who I am and the sum you may expect
to receive on restoring it; and if you will only name that, I here
offer you all you require for myself and for my unhappy daughter
there; or else for her alone, for she is the greatest and most
precious part of my soul.

As he said this he began to weep so bitterly that he filled us all
with compassion and forced Zoraida to look at himand when she saw
him weeping she was so moved that she rose from my feet and ran to
throw her arms round himand pressing her face to histhey both gave
way to such an outburst of tears that several of us were constrained
to keep them company.

But when her father saw her in full dress and with all her jewels
about herhe said to her in his own languageWhat means this, my
daughter? Last night, before this terrible misfortune in which we
are plunged befell us, I saw thee in thy everyday and indoor garments;
and now, without having had time to attire thyself, and without my
bringing thee any joyful tidings to furnish an occasion for adorning
and bedecking thyself, I see thee arrayed in the finest attire it
would be in my power to give thee when fortune was most kind to us.
Answer me this; for it causes me greater anxiety and surprise than
even this misfortune itself.

The renegade interpreted to us what the Moor said to his daughter;
shehoweverreturned him no answer. But when he observed in one
corner of the vessel the little trunk in which she used to keep her
jewelswhich he well knew he had left in Algiers and had not
brought to the gardenhe was still more amazedand asked her how
that trunk had come into our handsand what there was in it. To which
the renegadewithout waiting for Zoraida to replymade answerDo
not trouble thyself by asking thy daughter Zoraida so many
questions, senor, for the one answer I will give thee will serve for
all; I would have thee know that she is a Christian, and that it is
she who has been the file for our chains and our deliverer from
captivity. She is here of her own free will, as glad, I imagine, to
find herself in this position as he who escapes from darkness into the
light, from death to life, and from suffering to glory.

Daughter, is this true, what he says?cried the Moor.

It is,replied Zoraida.

That thou art in truth a Christian,said the old manand that
thou hast given thy father into the power of his enemies?

To which Zoraida made answerA Christian I am, but it is not I who
have placed thee in this position, for it never was my wish to leave
thee or do thee harm, but only to do good to myself.

And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?said he.

Ask thou that,said sheof Lela Marien, for she can tell thee
better than I.

The Moor had hardly heard these words when with marvellous quickness
he flung himself headforemost into the seawhere no doubt he would
have been drowned had not the long and full dress he wore held him
up for a little on the surface of the water. Zoraida cried aloud to us
to save himand we all hastened to helpand seizing him by his


robe we drew him in half drowned and insensibleat which Zoraida
was in such distress that she wept over him as piteously and
bitterly as though he were already dead. We turned him upon his face
and he voided a great quantity of waterand at the end of two hours
came to himself. Meanwhilethe wind having changed we were
compelled to head for the landand ply our oars to avoid being driven
on shore; but it was our good fortune to reach a creek that lies on
one side of a small promontory or capecalled by the Moors that of
the "Cava rumia which in our language means the wicked Christian
woman;" for it is a tradition among them that La Cavathrough whom
Spain was lostlies buried at that spot; "cava" in their language
meaning "wicked woman and rumia" "Christian;" moreoverthey
count it unlucky to anchor there when necessity compels themand they
never do so otherwise. For ushoweverit was not the resting-place
of the wicked woman but a haven of safety for our reliefso much
had the sea now got up. We posted a look-out on shoreand never let
the oars out of our handsand ate of the stores the renegade had laid
inimploring God and Our Lady with all our hearts to help and protect
usthat we might give a happy ending to a beginning so prosperous. At
the entreaty of Zoraida orders were given to set on shore her father
and the other Moors who were still boundfor she could not endure
nor could her tender heart bear to see her father in bonds and her
fellow-countrymen prisoners before her eyes. We promised her to do
this at the moment of departurefor as it was uninhabited we ran no
risk in releasing them at that place.

Our prayers were not so far in vain as to be unheard by Heaven
for after a while the wind changed in our favourand made the sea
calminviting us once more to resume our voyage with a good heart.
Seeing this we unbound the Moorsand one by one put them on shoreat
which they were filled with amazement; but when we came to land
Zoraida's fatherwho had now completely recovered his senseshe
said:

Why is it, think ye, Christians, that this wicked woman is rejoiced
at your giving me my liberty? Think ye it is because of the
affection she bears me? Nay verily, it is only because of the
hindrance my presence offers to the execution of her base designs. And
think not that it is her belief that yours is better than ours that
has led her to change her religion; it is only because she knows
that immodesty is more freely practised in your country than in ours.
Then turning to Zoraidawhile I and another of the Christians held
him fast by both armslest he should do some mad acthe said to her
Infamous girl, misguided maiden, whither in thy blindness and madness
art thou going in the hands of these dogs, our natural enemies? Cursed
be the hour when I begot thee! Cursed the luxury and indulgence in
which I reared thee!

But seeing that he was not likely soon to cease I made haste to
put him on shoreand thence he continued his maledictions and
lamentations aloud; calling on Mohammed to pray to Allah to destroy
usto confound usto make an end of us; and whenin consequence
of having made sailwe could no longer hear what he said we could see
what he did; how he plucked out his beard and tore his hair and lay
writhing on the ground. But once he raised his voice to such a pitch
that we were able to hear what he said. "Come backdear daughter
come back to shore; I forgive thee all; let those men have the
moneyfor it is theirs nowand come back to comfort thy sorrowing
fatherwho will yield up his life on this barren strand if thou
dost leave him."

All this Zoraida heardand heard with sorrow and tearsand all she
could say in answer wasAllah grant that Lela Marien, who has made
me become a Christian, give thee comfort in thy sorrow, my father.


Allah knows that I could not do otherwise than I have done, and that
these Christians owe nothing to my will; for even had I wished not
to accompany them, but remain at home, it would have been impossible
for me, so eagerly did my soul urge me on to the accomplishment of
this purpose, which I feel to be as righteous as to thee, dear father,
it seems wicked.

But neither could her father hear her nor we see him when she said
this; and sowhile I consoled Zoraidawe turned our attention to our
voyagein which a breeze from the right point so favoured us that
we made sure of finding ourselves off the coast of Spain on the morrow
by daybreak. Butas good seldom or never comes pure and unmixed
without being attended or followed by some disturbing evil that
gives a shock to itour fortuneor perhaps the curses which the Moor
had hurled at his daughter (for whatever kind of father they may
come from these are always to be dreaded)brought it about that
when we were now in mid-seaand the night about three hours spentas
we were running with all sail set and oars lashedfor the favouring
breeze saved us the trouble of using themwe saw by the light of
the moonwhich shone brilliantlya square-rigged vessel in full sail
close to usluffing up and standing across our courseand so close
that we had to strike sail to avoid running foul of herwhile they
too put the helm hard up to let us pass. They came to the side of
the ship to ask who we werewhither we were boundand whence we
camebut as they asked this in French our renegade saidLet no
one answer, for no doubt these are French corsairs who plunder all
comers.Acting on this warning no one answered a wordbut after we
had gone a little aheadand the vessel was now lying to leeward
suddenly they fired two gunsand apparently both loaded with
chain-shotfor with one they cut our mast in half and brought down
both it and the sail into the seaand the otherdischarged at the
same momentsent a ball into our vessel amidshipsstaving her in
completelybut without doing any further damage. Wehoweverfinding
ourselves sinking began to shout for help and call upon those in the
ship to pick us up as we were beginning to fill. They then lay toand
lowering a skiff or boatas many as a dozen Frenchmenwell armed
with match-locksand their matches burninggot into it and came
alongside; and seeing how few we wereand that our vessel was going
downthey took us intelling us that this had come to us through our
incivility in not giving them an answer. Our renegade took the trunk
containing Zoraida's wealth and dropped it into the sea without anyone
perceiving what he did. In short we went on board with the
Frenchmenwhoafter having ascertained all they wanted to know about
usrifled us of everything we hadas if they had been our
bitterest enemiesand from Zoraida they took even the anklets she
wore on her feet; but the distress they caused her did not distress me
so much as the fear I was in that from robbing her of her rich and
precious jewels they would proceed to rob her of the most precious
jewel that she valued more than all. The desireshoweverof those
people do not go beyond moneybut of that their covetousness is
insatiableand on this occasion it was carried to such a pitch that
they would have taken even the clothes we wore as captives if they had
been worth anything to them. It was the advice of some of them to
throw us all into the sea wrapped up in a sail; for their purpose
was to trade at some of the ports of Spaingiving themselves out as
Bretonsand if they brought us alive they would be punished as soon
as the robbery was discovered; but the captain (who was the one who
had plundered my beloved Zoraida) said he was satisfied with the prize
he had gotand that he would not touch at any Spanish portbut
pass the Straits of Gibraltar by nightor as best he couldand
make for La Rochellefrom which he had sailed. So they agreed by
common consent to give us the skiff belonging to their ship and all we
required for the short voyage that remained to usand this they did
the next day on coming in sight of the Spanish coastwith which


and the joy we feltall our sufferings and miseries were as
completely forgotten as if they had never been endured by ussuch
is the delight of recovering lost liberty.

It may have been about mid-day when they placed us in the boat
giving us two kegs of water and some biscuit; and the captainmoved
by I know not what compassionas the lovely Zoraida was about to
embarkgave her some forty gold crownsand would not permit his
men to take from her those same garments which she has on now. We
got into the boatreturning them thanks for their kindness to usand
showing ourselves grateful rather than indignant. They stood out to
seasteering for the straits; wewithout looking to any compass save
the land we had before usset ourselves to row with such energy
that by sunset we were so near that we might easilywe thought
land before the night was far advanced. But as the moon did not show
that nightand the sky was cloudedand as we knew not whereabouts we
wereit did not seem to us a prudent thing to make for the shore
as several of us advisedsaying we ought to run ourselves ashore even
if it were on rocks and far from any habitationfor in this way we
should be relieved from the apprehensions we naturally felt of the
prowling vessels of the Tetuan corsairswho leave Barbary at
nightfall and are on the Spanish coast by daybreakwhere they
commonly take some prizeand then go home to sleep in their own
houses. But of the conflicting counsels the one which was adopted
was that we should approach graduallyand land where we could if
the sea were calm enough to permit us. This was doneand a little
before midnight we drew near to the foot of a huge and lofty mountain
not so close to the sea but that it left a narrow space on which to
land conveniently. We ran our boat up on the sandand all sprang
out and kissed the groundand with tears of joyful satisfaction
returned thanks to God our Lord for all his incomparable goodness to
us on our voyage. We took out of the boat the provisions it contained
and drew it up on the shoreand then climbed a long way up the
mountainfor even there we could not feel easy in our heartsor
persuade ourselves that it was Christian soil that was now under our
feet.

The dawn camemore slowlyI thinkthan we could have wished; we
completed the ascent in order to see if from the summit any habitation
or any shepherds' huts could be discoveredbut strain our eyes as
we mightneither dwellingnor human beingnor path nor road could
we perceive. Howeverwe determined to push on fartheras it could
not but be that ere long we must see some one who could tell us
where we were. But what distressed me most was to see Zoraida going on
foot over that rough ground; for though I once carried her on my
shouldersshe was more wearied by my weariness than rested by the
rest; and so she would never again allow me to undergo the exertion
and went on very patiently and cheerfullywhile I led her by the
hand. We had gone rather less than a quarter of a league when the
sound of a little bell fell on our earsa clear proof that there were
flocks hard byand looking about carefully to see if any were
within viewwe observed a young shepherd tranquilly and
unsuspiciously trimming a stick with his knife at the foot of a cork
tree. We called to himand heraising his headsprang nimbly to his
feetforas we afterwards learnedthe first who presented
themselves to his sight were the renegade and Zoraidaand seeing them
in Moorish dress he imagined that all the Moors of Barbary were upon
him; and plunging with marvellous swiftness into the thicket in
front of himhe began to raise a prodigious outcryexclaiming
The Moors- the Moors have landed! To arms, to arms!We were all
thrown into perplexity by these criesnot knowing what to do; but
reflecting that the shouts of the shepherd would raise the country and
that the mounted coast-guard would come at once to see what was the
matterwe agreed that the renegade must strip off his Turkish


garments and put on a captive's jacket or coat which one of our
party gave him at oncethough he himself was reduced to his shirt;
and so commending ourselves to Godwe followed the same road which we
saw the shepherd takeexpecting every moment that the coast-guard
would be down upon us. Nor did our expectation deceive usfor two
hours had not passed whencoming out of the brushwood into the open
groundwe perceived some fifty mounted men swiftly approaching us
at a hand-gallop. As soon as we saw them we stood stillwaiting for
them; but as they came close andinstead of the Moors they were in
quest ofsaw a set of poor Christiansthey were taken abackand one
of them asked if it could be we who were the cause of the shepherd
having raised the call to arms. I said "Yes and as I was about to
explain to him what had occurred, and whence we came and who we
were, one of the Christians of our party recognised the horseman who
had put the question to us, and before I could say anything more he
exclaimed:

Thanks be to Godsirsfor bringing us to such good quarters; for
if I do not deceive myselfthe ground we stand on is that of Velez
Malaga unlessindeedall my years of captivity have made me unable
to recollect that yousenorwho ask who we areare Pedro de
Bustamantemy uncle."

The Christian captive had hardly uttered these wordswhen the
horseman threw himself off his horseand ran to embrace the young
mancrying:

Nephew of my soul and life! I recognise thee now; and long have I
mourned thee as dead, I, and my sister, thy mother, and all thy kin
that are still alive, and whom God has been pleased to preserve that
they may enjoy the happiness of seeing thee. We knew long since that
thou wert in Algiers, and from the appearance of thy garments and
those of all this company, I conclude that ye have had a miraculous
restoration to liberty.

It is true,replied the young manand by-and-by we will tell you
all.

As soon as the horsemen understood that we were Christian
captivesthey dismounted from their horsesand each offered his to
carry us to the city of Velez Malagawhich was a league and a half
distant. Some of them went to bring the boat to the citywe having
told them where we had left it; others took us up behind themand
Zoraida was placed on the horse of the young man's uncle. The whole
town came out to meet usfor they had by this time heard of our
arrival from one who had gone on in advance. They were not
astonished to see liberated captives or captive Moorsfor people on
that coast are well used to see both one and the other; but they
were astonished at the beauty of Zoraidawhich was just then
heightenedas well by the exertion of travelling as by joy at finding
herself on Christian soiland relieved of all fear of being lost; for
this had brought such a glow upon her facethat unless my affection
for her were deceiving meI would venture to say that there was not a
more beautiful creature in the world- at leastthat I had ever seen.

We went straight to the church to return thanks to God for the
mercies we had receivedand when Zoraida entered it she said there
were faces there like Lela Marien's. We told her they were her images;
and as well as he could the renegade explained to her what they meant
that she might adore them as if each of them were the very same Lela
Marien that had spoken to her; and shehaving great intelligence
and a quick and clear instinctunderstood at once all he said to
her about them. Thence they took us away and distributed us all in
different houses in the town; but as for the renegadeZoraidaand
myselfthe Christian who came with us brought us to the house of


his parentswho had a fair share of the gifts of fortuneand treated
us with as much kindness as they did their own son.

We remained six days in Velezat the end of which the renegade
having informed himself of all that was requisite for him to doset
out for the city of Granada to restore himself to the sacred bosom
of the Church through the medium of the Holy Inquisition. The other
released captives took their departureseach the way that seemed best
to himand Zoraida and I were left alonewith nothing more than
the crowns which the courtesy of the Frenchman had bestowed upon
Zoraidaout of which I bought the beast on which she rides; andI
for the present attending her as her father and squire and not as
her husbandwe are now going to ascertain if my father is living
or if any of my brothers has had better fortune than mine has been;
thoughas Heaven has made me the companion of ZoraidaI think no
other lot could be assigned to mehowever happythat I would
rather have. The patience with which she endures the hardships that
poverty brings with itand the eagerness she shows to become a
Christianare such that they fill me with admirationand bind me
to serve her all my life; though the happiness I feel in seeing myself
hersand her mineis disturbed and marred by not knowing whether I
shall find any corner to shelter her in my own countryor whether
time and death may not have made such changes in the fortunes and
lives of my father and brothersthat I shall hardly find anyone who
knows meif they are not alive.

I have no more of my story to tell yougentlemen; whether it be
an interesting or a curious one let your better judgments decide;
all I can say is I would gladly have told it to you more briefly;
although my fear of wearying you has made me leave out more than one
circumstance.

CHAPTER XLII

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INNAND OF SEVERAL
OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING

With these words the captive held his peaceand Don Fernando said
to himIn truth, captain, the manner in which you have related
this remarkable adventure has been such as befitted the novelty and
strangeness of the matter. The whole story is curious and uncommon,
and abounds with incidents that fill the hearers with wonder and
astonishment; and so great is the pleasure we have found in
listening to it that we should be glad if it were to begin again, even
though to-morrow were to find us still occupied with the same tale.
And while he said this Cardenio and the rest of them offered to be
of service to him in any way that lay in their powerand in words and
language so kindly and sincere that the captain was much gratified
by their good-will. In particular Don Fernando offeredif he would go
back with himto get his brother the marquis to become godfather at
the baptism of Zoraidaand on his own part to provide him with the
means of making his appearance in his own country with the credit
and comfort he was entitled to. For all this the captive returned
thanks very courteouslyalthough he would not accept any of their
generous offers.

By this time night closed inand as it didthere came up to the
inn a coach attended by some men on horsebackwho demanded
accommodation; to which the landlady replied that there was not a
hand's breadth of the whole inn unoccupied.


Still, for all that,said one of those who had entered on
horsebackroom must be found for his lordship the Judge here.

At this name the landlady was taken abackand saidSenor, the
fact is I have no beds; but if his lordship the Judge carries one with
him, as no doubt he does, let him come in and welcome; for my
husband and I will give up our room to accommodate his worship.

Very good, so be it,said the squire; but in the meantime a man
had got out of the coach whose dress indicated at a glance the
office and post he heldfor the long robe with ruffled sleeves that
he wore showed that he wasas his servant saida Judge of appeal. He
led by the hand a young girl in a travelling dressapparently about
sixteen years of ageand of such a high-bred airso beautiful and so
gracefulthat all were filled with admiration when she made her
appearanceand but for having seen DorotheaLuscindaand Zoraida
who were there in the innthey would have fancied that a beauty
like that of this maiden's would have been hard to find. Don Quixote
was present at the entrance of the Judge with the young ladyand as
soon as he saw him he saidYour worship may with confidence enter
and take your ease in this castle; for though the accommodation be
scanty and poor, there are no quarters so cramped or inconvenient that
they cannot make room for arms and letters; above all if arms and
letters have beauty for a guide and leader, as letters represented
by your worship have in this fair maiden, to whom not only ought
castles to throw themselves open and yield themselves up, but rocks
should rend themselves asunder and mountains divide and bow themselves
down to give her a reception. Enter, your worship, I say, into this
paradise, for here you will find stars and suns to accompany the
heaven your worship brings with you, here you will find arms in
their supreme excellence, and beauty in its highest perfection.

The Judge was struck with amazement at the language of Don
Quixotewhom he scrutinized very carefullyno less astonished by his
figure than by his talk; and before he could find words to answer
him he had a fresh surprisewhen he saw opposite to him Luscinda
Dorotheaand Zoraidawhohaving heard of the new guests and of
the beauty of the young ladyhad come to see her and welcome her; Don
FernandoCardenioand the curatehowevergreeted him in a more
intelligible and polished style. In shortthe Judge made his entrance
in a state of bewildermentas well with what he saw as what he heard
and the fair ladies of the inn gave the fair damsel a cordial welcome.
On the whole he could perceive that all who were there were people
of quality; but with the figurecountenanceand bearing of Don
Quixote he was at his wits' end; and all civilities having been
exchangedand the accommodation of the inn inquired intoit was
settledas it had been before settledthat all the women should
retire to the garret that has been already mentionedand that the men
should remain outside as if to guard them; the Judgethereforewas
very well pleased to allow his daughterfor such the damsel wasto
go with the ladieswhich she did very willingly; and with part of the
host's narrow bed and half of what the Judge had brought with him
they made a more comfortable arrangement for the night than they had
expected.

The captivewhose heart had leaped within him the instant he saw
the Judgetelling him somehow that this was his brotherasked one of
the servants who accompanied him what his name wasand whether he
knew from what part of the country he came. The servant replied that
he was called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedmaand that he had
heard it said he came from a village in the mountains of Leon. From
this statementand what he himself had seenhe felt convinced that
this was his brother who had adopted letters by his father's advice;
and excited and rejoicedhe called Don Fernando and Cardenio and


the curate asideand told them how the matter stoodassuring them
that the judge was his brother. The servant had further informed him
that he was now going to the Indies with the appointment of Judge of
the Supreme Court of Mexico; and he had learnedlikewisethat the
young lady was his daughterwhose mother had died in giving birth
to herand that he was very rich in consequence of the dowry left
to him with the daughter. He asked their advice as to what means he
should adopt to make himself knownor to ascertain beforehand
whetherwhen he had made himself knownhis brotherseeing him so
poorwould be ashamed of himor would receive him with a warm heart.

Leave it to me to find out that,said the curate; "though there is
no reason for supposingsenor captainthat you will not be kindly
receivedbecause the worth and wisdom that your brother's bearing
shows him to possess do not make it likely that he will prove
haughty or insensibleor that he will not know how to estimate the
accidents of fortune at their proper value."

Still,said the captainI would not make myself known
abruptly, but in some indirect way.

I have told you already,said the curatethat I will manage it
in a way to satisfy us all.

By this time supper was readyand they all took their seats at
the tableexcept the captiveand the ladieswho supped by
themselves in their own room. In the middle of supper the curate said:

I had a comrade of your worship's name, Senor Judge, in
Constantinople, where I was a captive for several years, and that same
comrade was one of the stoutest soldiers and captains in the whole
Spanish infantry; but he had as large a share of misfortune as he
had of gallantry and courage.

And how was the captain called, senor?asked the Judge.

He was called Ruy Perez de Viedma,replied the curateand he was
born in a village in the mountains of Leon; and he mentioned a
circumstance connected with his father and his brothers which, had
it not been told me by so truthful a man as he was, I should have
set down as one of those fables the old women tell over the fire in
winter; for he said his father had divided his property among his
three sons and had addressed words of advice to them sounder than
any of Cato's. But I can say this much, that the choice he made of
going to the wars was attended with such success, that by his
gallant conduct and courage, and without any help save his own
merit, he rose in a few years to be captain of infantry, and to see
himself on the high-road and in position to be given the command of
a corps before long; but Fortune was against him, for where he might
have expected her favour he lost it, and with it his liberty, on
that glorious day when so many recovered theirs, at the battle of
Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goletta, and after a variety of adventures
we found ourselves comrades at Constantinople. Thence he went to
Algiers, where he met with one of the most extraordinary adventures
that ever befell anyone in the world.

Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother's adventure
with Zoraida; to all which the Judge gave such an attentive hearing
that he never before had been so much of a hearer. The curate
howeveronly went so far as to describe how the Frenchmen plundered
those who were in the boatand the poverty and distress in which
his comrade and the fair Moor were leftof whom he said he had not
been able to learn what became of themor whether they had reached
Spainor been carried to France by the Frenchmen.


The captainstanding a little to one sidewas listening to all the
curate saidand watching every movement of his brotherwhoas
soon as he perceived the curate had made an end of his storygave a
deep sigh and said with his eyes full of tearsOh, senor, if you
only knew what news you have given me and how it comes home to me,
making me show how I feel it with these tears that spring from my eyes
in spite of all my worldly wisdom and self-restraint! That brave
captain that you speak of is my eldest brother, who, being of a bolder
and loftier mind than my other brother or myself, chose the honourable
and worthy calling of arms, which was one of the three careers our
father proposed to us, as your comrade mentioned in that fable you
thought he was telling you. I followed that of letters, in which God
and my own exertions have raised me to the position in which you see
me. My second brother is in Peru, so wealthy that with what he has
sent to my father and to me he has fully repaid the portion he took
with him, and has even furnished my father's hands with the means of
gratifying his natural generosity, while I too have been enabled to
pursue my studies in a more becoming and creditable fashion, and so to
attain my present standing. My father is still alive, though dying
with anxiety to hear of his eldest son, and he prays God unceasingly
that death may not close his eyes until he has looked upon those of
his son; but with regard to him what surprises me is, that having so
much common sense as he had, he should have neglected to give any
intelligence about himself, either in his troubles and sufferings,
or in his prosperity, for if his father or any of us had known of
his condition he need not have waited for that miracle of the reed
to obtain his ransom; but what now disquiets me is the uncertainty
whether those Frenchmen may have restored him to liberty, or
murdered him to hide the robbery. All this will make me continue my
journey, not with the satisfaction in which I began it, but in the
deepest melancholy and sadness. Oh dear brother! that I only knew
where thou art now, and I would hasten to seek thee out and deliver
thee from thy sufferings, though it were to cost me suffering
myself! Oh that I could bring news to our old father that thou art
alive, even wert thou the deepest dungeon of Barbary; for his wealth
and my brother's and mine would rescue thee thence! Oh beautiful and
generous Zoraida, that I could repay thy good goodness to a brother!
That I could be present at the new birth of thy soul, and at thy
bridal that would give us all such happiness!

All this and more the Judge uttered with such deep emotion at the
news he had received of his brother that all who heard him shared in
itshowing their sympathy with his sorrow. The curateseeing
thenhow well he had succeeded in carrying out his purpose and the
captain's wisheshad no desire to keep them unhappy any longerso he
rose from the table and going into the room where Zoraida was he
took her by the handLuscindaDorotheaand the Judge's daughter
following her. The captain was waiting to see what the curate would
dowhen the lattertaking him with the other handadvanced with
both of them to where the Judge and the other gentlemen were and said
Let your tears cease to flow, Senor Judge, and the wish of your heart
be gratified as fully as you could desire, for you have before you
your worthy brother and your good sister-in-law. He whom you see here
is the Captain Viedma, and this is the fair Moor who has been so good
to him. The Frenchmen I told you of have reduced them to the state of
poverty you see that you may show the generosity of your kind heart.

The captain ran to embrace his brotherwho placed both hands on his
breast so as to have a good look at himholding him a little way
off but as soon as he had fully recognised him he clasped him in his
arms so closelyshedding such tears of heartfelt joythat most of
those present could not but join in them. The words the brothers
exchangedthe emotion they showed can scarcely be imaginedI


fancymuch less put down in writing. They told each other in a few
words the events of their lives; they showed the true affection of
brothers in all its strength; then the judge embraced Zoraidaputting
all he possessed at her disposal; then he made his daughter embrace
herand the fair Christian and the lovely Moor drew fresh tears
from every eye. And there was Don Quixote observing all these
strange proceedings attentively without uttering a wordand
attributing the whole to chimeras of knight-errantry. Then they agreed
that the captain and Zoraida should return with his brother to
Sevilleand send news to his father of his having been delivered
and foundso as to enable him to come and be present at the
marriage and baptism of Zoraidafor it was impossible for the Judge
to put off his journeyas he was informed that in a month from that
time the fleet was to sail from Seville for New Spainand to miss the
passage would have been a great inconvenience to him. In short
everybody was well pleased and glad at the captive's good fortune; and
as now almost two-thirds of the night were pastthey resolved to
retire to rest for the remainder of it. Don Quixote offered to mount
guard over the castle lest they should be attacked by some giant or
other malevolent scoundrelcovetous of the great treasure of beauty
the castle contained. Those who understood him returned him thanks for
this serviceand they gave the Judge an account of his
extraordinary humourwith which he was not a little amused. Sancho
Panza alone was fuming at the lateness of the hour for retiring to
rest; and he of all was the one that made himself most comfortableas
he stretched himself on the trappings of his asswhichas will be
told farther oncost him so dear.

The ladiesthenhaving retired to their chamberand the others
having disposed themselves with as little discomfort as they could
Don Quixote sallied out of the inn to act as sentinel of the castle as
he had promised. It happenedhoweverthat a little before the
approach of dawn a voice so musical and sweet reached the ears of
the ladies that it forced them all to listen attentivelybut
especially Dorotheawho had been awakeand by whose side Dona
Clara de Viedmafor so the Judge's daughter was calledlay sleeping.
No one could imagine who it was that sang so sweetlyand the voice
was unaccompanied by any instrument. At one moment it seemed to them
as if the singer were in the courtyardat another in the stable;
and as they were all attentionwonderingCardenio came to the door
and saidListen, whoever is not asleep, and you will hear a
muleteer's voice that enchants as it chants.

We are listening to it already, senor,said Dorothea; on which
Cardenio went away; and Dorotheagiving all her attention to itmade
out the words of the song to be these:

CHAPTER XLIII

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEERTOGETHER WITH
OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN

Ah meLove's mariner am I
On Love's deep ocean sailing;
I know not where the haven lies
I dare not hope to gain it.

One solitary distant star
Is all I have to guide me
A brighter orb than those of old
That Palinurus lighted.


And vaguely drifting am I borne
I know not where it leads me;
I fix my gaze on it alone
Of all beside it heedless.

But over-cautious prudery
And coyness cold and cruel
When most I need ittheselike clouds
Its longed-for light refuse me.

Bright stargoal of my yearning eyes
As thou above me beamest
When thou shalt hide thee from my sight
I'll know that death is near me.

The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it was not
fair to let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voicesoshaking her
from side to sideshe woke hersaying:

Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest
have the pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard,
perhaps, in all thy life.

Clara awoke quite drowsyand not understanding at the moment what
Dorothea saidasked her what it was; she repeated what she had
saidand Clara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two
linesas the singer continuedwhen a strange trembling seized her
as if she were suffering from a severe attack of quartan agueand
throwing her arms round Dorothea she said:

Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The
greatest kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes
and ears so as neither to see or hear that unhappy musician.

What art thou talking about, child?said Dorothea. "Whythey
say this singer is a muleteer!"

Nay, he is the lord of many places,replied Claraand that one
in my heart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him,
unless he be willing to surrender it.

Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girlfor it
seemed to be far beyond such experience of life as her tender years
gave any promise ofso she said to her:

You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Senora Clara;
explain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are saying
about hearts and places and this musician whose voice has so moved
you? But do not tell me anything now; I do not want to lose the
pleasure I get from listening to the singer by giving my attention
to your transports, for I perceive he is beginning to sing a new
strain and a new air.

Let him, in Heaven's name,returned Clara; and not to hear him she
stopped both ears with her handsat which Dorothea was again
surprised; but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran
in this fashion:

Sweet Hopemy stay
That onward to the goal of thy intent
Dost make thy way
Heedless of hindrance or impediment


Have thou no fear
If at each step thou findest death is near.

No victory
No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know;
Unblest is he
That a bold front to Fortune dares not show
But soul and sense
In bondage yieldeth up to indolence.

If Love his wares
Do dearly sellhis right must be contest;
What gold compares
With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest?
And all men know
What costeth little that we rate but low.

Love resolute
Knows not the word "impossibility;"
And though my suit
Beset by endless obstacles I see
Yet no despair
Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there.

Here the voice ceased and Clara's sobs began afreshall which
excited Dorothea's curiosity to know what could be the cause of
singing so sweet and weeping so bitterso she again asked her what it
was she was going to say before. On this Claraafraid that Luscinda
might overhear herwinding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her
mouth so close to her ear that she could speak without fear of being
heard by anyone elseand said:

This singer, dear senora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord
of two villages, who lives opposite my father's house at Madrid; and
though my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter,
and lattice-work in summer, in some way- I know not how- this
gentleman, who was pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church
or elsewhere, I cannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and
gave me to know it from the windows of his house, with so many signs
and tears that I was forced to believe him, and even to love him,
without knowing what it was he wanted of me. One of the signs he
used to make me was to link one hand in the other, to show me he
wished to marry me; and though I should have been glad if that could
be, being alone and motherless I knew not whom to open my mind to, and
so I left it as it was, showing him no favour, except when my
father, and his too, were from home, to raise the curtain or the
lattice a little and let him see me plainly, at which he would show
such delight that he seemed as if he were going mad. Meanwhile the
time for my father's departure arrived, which he became aware of,
but not from me, for I had never been able to tell him of it. He
fell sick, of grief I believe, and so the day we were going away I
could not see him to take farewell of him, were it only with the eyes.
But after we had been two days on the road, on entering the posada
of a village a day's journey from this, I saw him at the inn door in
the dress of a muleteer, and so well disguised, that if I did not
carry his image graven on my heart it would have been impossible for
me to recognise him. But I knew him, and I was surprised, and glad; he
watched me, unsuspected by my father, from whom he always hides
himself when he crosses my path on the road, or in the posadas where
we halt; and, as I know what he is, and reflect that for love of me he
makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I am ready to die
of sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. I know not with
what object he has come; or how he could have got away from his


father, who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, and
because he deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. And
moreover, I can tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head;
for I have heard them say he is a great scholar and poet; and what is
more, every time I see him or hear him sing I tremble all over, and am
terrified lest my father should recognise him and come to know of our
loves. I have never spoken a word to him in my life; and for all that
I love him so that I could not live without him. This, dear senora, is
all I have to tell you about the musician whose voice has delighted
you so much; and from it alone you might easily perceive he is no
muleteer, but a lord of hearts and towns, as I told you already.

Say no more, Dona Clara,said Dorothea at thisat the same time
kissing her a thousand times oversay no more, I tell you, but
wait till day comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of
yours so that it may have the happy ending such an innocent
beginning deserves.

Ah, senora,said Dona Clarawhat end can be hoped for when his
father is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would
think I was not fit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife?
And as to marrying without the knowledge of my father, I would not
do it for all the world. I would not ask anything more than that
this youth should go back and leave me; perhaps with not seeing him,
and the long distance we shall have to travel, the pain I suffer now
may become easier; though I daresay the remedy I propose will do me
very little good. I don't know how the devil this has come about, or
how this love I have for him got in; I such a young girl, and he
such a mere boy; for I verily believe we are both of an age, and I
am not sixteen yet; for I will be sixteen Michaelmas Day, next, my
father says.

Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child Dona Clara
spoke. "Let us go to sleep nowsenora said she, for the little
of the night that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us
daylightand we will set all to rightsor it will go hard with me."

With this they fell asleepand deep silence reigned all through the
inn. The only persons not asleep were the landlady's daughter and
her servant Maritorneswhoknowing the weak point of Don Quixote's
humourand that he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour and
on horsebackresolvedthe pair of themto play some trick upon him
or at any rate to amuse themselves for a while by listening to his
nonsense. As it so happened there was not a window in the whole inn
that looked outwards except a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through
which they used to throw out the straw. At this hole the two
demi-damsels posted themselvesand observed Don Quixote on his horse
leaning on his pike and from time to time sending forth such deep
and doleful sighsthat he seemed to pluck up his soul by the roots
with each of them; and they could hear himtoosaying in a soft
tenderloving toneOh my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, perfection of
all beauty, summit and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace,
depositary of virtue, and finally, ideal of all that is good,
honourable, and delectable in this world! What is thy grace doing now?
Art thou, perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of his own
free will hath exposed himself to so great perils, and all to serve
thee? Give me tidings of her, oh luminary of the three faces!
Perhaps at this moment, envious of hers, thou art regarding her,
either as she paces to and fro some gallery of her sumptuous
palaces, or leans over some balcony, meditating how, whilst preserving
her purity and greatness, she may mitigate the tortures this
wretched heart of mine endures for her sake, what glory should
recompense my sufferings, what repose my toil, and lastly what death
my life, and what reward my services? And thou, oh sun, that art now


doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise betimes and come
forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat of thee to
salute her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see her
and salute her, that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more
jealous of thee than thou wert of that light-footed ingrate that
made thee sweat and run so on the plains of Thessaly, or on the
banks of the Peneus (for I do not exactly recollect where it was
thou didst run on that occasion) in thy jealousy and love.

Don Quixote had got so far in his pathetic speech when the
landlady's daughter began to signal to himsayingSenor, come
over here, please.

At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by
the light of the moonwhich then was in its full splendourthat some
one was calling to him from the hole in the wallwhich seemed to
him to be a windowand what is morewith a gilt gratingas rich
castlessuch as he believed the inn to beought to have; and it
immediately suggested itself to his imagination thatas on the former
occasionthe fair damselthe daughter of the lady of the castle
overcome by love for himwas once more endeavouring to win his
affections; and with this ideanot to show himself discourteousor
ungratefulhe turned Rocinante's head and approached the holeand as
he perceived the two wenches he said:

I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your
thoughts of love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a
return can be made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle
birth, for which you must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom
love renders incapable of submission to any other than her whom, the
first moment his eyes beheld her, he made absolute mistress of his
soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and retire to your apartment, and do
not, by any further declaration of your passion, compel me to show
myself more ungrateful; and if, of the love you bear me, you should
find that there is anything else in my power wherein I can gratify
you, provided it be not love itself, demand it of me; for I swear to
you by that sweet absent enemy of mine to grant it this instant,
though it be that you require of me a lock of Medusa's hair, which was
all snakes, or even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial.

My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight,said
Maritornes at this.

What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?
replied Don Quixote.

Only one of your fair hands,said Maritornesto enable her to
vent over it the great passion passion which has brought her to this
loophole, so much to the risk of her honour; for if the lord her
father had heard her, the least slice he would cut off her would be
her ear.

I should like to see that tried,said Don Quixote; "but he had
better beware of thatif he does not want to meet the most disastrous
end that ever father in the world met for having laid hands on the
tender limbs of a love-stricken daughter."

Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she had
askedand making up her mind what to doshe got down from the hole
and went into the stablewhere she took the halter of Sancho
Panza's assand in all haste returned to the holejust as Don
Quixote had planted himself standing on Rocinante's saddle in order to
reach the grated window where he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be;
and giving her his handhe saidLady, take this hand, or rather


this scourge of the evil-doers of the earth; take, I say, this hand
which no other hand of woman has ever touched, not even hers who has
complete possession of my entire body. I present it to you, not that
you may kiss it, but that you may observe the contexture of the
sinews, the close network of the muscles, the breadth and capacity
of the veins, whence you may infer what must be the strength of the
arm that has such a hand.

That we shall see presently,said Maritornesand making a running
knot on the haltershe passed it over his wrist and coming down
from the hole tied the other end very firmly to the bolt of the door
of the straw-loft.

Don Quixotefeeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist
exclaimedYour grace seems to be grating rather than caressing my
hand; treat it not so harshly, for it is not to blame for the
offence my resolution has given you, nor is it just to wreak all
your vengeance on so small a part; remember that one who loves so well
should not revenge herself so cruelly.

But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don
Quixote'sfor as soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other
made offready to die with laughingleaving him fastened in such a
way that it was impossible for him to release himself.

He wasas has been saidstanding on Rocinantewith his arm passed
through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the doorand in
mighty fear and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante
were to stir one side or the other; so he did not dare to make the
least movementalthough from the patience and imperturbable
disposition of Rocinantehe had good reason to expect that he would
stand without budging for a whole century. Finding himself fastthen
and that the ladies had retiredhe began to fancy that all this was
done by enchantmentas on the former occasion when in that same
castle that enchanted Moor of a carrier had belaboured him; and he
cursed in his heart his own want of sense and judgment in venturing to
enter the castle againafter having come off so badly the first time;
it being a settled point with knights-errant that when they have tried
an adventureand have not succeeded in itit is a sign that it is
not reserved for them but for othersand that therefore they need not
try it again. Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could
release himselfbut it had been made so fast that all his efforts
were in vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Rocinante should
movebut try as he might to seat himself in the saddlehe had
nothing for it but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it
was he wished for the sword of Amadisagainst which no enchantment
whatever had any power; then he cursed his ill fortune; then he
magnified the loss the world would sustain by his absence while he
remained there enchantedfor that he believed he was beyond all
doubt; then he once more took to thinking of his beloved Dulcinea
del Toboso; then he called to his worthy squire Sancho Panzawho
buried in sleep and stretched upon the pack-saddle of his asswas
obliviousat that momentof the mother that bore him; then he called
upon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to come to his aid; then he
invoked his good friend Urganda to succour him; and thenat last
morning found him in such a state of desperation and perplexity that
he was bellowing like a bullfor he had no hope that day would
bring any relief to his sufferingwhich he believed would last for
everinasmuch as he was enchanted; and of this he was convinced by
seeing that Rocinante never stirredmuch or littleand he felt
persuaded that he and his horse were to remain in this state
without eating or drinking or sleepinguntil the malign influence
of the stars was overpastor until some other more sage enchanter
should disenchant him.


But he was very much deceived in this conclusionfor daylight had
hardly begun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on
horsebackwell equipped and accoutredwith firelocks across their
saddle-bows. They called out and knocked loudly at the gate of the
innwhich was still shut; on seeing whichDon Quixoteeven there
where he wasdid not forget to act as sentineland said in a loud
and imperious toneKnights, or squires, or whatever ye be, ye have
no right to knock at the gates of this castle; for it is plain
enough that they who are within are either asleep, or else are not
in the habit of throwing open the fortress until the sun's rays are
spread over the whole surface of the earth. Withdraw to a distance,
and wait till it is broad daylight, and then we shall see whether it
will be proper or not to open to you.

What the devil fortress or castle is this,said oneto make us
stand on such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to
us; we are travellers who only want to feed our horses and go on,
for we are in haste.

Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?said Don
Quixote.

I don't know what you look like,replied the other; "but I know
that you are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle."

A castle it is,returned Don Quixotenay, more, one of the
best in this whole province, and it has within it people who have
had the sceptre in the hand and the crown on the head.

It would be better if it were the other way,said the traveller
the sceptre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, may
be there is within some company of players, with whom it is a common
thing to have those crowns and sceptres you speak of; for in such a
small inn as this, and where such silence is kept, I do not believe
any people entitled to crowns and sceptres can have taken up their
quarters.

You know but little of the world,returned Don Quixotesince you
are ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry.

But the comrades of the spokesmangrowing weary of the dialogue
with Don Quixoterenewed their knocks with great vehemenceso much
so that the hostand not only he but everybody in the innawokeand
he got up to ask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of
the horses of the four who were seeking admittance went to smell
Rocinantewho melancholydejectedand with drooping ears stood
motionlesssupporting his sorely stretched master; and as he was
after allfleshthough he looked as if he were made of woodhe
could not help giving way and in return smelling the one who had come
to offer him attentions. But he had hardly moved at all when Don
Quixote lost his footing; and slipping off the saddlehe would have
come to the groundbut for being suspended by the armwhich caused
him such agony that he believed either his wrist would be cut through
or his arm torn off; and he hung so near the ground that he could just
touch it with his feetwhich was all the worse for him; forfinding
how little was wanted to enable him to plant his feet firmlyhe
struggled and stretched himself as much as he could to gain a footing;
just like those undergoing the torture of the strappadowhen they are
fixed at "touch and no touch who aggravate their own sufferings by
their violent efforts to stretch themselves, deceived by the hope
which makes them fancy that with a very little more they will reach
the ground.


CHAPTER XLIV

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the
landlord opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay,
and ran to see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside
joined him. Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the
same outcry, suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without
anyone seeing her, untied the halter by which Don Quixote was
suspended, and down he came to the ground in the sight of the landlord
and the travellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with
him that he shouted so. He without replying a word took the rope off
his wrist, and rising to his feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his
buckler on his arm, put his lance in rest, and making a considerable
circuit of the plain came back at a half-gallop exclaiming:

Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause
provided my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do
soI give him the liechallenge him and defy him to single combat."

The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of Don
Quixote; but the landlord removed their surprise by telling them who
he wasand not to mind him as he was out of his senses. They then
asked the landlord if by any chance a youth of about fifteen years
of age had come to that innone dressed like a muleteerand of
such and such an appearancedescribing that of Dona Clara's lover.
The landlord replied that there were so many people in the inn he
had not noticed the person they were inquiring for; but one of them
observing the coach in which the Judge had comesaidHe is here
no doubt, for this is the coach he is following: let one of us stay at
the gate, and the rest go in to look for him; or indeed it would be as
well if one of us went round the inn, lest he should escape over the
wall of the yard.So be it,said another; and while two of them
went inone remained at the gate and the other made the circuit of
the inn; observing all whichthe landlord was unable to conjecture
for what reason they were taking all these precautionsthough he
understood they were looking for the youth whose description they
had given him.

It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reasonas well
as in consequence of the noise Don Quixote had madeeverybody was
awake and upbut particularly Dona Clara and Dorothea; for they had
been able to sleep but badly that nightthe one from agitation at
having her lover so near herthe other from curiosity to see him. Don
Quixotewhen he saw that not one of the four travellers took any
notice of him or replied to his challengewas furious and ready to
die with indignation and wrath; and if he could have found in the
ordinances of chivalry that it was lawful for a knight-errant to
undertake or engage in another enterprisewhen he had plighted his
word and faith not to involve himself in any until he had made an
end of the one to which he was pledgedhe would have attacked the
whole of themand would have made them return an answer in spite of
themselves. But considering that it would not become himnor be
rightto begin any new emprise until he had established Micomicona in
her kingdomhe was constrained to hold his peace and wait quietly
to see what would be the upshot of the proceedings of those same
travellers; one of whom found the youth they were seeking lying asleep
by the side of a muleteerwithout a thought of anyone coming in
search of himmuch less finding him.


The man laid hold of him by the armsayingIt becomes you well
indeed, Senor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, and well the
bed in which I find you agrees with the luxury in which your mother
reared you.

The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at him who
held himbut presently recognised him as one of his father's
servantsat which he was so taken aback that for some time he could
not find or utter a word; while the servant went on to sayThere
is nothing for it now, Senor Don Luis, but to submit quietly and
return home, unless it is your wish that my lord, your father,
should take his departure for the other world, for nothing else can be
the consequence of the grief he is in at your absence.

But how did my father know that I had gone this road and in this
dress?said Don Luis.

It was a student to whom you confided your intentions,answered
the servantthat disclosed them, touched with pity at the distress
he saw your father suffer on missing you; he therefore despatched four
of his servants in quest of you, and here we all are at your
service, better pleased than you can imagine that we shall return so
soon and be able to restore you to those eyes that so yearn for you.

That shall be as I please, or as heaven orders,returned Don Luis.

What can you please or heaven order,said the otherexcept to
agree to go back? Anything else is impossible.

All this conversation between the two was overheard by the
muleteer at whose side Don Luis layand risinghe went to report
what had taken place to Don FernandoCardenioand the otherswho
had by this time dressed themselves; and told them how the man had
addressed the youth as "Don and what words had passed, and how he
wanted him to return to his father, which the youth was unwilling to
do. With this, and what they already knew of the rare voice that
heaven had bestowed upon him, they all felt very anxious to know
more particularly who he was, and even to help him if it was attempted
to employ force against him; so they hastened to where he was still
talking and arguing with his servant. Dorothea at this instant came
out of her room, followed by Dona Clara all in a tremor; and calling
Cardenio aside, she told him in a few words the story of the
musician and Dona Clara, and he at the same time told her what had
happened, how his father's servants had come in search of him; but
in telling her so, he did not speak low enough but that Dona Clara
heard what he said, at which she was so much agitated that had not
Dorothea hastened to support her she would have fallen to the
ground. Cardenio then bade Dorothea return to her room, as he would
endeavour to make the whole matter right, and they did as he
desired. All the four who had come in quest of Don Luis had now come
into the inn and surrounded him, urging him to return and console
his father at once and without a moment's delay. He replied that he
could not do so on any account until he had concluded some business in
which his life, honour, and heart were at stake. The servants
pressed him, saying that most certainly they would not return
without him, and that they would take him away whether he liked it
or not.

You shall not do that replied Don Luis, unless you take me dead;
though however you take meit will be without life."

By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the
disputebut particularly CardenioDon Fernandohis companions
the Judgethe curatethe barberand Don Quixote; for he now


considered there was no necessity for mounting guard over the castle
any longer. Cardenio being already acquainted with the young man's
storyasked the men who wanted to take him awaywhat object they had
in seeking to carry off this youth against his will.

Our object,said one of the fouris to save the life of his
father, who is in danger of losing it through this gentleman's
disappearance.

Upon this Don Luis exclaimedThere is no need to make my affairs
public here; I am free, and I will return if I please; and if not,
none of you shall compel me.

Reason will compel your worship,said the manand if it has no
power over you, it has power over us, to make us do what we came
for, and what it is our duty to do.

Let us hear what the whole affair is about,said the Judge at
this; but the manwho knew him as a neighbour of theirsrepliedDo
you not know this gentleman, Senor Judge? He is the son of your
neighbour, who has run away from his father's house in a dress so
unbecoming his rank, as your worship may perceive.

The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recognised him
and embracing him saidWhat folly is this, Senor Don Luis, or what
can have been the cause that could have induced you to come here in
this way, and in this dress, which so ill becomes your condition?

Tears came into the eyes of the young manand he was unable to
utter a word in reply to the Judgewho told the four servants not
to be uneasyfor all would be satisfactorily settled; and then taking
Don Luis by the handhe drew him aside and asked the reason of his
having come there.

But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry at the
gate of the innthe cause of which was that two of the guests who had
passed the night thereseeing everybody busy about finding out what
it was the four men wantedhad conceived the idea of going off
without paying what they owed; but the landlordwho minded his own
affairs more than other people'scaught them going out of the gate
and demanded his reckoningabusing them for their dishonesty with
such language that he drove them to reply with their fistsand so
they began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was
forced to cry outand call for help. The landlady and her daughter
could see no one more free to give aid than Don Quixoteand to him
the daughter saidSir knight, by the virtue God has given you,
help my poor father, for two wicked men are beating him to a mummy.

To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically replied
Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is inopportune, for I
am debarred from involving myself in any adventure until I have
brought to a happy conclusion one to which my word has pledged me; but
that which I can do for you is what I will now mention: run and tell
your father to stand his ground as well as he can in this battle,
and on no account to allow himself to be vanquished, while I go and
request permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to
succour him in his distress; and if she grants it, rest assured I will
relieve him from it.

Sinner that I am,exclaimed Maritorneswho stood by; "before
you have got your permission my master will be in the other world."

Give me leave, senora, to obtain the permission I speak of,
returned Don Quixote; "and if I get itit will matter very little


if he is in the other world; for I will rescue him thence in spite
of all the same world can do; or at any rate I will give you such a
revenge over those who shall have sent him there that you will be more
than moderately satisfied;" and without saying anything more he went
and knelt before Dorothearequesting her Highness in knightly and
errant phrase to be pleased to grant him permission to aid and succour
the castellan of that castlewho now stood in grievous jeopardy.
The princess granted it graciouslyand he at oncebracing his
buckler on his arm and drawing his swordhastened to the inn-gate
where the two guests were still handling the landlord roughly; but
as soon as he reached the spot he stopped short and stood still
though Maritornes and the landlady asked him why he hesitated to
help their master and husband.

I hesitate,said Don Quixotebecause it is not lawful for me
to draw sword against persons of squirely condition; but call my
squire Sancho to me; for this defence and vengeance are his affair and
business.

Thus matters stood at the inn-gatewhere there was a very lively
exchange of fisticuffs and punchesto the sore damage of the landlord
and to the wrath of Maritornesthe landladyand her daughterwho
were furious when they saw the pusillanimity of Don Quixoteand the
hard treatment their masterhusband and father was undergoing. But
let us leave him there; for he will surely find some one to help
himand if notlet him suffer and hold his tongue who attempts
more than his strength allows him to do; and let us go back fifty
paces to see what Don Luis said in reply to the Judge whom we left
questioning him privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and
so meanly dressed.

To which the youthpressing his hand in a way that showed his heart
was troubled by some great sorrowand shedding a flood of tearsmade
answer:

Senor, I have no more to tell you than that from the moment when,
through heaven's will and our being near neighbours, I first saw
Dona Clara, your daughter and my lady, from that instant I made her
the mistress of my will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers
no impediment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I
left my father's house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to follow
her whithersoever she may go, as the arrow seeks its mark or the
sailor the pole-star. She knows nothing more of my passion than what
she may have learned from having sometimes seen from a distance that
my eyes were filled with tears. You know already, senor, the wealth
and noble birth of my parents, and that I am their sole heir; if
this be a sufficient inducement for you to venture to make me
completely happy, accept me at once as your son; for if my father,
influenced by other objects of his own, should disapprove of this
happiness I have sought for myself, time has more power to alter and
change things, than human will.

With this the love-smitten youth was silentwhile the Judge
after hearing himwas astonishedperplexedand surprisedas well
at the manner and intelligence with which Don Luis had confessed the
secret of his heartas at the position in which he found himselfnot
knowing what course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected.
All the answerthereforehe gave him was to bid him to make his mind
easy for the presentand arrange with his servants not to take him
back that dayso that there might be time to consider what was best
for all parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by forcenaybathed
them with his tearsin a way that would have touched a heart of
marblenot to say that of the Judgewhoas a shrewd manhad
already perceived how advantageous the marriage would be to his


daughter; thoughwere it possiblehe would have preferred that it
should be brought about with the consent of the father of Don Luis
who he knew looked for a title for his son.

The guests had by this time made peace with the landlordforby
persuasion and Don Quixote's fair words more than by threatsthey had
paid him what he demandedand the servants of Don Luis were waiting
for the end of the conversation with the Judge and their master's
decisionwhen the devilwho never sleepscontrived that the barber
from whom Don Quixote had taken Mambrino's helmetand Sancho Panza
the trappings of his ass in exchange for those of his ownshould at
this instant enter the inn; which said barberas he led his ass to
the stableobserved Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something or
other belonging to the pack-saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew
itand made bold to attack SanchoexclaimingHo, sir thief, I have
caught you! hand over my basin and my pack-saddle, and all my
trappings that you robbed me of.

Sanchofinding himself so unexpectedly assailedand hearing the
abuse poured upon himseized the pack-saddle with one handand
with the other gave the barber a cuff that bathed his teeth in
blood. The barberhoweverwas not so ready to relinquish the prize
he had made in the pack-saddle; on the contraryhe raised such an
outcry that everyone in the inn came running to know what the noise
and quarrel meant. "Herein the name of the king and justice!" he
criedthis thief and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to
recover my property.

You lie,said SanchoI am no highwayman; it was in fair war my
master Don Quixote won these spoils.

Don Quixote was standing by at the timehighly pleased to see his
squire's stoutnessboth offensive and defensiveand from that time
forth he reckoned him a man of mettleand in his heart resolved to
dub him a knight on the first opportunity that presented itself
feeling sure that the order of chivalry would be fittingly bestowed
upon him.

In the course of the altercationamong other things the barber
saidGentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a
death, and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here
is my ass in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if
it does not fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is
more, the same day I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of
a new brass basin, never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown
any day.

At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answering; and
interposing between the twoand separating themhe placed the
pack-saddle on the groundto lie there in sight until the truth was
establishedand saidYour worships may perceive clearly and plainly
the error under which this worthy squire lies when he calls a basin
which was, is, and shall be the helmet of Mambrino which I won from
him in air war, and made myself master of by legitimate and lawful
possession. With the pack-saddle I do not concern myself; but I may
tell you on that head that my squire Sancho asked my permission to
strip off the caparison of this vanquished poltroon's steed, and
with it adorn his own; I allowed him, and he took it; and as to its
having been changed from a caparison into a pack-saddle, I can give no
explanation except the usual one, that such transformations will
take place in adventures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run,
Sancho my son, and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow
calls a basin.


Egad, master,said Sanchoif we have no other proof of our
case than what your worship puts forward, Mambrino's helmet is just as
much a basin as this good fellow's caparison is a pack-saddle.

Do as I bid thee,said Don Quixote; "it cannot be that
everything in this castle goes by enchantment."

Sancho hastened to where the basin wasand brought it back with
himand when Don Quixote saw ithe took hold of it and said:

Your worships may see with what a face this squire can assert
that this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I swear
by the order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the
identical one I took from him, without anything added to or taken from
it.

There is no doubt of that,said Sanchofor from the time my
master won it until now he has only fought one battle in it, when he
let loose those unlucky men in chains; and if had not been for this
basin-helmet he would not have come off over well that time, for there
was plenty of stone-throwing in that affair.

CHAPTER XLV

IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET AND THE
PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLEDWITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN
TRUTH AND EARNEST

What do you think nowgentlemen said the barber, of what these
gentles saywhen they want to make out that this is a helmet?"

And whoever says the contrary,said Don QuixoteI will let him
know he lies if he is a knight, and if he is a squire that he lies
again a thousand times.

Our own barberwho was present at all thisand understood Don
Quixote's humour so thoroughlytook it into his head to back up his
delusion and carry on the joke for the general amusement; so
addressing the other barber he said:

Senor barber, or whatever you are, you must know that I belong to
your profession too, and have had a licence to practise for more
than twenty years, and I know the implements of the barber craft,
every one of them, perfectly well; and I was likewise a soldier for
some time in the days of my youth, and I know also what a helmet is,
and a morion, and a headpiece with a visor, and other things
pertaining to soldiering, I meant to say to soldiers' arms; and I saysaving
better opinions and always with submission to sounder judgments
-that this piece we have now before us, which this worthy gentleman
has in his hands, not only is no barber's basin, but is as far from
being one as white is from black, and truth from falsehood; I say,
moreover, that this, although it is a helmet, is not a complete
helmet.

Certainly not,said Don Quixotefor half of it is wanting,
that is to say the beaver.

It is quite true,said the curatewho saw the object of his
friend the barber; and CardenioDon Fernando and his companions
agreed with himand even the Judgeif his thoughts had not been so
full of Don Luis's affairwould have helped to carry on the joke; but


he was so taken up with the serious matters he had on his mind that he
paid little or no attention to these facetious proceedings.

God bless me!exclaimed their butt the barber at this; "is it
possible that such an honourable company can say that this is not a
basin but a helmet? Whythis is a thing that would astonish a whole
universityhowever wise it might be! That will do; if this basin is a
helmetwhythen the pack-saddle must be a horse's caparisonas this
gentleman has said."

To me it looks like a pack-saddle,said Don Quixote; "but I have
already said that with that question I do not concern myself."

As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison,said the curateit
is only for Senor Don Quixote to say; for in these matters of chivalry
all these gentlemen and I bow to his authority.

By God, gentlemen,said Don Quixoteso many strange things
have happened to me in this castle on the two occasions on which I
have sojourned in it, that I will not venture to assert anything
positively in reply to any question touching anything it contains; for
it is my belief that everything that goes on within it goes by
enchantment. The first time, an enchanted Moor that there is in it
gave me sore trouble, nor did Sancho fare well among certain followers
of his; and last night I was kept hanging by this arm for nearly two
hours, without knowing how or why I came by such a mishap. So that
now, for me to come forward to give an opinion in such a puzzling
matter, would be to risk a rash decision. As regards the assertion
that this is a basin and not a helmet I have already given an
answer; but as to the question whether this is a pack-saddle or a
caparison I will not venture to give a positive opinion, but will
leave it to your worships' better judgment. Perhaps as you are not
dubbed knights like myself, the enchantments of this place have
nothing to do with you, and your faculties are unfettered, and you can
see things in this castle as they really and truly are, and not as
they appear to me.

There can be no question,said Don Fernando on thisbut that
Senor Don Quixote has spoken very wisely, and that with us rests the
decision of this matter; and that we may have surer ground to go on, I
will take the votes of the gentlemen in secret, and declare the result
clearly and fully.

To those who were in the secret of Don Quixote's humour all this
afforded great amusement; but to those who knew nothing about itit
seemed the greatest nonsense in the worldin particular to the four
servants of Don Luisas well as to Don Luis himselfand to three
other travellers who had by chance come to the innand had the
appearance of officers of the Holy Brotherhoodas indeed they were;
but the one who above all was at his wits' endwas the barber
basinthere before his very eyeshad been turned into Mambrino's
helmetand whose pack-saddle he had no doubt whatever was about to
become a rich caparison for a horse. All laughed to see Don Fernando
going from one to another collecting the votesand whispering to them
to give him their private opinion whether the treasure over which
there had been so much fighting was a pack-saddle or a caparison;
but after he had taken the votes of those who knew Don Quixotehe
said aloudThe fact is, my good fellow, that I am tired collecting
such a number of opinions, for I find that there is not one of whom
I ask what I desire to know, who does not tell me that it is absurd to
say that this is the pack-saddle of an ass, and not the caparison of a
horse, nay, of a thoroughbred horse; so you must submit, for, in spite
of you and your ass, this is a caparison and no pack-saddle, and you
have stated and proved your case very badly.


May I never share heaven,said the poor barberif your
worships are not all mistaken; and may my soul appear before God as
that appears to me a pack-saddle and not a caparison; but, 'laws go,'I
say no more; and indeed I am not drunk, for I am fasting, except
it be from sin.

The simple talk of the barber did not afford less amusement than the
absurdities of Don Quixotewho now observed:

There is no more to be done now than for each to take what
belongs to him, and to whom God has given it, may St. Peter add his
blessing.

But said one of the four servantsUnless, indeed, this is a
deliberate joke, I cannot bring myself to believe that men so
intelligent as those present are, or seem to be, can venture to
declare and assert that this is not a basin, and that not a
pack-saddle; but as I perceive that they do assert and declare it, I
can only come to the conclusion that there is some mystery in this
persistence in what is so opposed to the evidence of experience and
truth itself; for I swear by- and here he rapped out a round oath"
all the people in the world will not make me believe that this is not
a barber's basin and that a jackass's pack-saddle."

It might easily be a she-ass's,observed the curate.

It is all the same,said the servant; "that is not the point;
but whether it is or is not a pack-saddleas your worships say."

On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the
Brotherhoodwho had been listening to the dispute and controversy
unable to restrain his anger and impatienceexclaimedIt is a
pack-saddle as sure as my father is my father, and whoever has said or
will say anything else must be drunk.

You lie like a rascally clown,returned Don Quixote; and lifting
his pikewhich he had never let out of his handhe delivered such
a blow at his head thathad not the officer dodged itit would
have stretched him at full length. The pike was shivered in pieces
against the groundand the rest of the officersseeing their comrade
assaultedraised a shoutcalling for help for the Holy
Brotherhood. The landlordwho was of the fraternityran at once to
fetch his staff of office and his swordand ranged himself on the
side of his comrades; the servants of Don Luis clustered round him
lest he should escape from them in the confusion; the barberseeing
the house turned upside downonce more laid hold of his pack-saddle
and Sancho did the same; Don Quixote drew his sword and charged the
officers; Don Luis cried out to his servants to leave him alone and go
and help Don Quixoteand Cardenio and Don Fernandowho were
supporting him; the curate was shouting at the top of his voicethe
landlady was screamingher daughter was wailingMaritornes was
weepingDorothea was aghastLuscinda terror-strickenand Dona Clara
in a faint. The barber cudgelled Sanchoand Sancho pommelled the
barber; Don Luis gave one of his servantswho ventured to catch him
by the arm to keep him from escapinga cuff that bathed his teeth
in blood; the Judge took his part; Don Fernando had got one of the
officers down and was belabouring him heartily; the landlord raised
his voice again calling for help for the Holy Brotherhood; so that the
whole inn was nothing but criesshoutsshrieksconfusionterror
dismaymishapssword-cutsfisticuffscudgellingskicksand
bloodshed; and in the midst of all this chaoscomplicationand
general entanglementDon Quixote took it into his head that he had
been plunged into the thick of the discord of Agramante's camp; and


in a voice that shook the inn like thunderhe cried out:

Hold all, let all sheathe their swords, let all be calm and
attend to me as they value their lives!

All paused at his mighty voiceand he went on to sayDid I not
tell you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that a legion or
so of devils dwelt in it? In proof whereof I call upon you to behold
with your own eyes how the discord of Agramante's camp has come
hither, and been transferred into the midst of us. See how they fight,
there for the sword, here for the horse, on that side for the eagle,
on this for the helmet; we are all fighting, and all at cross
purposes. Come then, you, Senor Judge, and you, senor curate; let
the one represent King Agramante and the other King Sobrino, and
make peace among us; for by God Almighty it is a sorry business that
so many persons of quality as we are should slay one another for
such trifling cause.

The officerswho did not understand Don Quixote's mode of
speakingand found themselves roughly handled by Don Fernando
Cardenioand their companionswere not to be appeased; the barber
washoweverfor both his beard and his pack-saddle were the worse
for the struggle; Sancho like a good servant obeyed the slightest word
of his master; while the four servants of Don Luis kept quiet when
they saw how little they gained by not being so. The landlord alone
insisted upon it that they must punish the insolence of this madman
who at every turn raised a disturbance in the inn; but at length the
uproar was stilled for the present; the pack-saddle remained a
caparison till the day of judgmentand the basin a helmet and the inn
a castle in Don Quixote's imagination.

All having been now pacified and made friends by the persuasion of
the Judge and the curatethe servants of Don Luis began again to urge
him to return with them at once; and while he was discussing the
matter with themthe Judge took counsel with Don Fernando
Cardenioand the curate as to what he ought to do in the case
telling them how it stoodand what Don Luis had said to him. It was
agreed at length that Don Fernando should tell the servants of Don
Luis who he wasand that it was his desire that Don Luis should
accompany him to Andalusiawhere he would receive from the marquis
his brother the welcome his quality entitled him to; forotherwise
it was easy to see from the determination of Don Luis that he would
not return to his father at presentthough they tore him to pieces.
On learning the rank of Don Fernando and the resolution of Don Luis
the four then settled it between themselves that three of them
should return to tell his father how matters stoodand that the other
should remain to wait upon Don Luisand not leave him until they came
back for himor his father's orders were known. Thus by the authority
of Agramante and the wisdom of King Sobrino all this complication of
disputes was arranged; but the enemy of concord and hater of peace
feeling himself slighted and made a fool ofand seeing how little
he had gained after having involved them all in such an elaborate
entanglementresolved to try his hand once more by stirring up
fresh quarrels and disturbances.

It came about in this wise: the officers were pacified on learning
the rank of those with whom they had been engagedand withdrew from
the contestconsidering that whatever the result might be they were
likely to get the worst of the battle; but one of themthe one who
had been thrashed and kicked by Don Fernandorecollected that among
some warrants he carried for the arrest of certain delinquentshe had
one against Don Quixotewhom the Holy Brotherhood had ordered to be
arrested for setting the galley slaves freeas Sancho hadwith
very good reasonapprehended. Suspecting how it wasthenhe
wished to satisfy himself as to whether Don Quixote's features


corresponded; and taking a parchment out of his bosom he lit upon what
he was in search ofand setting himself to read it deliberately
for he was not a quick readeras he made out each word he fixed his
eyes on Don Quixoteand went on comparing the description in the
warrant with his faceand discovered that beyond all doubt he was the
person described in it. As soon as he had satisfied himselffolding
up the parchmenthe took the warrant in his left hand and with his
right seized Don Quixote by the collar so tightly that he did not
allow him to breatheand shouted aloudHelp for the Holy
Brotherhood! and that you may see I demand it in earnest, read this
warrant which says this highwayman is to be arrested.

The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was
trueand that it agreed with Don Quixote's appearancewhoon his
partwhen he found himself roughly handled by this rascally clown
worked up to the highest pitch of wrathand all his joints cracking
with ragewith both hands seized the officer by the throat with all
his mightso that had he not been helped by his comrades he would
have yielded up his life ere Don Quixote released his hold. The
landlordwho had perforce to support his brother officersran at
once to aid them. The landladywhen she saw her husband engaged in
a fresh quarrellifted up her voice afreshand its note was
immediately caught up by Maritornes and her daughtercalling upon
heaven and all present for help; and Sanchoseeing what was going on
exclaimedBy the Lord, it is quite true what my master says about
the enchantments of this castle, for it is impossible to live an
hour in peace in it!

Don Fernando parted the officer and Don Quixoteand to their mutual
contentment made them relax the grip by which they heldthe one the
coat collarthe other the throat of his adversary; for all this
howeverthe officers did not cease to demand their prisoner and
call on them to helpand deliver him over bound into their power
as was required for the service of the King and of the Holy
Brotherhoodon whose behalf they again demanded aid and assistance to
effect the capture of this robber and footpad of the highways.

Don Quixote smiled when he heard these wordsand said very
calmlyCome now, base, ill-born brood; call ye it highway robbery to
give freedom to those in bondage, to release the captives, to
succour the miserable, to raise up the fallen, to relieve the needy?
Infamous beings, who by your vile grovelling intellects deserve that
heaven should not make known to you the virtue that lies in
knight-errantry, or show you the sin and ignorance in which ye lie
when ye refuse to respect the shadow, not to say the presence, of
any knight-errant! Come now; band, not of officers, but of thieves;
footpads with the licence of the Holy Brotherhood; tell me who was the
ignoramus who signed a warrant of arrest against such a knight as I
am? Who was he that did not know that knights-errant are independent
of all jurisdictions, that their law is their sword, their charter
their prowess, and their edicts their will? Who, I say again, was
the fool that knows not that there are no letters patent of nobility
that confer such privileges or exemptions as a knight-errant
acquires the day he is dubbed a knight, and devotes himself to the
arduous calling of chivalry? What knight-errant ever paid poll-tax,
duty, queen's pin-money, king's dues, toll or ferry? What tailor
ever took payment of him for making his clothes? What castellan that
received him in his castle ever made him pay his shot? What king did
not seat him at his table? What damsel was not enamoured of him and
did not yield herself up wholly to his will and pleasure? And, lastly,
what knight-errant has there been, is there, or will there ever be
in the world, not bold enough to give, single-handed, four hundred
cudgellings to four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood if they
come in his way?


CHAPTER XLVI

OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY
BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHTDON
QUIXOTE

While Don Quixote was talking in this strainthe curate was
endeavouring to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses
as they might perceive by his deeds and his wordsand that they
need not press the matter any furtherfor even if they arrested him
and carried him offthey would have to release him by-and-by as a
madman; to which the holder of the warrant replied that he had nothing
to do with inquiring into Don Quixote's madnessbut only to execute
his superior's ordersand that once taken they might let him go three
hundred times if they liked.

For all that,said the curateyou must not take him away this
time, nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away.

In shortthe curate used such argumentsand Don Quixote did such
mad thingsthat the officers would have been more mad than he was
if they had not perceived his want of witsand so they thought it
best to allow themselves to be pacifiedand even to act as
peacemakers between the barber and Sancho Panzawho still continued
their altercation with much bitterness. In the end theyas officers
of justicesettled the question by arbitration in such a manner
that both sides wereif not perfectly contentedat least to some
extent satisfied; for they changed the pack-saddlesbut not the
girths or head-stalls; and as to Mambrino's helmetthe curate
under the rose and without Don Quixote's knowing itpaid eight
reals for the basinand the barber executed a full receipt and
engagement to make no further demand then or thenceforth for evermore
amen. These two disputeswhich were the most important and gravest
being settledit only remained for the servants of Don Luis to
consent that three of them should return while one was left to
accompany him whither Don Fernando desired to take him; and good
luck and better fortunehaving already begun to solve difficulties
and remove obstructions in favour of the lovers and warriors of the
innwere pleased to persevere and bring everything to a happy
issue; for the servants agreed to do as Don Luis wished; which gave
Dona Clara such happiness that no one could have looked into her
face just then without seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraidathough
she did not fully comprehend all she sawwas grave or gay without
knowing whyas she watched and studied the various countenances
but particularly her Spaniard'swhom she followed with her eyes and
clung to with her soul. The gift and compensation which the curate
gave the barber had not escaped the landlord's noticeand he demanded
Don Quixote's reckoningtogether with the amount of the damage to his
wine-skinsand the loss of his wineswearing that neither
Rocinante nor Sancho's ass should leave the inn until he had been paid
to the very last farthing. The curate settled all amicablyand Don
Fernando paid; though the Judge had also very readily offered to pay
the score; and all became so peaceful and quiet that the inn no longer
reminded one of the discord of Agramante's campas Don Quixote
saidbut of the peace and tranquillity of the days of Octavianus: for
all which it was the universal opinion that their thanks were due to
the great zeal and eloquence of the curateand to the unexampled
generosity of Don Fernando.

Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrelshis squire's


as well as his ownDon Quixote considered that it would be
advisable to continue the journey he had begunand bring to a close
that great adventure for which he had been called and chosen; and with
this high resolve he went and knelt before Dorotheawhohowever
would not allow him to utter a word until he had risen; so to obey her
he roseand saidIt is a common proverb, fair lady, that 'diligence
is the mother of good fortune,' and experience has often shown in
important affairs that the earnestness of the negotiator brings the
doubtful case to a successful termination; but in nothing does this
truth show itself more plainly than in war, where quickness and
activity forestall the devices of the enemy, and win the victory
before the foe has time to defend himself. All this I say, exalted and
esteemed lady, because it seems to me that for us to remain any longer
in this castle now is useless, and may be injurious to us in a way
that we shall find out some day; for who knows but that your enemy the
giant may have learned by means of secret and diligent spies that I am
going to destroy him, and if the opportunity be given him he may seize
it to fortify himself in some impregnable castle or stronghold,
against which all my efforts and the might of my indefatigable arm may
avail but little? Therefore, lady, let us, as I say, forestall his
schemes by our activity, and let us depart at once in quest of fair
fortune; for your highness is only kept from enjoying it as fully as
you could desire by my delay in encountering your adversary.

Don Quixote held his peace and said no morecalmly awaiting the
reply of the beauteous princesswhowith commanding dignity and in a
style adapted to Don Quixote's ownreplied to him in these words
I give you thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good
knight to whom it is a natural obligation to succour the orphan and
the needy, display to afford me aid in my sore trouble; and heaven
grant that your wishes and mine may be realised, so that you may see
that there are women in this world capable of gratitude; as to my
departure, let it be forthwith, for I have no will but yours;
dispose of me entirely in accordance with your good pleasure; for
she who has once entrusted to you the defence of her person, and
placed in your hands the recovery of her dominions, must not think
of offering opposition to that which your wisdom may ordain.

On, then, in God's name,said Don Quixote; "forwhen a lady
humbles herself to meI will not lose the opportunity of raising
her up and placing her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart
at oncefor the common saying that in delay there is dangerlends
spurs to my eagerness to take the road; and as neither heaven has
created nor hell seen any that can daunt or intimidate mesaddle
RocinanteSanchoand get ready thy ass and the queen's palfrey
and let us take leave of the castellan and these gentlemenand go
hence this very instant."

Sanchowho was standing by all the timesaidshaking his head
Ah! master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one
hears of, begging all good bodies' pardon.

What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities
of the world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?said Don
Quixote.

If your worship is angry,replied SanchoI will hold my tongue
and leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a
good servant should tell his master.

Say what thou wilt,returned Don Quixoteprovided thy words be
not meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art
behaving like thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing.


It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God,said
Sanchobut that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who
calls herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so
than my mother; for, if she was what she says, she would not go
rubbing noses with one that is here every instant and behind every
door.

Dorothea turned red at Sancho's wordsfor the truth was that her
husband Don Fernando had now and thenwhen the others were not
lookinggathered from her lips some of the reward his love had
earnedand Sancho seeing this had considered that such freedom was
more like a courtesan than a queen of a great kingdom; shehowever
being unable or not caring to answer himallowed him to proceed
and he continuedThis I say, senor, because, if after we have
travelled roads and highways, and passed bad nights and worse days,
one who is now enjoying himself in this inn is to reap the fruit of
our labours, there is no need for me to be in a hurry to saddle
Rocinante, put the pad on the ass, or get ready the palfrey; for it
will be better for us to stay quiet, and let every jade mind her
spinning, and let us go to dinner.

Good Godwhat was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard
the audacious words of his squire! So great was itthat in a voice
inarticulate with ragewith a stammering tongueand eyes that
flashed living firehe exclaimedRascally clown, boorish, insolent,
and ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and
slanderer! Hast thou dared to utter such words in my presence and in
that of these illustrious ladies? Hast thou dared to harbour such
gross and shameless thoughts in thy muddled imagination? Begone from
my presence, thou born monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths,
garner of knaveries, inventor of scandals, publisher of absurdities,
enemy of the respect due to royal personages! Begone, show thyself
no more before me under pain of my wrath;and so saying he knitted
his browspuffed out his cheeksgazed around himand stamped on the
ground violently with his right footshowing in every way the rage
that was pent up in his heart; and at his words and furious gestures
Sancho was so scared and terrified that he would have been glad if the
earth had opened that instant and swallowed himand his only
thought was to turn round and make his escape from the angry
presence of his master.

But the ready-witted Dorotheawho by this time so well understood
Don Quixote's humoursaidto mollify his wrathBe not irritated at
the absurdities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from
his good sense and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would
bear false witness against anyone. We may therefore believe, without
any hesitation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this
castle goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I
say, may possibly have seen, through this diabolical medium, what he
says he saw so much to the detriment of my modesty.

I swear by God Omnipotent,exclaimed Don Quixote at thisyour
highness has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come
before this sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have
been impossible to see by any other means than enchantments; for I
know well enough, from the poor fellow's goodness and harmlessness,
that he is incapable of bearing false witness against anybody.

True, no doubt,said Don Fernandofor which reason, Senor Don
Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your
favour, sicut erat in principio, before illusions of this sort had
taken away his senses.


Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon himand the curate went for
Sanchowho came in very humblyand falling on his knees begged for
the hand of his masterwho having presented it to him and allowed him
to kiss itgave him his blessing and saidNow, Sancho my son,
thou wilt be convinced of the truth of what I have many a time told
thee, that everything in this castle is done by means of enchantment.

So it is, I believe,said Sanchoexcept the affair of the
blanket, which came to pass in reality by ordinary means.

Believe it not,said Don Quixotefor had it been so, I would
have avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor
now could I, nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong.

They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was
and the landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho's flightsat
which they laughed not a littleand at which Sancho would have been
no less out of countenance had not his master once more assured him it
was all enchantment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high
a pitch that he could persuade himself it was not the plain and simple
truthwithout any deception whatever about itthat he had been
blanketed by beings of flesh and bloodand not by visionary and
imaginary phantomsas his master believed and protested.

The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as
it seemed to them time to departthey devised a plan so thatwithout
giving Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don
Quixote to his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona
the curate and the barber might carry him away with them as they
proposedand the curate be able to take his madness in hand at
home; and in pursuance of their plan they arranged with the owner of
an oxcart who happened to be passing that way to carry him after
this fashion. They constructed a kind of cage with wooden bars
large enough to hold Don Quixote comfortably; and then Don Fernando
and his companionsthe servants of Don Luisand the officers of
the Brotherhoodtogether with the landlordby the directions and
advice of the curatecovered their faces and disguised themselves
some in one waysome in anotherso as to appear to Don Quixote quite
different from the persons he had seen in the castle. This donein
profound silence they entered the room where he was asleeptaking his
his rest after the past fraysand advancing to where he was
sleeping tranquillynot dreaming of anything of the kind happening
they seized him firmly and bound him fast hand and footso thatwhen
he awoke startledhe was unable to moveand could only marvel and
wonder at the strange figures he saw before him; upon which he at once
gave way to the idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured up
before himand took it into his head that all these shapes were
phantoms of the enchanted castleand that he himself was
unquestionably enchanted as he could neither move nor help himself;
precisely what the curatethe concoctor of the schemeexpected would
happen. Of all that were there Sancho was the only one who was at once
in his senses and in his own proper characterand hethough he was
within very little of sharing his master's infirmitydid not fail
to perceive who all these disguised figures were; but he did not
dare to open his lips until he saw what came of this assault and
capture of his master; nor did the latter utter a wordwaiting to the
upshot of his mishap; which was that bringing in the cagethey shut
him up in it and nailed the bars so firmly that they could not be
easily burst open. They then took him on their shouldersand as
they passed out of the room an awful voice- as much so as the
barbernot he of the pack-saddle but the otherwas able to make
it- was heard to sayO Knight of the Rueful Countenance, let not
this captivity in which thou art placed afflict thee, for this must
needs be, for the more speedy accomplishment of the adventure in which


thy great heart has engaged thee; the which shall be accomplished when
the raging Manchegan lion and the white Tobosan dove shall be linked
together, having first humbled their haughty necks to the gentle
yoke of matrimony. And from this marvellous union shall come forth
to the light of the world brave whelps that shall rival the ravening
claws of their valiant father; and this shall come to pass ere the
pursuer of the flying nymph shall in his swift natural course have
twice visited the starry signs. And thou, O most noble and obedient
squire that ever bore sword at side, beard on face, or nose to smell
with, be not dismayed or grieved to see the flower of
knight-errantry carried away thus before thy very eyes; for soon, if
it so please the Framer of the universe, thou shalt see thyself
exalted to such a height that thou shalt not know thyself, and the
promises which thy good master has made thee shall not prove false;
and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage Mentironiana, that thy
wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt see in due season. Follow then
the footsteps of the valiant enchanted knight, for it is expedient
that thou shouldst go to the destination assigned to both of you;
and as it is not permitted to me to say more, God be with thee; for
I return to that place I wot of;and as he brought the prophecy to
a close he raised his voice to a high pitchand then lowered it to
such a soft tonethat even those who knew it was all a joke were
almost inclined to take what they heard seriously.

Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heardfor he at once
comprehended its meaning perfectlyand perceived it was promised to
him that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony
with his beloved Dulcinea del Tobosofrom whose blessed womb should
proceed the whelpshis sonsto the eternal glory of La Mancha; and
being thoroughly and firmly persuaded of thishe lifted up his voice
and with a deep sigh exclaimedOh thou, whoever thou art, who hast
foretold me so much good, I implore of thee that on my part thou
entreat that sage enchanter who takes charge of my interests, that
he leave me not to perish in this captivity in which they are now
carrying me away, ere I see fulfilled promises so joyful and
incomparable as those which have been now made me; for, let this but
come to pass, and I shall glory in the pains of my prison, find
comfort in these chains wherewith they bind me, and regard this bed
whereon they stretch me, not as a hard battle-field, but as a soft and
happy nuptial couch; and touching the consolation of Sancho Panza,
my squire, I rely upon his goodness and rectitude that he will not
desert me in good or evil fortune; for if, by his ill luck or mine, it
may not happen to be in my power to give him the island I have
promised, or any equivalent for it, at least his wages shall not be
lost; for in my will, which is already made, I have declared the sum
that shall be paid to him, measured, not by his many faithful
services, but by the means at my disposal.

Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands
forbeing tied togetherhe could not kiss one; and then the
apparitions lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the
ox-cart.

CHAPTER XLVII

OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS
CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTEDTOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS

When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this
wayhe saidMany grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but
never yet have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off


enchanted knights-errant in this fashion, or at the slow pace that
these lazy, sluggish animals promise; for they always take them away
through the air with marvellous swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick
cloud, or on a chariot of fire, or it may be on some hippogriff or
other beast of the kind; but to carry me off like this on an
ox-cart! By God, it puzzles me! But perhaps the chivalry and
enchantments of our day take a different course from that of those
in days gone by; and it may be, too, that as I am a new knight in
the world, and the first to revive the already forgotten calling of
knight-adventurers, they may have newly invented other kinds of
enchantments and other modes of carrying off the enchanted. What
thinkest thou of the matter, Sancho my son?

I don't know what to think,answered Sanchonot being as well
read as your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to
say and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite
catholic.

Catholic!said Don Quixote. "Father of me! how can they be
Catholic when they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes
to come and do thisand bring me to this condition? And if thou
wouldst prove ittouch themand feel themand thou wilt find they
have only bodies of airand no consistency except in appearance."

By God, master,returned SanchoI have touched them already; and
that devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and
another property very different from what I have heard say devils
have, for by all accounts they all smell of brimstone and other bad
smells; but this one smells of amber half a league off.Sancho was
here speaking of Don Fernandowholike a gentleman of his rank
was very likely perfumed as Sancho said.

Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend,said Don Quixote; "for let
me tell thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about
with themthey themselves have no smellbecause they are spirits;
orif they have any smellthey cannot smell of anything sweetbut
of something foul and fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell
with them wherever they goand can get no ease whatever from their
tormentsand as a sweet smell is a thing that gives pleasure and
enjoymentit is impossible that they can smell sweet; ifthen
this devil thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of ambereither
thou art deceiving thyselfor he wants to deceive thee by making thee
fancy he is not a devil."

Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and
Don Fernando and Cardenioapprehensive of Sancho's making a
complete discovery of their schemetowards which he had already
gone some wayresolved to hasten their departureand calling the
landlord asidethey directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the
pack-saddle on Sancho's asswhich he did with great alacrity. In
the meantime the curate had made an arrangement with the officers that
they should bear them company as far as his villagehe paying them so
much a day. Cardenio hung the buckler on one side of the bow of
Rocinante's saddle and the basin on the otherand by signs
commanded Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante's bridleand
at each side of the cart he placed two officers with their muskets;
but before the cart was put in motionout came the landlady and her
daughter and Maritornes to bid Don Quixote farewellpretending to
weep with grief at his misfortune; and to them Don Quixote said:

Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those
who follow the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not
befall me I should not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for
such things never happen to knights of little renown and fame, because


nobody in the world thinks about them; to valiant knights they do, for
these are envied for their virtue and valour by many princes and other
knights who compass the destruction of the worthy by base means.
Nevertheless, virtue is of herself so mighty, that, in spite of all
the magic that Zoroaster its first inventor knew, she will come
victorious out of every trial, and shed her light upon the earth as
the sun does upon the heavens. Forgive me, fair ladies, if, through
inadvertence, I have in aught offended you; for intentionally and
wittingly I have never done so to any; and pray to God that he deliver
me from this captivity to which some malevolent enchanter has
consigned me; and should I find myself released therefrom, the favours
that ye have bestowed upon me in this castle shall be held in memory
by me, that I may acknowledge, recognise, and requite them as they
deserve.

While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don
Quixotethe curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and
his companionsto the captainhis brotherand the ladiesnow all
made happyand in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all
embraced one anotherand promised to let each other know how things
went with themand Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to
himto tell him what became of Don Quixoteassuring him that there
was nothing that could give him more pleasure than to hear of it
and that he tooon his partwould send him word of everything he
thought he would like to knowabout his marriageZoraida's
baptismDon Luis's affairand Luscinda's return to her home. The
curate promised to comply with his request carefullyand they
embraced once moreand renewed their promises.

The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers
saying he had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the
novel of "The Ill-advised Curiosity" had been foundand that he might
take them all away with him as their owner had not since returned;
foras he could not readhe did not want them himself. The curate
thanked himand opening them he saw at the beginning of the
manuscript the wordsNovel of Rinconete and Cortadillo,by which he
perceived that it was a noveland as that of "The Ill-advised
Curiosity" had been good he concluded this would be so tooas they
were both probably by the same author; so he kept itintending to
read it when he had an opportunity. He then mounted and his friend the
barber did the sameboth maskedso as not to be recognised by Don
Quixoteand set out following in the rear of the cart. The order of
march was this: first went the cart with the owner leading it; at each
side of it marched the officers of the Brotherhoodas has been
saidwith their muskets; then followed Sancho Panza on his ass
leading Rocinante by the bridle; and behind all came the curate and
the barber on their mighty muleswith faces coveredas aforesaid
and a grave and serious airmeasuring their pace to suit the slow
steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated in the cagewith his
hands tied and his feet stretched outleaning against the bars as
silent and as patient as if he were a stone statue and not a man of
flesh. Thus slowly and silently they madeit might betwo leagues
until they reached a valley which the carter thought a convenient
place for resting and feeding his oxenand he said so to the
curatebut the barber was of opinion that they ought to push on a
little fartheras at the other side of a hill which appeared close by
he knew there was a valley that had more grass and much better than
the one where they proposed to halt; and his advice was taken and they
continued their journey.

Just at that moment the curatelooking backsaw coming on behind
them six or seven mounted menwell found and equippedwho soon
overtook themfor they were travellingnot at the sluggish
deliberate pace of oxenbut like men who rode canons' mulesand in


haste to take their noontide rest as soon as possible at the inn which
was in sight not a league off. The quick travellers came up with the
slowand courteous salutations were exchanged; and one of the new
comerswho wasin facta canon of Toledo and master of the others
who accompanied himobserving the regular order of the procession
the cartthe officersSanchoRocinantethe curate and the
barberand above all Don Quixote caged and confinedcould not help
asking what was the meaning of carrying the man in that fashion;
thoughfrom the badges of the officershe already concluded that
he must be some desperate highwayman or other malefactor whose
punishment fell within the jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood. One
of the officers to whom he had put the questionrepliedLet the
gentleman himself tell you the meaning of his going this way, senor,
for we do not know.

Don Quixote overheard the conversation and saidHaply,
gentlemen, you are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry?
Because if you are I will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no
good in my giving myself the trouble of relating them;but here the
curate and the barberseeing that the travellers were engaged in
conversation with Don Quixotecame forwardin order to answer in
such a way as to save their stratagem from being discovered.

The canonreplying to Don QuixotesaidIn truth, brother, I know
more about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando's elements of
logic; so if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please.

In God's name, then, senor,replied Don Quixote; "if that be soI
would have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the
envy and fraud of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted
by the wicked than loved by the good. I am a knight-errantand not
one of those whose names Fame has never thought of immortalising in
her recordbut of those whoin defiance and in spite of envy itself
and all the magicians that Persiaor Brahmans that Indiaor
Gymnosophists that Ethiopia ever producedwill place their names in
the temple of immortalityto serve as examples and patterns for
ages to comewhereby knights-errant may see the footsteps in which
they must tread if they would attain the summit and crowning point
of honour in arms."

What Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha says,observed the curateis
the truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or
sins of his, but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is
odious and valour hateful. This, senor, is the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, if you have ever heard him named, whose valiant
achievements and mighty deeds shall be written on lasting brass and
imperishable marble, notwithstanding all the efforts of envy to
obscure them and malice to hide them.

When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at
liberty talk in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his
astonishmentand could not make out what had befallen him; and all
his attendants were in the same state of amazement.

At this point Sancho Panzawho had drawn near to hear the
conversationsaidin order to make everything plainWell, sirs,
you may like or dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the
matter is, my master, Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my
mother. He is in his full senses, he eats and he drinks, and he has
his calls like other men and as he had yesterday, before they caged
him. And if that's the case, what do they mean by wanting me to
believe that he is enchanted? For I have heard many a one say that
enchanted people neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk; and my master, if
you don't stop him, will talk more than thirty lawyers.Then


turning to the curate he exclaimedAh, senor curate, senor curate!
do you think I don't know you? Do you think I don't guess and see
the drift of these new enchantments? Well then, I can tell you I
know you, for all your face is covered, and I can tell you I am up
to you, however you may hide your tricks. After all, where envy reigns
virtue cannot live, and where there is niggardliness there can be no
liberality. Ill betide the devil! if it had not been for your
worship my master would be married to the Princess Micomicona this
minute, and I should be a count at least; for no less was to be
expected, as well from the goodness of my master, him of the Rueful
Countenance, as from the greatness of my services. But I see now how
true it is what they say in these parts, that the wheel of fortune
turns faster than a mill-wheel, and that those who were up yesterday
are down to-day. I am sorry for my wife and children, for when they
might fairly and reasonably expect to see their father return to
them a governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom, they will see
him come back a horse-boy. I have said all this, senor curate, only to
urge your paternity to lay to your conscience your ill-treatment of my
master; and have a care that God does not call you to account in
another life for making a prisoner of him in this way, and charge
against you all the succours and good deeds that my lord Don Quixote
leaves undone while he is shut up.

Trim those lamps there!" exclaimed the barber at this; "so you
are of the same fraternity as your mastertooSancho? By GodI
begin to see that you will have to keep him company in the cageand
be enchanted like him for having caught some of his humour and
chivalry. It was an evil hour when you let yourself be got with
child by his promisesand that island you long so much for found
its way into your head."

I am not with child by anyone,returned Sanchonor am I a man to
let myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though
I am poor I am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I
long for an island, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son
of his own works; and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say
governor of an island, especially as my master may win so many that he
will not know whom to give them to. Mind how you talk, master
barber; for shaving is not everything, and there is some difference
between Peter and Peter. I say this because we all know one another,
and it will not do to throw false dice with me; and as to the
enchantment of my master, God knows the truth; leave it as it is; it
only makes it worse to stir it.

The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain
speaking he should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying
so hard to conceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had
asked the canon to ride on a little in advanceso that he might
tell him the mystery of this man in the cageand other things that
would amuse him. The canon agreedand going on ahead with his
servantslistened with attention to the account of the character
lifemadnessand ways of Don Quixotegiven him by the curatewho
described to him briefly the beginning and origin of his crazeand
told him the whole story of his adventures up to his being confined in
the cagetogether with the plan they had of taking him home to try if
by any means they could discover a cure for his madness. The canon and
his servants were surprised anew when they heard Don Quixote's strange
storyand when it was finished he saidTo tell the truth, senor
curate, I for my part consider what they call books of chivalry to
be mischievous to the State; and though, led by idle and false
taste, I have read the beginnings of almost all that have been
printed, I never could manage to read any one of them from beginning
to end; for it seems to me they are all more or less the same thing;
and one has nothing more in it than another; this no more than that.


And in my opinion this sort of writing and composition is of the
same species as the fables they call the Milesian, nonsensical tales
that aim solely at giving amusement and not instruction, exactly the
opposite of the apologue fables which amuse and instruct at the same
time. And though it may be the chief object of such books to amuse,
I do not know how they can succeed, when they are so full of such
monstrous nonsense. For the enjoyment the mind feels must come from
the beauty and harmony which it perceives or contemplates in the
things that the eye or the imagination brings before it; and nothing
that has any ugliness or disproportion about it can give any pleasure.
What beauty, then, or what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of
the whole to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a lad of
sixteen cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two halves of
him as if he was an almond cake? And when they want to give us a
picture of a battle, after having told us that there are a million
of combatants on the side of the enemy, let the hero of the book be
opposed to them, and we have perforce to believe, whether we like it
or not, that the said knight wins the victory by the single might of
his strong arm. And then, what shall we say of the facility with which
a born queen or empress will give herself over into the arms of some
unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is not wholly barbarous
and uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full
of knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and
will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of
Prester John of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never described
nor Marco Polo saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that the
authors of books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore
are not bound to regard niceties of truth, I would reply that
fiction is all the better the more it looks like truth, and gives
the more pleasure the more probability and possibility there is
about it. Plots in fiction should be wedded to the understanding of
the reader, and be constructed in such a way that, reconciling
impossibilities, smoothing over difficulties, keeping the mind on
the alert, they may surprise, interest, divert, and entertain, so that
wonder and delight joined may keep pace one with the other; all
which he will fail to effect who shuns verisimilitude and truth to
nature, wherein lies the perfection of writing. I have never yet
seen any book of chivalry that puts together a connected plot complete
in all its numbers, so that the middle agrees with the beginning,
and the end with the beginning and middle; on the contrary, they
construct them with such a multitude of members that it seems as
though they meant to produce a chimera or monster rather than a
well-proportioned figure. And besides all this they are harsh in their
style, incredible in their achievements, licentious in their amours,
uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix in their battles, silly in
their arguments, absurd in their travels, and, in short, wanting in
everything like intelligent art; for which reason they deserve to be
banished from the Christian commonwealth as a worthless breed.

The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of
sound understandingand that there was good reason in what he said;
so he told him thatbeing of the same opinion himselfand bearing
a grudge to books of chivalryhe had burned all Don Quixote's
which were many; and gave him an account of the scrutiny he had made
of themand of those he had condemned to the flames and those he
had sparedwith which the canon was not a little amusedadding
that though he had said so much in condemnation of these books
still he found one good thing in themand that was the opportunity
they afforded to a gifted intellect for displaying itself; for they
presented a wide and spacious field over which the pen might range
freelydescribing shipwreckstempestscombatsbattles
portraying a valiant captain with all the qualifications requisite
to make oneshowing him sagacious in foreseeing the wiles of the
enemyeloquent in speech to encourage or restrain his soldiers


ripe in counselrapid in resolveas bold in biding his time as in
pressing the attack; now picturing some sad tragic incidentnow
some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous ladyvirtuous
wiseand modest; there a Christian knightbrave and gentle; here a
lawlessbarbarous braggart; there a courteous princegallant and
gracious; setting forth the devotion and loyalty of vassalsthe
greatness and generosity of nobles. "Or again said he, the author
may show himself to be an astronomeror a skilled cosmographeror
musicianor one versed in affairs of stateand sometimes he will
have a chance of coming forward as a magician if he likes. He can
set forth the craftiness of Ulyssesthe piety of AEneasthe valour
of Achillesthe misfortunes of Hectorthe treachery of Sinonthe
friendship of Euryalusthe generosity of Alexanderthe boldness of
Caesarthe clemency and truth of Trajanthe fidelity of Zopyrusthe
wisdom of Catoand in short all the faculties that serve to make an
illustrious man perfectnow uniting them in one individualagain
distributing them among many; and if this be done with charm of
style and ingenious inventionaiming at the truth as much as
possiblehe will assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads
thatwhen finishedwill display such perfection and beauty that it
will attain the worthiest object any writing can seekwhichas I
said beforeis to give instruction and pleasure combined; for the
unrestricted range of these books enables the author to show his
powersepiclyrictragicor comicand all the moods the sweet and
winning arts of poesy and oratory are capable of; for the epic may
be written in prose just as well as in verse."

CHAPTER XLVIII

IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY
WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT

It is as you say, senor canon,said the curate; "and for that
reason those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all
the more censure for writing without paying any attention to good
taste or the rules of artby which they might guide themselves and
become as famous in prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry
are in verse."

I myself, at any rate,said the canonwas once tempted to
write a book of chivalry in which all the points I have mentioned were
to be observed; and if I must own the truth I have more than a hundred
sheets written; and to try if it came up to my own opinion of it, I
showed them to persons who were fond of this kind of reading, to
learned and intelligent men as well as to ignorant people who cared
for nothing but the pleasure of listening to nonsense, and from all
I obtained flattering approval; nevertheless I proceeded no farther
with it, as well because it seemed to me an occupation inconsistent
with my profession, as because I perceived that the fools are more
numerous than the wise; and, though it is better to be praised by
the wise few than applauded by the foolish many, I have no mind to
submit myself to the stupid judgment of the silly public, to whom
the reading of such books falls for the most part.

But what most of all made me hold my hand and even abandon all idea
of finishing it was an argument I put to myself taken from the plays
that are acted now-a-dayswhich was in this wise: if those that are
now in vogueas well those that are pure invention as those founded
on historyareall or most of themdownright nonsense and things
that have neither head nor tailand yet the public listens to them
with delightand regards and cries them up as perfection when they


are so far from it; and if the authors who write themand the players
who act themsay that this is what they must befor the public wants
this and will have nothing else; and that those that go by rule and
work out a plot according to the laws of art will only find some
half-dozen intelligent people to understand themwhile all the rest
remain blind to the merit of their composition; and that for
themselves it is better to get bread from the many than praise from
the few; then my book will fare the same wayafter I have burnt off
my eyebrows in trying to observe the principles I have spoken of
and I shall be 'the tailor of the corner.' And though I have sometimes
endeavoured to convince actors that they are mistaken in this notion
they have adoptedand that they would attract more peopleand get
more creditby producing plays in accordance with the rules of art
than by absurd onesthey are so thoroughly wedded to their own
opinion that no argument or evidence can wean them from it.

I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fellows,
'Tell me, do you not recollect that a few years ago, there were
three tragedies acted in Spain, written by a famous poet of these
kingdoms, which were such that they filled all who heard them with
admiration, delight, and interest, the ignorant as well as the wise,
the masses as well as the higher orders, and brought in more money
to the performers, these three alone, than thirty of the best that
have been since produced?'

'No doubt' replied the actor in question'you mean the
Isabella,the "Phyllis and the Alexandra."'

'Those are the ones I mean,' said I; 'and see if they did not
observe the principles of art, and if, by observing them, they
failed to show their superiority and please all the world; so that the
fault does not lie with the public that insists upon nonsense, but
with those who don't know how to produce something else. The
Ingratitude Revenged" was not nonsensenor was there any in "The
Numantia nor any to be found in The Merchant Lover nor yet in
The Friendly Fair Foe nor in some others that have been written
by certain gifted poets, to their own fame and renown, and to the
profit of those that brought them out;' some further remarks I added
to these, with which, I think, I left him rather dumbfoundered, but
not so satisfied or convinced that I could disabuse him of his error.

You have touched upon a subject, senor canon,observed the
curate herethat has awakened an old enmity I have against the plays
in vogue at the present day, quite as strong as that which I bear to
the books of chivalry; for while the drama, according to Tully, should
be the mirror of human life, the model of manners, and the image of
the truth, those which are presented now-a-days are mirrors of
nonsense, models of folly, and images of lewdness. For what greater
nonsense can there be in connection with what we are now discussing
than for an infant to appear in swaddling clothes in the first scene
of the first act, and in the second a grown-up bearded man? Or what
greater absurdity can there be than putting before us an old man as
a swashbuckler, a young man as a poltroon, a lackey using fine
language, a page giving sage advice, a king plying as a porter, a
princess who is a kitchen-maid? And then what shall I say of their
attention to the time in which the action they represent may or can
take place, save that I have seen a play where the first act began
in Europe, the second in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no
doubt, had it been in four acts, the fourth would have ended in
America, and so it would have been laid in all four quarters of the
globe? And if truth to life is the main thing the drama should keep in
view, how is it possible for any average understanding to be satisfied
when the action is supposed to pass in the time of King Pepin or
Charlemagne, and the principal personage in it they represent to be


the Emperor Heraclius who entered Jerusalem with the cross and won the
Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey of Bouillon, there being years
innumerable between the one and the other? or, if the play is based on
fiction and historical facts are introduced, or bits of what
occurred to different people and at different times mixed up with
it, all, not only without any semblance of probability, but with
obvious errors that from every point of view are inexcusable? And
the worst of it is, there are ignorant people who say that this is
perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected refinement.
And then if we turn to sacred dramas- what miracles they invent in
them! What apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, attributing to one saint
the miracles of another! And even in secular plays they venture to
introduce miracles without any reason or object except that they think
some such miracle, or transformation as they call it, will come in
well to astonish stupid people and draw them to the play. All this
tends to the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of history, nay
more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain; for foreigners who
scrupulously observe the laws of the drama look upon us as barbarous
and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and nonsense of the plays we
produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse to say that the chief
object well-ordered governments have in view when they permit plays to
be performed in public is to entertain the people with some harmless
amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil humours which
idleness is apt to engender; and that, as this may be attained by
any sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down laws, or
bind those who write or act them to make them as they ought to be
made, since, as I say, the object sought for may be secured by any
sort. To this I would reply that the same end would be, beyond all
comparison, better attained by means of good plays than by those
that are not so; for after listening to an artistic and properly
constructed play, the hearer will come away enlivened by the jests,
instructed by the serious parts, full of admiration at the
incidents, his wits sharpened by the arguments, warned by the
tricks, all the wiser for the examples, inflamed against vice, and
in love with virtue; for in all these ways a good play will
stimulate the mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish or dull; and of
all impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed with all these
qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much more than one
wanting in them, like the greater number of those which are commonly
acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be blamed for
this; for some there are among them who are perfectly well aware of
their faults, and know what they ought to do; but as plays have become
a salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the actors will
not buy them unless they are after this fashion; and so the poet tries
to adapt himself to the requirements of the actor who is to pay him
for his work. And that this is the truth may be seen by the
countless plays that a most fertile wit of these kingdoms has written,
with so much brilliancy, so much grace and gaiety, such polished
versification, such choice language, such profound reflections, and in
a word, so rich in eloquence and elevation of style, that he has
filled the world with his fame; and yet, in consequence of his
desire to suit the taste of the actors, they have not all, as some
of them have, come as near perfection as they ought. Others write
plays with such heedlessness that, after they have been acted, the
actors have to fly and abscond, afraid of being punished, as they
often have been, for having acted something offensive to some king
or other, or insulting to some noble family. All which evils, and many
more that I say nothing of, would be removed if there were some
intelligent and sensible person at the capital to examine all plays
before they were acted, not only those produced in the capital itself,
but all that were intended to be acted in Spain; without whose
approval, seal, and signature, no local magistracy should allow any
play to be acted. In that case actors would take care to send their
plays to the capital, and could act them in safety, and those who


write them would be more careful and take more pains with their
work, standing in awe of having to submit it to the strict examination
of one who understood the matter; and so good plays would be
produced and the objects they aim at happily attained; as well the
amusement of the people, as the credit of the wits of Spain, the
interest and safety of the actors, and the saving of trouble in
inflicting punishment on them. And if the same or some other person
were authorised to examine the newly written books of chivalry, no
doubt some would appear with all the perfections you have described,
enriching our language with the gracious and precious treasure of
eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the light
of the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment,
not merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot
be always bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful
amusement.

The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their
conversationwhen the barbercoming forwardjoined themand said
to the curateThis is the spot, senor licentiate, that I said was
a good one for fresh and plentiful pasture for the oxen, while we take
our noontide rest.

And so it seems,returned the curateand he told the canon what
he proposed to doon which he too made up his mind to halt with them
attracted by the aspect of the fair valley that lay before their eyes;
and to enjoy it as well as the conversation of the curateto whom
he had begun to take a fancyand also to learn more particulars about
the doings of Don Quixotehe desired some of his servants to go on to
the innwhich was not far distantand fetch from it what eatables
there might be for the whole partyas he meant to rest for the
afternoon where he was; to which one of his servants replied that
the sumpter mulewhich by this time ought to have reached the inn
carried provisions enough to make it unnecessary to get anything
from the inn except barley.

In that case,said the canontake all the beasts there, and
bring the sumpter mule back.

While this was going onSanchoperceiving that he could speak to
his master without having the curate and the barberof whom he had
his suspicionspresent all the timeapproached the cage in which Don
Quixote was placedand saidSenor, to ease my conscience I want
to tell you the state of the case as to your enchantment, and that
is that these two here, with their faces covered, are the curate of
our village and the barber; and I suspect they have hit upon this plan
of carrying you off in this fashion, out of pure envy because your
worship surpasses them in doing famous deeds; and if this be the truth
it follows that you are not enchanted, but hoodwinked and made a
fool of. And to prove this I want to ask you one thing; and if you
answer me as I believe you will answer, you will be able to lay your
finger on the trick, and you will see that you are not enchanted but
gone wrong in your wits.

Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son,returned Don Quixotefor I
will satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. As to what thou
sayest, that these who accompany us yonder are the curate and the
barber, our neighbours and acquaintances, it is very possible that
they may seem to he those same persons; but that they are so in
reality and in fact, believe it not on any account; what thou art to
believe and think is that, if they look like them, as thou sayest,
it must be that those who have enchanted me have taken this shape
and likeness; for it is easy for enchanters to take any form they
please, and they may have taken those of our friends in order to
make thee think as thou dost, and lead thee into a labyrinth of


fancies from which thou wilt find no escape though thou hadst the cord
of Theseus; and they may also have done it to make me uncertain in
my mind, and unable to conjecture whence this evil comes to me; for if
on the one hand thou dost tell me that the barber and curate of our
village are here in company with us, and on the other I find myself
shut up in a cage, and know in my heart that no power on earth that
was not supernatural would have been able to shut me in, what
wouldst thou have me say or think, but that my enchantment is of a
sort that transcends all I have ever read of in all the histories that
deal with knights-errant that have been enchanted? So thou mayest
set thy mind at rest as to the idea that they are what thou sayest,
for they are as much so as I am a Turk. But touching thy desire to ask
me something, say on, and I will answer thee, though thou shouldst ask
questions from this till to-morrow morning.

May Our Lady be good to me!said Sancholifting up his voice;
and is it possible that your worship is so thick of skull and so
short of brains that you cannot see that what I say is the simple
truth, and that malice has more to do with your imprisonment and
misfortune than enchantment? But as it is so, I will prove plainly
to you that you are not enchanted. Now tell me, so may God deliver you
from this affliction, and so may you find yourself when you least
expect it in the arms of my lady Dulcinea-

Leave off conjuring me,said Don Quixoteand ask what thou
wouldst know; I have already told thee I will answer with all possible
precision.

That is what I want,said Sancho; "and what I would knowand have
you tell mewithout adding or leaving out anythingbut telling the
whole truth as one expects it to be toldand as it is toldby all
who profess armsas your worship professes themunder the title of
knights-errant-"

I tell thee I will not lie in any particular,said Don Quixote;
finish thy question; for in truth thou weariest me with all these
asseverations, requirements, and precautions, Sancho.

Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master,said
Sancho; "and sobecause it bears upon what we are talking aboutI
would askspeaking with all reverencewhether since your worship has
been shut up andas you thinkenchanted in this cageyou have
felt any desire or inclination to go anywhereas the saying is?"

I do not understand 'going anywhere,'said Don Quixote; "explain
thyself more clearlySanchoif thou wouldst have me give an answer
to the point."

Is it possible,said Sanchothat your worship does not
understand 'going anywhere'? Why, the schoolboys know that from the
time they were babes. Well then, you must know I mean have you had any
desire to do what cannot be avoided?

Ah! now I understand thee, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "yes
oftenand even this minute; get me out of this straitor all will
not go right."

CHAPTER XLIX

WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH
HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE


Aha, I have caught you,said Sancho; "this is what in my heart and
soul I was longing to know. Come nowsenorcan you deny what is
commonly said around uswhen a person is out of humour'I don't know
what ails so-and-sothat he neither eatsnor drinksnor sleepsnor
gives a proper answer to any question; one would think he was
enchanted'? From which it is to be gathered that those who do not eat
or drinkor sleepor do any of the natural acts I am speaking ofthat
such persons are enchanted; but not those that have the desire
your worship hasand drink when drink is given themand eat when
there is anything to eatand answer every question that is asked
them."

What thou sayest is true, Sancho,replied Don Quixote; "but I have
already told thee there are many sorts of enchantmentsand it may
be that in the course of time they have been changed one for
anotherand that now it may be the way with enchanted people to do
all that I dothough they did not do so before; so it is vain to
argue or draw inferences against the usage of the time. I know and
feel that I am enchantedand that is enough to ease my conscience;
for it would weigh heavily on it if I thought that I was not
enchantedand that in a aint-hearted and cowardly way I allowed
myself to lie in this cagedefrauding multitudes of the succour I
might afford to those in need and distresswho at this very moment
may be in sore want of my aid and protection."

Still for all that,replied SanchoI say that, for your
greater and fuller satisfaction, it would be well if your worship were
to try to get out of this prison (and I promise to do all in my
power to help, and even to take you out of it), and see if you could
once more mount your good Rocinante, who seems to be enchanted too, he
is so melancholy and dejected; and then we might try our chance in
looking for adventures again; and if we have no luck there will be
time enough to go back to the cage; in which, on the faith of a good
and loyal squire, I promise to shut myself up along with your worship,
if so be you are so unfortunate, or I so stupid, as not to be able
to carry out my plan.

I am content to do as thou sayest, brother Sancho,said Don
Quixoteand when thou seest an opportunity for effecting my
release I will obey thee absolutely; but thou wilt see, Sancho, how
mistaken thou art in thy conception of my misfortune.

The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire kept up their
conversation till they reached the place where the curatethe
canonand the barberwho had already dismountedwere waiting for
them. The carter at once unyoked the oxen and left them to roam at
large about the pleasant green spotthe freshness of which seemed
to invitenot enchanted people like Don Quixotebut wide-awake
sensible folk like his squirewho begged the curate to allow his
master to leave the cage for a little; for if they did not let him
outthe prison might not be as clean as the propriety of such a
gentleman as his master required. The curate understood himand
said he would very gladly comply with his requestonly that he feared
his masterfinding himself at libertywould take to his old
courses and make off where nobody could ever find him again.

I will answer for his not running away,said Sancho.

And I also,said the canonespecially if he gives me his word as
a knight not to leave us without our consent.

Don Quixotewho was listening to all thissaidI give it;moreover
one who is enchanted as I am cannot do as he likes with


himself; for he who had enchanted him could prevent his moving from
one place for three ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring
him back flying.- And that being sothey might as well release
himparticularly as it would be to the advantage of all; forif they
did not let him outhe protested he would be unable to avoid
offending their nostrils unless they kept their distance.

The canon took his handtied together as they both wereand on his
word and promise they unbound himand rejoiced beyond measure he
was to find himself out of the cage. The first thing he did was to
stretch himself all overand then he went to where Rocinante was
standing and giving him a couple of slaps on the haunches saidI
still trust in God and in his blessed mother, O flower and mirror of
steeds, that we shall soon see ourselves, both of us, as we wish to
be, thou with thy master on thy back, and I mounted upon thee,
following the calling for which God sent me into the world.And so
sayingaccompanied by Sanchohe withdrew to a retired spotfrom
which he came back much relieved and more eager than ever to put his
squire's scheme into execution.

The canon gazed at himwondering at the extraordinary nature of his
madnessand that in all his remarks and replies he should show such
excellent senseand only lose his stirrupsas has been already said
when the subject of chivalry was broached. And somoved by
compassionhe said to himas they all sat on the green grass
awaiting the arrival of the provisions:

Is it possible, gentle sir, that the nauseous and idle reading of
books of chivalry can have had such an effect on your worship as to
upset your reason so that you fancy yourself enchanted, and the
like, all as far from the truth as falsehood itself is? How can
there be any human understanding that can persuade itself there ever
was all that infinity of Amadises in the world, or all that
multitude of famous knights, all those emperors of Trebizond, all
those Felixmartes of Hircania, all those palfreys, and damsels-errant,
and serpents, and monsters, and giants, and marvellous adventures, and
enchantments of every kind, and battles, and prodigious encounters,
splendid costumes, love-sick princesses, squires made counts, droll
dwarfs, love letters, billings and cooings, swashbuckler women, and,
in a word, all that nonsense the books of chivalry contain? For
myself, I can only say that when I read them, so long as I do not stop
to think that they are all lies and frivolity, they give me a
certain amount of pleasure; but when I come to consider what they are,
I fling the very best of them at the wall, and would fling it into the
fire if there were one at hand, as richly deserving such punishment as
cheats and impostors out of the range of ordinary toleration, and as
founders of new sects and modes of life, and teachers that lead the
ignorant public to believe and accept as truth all the folly they
contain. And such is their audacity, they even dare to unsettle the
wits of gentlemen of birth and intelligence, as is shown plainly by
the way they have served your worship, when they have brought you to
such a pass that you have to be shut up in a cage and carried on an
ox-cart as one would carry a lion or a tiger from place to place to
make money by showing it. Come, Senor Don Quixote, have some
compassion for yourself, return to the bosom of common sense, and make
use of the liberal share of it that heaven has been pleased to
bestow upon you, employing your abundant gifts of mind in some other
reading that may serve to benefit your conscience and add to your
honour. And if, still led away by your natural bent, you desire to
read books of achievements and of chivalry, read the Book of Judges in
the Holy Scriptures, for there you will find grand reality, and
deeds as true as they are heroic. Lusitania had a Viriatus, Rome a
Caesar, Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count
Fernan Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo Fernandez,


Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Paredes, Jerez a Garci Perez de
Vargas, Toledo a Garcilaso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon, to read of
whose valiant deeds will entertain and instruct the loftiest minds and
fill them with delight and wonder. Here, Senor Don Quixote, will be
reading worthy of your sound understanding; from which you will rise
learned in history, in love with virtue, strengthened in goodness,
improved in manners, brave without rashness, prudent without
cowardice; and all to the honour of God, your own advantage and the
glory of La Mancha, whence, I am informed, your worship derives your
birth.

Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the canon's
wordsand when he found he had finishedafter regarding him for some
timehe replied to him:

It appears to me, gentle sir, that your worship's discourse is
intended to persuade me that there never were any knights-errant in
the world, and that all the books of chivalry are false, lying,
mischievous and useless to the State, and that I have done wrong in
reading them, and worse in believing them, and still worse in
imitating them, when I undertook to follow the arduous calling of
knight-errantry which they set forth; for you deny that there ever
were Amadises of Gaul or of Greece, or any other of the knights of
whom the books are full.

It is all exactly as you state it,said the canon; to which Don
Quixote returnedYou also went on to say that books of this kind had
done me much harm, inasmuch as they had upset my senses, and shut me
up in a cage, and that it would be better for me to reform and
change my studies, and read other truer books which would afford
more pleasure and instruction.

Just so,said the canon.

Well then,returned Don Quixoteto my mind it is you who are the
one that is out of his wits and enchanted, as you have ventured to
utter such blasphemies against a thing so universally acknowledged and
accepted as true that whoever denies it, as you do, deserves the
same punishment which you say you inflict on the books that irritate
you when you read them. For to try to persuade anybody that Amadis,
and all the other knights-adventurers with whom the books are
filled, never existed, would be like trying to persuade him that the
sun does not yield light, or ice cold, or earth nourishment. What
wit in the world can persuade another that the story of the Princess
Floripes and Guy of Burgundy is not true, or that of Fierabras and the
bridge of Mantible, which happened in the time of Charlemagne? For
by all that is good it is as true as that it is daylight now; and if
it be a lie, it must be a lie too that there was a Hector, or
Achilles, or Trojan war, or Twelve Peers of France, or Arthur of
England, who still lives changed into a raven, and is unceasingly
looked for in his kingdom. One might just as well try to make out that
the history of Guarino Mezquino, or of the quest of the Holy Grail, is
false, or that the loves of Tristram and the Queen Yseult are
apocryphal, as well as those of Guinevere and Lancelot, when there are
persons who can almost remember having seen the Dame Quintanona, who
was the best cupbearer in Great Britain. And so true is this, that I
recollect a grandmother of mine on the father's side, whenever she saw
any dame in a venerable hood, used to say to me, 'Grandson, that one
is like Dame Quintanona,' from which I conclude that she must have
known her, or at least had managed to see some portrait of her. Then
who can deny that the story of Pierres and the fair Magalona is
true, when even to this day may be seen in the king's armoury the
pin with which the valiant Pierres guided the wooden horse he rode
through the air, and it is a trifle bigger than the pole of a cart?


And alongside of the pin is Babieca's saddle, and at Roncesvalles
there is Roland's horn, as large as a large beam; whence we may
infer that there were Twelve Peers, and a Pierres, and a Cid, and
other knights like them, of the sort people commonly call adventurers.
Or perhaps I shall be told, too, that there was no such
knight-errant as the valiant Lusitanian Juan de Merlo, who went to
Burgundy and in the city of Arras fought with the famous lord of
Charny, Mosen Pierres by name, and afterwards in the city of Basle
with Mosen Enrique de Remesten, coming out of both encounters
covered with fame and honour; or adventures and challenges achieved
and delivered, also in Burgundy, by the valiant Spaniards Pedro
Barba and Gutierre Quixada (of whose family I come in the direct
male line), when they vanquished the sons of the Count of San Polo.
I shall be told, too, that Don Fernando de Guevara did not go in quest
of adventures to Germany, where he engaged in combat with Micer
George, a knight of the house of the Duke of Austria. I shall be
told that the jousts of Suero de Quinones, him of the 'Paso,' and
the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces against the Castilian knight,
Don Gonzalo de Guzman, were mere mockeries; as well as many other
achievements of Christian knights of these and foreign realms, which
are so authentic and true, that, I repeat, he who denies them must
be totally wanting in reason and good sense.

The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and fiction Don
Quixote utteredand to see how well acquainted he was with everything
relating or belonging to the achievements of his knight-errantry; so
he said in reply:

I cannot deny, Senor Don Quixote, that there is some truth in
what you say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant; and
I am willing to grant too that the Twelve Peers of France existed, but
I am not disposed to believe that they did all the things that the
Archbishop Turpin relates of them. For the truth of the matter is they
were knights chosen by the kings of France, and called 'Peers' because
they were all equal in worth, rank and prowess (at least if they
were not they ought to have been), and it was a kind of religious
order like those of Santiago and Calatrava in the present day, in
which it is assumed that those who take it are valiant knights of
distinction and good birth; and just as we say now a Knight of St.
John, or of Alcantara, they used to say then a Knight of the Twelve
Peers, because twelve equals were chosen for that military order. That
there was a Cid, as well as a Bernardo del Carpio, there can be no
doubt; but that they did the deeds people say they did, I hold to be
very doubtful. In that other matter of the pin of Count Pierres that
you speak of, and say is near Babieca's saddle in the Armoury, I
confess my sin; for I am either so stupid or so short-sighted, that,
though I have seen the saddle, I have never been able to see the
pin, in spite of it being as big as your worship says it is.

For all that it is there, without any manner of doubt,said Don
Quixote; "and more by token they say it is inclosed in a sheath of
cowhide to keep it from rusting."

All that may be,replied the canon; "butby the orders I have
receivedI do not remember seeing it. Howevergranting it is
therethat is no reason why I am bound to believe the stories of
all those Amadises and of all that multitude of knights they tell us
aboutnor is it reasonable that a man like your worshipso worthy
and with so many good qualitiesand endowed with such a good
understandingshould allow himself to be persuaded that such wild
crazy things as are written in those absurd books of chivalry are
really true."


CHAPTER L

OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

A good joke, that!returned Don Quixote. "Books that have been
printed with the king's licenceand with the approbation of those
to whom they have been submittedand read with universal delightand
extolled by great and smallrich and poorlearned and ignorant
gentle and simplein a word by people of every sortof whatever rank
or condition they may be- that these should be lies! And above all
when they carry such an appearance of truth with them; for they tell
us the fathermothercountrykindredageplaceand the
achievementsstep by stepand day by dayperformed by such a knight
or knights! Hushsir; utter not such blasphemy; trust me I am
advising you now to act as a sensible man should; only read them
and you will see the pleasure you will derive from them. Forcome
tell mecan there be anything more delightful than to seeas it
werehere now displayed before us a vast lake of bubbling pitch
with a host of snakes and serpents and lizardsand ferocious and
terrible creatures of all sorts swimming about in itwhile from the
middle of the lake there comes a plaintive voice saying: 'Knight
whosoever thou art who beholdest this dread lakeif thou wouldst
win the prize that lies hidden beneath these dusky wavesprove the
valour of thy stout heart and cast thyself into the midst of its
dark burning waterselse thou shalt not be worthy to see the mighty
wonders contained in the seven castles of the seven Fays that lie
beneath this black expanse;' and then the knightalmost ere the awful
voice has ceasedwithout stopping to considerwithout pausing to
reflect upon the danger to which he is exposing himselfwithout
even relieving himself of the weight of his massive armourcommending
himself to God and to his ladyplunges into the midst of the
boiling lakeand when he little looks for itor knows what his
fate is to behe finds himself among flowery meadowswith which
the Elysian fields are not to be compared. The sky seems more
transparent thereand the sun shines with a strange brilliancyand a
delightful grove of green leafy trees presents itself to the eyes
and charms the sight with its verdurewhile the ear is soothed by the
sweet untutored melody of the countless birds of gay plumage that flit
to and fro among the interlacing branches. Here he sees a brook
whose limpid waterslike liquid crystalripple over fine sands and
white pebbles that look like sifted gold and purest pearls. There he
perceives a cunningly wrought fountain of many-coloured jasper and
polished marble; here another of rustic fashion where the little
mussel-shells and the spiral white and yellow mansions of the snail
disposed in studious disordermingled with fragments of glittering
crystal and mock emeraldsmake up a work of varied aspectwhere art
imitating natureseems to have outdone it. Suddenly there is
presented to his sight a strong castle or gorgeous palace with walls
of massy goldturrets of diamond and gates of jacinth; in shortso
marvellous is its structure that though the materials of which it is
built are nothing less than diamondscarbunclesrubiespearls
goldand emeraldsthe workmanship is still more rare. And after
having seen all thiswhat can be more charming than to see how a bevy
of damsels comes forth from the gate of the castle in gay and gorgeous
attiresuch thatwere I to set myself now to depict it as the
histories describe it to usI should never have done; and then how
she who seems to be the first among them all takes the bold knight who
plunged into the boiling lake by the handand without addressing a
word to him leads him into the rich palace or castleand strips him
as naked as when his mother bore himand bathes him in lukewarm
waterand anoints him all over with sweet-smelling unguentsand


clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendalall scented and
perfumedwhile another damsel comes and throws over his shoulders a
mantle which is said to be worth at the very least a cityand even
more? How charming it isthenwhen they tell us howafter all this
they lead him to another chamber where he finds the tables set out
in such style that he is filled with amazement and wonder; to see
how they pour out water for his hands distilled from amber and
sweet-scented flowers; how they seat him on an ivory chair; to see how
the damsels wait on him all in profound silence; how they bring him
such a variety of dainties so temptingly prepared that the appetite is
at a loss which to select; to hear the music that resounds while he is
at tableby whom or whence produced he knows not. And then when the
repast is over and the tables removedfor the knight to recline in
the chairpicking his teeth perhaps as usualand a damselmuch
lovelier than any of the othersto enter unexpectedly by the
chamber doorand herself by his sideand begin to tell him what
the castle isand how she is held enchanted thereand other things
that amaze the knight and astonish the readers who are perusing his
history. But I will not expatiate any further upon thisas it may
be gathered from it that whatever part of whatever history of a
knight-errant one readsit will fill the readerwhoever he be
with delight and wonder; and take my advicesirandas I said
beforeread these books and you will see how they will banish any
melancholy you may feel and raise your spirits should they be
depressed. For myself I can say that since I have been a knight-errant
I have become valiantpolitegenerouswell-bredmagnanimous
courteousdauntlessgentlepatientand have learned to bear
hardshipsimprisonmentsand enchantments; and though it be such a
short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like a madmanI
hope by the might of my armif heaven aid me and fortune thwart me
notto see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able to show
the gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart; for by my
faithsenorthe poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue of
generosity to anyonethough he may possess it in the highest
degree; and gratitude that consists of disposition only is a dead
thingjust as faith without works is dead. For this reason I should
be glad were fortune soon to offer me some opportunity of making
myself an emperorso as to show my heart in doing good to my friends
particularly to this poor Sancho Panzamy squirewho is the best
fellow in the world; and I would gladly give him a county I have
promised him this ever so longonly that I am afraid he has not the
capacity to govern his realm."

Sancho partly heard these last words of his masterand said to him
Strive hard you, Senor Don Quixote, to give me that county so often
promised by you and so long looked for by me, for I promise you
there will be no want of capacity in me to govern it; and even if
there is, I have heard say there are men in the world who farm
seigniories, paying so much a year, and they themselves taking
charge of the government, while the lord, with his legs stretched out,
enjoys the revenue they pay him, without troubling himself about
anything else. That's what I'll do, and not stand haggling over
trifles, but wash my hands at once of the whole business, and enjoy my
rents like a duke, and let things go their own way.

That, brother Sancho,said the canononly holds good as far as
the enjoyment of the revenue goes; but the lord of the seigniory
must attend to the administration of justice, and here capacity and
sound judgment come in, and above all a firm determination to find out
the truth; for if this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and the
end will always go wrong; and God as commonly aids the honest
intentions of the simple as he frustrates the evil designs of the
crafty.


I don't understand those philosophies,returned Sancho Panza; "all
I know is I would I had the county as soon as I shall know how to
govern it; for I have as much soul as anotherand as much body as
anyoneand I shall be as much king of my realm as any other of his;
and being so I should do as I likedand doing as I liked I should
please myselfand pleasing myself I should be contentand when one
is content he has nothing more to desireand when one has nothing
more to desire there is an end of it; so let the county comeand
God he with youand let us see one anotheras one blind man said
to the other."

That is not bad philosophy thou art talking, Sancho,said the
canon; "but for all that there is a good deal to be said on this
matter of counties."

To which Don Quixote returnedI know not what more there is to
be said; I only guide myself by the example set me by the great Amadis
of Gaul, when he made his squire count of the Insula Firme; and so,
without any scruples of conscience, I can make a count of Sancho
Panza, for he is one of the best squires that ever knight-errant had.

The canon was astonished at the methodical nonsense (if nonsense
be capable of method) that Don Quixote utteredat the way in which he
had described the adventure of the knight of the lakeat the
impression that the deliberate lies of the books he read had made upon
himand lastly he marvelled at the simplicity of Sanchowho
desired so eagerly to obtain the county his master had promised him.

By this time the canon's servantswho had gone to the inn to
fetch the sumpter mulehad returnedand making a carpet and the
green grass of the meadow serve as a tablethey seated themselves
in the shade of some trees and made their repast therethat the
carter might not be deprived of the advantage of the spotas has been
already said. As they were eating they suddenly heard a loud noise and
the sound of a bell that seemed to come from among some brambles and
thick bushes that were close byand the same instant they observed
a beautiful goatspotted all over blackwhiteand brownspring out
of the thicket with a goatherd after itcalling to it and uttering
the usual cries to make it stop or turn back to the fold. The fugitive
goatscared and frightenedran towards the company as if seeking
their protection and then stood stilland the goatherd coming up
seized it by the horns and began to talk to it as if it were possessed
of reason and understanding: "Ah wandererwandererSpottySpotty;
how have you gone limping all this time? What wolves have frightened
youmy daughter? Won't you tell me what is the mattermy beauty? But
what else can it be except that you are a sheand cannot keep
quiet? A plague on your humours and the humours of those you take
after! Come backcome backmy darling; and if you will not be so
happyat any rate you will be safe in the fold or with your
companions; for if you who ought to keep and lead themgo wandering
astraywhat will become of them?"

The goatherd's talk amused all who heard itbut especially the
canonwho said to himAs you live, brother, take it easy, and be
not in such a hurry to drive this goat back to the fold; for, being
a female, as you say, she will follow her natural instinct in spite of
all you can do to prevent it. Take this morsel and drink a sup, and
that will soothe your irritation, and in the meantime the goat will
rest herself,and so sayinghe handed him the loins of a cold rabbit
on a fork.

The goatherd took it with thanksand drank and calmed himself
and then saidI should be sorry if your worships were to take me for
a simpleton for having spoken so seriously as I did to this animal;


but the truth is there is a certain mystery in the words I used. I
am a clown, but not so much of one but that I know how to behave to
men and to beasts.

That I can well believe,said the curatefor I know already by
experience that the woods breed men of learning, and shepherds'
harbour philosophers.

At all events, senor,returned the goatherdthey shelter men
of experience; and that you may see the truth of this and grasp it,
though I may seem to put myself forward without being asked, I will,
if it will not tire you, gentlemen, and you will give me your
attention for a little, tell you a true story which will confirm
this gentleman's word (and he pointed to the curate) as well as my
own.

To this Don Quixote repliedSeeing that this affair has a
certain colour of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, will hear
you most gladly, and so will all these gentlemen, from the high
intelligence they possess and their love of curious novelties that
interest, charm, and entertain the mind, as I feel quite sure your
story will do. So begin, friend, for we are all prepared to listen.

I draw my stakes,said Sanchoand will retreat with this pasty
to the brook there, where I mean to victual myself for three days; for
I have heard my lord, Don Quixote, say that a knight-errant's squire
should eat until he can hold no more, whenever he has the chance,
because it often happens them to get by accident into a wood so
thick that they cannot find a way out of it for six days; and if the
man is not well filled or his alforjas well stored, there he may stay,
as very often he does, turned into a dried mummy.

Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "go where
thou wilt and eat all thou canstfor I have had enoughand only want
to give my mind its refreshmentas I shall by listening to this
good fellow's story."

It is what we shall all do,said the canon; and then begged the
goatherd to begin the promised tale.

The goatherd gave the goat which he held by the horns a couple of
slaps on the backsayingLie down here beside me, Spotty, for we
have time enough to return to our fold.The goat seemed to understand
himfor as her master seated himselfshe stretched herself quietly
beside him and looked up in his face to show him she was all attention
to what he was going to sayand then in these words he began his
story.

CHAPTER LI

WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING
OFF DON QUIXOTE

Three leagues from this valley there is a village whichthough
smallis one of the richest in all this neighbourhoodand in it
there lived a farmera very worthy manand so much respected that
although to be so is the natural consequence of being richhe was
even more respected for his virtue than for the wealth he had
acquired. But what made him still more fortunateas he said
himselfwas having a daughter of such exceeding beautyrare
intelligencegracefulnessand virtuethat everyone who knew her and


beheld her marvelled at the extraordinary gifts with which heaven
and nature had endowed her. As a child she was beautifulshe
continued to grow in beautyand at the age of sixteen she was most
lovely. The fame of her beauty began to spread abroad through all
the villages around- but why do I say the villages aroundmerely
when it spread to distant citiesand even made its way into the halls
of royalty and reached the ears of people of every classwho came
from all sides to see her as if to see something rare and curious
or some wonder-working image?

Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for
there are no locksor guardsor bolts that can protect a young
girl better than her own modesty. The wealth of the father and the
beauty of the daughter led many neighbours as well as strangers to
seek her for a wife; but heas one might well be who had the disposal
of so rich a jewelwas perplexed and unable to make up his mind to
which of her countless suitors he should entrust her. I was one
among the many who felt a desire so naturalandas her father knew
who I wasand I was of the same townof pure bloodin the bloom
of lifeand very rich in possessionsI had great hopes of success.
There was another of the same place and qualifications who also sought
herand this made her father's choice hang in the balancefor he
felt that on either of us his daughter would be well bestowed; so to
escape from this state of perplexity he resolved to refer the matter
to Leandra (for that is the name of the rich damsel who has reduced me
to misery)reflecting that as we were both equal it would be best
to leave it to his dear daughter to choose according to her
inclination- a course that is worthy of imitation by all fathers who
wish to settle their children in life. I do not mean that they ought
to leave them to make a choice of what is contemptible and badbut
that they should place before them what is good and then allow them to
make a good choice as they please. I do not know which Leandra
chose; I only know her father put us both off with the tender age of
his daughter and vague words that neither bound him nor dismissed
us. My rival is called Anselmo and I myself Eugenio- that you may know
the names of the personages that figure in this tragedythe end of
which is still in suspensethough it is plain to see it must be
disastrous.

About this time there arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca
the son of a poor peasant of the same townthe said Vicente having
returned from service as a soldier in Italy and divers other parts.
A captain who chanced to pass that way with his company had carried
him off from our village when he was a boy of about twelve years
and now twelve years later the young man came back in a soldier's
uniformarrayed in a thousand coloursand all over glass trinkets
and fine steel chains. To-day he would appear in one gay dress
to-morrow in another; but all flimsy and gaudyof little substance
and less worth. The peasant folkwho are naturally maliciousand
when they have nothing to do can be malice itselfremarked all
thisand took note of his finery and jewellerypiece by pieceand
discovered that he had three suits of different colourswith
garters and stockings to match; but he made so many arrangements and
combinations out of themthat if they had not counted themanyone
would have sworn that he had made a display of more than ten suits
of clothes and twenty plumes. Do not look upon all this that I am
telling you about the clothes as uncalled for or spun outfor they
have a great deal to do with the story. He used to seat himself on a
bench under the great poplar in our plazaand there he would keep
us all hanging open-mouthed on the stories he told us of his exploits.
There was no country on the face of the globe he had not seennor
battle he had not been engaged in; he had killed more Moors than there
are in Morocco and Tunisand fought more single combatsaccording to
his own accountthan GarcilasoDiego Garcia de Paredes and a


thousand others he namedand out of all he had come victorious
without losing a drop of blood. On the other hand he showed marks of
woundswhichthough they could not be made outhe said were gunshot
wounds received in divers encounters and actions. Lastlywith
monstrous impudence he used to say "you" to his equals and even
those who knew what he wasand declare that his arm was his father
and his deeds his pedigreeand that being a soldier he was as good as
the king himself. And to add to these swaggering ways he was a
trifle of a musicianand played the guitar with such a flourish
that some said he made it speak; nor did his accomplishments end here
for he was something of a poet tooand on every trifle that
happened in the town he made a ballad a league long.

This soldierthenthat I have describedthis Vicente de la
Rocathis bravogallantmusicianpoetwas often seen and
watched by Leandra from a window of her house which looked out on
the plaza. The glitter of his showy attire took her fancyhis ballads
bewitched her (for he gave away twenty copies of every one he made)
the tales of his exploits which he told about himself came to her
ears; and in shortas the devil no doubt had arranged itshe fell in
love with him before the presumption of making love to her had
suggested itself to him; and as in love-affairs none are more easily
brought to an issue than those which have the inclination of the
lady for an allyLeandra and Vicente came to an understanding without
any difficulty; and before any of her numerous suitors had any
suspicion of her designshe had already carried it into effect
having left the house of her dearly beloved father (for mother she had
none)and disappeared from the village with the soldierwho came
more triumphantly out of this enterprise than out of any of the
large number he laid claim to. All the village and all who heard of it
were amazed at the affair; I was aghastAnselmo thunderstruckher
father full of griefher relations indignantthe authorities all
in a fermentthe officers of the Brotherhood in arms. They scoured
the roadsthey searched the woods and all quartersand at the end of
three days they found the flighty Leandra in a mountain cavestript
to her shiftand robbed of all the money and precious jewels she
had carried away from home with her. They brought her back to her
unhappy fatherand questioned her as to her misfortuneand she
confessed without pressure that Vicente de la Roca had deceived her
and under promise of marrying her had induced her to leave her
father's houseas he meant to take her to the richest and most
delightful city in the whole worldwhich was Naples; and that she
ill-advised and deludedhad believed himand robbed her father
and handed over all to him the night she disappeared; and that he
had carried her away to a rugged mountain and shut her up in the
eave where they had found her. She saidmoreoverthat the soldier
without robbing her of her honourhad taken from her everything she
hadand made offleaving her in the cavea thing that still further
surprised everybody. It was not easy for us to credit the young
man's continencebut she asserted it with such earnestness that it
helped to console her distressed fatherwho thought nothing of what
had been taken since the jewel that once lost can never be recovered
had been left to his daughter. The same day that Leandra made her
appearance her father removed her from our sight and took her away
to shut her up in a convent in a town near thisin the hope that time
may wear away some of the disgrace she has incurred. Leandra's youth
furnished an excuse for her faultat least with those to whom it
was of no consequence whether she was good or bad; but those who
knew her shrewdness and intelligence did not attribute her
misdemeanour to ignorance but to wantonness and the natural
disposition of womenwhich is for the most part flighty and
ill-regulated.

Leandra withdrawn from sightAnselmo's eyes grew blindor at any


rate found nothing to look at that gave them any pleasureand mine
were in darkness without a ray of light to direct them to anything
enjoyable while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew greaterour
patience grew less; we cursed the soldier's finery and railed at the
carelessness of Leandra's father. At last Anselmo and I agreed to
leave the village and come to this valley; andhe feeding a great
flock of sheep of his ownand I a large herd of goats of minewe
pass our life among the treesgiving vent to our sorrowstogether
singing the fair Leandra's praisesor upbraiding heror else sighing
aloneand to heaven pouring forth our complaints in solitude.
Following our examplemany more of Leandra's lovers have come to
these rude mountains and adopted our mode of lifeand they are so
numerous that one would fancy the place had been turned into the
pastoral Arcadiaso full is it of shepherds and sheep-folds; nor is
there a spot in it where the name of the fair Leandra is not heard.
Here one curses her and calls her capriciousfickleand immodest
there another condemns her as frail and frivolous; this pardons and
absolves herthat spurns and reviles her; one extols her beauty
another assails her characterand in short all abuse herand all
adore herand to such a pitch has this general infatuation gone
that there are some who complain of her scorn without ever having
exchanged a word with herand even some that bewail and mourn the
raging fever of jealousyfor which she never gave anyone cause
foras I have already saidher misconduct was known before her
passion. There is no nook among the rocksno brooksideno shade
beneath the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his
woes to the breezes; wherever there is an echo it repeats the name
of Leandra; the mountains ring with "Leandra Leandra" murmur the
brooksand Leandra keeps us all bewildered and bewitchedhoping
without hope and fearing without knowing what we fear. Of all this
silly set the one that shows the least and also the most sense is my
rival Anselmofor having so many other things to complain ofhe only
complains of separationand to the accompaniment of a rebeckwhich
he plays admirablyhe sings his complaints in verses that show his
ingenuity. I follow anothereasierand to my mind wiser course
and that is to rail at the frivolity of womenat their inconstancy
their double dealingtheir broken promisestheir unkept pledgesand
in short the want of reflection they show in fixing their affections
and inclinations. Thissirswas the reason of words and
expressions I made use of to this goat when I came up just now; for as
she is a female I have a contempt for herthough she is the best in
all my fold. This is the story I promised to tell youand if I have
been tedious in telling itI will not be slow to serve you; my hut is
close byand I have fresh milk and dainty cheese thereas well as
a variety of toothsome fruitno less pleasing to the eye than to
the palate.

CHAPTER LII

OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERDTOGETHER WITH
THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTSWHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF
SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION

The goatherd's tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers
and the canon especially enjoyed itfor he had remarked with
particular attention the manner in which it had been toldwhich was
as unlike the manner of a clownish goatherd as it was like that of a
polished city wit; and he observed that the curate had been quite
right in saying that the woods bred men of learning. They all
offered their services to Eugenio but he who showed himself most
liberal in this way was Don Quixotewho said to himMost assuredly,


brother goatherd, if I found myself in a position to attempt any
adventure, I would, this very instant, set out on your behalf, and
would rescue Leandra from that convent (where no doubt she is kept
against her will), in spite of the abbess and all who might try to
prevent me, and would place her in your hands to deal with her
according to your will and pleasure, observing, however, the laws of
chivalry which lay down that no violence of any kind is to be
offered to any damsel. But I trust in God our Lord that the might of
one malignant enchanter may not prove so great but that the power of
another better disposed may prove superior to it, and then I promise
you my support and assistance, as I am bound to do by my profession,
which is none other than to give aid to the weak and needy.

The goatherd eyed himand noticing Don Quixote's sorry appearance
and lookshe was filled with wonderand asked the barberwho was
next himSenor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in
such a strain?

Who should it be,said the barberbut the famous Don Quixote
of La Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the
protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of
battles?

That,said the goatherdsounds like what one reads in the
books of the knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does;
though it is my belief that either you are joking, or else this
gentleman has empty lodgings in his head.

You are a great scoundrel,said Don Quixoteand it is you who
are empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch
that bore you;and passing from words to deedshe caught up a loaf
that was near him and sent it full in the goatherd's facewith such
force that he flattened his nose; but the goatherdwho did not
understand jokesand found himself roughly handled in such good
earnestpaying no respect to carpettableclothor dinerssprang
upon Don Quixoteand seizing him by the throat with both hands
would no doubt have throttled himhad not Sancho Panza that instant
come to the rescueand grasping him by the shoulders flung him down
on the tablesmashing platesbreaking glassesand upsetting and
scattering everything on it. Don Quixotefinding himself freestrove
to get on top of the goatherdwhowith his face covered with
bloodand soundly kicked by Sanchowas on all fours feeling about
for one of the table-knives to take a bloody revenge with. The canon
and the curatehoweverprevented himbut the barber so contrived it
that he got Don Quixote under himand rained down upon him such a
shower of fisticuffs that the poor knight's face streamed with blood
as freely as his own. The canon and the curate were bursting with
laughterthe officers were capering with delightand both the one
and the other hissed them on as they do dogs that are worrying one
another in a fight. Sancho alone was franticfor he could not free
himself from the grasp of one of the canon's servantswho kept him
from going to his master's assistance.

At lastwhile they were allwith the exception of the two bruisers
who were mauling each otherin high glee and enjoymentthey heard
a trumpet sound a note so doleful that it made them all look in the
direction whence the sound seemed to come. But the one that was most
excited by hearing it was Don Quixotewho though sorely against his
will he was under the goatherdand something more than pretty well
pummelledsaid to himBrother devil (for it is impossible but
that thou must be one since thou hast had might and strength enough to
overcome mine), I ask thee to agree to a truce for but one hour for
the solemn note of yonder trumpet that falls on our ears seems to me
to summon me to some new adventure.The goatherdwho was by this


time tired of pummelling and being pummelledreleased him at once
and Don Quixote rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the quarter
where the sound had been heardsuddenly saw coming down the slope
of a hill several men clad in white like penitents.

The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture
from the earthand in all the villages of the district they were
organising processionsrogationsand penancesimploring God to open
the hands of his mercy and send the rain; and to this end the people
of a village that was hard by were going in procession to a holy
hermitage there was on one side of that valley. Don Quixote when he
saw the strange garb of the penitentswithout reflecting how often he
had seen it beforetook it into his head that this was a case of
adventureand that it fell to him alone as a knight-errant to
engage in it; and he was all the more confirmed in this notionby the
idea that an image draped in black they had with them was some
illustrious lady that these villains and discourteous thieves were
carrying off by force. As soon as this occurred to him he ran with all
speed to Rocinante who was grazing at largeand taking the bridle and
the buckler from the saddle-bowhe had him bridled in an instantand
calling to Sancho for his sword he mounted Rocinantebraced his
buckler on his armand in a loud voice exclaimed to those who stood
byNow, noble company, ye shall see how important it is that there
should be knights in the world professing the of knight-errantry; now,
I say, ye shall see, by the deliverance of that worthy lady who is
borne captive there, whether knights-errant deserve to be held in
estimation,and so saying he brought his legs to bear on Rocinantefor
he had no spurs- and at a full canter (for in all this veracious
history we never read of Rocinante fairly galloping) set off to
encounter the penitentsthough the curatethe canonand the
barber ran to prevent him. But it was out of their powernor did he
even stop for the shouts of Sancho calling after himWhere are you
going, Senor Don Quixote? What devils have possessed you to set you on
against our Catholic faith? Plague take me! mind, that is a procession
of penitents, and the lady they are carrying on that stand there is
the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take care what you are
doing, senor, for this time it may be safely said you don't know
what you are about.Sancho laboured in vainfor his master was so
bent on coming to quarters with these sheeted figures and releasing
the lady in black that he did not hear a word; and even had he
heardhe would not have turned back if the king had ordered him. He
came up with the procession and reined in Rocinantewho was already
anxious enough to slacken speed a littleand in a hoarseexcited
voice he exclaimedYou who hide your faces, perhaps because you
are not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am about
to say to you.The first to halt were those who were carrying the
imageand one of the four ecclesiastics who were chanting the Litany
struck by the strange figure of Don Quixotethe leanness of
Rocinanteand the other ludicrous peculiarities he observedsaid
in reply to himBrother, if you have anything to say to us say it
quickly, for these brethren are whipping themselves, and we cannot
stop, nor is it reasonable we should stop to hear anything, unless
indeed it is short enough to be said in two words.

I will say it in one,replied Don Quixoteand it is this; that
at once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears
and sad aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off against her
will, and that ye have committed some scandalous outrage against
her; and I, who was born into the world to redress all such like
wrongs, will not permit you to advance another step until you have
restored to her the liberty she pines for and deserves.

From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman
and began to laugh heartilyand their laughter acted like gunpowder


on Don Quixote's furyfor drawing his sword without another word he
made a rush at the stand. One of those who supported itleaving the
burden to his comradesadvanced to meet himflourishing a forked
stick that he had for propping up the stand when restingand with
this he caught a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that severed it in
two; but with the portion that remained in his hand he dealt such a
thwack on the shoulder of Don Quixote's sword arm (which the buckler
could not protect against the clownish assault) that poor Don
Quixote came to the ground in a sad plight.

Sancho Panzawho was coming on close behind puffing and blowing
seeing him fallcried out to his assailant not to strike him again
for he was poor enchanted knightwho had never harmed anyone all
the days of his life; but what checked the clown wasnot Sancho's
shoutingbut seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and
sofancying he had killed himhe hastily hitched up his tunic
under his girdle and took to his heels across the country like a deer.

By this time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to where he
lay; but the processionists seeing them come runningand with them
the officers of the Brotherhood with their crossbowsapprehended
mischiefand clustering round the imageraised their hoodsand
grasped their scourgesas the priests did their tapersand awaited
the attackresolved to defend themselves and even to take the
offensive against their assailants if they could. Fortunehowever
arranged the matter better than they expectedfor all Sancho did
was to fling himself on his master's bodyraising over him the most
doleful and laughable lamentation that ever was heardfor he believed
he was dead. The curate was known to another curate who walked in
the processionand their recognition of one another set at rest the
apprehensions of both parties; the first then told the other in two
words who Don Quixote wasand he and the whole troop of penitents
went to see if the poor gentleman was deadand heard Sancho Panza
sayingwith tears in his eyesOh flower of chivalry, that with
one blow of a stick hast ended the course of thy well-spent life! Oh
pride of thy race, honour and glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all
the world, that for want of thee will be full of evil-doers, no longer
in fear of punishment for their misdeeds! Oh thou, generous above
all the Alexanders, since for only eight months of service thou hast
given me the best island the sea girds or surrounds! Humble with the
proud, haughty with the humble, encounterer of dangers, endurer of
outrages, enamoured without reason, imitator of the good, scourge of
the wicked, enemy of the mean, in short, knight-errant, which is all
that can be said!

At the cries and moans of SanchoDon Quixote came to himselfand
the first word he said wasHe who lives separated from you, sweetest
Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend
Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to
press the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to
pieces.

That I will do with all my heart, senor,said Sancho; "and let
us return to our village with these gentlemenwho seek your goodand
there we will prepare for making another sallywhich may turn out
more profitable and creditable to us."

Thou art right, Sancho,returned Don Quixote; "It will be wise
to let the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off."

The canonthe curateand the barber told him he would act very
wisely in doing as he said; and sohighly amused at Sancho Panza's
simplicitiesthey placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The
procession once more formed itself in order and proceeded on its road;


the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the
Brotherhood declined to go any fartherand the curate paid them
what was due to them; the canon begged the curate to let him know
how Don Quixote didwhether he was cured of his madness or still
suffered from itand then begged leave to continue his journey; in
shortthey all separated and went their waysleaving to themselves
the curate and the barberDon QuixoteSancho Panzaand the good
Rocinantewho regarded everything with as great resignation as his
master. The carter yoked his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable
on a truss of hayand at his usual deliberate pace took the road
the curate directedand at the end of six days they reached Don
Quixote's villageand entered it about the middle of the daywhich
it so happened was a Sundayand the people were all in the plaza
through which Don Quixote's cart passed. They all flocked to see
what was in the cartand when they recognised their townsman they
were filled with amazementand a boy ran off to bring the news to his
housekeeper and his niece that their master and uncle had come back
all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay on an ox-cart.
It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies raisedhow
they beat their breasts and poured out fresh maledictions on those
accursed books of chivalry; all which was renewed when they saw Don
Quixote coming in at the gate.

At the news of Don Quixote's arrival Sancho Panza's wife came
runningfor she by this time knew that her husband had gone away with
him as his squireand on seeing Sanchothe first thing she asked him
was if the ass was well. Sancho replied that he wasbetter than his
master was.

Thanks be to God,said shefor being so good to me; but now tell
me, my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have
you brought me back? What shoes for your children?

I bring nothing of that sort, wife,said Sancho; "though I bring
other things of more consequence and value."

I am very glad of that,returned his wife; "show me these things
of more value and consequencemy friend; for I want to see them to
cheer my heart that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that
you have been away."

I will show them to you at home, wife,said Sancho; "be content
for the present; for if it please God that we should again go on our
travels in search of adventuresyou will soon see me a countor
governor of an islandand that not one of those everyday onesbut
the best that is to be had."

Heaven grant it, husband,said shefor indeed we have need of
it. But tell me, what's this about islands, for I don't understand
it?

Honey is not for the mouth of the ass,returned Sancho; "all in
good time thou shalt seewife- naythou wilt be surprised to hear
thyself called 'your ladyship' by all thy vassals."

What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands,
and vassals?returned Teresa Panza- for so Sancho's wife was
calledthough they were not relationsfor in La Mancha it is
customary for wives to take their husbands' surnames.

Don't be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa,said Sancho;
it is enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But
I may tell you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the
world more delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire


to a knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of
those one finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of
a hundred, ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it
by experience, for out of some I came blanketed, and out of others
belaboured. Still, for all that, it is a fine thing to be on the
look-out for what may happen, crossing mountains, searching woods,
climbing rocks, visiting castles, putting up at inns, all at free
quarters, and devil take the maravedi to pay.

While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife
Don Quixote's housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him
and laid him in his old bed. He eyed them askanceand could not
make out where he was. The curate charged his niece to be very careful
to make her uncle comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he
should make his escape from them againtelling her what they had been
obliged to do to bring him home. On this the pair once more lifted
up their voices and renewed their maledictions upon the books of
chivalryand implored heaven to plunge the authors of such lies and
nonsense into the midst of the bottomless pit. They werein short
kept in anxiety and dread lest their uncle and master should give them
the slip the moment he found himself somewhat betterand as they
feared so it fell out.

But the author of this historythough he has devoted research and
industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in
his third sallyhas been unable to obtain any information
respecting themat any rate derived from authentic documents;
tradition has merely preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact
that Don Quixotethe third time he sallied forth from his home
betook himself to Saragossawhere he was present at some famous
jousts which came off in that cityand that he had adventures there
worthy of his valour and high intelligence. Of his end and death he
could learn no particularsnor would he have ascertained it or
known of itif good fortune had not produced an old physician for him
who had in his possession a leaden boxwhichaccording to his
accounthad been discovered among the crumbling foundations of an
ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt; in which box were found
certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic characterbut in Castilian
versecontaining many of his achievementsand setting forth the
beauty of Dulcineathe form of Rocinantethe fidelity of Sancho
Panzaand the burial of Don Quixote himselftogether with sundry
epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character; but all that could be
read and deciphered were those which the trustworthy author of this
new and unparalleled history here presents. And the said author asks
of those that shall read it nothing in return for the vast toil
which it has cost him in examining and searching the Manchegan
archives in order to bring it to lightsave that they give him the
same credit that people of sense give to the books of chivalry that
pervade the world and are so popular; for with this he will consider
himself amply paid and fully satisfiedand will be encouraged to seek
out and produce other historiesif not as truthfulat least equal in
invention and not less entertaining. The first words written on the
parchment found in the leaden box were these:

THE ACADEMICIANS OF

ARGAMASILLAA VILLAGE OF

LA MANCHA

ON THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
HOC SCRIPSERUNT
MONICONGOACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA


ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE

EPITAPH

The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more
Rich spoils than Jason's; who a point so keen
Had to his witand happier far had been

If his wit's weathercock a blunter bore;

The arm renowned far as Gaeta's shore
Cathayand all the lands that lie between;
The muse discreet and terrible in mien

As ever wrote on brass in days of yore;
He who surpassed the Amadises all
And who as naught the Galaors accounted
Supported by his love and gallantry:
Who made the Belianises sing small
And sought renown on Rocinante mounted;
Hereunderneath this cold stonedoth he lie.

PANIAGUADO
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA
IN LAUDEM DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO


SONNET


Shewhose full features may be here descried
High-bosomedwith a bearing of disdain
Is Dulcineashe for whom in vain

The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed.

For herToboso's queenfrom side to side
He traversed the grim sierrathe champaign
Of Aranjuezand Montiel's famous plain:

On Rocinante oft a weary ride.
Malignant planetscruel destiny
Pursued them boththe fair Manchegan dame
And the unconquered star of chivalry.
Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim
Of death; he paid love's bitter penalty
And left the marble to preserve his name.

CAPRICHOSOA MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN
OF ARGAMASILLAIN PRAISE OF ROCINANTE
STEED OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

SONNET

On that proud throne of diamantine sheen
Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade

The mad Manchegan's banner now hath been
By him in all its bravery displayed.
There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade

Wherewithachieving deeds till now unseen

He slayslays lowcleaveshews; but art hath made
A novel style for our new paladin.
If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul

If by his progeny the fame of Greece
Through all the regions of the earth be spread
Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona's hall
To-day exalts La Mancha over these

And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head.
Nor ends his glory herefor his good steed
Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed;


As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante
The reputation they have won is scanty.

BURLADORACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA
ON SANCHO PANZA

SONNET

The worthy Sancho Panza here you see;
A great soul once was in that body small
Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball


So plain and simpleor of guile so free.

Within an ace of being Count was he
And would have been but for the spite and gall
Of this vile agemean and illiberal

That cannot even let a donkey be.
For mounted on an ass (excuse the word)
By Rocinante's side this gentle squire
Was wont his wandering master to attend.
Delusive hopes that lure the common herd
With promises of easethe heart's desire
In shadowsdreamsand smoke ye always end.

CACHIDIABLO
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA
ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE
EPITAPH


The knight lies here below
Ill-errant and bruised sore
Whom Rocinante bore

In his wanderings to and fro.

By the side of the knight is laid
Stolid man Sancho too
Than whom a squire more true

Was not in the esquire trade.

TIQUITOC
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA
ON THE TOMB OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO


EPITAPH

Here Dulcinea lies.
Plump was she and robust:
Now she is ashes and dust:

The end of all flesh that dies.

A lady of high degree
With the port of a lofty dame
And the great Don Quixote's flame

And the pride of her village was she.

These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the restthe
writing being worm-eatenwere handed over to one of the
Academicians to make out their meaning conjecturally. We have been
informed that at the cost of many sleepless nights and much toil he
has succeededand that he means to publish them in hopes of Don
Quixote's third sally.

Forse altro cantera con miglior plectro.


DEDICATION OF PART II

TO THE COUNT OF LEMOS:

These days pastwhen sending Your Excellency my playsthat had
appeared in print before being shown on the stageI saidif I
remember wellthat Don Quixote was putting on his spurs to go and
render homage to Your Excellency. Now I say that "with his spurshe
is on his way." Should he reach destination methinks I shall have
rendered some service to Your Excellencyas from many parts I am
urged to send him offso as to dispel the loathing and disgust caused
by another Don Quixote whounder the name of Second Parthas run
masquerading through the whole world. And he who has shown the
greatest longing for him has been the great Emperor of Chinawho
wrote me a letter in Chinese a month ago and sent it by a special
courier. He asked meor to be truthfulhe begged me to send him
Don Quixotefor he intended to found a college where the Spanish
tongue would be taughtand it was his wish that the book to be read
should be the History of Don Quixote. He also added that I should go
and be the rector of this college. I asked the bearer if His Majesty
had afforded a sum in aid of my travel expenses. He answeredNo, not
even in thought.

Then, brother,I repliedyou can return to your China, post
haste or at whatever haste you are bound to go, as I am not fit for so
long a travel and, besides being ill, I am very much without money,
while Emperor for Emperor and Monarch for Monarch, I have at Naples
the great Count of Lemos, who, without so many petty titles of
colleges and rectorships, sustains me, protects me and does me more
favour than I can wish for.

Thus I gave him his leave and I beg mine from youoffering Your
Excellency the "Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda a book I shall
finish within four months, Deo volente, and which will be either the
worst or the best that has been composed in our language, I mean of
those intended for entertainment; at which I repent of having called
it the worst, for, in the opinion of friends, it is bound to attain
the summit of possible quality. May Your Excellency return in such
health that is wished you; Persiles will be ready to kiss your hand
and I your feet, being as I am, Your Excellency's most humble servant.

From Madrid, this last day of October of the year one thousand six
hundred and fifteen.

At the service of Your Excellency:

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

Gof bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly
must thou be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find
there retaliation, scolding, and abuse against the author of the
second Don Quixote- I mean him who was, they say, begotten at
Tordesillas and born at Tarragona! Well then, the truth is, I am not
going to give thee that satisfaction; for, though injuries stir up
anger in humbler breasts, in mine the rule must admit of an exception.
Thou wouldst have me call him ass, fool, and malapert, but I have no


such intention; let his offence be his punishment, with his bread
let him eat it, and there's an end of it. What I cannot help taking
amiss is that he charges me with being old and one-handed, as if it
had been in my power to keep time from passing over me, or as if the
loss of my hand had been brought about in some tavern, and not on
the grandest occasion the past or present has seen, or the future
can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder's eye,
they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of those who know
where they were received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage
dead in battle than alive in flight; and so strongly is this my
feeling, that if now it were proposed to perform an impossibility
for me, I would rather have had my share in that mighty action, than
be free from my wounds this minute without having been present at
it. Those the soldier shows on his face and breast are stars that
direct others to the heaven of honour and ambition of merited
praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is not with grey
hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that commonly
improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me envious,
and explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for really
and truly, of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is holy,
noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely
to attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of
familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account
of him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for
I worship the genius of that person, and admire his works and his
unceasing and strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful to this
gentleman, the author, for saying that my novels are more satirical
than exemplary, but that they are good; for they could not be that
unless there was a little of everything in them.

I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and
keeping myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a
feeling that additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a
sufferer, and that what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be
very great, as he does not dare to come out into the open field and
broad daylight, but hides his name and disguises his country as if
he had been guilty of some lese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst
come to know him, tell him from me that I do not hold myself
aggrieved; for I know well what the temptations of the devil are,
and that one of the greatest is putting it into a man's head that he
can write and print a book by which he will get as much fame as money,
and as much money as fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in
your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story.

There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest
absurdities and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It
was this: he made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a
dog in the street, or wherever it might be, he with his foot held
one of its legs fast, and with his hand lifted up the other, and as
best he could fixed the tube where, by blowing, he made the dog as
round as a ball; then holding it in this position, he gave it a couple
of slaps on the belly, and let it go, saying to the bystanders (and
there were always plenty of them): Do your worships thinknow
that it is an easy thing to blow up a dog?"- Does your worship think
nowthat it is an easy thing to write a book?

And if this story does not suit himyou maydear readertell
him this onewhich is likewise of a madman and a dog.

In Cordova there was another madmanwhose way it was to carry a
piece of marble slab or a stonenot of the lighteston his headand
when he came upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and
let the weight fall right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage
barking and howlingwould run three streets without stopping. It so


happenedhoweverthat one of the dogs he discharged his load upon
was a cap-maker's dogof which his master was very fond. The stone
came down hitting it on the headthe dog raised a yell at the blow
the master saw the affair and was wrothand snatching up a
measuring-yard rushed out at the madman and did not leave a sound bone
in his bodyand at every stroke he gave him he saidYou dog, you
thief! my lurcher! Don't you see, you brute, that my dog is a
lurcher?and sorepeating the word "lurcher" again and againhe
sent the madman away beaten to a jelly. The madman took the lesson
to heartand vanishedand for more than a month never once showed
himself in public; but after that he came out again with his old trick
and a heavier load than ever. He came up to where there was a dogand
examining it very carefully without venturing to let the stone fall
he said: "This is a lurcher; ware!" In shortall the dogs he came
acrossbe they mastiffs or terriershe said were lurchers; and he
discharged no more stones. Maybe it will be the same with this
historian; that he will not venture another time to discharge the
weight of his wit in bookswhichbeing badare harder than
stones. Tell himtoothat I do not care a farthing for the threat he
holds out to me of depriving me of my profit by means of his book;
forto borrow from the famous interlude of "The Perendenga I say in
answer to him, Long life to my lord the Veintiquatroand Christ be
with us all." Long life to the great Conde de Lemoswhose Christian
charity and well-known generosity support me against all the strokes
of my curst fortune; and long life to the supreme benevolence of His
Eminence of ToledoDon Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; and what
matter if there be no printing-presses in the worldor if they
print more books against me than there are letters in the verses of
Mingo Revulgo! These two princesunsought by any adulation or
flattery of mineof their own goodness alonehave taken it upon them
to show me kindness and protect meand in this I consider myself
happier and richer than if Fortune had raised me to her greatest
height in the ordinary way. The poor man may retain honourbut not
the vicious; poverty may cast a cloud over nobilitybut cannot hide
it altogether; and as virtue of itself sheds a certain lighteven
though it be through the straits and chinks of penuryit wins the
esteem of lofty and noble spiritsand in consequence their
protection. Thou needst say no more to himnor will I say anything
more to theesave to tell thee to bear in mind that this Second
Part of "Don Quixote" which I offer thee is cut by the same
craftsman and from the same cloth as the Firstand that in it I
present thee Don Quixote continuedand at length dead and buried
so that no one may dare to bring forward any further evidence
against himfor that already produced is sufficient; and suffice
ittoothat some reputable person should have given an account of
all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the matter
again; for abundanceeven of good thingsprevents them from being
valued; and scarcityeven in the case of what is badconfers a
certain value. I was forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect
the "Persiles which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part
of Galatea."

CHAPTER I

OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE
ABOUT HIS MALADY

Cide Hamete Benengeliin the Second Part of this historyand third
sally of Don Quixotesays that the curate and the barber remained
nearly a month without seeing himlest they should recall or bring
back to his recollection what had taken place. They did not


howeveromit to visit his niece and housekeeperand charge them to
be careful to treat him with attentionand give him comforting things
to eatand such as were good for the heart and the brainwhence
it was plain to seeall his misfortune proceeded. The niece and
housekeeper replied that they did soand meant to do so with all
possible care and assiduityfor they could perceive that their master
was now and then beginning to show signs of being in his right mind.
This gave great satisfaction to the curate and the barberfor they
concluded they had taken the right course in carrying him off
enchanted on the ox-cartas has been described in the First Part of
this great as well as accurate historyin the last chapter thereof.
So they resolved to pay him a visit and test the improvement in his
conditionalthough they thought it almost impossible that there could
be any; and they agreed not to touch upon any point connected with
knight-errantry so as not to run the risk of reopening wounds which
were still so tender.

They came to see him consequentlyand found him sitting up in bed
in a green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo capand so withered and
dried up that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They
were very cordially received by him; they asked him after his
healthand he talked to them about himself very naturally and in very
well-chosen language. In the course of their conversation they fell to
discussing what they call State-craft and systems of government
correcting this abuse and condemning thatreforming one practice
and abolishing anothereach of the three setting up for a new
legislatora modern Lycurgusor a brand-new Solon; and so completely
did they remodel the Statethat they seemed to have thrust it into
a furnace and taken out something quite different from what they had
put in; and on all the subjects they dealt withDon Quixote spoke
with such good sense that the pair of examiners were fully convinced
that he was quite recovered and in his full senses.

The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could
not find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their
master so clear in his mind; the curatehoweverchanging his
original planwhich was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry
resolved to test Don Quixote's recovery thoroughlyand see whether it
were genuine or not; and sofrom one subject to anotherhe came at
last to talk of the news that had come from the capitalandamong
other thingshe said it was considered certain that the Turk was
coming down with a powerful fleetand that no one knew what his
purpose wasor when the great storm would burst; and that all
Christendom was in apprehension of thiswhich almost every year calls
us to armsand that his Majesty had made provision for the security
of the coasts of Naples and Sicily and the island of Malta.

To this Don Quixote repliedHis Majesty has acted like a prudent
warrior in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the
enemy may not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would
recommend him to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his
Majesty is very far from thinking of.

The moment the curate heard this he said to himselfGod keep
thee in his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art
precipitating thyself from the height of thy madness into the profound
abyss of thy simplicity.

But the barberwho had the same suspicion as the curateasked
Don Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said
ought to be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would
have to be added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions
that people were in the habit of offering to princes.


Mine, master shaver,said Don Quixotewill not be impertinent,
but, on the contrary, pertinent.

I don't mean that,said the barberbut that experience has shown
that all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty
are either impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to
the kingdom.

Mine, however,replied Don Quixoteis neither impossible nor
absurd, but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most
expeditious that could suggest itself to any projector's mind.

You take a long time to tell it, Senor Don Quixote,said the
curate.

I don't choose to tell it here, now,said Don Quixoteand have
it reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and
some other carry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble.

For my part,said the barberI give my word here and before
God that I will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or
earthly man- an oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who,
in the prelude, told the king of the thief who had robbed him of the
hundred gold crowns and his pacing mule.

I am not versed in stories,said Don Quixote; "but I know the oath
is a good onebecause I know the barber to be an honest fellow."

Even if he were not,said the curateI will go bail and answer
for him that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under
pain of paying any penalty that may be pronounced.

And who will be security for you, senor curate?said Don Quixote.

My profession,replied the curatewhich is to keep secrets.

Ods body!said Don Quixote at thiswhat more has his Majesty
to do but to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant
that are scattered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the
capital, for even if no more than half a dozen come, there may be
one among them who alone will suffice to destroy the entire might of
the Turk. Give me your attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new
thing for a single knight-errant to demolish an army of two hundred
thousand men, as if they all had but one throat or were made of
sugar paste? Nay, tell me, how many histories are there filled with
these marvels? If only (in an evil hour for me: I don't speak for
anyone else) the famous Don Belianis were alive now, or any one of the
innumerable progeny of Amadis of Gaul! If any these were alive
today, and were to come face to face with the Turk, by my faith, I
would not give much for the Turk's chance. But God will have regard
for his people, and will provide some one, who, if not so valiant as
the knights-errant of yore, at least will not be inferior to them in
spirit; but God knows what I mean, and I say no more.

Alas!exclaimed the niece at thismay I die if my master does
not want to turn knight-errant again;to which Don Quixote replied
A knight-errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when
he likes, and in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows
what I mean.But here the barber saidI ask your worships to give
me leave to tell a short story of something that happened in
Seville, which comes so pat to the purpose just now that I should like
greatly to tell it.Don Quixote gave him leaveand the rest prepared
to listenand he began thus:


In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had
placed there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in
canon law; but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of
most people that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate,
after some years of confinement, took it into his head that he was
sane and in his full senses, and under this impression wrote to the
Archbishop, entreating him earnestly, and in very correct language, to
have him released from the misery in which he was living; for by God's
mercy he had now recovered his lost reason, though his relations, in
order to enjoy his property, kept him there, and, in spite of the
truth, would make him out to be mad until his dying day. The
Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written letters, directed
one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the truth
of the licentiate's statements, and to have an interview with the
madman himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to
take him out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and
the governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that though
he often spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end
break out into nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced
all the sensible things he had said before, as might be easily
tested by talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the experiment,
and obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an hour or
more, during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that
was incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally
that the chaplain was compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other
things, he said the governor was against him, not to lose the presents
his relations made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid
intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his misfortune was his
large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies disparaged and
threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in turning him from
a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in such a way that he
cast suspicion on the governor, and made his relations appear covetous
and heartless, and himself so rational that the chaplain determined to
take him away with him that the Archbishop might see him, and
ascertain for himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this
conviction, the worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the
clothes in which the licentiate had entered the house given to him.
The governor again bade him beware of what he was doing, as the
licentiate was beyond a doubt still mad; but all his cautions and
warnings were unavailing to dissuade the chaplain from taking him
away. The governor, seeing that it was the order of the Archbishop,
obeyed, and they dressed the licentiate in his own clothes, which were
new and decent. He, as soon as he saw himself clothed like one in
his senses, and divested of the appearance of a madman, entreated
the chaplain to permit him in charity to go and take leave of his
comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he would go with him to see
what madmen there were in the house; so they went upstairs, and with
them some of those who were present. Approaching a cage in which there
was a furious madman, though just at that moment calm and quiet, the
licentiate said to him, 'Brother, think if you have any commands for
me, for I am going home, as God has been pleased, in his infinite
goodness and mercy, without any merit of mine, to restore me my
reason. I am now cured and in my senses, for with God's power
nothing is impossible. Have strong hope and trust in him, for as he
has restored me to my original condition, so likewise he will
restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some
good things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you
know I am convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all this
madness of ours comes of having the stomach empty and the brains
full of wind. Take courage! take courage! for despondency in
misfortune breaks down health and brings on death.'

To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage
opposite that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up


from an old mat on which he lay stark nakedhe asked in a loud
voice who it was that was going away cured and in his senses. The
licentiate answered'It is Ibrotherwho am going; I have now no
need to remain here any longerfor which I return infinite thanks
to Heaven that has had so great mercy upon me.'

'Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don't let the devil
deceive you,' replied the madman. 'Keep quiet, stay where you are, and
you will save yourself the trouble of coming back.'

'I know I am cured' returned the licentiate'and that I shall not
have to go stations again.'

'You cured!' said the madman; 'well, we shall see; God be with you;
but I swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth,
that for this crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in
releasing you from this house, and treating you as if you were in your
senses, I shall have to inflict such a punishment on it as will be
remembered for ages and ages, amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable
little licentiate, that I can do it, being, as I say, Jupiter the
Thunderer, who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with which I am able
and am wont to threaten and lay waste the world? But in one way only
will I punish this ignorant town, and that is by not raining upon
it, nor on any part of its district or territory, for three whole
years, to be reckoned from the day and moment when this threat is
pronounced. Thou free, thou cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I
disordered, I bound! I will as soon think of sending rain as of
hanging myself.

Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of
the madman; but our licentiateturning to the chaplain and seizing
him by the handssaid to him'Be not uneasysenor; attach no
importance to what this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will
not send rainIwho am Neptunethe father and god of the waters
will rain as often as it pleases me and may be needful.'

The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter
the chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, 'For all that, Senor
Neptune, it will not do to vex Senor Jupiter; remain where you are,
and some other day, when there is a better opportunity and more
time, we will come back for you.' So they stripped the licentiate, and
he was left where he was; and that's the end of the story.

So that's the story, master barber,said Don Quixotewhich
came in so pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it?
Master shaver, master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a
sieve. Is it possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit
with wit, valour with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth,
are always odious and unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the
god of the waters, nor do I try to make anyone take me for an astute
man, for I am not one. My only endeavour is to convince the world of
the mistake it makes in not reviving in itself the happy time when the
order of knight-errantry was in the field. But our depraved age does
not deserve to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed when
knights-errant took upon their shoulders the defence of kingdoms,
the protection of damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the
chastisement of the proud, and the recompense of the humble. With
the knights of these days, for the most part, it is the damask,
brocade, and rich stuffs they wear, that rustle as they go, not the
chain mail of their armour; no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open
field exposed to the inclemency of heaven, and in full panoply from
head to foot; no one now takes a nap, as they call it, without drawing
his feet out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, as the
knights-errant used to do; no one now, issuing from the wood,


penetrates yonder mountains, and then treads the barren, lonely
shore of the sea- mostly a tempestuous and stormy one- and finding
on the beach a little bark without oars, sail, mast, or tackling of
any kind, in the intrepidity of his heart flings himself into it and
commits himself to the wrathful billows of the deep sea, that one
moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge him into the
depths; and opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds
himself, when he least expects it, three thousand leagues and more
away from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore in a
remote and unknown land has adventures that deserve to be written, not
on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy,
indolence over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and
theory over practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the
golden ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more
virtuous and more valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more
discreet than Palmerin of England? Who more gracious and easy than
Tirante el Blanco? Who more courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who
more slashed or slashing than Don Belianis? Who more intrepid than
Perion of Gaul? Who more ready to face danger than Felixmarte of
Hircania? Who more sincere than Esplandian? Who more impetuous than
Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold than Rodamonte? Who more
prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than Reinaldos? Who more
invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and courteous than
Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present day are
descended, according to Turpin in his 'Cosmography.' All these
knights, and many more that I could name, senor curate, were
knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or such as
these, I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty
would find himself well served and would save great expense, and the
Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am,
as the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber
has told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I
please. I say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him.

Indeed, Senor Don Quixote,said the barberI did not mean it
in that way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your
worship ought not to be vexed.

As to whether I ought to be vexed or not,returned Don QuixoteI
myself am the best judge.

Hereupon the curate observedI have hardly said a word as yet; and
I would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote
has said, that worries and works my conscience.

The senor curate has leave for more than that,returned Don
Quixoteso he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to
have a doubt on one's conscience.

Well then, with that permission,said the curateI say my
doubt is that, all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole
pack of knights-errant you, Senor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were
really and truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever lived in the
world; on the contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and
falsehood, and dreams told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still
half asleep.

That is another mistake,replied Don Quixoteinto which many
have fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in
the world, and I have often, with divers people and on divers
occasions, tried to expose this almost universal error to the light of
truth. Sometimes I have not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I
have, supporting it upon the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so
clear that I can almost say I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of


Gaul, who was a man of lofty stature, fair complexion, with a handsome
though black beard, of a countenance between gentle and stern in
expression, sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to put it
away from him; and as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think,
portray and describe all the knights-errant that are in all the
histories in the world; for by the perception I have that they were
what their histories describe, and by the deeds they did and the
dispositions they displayed, it is possible, with the aid of sound
philosophy, to deduce their features, complexion, and stature.

How big, in your worship's opinion, may the giant Morgante have
been, Senor Don Quixote?asked the barber.

With regard to giants,replied Don Quixoteopinions differ as to
whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy
Scripture, which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that
there were, when it gives us the history of that big Philistine,
Goliath, who was seven cubits and a half in height, which is a huge
size. Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there have been found
leg-bones and arm-bones so large that their size makes it plain that
their owners were giants, and as tall as great towers; geometry puts
this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with
certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot
have been very tall; and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I
find in the history in which his deeds are particularly mentioned,
that he frequently slept under a roof and as he found houses to
contain him, it is clear that his bulk could not have been anything
excessive.

That is true,said the curateand yielding to the enjoyment of
hearing such nonsensehe asked him what was his notion of the
features of Reinaldos of Montalbanand Don Roland and the rest of the
Twelve Peers of Francefor they were all knights-errant.

As for Reinaldos,replied Don QuixoteI venture to say that he
was broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat
prominent eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the
society of thieves and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or
Rotolando, or Orlando (for the histories call him by all these names),
I am of opinion, and hold, that he was of middle height,
broad-shouldered, rather bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned,
red-bearded, with a hairy body and a severe expression of countenance,
a man of few words, but very polite and well-bred.

If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has
described,said the curateit is no wonder that the fair Lady
Angelica rejected him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and
grace of that budding-bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered
herself; and she showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle
softness of Medoro rather than the roughness of Roland.

That Angelica, senor curate,returned Don Quixotewas a giddy
damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of
her vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a
thousand gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a
smooth-faced sprig of a page, without fortune or fame, except such
reputation for gratitude as the affection he bore his friend got for
him. The great poet who sang her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not
caring to sing her adventures after her contemptible surrender
(which probably were not over and above creditable), dropped her where
he says:

How she received the sceptre of Cathay,
Some bard of defter quill may sing some day;


and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called
vates, that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for
since then a famous Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears,
and another famous and rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty.

Tell me, Senor Don Quixote,said the barber hereamong all those
who praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady
Angelica?

I can well believe,replied Don Quixotethat if Sacripante or
Roland had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for
it is naturally the way with poets who have been scorned and
rejected by their ladies, whether fictitious or not, in short by those
whom they select as the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge themselves
in satires and libels- a vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous
hearts; but up to the present I have not heard of any defamatory verse
against the Lady Angelica, who turned the world upside down.

Strange,said the curate; but at this moment they heard the
housekeeper and the niecewho had previously withdrawn from the
conversationexclaiming aloud in the courtyardand at the noise they
all ran out.

CHAPTER II

WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD
WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECEAND HOUSEKEEPERTOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL
MATTERS

The history relates that the outcry Don Quixotethe curateand the
barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to
Sanchowho was striving to force his way in to see Don Quixote
while they held the door against himWhat does the vagabond want
in this house? Be off to your own, brother, for it is you, and no
one else, that delude my master, and lead him astray, and take him
tramping about the country.

To which Sancho repliedDevil's own housekeeper! it is I who am
deluded, and led astray, and taken tramping about the country, and not
thy master! He has carried me all over the world, and you are mightily
mistaken. He enticed me away from home by a trick, promising me an
island, which I am still waiting for.

May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho,said the
niece; "What are islands? Is it something to eatglutton and
gormandiser that thou art?"

It is not something to eat,replied Sanchobut something to
govern and rule, and better than four cities or four judgeships at
court.

For all that,said the housekeeperyou don't enter here, you bag
of mischief and sack of knavery; go govern your house and dig your
seed-patch, and give over looking for islands or shylands.

The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to the words
of the three; but Don Quixoteuneasy lest Sancho should blab and
blurt out a whole heap of mischievous stupiditiesand touch upon
points that might not be altogether to his creditcalled to him and
made the other two hold their tongues and let him come in. Sancho


enteredand the curate and the barber took their leave of Don
Quixoteof whose recovery they despaired when they saw how wedded
he was to his crazy ideasand how saturated with the nonsense of
his unlucky chivalry; and said the curate to the barberYou will
see, gossip, that when we are least thinking of it, our gentleman will
be off once more for another flight.

I have no doubt of it,returned the barber; "but I do not wonder
so much at the madness of the knight as at the simplicity of the
squirewho has such a firm belief in all that about the island
that I suppose all the exposures that could be imagined would not
get it out of his head."

God help them,said the curate; "and let us be on the look-out
to see what comes of all these absurdities of the knight and squire
for it seems as if they had both been cast in the same mouldand
the madness of the master without the simplicity of the man would
not be worth a farthing."

That is true,said the barberand I should like very much to
know what the pair are talking about at this moment.

I promise you,said the curatethe niece or the housekeeper will
tell us by-and-by, for they are not the ones to forget to listen.

Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with Sanchoand
when they were alone he said to himIt grieves me greatly, Sancho,
that thou shouldst have said, and sayest, that I took thee out of
thy cottage, when thou knowest I did not remain in my house. We
sallied forth together, we took the road together, we wandered
abroad together; we have had the same fortune and the same luck; if
they blanketed thee once, they belaboured me a hundred times, and that
is the only advantage I have of thee.

That was only reasonable,replied Sanchofor, by what your
worship says, misfortunes belong more properly to knights-errant
than to their squires.

Thou art mistaken, Sancho,said Don Quixoteaccording to the
maxim quando caput dolet, &c.

I don't understand any language but my own,said Sancho.

I mean to say,said Don Quixotethat when the head suffers all
the members suffer; and so, being thy lord and master, I am thy
head, and thou a part of me as thou art my servant; and therefore
any evil that affects or shall affect me should give thee pain, and
what affects thee give pain to me.

It should be so,said Sancho; "but when I was blanketed as a
membermy head was on the other side of the walllooking on while
I was flying through the airand did not feel any pain whatever;
and if the members are obliged to feel the suffering of the headit
should be obliged to feel their sufferings."

Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat I did
not feel when they were blanketing thee? If thou dost, thou must not
say so or think so, for I felt more pain then in spirit than thou
didst in body. But let us put that aside for the present, for we shall
have opportunities enough for considering and settling the point; tell
me, Sancho my friend, what do they say about me in the village here?
What do the common people think of me? What do the hidalgos? What do
the caballeros? What do they say of my valour; of my achievements;
of my courtesy? How do they treat the task I have undertaken in


reviving and restoring to the world the now forgotten order of
chivalry? In short, Sancho, I would have thee tell me all that has
come to thine ears on this subject; and thou art to tell me, without
adding anything to the good or taking away anything from the bad;
for it is the duty of loyal vassals to tell the truth to their lords
just as it is and in its proper shape, not allowing flattery to add to
it or any idle deference to lessen it. And I would have thee know,
Sancho, that if the naked truth, undisguised by flattery, came to
the ears of princes, times would be different, and other ages would be
reckoned iron ages more than ours, which I hold to be the golden of
these latter days. Profit by this advice, Sancho, and report to me
clearly and faithfully the truth of what thou knowest touching what
I have demanded of thee.


That I will do with all my heart, master,replied Sancho
provided your worship will not be vexed at what I say, as you wish me
to say it out in all its nakedness, without putting any more clothes
on it than it came to my knowledge in.


I will not be vexed at all,returned Don Quixote; "thou mayest
speak freelySanchoand without any beating about the bush."


Well then,said hefirst of all, I have to tell you that the
common people consider your worship a mighty great madman, and me no
less a fool. The hidalgos say that, not keeping within the bounds of
your quality of gentleman, you have assumed the 'Don,' and made a
knight of yourself at a jump, with four vine-stocks and a couple of
acres of land, and never a shirt to your back. The caballeros say they
do not want to have hidalgos setting up in opposition to them,
particularly squire hidalgos who polish their own shoes and darn their
black stockings with green silk.


That,said Don Quixotedoes not apply to me, for I always go
well dressed and never patched; ragged I may be, but ragged more
from the wear and tear of arms than of time.


As to your worship's valour, courtesy, accomplishments, and task,
there is a variety of opinions. Some say, 'mad but droll;' others,
'valiant but unlucky;' others, 'courteous but meddling,' and then they
go into such a number of things that they don't leave a whole bone
either in your worship or in myself.


Recollect, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat wherever virtue
exists in an eminent degree it is persecuted. Few or none of the
famous men that have lived escaped being calumniated by malice. Julius
Caesar, the boldest, wisest, and bravest of captains, was charged with
being ambitious, and not particularly cleanly in his dress, or pure in
his morals. Of Alexander, whose deeds won him the name of Great,
they say that he was somewhat of a drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the
many labours, it is said that he was lewd and luxurious. Of Don
Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, it was whispered that he was
over quarrelsome, and of his brother that he was lachrymose. So
that, O Sancho, amongst all these calumnies against good men, mine may
be let pass, since they are no more than thou hast said.


That's just where it is, body of my father!


Is there more, then?asked Don Quixote.


There's the tail to be skinned yet,said Sancho; "all so far is
cakes and fancy bread; but if your worship wants to know all about the
calumnies they bring against youI will fetch you one this instant
who can tell you the whole of them without missing an atom; for last
night the son of Bartholomew Carrascowho has been studying at



Salamancacame home after having been made a bachelorand when I
went to welcome himhe told me that your worship's history is already
abroad in bookswith the title of THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MANCHA; and he says they mention me in it by my own name of
Sancho Panzaand the lady Dulcinea del Toboso tooand divers
things that happened to us when we were alone; so that I crossed
myself in my wonder how the historian who wrote them down could have
known them."

I promise thee, Sancho,said Don Quixotethe author of our
history will be some sage enchanter; for to such nothing that they
choose to write about is hidden.

What!said Sanchoa sage and an enchanter! Why, the bachelor
Samson Carrasco (that is the name of him I spoke of) says the author
of the history is called Cide Hamete Berengena.

That is a Moorish name,said Don Quixote.

May be so,replied Sancho; "for I have heard say that the Moors
are mostly great lovers of berengenas."

Thou must have mistaken the surname of this 'Cide'- which means
in Arabic 'Lord'- Sancho,observed Don Quixote.

Very likely,replied Sanchobut if your worship wishes me to
fetch the bachelor I will go for him in a twinkling.

Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend,said Don Quixote
for what thou hast told me has amazed me, and I shall not eat a
morsel that will agree with me until I have heard all about it.

Then I am off for him,said Sancho; and leaving his master he went
in quest of the bachelorwith whom he returned in a short time
andall three togetherthey had a very droll colloquy.

CHAPTER III

OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
SANCHO PANZAAND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO

Don Quixote remained very deep in thoughtwaiting for the
bachelor Carrascofrom whom he was to hear how he himself had been
put into a book as Sancho said; and he could not persuade himself that
any such history could be in existencefor the blood of the enemies
he had slain was not yet dry on the blade of his swordand now they
wanted to make out that his mighty achievements were going about in
print. For all thathe fancied some sageeither a friend or an
enemymightby the aid of magichave given them to the press; if
a friendin order to magnify and exalt them above the most famous
ever achieved by any knight-errant; if an enemyto bring them to
naught and degrade them below the meanest ever recorded of any low
squirethough as he said to himselfthe achievements of squires
never were recorded. Ifhoweverit were the fact that such a history
were in existenceit must necessarilybeing the story of a
knight-errantbe grandiloquentloftyimposinggrand and true. With
this he comforted himself somewhatthough it made him uncomfortable
to think that the author was a Moorjudging by the title of "Cide;"
and that no truth was to be looked for from Moorsas they are all
impostorscheatsand schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt
with his love affairs in some indecorous fashionthat might tend to


the discredit and prejudice of the purity of his lady Dulcinea del
Toboso; he would have had him set forth the fidelity and respect he
had always observed towards herspurning queensempressesand
damsels of all sortsand keeping in check the impetuosity of his
natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up in these and divers other
cogitationshe was found by Sancho and Carrascowhom Don Quixote
received with great courtesy.

The bachelorthough he was called Samsonwas of no great bodily
sizebut he was a very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion
but very sharp-wittedsomewhere about four-and-twenty years of age
with a round facea flat noseand a large mouthall indications
of a mischievous disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of
this he gave a sample as soon as he saw Don Quixoteby falling on his
knees before him and sayingLet me kiss your mightiness's hand,
Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, for, by the habit of St. Peter that
I wear, though I have no more than the first four orders, your worship
is one of the most famous knights-errant that have ever been, or
will be, all the world over. A blessing on Cide Hamete Benengeli,
who has written the history of your great deeds, and a double blessing
on that connoisseur who took the trouble of having it translated out
of the Arabic into our Castilian vulgar tongue for the universal
entertainment of the people!

Don Quixote made him riseand saidSo, then, it is true that
there is a history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage who
wrote it?

So true is it, senor,said Samsonthat my belief is there are
more than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in print this
very day. Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they
have been printed, and moreover there is a report that it is being
printed at Antwerp, and I am persuaded there will not be a country
or language in which there will not be a translation of it.

One of the things,here observed Don Quixotethat ought to
give most pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is to find himself in
his lifetime in print and in type, familiar in people's mouths with
a good name; I say with a good name, for if it be the opposite, then
there is no death to be compared to it.

If it goes by good name and fame,said the bacheloryour worship
alone bears away the palm from all the knights-errant; for the Moor in
his own language, and the Christian in his, have taken care to set
before us your gallantry, your high courage in encountering dangers,
your fortitude in adversity, your patience under misfortunes as well
as wounds, the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your
worship and my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso-

I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Dona,observed Sancho
here; "nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here already
the history is wrong."

That is not an objection of any importance,replied Carrasco.

Certainly not,said Don Quixote; "but tell mesenor bachelor
what deeds of mine are they that are made most of in this history?"

On that point,replied the bacheloropinions differ, as tastes
do; some swear by the adventure of the windmills that your worship
took to be Briareuses and giants; others by that of the fulling mills;
one cries up the description of the two armies that afterwards took
the appearance of two droves of sheep; another that of the dead body
on its way to be buried at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the


galley slaves is the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up
to the affair with the Benedictine giants, and the battle with the
valiant Biscayan.

Tell me, senor bachelor,said Sancho at this pointdoes the
adventure with the Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went
hankering after dainties?

The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle,replied Samson; "he
tells all and sets down everythingeven to the capers that worthy
Sancho cut in the blanket."

I cut no capers in the blanket,returned Sancho; "in the air I
didand more of them than I liked."

There is no human history in the world, I suppose,said Don
Quixotethat has not its ups and downs, but more than others such as
deal with chivalry, for they can never be entirely made up of
prosperous adventures.

For all that,replied the bachelorthere are those who have read
the history who say they would have been glad if the author had left
out some of the countless cudgellings that were inflicted on Senor Don
Quixote in various encounters.

That's where the truth of the history comes in,said Sancho.

At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in
silence,observed Don Quixote; "for there is no need of recording
events which do not change or affect the truth of a historyif they
tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. AEneas was not in truth
and earnest so pious as Virgil represents himnor Ulysses so wise
as Homer describes him."

That is true,said Samson; "but it is one thing to write as a
poetanother to write as a historian; the poet may describe or sing
thingsnot as they werebut as they ought to have been; but the
historian has to write them downnot as they ought to have been
but as they werewithout adding anything to the truth or taking
anything from it."

Well then,said Sanchoif this senor Moor goes in for telling
the truth, no doubt among my master's drubbings mine are to be
found; for they never took the measure of his worship's shoulders
without doing the same for my whole body; but I have no right to
wonder at that, for, as my master himself says, the members must share
the pain of the head.

You are a sly dog, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "i' faithyou have
no want of memory when you choose to remember."

If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me,said
Sanchomy weals would not let me, for they are still fresh on my
ribs.

Hush, Sancho,said Don Quixoteand don't interrupt the bachelor,
whom I entreat to go on and tell all that is said about me in this
history.

And about me,said Sanchofor they say, too, that I am one of
the principal presonages in it.

Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho,said Samson.


What! Another word-catcher!said Sancho; "if that's to be the
way we shall not make an end in a lifetime."

May God shorten mine, Sancho,returned the bachelorif you are
not the second person in the history, and there are even some who
would rather hear you talk than the cleverest in the whole book;
though there are some, too, who say you showed yourself over-credulous
in believing there was any possibility in the government of that
island offered you by Senor Don Quixote.

There is still sunshine on the wall,said Don Quixote; "and when
Sancho is somewhat more advanced in lifewith the experience that
years bringhe will be fitter and better qualified for being a
governor than he is at present."

By God, master,said Sanchothe island that I cannot govern with
the years I have, I'll not be able to govern with the years of
Methuselah; the difficulty is that the said island keeps its
distance somewhere, I know not where; and not that there is any want
of head in me to govern it.

Leave it to God, Sancho,said Don Quixotefor all will be and
perhaps better than you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but by
God's will.

That is true,said Samson; "and if it be God's willthere will
not be any want of a thousand islandsmuch less onefor Sancho to
govern."

I have seen governors in these parts,said Sanchothat are not
to be compared to my shoe-sole; and for all that they are called 'your
lordship' and served on silver.

Those are not governors of islands,observed Samsonbut of other
governments of an easier kind: those that govern islands must at least
know grammar.

I could manage the gram well enough,said Sancho; "but for the mar
I have neither leaning nor likingfor I don't know what it is; but
leaving this matter of the government in God's handsto send me
wherever it may be most to his serviceI may tell yousenor bachelor
Samson Carrascoit has pleased me beyond measure that the author of
this history should have spoken of me in such a way that what is
said of me gives no offence; foron the faith of a true squireif he
had said anything about me that was at all unbecoming an old
Christiansuch as I amthe deaf would have heard of it."

That would be working miracles,said Samson.

Miracles or no miracles,said Sancholet everyone mind how he
speaks or writes about people, and not set down at random the first
thing that comes into his head.

One of the faults they find with this history,said the
bacheloris that its author inserted in it a novel called 'The
Ill-advised Curiosity;' not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it is
out of place and has nothing to do with the history of his worship
Senor Don Quixote.

I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the
baskets,said Sancho.

Then, I say,said Don Quixotethe author of my history was no
sage, but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard and heedless


way, set about writing it, let it turn out as it might, just as
Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, used to do, who, when they asked him
what he was painting, answered, 'What it may turn out.' Sometimes he
would paint a cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to
write alongside of it in Gothic letters, 'This is a cock; and so it
will be with my history, which will require a commentary to make it
intelligible.

No fear of that,returned Samsonfor it is so plain that there
is nothing in it to puzzle over; the children turn its leaves, the
young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise
it; in a word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by heart by
people of all sorts, that the instant they see any lean hack, they
say, 'There goes Rocinante.' And those that are most given to
reading it are the pages, for there is not a lord's ante-chamber where
there is not a 'Don Quixote' to be found; one takes it up if another
lays it down; this one pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In
short, the said history is the most delightful and least injurious
entertainment that has been hitherto seen, for there is not to be
found in the whole of it even the semblance of an immodest word, or
a thought that is other than Catholic.

To write in any other way,said Don Quixotewould not be to
write truth, but falsehood, and historians who have recourse to
falsehood ought to be burned, like those who coin false money; and I
know not what could have led the author to have recourse to novels and
irrelevant stories, when he had so much to write about in mine; no
doubt he must have gone by the proverb 'with straw or with hay,
&c.,' for by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears,
my lofty purposes, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as
large, or larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up. In
fact, the conclusion I arrive at, senor bachelor, is, that to write
histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a
ripe understanding. To give expression to humour, and write in a
strain of graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The
cleverest character in comedy is the clown, for he who would make
people take him for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a
sacred thing, for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God
is; but notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books
broadcast on the world as if they were fritters.

There is no book so bad but it has something good in it,said
the bachelor.

No doubt of that,replied Don Quixote; "but it often happens
that those who have acquired and attained a well-deserved reputation
by their writingslose it entirelyor damage it in some degreewhen
they give them to the press."

The reason of that,said Samsonis, that as printed works are
examined leisurely, their faults are easily seen; and the greater
the fame of the writer, the more closely are they scrutinised. Men
famous for their genius, great poets, illustrious historians, are
always, or most commonly, envied by those who take a particular
delight and pleasure in criticising the writings of others, without
having produced any of their own.

That is no wonder,said Don Quixote; "for there are many divines
who are no good for the pulpitbut excellent in detecting the defects
or excesses of those who preach."

All that is true, Senor Don Quixote,said Carrasco; "but I wish
such fault-finders were more lenient and less exactingand did not
pay so much attention to the spots on the bright sun of the work


they grumble at; for if aliquando bonus dormitat Homerusthey
should remember how long he remained awake to shed the light of his
work with as little shade as possible; and perhaps it may be that what
they find fault with may be molesthat sometimes heighten the
beauty of the face that bears them; and so I say very great is the
risk to which he who prints a book exposes himselffor of all
impossibilities the greatest is to write one that will satisfy and
please all readers."

That which treats of me must have pleased few,said Don Quixote.

Quite the contrary,said the bachelor; "foras stultorum
infinitum est numerusinnumerable are those who have relished the
said history; but some have brought a charge against the author's
memoryinasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief was who stole
Sancho's Dapple; for it is not stated therebut only to be inferred
from what is set downthat he was stolenand a little farther on
we see Sancho mounted on the same asswithout any reappearance of it.
They saytoothat he forgot to state what Sancho did with those
hundred crowns that he found in the valise in the Sierra Morenaas he
never alludes to them againand there are many who would be glad to
know what he did with themor what he spent them onfor it is one of
the serious omissions of the work."

Senor Samson, I am not in a humour now for going into accounts or
explanations,said Sancho; "for there's a sinking of the stomach come
over meand unless I doctor it with a couple of sups of the old stuff
it will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. I have it at homeand
my old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I'll come backand
will answer you and all the world every question you may choose to
askas well about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the
hundred crowns;" and without another word or waiting for a reply he
made off home.

Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance
with him. The bachelor accepted the invitation and remaineda
couple of young pigeons were added to the ordinary fareat dinner
they talked chivalryCarrasco fell in with his host's humourthe
banquet came to an endthey took their afternoon sleepSancho
returnedand their conversation was resumed.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND
QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCOTOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING

Sancho came back to Don Quixote's houseand returning to the late
subject of conversationhe saidAs to what Senor Samson said,
that he would like to know by whom, or how, or when my ass was stolen,
I say in reply that the same night we went into the Sierra Morena,
flying from the Holy Brotherhood after that unlucky adventure of the
galley slaves, and the other of the corpse that was going to
Segovia, my master and I ensconced ourselves in a thicket, and
there, my master leaning on his lance, and I seated on my Dapple,
battered and weary with the late frays we fell asleep as if it had
been on four feather mattresses; and I in particular slept so sound,
that, whoever he was, he was able to come and prop me up on four
stakes, which he put under the four corners of the pack-saddle in such
a way that he left me mounted on it, and took away Dapple from under
me without my feeling it.


That is an easy matter,said Don Quixoteand it is no new
occurrence, for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege
of Albracca; the famous thief, Brunello, by the same contrivance, took
his horse from between his legs.

Day came,continued Sanchoand the moment I stirred the stakes
gave way and I fell to the ground with a mighty come down; I looked
about for the ass, but could not see him; the tears rushed to my
eyes and I raised such a lamentation that, if the author of our
history has not put it in, he may depend upon it he has left out a
good thing. Some days after, I know not how many, travelling with
her ladyship the Princess Micomicona, I saw my ass, and mounted upon
him, in the dress of a gipsy, was that Gines de Pasamonte, the great
rogue and rascal that my master and I freed from the chain.

That is not where the mistake is,replied Samson; "it isthat
before the ass has turned upthe author speaks of Sancho as being
mounted on it."

I don't know what to say to that,said Sanchounless that the
historian made a mistake, or perhaps it might be a blunder of the
printer's.

No doubt that's it,said Samson; "but what became of the hundred
crowns? Did they vanish?"

To which Sancho answeredI spent them for my own good, and my
wife's, and my children's, and it is they that have made my wife
bear so patiently all my wanderings on highways and byways, in the
service of my master, Don Quixote; for if after all this time I had
come back to the house without a rap and without the ass, it would
have been a poor look-out for me; and if anyone wants to know anything
more about me, here I am, ready to answer the king himself in
person; and it is no affair of anyone's whether I took or did not
take, whether I spent or did not spend; for the whacks that were given
me in these journeys were to be paid for in money, even if they were
valued at no more than four maravedis apiece, another hundred crowns
would not pay me for half of them. Let each look to himself and not
try to make out white black, and black white; for each of us is as God
made him, aye, and often worse.

I will take care,said Carrascoto impress upon the author of
the history that, if he prints it again, he must not forget what
worthy Sancho has said, for it will raise it a good span higher.

Is there anything else to correct in the history, senor
bachelor?asked Don Quixote.

No doubt there is,replied he; "but not anything that will be of
the same importance as those I have mentioned."

Does the author promise a second part at all?said Don Quixote.

He does promise one,replied Samson; "but he says he has not found
itnor does he know who has got it; and we cannot say whether it will
appear or not; and soon that headas some say that no second part
has ever been goodand others that enough has been already written
about Don Quixoteit is thought there will be no second part;
though somewho are jovial rather than saturninesay'Let us have
more Quixotadeslet Don Quixote charge and Sancho chatterand no
matter what it may turn outwe shall be satisfied with that.'"

And what does the author mean to do?said Don Quixote.


What?replied Samson; "whyas soon as he has found the history
which he is now searching for with extraordinary diligencehe will at
once give it to the pressmoved more by the profit that may accrue to
him from doing so than by any thought of praise."

Whereat Sancho observedThe author looks for money and profit,
does he? It will he a wonder if he succeeds, for it will be only
hurry, hurry, with him, like the tailor on Easter Eve; and works
done in a hurry are never finished as perfectly as they ought to be.
Let master Moor, or whatever he is, pay attention to what he is doing,
and I and my master will give him as much grouting ready to his
hand, in the way of adventures and accidents of all sorts, as would
make up not only one second part, but a hundred. The good man fancies,
no doubt, that we are fast asleep in the straw here, but let him
hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which foot it is we go
lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my advice, we
would be now afield, redressing outrages and righting wrongs, as is
the use and custom of good knights-errant.

Sancho had hardly uttered these words when the neighing of Rocinante
fell upon their earswhich neighing Don Quixote accepted as a happy
omenand he resolved to make another sally in three or four days from
that time. Announcing his intention to the bachelorhe asked his
advice as to the quarter in which he ought to commence his expedition
and the bachelor replied that in his opinion he ought to go to the
kingdom of Aragonand the city of Saragossawhere there were to be
certain solemn joustings at the festival of St. Georgeat which he
might win renown above all the knights of Aragonwhich would be
winning it above all the knights of the world. He commended his very
praiseworthy and gallant resolutionbut admonished him to proceed
with greater caution in encountering dangersbecause his life did not
belong to himbut to all those who had need of him to protect and aid
them in their misfortunes.

There's where it is, what I abominate, Senor Samson,said Sancho
here; "my master will attack a hundred armed men as a greedy boy would
half a dozen melons. Body of the worldsenor bachelor! there is a
time to attack and a time to retreatand it is not to be always
'Santiagoand close Spain!' MoreoverI have heard it said (and I
think by my master himselfif I remember rightly) that the mean of
valour lies between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; and if
that be soI don't want him to fly without having good reasonor
to attack when the odds make it better not. Butabove all thingsI
warn my master that if he is to take me with him it must be on the
condition that he is to do all the fightingand that I am not to be
called upon to do anything except what concerns keeping him clean
and comfortable; in this I will dance attendance on him readily; but
to expect me to draw swordeven against rascally churls of the
hatchet and hoodis idle. I don't set up to be a fighting man
Senor Samsonbut only the best and most loyal squire that ever served
knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixotein consideration of my
many faithful servicesis pleased to give me some island of the
many his worship says one may stumble on in these partsI will take
it as a great favour; and if he does not give it to meI was born
like everyone elseand a man must not live in dependence on anyone
except God; and what is moremy bread will taste as welland perhaps
even betterwithout a government than if I were a governor; and how
do I know but that in these governments the devil may have prepared
some trip for meto make me lose my footing and fall and knock my
grinders out? Sancho I was born and Sancho I mean to die. But for
all thatif heaven were to make me a fair offer of an island or
something else of the kindwithout much trouble and without much
riskI am not such a fool as to refuse it; for they saytoo'when


they offer thee a heiferrun with a halter; and 'when good luck comes
to theetake it in.'"

Brother Sancho,said Carrascoyou have spoken like a
professor; but, for all that, put your trust in God and in Senor Don
Quixote, for he will give you a kingdom, not to say an island.

It is all the same, be it more or be it less,replied Sancho;
though I can tell Senor Carrasco that my master would not throw the
kingdom he might give me into a sack all in holes; for I have felt
my own pulse and I find myself sound enough to rule kingdoms and
govern islands; and I have before now told my master as much.

Take care, Sancho,said Samson; "honours change mannersand
perhaps when you find yourself a governor you won't know the mother
that bore you."

That may hold good of those that are born in the ditches,said
Sanchonot of those who have the fat of an old Christian four
fingers deep on their souls, as I have. Nay, only look at my
disposition, is that likely to show ingratitude to anyone?

God grant it,said Don Quixote; "we shall see when the
government comes; and I seem to see it already."

He then begged the bachelorif he were a poetto do him the favour
of composing some verses for him conveying the farewell he meant to
take of his lady Dulcinea del Tobosoand to see that a letter of
her name was placed at the beginning of each lineso thatat the end
of the versesDulcinea del Tobosomight be read by putting together
the first letters. The bachelor replied that although he was not one
of the famous poets of Spainwho werethey saidonly three and a
halfhe would not fail to compose the required verses; though he
saw a great difficulty in the taskas the letters which made up the
name were seventeen; soif he made four ballad stanzas of four
lines eachthere would be a letter overand if he made them of five
what they called decimas or redondillasthere were three letters
short; nevertheless he would try to drop a letter as well as he could
so that the name "Dulcinea del Toboso" might be got into four ballad
stanzas.

It must be, by some means or other,said Don Quixotefor
unless the name stands there plain and manifest, no woman would
believe the verses were made for her.

They agreed upon thisand that the departure should take place in
three days from that time. Don Quixote charged the bachelor to keep it
a secretespecially from the curate and Master Nicholasand from his
niece and the housekeeperlest they should prevent the execution of
his praiseworthy and valiant purpose. Carrasco promised alland
then took his leavecharging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or
evil fortunes whenever he had an opportunity; and thus they bade
each other farewelland Sancho went away to make the necessary
preparations for their expedition.

CHAPTER V

OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO
PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZAAND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING
DULY RECORDED


The translator of this historywhen he comes to write this fifth
chaptersays that he considers it apocryphalbecause in it Sancho
Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might have been expected
from his limited intelligenceand says things so subtle that he
does not think it possible he could have conceived them; however
desirous of doing what his task imposed upon himhe was unwilling
to leave it untranslatedand therefore he went on to say:

Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed
his happiness a bowshot offso much so that it made her ask him
What have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?

To which he repliedWife, if it were God's will, I should be
very glad not to be so well pleased as I show myself.

I don't understand you, husband,said sheand I don't know
what you mean by saying you would be glad, if it were God's will,
not to be well pleased; for, fool as I am, I don't know how one can
find pleasure in not having it.

Hark ye, Teresa,replied SanchoI am glad because I have made up
my mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote, who
means to go out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going
with him again, for my necessities will have it so, and also the
hope that cheers me with the thought that I may find another hundred
crowns like those we have spent; though it makes me sad to have to
leave thee and the children; and if God would be pleased to let me
have my daily bread, dry-shod and at home, without taking me out
into the byways and cross-roads- and he could do it at small cost by
merely willing it- it is clear my happiness would be more solid and
lasting, for the happiness I have is mingled with sorrow at leaving
thee; so that I was right in saying I would be glad, if it were
God's will, not to be well pleased.

Look here, Sancho,said Teresa; "ever since you joined on to a
knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no
understanding you."

It is enough that God understands me, wife,replied Sancho; "for
he is the understander of all things; that will do; but mind
sisteryou must look to Dapple carefully for the next three days
so that he may be fit to take arms; double his feedand see to the
pack-saddle and other harnessfor it is not to a wedding we are
boundbut to go round the worldand play at give and take with
giants and dragons and monstersand hear hissings and roarings and
bellowings and howlings; and even all this would be lavenderif we
had not to reckon with Yanguesans and enchanted Moors."

I know well enough, husband,said Teresathat squires-errant
don't eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be always praying
to our Lord to deliver you speedily from all that hard fortune.

I can tell you, wife,said Sanchoif I did not expect to see
myself governor of an island before long, I would drop down dead on
the spot.

Nay, then, husband,said Teresa; "let the hen livethough it be
with her pipliveand let the devil take all the governments in
the world; you came out of your mother's womb without a government
you have lived until now without a governmentand when it is God's
will you will goor be carriedto your grave without a government.
How many there are in the world who live without a governmentand
continue to live all the sameand are reckoned in the number of the
people. The best sauce in the world is hungerand as the poor are


never without thatthey always eat with a relish. But mindSancho
if by good luck you should find yourself with some governmentdon't
forget me and your children. Remember that Sanchico is now full
fifteenand it is right he should go to schoolif his uncle the
abbot has a mind to have him trained for the Church. Considertoo
that your daughter Mari-Sancha will not die of grief if we marry
her; for I have my suspicions that she is as eager to get a husband as
you to get a government; andafter alla daughter looks better ill
married than well whored."

By my faith,replied Sanchoif God brings me to get any sort
of a government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for
Mari-Sancha that there will be no approaching her without calling
her 'my lady.

Nay, Sancho,returned Teresa; "marry her to her equalthat is the
safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into high-heeled
shoesout of her grey flannel petticoat into hoops and silk gowns
out of the plain 'Marica' and 'thou' into 'Dona So-and-so' and 'my
lady' the girl won't know where she isand at every turn she will
fall into a thousand blunders that will show the thread of her
coarse homespun stuff."

Tut, you fool,said Sancho; "it will be only to practise it for
two or three years; and then dignity and decorum will fit her as
easily as a glove; and if notwhat matter? Let her he 'my lady'
and never mind what happens."

Keep to your own station, Sancho,replied Teresa; "don't try to
raise yourself higherand bear in mind the proverb that says'wipe
the nose of your neigbbour's sonand take him into your house.' A
fine thing it would beindeedto marry our Maria to some great count
or grand gentlemanwhowhen the humour took himwould abuse her and
call her clown-bred and clodhopper's daughter and spinning wench. I
have not been bringing up my daughter for that all this timeI can
tell youhusband. Do you bring home moneySanchoand leave marrying
her to my care; there is Lope TochoJuan Tocho's sona stoutsturdy
young fellow that we knowand I can see he does not look sour at
the girl; and with himone of our own sortshe will be well married
and we shall have her always under our eyesand be all one family
parents and childrengrandchildren and sons-in-lawand the peace and
blessing of God will dwell among us; so don't you go marrying her in
those courts and grand palaces where they won't know what to make of
heror she what to make of herself."

Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas,said Sanchowhat do you
mean by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying
my daughter to one who will give me grandchildren that will be
called 'your lordship'? Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my elders
say that he who does not know how to take advantage of luck when it
comes to him, has no right to complain if it gives him the go-by;
and now that it is knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it
out; let us go with the favouring breeze that blows upon us.

It is this sort of talkand what Sancho says lower downthat
made the translator of the history say he considered this chapter
apocryphal.

Don't you see, you animal,continued Sanchothat it will be well
for me to drop into some profitable government that will lift us out
of the mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you yourself
will find yourself called 'Dona Teresa Panza,' and sitting in church
on a fine carpet and cushions and draperies, in spite and in
defiance of all the born ladies of the town? No, stay as you are,


growing neither greater nor less, like a tapestry figure- Let us say
no more about it, for Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you
will.

Are you sure of all you say, husband?replied Teresa. "Wellfor
all thatI am afraid this rank of countess for my daughter will be
her ruin. You do as you likemake a duchess or a princess of herbut
I can tell you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a
lover of equalitybrotherand I can't bear to see people give
themselves airs without any right. They called me Teresa at my
baptisma plainsimple namewithout any additions or tags or
fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo was my father's nameand as I am
your wifeI am called Teresa Panzathough by right I ought to he
called Teresa Cascajo; but 'kings go where laws like' and I am
content with this name without having the 'Don' put on top of it to
make it so heavy that I cannot carry it; and I don't want to make
people talk about me when they see me go dressed like a countess or
governor's wife; for they will say at once'See what airs the slut
gives herself! Only yesterday she was always spinning flaxand used
to go to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead
of a mantleand there she goes to-day in a hooped gown with her
broaches and airsas if we didn't know her!' If God keeps me in my
seven sensesor fiveor whatever number I haveI am not going to
bring myself to such a pass; go youbrotherand be a government or
an island manand swagger as much as you like; for by the soul of
my motherneither my daughter nor I are going to stir a step from our
village; a respectable woman should have a broken leg and keep at
home; and to he busy at something is a virtuous damsel's holiday; be
off to your adventures along with your Don Quixoteand leave us to
our misadventuresfor God will mend them for us according as we
deserve it. I don't knowI'm surewho fixed the 'Don' to himwhat
neither his father nor grandfather ever had."

I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!said Sancho.
God help thee, what a lot of things thou hast strung together, one
after the other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo, and the
broaches and the proverbs and the airs, to do with what I say? Look
here, fool and dolt (for so I may call you, when you don't
understand my words, and run away from good fortune), if I had said
that my daughter was to throw herself down from a tower, or go roaming
the world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca wanted to do, you would be right
in not giving way to my will; but if in an instant, in less than the
twinkling of an eye, I put the 'Don' and 'my lady' on her back, and
take her out of the stubble, and place her under a canopy, on a
dais, and on a couch, with more velvet cushions than all the Almohades
of Morocco ever had in their family, why won't you consent and fall in
with my wishes?

Do you know why, husband?replied Teresa; "because of the
proverb that says 'who covers theediscovers thee.' At the poor man
people only throw a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix their eyes;
and if the said rich man was once on a time poorit is then there
is the sneering and the tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the
streets here they swarm as thick as bees."

Look here, Teresa,said Sanchoand listen to what I am now going
to say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and I do not
give my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions of
his reverence the preacher, who preached in this town last Lent, and
who said, if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes
behold, bring themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on
our memory much better and more forcibly than things past.

These observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on


account of which the translator says he regards this chapter as
apocryphalinasmuch as they are beyond Sancho's capacity.

Whence it arises,he continuedthat when we see any person
well dressed and making a figure with rich garments and retinue of
servants, it seems to lead and impel us perforce to respect him,
though memory may at the same moment recall to us some lowly condition
in which we have seen him, but which, whether it may have been poverty
or low birth, being now a thing of the past, has no existence; while
the only thing that has any existence is what we see before us; and if
this person whom fortune has raised from his original lowly state
(these were the very words the padre used) to his present height of
prosperity, be well bred, generous, courteous to all, without
seeking to vie with those whose nobility is of ancient date, depend
upon it, Teresa, no one will remember what he was, and everyone will
respect what he is, except indeed the envious, from whom no fair
fortune is safe.

I do not understand you, husband,replied Teresa; "do as you like
and don't break my head with any more speechifying and rethoric; and
if you have revolved to do what you say-"

Resolved, you should say, woman,said Sanchonot revolved.

Don't set yourself to wrangle with me, husband,said Teresa; "I
speak as God pleasesand don't deal in out-of-the-way phrases; and
I say if you are bent upon having a governmenttake your son Sancho
with youand teach him from this time on how to hold a government;
for sons ought to inherit and learn the trades of their fathers."

As soon as I have the government,said SanchoI will send for
him by post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no
lack, for there is never any want of people to lend it to governors
when they have not got it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he
is and make him look what he is to be.

You send the money,said Teresaand I'll dress him up for you as
fine as you please.

Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess,said
Sancho.

The day that I see her a countess,replied Teresait will be the
same to me as if I was burying her; but once more I say do as you
please, for we women are born to this burden of being obedient to
our husbands, though they be dogs;and with this she began to weep in
earnestas if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried.

Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a
countesshe would put it off as long as possible. Here their
conversation came to an endand Sancho went back to see Don
Quixoteand make arrangements for their departure.

CHAPTER VI

OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY

While Sancho Panza and his wifeTeresa Cascajoheld the above
irrelevant conversationDon Quixote's niece and housekeeper were
not idlefor by a thousand signs they began to perceive that their


uncle and master meant to give them the slip the third timeand
once more betake himself to hisfor themill-errant chivalry. They
strove by all the means in their power to divert him from such an
unlucky scheme; but it was all preaching in the desert and hammering
cold iron. Neverthelessamong many other representations made to him
the housekeeper said to himIn truth, master, if you do not keep
still and stay quiet at home, and give over roaming mountains and
valleys like a troubled spirit, looking for what they say are called
adventures, but what I call misfortunes, I shall have to make
complaint to God and the king with loud supplication to send some
remedy.

To which Don Quixote repliedWhat answer God will give to your
complaints, housekeeper, I know not, nor what his Majesty will
answer either; I only know that if I were king I should decline to
answer the numberless silly petitions they present every day; for
one of the greatest among the many troubles kings have is being
obliged to listen to all and answer all, and therefore I should be
sorry that any affairs of mine should worry him.

Whereupon the housekeeper saidTell us, senor, at his Majesty's
court are there no knights?

There are,replied Don Quixoteand plenty of them; and it is
right there should be, to set off the dignity of the prince, and for
the greater glory of the king's majesty.

Then might not your worship,said shebe one of those that,
without stirring a step, serve their king and lord in his court?

Recollect, my friend,said Don Quixoteall knights cannot be
courtiers, nor can all courtiers be knights-errant, nor need they
be. There must be all sorts in the world; and though we may be all
knights, there is a great difference between one and another; for
the courtiers, without quitting their chambers, or the threshold of
the court, range the world over by looking at a map, without its
costing them a farthing, and without suffering heat or cold, hunger or
thirst; but we, the true knights-errant, measure the whole earth
with our own feet, exposed to the sun, to the cold, to the air, to the
inclemencies of heaven, by day and night, on foot and on horseback;
nor do we only know enemies in pictures, but in their own real shapes;
and at all risks and on all occasions we attack them, without any
regard to childish points or rules of single combat, whether one has
or has not a shorter lance or sword, whether one carries relics or any
secret contrivance about him, whether or not the sun is to be
divided and portioned out, and other niceties of the sort that are
observed in set combats of man to man, that you know nothing about,
but I do. And you must know besides, that the true knight-errant,
though he may see ten giants, that not only touch the clouds with
their heads but pierce them, and that go, each of them, on two tall
towers by way of legs, and whose arms are like the masts of mighty
ships, and each eye like a great mill-wheel, and glowing brighter than
a glass furnace, must not on any account be dismayed by them. On the
contrary, he must attack and fall upon them with a gallant bearing and
a fearless heart, and, if possible, vanquish and destroy them, even
though they have for armour the shells of a certain fish, that they
say are harder than diamonds, and in place of swords wield trenchant
blades of Damascus steel, or clubs studded with spikes also of
steel, such as I have more than once seen. All this I say,
housekeeper, that you may see the difference there is between the
one sort of knight and the other; and it would be well if there were
no prince who did not set a higher value on this second, or more
properly speaking first, kind of knights-errant; for, as we read in
their histories, there have been some among them who have been the


salvation, not merely of one kingdom, but of many.

Ah, senor,here exclaimed the nieceremember that all this you
are saying about knights-errant is fable and fiction; and their
histories, if indeed they were not burned, would deserve, each of
them, to have a sambenito put on it, or some mark by which it might be
known as infamous and a corrupter of good manners.

By the God that gives me life,said Don Quixoteif thou wert not
my full niece, being daughter of my own sister, I would inflict a
chastisement upon thee for the blasphemy thou hast uttered that all
the world should ring with. What! can it be that a young hussy that
hardly knows how to handle a dozen lace-bobbins dares to wag her
tongue and criticise the histories of knights-errant? What would Senor
Amadis say if he heard of such a thing? He, however, no doubt would
forgive thee, for he was the most humble-minded and courteous knight
of his time, and moreover a great protector of damsels; but some there
are that might have heard thee, and it would not have been well for
thee in that case; for they are not all courteous or mannerly; some
are ill-conditioned scoundrels; nor is it everyone that calls
himself a gentleman, that is so in all respects; some are gold, others
pinchbeck, and all look like gentlemen, but not all can stand the
touchstone of truth. There are men of low rank who strain themselves
to bursting to pass for gentlemen, and high gentlemen who, one would
fancy, were dying to pass for men of low rank; the former raise
themselves by their ambition or by their virtues, the latter debase
themselves by their lack of spirit or by their vices; and one has need
of experience and discernment to distinguish these two kinds of
gentlemen, so much alike in name and so different in conduct.

God bless me!said the niecethat you should know so much,
uncle- enough, if need be, to get up into a pulpit and go preach in
the streets -and yet that you should fall into a delusion so great and
a folly so manifest as to try to make yourself out vigorous when you
are old, strong when you are sickly, able to put straight what is
crooked when you yourself are bent by age, and, above all, a caballero
when you are not one; for though gentlefolk may he so, poor men are
nothing of the kind!

There is a great deal of truth in what you say, niece,returned
Don Quixoteand I could tell you somewhat about birth that would
astonish you; but, not to mix up things human and divine, I refrain.
Look you, my dears, all the lineages in the world (attend to what I am
saying) can be reduced to four sorts, which are these: those that
had humble beginnings, and went on spreading and extending
themselves until they attained surpassing greatness; those that had
great beginnings and maintained them, and still maintain and uphold
the greatness of their origin; those, again, that from a great
beginning have ended in a point like a pyramid, having reduced and
lessened their original greatness till it has come to nought, like the
point of a pyramid, which, relatively to its base or foundation, is
nothing; and then there are those- and it is they that are the most
numerous- that have had neither an illustrious beginning nor a
remarkable mid-course, and so will have an end without a name, like an
ordinary plebeian line. Of the first, those that had an humble
origin and rose to the greatness they still preserve, the Ottoman
house may serve as an example, which from an humble and lowly
shepherd, its founder, has reached the height at which we now see
it. For examples of the second sort of lineage, that began with
greatness and maintains it still without adding to it, there are the
many princes who have inherited the dignity, and maintain themselves
in their inheritance, without increasing or diminishing it, keeping
peacefully within the limits of their states. Of those that began
great and ended in a point, there are thousands of examples, for all


the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of Egypt, the Caesars of Rome, and the
whole herd (if I may such a word to them) of countless princes,
monarchs, lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and barbarians,
all these lineages and lordships have ended in a point and come to
nothing, they themselves as well as their founders, for it would be
impossible now to find one of their descendants, and, even should we
find one, it would be in some lowly and humble condition. Of
plebeian lineages I have nothing to say, save that they merely serve
to swell the number of those that live, without any eminence to
entitle them to any fame or praise beyond this. From all I have said I
would have you gather, my poor innocents, that great is the
confusion among lineages, and that only those are seen to be great and
illustrious that show themselves so by the virtue, wealth, and
generosity of their possessors. I have said virtue, wealth, and
generosity, because a great man who is vicious will be a great example
of vice, and a rich man who is not generous will be merely a miserly
beggar; for the possessor of wealth is not made happy by possessing
it, but by spending it, and not by spending as he pleases, but by
knowing how to spend it well. The poor gentleman has no way of showing
that he is a gentleman but by virtue, by being affable, well-bred,
courteous, gentle-mannered, and kindly, not haughty, arrogant, or
censorious, but above all by being charitable; for by two maravedis
given with a cheerful heart to the poor, he will show himself as
generous as he who distributes alms with bell-ringing, and no one that
perceives him to be endowed with the virtues I have named, even though
he know him not, will fail to recognise and set him down as one of
good blood; and it would be strange were it not so; praise has ever
been the reward of virtue, and those who are virtuous cannot fail to
receive commendation. There are two roads, my daughters, by which
men may reach wealth and honours; one is that of letters, the other
that of arms. I have more of arms than of letters in my composition,
and, judging by my inclination to arms, was born under the influence
of the planet Mars. I am, therefore, in a measure constrained to
follow that road, and by it I must travel in spite of all the world,
and it will be labour in vain for you to urge me to resist what heaven
wills, fate ordains, reason requires, and, above all, my own
inclination favours; for knowing as I do the countless toils that
are the accompaniments of knight-errantry, I know, too, the infinite
blessings that are attained by it; I know that the path of virtue is
very narrow, and the road of vice broad and spacious; I know their
ends and goals are different, for the broad and easy road of vice ends
in death, and the narrow and toilsome one of virtue in life, and not
transitory life, but in that which has no end; I know, as our great
Castilian poet says, that-

It is by rugged paths like these they go
That scale the heights of immortality,
Unreached by those that falter here below.

Woe is me!exclaimed the niecemy lord is a poet, too! He
knows everything, and he can do everything; I will bet, if he chose to
turn mason, he could make a house as easily as a cage.

I can tell you, niece,replied Don Quixoteif these chivalrous
thoughts did not engage all my faculties, there would be nothing
that I could not do, nor any sort of knickknack that would not come
from my hands, particularly cages and tooth-picks.

At this moment there came a knocking at the doorand when they
asked who was thereSancho Panza made answer that it was he. The
instant the housekeeper knew who it wasshe ran to hide herself so as
not to see him; in such abhorrence did she hold him. The niece let him
inand his master Don Quixote came forward to receive him with open


armsand the pair shut themselves up in his roomwhere they had
another conversation not inferior to the previous one.

CHAPTER VII

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRETOGETHER WITH
OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS

The instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself in with
her mastershe guessed what they were about; and suspecting that
the result of the consultation would be a resolve to undertake a third
sallyshe seized her mantleand in deep anxiety and distressran to
find the bachelor Samson Carrascoas she thought thatbeing a
well-spoken manand a new friend of her master'she might be able to
persuade him to give up any such crazy notion. She found him pacing
the patio of his houseandperspiring and flurriedshe fell at
his feet the moment she saw him.

Carrascoseeing how distressed and overcome she wassaid to her
What is this, mistress housekeeper? What has happened to you? One
would think you heart-broken.

Nothing, Senor Samson,said sheonly that my master is
breaking out, plainly breaking out.

Whereabouts is he breaking out, senora?asked Samson; "has any
part of his body burst?"

He is only breaking out at the door of his madness,she replied;
I mean, dear senor bachelor, that he is going to break out again (and
this will be the third time) to hunt all over the world for what he
calls ventures, though I can't make out why he gives them that name.
The first time he was brought back to us slung across the back of an
ass, and belaboured all over; and the second time he came in an
ox-cart, shut up in a cage, in which he persuaded himself he was
enchanted, and the poor creature was in such a state that the mother
that bore him would not have known him; lean, yellow, with his eyes
sunk deep in the cells of his skull; so that to bring him round again,
ever so little, cost me more than six hundred eggs, as God knows,
and all the world, and my hens too, that won't let me tell a lie.

That I can well believe,replied the bachelorfor they are so
good and so fat, and so well-bred, that they would not say one thing
for another, though they were to burst for it. In short then, mistress
housekeeper, that is all, and there is nothing the matter, except what
it is feared Don Quixote may do?

No, senor,said she.

Well then,returned the bachelordon't be uneasy, but go home in
peace; get me ready something hot for breakfast, and while you are
on the way say the prayer of Santa Apollonia, that is if you know
it; for I will come presently and you will see miracles.

Woe is me,cried the housekeeperis it the prayer of Santa
Apollonia you would have me say? That would do if it was the toothache
my master had; but it is in the brains, what he has got.

I know what I am saying, mistress housekeeper; go, and don't set
yourself to argue with me, for you know I am a bachelor of
Salamanca, and one can't be more of a bachelor than that,replied


Carrasco; and with this the housekeeper retiredand the bachelor went
to look for the curateand arrange with him what will be told in
its proper place.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up togetherthey had a
discussion which the history records with great precision and
scrupulous exactness. Sancho said to his masterSenor, I have educed
my wife to let me go with your worship wherever you choose to take
me.

Induced, you should say, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "not educed."

Once or twice, as well as I remember,replied SanchoI have
begged of your worship not to mend my words, if so be as you
understand what I mean by them; and if you don't understand them to
say 'Sancho,' or 'devil,' 'I don't understand thee; and if I don't
make my meaning plain, then you may correct me, for I am so focile-

I don't understand thee, Sancho,said Don Quixote at once; "for
I know not what 'I am so focile' means."

'So focile' means I am so much that way,replied Sancho.

I understand thee still less now,said Don Quixote.

Well, if you can't understand me,said SanchoI don't know how
to put it; I know no more, God help me.

Oh, now I have hit it,said Don Quixote; "thou wouldst say thou
art so dociletractableand gentle that thou wilt take what I say to
theeand submit to what I teach thee."

I would bet,said Sanchothat from the very first you understood
me, and knew what I meant, but you wanted to put me out that you might
hear me make another couple of dozen blunders.

May be so,replied Don Quixote; "but to come to the pointwhat
does Teresa say?"

Teresa says,replied Sanchothat I should make sure with your
worship, and 'let papers speak and beards be still,' for 'he who binds
does not wrangle,' since one 'take' is better than two 'I'll give
thee's;' and I say a woman's advice is no great thing, and he who
won't take it is a fool.

And so say I,said Don Quixote; "continueSancho my friend; go
on; you talk pearls to-day."

The fact is,continued Sanchothat, as your worship knows better
than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we are, and
to-morrow we are not, and the lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and
nobody can promise himself more hours of life in this world than God
may be pleased to give him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to
knock at our life's door, it is always urgent, and neither prayers,
nor struggles, nor sceptres, nor mitres, can keep it back, as common
talk and report say, and as they tell us from the pulpits every day.

All that is very true,said Don Quixote; "but I cannot make out
what thou art driving at."

What I am driving at,said Sanchois that your worship settle
some fixed wages for me, to be paid monthly while I am in your
service, and that the same he paid me out of your estate; for I
don't care to stand on rewards which either come late, or ill, or


never at all; God help me with my own. In short, I would like to
know what I am to get, be it much or little; for the hen will lay on
one egg, and many littles make a much, and so long as one gains
something there is nothing lost. To he sure, if it should happen (what
I neither believe nor expect) that your worship were to give me that
island you have promised me, I am not so ungrateful nor so grasping
but that I would be willing to have the revenue of such island
valued and stopped out of my wages in due promotion.

Sancho, my friend,replied Don Quixotesometimes proportion
may be as good as promotion.

I see,said Sancho; "I'll bet I ought to have said proportionand
not promotion; but it is no matteras your worship has understood
me."

And so well understood,returned Don Quixotethat I have seen
into the depths of thy thoughts, and know the mark thou art shooting
at with the countless shafts of thy proverbs. Look here, Sancho, I
would readily fix thy wages if I had ever found any instance in the
histories of the knights-errant to show or indicate, by the
slightest hint, what their squires used to get monthly or yearly;
but I have read all or the best part of their histories, and I
cannot remember reading of any knight-errant having assigned fixed
wages to his squire; I only know that they all served on reward, and
that when they least expected it, if good luck attended their masters,
they found themselves recompensed with an island or something
equivalent to it, or at the least they were left with a title and
lordship. If with these hopes and additional inducements you,
Sancho, please to return to my service, well and good; but to
suppose that I am going to disturb or unhinge the ancient usage of
knight-errantry, is all nonsense. And so, my Sancho, get you back to
your house and explain my intentions to your Teresa, and if she
likes and you like to be on reward with me, bene quidem; if not, we
remain friends; for if the pigeon-house does not lack food, it will
not lack pigeons; and bear in mind, my son, that a good hope is better
than a bad holding, and a good grievance better than a bad
compensation. I speak in this way, Sancho, to show you that I can
shower down proverbs just as well as yourself; and in short, I mean to
say, and I do say, that if you don't like to come on reward with me,
and run the same chance that I run, God be with you and make a saint
of you; for I shall find plenty of squires more obedient and
painstaking, and not so thickheaded or talkative as you are.

When Sancho heard his master's firmresolute languagea cloud came
over the sky with him and the wings of his heart droopedfor he had
made sure that his master would not go without him for all the
wealth of the world; and as he stood there dumbfoundered and moody
Samson Carrasco came in with the housekeeper and niecewho were
anxious to hear by what arguments he was about to dissuade their
master from going to seek adventures. The arch wag Samson came
forwardand embracing him as he had done beforesaid with a loud
voiceO flower of knight-errantry! O shining light of arms! O honour
and mirror of the Spanish nation! may God Almighty in his infinite
power grant that any person or persons, who would impede or hinder thy
third sally, may find no way out of the labyrinth of their schemes,
nor ever accomplish what they most desire!And thenturning to the
housekeeperhe saidMistress housekeeper may just as well give over
saying the prayer of Santa Apollonia, for I know it is the positive
determination of the spheres that Senor Don Quixote shall proceed to
put into execution his new and lofty designs; and I should lay a heavy
burden on my conscience did I not urge and persuade this knight not to
keep the might of his strong arm and the virtue of his valiant
spirit any longer curbed and checked, for by his inactivity he is


defrauding the world of the redress of wrongs, of the protection of
orphans, of the honour of virgins, of the aid of widows, and of the
support of wives, and other matters of this kind appertaining,
belonging, proper and peculiar to the order of knight-errantry. On,
then, my lord Don Quixote, beautiful and brave, let your worship and
highness set out to-day rather than to-morrow; and if anything be
needed for the execution of your purpose, here am I ready in person
and purse to supply the want; and were it requisite to attend your
magnificence as squire, I should esteem it the happiest good fortune.

At thisDon Quixoteturning to SanchosaidDid I not tell thee,
Sancho, there would be squires enough and to spare for me? See now who
offers to become one; no less than the illustrious bachelor Samson
Carrasco, the perpetual joy and delight of the courts of the
Salamancan schools, sound in body, discreet, patient under heat or
cold, hunger or thirst, with all the qualifications requisite to
make a knight-errant's squire! But heaven forbid that, to gratify my
own inclination, I should shake or shatter this pillar of letters
and vessel of the sciences, and cut down this towering palm of the
fair and liberal arts. Let this new Samson remain in his own
country, and, bringing honour to it, bring honour at the same time
on the grey heads of his venerable parents; for I will be content with
any squire that comes to hand, as Sancho does not deign to accompany
me.

I do deign,said Sanchodeeply moved and with tears in his
eyes; "it shall not be said of memaster mine he continued, 'the
bread eaten and the company dispersed.' NayI come of no ungrateful
stockfor all the world knowsbut particularly my own townwho
the Panzas from whom I am descended were; andwhat is moreI know
and have learnedby many good words and deedsyour worship's
desire to show me favour; and if I have been bargaining more or less
about my wagesit was only to please my wifewhowhen she sets
herself to press a pointno hammer drives the hoops of a cask as
she drives one to do what she wants; butafter alla man must be a
manand a woman a woman; and as I am a man anyhowwhich I can't
denyI will be one in my own house toolet who will take it amiss;
and so there's nothing more to do but for your worship to make your
will with its codicil in such a way that it can't be provokedand let
us set out at onceto save Senor Samson's soul from sufferingas
he says his conscience obliges him to persuade your worship to sally
out upon the world a third time; so I offer again to serve your
worship faithfully and loyallyas well and better than all the
squires that served knights-errant in times past or present."

The bachelor was filled with amazement when he heard Sancho's
phraseology and style of talkfor though he had read the first part
of his master's history he never thought that he could be so droll
as he was there described; but nowhearing him talk of a "will and
codicil that could not be provoked instead of will and codicil that
could not be revoked he believed all he had read of him, and set him
down as one of the greatest simpletons of modern times; and he said to
himself that two such lunatics as master and man the world had never
seen. In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho embraced one another and made
friends, and by the advice and with the approval of the great
Carrasco, who was now their oracle, it was arranged that their
departure should take place three days thence, by which time they
could have all that was requisite for the journey ready, and procure a
closed helmet, which Don Quixote said he must by all means take.
Samson offered him one, as he knew a friend of his who had it would
not refuse it to him, though it was more dingy with rust and mildew
than bright and clean like burnished steel.

The curses which both housekeeper and niece poured out on the


bachelor were past counting; they tore their hair, they clawed their
faces, and in the style of the hired mourners that were once in
fashion, they raised a lamentation over the departure of their
master and uncle, as if it had been his death. Samson's intention in
persuading him to sally forth once more was to do what the history
relates farther on; all by the advice of the curate and barber, with
whom he had previously discussed the subject. Finally, then, during
those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho provided themselves with what
they considered necessary, and Sancho having pacified his wife, and
Don Quixote his niece and housekeeper, at nightfall, unseen by
anyone except the bachelor, who thought fit to accompany them half a
league out of the village, they set out for El Toboso, Don Quixote
on his good Rocinante and Sancho on his old Dapple, his alforjas
furnished with certain matters in the way of victuals, and his purse
with money that Don Quixote gave him to meet emergencies. Samson
embraced him, and entreated him to let him hear of his good or evil
fortunes, so that he might rejoice over the former or condole with him
over the latter, as the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote
promised him he would do so, and Samson returned to the village, and
the other two took the road for the great city of El Toboso.

CHAPTER VIII

WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS
LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

Blessed be Allah the all-powerful!" says Hamete Benengeli on
beginning this eighth chapter; "blessed be Allah!" he repeats three
times; and he says he utters these thanksgivings at seeing that he has
now got Don Quixote and Sancho fairly afieldand that the readers
of his delightful history may reckon that the achievements and humours
of Don Quixote and his squire are now about to begin; and he urges
them to forget the former chivalries of the ingenious gentleman and to
fix their eyes on those that are to comewhich now begin on the
road to El Tobosoas the others began on the plains of Montiel; nor
is it much that he asks in consideration of all he promisesand so he
goes on to say:

Don Quixote and Sancho were left aloneand the moment Samson took
his departureRocinante began to neighand Dapple to sighwhichby
both knight and squirewas accepted as a good sign and a very happy
omen; thoughif the truth is to be toldthe sighs and brays of
Dapple were louder than the neighings of the hackfrom which Sancho
inferred that his good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his
masterbuildingperhapsupon some judicial astrology that he may
have knownthough the history says nothing about it; all that can
be said isthat when he stumbled or fellhe was heard to say he
wished he had not come outfor by stumbling or falling there was
nothing to be got but a damaged shoe or a broken rib; andfool as
he washe was not much astray in this.

Said Don QuixoteSancho, my friend, night is drawing on upon us as
we go, and more darkly than will allow us to reach El Toboso by
daylight; for there I am resolved to go before I engage in another
adventure, and there I shall obtain the blessing and generous
permission of the peerless Dulcinea, with which permission I expect
and feel assured that I shall conclude and bring to a happy
termination every perilous adventure; for nothing in life makes
knights-errant more valorous than finding themselves favoured by their
ladies.


So I believe,replied Sancho; "but I think it will be difficult
for your worship to speak with her or see herat any rate where you
will be able to receive her blessing; unlessindeedshe throws it
over the wall of the yard where I saw her the time beforewhen I took
her the letter that told of the follies and mad things your worship
was doing in the heart of Sierra Morena."

Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho,said Don Quixote
where or at which thou sawest that never sufficiently extolled
grace and beauty? It must have been the gallery, corridor, or
portico of some rich and royal palace.

It might have been all that,returned Sanchobut to me it looked
like a wall, unless I am short of memory.

At all events, let us go there, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "forso
that I see herit is the same to me whether it be over a wallor
at a windowor through the chink of a dooror the grate of a garden;
for any beam of the sun of her beauty that reaches my eyes will give
light to my reason and strength to my heartso that I shall be
unmatched and unequalled in wisdom and valour."

Well, to tell the truth, senor,said Sanchowhen I saw that
sun of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright enough to throw
out beams at all; it must have been, that as her grace was sifting
that wheat I told you of, the thick dust she raised came before her
face like a cloud and dimmed it.

What! dost thou still persist, Sancho,said Don Quixotein
saying, thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady Dulcinea was
sifting wheat, that being an occupation and task entirely at
variance with what is and should be the employment of persons of
distinction, who are constituted and reserved for other avocations and
pursuits that show their rank a bowshot off? Thou hast forgotten, O
Sancho, those lines of our poet wherein he paints for us how, in their
crystal abodes, those four nymphs employed themselves who rose from
their loved Tagus and seated themselves in a verdant meadow to
embroider those tissues which the ingenious poet there describes to
us, how they were worked and woven with gold and silk and pearls;
and something of this sort must have been the employment of my lady
when thou sawest her, only that the spite which some wicked
enchanter seems to have against everything of mine changes all those
things that give me pleasure, and turns them into shapes unlike
their own; and so I fear that in that history of my achievements which
they say is now in print, if haply its author was some sage who is
an enemy of mine, he will have put one thing for another, mingling a
thousand lies with one truth, and amusing himself by relating
transactions which have nothing to do with the sequence of a true
history. O envy, root of all countless evils, and cankerworm of the
virtues! All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of pleasure with them;
but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness, and rage.

So I say too,replied Sancho; "and I suspect in that legend or
history of us that the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he sawmy
honour goes dragged in the dirtknocked aboutup and down
sweeping the streetsas they say. And yeton the faith of an
honest manI never spoke ill of any enchanterand I am not so well
off that I am to be envied; to be sureI am rather slyand I have
a certain spice of the rogue in me; but all is covered by the great
cloak of my simplicityalways natural and never acted; and if I had
no other merit save that I believeas I always dofirmly and truly
in Godand all the holy Roman Catholic Church holds and believesand
that I am a mortal enemy of the Jewsthe historians ought to have
mercy on me and treat me well in their writings. But let them say what


they like; naked was I bornnaked I find myselfI neither lose nor
gain; naywhile I see myself put into a book and passed on from
hand to hand over the worldI don't care a figlet them say what
they like of me."

That, Sancho,returned Don Quixotereminds me of what happened
to a famous poet of our own day, who, having written a bitter satire
against all the courtesan ladies, did not insert or name in it a
certain lady of whom it was questionable whether she was one or not.
She, seeing she was not in the list of the poet, asked him what he had
seen in her that he did not include her in the number of the others,
telling him he must add to his satire and put her in the new part,
or else look out for the consequences. The poet did as she bade him,
and left her without a shred of reputation, and she was satisfied by
getting fame though it was infamy. In keeping with this is what they
relate of that shepherd who set fire to the famous temple of Diana, by
repute one of the seven wonders of the world, and burned it with the
sole object of making his name live in after ages; and, though it
was forbidden to name him, or mention his name by word of mouth or
in writing, lest the object of his ambition should be attained,
nevertheless it became known that he was called Erostratus. And
something of the same sort is what happened in the case of the great
emperor Charles V and a gentleman in Rome. The emperor was anxious
to see that famous temple of the Rotunda, called in ancient times
the temple 'of all the gods,' but now-a-days, by a better
nomenclature, 'of all the saints,' which is the best preserved
building of all those of pagan construction in Rome, and the one which
best sustains the reputation of mighty works and magnificence of its
founders. It is in the form of a half orange, of enormous
dimensions, and well lighted, though no light penetrates it save
that which is admitted by a window, or rather round skylight, at the
top; and it was from this that the emperor examined the building. A
Roman gentleman stood by his side and explained to him the skilful
construction and ingenuity of the vast fabric and its wonderful
architecture, and when they had left the skylight he said to the
emperor, 'A thousand times, your Sacred Majesty, the impulse came upon
me to seize your Majesty in my arms and fling myself down from
yonder skylight, so as to leave behind me in the world a name that
would last for ever.' 'I am thankful to you for not carrying such an
evil thought into effect,' said the emperor, 'and I shall give you
no opportunity in future of again putting your loyalty to the test;
and I therefore forbid you ever to speak to me or to be where I am;
and he followed up these words by bestowing a liberal bounty upon him.
My meaning is, Sancho, that the desire of acquiring fame is a very
powerful motive. What, thinkest thou, was it that flung Horatius in
full armour down from the bridge into the depths of the Tiber? What
burned the hand and arm of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to plunge
into the deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of Rome? What,
in opposition to all the omens that declared against him, made
Julius Caesar cross the Rubicon? And to come to more modern
examples, what scuttled the ships, and left stranded and cut off the
gallant Spaniards under the command of the most courteous Cortes in
the New World? All these and a variety of other great exploits are,
were and will be, the work of fame that mortals desire as a reward and
a portion of the immortality their famous deeds deserve; though we
Catholic Christians and knights-errant look more to that future
glory that is everlasting in the ethereal regions of heaven than to
the vanity of the fame that is to be acquired in this present
transitory life; a fame that, however long it may last, must after all
end with the world itself, which has its own appointed end. So that, O
Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass the bounds which the
Christian religion we profess has assigned to us. We have to slay
pride in giants, envy by generosity and nobleness of heart, anger by
calmness of demeanour and equanimity, gluttony and sloth by the


spareness of our diet and the length of our vigils, lust and
lewdness by the loyalty we preserve to those whom we have made the
mistresses of our thoughts, indolence by traversing the world in all
directions seeking opportunities of making ourselves, besides
Christians, famous knights. Such, Sancho, are the means by which we
reach those extremes of praise that fair fame carries with it.

All that your worship has said so far,said SanchoI have
understood quite well; but still I would be glad if your worship would
dissolve a doubt for me, which has just this minute come into my
mind.

Solve, thou meanest, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "say onin God's
nameand I will answer as well as I can."

Tell me, senor,Sancho went on to saythose Julys or Augusts,
and all those venturous knights that you say are now dead- where are
they now?

The heathens,replied Don Quixoteare, no doubt, in hell; the
Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or
in heaven.

Very good,said Sancho; "but now I want to know- the tombs where
the bodies of those great lords arehave they silver lamps before
themor are the walls of their chapels ornamented with crutches
winding-sheetstresses of hairlegs and eyes in wax? Or what are
they ornamented with?"

To which Don Quixote made answer: "The tombs of the heathens were
generally sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Caesar's body were
placed on the top of a stone pyramid of vast sizewhich they now call
in Rome Saint Peter's needle. The emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a
castle as large as a good-sized villagewhich they called the Moles
Adrianiand is now the castle of St. Angelo in Rome. The queen
Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a tomb which was reckoned one
of the seven wonders of the world; but none of these tombsor of
the many others of the heathenswere ornamented with winding-sheets
or any of those other offerings and tokens that show that they who are
buried there are saints."

That's the point I'm coming to,said Sancho; "and now tell me
which is the greater workto bring a dead man to life or to kill a
giant?"

The answer is easy,replied Don Quixote; "it is a greater work
to bring to life a dead man."

Now I have got you,said Sancho; "in that case the fame of them
who bring the dead to lifewho give sight to the blindcure
cripplesrestore health to the sickand before whose tombs there are
lamps burningand whose chapels are filled with devout folk on
their knees adoring their relics be a better fame in this life and
in the other than that which all the heathen emperors and
knights-errant that have ever been in the world have left or may leave
behind them?"

That I grant, too,said Don Quixote.

Then this fame, these favours, these privileges, or whatever you
call it,said Sanchobelong to the bodies and relics of the
saints who, with the approbation and permission of our holy mother
Church, have lamps, tapers, winding-sheets, crutches, pictures, eyes
and legs, by means of which they increase devotion and add to their


own Christian reputation. Kings carry the bodies or relics of saints
on their shoulders, and kiss bits of their bones, and enrich and adorn
their oratories and favourite altars with them.

What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, Sancho?
asked Don Quixote.

My meaning is,said Sancholet us set about becoming saints, and
we shall obtain more quickly the fair fame we are striving after;
for you know, senor, yesterday or the day before yesterday (for it
is so lately one may say so) they canonised and beatified two little
barefoot friars, and it is now reckoned the greatest good luck to kiss
or touch the iron chains with which they girt and tortured their
bodies, and they are held in greater veneration, so it is said, than
the sword of Roland in the armoury of our lord the King, whom God
preserve. So that, senor, it is better to be an humble little friar of
no matter what order, than a valiant knight-errant; with God a
couple of dozen of penance lashings are of more avail than two
thousand lance-thrusts, be they given to giants, or monsters, or
dragons.

All that is true,returned Don Quixotebut we cannot all be
friars, and many are the ways by which God takes his own to heaven;
chivalry is a religion, there are sainted knights in glory.

Yes,said Sanchobut I have heard say that there are more friars
in heaven than knights-errant.

That,said Don Quixoteis because those in religious orders
are more numerous than knights.

The errants are many,said Sancho.

Many,replied Don Quixotebut few they who deserve the name of
knights.

With theseand other discussions of the same sortthey passed that
night and the following daywithout anything worth mention
happening to themwhereat Don Quixote was not a little dejected;
but at length the next dayat daybreakthey descried the great
city of El Tobosoat the sight of which Don Quixote's spirits rose
and Sancho's fellfor he did not know Dulcinea's housenor in all
his life had he ever seen herany more than his master; so that
they were both uneasythe one to see herthe other at not having
seen herand Sancho was at a loss to know what he was to do when
his master sent him to El Toboso. In the endDon Quixote made up
his mind to enter the city at nightfalland they waited until the
time came among some oak trees that were near El Toboso; and when
the moment they had agreed upon arrivedthey made their entrance into
the citywhere something happened them that may fairly be called
something.

CHAPTER IX

WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE

'Twas at the very midnight hour- more or less- when Don Quixote
and Sancho quitted the wood and entered El Toboso. The town was in
deep silencefor all the inhabitants were asleepand stretched on
the broad of their backsas the saying is. The night was darkish
though Sancho would have been glad had it been quite darkso as to


find in the darkness an excuse for his blundering. All over the
place nothing was to be heard except the barking of dogswhich
deafened the ears of Don Quixote and troubled the heart of Sancho. Now
and then an ass brayedpigs gruntedcats mewedand the various
noises they made seemed louder in the silence of the night; all
which the enamoured knight took to be of evil omen; nevertheless he
said to SanchoSancho, my son, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, it
may be that we shall find her awake.

Body of the sun! what palace am I to lead to,said Sanchowhen
what I saw her highness in was only a very little house?

Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her
palace,said Don Quixoteto amuse herself with damsels, as great
ladies and princesses are accustomed to do.

Senor,said Sanchoif your worship will have it in spite of me
that the house of my lady Dulcinea is a palace, is this an hour, think
you, to find the door open; and will it be right for us to go knocking
till they hear us and open the door; making a disturbance and
confusion all through the household? Are we going, do you fancy, to
the house of our wenches, like gallants who come and knock and go in
at any hour, however late it may be?

Let us first of all find out the palace for certain,replied Don
Quixoteand then I will tell thee, Sancho, what we had best do;
but look, Sancho, for either I see badly, or that dark mass that one
sees from here should be Dulcinea's palace.

Then let your worship lead the way,said Sanchoperhaps it may
be so; though I see it with my eyes and touch it with my hands, I'll
believe it as much as I believe it is daylight now.

Don Quixote took the leadand having gone a matter of two hundred
paces he came upon the mass that produced the shadeand found it
was a great towerand then he perceived that the building in question
was no palacebut the chief church of the townand said heIt's
the church we have lit upon, Sancho.

So I see,said Sanchoand God grant we may not light upon our
graves; it is no good sign to find oneself wandering in a graveyard at
this time of night; and that, after my telling your worship, if I
don't mistake, that the house of this lady will be in an alley without
an outlet.

The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!said Don Quixote; "where
hast thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built in
alleys without an outlet?"

Senor,replied Sanchoevery country has a way of its own;
perhaps here in El Toboso it is the way to build palaces and grand
buildings in alleys; so I entreat your worship to let me search
about among these streets or alleys before me, and perhaps, in some
corner or other, I may stumble on this palace- and I wish I saw the
dogs eating it for leading us such a dance.

Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady, Sancho,said Don
Quixote; "let us keep the feast in peaceand not throw the rope after
the bucket."

I'll hold my tongue,said Sanchobut how am I to take it
patiently when your worship wants me, with only once seeing the
house of our mistress, to know always, and find it in the middle of
the night, when your worship can't find it, who must have seen it


thousands of times?

Thou wilt drive me to desperation, Sancho,said Don Quixote. "Look
hereheretichave I not told thee a thousand times that I have never
once in my life seen the peerless Dulcinea or crossed the threshold of
her palaceand that I am enamoured solely by hearsay and by the great
reputation she bears for beauty and discretion?"

I hear it now,returned Sancho; "and I may tell you that if you
have not seen herno more have I."

That cannot be,said Don Quixotefor, at any rate, thou
saidst, on bringing back the answer to the letter I sent by thee, that
thou sawest her sifting wheat.

Don't mind that, senor,said Sancho; "I must tell you that my
seeing her and the answer I brought you back were by hearsay too
for I can no more tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can hit the
sky."

Sancho, Sancho,said Don Quixotethere are times for jests and
times when jests are out of place; if I tell thee that I have
neither seen nor spoken to the lady of my heart, it is no reason why
thou shouldst say thou hast not spoken to her or seen her, when the
contrary is the case, as thou well knowest.

While the two were engaged in this conversationthey perceived some
one with a pair of mules approaching the spot where they stoodand
from the noise the plough madeas it dragged along the groundthey
guessed him to be some labourer who had got up before daybreak to go
to his workand so it proved to be. He came along singing the
ballad that says-

Ill did ye fareye men of France
In Roncesvalles chase


May I die, Sancho,said Don Quixotewhen he heard himif any
good will come to us tonight! Dost thou not hear what that clown is
singing?

I do,said Sanchobut what has Roncesvalles chase to do with
what we have in hand? He might just as well be singing the ballad of
Calainos, for any good or ill that can come to us in our business.

By this time the labourer had come upand Don Quixote asked him
Can you tell me, worthy friend, and God speed you, whereabouts here
is the palace of the peerless princess Dona Dulcinea del Toboso?

Senor,replied the ladI am a stranger, and I have been only a
few days in the town, doing farm work for a rich farmer. In that house
opposite there live the curate of the village and the sacristan, and
both or either of them will be able to give your worship some
account of this lady princess, for they have a list of all the
people of El Toboso; though it is my belief there is not a princess
living in the whole of it; many ladies there are, of quality, and in
her own house each of them may be a princess.

Well, then, she I am inquiring for will be one of these, my
friend,said Don Quixote.

May be so,replied the lad; "God be with youfor here comes the
daylight;" and without waiting for any more of his questionshe
whipped on his mules.


Sanchoseeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatisfiedsaid
to himSenor, daylight will be here before long, and it will not
do for us to let the sun find us in the street; it will be better
for us to quit the city, and for your worship to hide in some forest
in the neighbourhood, and I will come back in the daytime, and I won't
leave a nook or corner of the whole village that I won't search for
the house, castle, or palace, of my lady, and it will be hard luck for
me if I don't find it; and as soon as I have found it I will speak
to her grace, and tell her where and how your worship is waiting for
her to arrange some plan for you to see her without any damage to
her honour and reputation.

Sancho,said Don Quixotethou hast delivered a thousand
sentences condensed in the compass of a few words; I thank thee for
the advice thou hast given me, and take it most gladly. Come, my
son, let us go look for some place where I may hide, while thou dost
return, as thou sayest, to seek, and speak with my lady, from whose
discretion and courtesy I look for favours more than miraculous.

Sancho was in a fever to get his master out of the townlest he
should discover the falsehood of the reply he had brought to him in
the Sierra Morena on behalf of Dulcinea; so he hastened their
departurewhich they took at onceand two miles out of the village
they found a forest or thicket wherein Don Quixote ensconced
himselfwhile Sancho returned to the city to speak to Dulcineain
which embassy things befell him which demand fresh attention and a new
chapter.

CHAPTER X

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE
LADY DULCINEAAND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE

When the author of this great history comes to relate what is set
down in this chapter he says he would have preferred to pass it over
in silencefearing it would not he believedbecause here Don
Quixote's madness reaches the confines of the greatest that can be
conceivedand even goes a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But
after allthough still under the same fear and apprehensionhe has
recorded it without adding to the story or leaving out a particle of
the truthand entirely disregarding the charges of falsehood that
might be brought against him; and he was rightfor the truth may
run fine but will not breakand always rises above falsehood as oil
above water; and sogoing on with his storyhe says that as soon
as Don Quixote had ensconced himself in the forestoak groveor wood
near El Tobosohe bade Sancho return to the cityand not come into
his presence again without having first spoken on his behalf to his
ladyand begged of her that it might be her good pleasure to permit
herself to be seen by her enslaved knightand deign to bestow her
blessing upon himso that he might thereby hope for a happy issue
in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook to
execute the task according to the instructionsand to bring back an
answer as good as the one he brought back before.

Go, my son,said Don Quixoteand be not dazed when thou
findest thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art
going to seek. Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in
mind, and let it not escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if
she changes colour while thou art giving her my message; if she is
agitated and disturbed at hearing my name; if she cannot rest upon her


cushion, shouldst thou haply find her seated in the sumptuous state
chamber proper to her rank; and should she be standing, observe if she
poises herself now on one foot, now on the other; if she repeats two
or three times the reply she gives thee; if she passes from gentleness
to austerity, from asperity to tenderness; if she raises her hand to
smooth her hair though it be not disarranged. In short, my son,
observe all her actions and motions, for if thou wilt report them to
me as they were, I will gather what she hides in the recesses of her
heart as regards my love; for I would have thee know, Sancho, if
thou knowest it not, that with lovers the outward actions and
motions they give way to when their loves are in question are the
faithful messengers that carry the news of what is going on in the
depths of their hearts. Go, my friend, may better fortune than mine
attend thee, and bring thee a happier issue than that which I await in
dread in this dreary solitude.

I will go and return quickly,said Sancho; "cheer up that little
heart of yoursmaster minefor at the present moment you seem to
have got one no bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say
that a stout heart breaks bad luckand that where there are no
fletches there are no pegs; and moreover they saythe hare jumps up
where it's not looked for. I say this becauseif we could not find my
lady's palaces or castles to-nightnow that it is daylight I count
upon finding them when I least expect itand once foundleave it
to me to manage her."

Verily, Sancho,said Don Quixotethou dost always bring in thy
proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck
in what I am anxious about.

With thisSancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stickand Don
Quixote remained behindseated on his horseresting in his
stirrups and leaning on the end of his lancefilled with sad and
troubled forebodings; and there we will leave himand accompany
Sanchowho went off no less serious and troubled than he left his
master; so much sothat as soon as he had got out of the thicketand
looking round saw that Don Quixote was not within sighthe dismounted
from his assand seating himself at the foot of a tree began to
commune with himselfsayingNow, brother Sancho, let us know
where your worship is going. Are you going to look for some ass that
has been lost? Not at all. Then what are you going to look for? I am
going to look for a princess, that's all; and in her for the sun of
beauty and the whole heaven at once. And where do you expect to find
all this, Sancho? Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well,
and for whom are you going to look for her? For the famous knight
Don Quixote of La Mancha, who rights wrongs, gives food to those who
thirst and drink to the hungry. That's all very well, but do you
know her house, Sancho? My master says it will be some royal palace or
grand castle. And have you ever seen her by any chance? Neither I
nor my master ever saw her. And does it strike you that it would be
just and right if the El Toboso people, finding out that you were here
with the intention of going to tamper with their princesses and
trouble their ladies, were to come and cudgel your ribs, and not leave
a whole bone in you? They would, indeed, have very good reason, if
they did not see that I am under orders, and that 'you are a
messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to you.' Don't you trust to
that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as hot-tempered as they are
honest, and won't put up with liberties from anybody. By the Lord,
if they get scent of you, it will be worse for you, I promise you.
Be off, you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why should I go looking
for three feet on a cat, to please another man; and what is more, when
looking for Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in Ravena, or the
bachelor in Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody else, has mixed
me up in this business!


Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himselfand all the
conclusion he could come to was to say to himself againWell,
there's remedy for everything except death, under whose yoke we have
all to pass, whether we like it or not, when life's finished. I have
seen by a thousand signs that this master of mine is a madman fit to
be tied, and for that matter, I too, am not behind him; for I'm a
greater fool than he is when I follow him and serve him, if there's
any truth in the proverb that says, 'Tell me what company thou
keepest, and I'll tell thee what thou art,' or in that other, 'Not
with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.' Well then, if he
be mad, as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one thing for
another, and white for black, and black for white, as was seen when he
said the windmills were giants, and the monks' mules dromedaries,
flocks of sheep armies of enemies, and much more to the same tune,
it will not be very hard to make him believe that some country girl,
the first I come across here, is the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not
believe it, I'll swear it; and if he should swear, I'll swear again;
and if he persists I'll persist still more, so as, come what may, to
have my quoit always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out in this
way, I may put a stop to his sending me on messages of this kind
another time; or maybe he will think, as I suspect he will, that one
of those wicked enchanters, who he says have a spite against him,
has changed her form for the sake of doing him an ill turn and
injuring him.

With this reflection Sancho made his mind easycounting the
business as good as settledand stayed there till the afternoon so as
to make Don Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and
return; and things turned out so luckily for him that as he got up
to mount Dapplehe spiedcoming from El Toboso towards the spot
where he stoodthree peasant girls on three coltsor fillies- for
the author does not make the point clearthough it is more likely
they were she-assesthe usual mount with village girls; but as it
is of no great consequencewe need not stop to prove it.

To be briefthe instant Sancho saw the peasant girlshe returned
full speed to seek his masterand found him sighing and uttering a
thousand passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he
exclaimedWhat news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a
white stone or a black?

Your worship,replied Sanchohad better mark it with ruddle,
like the inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who
see it may see it plain.

Then thou bringest good news,said Don Quixote.

So good,replied Sanchothat your worship bas only to spur
Rocinante and get out into the open field to see the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, who, with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your
worship.

Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?exclaimed Don
Quixote. "Take care thou art not deceiving meor seeking by false joy
to cheer my real sadness."

What could I get by deceiving your worship,returned Sancho
especially when it will so soon be shown whether I tell the truth
or not? Come, senor, push on, and you will see the princess our
mistress coming, robed and adorned- in fact, like what she is. Her
damsels and she are all one glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all
diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of brocade of more than ten borders;
with their hair loose on their shoulders like so many sunbeams playing


with the wind; and moreover, they come mounted on three piebald
cackneys, the finest sight ever you saw.

Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,said Don Quixote.

There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys,said
Sancho; "but no matter what they come onthere they arethe finest
ladies one could wish forespecially my lady the princess Dulcinea
who staggers one's senses."

Let us go, Sancho, my son,said Don Quixoteand in guerdon of
this news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow upon thee the best
spoil I shall win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does
not satisfy thee, I promise thee the foals I shall have this year from
my three mares that thou knowest are in foal on our village common.

I'll take the foals,said Sancho; "for it is not quite certain
that the spoils of the first adventure will be good ones."

By this time they had cleared the woodand saw the three village
lasses close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El
Tobosoand as he could see nobody except the three peasant girls
he was completely puzzledand asked Sancho if it was outside the city
he had left them.

How outside the city?returned Sancho. "Are your worship's eyes in
the back of your headthat you can't see that they are these who
are coming hereshining like the very sun at noonday?"

I see nothing, Sancho,said Don Quixotebut three country
girls on three jackasses.

Now, may God deliver me from the devil!said Sanchoand can it
be that your worship takes three hackneys- or whatever they're calledas
white as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I could
tear my beard if that was the case!

Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend,said Don Quixotethat
it is as plain they are jackasses- or jennyasses- as that I am Don
Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me to be
so.

Hush, senor,said Sanchodon't talk that way, but open your
eyes, and come and pay your respects to the lady of your thoughts, who
is close upon us now;and with these words he advanced to receive the
three village lassesand dismounting from Dapplecaught hold of
one of the asses of the three country girls by the halterand
dropping on both knees on the groundhe saidQueen and princess and
duchess of beauty, may it please your haughtiness and greatness to
receive into your favour and good-will your captive knight who
stands there turned into marble stone, and quite stupefied and
benumbed at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am
Sancho Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of La
Mancha, otherwise called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.

Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside
Sancho, and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze,
was regarding her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could
see nothing in her except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured
one, for she was platter-faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and
bewildered, and did not venture to open his lips. The country girls,
at the same time, were astonished to see these two men, so different
in appearance, on their knees, preventing their companion from going
on. She, however, who had been stopped, breaking silence, said angrily


and testily, Get out of the waybad luck to youand let us pass
for we are in a hurry."

To which Sancho returnedOh, princess and universal lady of El
Toboso, is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing the pillar
and prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated
presence?

On hearing thisone of the others exclaimedWoa then! why, I'm
rubbing thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law! See how the
lordlings come to make game of the village girls now, as if we here
could not chaff as well as themselves. Go your own way, and let us
go ours, and it will be better for you.

Get up, Sancho,said Don Quixote at this; "I see that fortune
'with evil done to me unsated still' has taken possession of all
the roads by which any comfort may reach 'this wretched soul' that I
carry in my flesh. And thouhighest perfection of excellence that can
be desiredutmost limit of grace in human shapesole relief of
this afflicted heart that adores theethough the malign enchanter
that persecutes me has brought clouds and cataracts on my eyesand to
themand them onlytransformed thy unparagoned beauty and changed
thy features into those of a poor peasant girlif so be he has not at
the same time changed mine into those of some monster to render them
loathsome in thy sightrefuse not to look upon me with tenderness and
love; seeing in this submission that I make on my knees to thy
transformed beauty the humility with which my soul adores thee."

Hey-day! My grandfather!cried the girlmuch I care for your
love-making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we'll thank you.

Sancho stood aside and let her govery well pleased to have got
so well out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass
who had done duty for Dulcinea found herself freeprodding her
cackneywith a spike she had at the end of a stickshe set off at
full speed across the field. The she-asshoweverfeeling the point
more acutely than usualbegan cutting such capersthat it flung
the lady Dulcinea to the ground; seeing whichDon Quixote ran to
raise her upand Sancho to fix and girth the pack-saddlewhich
also had slipped under the ass's belly. The pack-saddle being secured
as Don Quixote was about to lift up his enchanted mistress in his arms
and put her upon her beastthe ladygetting up from the ground
saved him the troubleforgoing back a littleshe took a short run
and putting both hands on the croup of the ass she dropped into the
saddle more lightly than a falconand sat astride like a manwhereat
Sancho saidRogue!but our lady is lighter than a lannerand might
teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount; she cleared
the back of the saddle in one jumpand without spurs she is making
the hackney go like a zebra; and her damsels are no way behind her
for they all fly like the wind;" which was the truthfor as soon as
they saw Dulcinea mountedthey pushed on after herand sped away
without looking backfor more than half a league.

Don Quixote followed them with his eyesand when they were no
longer in sighthe turned to Sancho and saidHow now, Sancho?
thou seest how I am hated by enchanters! And see to what a length
the malice and spite they bear me go, when they seek to deprive me
of the happiness it would give me to see my lady in her own proper
form. The fact is I was born to be an example of misfortune, and the
target and mark at which the arrows of adversity are aimed and
directed. Observe too, Sancho, that these traitors were not content
with changing and transforming my Dulcinea, but they transformed and
changed her into a shape as mean and ill-favoured as that of the
village girl yonder; and at the same time they robbed her of that


which is such a peculiar property of ladies of distinction, that is to
say, the sweet fragrance that comes of being always among perfumes and
flowers. For I must tell thee, Sancho, that when I approached to put
Dulcinea upon her hackney (as thou sayest it was, though to me it
appeared a she-ass), she gave me a whiff of raw garlic that made my
head reel, and poisoned my very heart.

O scum of the earth!cried Sancho at thisO miserable,
spiteful enchanters! O that I could see you all strung by the gills,
like sardines on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great deal,
and ye do a great deal more. It ought to have been enough for you,
ye scoundrels, to have changed the pearls of my lady's eyes into oak
galls, and her hair of purest gold into the bristles of a red ox's
tail, and in short, all her features from fair to foul, without
meddling with her smell; for by that we might somehow have found out
what was hidden underneath that ugly rind; though, to tell the
truth, I never perceived her ugliness, but only her beauty, which
was raised to the highest pitch of perfection by a mole she had on her
right lip, like a moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like
threads of gold, and more than a palm long.

From the correspondence which exists between those of the face
and those of the body,said Don QuixoteDulcinea must have
another mole resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on
which she has the one on her ace; but hairs of the length thou hast
mentioned are very long for moles.

Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,
replied Sancho.

I believe it, my friend,returned Don Quixote; "for nature
bestowed nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and well-finished;
and soif she had a hundred moles like the one thou hast described
in her they would not be molesbut moons and shining stars. But
tell meSanchothat which seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou
wert fixing itwas it a flat-saddle or a side-saddle?"

It was neither,replied Sanchobut a jineta saddle, with a field
covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it.

And that I could not see all this, Sancho!said Don Quixote; "once
more I sayand will say a thousand timesI am the most unfortunate
of men."

Sanchothe roguehad enough to do to hide his laughterat hearing
the simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. At length
after a good deal more conversation had passed between themthey
remounted their beastsand followed the road to Saragossawhich they
expected to reach in time to take part in a certain grand festival
which is held every year in that illustrious city; but before they got
there things happened to themso manyso importantand so
strangethat they deserve to be recorded and readas will be seen
farther on.

CHAPTER XI
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH
THE CAR OR CART OF "THE CORTES OF DEATH"

Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey
turning over in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him
in changing his lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass


nor could he think of any way of restoring her to her original form;
and these reflections so absorbed himthat without being aware of
it he let go Rocinante's bridleand heperceiving the liberty that
was granted himstopped at every step to crop the fresh grass with
which the plain abounded.

Sancho recalled him from his reverie. "Melancholysenor said
he, was madenot for beastsbut for men; but if men give way to
it overmuch they turn to beasts; control yourselfyour worship; be
yourself again; gather up Rocinante's reins; cheer uprouse
yourself and show that gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to
have. What the devil is this? What weakness is this? Are we here or in
France? The devil fly away with all the Dulcineas in the world; for
the well-being of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than
all the enchantments and transformations on earth."

Hush, Sancho,said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voicehush
and utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am
to blame for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come of
the hatred the wicked bear me.

So say I,returned Sancho; "his heart rend in twainI trowwho
saw her onceto see her now."

Thou mayest well say that, Sancho,replied Don Quixoteas thou
sawest her in the full perfection of her beauty; for the enchantment
does not go so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her loveliness
from thee; against me alone and against my eyes is the strength of its
venom directed. Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred to
me, and that is that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as
well as I recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes
that are like pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a
lady, and I am persuaded that Dulcinea's must be green emeralds,
full and soft, with two rainbows for eyebrows; take away those
pearls from her eyes and transfer them to her teeth; for beyond a
doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken the one for the other, the eyes for the
teeth.

Very likely,said Sancho; "for her beauty bewildered me as much as
her ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to Godwho
alone knows what is to happen in this vale of tearsin this evil
world of ourswhere there is hardly a thing to be found without
some mixture of wickednessrogueryand rascality. But one thing
senortroubles me more than all the restand that is thinking what
is to be done when your worship conquers some giantor some other
knightand orders him to go and present himself before the beauty
of the lady Dulcinea. Where is this poor giantor this poor wretch of
a vanquished knightto find her? I think I can see them wandering all
over El Tobosolooking like noddiesand asking for my lady Dulcinea;
and even if they meet her in the middle of the street they won't
know her any more than they would my father."

Perhaps, Sancho,returned Don Quixotethe enchantment does not
go so far as to deprive conquered and presented giants and knights
of the power of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by experiment with
one or two of the first I vanquish and send to her, whether they see
her or not, by commanding them to return and give me an account of
what happened to them in this respect.

I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent,
said Sancho; "and that by this plan we shall find out what we want
to know; and if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden
the misfortune will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady
Dulcinea is well and happywe on our part will make the best of it


and get on as well as we canseeking our adventuresand leaving Time
to take his own course; for he is the best physician for these and
greater ailments."

Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panzabut he was prevented
by a cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange
personages and figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules
and acted as carter was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky
without a tilt or cane roofand the first figure that presented
itself to Don Quixote's eyes was that of Death itself with a human
face; next to it was an angel with large painted wingsand at one
side an emperorwith a crownto all appearance of goldon his head.
At the feet of Death was the god called Cupidwithout his bandage
but with his bowquiverand arrows; there was also a knight in
full armourexcept that he had no morion or helmetbut only a hat
decked with plumes of divers colours; and along with these there
were others with a variety of costumes and faces. All this
unexpectedly encounteredtook Don Quixote somewhat abackand
struck terror into the heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don
Quixote was glad of itbelieving that some new perilous adventure was
presenting itself to himand under this impressionand with a spirit
prepared to face any dangerhe planted himself in front of the
cartand in a loud and menacing toneexclaimedCarter, or
coachman, or devil, or whatever thou art, tell me at once who thou
art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are thou carriest in
thy wagon, which looks more like Charon's boat than an ordinary cart.

To which the devilstopping the cartanswered quietlySenor,
we are players of Angulo el Malo's company; we have been acting the
play of 'The Cortes of Death' this morning, which is the octave of
Corpus Christi, in a village behind that hill, and we have to act it
this afternoon in that village which you can see from this; and as
it is so near, and to save the trouble of undressing and dressing
again, we go in the costumes in which we perform. That lad there
appears as Death, that other as an angel, that woman, the manager's
wife, plays the queen, this one the soldier, that the emperor, and I
the devil; and I am one of the principal characters of the play, for
in this company I take the leading parts. If you want to know anything
more about us, ask me and I will answer with the utmost exactitude,
for as I am a devil I am up to everything.

By the faith of a knight-errant,replied Don Quixotewhen I
saw this cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting itself
to me; but I declare one must touch with the hand what appears to
the eye, if illusions are to be avoided. God speed you, good people;
keep your festival, and remember, if you demand of me ought wherein
I can render you a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for
from a child I was fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of
the actor's art.

While they were talkingfate so willed it that one of the company
in a mummers' dress with a great number of bellsand armed with three
blown ox-bladders at the end of a stickjoined themand this
merry-andrew approaching Don Quixotebegan flourishing his stick
and banging the ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great
jingling of the bellswhich untoward apparition so startled Rocinante
thatin spite of Don Quixote's efforts to hold him intaking the bit
between his teeth he set off across the plain with greater speed
than the bones of his anatomy ever gave any promise of. Sanchowho
thought his master was in danger of being thrownjumped off Dapple
and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he reached him he
was already on the groundand beside him was Rocinantewho had
come down with his masterthe usual end and upshot of Rocinante's
vivacity and high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast


to go and help Don Quixotethe dancing devil with the bladders jumped
up on Dappleand beating him with themmore by the fright and the
noise than by the pain of the blowsmade him fly across the fields
towards the village where they were going to hold their festival.
Sancho witnessed Dapple's career and his master's falland did not
know which of the two cases of need he should attend to first; but
in the endlike a good squire and good servanthe let his love for
his master prevail over his affection for his ass; though every time
he saw the bladders rise in the air and come down on the hind quarters
of his Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of deathand he would
have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his own eyes than on
the least hair of his ass's tail. In this trouble and perplexity he
came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier plight than he liked
and having helped him to mount Rocinantehe said to himSenor,
the devil has carried off my Dapple.

What devil?asked Don Quixote.

The one with the bladders,said Sancho.

Then I will recover him,said Don Quixoteeven if he be shut
up with him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of hell. Follow me,
Sancho, for the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make
good the loss of Dapple.

You need not take the trouble, senor,said Sancho; "keep coolfor
as I now seethe devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his
old quarters;" and so it turned outforhaving come down with
Dapplein imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinantethe devil made
off on foot to the townand the ass came back to his master.

For all that,said Don Quixoteit will be well to visit the
discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, even if it
were the emperor himself.

Don't think of it, your worship,returned Sancho; "take my
advice and never meddle with actorsfor they are a favoured class;
I myself have known an actor taken up for two murdersand yet come
off scot-free; remember thatas they are merry folk who give
pleasureeveryone favours and protects themand helps and makes much
of themabove all when they are those of the royal companies and
under patentall or most of whom in dress and appearance look like
princes."

Still, for all that,said Don Quixotethe player devil must
not go off boasting, even if the whole human race favours him.

So sayinghe made for the cartwhich was now very near the town
shouting out as he wentStay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want to
teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of
knights-errant for steeds.

So loud were the shouts of Don Quixotethat those in the cart heard
and understood themandguessing by the words what the speaker's
intention wasDeath in an instant jumped out of the cartand the
emperorthe devil carter and the angel after himnor did the queen
or the god Cupid stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and
formed in lineprepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their
pebbles. Don Quixotewhen he saw them drawn up in such a gallant
array with uplifted arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones
checked Rocinante and began to consider in what way he could attack
them with the least danger to himself. As he halted Sancho came up
and seeing him disposed to attack this well-ordered squadronsaid
to himIt would be the height of madness to attempt such an


enterprise; remember, senor, that against sops from the brook, and
plenty of them, there is no defensive armour in the world, except to
stow oneself away under a brass bell; and besides, one should remember
that it is rashness, and not valour, for a single man to attack an
army that has Death in it, and where emperors fight in person, with
angels, good and bad, to help them; and if this reflection will not
make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to know for certain that among
all these, though they look like kings, princes, and emperors, there
is not a single knight-errant.

Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho,said Don Quixote
which may and should turn me from the resolution I had already
formed. I cannot and must not draw sword, as I have many a time before
told thee, against anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for
thee, Sancho, if thou wilt, to take vengeance for the wrong done to
thy Dapple; and I will help thee from here by shouts and salutary
counsels.

There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, senor,replied
Sancho; "for it is not the part of good Christians to revenge
wrongs; and besidesI will arrange it with my ass to leave his
grievance to my good-will and pleasureand that is to live in peace
as long as heaven grants me life."

Well,said Don Quixoteif that be thy determination, good
Sancho, sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest Sancho, let us leave
these phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier
adventures; for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to
find plenty of marvellous ones in it.

He at once wheeled aboutSancho ran to take possession of his
DappleDeath and his flying squadron returned to their cart and
pursued their journeyand thus the dread adventure of the cart of
Death ended happilythanks to the advice Sancho gave his master;
who hadthe following daya fresh adventureof no less thrilling
interest than the lastwith an enamoured knight-errant.

CHAPTER XII

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH
THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

The night succeeding the day of the encounter with DeathDon
Quixote and his squire passed under some tall shady treesand Don
Quixote at Sancho's persuasion ate a little from the store carried
by Dappleand over their supper Sancho said to his masterSenor,
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 Quixoteif 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 Quixotefor 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, Sanchoand,
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 Quixotethe 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 timeas well as that other one of the game
of chess; howso long as the game lastseach piece has its own
particular officeand when the game is finished they are all mixed
jumbled up and shaken togetherand stowed away in the bagwhich 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 thatof itselfis barren and drywill
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 witand 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 phraseologyand
perceived that what he said about his improvement was truefor now
and then he spoke in a way that surprised him; though alwaysor
mostlywhen Sancho tried to talk fine and attempted polite
languagehe 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
proverbsno matter whether they had any bearing or not upon the
subject in handas 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 eyesas 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
saddleas his master's express orders werethat 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-bowbut to
remove the saddle from the horse- never! Sancho acted accordinglyand


gave him the same liberty he had given Dapplebetween whom and
Rocinante there was a friendship so unequalled and so strongthat
it is handed down by tradition from father to sonthat the author
of this veracious history devoted some special chapters to it
whichin order to preserve the propriety and decorum due to a history
so heroiche 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 howwhen they
were tired or fullRocinante would lay his neck across Dapple's
stretching half a yard or more on the other sideand the pair would
stand thusgazing thoughtfully on the groundfor three daysor at
least so long as they were left aloneor 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 soit may be perceivedto
the admiration of mankindhow firm the friendship must have been
between these two peaceful animalsshaming menwho 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&c.

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 beastsand learned many important
thingsasfor examplethe clyster from the storkvomit and
gratitude from the dogwatchfulness from the craneforesight from
the antmodesty from the elephantand loyalty from the horse.

Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork treewhile Don
Quixote dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had
elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke himand rising up
startledhe listened and looked in the direction the noise came from
and perceived two men on horsebackone of whomletting himself
drop from the saddlesaid to the otherDismount, 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 groundand as he flung himself downthe armour in which he was
clad rattledwhereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a
knight-errant; and going over to Sanchowho was asleephe shook
him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his
sensesand said in a low voice to himBrother 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 lookand
thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errantwhoit strikes me
is not over and above happyfor I saw him fling himself off his horse
and throw himself on the ground with a certain air of dejectionand
his armour rattled as he fell."

Well,said Sanchohow does your worship make out that to be an
adventure?

I do not mean to say,returned Don Quixotethat 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 Sanchoand no doubt he is some
enamoured knight.

There is no knight-errant that is not,said Don Quixote; "but
let us listen to himforif he singsby 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 masterbut the Knight of the
Grove's voicewhich was neither very bad nor very goodstopped
himand listening attentively the pair heard him sing this

SONNET

Your pleasurepritheelady mineunfold;

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 dieto 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 stillobedient to the laws of love

Herehard or softI 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 heartthe Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an endand
shortly afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voiceO
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 thisfor 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 Sanchofor he seems in a mood to bewail
himself for a month at a stretch.

But this was not the casefor the Knight of the Grovehearing
voices near himinstead of continuing his lamentationstood up and
exclaimed in a distinct but courteous toneWho 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 Groveand rest assured that it
is to woe itself and affliction itself you come.


Don Quixotefinding himself answered in such a soft and courteous
mannerwent over to himand so did Sancho.


The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the armsayingSit 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
answerA 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 meantimethey had seated themselves together on the hard
ground peaceably and sociablyjust as ifas 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 Groveif 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 Sanchowho stood close byfor 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 Grovewho 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 SanchoI 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 armsaying 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 amthat 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 sideand between them
there passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between
their masters was serious.



CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE
TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLEORIGINALAND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT
PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES

The knights and the squires made two partiesthese telling the
story of their livesthe others the story of their loves; but the
history relates first of all the conversation of the servantsand
afterwards takes up that of the masters; and it says thatwithdrawing
a little from the othershe of the Grove said to SanchoA hard life
it is we lead and live, senor, we that are squires to
knights-errant; verily, we eat our bread in the sweat of our faces,
which is one of the curses God laid on our first parents.

It may be said, too,added Sanchothat we eat it in the chill of
our bodies; for who gets more heat and cold than the miserable squires
of knight-errantry? Even so it would not be so bad if we had something
to eat, for woes are lighter if there's bread; but sometimes we go a
day or two without breaking our fast, except with the wind that
blows.

All that,said he of the Grovemay be endured and put up with
when we have hopes of reward; for, unless the knight-errant he
serves is excessively unlucky, after a few turns the squire will at
least find himself rewarded with a fine government of some island or
some fair county.

I,said Sanchohave already told my master that I shall be
content with the government of some island, and he is so noble and
generous that he has promised it to me ever so many times.

I,said he of the Groveshall be satisfied with a canonry for my
services, and my master has already assigned me one.

Your master,said Sanchono doubt is a knight in the Church
line, and can bestow rewards of that sort on his good squire; but mine
is only a layman; though I remember some clever, but, to my mind,
designing people, strove to persuade him to try and become an
archbishop. He, however, would not be anything but an emperor; but I
was trembling all the time lest he should take a fancy to go into
the Church, not finding myself fit to hold office in it; for I may
tell you, though I seem a man, I am no better than a beast for the
Church.

Well, then, you are wrong there,said he of the Grove; "for
those island governments are not all satisfactory; some are awkward
some are poorsome are dullandin shortthe highest and
choicest brings with it a heavy burden of cares and troubles which the
unhappy wight to whose lot it has fallen bears upon his shoulders. Far
better would it be for us who have adopted this accursed service to go
back to our own housesand there employ ourselves in pleasanter
occupations -in hunting or fishingfor instance; for what squire in
the world is there so poor as not to have a hack and a couple of
greyhounds and a fishingrod to amuse himself with in his own village?"

I am not in want of any of those things,said Sancho; "to be
sure I have no hackbut I have an ass that is worth my master's horse
twice over; God send me a bad Easterand that the next one I am to
seeif I would swapeven if I got four bushels of barley to boot.
You will laugh at the value I put on my Dapple- for dapple is the
colour of my beast. As to greyhoundsI can't want for themfor there


are enough and to spare in my town; andmoreoverthere is more
pleasure in sport when it is at other people's expense."

In truth and earnest, sir squire,said he of the GroveI have
made up my mind and determined to have done with these drunken
vagaries of these knights, and go back to my village, and bring up
my children; for I have three, like three Oriental pearls.

I have two,said Sanchothat might be presented before the
Pope himself, especially a girl whom I am breeding up for a
countess, please God, though in spite of her mother.

And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a countess?
asked he of the Grove.

Fifteen, a couple of years more or less,answered Sancho; "but she
is as tall as a lanceand as fresh as an April morningand as strong
as a porter."

Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a nymph of
the greenwood,said he of the Grove; "whoreson strumpet! what pith
the rogue must have!"

To which Sancho made answersomewhat sulkilyShe's no strumpet,
nor was her mother, nor will either of them be, please God, while I
live; speak more civilly; for one bred up among knights-errant, who
are courtesy itself, your words don't seem to me to be very becoming.

O how little you know about compliments, sir squire,returned he
of the Grove. "What! don't you know that when a horseman delivers a
good lance thrust at the bull in the plazaor when anyone does
anything very wellthe people are wont to say'Hawhoreson rip! how
well he has done it!' and that what seems to be abuse in the
expression is high praise? Disown sons and daughterssenorwho don't
do what deserves that compliments of this sort should be paid to their
parents."

I do disown them,replied Sanchoand in this way, and by the
same reasoning, you might call me and my children and my wife all
the strumpets in the world, for all they do and say is of a kind
that in the highest degree deserves the same praise; and to see them
again I pray God to deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to
the same thing, to deliver me from this perilous calling of squire
into which I have fallen a second time, decayed and beguiled by a
purse with a hundred ducats that I found one day in the heart of the
Sierra Morena; and the devil is always putting a bag full of doubloons
before my eyes, here, there, everywhere, until I fancy at every stop I
am putting my hand on it, and hugging it, and carrying it home with
me, and making investments, and getting interest, and living like a
prince; and so long as I think of this I make light of all the
hardships I endure with this simpleton of a master of mine, who, I
well know, is more of a madman than a knight.

There's why they say that 'covetousness bursts the bag,'said he
of the Grove; "but if you come to talk of that sortthere is not a
greater one in the world than my masterfor he is one of those of
whom they say'the cares of others kill the ass;' forin order
that another knight may recover the senses he has losthe makes a
madman of himself and goes looking for whatwhen foundmayfor
all I knowfly in his own face."

And is he in love perchance?asked Sancho.

He is,said of the Grovewith one Casildea de Vandalia, the
rawest and best roasted lady the whole world could produce; but that


rawness is not the only foot he limps on, for he has greater schemes
rumbling in his bowels, as will be seen before many hours are over.

There's no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance in it,
said Sancho; "in other houses they cook beansbut in mine it's by the
potful; madness will have more followers and hangers-on than sound
sense; but if there be any truth in the common sayingthat to have
companions in trouble gives some reliefI may take consolation from
youinasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own."

Crazy but valiant,replied he of the Groveand more roguish than
crazy or valiant.

Mine is not that,said Sancho; "I mean he has nothing of the rogue
in him; on the contraryhe has the soul of a pitcher; he has no
thought of doing harm to anyoneonly good to allnor has he any
malice whatever in him; a child might persuade him that it is night at
noonday; and for this simplicity I love him as the core of my heart
and I can't bring myself to leave himlet him do ever such foolish
things."

For all that, brother and senor,said he of the Groveif the
blind lead the blind, both are in danger of falling into the pit. It
is better for us to beat a quiet retreat and get back to our own
quarters; for those who seek adventures don't always find good ones.

Sancho kept spitting from time to timeand his spittle seemed
somewhat ropy and dryobserving which the compassionate squire of the
Grove saidIt seems to me that with all this talk of ours our
tongues are sticking to the roofs of our mouths; but I have a pretty
good loosener hanging from the saddle-bow of my horse,and getting up
he came back the next minute with a large bota of wine and a pasty
half a yard across; and this is no exaggerationfor it was made of
a house rabbit so big that Sanchoas he handled ittook it to be
made of a goatnot to say a kidand looking at it he saidAnd do
you carry this with you, senor?

Why, what are you thinking about?said the other; "do you take
me for some paltry squire? I carry a better larder on my horse's croup
than a general takes with him when he goes on a march."

Sancho ate without requiring to be pressedand in the dark bolted
mouthfuls like the knots on a tetherand said heYou are a proper
trusty squire, one of the right sort, sumptuous and grand, as this
banquet shows, which, if it has not come here by magic art, at any
rate has the look of it; not like me, unlucky beggar, that have
nothing more in my alforjas than a scrap of cheese, so hard that one
might brain a giant with it, and, to keep it company, a few dozen
carobs and as many more filberts and walnuts; thanks to the
austerity of my master, and the idea he has and the rule he follows,
that knights-errant must not live or sustain themselves on anything
except dried fruits and the herbs of the field.

By my faith, brother,said he of the Grovemy stomach is not
made for thistles, or wild pears, or roots of the woods; let our
masters do as they like, with their chivalry notions and laws, and eat
what those enjoin; I carry my prog-basket and this bota hanging to the
saddle-bow, whatever they may say; and it is such an object of worship
with me, and I love it so, that there is hardly a moment but I am
kissing and embracing it over and over again;and so saying he thrust
it into Sancho's handswho raising it aloft pointed to his mouth
gazed at the stars for a quarter of an hour; and when he had done
drinking let his head fall on one sideand giving a deep sigh
exclaimedAh, whoreson rogue, how catholic it is!


There, you see,said he of the Grovehearing Sancho's
exclamationhow you have called this wine whoreson by way of
praise.

Well,said SanchoI own it, and I grant it is no dishonour to
call anyone whoreson when it is to be understood as praise. But tell
me, senor, by what you love best, is this Ciudad Real wine?

O rare wine-taster!said he of the Grove; "nowhere else indeed
does it come fromand it has some years' age too."

Leave me alone for that,said Sancho; "never fear but I'll hit
upon the place it came from somehow. What would you saysir squire
to my having such a great natural instinct in judging wines that you
have only to let me smell one and I can tell positively its country
its kindits flavour and soundnessthe changes it will undergo
and everything that appertains to a wine? But it is no wonderfor I
have had in my familyon my father's sidethe two best
wine-tasters that have been known in La Mancha for many a long year
and to prove it I'll tell you now a thing that happened them. They
gave the two of them some wine out of a caskto tryasking their
opinion as to the conditionqualitygoodness or badness of the wine.
One of them tried it with the tip of his tonguethe other did no more
than bring it to his nose. The first said the wine had a flavour of
ironthe second said it had a stronger flavour of cordovan. The owner
said the cask was cleanand that nothing had been added to the wine
from which it could have got a flavour of either iron or leather.
Neverthelessthese two great wine-tasters held to what they had said.
Time went bythe wine was soldand when they came to clean out the
caskthey found in it a small key hanging to a thong of cordovan; see
now if one who comes of the same stock has not a right to give his
opinion in such like cases."

Therefore, I say,said he of the Grovelet us give up going in
quest of adventures, and as we have loaves let us not go looking for
cakes, but return to our cribs, for God will find us there if it be
his will.

Until my master reaches Saragossa,said SanchoI'll remain in
his service; after that we'll see.

The end of it was that the two squires talked so much and drank so
much that sleep had to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst
for to quench it was impossible; and so the pair of them fell asleep
clinging to the now nearly empty bota and with half-chewed morsels
in their mouths; and there we will leave them for the presentto
relate what passed between the Knight of the Grove and him of the
Rueful Countenance.

CHAPTER XIV

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE

Among the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of
the Woodthe history tells us he of the Grove said to Don Quixote
In fine, sir knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or,
more properly speaking, my choice led me to fall in love with the
peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has
no peer, whether it be in bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank
and beauty. This same Casildea, then, that I speak of, requited my


honourable passion and gentle aspirations by compelling me, as his
stepmother did Hercules, to engage in many perils of various sorts, at
the end of each promising me that, with the end of the next, the
object of my hopes should be attained; but my labours have gone on
increasing link by link until they are past counting, nor do I know
what will be the last one that is to be the beginning of the
accomplishment of my chaste desires. On one occasion she bade me go
and challenge the famous giantess of Seville, La Giralda by name,
who is as mighty and strong as if made of brass, and though never
stirring from one spot, is the most restless and changeable woman in
the world. I came, I saw, I conquered, and I made her stay quiet and
behave herself, for nothing but north winds blew for more than a week.
Another time I was ordered to lift those ancient stones, the mighty
bulls of Guisando, an enterprise that might more fitly be entrusted to
porters than to knights. Again, she bade me fling myself into the
cavern of Cabra- an unparalleled and awful peril- and bring her a
minute account of all that is concealed in those gloomy depths. I
stopped the motion of the Giralda, I lifted the bulls of Guisando, I
flung myself into the cavern and brought to light the secrets of its
abyss; and my hopes are as dead as dead can be, and her scorn and
her commands as lively as ever. To be brief, last of all she has
commanded me to go through all the provinces of Spain and compel all
the knights-errant wandering therein to confess that she surpasses all
women alive to-day in beauty, and that I am the most valiant and the
most deeply enamoured knight on earth; in support of which claim I
have already travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have
there vanquished several knights who have dared to contradict me;
but what I most plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished in
single combat that so famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, and made
him confess that my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea;
and in this one victory I hold myself to have conquered all the
knights in the world; for this Don Quixote that I speak of has
vanquished them all, and I having vanquished him, his glory, his fame,
and his honour have passed and are transferred to my person; for

The more the vanquished hath of fair renown,
The greater glory gilds the victor's crown.


Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote are now
set down to my account and have become mine.

Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Groveand
was a thousand times on the point of telling him he liedand had
the lie direct already on the tip of his tongue; but he restrained
himself as well as he couldin order to force him to confess the
lie with his own lips; so he said to him quietlyAs to what you say,
sir knight, about having vanquished most of the knights of Spain, or
even of the whole world, I say nothing; but that you have vanquished
Don Quixote of La Mancha I consider doubtful; it may have been some
other that resembled him, although there are few like him.

How! not vanquished?said he of the Grove; "by the heaven that
is above us I fought Don Quixote and overcame him and made him
yield; and he is a man of tall staturegaunt featureslonglank
limbswith hair turning greyan aquiline nose rather hookedand
large black drooping moustaches; he does battle under the name of 'The
Countenance' and he has for squire a peasant called Sancho Panza;
he presses the loins and rules the reins of a famous steed called
Rocinante; and lastlyhe has for the mistress of his will a certain
Dulcinea del Tobosoonce upon a time called Aldonza Lorenzojust
as I call mine Casildea de Vandalia because her name is Casilda and
she is of Andalusia. If all these tokens are not enough to vindicate
the truth of what I sayhere is my swordthat will compel
incredulity itself to give credence to it."


Calm yourself, sir knight,said Don Quixoteand give ear to what
I am about to say to you. you.I would have you know that this Don
Quixote you speak of is the greatest friend I have in the world; so
much so that I may say I regard him in the same light as my own
person; and from the precise and clear indications you have given I
cannot but think that he must be the very one you have vanquished.
On the other hand, I see with my eyes and feel with my hands that it
is impossible it can have been the same; unless indeed it be that,
as he has many enemies who are enchanters, and one in particular who
is always persecuting him, some one of these may have taken his
shape in order to allow himself to be vanquished, so as to defraud him
of the fame that his exalted achievements as a knight have earned
and acquired for him throughout the known world. And in confirmation
of this, I must tell you, too, that it is but ten hours since these
said enchanters his enemies transformed the shape and person of the
fair Dulcinea del Toboso into a foul and mean village lass, and in the
same way they must have transformed Don Quixote; and if all this
does not suffice to convince you of the truth of what I say, here is
Don Quixote himself, who will maintain it by arms, on foot or on
horseback or in any way you please.

And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his swordwaiting to
see what the Knight of the Grove would dowho in an equally calm
voice said in replyPledges don't distress a good payer; he who
has succeeded in vanquishing you once when transformed, Sir Don
Quixote, may fairly hope to subdue you in your own proper shape; but
as it is not becoming for knights to perform their feats of arms in
the dark, like highwaymen and bullies, let us wait till daylight, that
the sun may behold our deeds; and the conditions of our combat shall
be that the vanquished shall be at the victor's disposal, to do all
that he may enjoin, provided the injunction be such as shall be
becoming a knight.

I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms,
replied Don Quixote; and so sayingthey betook themselves to where
their squires layand found them snoringand in the same posture
they were in when sleep fell upon them. They roused them upand
bade them get the horses readyas at sunrise they were to engage in a
bloody and arduous single combat; at which intelligence Sancho was
aghast and thunderstrucktrembling for the safety of his master
because of the mighty deeds he had heard the squire of the Grove
ascribe to his; but without a word the two squires went in quest of
their cattle; for by this time the three horses and the ass had
smelt one another outand were all together.

On the wayhe of the Grove said to SanchoYou must know, brother,
that it is the custom with the fighting men of Andalusia, when they
are godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle with folded arms
while their godsons fight; I say so to remind you that while our
masters are fighting, we, too, have to fight, and knock one another to
shivers.

That custom, sir squire,replied Sanchomay hold good among
those bullies and fighting men you talk of, but certainly not among
the squires of knights-errant; at least, I have never heard my
master speak of any custom of the sort, and he knows all the laws of
knight-errantry by heart; but granting it true that there is an
express law that squires are to fight while their masters are
fighting, I don't mean to obey it, but to pay the penalty that may
be laid on peacefully minded squires like myself; for I am sure it
cannot be more than two pounds of wax, and I would rather pay that,
for I know it will cost me less than the lint I shall be at the
expense of to mend my head, which I look upon as broken and split


already; there's another thing that makes it impossible for me to
fight, that I have no sword, for I never carried one in my life.

I know a good remedy for that,said he of the Grove; "I have
here two linen bags of the same size; you shall take oneand I the
otherand we will fight at bag blows with equal arms."

If that's the way, so be it with all my heart,said Sanchofor
that sort of battle will serve to knock the dust out of us instead
of hurting us.

That will not do,said the otherfor we must put into the
bags, to keep the wind from blowing them away, half a dozen nice
smooth pebbles, all of the same weight; and in this way we shall be
able to baste one another without doing ourselves any harm or
mischief.

Body of my father!said Sanchosee what marten and sable, and
pads of carded cotton he is putting into the bags, that our heads
may not be broken and our bones beaten to jelly! But even if they
are filled with toss silk, I can tell you, senor, I am not going to
fight; let our masters fight, that's their lookout, and let us drink
and live; for time will take care to ease us of our lives, without our
going to look for fillips so that they may be finished off before
their proper time comes and they drop from ripeness.

Still,returned he of the Grovewe must fight, if it be only for
half an hour.

By no means,said Sancho; "I am not going to be so discourteous or
so ungrateful as to have any quarrelbe it ever so smallwith one
I have eaten and drunk with; besideswho the devil could bring
himself to fight in cold bloodwithout anger or provocation?"

I can remedy that entirely,said he of the Groveand in this
way: before we begin the battle, I will come up to your worship fair
and softly, and give you three or four buffets, with which I shall
stretch you at my feet and rouse your anger, though it were sleeping
sounder than a dormouse.

To match that plan,said SanchoI have another that is not a
whit behind it; I will take a cudgel, and before your worship comes
near enough to waken my anger I will send yours so sound to sleep with
whacks, that it won't waken unless it be in the other world, where
it is known that I am not a man to let my face be handled by anyone;
let each look out for the arrow- though the surer way would be to
let everyone's anger sleep, for nobody knows the heart of anyone,
and a man may come for wool and go back shorn; God gave his blessing
to peace and his curse to quarrels; if a hunted cat, surrounded and
hard pressed, turns into a lion, God knows what I, who am a man, may
turn into; and so from this time forth I warn you, sir squire, that
all the harm and mischief that may come of our quarrel will be put
down to your account.

Very good,said he of the Grove; "God will send the dawn and we
shall be all right."

And now gay-plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in the
treesand with their varied and gladsome notes seemed to welcome
and salute the fresh morn that was beginning to show the beauty of her
countenance at the gates and balconies of the eastshaking from her
locks a profusion of liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture bathed
the plantstooseemed to shed and shower down a pearly spraythe
willows distilled sweet mannathe fountains laughedthe brooks


babbledthe woods rejoicedand the meadows arrayed themselves in all
their glory at her coming. But hardly had the light of day made it
possible to see and distinguish thingswhen the first object that
presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of the
Grove's nosewhich was so big that it almost overshadowed his whole
body. It isin factstatedthat it was of enormous sizehooked
in the middlecovered with wartsand of a mulberry colour like an
egg-plant; it hung down two fingers' length below his mouthand the
sizethe colourthe wartsand the bend of itmade his face so
hideousthat Sanchoas he looked at himbegan to tremble hand and
foot like a child in convulsionsand he vowed in his heart to let
himself be given two hundred buffetssooner than be provoked to fight
that monster. Don Quixote examined his adversaryand found that he
already had his helmet on and visor loweredso that he could not
see his face; he observedhoweverthat he was a sturdily built
manbut not very tall in stature. Over his armour he wore a surcoat
or cassock of what seemed to be the finest cloth of goldall
bespangled with glittering mirrors like little moonswhich gave him
an extremely gallant and splendid appearance; above his helmet
fluttered a great quantity of plumesgreenyellowand whiteand
his lancewhich was leaning against a treewas very long and
stoutand had a steel point more than a palm in length.

Don Quixote observed alland took note of alland from what he saw
and observed he concluded that the said knight must be a man of
great strengthbut he did not for all that give way to fearlike
Sancho Panza; on the contrarywith a composed and dauntless airhe
said to the Knight of the MirrorsIf, sir knight, your great
eagerness to fight has not banished your courtesy, by it I would
entreat you to raise your visor a little, in order that I may see if
the comeliness of your countenance corresponds with that of your
equipment.

Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this emprise,
sir knight,replied he of the Mirrorsyou will have more than
enough time and leisure to see me; and if now I do not comply with
your request, it is because it seems to me I should do a serious wrong
to the fair Casildea de Vandalia in wasting time while I stopped to
raise my visor before compelling you to confess what you are already
aware I maintain.

Well then,said Don Quixotewhile we are mounting you can at
least tell me if I am that Don Quixote whom you said you vanquished.

To that we answer you,said he of the Mirrorsthat you are as
like the very knight I vanquished as one egg is like another, but as
you say enchanters persecute you, I will not venture to say positively
whether you are the said person or not.

That,said Don Quixoteis enough to convince me that you are
under a deception; however, entirely to relieve you of it, let our
horses be brought, and in less time than it would take you to raise
your visor, if God, my lady, and my arm stand me in good stead, I
shall see your face, and you shall see that I am not the vanquished
Don Quixote you take me to be.

With thiscutting short the colloquythey mountedand Don Quixote
wheeled Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge
back upon his adversaryand he of the Mirrors did the same; but Don
Quixote had not moved away twenty paces when he heard himself called
by the otherandeach returning half-wayhe of the Mirrors said
to himRemember, sir knight, that the terms of our combat are,
that the vanquished, as I said before, shall be at the victor's
disposal.


I am aware of it already,said Don Quixote; "provided what is
commanded and imposed upon the vanquished be things that do not
transgress the limits of chivalry."

That is understood,replied he of the Mirrors.

At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself
to Don Quixote's viewand he was no less amazed than Sancho at the
sight; insomuch that he set him down as a monster of some kindor a
human being of some new species or unearthly breed. Sanchoseeing his
master retiring to run his coursedid not like to be left alone
with the nosy manfearing that with one flap of that nose on his
own the battle would be all over for him and he would be left
stretched on the groundeither by the blow or with fright; so he
ran after his masterholding on to Rocinante's stirrup-leatherand
when it seemed to him time to turn abouthe saidI implore of
your worship, senor, before you turn to charge, to help me up into
this cork tree, from which I will be able to witness the gallant
encounter your worship is going to have with this knight, more to my
taste and better than from the ground.

It seems to me rather, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat thou
wouldst mount a scaffold in order to see the bulls without danger.

To tell the truth,returned Sanchothe monstrous nose of that
squire has filled me with fear and terror, and I dare not stay near
him.

It is,said Don Quixotesuch a one that were I not what I am
it would terrify me too; so, come, I will help thee up where thou
wilt.

While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork tree he
of the Mirrors took as much ground as he considered requisiteand
supposing Don Quixote to have done the samewithout waiting for any
sound of trumpet or other signal to direct themhe wheeled his horse
which was not more agile or better-looking than Rocinanteand at
his top speedwhich was an easy trothe proceeded to charge his
enemy; seeing himhoweverengaged in putting Sancho uphe drew
reinand halted in mid careerfor which his horse was very grateful
as he was already unable to go. Don Quixotefancying that his foe was
coming down upon him flyingdrove his spurs vigorously into
Rocinante's lean flanks and made him scud along in such style that the
history tells us that on this occasion only was he known to make
something like runningfor on all others it was a simple trot with
him; and with this unparalleled fury he bore down where he of the
Mirrors stood digging his spurs into his horse up to buttons
without being able to make him stir a finger's length from the spot
where he had come to a standstill in his course. At this lucky
moment and crisisDon Quixote came upon his adversaryin trouble
with his horseand embarrassed with his lancewhich he either
could not manageor had no time to lay in rest. Don Quixotehowever
paid no attention to these difficultiesand in perfect safety to
himself and without any risk encountered him of the Mirrors with
such force that he brought him to the ground in spite of himself
over the haunches of his horseand with so heavy a fall that he lay
to all appearance deadnot stirring hand or foot. The instant
Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork treeand made all
haste to where his master waswhodismounting from Rocinantewent
and stood over him of the Mirrorsand unlacing his helmet to see if
he was deadand to give him air if he should happen to be alivehe
saw- who can say what he sawwithout filling all who hear it with
astonishmentwonderand awe? He sawthe history saysthe very


countenancethe very facethe very lookthe very physiognomythe
very effigythe very image of the bachelor Samson Carrasco! As soon
as he saw it he called out in a loud voiceMake haste here,
Sancho, and behold what thou art to see but not to believe; quick,
my son, and learn what magic can do, and wizards and enchanters are
capable of.

Sancho came upand when he saw the countenance of the bachelor
Carrascohe fell to crossing himself a thousand timesand blessing
himself as many more. All this time the prostrate knight showed no
signs of lifeand Sancho said to Don QuixoteIt is my opinion,
senor, that in any case your worship should take and thrust your sword
into the mouth of this one here that looks like the bachelor Samson
Carrasco; perhaps in him you will kill one of your enemies, the
enchanters.

Thy advice is not bad,said Don Quixotefor of enemies the fewer
the better;and he was drawing his sword to carry into effect
Sancho's counsel and suggestionwhen the squire of the Mirrors came
upnow without the nose which had made him so hideousand cried
out in a loud voiceMind what you are about, Senor Don Quixote; that
is your friend, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you have at your feet,
and I am his squire.

And the nose?said Sanchoseeing him without the hideous
feature he had before; to which he repliedI have it here in my
pocket,and putting his hand into his right pockethe pulled out a
masquerade nose of varnished pasteboard of the make already described;
and Sanchoexamining him more and more closelyexclaimed aloud in
a voice of amazementHoly Mary be good to me! Isn't it Tom Cecial,
my neighbour and gossip?

Why, to be sure I am!returned the now unnosed squire; "Tom Cecial
I amgossip and friend Sancho Panza; and I'll tell you presently
the means and tricks and falsehoods by which I have been brought here;
but in the meantimebeg and entreat of your master not to touch
maltreatwoundor slay the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has at
his feet; becausebeyond all disputeit is the rash and
ill-advised bachelor Samson Carrascoour fellow townsman."

At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himselfand Don Quixote
perceiving itheld the naked point of his sword over his faceand
said to himYou are a dead man, knight, unless you confess that
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia in
beauty; and in addition to this you must promise, if you should
survive this encounter and fall, to go to the city of El Toboso and
present yourself before her on my behalf, that she deal with you
according to her good pleasure; and if she leaves you free to do
yours, you are in like manner to return and seek me out (for the trail
of my mighty deeds will serve you as a guide to lead you to where I
may be), and tell me what may have passed between you and herconditions
which, in accordance with what we stipulated before our
combat, do not transgress the just limits of knight-errantry.

I confess,said the fallen knightthat the dirty tattered shoe
of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is better than the ill-combed though
clean beard of Casildea; and I promise to go and to return from her
presence to yours, and to give you a full and particular account of
all you demand of me.

You must also confess and believe,added Don Quixotethat the
knight you vanquished was not and could not be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, but some one else in his likeness, just as I confess and
believe that you, though you seem to be the bachelor Samson


Carrasco, are not so, but some other resembling him, whom my enemies
have here put before me in his shape, in order that I may restrain and
moderate the vehemence of my wrath, and make a gentle use of the glory
of my victory.

I confess, hold, and think everything to be as you believe, hold,
and think it,the crippled knight; "let me riseI entreat you; if
indeedthe shock of my fall will allow mefor it has left me in a
sorry plight enough."

Don Quixote helped him to risewith the assistance of his squire
Tom Cecial; from whom Sancho never took his eyesand to whom he put
questionsthe replies to which furnished clear proof that he was
really and truly the Tom Cecial he said; but the impression made on
Sancho's mind by what his master said about the enchanters having
changed the face of the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the
bachelor Samson Carrascowould not permit him to believe what he
saw with his eyes. In fineboth master and man remained under the
delusion; anddown in the mouthand out of luckhe of the Mirrors
and his squire parted from Don Quixote and Sanchohe meaning to go
look for some village where he could plaster and strap his ribs. Don
Quixote and Sancho resumed their journey to Saragossaand on it the
history leaves them in order that it may tell who the Knight of the
Mirrors and his long-nosed squire were.

CHAPTER XV

WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS
SQUIRE WERE

Don Quixote went off satisfiedelatedand vain-glorious in the
highest degree at having won a victory over such a valiant knight as
he fancied him of the Mirrors to beand one from whose knightly
word he expected to learn whether the enchantment of his lady still
continued; inasmuch as the said vanquished knight was boundunder the
penalty of ceasing to be oneto return and render him an account of
what took place between him and her. But Don Quixote was of one
mindhe of the Mirrors of anotherfor he just then had no thought of
anything but finding some village where he could plaster himselfas
has been said already. The history goes on to saythenthat when the
bachelor Samson Carrasco recommended Don Quixote to resume his
knight-errantry which he had laid asideit was in consequence of
having been previously in conclave with the curate and the barber on
the means to be adopted to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in peace
and quiet without worrying himself with his ill-starred adventures; at
which consultation it was decided by the unanimous vote of alland on
the special advice of Carrascothat Don Quixote should be allowed
to goas it seemed impossible to restrain himand that Samson should
sally forth to meet him as a knight-errantand do battle with him
for there would be no difficulty about a causeand vanquish himthat
being looked upon as an easy matter; and that it should be agreed
and settled that the vanquished was to be at the mercy of the
victor. ThenDon Quixote being vanquishedthe bachelor knight was to
command him to return to his village and his houseand not quit it
for two yearsor until he received further orders from him; all which
it was clear Don Quixote would unhesitatingly obeyrather than
contravene or fail to observe the laws of chivalry; and during the
period of his seclusion he might perhaps forget his follyor there
might be an opportunity of discovering some ready remedy for his
madness. Carrasco undertook the taskand Tom Ceciala gossip and
neighbour of Sancho Panza'sa livelyfeather-headed fellow


offered himself as his squire. Carrasco armed himself in the fashion
describedand Tom Cecialthat he might not be known by his gossip
when they metfitted on over his own natural nose the false
masquerade one that has been mentioned; and so they followed the
same route Don Quixote tookand almost came up with him in time to be
present at the adventure of the cart of Death and finally
encountered them in the grovewhere all that the sagacious reader has
been reading about took place; and had it not been for the
extraordinary fancies of Don Quixoteand his conviction that the
bachelor was not the bachelorsenor bachelor would have been
incapacitated for ever from taking his degree of licentiateall
through not finding nests where he thought to find birds.

Tom Cecialseeing how ill they had succeededand what a sorry
end their expedition had come tosaid to the bachelorSure
enough, Senor Samson Carrasco, we are served right; it is easy
enough to plan and set about an enterprise, but it is often a
difficult matter to come well out of it. Don Quixote a madman, and
we sane; he goes off laughing, safe, and sound, and you are left
sore and sorry! I'd like to know now which is the madder, he who is so
because he cannot help it, or he who is so of his own choice?

To which Samson repliedThe difference between the two sorts of
madmen is, that he who is so will he nil he, will be one always, while
he who is so of his own accord can leave off being one whenever he
likes.

In that case,said Tom CecialI was a madman of my own accord
when I volunteered to become your squire, and, of my own accord,
I'll leave off being one and go home.

That's your affair,returned Samsonbut to suppose that I am
going home until I have given Don Quixote a thrashing is absurd; and
it is not any wish that he may recover his senses that will make me
hunt him out now, but a wish for the sore pain I am in with my ribs
won't let me entertain more charitable thoughts.

Thus discoursingthe pair proceeded until they reached a town where
it was their good luck to find a bone-setterwith whose help the
unfortunate Samson was cured. Tom Cecial left him and went homewhile
he stayed behind meditating vengeance; and the history will return
to him again at the proper timeso as not to omit making merry with
Don Quixote now.

CHAPTER XVI

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spiritssatisfaction
and self-complacency already describedfancying himself the most
valorous knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late
victory. All the adventures that could befall him from that time forth
he regarded as already done and brought to a happy issue; he made
light of enchantments and enchanters; he thought no more of the
countless drubbings that had been administered to him in the course of
his knight-errantrynor of the volley of stones that had levelled
half his teethnor of the ingratitude of the galley slavesnor of
the audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower of stakes that fell upon
him; in shorthe said to himself that could he discover any means
modeor way of disenchanting his lady Dulcineahe would not envy the
highest fortune that the most fortunate knight-errant of yore ever


reached or could reach.


He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancieswhen Sancho
said to himIsn't it odd, senor, that I have still before my eyes
that monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?


And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat
the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire
Tom Cecial thy gossip?


I don't know what to say to that,replied Sancho; "all I know is
that the tokens he gave me about my own housewife and children
nobody else but himself could have given me; and the faceonce the
nose was offwas the very face of Tom Cecialas I have seen it
many a time in my town and next door to my own house; and the sound of
the voice was just the same."


Let us reason the matter, Sancho,said Don Quixote. "Come now
by what process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor
Samson Carrasco would come as a knight-errantin arms offensive and
defensiveto fight with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy?
Have I ever given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival
or does he profess armsthat he should envy the fame I have
acquired in them?"


Well, but what are we to say, senor,returned Sanchoabout
that knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and
his squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be
enchantment, as your worship says, was there no other pair in the
world for them to take the likeness of?


It is all,said Don Quixotea scheme and plot of the malignant
magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be
victorious in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should
display the countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the
friendship I bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword
and might of my arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he
who sought to take my life by fraud and falsehood should save his own.
And to prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience which
cannot lie or deceive, how easy it is for enchanters to change one
countenance into another, turning fair into foul, and foul into
fair; for it is not two days since thou sawest with thine own eyes the
beauty and elegance of the peerless Dulcinea in all its perfection and
natural harmony, while I saw her in the repulsive and mean form of a
coarse country wench, with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in
her mouth; and when the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so
wicked a transformation, it is no wonder if he effected that of Samson
Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the glory of victory out of
my grasp. For all that, however, I console myself, because, after all,
in whatever shape he may have been, I have victorious over my enemy.


God knows what's the truth of it all,said Sancho; and knowing
as he did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and
imposition of his ownhis master's illusions were not satisfactory to
him; but he did not like to reply lest he should say something that
might disclose his trickery.


As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a
man who was following the same road behind themmounted on a very
handsome flea-bitten mareand dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth
with tawny velvet facingsand a montera of the same velvet. The
trappings of the mare were of the field and jineta fashionand of
mulberry colour and green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a
broad green and gold baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the



baldric; the spurs were not giltbut lacquered greenand so brightly
polished thatmatching as they did the rest of his apparelthey
looked better than if they had been of pure gold.

When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously
and spurring his mare was passing them without stoppingbut Don
Quixote called out to himGallant sir, if so be your worship is
going our road, and has no occasion for speed, it would be a
pleasure to me if we were to join company.

In truth,replied he on the mareI would not pass you so hastily
but for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare.

You may safely hold in your mare, senor,said Sancho in reply to
thisfor our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in
the world; he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the
only time he misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold;
I say again your worship may pull up if you like; for if she was
offered to him between two plates the horse would not hanker after
her.

The traveller drew reinamazed at the trim and features of Don
Quixotewho rode without his helmetwhich Sancho carried like a
valise in front of Dapple's pack-saddle; and if the man in green
examined Don Quixote closelystill more closely did Don Quixote
examine the man in greenwho struck him as being a man of
intelligence. In appearance he was about fifty years of agewith
but few grey hairsan aquiline cast of featuresand an expression
between grave and gay; and his dress and accoutrements showed him to
be a man of good condition. What he in green thought of Don Quixote of
La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape he had never yet seen;
he marvelled at the length of his hairhis lofty staturethe
lankness and sallowness of his countenancehis armourhis bearing
and his gravity- a figure and picture such as had not been seen in
those regions for many a long day.

Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the
traveller was regarding himand read his curiosity in his
astonishment; and courteous as he was and ready to please everybody
before the other could ask him any question he anticipated him by
sayingThe appearance I present to your worship being so strange and
so out of the common, I should not be surprised if it filled you
with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when I tell you, as I do,
that I am one of those knights who, as people say, go seeking
adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I have
given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune,
to bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to
life again knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past,
stumbling here, falling there, now coming down headlong, now raising
myself up again, I have carried out a great portion of my design,
succouring widows, protecting maidens, and giving aid to wives,
orphans, and minors, the proper and natural duty of knights-errant;
and, therefore, because of my many valiant and Christian achievements,
I have been already found worthy to make my way in print to
well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the earth. Thirty thousand
volumes of my history have been printed, and it is on the high-road to
be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven does not
put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words, or in a
single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise
called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;' for though
self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that
is to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that,
gentle sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor
this squire, nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my


countenance, nor my gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you,
now that you know who I am and what profession I follow.

With these words Don Quixote held his peaceandfrom the time he
took to answerthe man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply;
after a long pausehoweverhe said to himYou were right when
you saw curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not
succeeded in removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for
although you say, senor, that knowing who you are ought to remove
it, it has not done so; on the contrary, now that I know, I am left
more amazed and astonished than before. What! is it possible that
there are knights-errant in the world in these days, and histories
of real chivalry printed? I cannot realise the fact that there can
be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids widows, or protects maidens, or
defends wives, or succours orphans; nor should I believe it had I
not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. Blessed be heaven! for
by means of this history of your noble and genuine chivalrous deeds,
which you say has been printed, the countless stories of fictitious
knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to the injury
of morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories, will
have been driven into oblivion.

There is a good deal to be said on that point,said Don Quixote
as to whether the histories of the knights-errant are fiction or
not.

Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?
said the man in green.

I doubt it,said Don Quixotebut never mind that just now; if
our journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show your
worship that you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard
it as a matter of certainty that they are not true.

From this last observation of Don Quixote'sthe traveller began
to have a suspicion that he was some crazy beingand was waiting
him to confirm it by something further; but before they could turn
to any new subject Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was
since he himself had rendered account of his station and life. To
thishe in the green gaban replied "ISir Knight of the Rueful
Countenanceam a gentleman by birthnative of the village where
please Godwe are going to dine today; I am more than fairly well
offand my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life with my wife
childrenand friends; my pursuits are hunting and fishingbut I keep
neither hawks nor greyhoundsnothing but a tame partridge or a bold
ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of bookssome in our mother
tonguesome Latinsome of them historyothers devotional; those
of chivalry have not as yet crossed the threshold of my door; I am
more given to turning over the profane than the devotionalso long as
they are books of honest entertainment that charm by their style and
attract and interest by the invention they displaythough of these
there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and
friendsand often invite them; my entertainments are neat and well
served without stint of anything. I have no taste for tattlenor do I
allow tattling in my presence; I pry not into my neighbours' lives
nor have I lynx-eyes for what others do. I hear mass every day; I
share my substance with the poormaking no display of good works
lest I let hypocrisy and vainglorythose enemies that subtly take
possession of the most watchful heartfind an entrance into mine. I
strive to make peace between those whom I know to be at variance; I am
the devoted servant of Our Ladyand my trust is ever in the
infinite mercy of God our Lord."

Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the


gentleman's life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy
lifeand that he who led it ought to work miracleshe threw
himself off Dappleand running in haste seized his right stirrup
and kissed his foot again and again with a devout heart and almost
with tears.

Seeing this the gentleman asked himWhat are you about, brother?
What are these kisses for?

Let me kiss,said Sanchofor I think your worship is the first
saint in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life.

I am no saint,replied the gentlemanbut a great sinner; but you
are, brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity
shows.

Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddlehaving extracted a
laugh from his master's profound melancholyand excited fresh
amazement in Don Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children
he hadand observed that one of the things wherein the ancient
philosopherswho were without the true knowledge of Godplaced the
summum bonum was in the gifts of naturein those of fortunein
having many friendsand many and good children.

I, Senor Don Quixote,answered the gentlemanhave one son,
without whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not
because he is a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could
wish. He is eighteen years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca
studying Latin and Greek, and when I wished him to turn to the study
of other sciences I found him so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that
can be called a science) that there is no getting him to take kindly
to the law, which I wished him to study, or to theology, the queen
of them all. I would like him to be an honour to his family, as we
live in days when our kings liberally reward learning that is virtuous
and worthy; for learning without virtue is a pearl on a dunghill. He
spends the whole day in settling whether Homer expressed himself
correctly or not in such and such a line of the Iliad, whether Martial
was indecent or not in such and such an epigram, whether such and such
lines of Virgil are to be understood in this way or in that; in short,
all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of Horace,
Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own language
he makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference to
Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss
on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which I
suspect are for some poetical tournament.

To all this Don Quixote said in replyChildren, senor, are
portions of their parents' bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad,
are to be loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for
the parents to guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue,
propriety, and worthy Christian conduct, so that when grown up they
may be the staff of their parents' old age, and the glory of their
posterity; and to force them to study this or that science I do not
think wise, though it may be no harm to persuade them; and when
there is no need to study for the sake of pane lucrando, and it is the
student's good fortune that heaven has given him parents who provide
him with it, it would be my advice to them to let him pursue
whatever science they may see him most inclined to; and though that of
poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that
bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I
take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array,
bedeck, and adorn whom is the task of several other maidens, who are
all the rest of the sciences; and she must avail herself of the help
of all, and all derive their lustre from her. But this maiden will not


bear to be handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed
either at the corners of the market-places, or in the closets of
palaces. She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who
is able to practise it, will turn her into pure gold of inestimable
worth. He that possesses her must keep her within bounds, not
permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She
must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in
heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies.
She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar,
incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden treasures. And
do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term vulgar here merely to
plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he
lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He, then,
who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have
named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the
civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say,
senor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am
inclined to think that he is not quite right there, and for this
reason: the great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was
a Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in
short, all the ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with
their mother's milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to
express their sublime conceptions; and that being so, the usage should
in justice extend to all nations, and the German poet should not be
undervalued because he writes in his own language, nor the
Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his. But your son,
senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry, but
against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any
knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and
vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be
wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to
say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother's womb; and
following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the
aid of study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke
who said, 'Est Deus in nobis,' &c. At the same time, I say that the
poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far better
poet, and will surpass him who tries to be one relying upon his
knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does not surpass
nature, but only brings it to perfection; and thus, nature combined
with art, and art with nature, will produce a perfect poet. To bring
my argument to a close, I would say then, gentle sir, let your son
go on as his star leads him, for being so studious as he seems to
be, and having already successfully surmounted the first step of the
sciences, which is that of the languages, with their help he will by
his own exertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well
becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns, honours, and
distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown
the learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the
honour of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he
compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style
of Horace, and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is
legitimate for a poet to write against envy and lash the envious in
his verse, and the other vices too, provided he does not single out
individuals; there are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying
something spiteful, would run the risk of being banished to the
coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in
his verses too; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and as the thought
engendered there, so will be the things that it writes down. And when
kings and princes observe this marvellous science of poetry in wise,
virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honour, value, exalt them, and
even crown them with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt
strikes not, as if to show that they whose brows are honoured and
adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone.


He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's
argumentso much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken
up about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourseit being
not very much to his tasteSancho had turned aside out of the road to
beg a little milk from some shepherdswho were milking their ewes
hard by; and just as the gentlemanhighly pleasedwas about to renew
the conversationDon Quixoteraising his headperceived a cart
covered with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling;
and persuaded that this must be some new adventurehe called aloud to
Sancho to come and bring him his helmet. Sanchohearing himself
calledquitted the shepherdsandprodding Dapple vigorouslycame
up to his masterto whom there fell a terrific and desperate
adventure.

CHAPTER XVII

WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED
COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE
HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS

The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to
bring him his helmetSancho was buying some curds the shepherds
agreed to sell himand flurried by the great haste his master was
in did not know what to do with them or what to carry them in; sonot
to lose themfor he had already paid for themhe thought it best
to throw them into his master's helmetand acting on this bright idea
he went to see what his master wanted with him. Heas he
approachedexclaimed to him:

Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of
adventures, or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does,
call upon me to arm myself.

He of the green gabanon hearing thislooked in all directions
but could perceive nothingexcept a cart coming towards them with two
or three small flagswhich led him to conclude it must be carrying
treasure of the King'sand he said so to Don Quixote. Hehowever
would not believe himbeing always persuaded and convinced that all
that happened to him must be adventures and still more adventures;
so he replied to the gentlemanHe who is prepared has his battle
half fought; nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by
experience that I have enemies, visible and invisible, and I know
not when, or where, or at what moment, or in what shapes they will
attack me;and turning to Sancho he called for his helmet; and
Sanchoas he had no time to take out the curdshad to give it just
as it was. Don Quixote took itand without perceiving what was in
it thrust it down in hot haste upon his head; but as the curds were
pressed and squeezed the whey began to run all over his face and
beardwhereat he was so startled that he cried out to Sancho:

Sancho, what's this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are
melting, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is
not indeed from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure
which is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something to
wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is
blinding me.

Sancho held his tongueand gave him a clothand gave thanks to God
at the same time that his master had not found out what was the
matter. Don Quixote then wiped himselfand took off his helmet to see
what it was that made his head feel so cooland seeing all that white


mash inside his helmet he put it to his noseand as soon as he had
smelt it he exclaimed:

By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou
hast put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!

To whichwith great composure and pretended innocenceSancho
repliedIf they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I'll
eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put
them there. I dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender
finely! Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have
enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your
worship, and they must have put that nastiness there in order to
provoke your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you
are wont to do. Well, this time, indeed, they have missed their aim,
for I trust to my master's good sense to see that I have got no
curds or milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I had it is in
my stomach I would put it and not in the helmet.

May he so,said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing
and with astonishmentmore especially whenafter having wiped
himself cleanhis headfacebeardand helmetDon Quixote put it
onand settling himself firmly in his stirrupseasing his sword in
the scabbardand grasping his lancehe criedNow, come who will,
here am I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!

By this time the cart with the flags had come upunattended by
anyone except the carter on a muleand a man sitting in front. Don
Quixote planted himself before it and saidWhither are you going,
brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are
those?

To this the carter repliedThe cart is mine; what is in it is a
pair of wild caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to
court as a present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the
King's, to show that what is here is his property.

And are the lions large?asked Don Quixote.

So large,replied the man who sat at the door of the cartthat
larger, or as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the
keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They
are male and female; the male is in that first cage and the female
in the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten
nothing to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make
haste to the place where we are to feed them.

Hereuponsmiling slightlyDon Quixote exclaimedLion-whelps to
me! to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those
gentlemen who send them here shall see if I am a man to be
frightened by lions. Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the
keeper open the cages, and turn me out those beasts, and in the
midst of this plain I will let them know who Don Quixote of La
Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the enchanters who send them
to me.

So, so,said the gentleman to himself at this; "our worthy
knight has shown of what sort he is; the curdsno doubthave
softened his skull and brought his brains to a head."

At this instant Sancho came up to himsayingSenor, for God's
sake do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling
these lions; for if he does they'll tear us all to pieces here.


Is your master then so mad,asked the gentlemanthat you believe
and are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?

He is not mad,said Sanchobut he is venturesome.

I will prevent it,said the gentleman; and going over to Don
Quixotewho was insisting upon the keeper's opening the cageshe
said to himSir knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures
which encourage the hope of a successful issue, not those which
entirely withhold it; for valour that trenches upon temerity savours
rather of madness than of courage; moreover, these lions do not come
to oppose you, nor do they dream of such a thing; they are going as
presents to his Majesty, and it will not be right to stop them or
delay their journey.

Gentle sir,replied Don Quixoteyou go and mind your tame
partridge and your bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own
business; this is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions
come to me or not;and then turning to the keeper he exclaimedBy
all that's good, sir scoundrel, if you don't open the cages this
very instant, I'll pin you to the cart with this lance.

The carterseeing the determination of this apparition in armour
said to himPlease your worship, for charity's sake, senor, let me
unyoke the mules and place myself in safety along with them before the
lions are turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for
life, for all I possess is this cart and mules.

O man of little faith,replied Don Quixoteget down and
unyoke; you will soon see that you are exerting yourself for
nothing, and that you might have spared yourself the trouble.

The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mulesand the
keeper called out at the top of his voiceI call all here to witness
that against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the
lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be
accountable for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do,
and for my salary and dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves
in safety before I open, for I know they will do me no harm.

Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do
such a mad thingas it was tempting God to engage in such a piece
of folly. To thisDon Quixote replied that he knew what he was about.
The gentleman in return entreated him to reflectfor he knew he was
under a delusion.

Well, senor,answered Don Quixoteif you do not like to be a
spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your
flea-bitten mare, and place yourself in safety.

Hearing thisSancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up
an enterprise compared with which the one of the windmillsand the
awful one of the fulling millsandin factall the feats he had
attempted in the whole course of his lifewere cakes and fancy bread.
Look ye, senor,said Sanchothere's no enchantment here, nor
anything of the sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I
have seen the paw of a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the
lion such a paw could belong to must be bigger than a mountain.

Fear at any rate,replied Don Quixotewill make him look
bigger to thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me;
and if I die here thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to
Dulcinea- I say no more.To these he added some further words that
banished all hope of his giving up his insane project. He of the green


gaban would have offered resistancebut he found himself
ill-matched as to armsand did not think it prudent to come to
blows with a madmanfor such Don Quixote now showed himself to be
in every respect; and the latterrenewing his commands to the
keeper and repeating his threatsgave warning to the gentleman to
spur his mareSancho his Dappleand the carter his mulesall
striving to get away from the cart as far as they could before the
lions broke loose. Sancho was weeping over his master's deathfor
this time he firmly believed it was in store for him from the claws of
the lions; and he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour when
he thought of taking service with him again; but with all his tears
and lamentations he did not forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a
good space between himself and the cart. The keeperseeing that the
fugitives were now some distance offonce more entreated and warned
him as before; but he replied that he heard himand that he need
not trouble himself with any further warnings or entreatiesas they
would be fruitlessand bade him make haste.

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the
first cageDon Quixote was considering whether it would not be well
to do battle on footinstead of on horsebackand finally resolved to
fight on footfearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight
of the lions; he therefore sprang off his horseflung his lance
asidebraced his buckler on his armand drawing his sword
advanced slowly with marvellous intrepidity and resolute courageto
plant himself in front of the cartcommending himself with all his
heart to God and to his lady Dulcinea.

It is to be observedthat on coming to this passagethe author
of this veracious history breaks out into exclamations. "O doughty Don
Quixote! high-mettled past extolling! Mirrorwherein all the heroes
of the world may see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon
once the glory and honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I
describe this dread exploitby what language shall I make it credible
to ages to comewhat eulogies are there unmeet for theethough
they be hyperboles piled on hyperboles! On footaloneundaunted
high-souledwith but a simple swordand that no trenchant blade of
the Perrillo branda shieldbut no bright polished steel one
there stoodst thoubiding and awaiting the two fiercest lions that
Africa's forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy praisevaliant
Mancheganand here I leave them as they standwanting the words
wherewith to glorify them!"

Here the author's outburst came to an endand he proceeded to
take up the thread of his storysaying that the keeperseeing that
Don Quixote had taken up his positionand that it was impossible
for him to avoid letting out the male without incurring the enmity
of the fiery and daring knightflung open the doors of the first
cagecontainingas has been saidthe lionwhich was now seen to be
of enormous sizeand grim and hideous mien. The first thing he did
was to turn round in the cage in which he layand protrude his claws
and stretch himself thoroughly; he next opened his mouthand yawned
very leisurelyand with near two palms' length of tongue that he
had thrust forthhe licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his
face; having done thishe put his head out of the cage and looked all
round with eyes like glowing coalsa spectacle and demeanour to
strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote merely observed him
steadilylonging for him to leap from the cart and come to close
quarters with himwhen he hoped to hew him in pieces.

So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lionmore
courteous than arrogantnot troubling himself about silly bravado
after having looked all roundas has been saidturned about and
presented his hind-quarters to Don Quixoteand very coolly and


tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing thisDon Quixote
ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him to make
him come out.

That I won't,said the keeper; "for if I anger himthe first
he'll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfiedsir knightwith
what you have donewhich leaves nothing more to be said on the
score of courageand do not seek to tempt fortune a second time.
The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out;
but as he has not come out so farhe will not come out to-day. Your
worship's great courage has been fully manifested already; no brave
championso it strikes meis bound to do more than challenge his
enemy and wait for him on the field; if his adversary does not come
on him lies the disgraceand he who waits for him carries off the
crown of victory."

That is true,said Don Quixote; "close the doormy friendand
let me havein the best form thou canstwhat thou hast seen me do
by way of certificate; to witthat thou didst open for the lionthat
I waited for himthat he did not come outthat I still waited for
himand that still he did not come outand lay down again. I am
not bound to do more; enchantments avauntand God uphold the right
the truthand true chivalry! Close the door as I bade theewhile I
make signals to the fugitives that have left usthat they may learn
this exploit from thy lips."

The keeper obeyedand Don Quixotefixing on the point of his lance
the cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds
proceeded to recall the otherswho still continued to flylooking
back at every stepall in a bodythe gentleman bringing up the rear.
Sanchohoweverhappening to observe the signal of the white cloth
exclaimedMay I die, if my master has not overcome the wild
beasts, for he is calling to us.

They all stoppedand perceived that it was Don Quixote who was
making signalsand shaking off their fears to some extentthey
approached slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don
Quixote's voice calling to them. They returned at length to the
cartand as they came upDon Quixote said to the carterPut your
mules to once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou,
Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to
compensate for the delay they have incurred through me.

That will I give with all my heart,said Sancho; "but what has
become of the lions? Are they dead or alive?"

The keeperthenin full detailand bit by bitdescribed the
end of the contestexalting to the best of his power and ability
the valour of Don Quixoteat the sight of whom the lion quailed
and would not and dared not come out of the cagealthough he had held
the door open ever so long; and showing howin consequence of his
having represented to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke
the lion in order to force him outwhich he wished to have donehe
very reluctantlyand altogether against his willhad allowed the
door to be closed.

What dost thou think of this, Sancho?said Don Quixote. "Are there
any enchantments that can prevail against true valour? The
enchanters may be able to rob me of good fortunebut of fortitude and
courage they cannot."

Sancho paid the crownsthe carter put tothe keeper kissed Don
Quixote's hands for the bounty bestowed upon himand promised to give
an account of the valiant exploit to the King himselfas soon as he


saw him at court.

Then,said Don Quixoteif his Majesty should happen to ask who
performed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my
desire that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of
the Rueful Countenance be from this time forward changed, altered,
transformed, and turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of
knights-errant, who changed their names when they pleased, or when
it suited their purpose.

The cart went its wayand Don QuixoteSanchoand he of the
green gaban went theirs. All this timeDon Diego de Miranda had not
spoken a wordbeing entirely taken up with observing and noting all
that Don Quixote did and saidand the opinion he formed was that he
was a man of brains gone madand a madman on the verge of
rationality. The first part of his history had not yet reached him
forhad he read itthe amazement with which his words and deeds
filled him would have vanishedas he would then have understood the
nature of his madness; but knowing nothing of ithe took him to be
rational one momentand crazy the nextfor what he said was
sensibleelegantand well expressedand what he didabsurd
rashand foolish; and said he to himselfWhat could be madder
than putting on a helmet full of curds, and then persuading oneself
that enchanters are softening one's skull; or what could be greater
rashness and folly than wanting to fight lions tooth and nail?

Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy
by sayingNo doubt, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in
your mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you
did, for my deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I
would have you take notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish
as I must have seemed to you. A gallant knight shows to advantage
bringing his lance to bear adroitly upon a fierce bull under the
eyes of his sovereign, in the midst of a spacious plaza; a knight
shows to advantage arrayed in glittering armour, pacing the lists
before the ladies in some joyous tournament, and all those knights
show to advantage that entertain, divert, and, if we may say so,
honour the courts of their princes by warlike exercises, or what
resemble them; but to greater advantage than all these does a
knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, solitudes,
cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous
adventures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful issue, all
to win a glorious and lasting renown. To greater advantage, I
maintain, does the knight-errant show bringing aid to some widow in
some lonely waste, than the court knight dallying with some city
damsel. All knights have their own special parts to play; let the
courtier devote himself to the ladies, let him add lustre to his
sovereign's court by his liveries, let him entertain poor gentlemen
with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him arrange joustings,
marshal tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous, and
magnificent, and above all a good Christian, and so doing he will
fulfil the duties that are especially his; but let the knight-errant
explore the corners of the earth and penetrate the most intricate
labyrinths, at each step let him attempt impossibilities, on
desolate heaths let him endure the burning rays of the midsummer
sun, and the bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts; let
no lions daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him
quail; for to seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish all, are in
truth his main duties. I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a
member of knight-errantry, cannot avoid attempting all that to me
seems to come within the sphere of my duties; thus it was my bounden
duty to attack those lions that I just now attacked, although I knew
it to be the height of rashness; for I know well what valour is,
that it is a virtue that occupies a place between two vicious


extremes, cowardice and temerity; but it will be a lesser evil for him
who is valiant to rise till he reaches the point of rashness, than
to sink until he reaches the point of cowardice; for, as it is
easier for the prodigal than for the miser to become generous, so it
is easier for a rash man to prove truly valiant than for a coward to
rise to true valour; and believe me, Senor Don Diego, in attempting
adventures it is better to lose by a card too many than by a card
too few; for to hear it said, 'such a knight is rash and daring,'
sounds better than 'such a knight is timid and cowardly.'

I protest, Senor Don Quixote,said Don Diegoeverything you have
said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I
believe, if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost,
they might be found in your worship's breast as in their own proper
depository and muniment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my
village, where you shall take rest after your late exertions; for if
they have not been of the body they have been of the spirit, and these
sometimes tend to produce bodily fatigue.

I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Senor Don
Diego,replied Don Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace
than beforeat about two in the afternoon they reached the village
and house of Don Diegooras Don Quixote called himThe Knight
of the Green Gaban.

CHAPTER XVIII

OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF
THE GREEN GABANTOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON

Don Quixote found Don Diego de Miranda's house built in village
stylewith his arms in rough stone over the street door; in the patio
was the store-roomand at the entrance the cellarwith plenty of
wine-jars standing roundwhichcoming from El Tobosobrought back
to his memory his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea; and with a sigh
and not thinking of what he was sayingor in whose presence he was
he exclaimed


O ye sweet treasures, to my sorrow found!

Once sweet and welcome when 'twas heaven's good-will.

O ye Tobosan jars, how ye bring back to my memory the sweet object
of my bitter regrets!

The student poetDon Diego's sonwho had come out with his
mother to receive himheard this exclamationand both mother and son
were filled with amazement at the extraordinary figure he presented;
hehoweverdismounting from Rocinanteadvanced with great
politeness to ask permission to kiss the lady's handwhile Don
Diego saidSenora, pray receive with your wonted kindness Senor
Don Quixote of La Mancha, whom you see before you, a knight-errant,
and the bravest and wisest in the world.

The ladywhose name was Dona Christinareceived him with every
sign of good-will and great courtesyand Don Quixote placed himself
at her service with an abundance of well-chosen and polished
phrases. Almost the same civilities were exchanged between him and the
studentwho listening to Don Quixotetook him to be a sensible
clear-headed person.

Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to Don


Diego's mansionputting before us in his picture the whole contents
of a rich gentleman-farmer's house; but the translator of the
history thought it best to pass over these and other details of the
same sort in silenceas they are not in harmony with the main purpose
of the storythe strong point of which is truth rather than dull
digressions.

They led Don Quixote into a roomand Sancho removed his armour
leaving him in loose Walloon breeches and chamois-leather doubletall
stained with the rust of his armour; his collar was a falling one of
scholastic cutwithout starch or lacehis buskins buff-colouredand
his shoes polished. He wore his good swordwhich hung in a baldric of
sea-wolf's skinfor he had suffered for many yearsthey sayfrom an
ailment of the kidneys; and over all he threw a long cloak of good
grey cloth. But first of allwith five or six buckets of water (for
as regard the number of buckets there is some dispute)he washed
his head and faceand still the water remained whey-coloured
thanks to Sancho's greediness and purchase of those unlucky curds that
turned his master so white. Thus arrayedand with an easysprightly
and gallant airDon Quixote passed out into another roomwhere the
student was waiting to entertain him while the table was being laid;
for on the arrival of so distinguished a guestDona Christina was
anxious to show that she knew how and was able to give a becoming
reception to those who came to her house.

While Don Quixote was taking off his armourDon Lorenzo (for so Don
Diego's son was called) took the opportunity to say to his father
What are we to make of this gentleman you have brought home to us,
sir? For his name, his appearance, and your describing him as a
knight-errant have completely puzzled my mother and me.

I don't know what to say, my son,replied. Don Diego; "all I can
tell thee is that I have seen him act the acts of the greatest
madman in the worldand heard him make observations so sensible
that they efface and undo all he does; do thou talk to him and feel
the pulse of his witsand as thou art shrewdform the most
reasonable conclusion thou canst as to his wisdom or folly; thoughto
tell the truthI am more inclined to take him to be mad than sane."

With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote as has been
saidand in the course of the conversation that passed between them
Don Quixote said to Don LorenzoYour father, Senor Don Diego de
Miranda, has told me of the rare abilities and subtle intellect you
possess, and, above all, that you are a great poet.

A poet, it may be,replied Don Lorenzobut a great one, by no
means. It is true that I am somewhat given to poetry and to reading
good poets, but not so much so as to justify the title of 'great'
which my father gives me.

I do not dislike that modesty,said Don Quixote; "for there is
no poet who is not conceited and does not think he is the best poet in
the world."

There is no rule without an exception,said Don Lorenzo; "there
may be some who are poets and yet do not think they are."

Very few,said Don Quixote; "but tell mewhat verses are those
which you have now in handand which your father tells me keep you
somewhat restless and absorbed? If it be some glossI know
something about glossesand I should like to hear them; and if they
are for a poetical tournamentcontrive to carry off the second prize;
for the first always goes by favour or personal standingthe second
by simple justice; and so the third comes to be the secondand the


firstreckoning in this waywill be thirdin the same way as
licentiate degrees are conferred at the universities; butfor all
thatthe title of first is a great distinction."

So far,said Don Lorenzo to himselfI should not take you to
be a madman; but let us go on.So he said to himYour worship has
apparently attended the schools; what sciences have you studied?

That of knight-errantry,said Don Quixotewhich is as good as
that of poetry, and even a finger or two above it.

I do not know what science that is,said Don Lorenzoand until
now I have never heard of it.

It is a science,said Don Quixotethat comprehends in itself all
or most of the sciences in the world, for he who professes it must
be a jurist, and must know the rules of justice, distributive and
equitable, so as to give to each one what belongs to him and is due to
him. He must be a theologian, so as to be able to give a clear and
distinctive reason for the Christian faith he professes, wherever it
may be asked of him. He must be a physician, and above all a
herbalist, so as in wastes and solitudes to know the herbs that have
the property of healing wounds, for a knight-errant must not go
looking for some one to cure him at every step. He must be an
astronomer, so as to know by the stars how many hours of the night
have passed, and what clime and quarter of the world he is in. He must
know mathematics, for at every turn some occasion for them will
present itself to him; and, putting it aside that he must be adorned
with all the virtues, cardinal and theological, to come down to
minor particulars, he must, I say, be able to swim as well as Nicholas
or Nicolao the Fish could, as the story goes; he must know how to shoe
a horse, and repair his saddle and bridle; and, to return to higher
matters, he must be faithful to God and to his lady; he must be pure
in thought, decorous in words, generous in works, valiant in deeds,
patient in suffering, compassionate towards the needy, and, lastly, an
upholder of the truth though its defence should cost him his life.
Of all these qualities, great and small, is a true knight-errant
made up; judge then, Senor Don Lorenzo, whether it be a contemptible
science which the knight who studies and professes it has to learn,
and whether it may not compare with the very loftiest that are
taught in the schools.

If that be so,replied Don Lorenzothis science, I protest,
surpasses all.

How, if that be so?said Don Quixote.

What I mean to say,said Don Lorenzois, that I doubt whether
there are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, and adorned with such
virtues.

Many a time,replied Don Quixotehave I said what I now say once
more, that the majority of the world are of opinion that there never
were any knights-errant in it; and as it is my opinion that, unless
heaven by some miracle brings home to them the truth that there were
and are, all the pains one takes will be in vain (as experience has
often proved to me), I will not now stop to disabuse you of the
error you share with the multitude. All I shall do is to pray to
heaven to deliver you from it, and show you how beneficial and
necessary knights-errant were in days of yore, and how useful they
would be in these days were they but in vogue; but now, for the sins
of the people, sloth and indolence, gluttony and luxury are
triumphant.


Our guest has broken out on our hands,said Don Lorenzo to himself
at this point; "butfor all thathe is a glorious madmanand I
should be a dull blockhead to doubt it."

Herebeing summoned to dinnerthey brought their colloquy to a
close. Don Diego asked his son what he had been able to make out as to
the wits of their guest. To which he repliedAll the doctors and
clever scribes in the world will not make sense of the scrawl of his
madness; he is a madman full of streaks, full of lucid intervals.

They went in to dinnerand the repast was such as Don Diego said on
the road he was in the habit of giving to his guestsneatplentiful
and tasty; but what pleased Don Quixote most was the marvellous
silence that reigned throughout the housefor it was like a
Carthusian monastery.

When the cloth had been removedgrace said and their hands
washedDon Quixote earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to repeat to him his
verses for the poetical tournamentto which he repliedNot to be
like those poets who, when they are asked to recite their verses,
refuse, and when they are not asked for them vomit them up, I will
repeat my gloss, for which I do not expect any prize, having
composed it merely as an exercise of ingenuity.

A discerning friend of mine,said Don Quixotewas of opinion
that no one ought to waste labour in glossing verses; and the reason
he gave was that the gloss can never come up to the text, and that
often or most frequently it wanders away from the meaning and
purpose aimed at in the glossed lines; and besides, that the laws of
the gloss were too strict, as they did not allow interrogations, nor
'said he,' nor 'I say,' nor turning verbs into nouns, or altering
the construction, not to speak of other restrictions and limitations
that fetter gloss-writers, as you no doubt know.

Verily, Senor Don Quixote,said Don LorenzoI wish I could catch
your worship tripping at a stretch, but I cannot, for you slip through
my fingers like an eel.

I don't understand what you say, or mean by slipping,said Don
Quixote.

I will explain myself another time,said Don Lorenzo; "for the
present pray attend to the glossed verses and the glosswhich run
thus:

Could 'was' become an 'is' for me

Then would I ask no more than this;

Or couldfor methe time that is
Become the time that is to be!


GLOSS

Dame Fortune once upon a day

To me was bountiful and kind;

But all things change; she changed her mind
And what she gave she took away.
O Fortunelong I've sued to thee;

The gifts thou gavest me restore

Fortrust meI would ask no more
Could 'was' become an 'is' for me.

No other prize I seek to gain
No triumphgloryor success


Only the long-lost happiness
The memory whereof is pain.
One tastemethinksof bygone bliss

The heart-consuming fire might stay;
Andso it come without delay
Then would I ask no more than this.

I ask what cannot bealas!
That time should ever beand then
Come back to usand be again

No power on earth can bring to pass;

For fleet of foot is heI wis
And idlythereforedo we pray
That what for aye hath left us may

Become for us the time that is.

Perplexeduncertainto remain
'Twixt hope and fearis deathnot life;
'Twere bettersureto end the strife

And dyingseek release from pain.

And yetthought were the best for me.
Anon the thought aside I fling
And to the present fondly cling

And dread the time that is to be."

When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his glossDon Quixote
stood upand in a loud voicealmost a shoutexclaimed as he grasped
Don Lorenzo's right hand in hisBy the highest heavens, noble youth,
but you are the best poet on earth, and deserve to be crowned with
laurel, not by Cyprus or by Gaeta- as a certain poet, God forgive him,
said- but by the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by
those that flourish now, Paris, Bologna, Salamanca. Heaven grant
that the judges who rob you of the first prize- that Phoebus may
pierce them with his arrows, and the Muses never cross the
thresholds of their doors. Repeat me some of your long-measure verses,
senor, if you will be so good, for I want thoroughly to feel the pulse
of your rare genius.

Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself
praised by Don Quixotealbeit he looked upon him as a madman? power
of flatteryhow far-reaching art thouand how wide are the bounds of
thy pleasant jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of itfor he
complied with Don Quixote's request and entreatyand repeated to
him this sonnet on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.

SONNET

The lovely maidshe pierces now the wall;
Heart-pierced by her young Pyramus doth lie;
And Love spreads wing from Cyprus isle to fly

A chink to view so wondrous great and small.

There silence speakethfor no voice at all
Can pass so strait a strait; but love will ply
Where to all other power 'twere vain to try;

For love will find a way whate'er befall.
Impatient of delaywith reckless pace
The rash maid wins the fatal spot where she
Sinks not in lover's arms but death's embrace.
So runs the strange talehow the lovers twain
One swordone sepulchreone memory
Slaysand entombsand brings to life again.


Blessed be God,said Don Quixote when he had heard Don Lorenzo's
sonnetthat among the hosts there are of irritable poets I have
found one consummate one, which, senor, the art of this sonnet
proves to me that you are!

For four days was Don Quixote most sumptuously entertained in Don
Diego's houseat the end of which time he asked his permission to
departtelling him he thanked him for the kindness and hospitality he
had received in his housebut thatas it did not become
knights-errant to give themselves up for long to idleness and
luxuryhe was anxious to fulfill the duties of his calling in seeking
adventuresof which he was informed there was an abundance in that
neighbourhoodwhere he hoped to employ his time until the day came
round for the jousts at Saragossafor that was his proper
destination; and thatfirst of allhe meant to enter the cave of
Montesinosof which so many marvellous things were reported all
through the countryand at the same time to investigate and explore
the origin and true source of the seven lakes commonly called the
lakes of Ruidera.

Don Diego and his son commended his laudable resolutionand bade
him furnish himself with all he wanted from their house and
belongingsas they would most gladly be of service to him; which
indeedhis personal worth and his honourable profession made
incumbent upon them.

The day of his departure came at lengthas welcome to Don Quixote
as it was sad and sorrowful to Sancho Panzawho was very well
satisfied with the abundance of Don Diego's houseand objected to
return to the starvation of the woods and wilds and the
short-commons of his ill-stocked alforjas; thesehoweverhe filled
and packed with what he considered needful. On taking leaveDon
Quixote said to Don LorenzoI know not whether I have told you
already, but if I have I tell you once more, that if you wish to spare
yourself fatigue and toil in reaching the inaccessible summit of the
temple of fame, you have nothing to do but to turn aside out of the
somewhat narrow path of poetry and take the still narrower one of
knight-errantry, wide enough, however, to make you an emperor in the
twinkling of an eye.

In this speech Don Quixote wound up the evidence of his madnessbut
still better in what he added when he saidGod knows, I would gladly
take Don Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare the humble, and
trample the proud under foot, virtues that are part and parcel of
the profession I belong to; but since his tender age does not allow of
it, nor his praiseworthy pursuits permit it, I will simply content
myself with impressing it upon your worship that you will become
famous as a poet if you are guided by the opinion of others rather
than by your own; because no fathers or mothers ever think their own
children ill-favoured, and this sort of deception prevails still
more strongly in the case of the children of the brain.

Both father and son were amazed afresh at the strange medley Don
Quixote talkedat one moment senseat another nonsenseand at the
pertinacity and persistence he displayed in going through thick and
thin in quest of his unlucky adventureswhich he made the end and aim
of his desires. There was a renewal of offers of service and
civilitiesand thenwith the gracious permission of the lady of
the castlethey took their departureDon Quixote on Rocinanteand
Sancho on Dapple.


CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD
TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS

Don Quixote had gone but a short distance beyond Don Diego's
villagewhen he fell in with a couple of either priests or
studentsand a couple of peasantsmounted on four beasts of the
ass kind. One of the students carriedwrapped up in a piece of
green buckram by way of a portmanteauwhat seemed to be a little
linen and a couple of pairs of-ribbed stockings; the other carried
nothing but a pair of new fencing-foils with buttons. The peasants
carried divers articles that showed they were on their way from some
large town where they had bought themand were taking them home to
their village; and both students and peasants were struck with the
same amazement that everybody felt who saw Don Quixote for the first
timeand were dying to know who this manso different from
ordinary mencould be. Don Quixote saluted themand after
ascertaining that their road was the same as hismade them an offer
of his companyand begged them to slacken their paceas their
young asses travelled faster than his horse; and thento gratify
themhe told them in a few words who he was and the calling and
profession he followedwhich was that of a knight-errant seeking
adventures in all parts of the world. He informed them that his own
name was Don Quixote of La Manchaand that he was calledby way of
surnamethe Knight of the Lions.

All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasantsbut not so to the
studentswho very soon perceived the crack in Don Quixote's pate; for
all thathoweverthey regarded him with admiration and respect
and one of them said to himIf you, sir knight, have no fixed
road, as it is the way with those who seek adventures not to have any,
let your worship come with us; you will see one of the finest and
richest weddings that up to this day have ever been celebrated in La
Mancha, or for many a league round.

Don Quixote asked him if it was some prince'sthat he spoke of it
in this way. "Not at all said the student; it is the wedding of a
farmer and a farmer's daughterhe the richest in all this country
and she the fairest mortal ever set eyes on. The display with which it
is to be attended will be something rare and out of the commonfor it
will be celebrated in a meadow adjoining the town of the bridewho is
calledpar excellenceQuiteria the fairas the bridegroom is called
Camacho the rich. She is eighteenand he twenty-twoand they are
fairly matchedthough some knowing oneswho have all the pedigrees
in the world by heartwill have it that the family of the fair
Quiteria is better than Camacho's; but no one minds that now-a-days
for wealth can solder a great many flaws. At any rateCamacho is
free-handedand it is his fancy to screen the whole meadow with
boughs and cover it in overheadso that the sun will have hard work
if he tries to get in to reach the grass that covers the soil. He
has provided dancers toonot only sword but also bell-dancersfor in
his own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle the bells
to perfection; of shoe-dancers I say nothingfor of them he has
engaged a host. But none of these thingsnor of the many others I
have omitted to mentionwill do more to make this a memorable wedding
than the part which I suspect the despairing Basilio will play in
it. This Basilio is a youth of the same village as Quiteriaand he
lived in the house next door to that of her parentsof which
circumstance Love took advantage to reproduce to the word the
long-forgotten loves of Pyramus and Thisbe; for Basilio loved Quiteria
from his earliest yearsand she responded to his passion with
countless modest proofs of affectionso that the loves of the two


childrenBasilio and Quiteriawere the talk and the amusement of the
town. As they grew upthe father of Quiteria made up his mind to
refuse Basilio his wonted freedom of access to the houseand to
relieve himself of constant doubts and suspicionshe arranged a match
for his daughter with the rich Camachoas he did not approve of
marrying her to Basiliowho had not so large a share of the gifts
of fortune as of nature; for if the truth be told ungrudginglyhe
is the most agile youth we knowa mighty thrower of the bara
first-rate wrestlerand a great ball-player; he runs like a deerand
leaps better than a goatbowls over the nine-pins as if by magic
sings like a larkplays the guitar so as to make it speakandabove
allhandles a sword as well as the best."

For that excellence alone,said Don Quixote at thisthe youth
deserves to marry, not merely the fair Quiteria, but Queen Guinevere
herself, were she alive now, in spite of Launcelot and all who would
try to prevent it.

Say that to my wife,said Sanchowho had until now listened in
silencefor she won't hear of anything but each one marrying his
equal, holding with the proverb 'each ewe to her like.' What I would
like is that this good Basilio (for I am beginning to take a fancy
to him already) should marry this lady Quiteria; and a blessing and
good luck- I meant to say the opposite- on people who would prevent
those who love one another from marrying.

If all those who love one another were to marry,said Don Quixote
it would deprive parents of the right to choose, and marry their
children to the proper person and at the proper time; and if it was
left to daughters to choose husbands as they pleased, one would be for
choosing her father's servant, and another, some one she has seen
passing in the street and fancies gallant and dashing, though he may
be a drunken bully; for love and fancy easily blind the eyes of the
judgment, so much wanted in choosing one's way of life; and the
matrimonial choice is very liable to error, and it needs great caution
and the special favour of heaven to make it a good one. He who has
to make a long journey, will, if he is wise, look out for some
trusty and pleasant companion to accompany him before he sets out.
Why, then, should not he do the same who has to make the whole journey
of life down to the final halting-place of death, more especially when
the companion has to be his companion in bed, at board, and
everywhere, as the wife is to her husband? The companionship of
one's wife is no article of merchandise, that, after it has been
bought, may be returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an
inseparable accident that lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose
that, once you put it round your neck, turns into a Gordian knot,
which, if the scythe of Death does not cut it, there is no untying.
I could say a great deal more on this subject, were I not prevented by
the anxiety I feel to know if the senor licentiate has anything more
to tell about the story of Basilio.

To this the studentbachelororas Don Quixote called him
licentiaterepliedI have nothing whatever to say further, but that
from the moment Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria was to be
married to Camacho the rich, he has never been seen to smile, or heard
to utter rational word, and he always goes about moody and dejected,
talking to himself in a way that shows plainly he is out of his
senses. He eats little and sleeps little, and all he eats is fruit,
and when he sleeps, if he sleeps at all, it is in the field on the
hard earth like a brute beast. Sometimes he gazes at the sky, at other
times he fixes his eyes on the earth in such an abstracted way that he
might be taken for a clothed statue, with its drapery stirred by the
wind. In short, he shows such signs of a heart crushed by suffering,
that all we who know him believe that when to-morrow the fair Quiteria


says 'yes,' it will be his sentence of death.

God will guide it better,said Sanchofor God who gives the
wound gives the salve; nobody knows what will happen; there are a good
many hours between this and to-morrow, and any one of them, or any
moment, the house may fall; I have seen the rain coming down and the
sun shining all at one time; many a one goes to bed in good health who
can't stir the next day. And tell me, is there anyone who can boast of
having driven a nail into the wheel of fortune? No, faith; and between
a woman's 'yes' and 'no' I wouldn't venture to put the point of a pin,
for there would not be room for it; if you tell me Quiteria loves
Basilio heart and soul, then I'll give him a bag of good luck; for
love, I have heard say, looks through spectacles that make copper seem
gold, poverty wealth, and blear eyes pearls.

What art thou driving at, Sancho? curses on thee!said Don
Quixote; "for when thou takest to stringing proverbs and sayings
togetherno one can understand thee but Judas himselfand I wish
he had thee. Tell methou animalwhat dost thou know about nails
or wheelsor anything else?"

Oh, if you don't understand me,replied Sanchoit is no wonder
my words are taken for nonsense; but no matter; I understand myself,
and I know I have not said anything very foolish in what I have
said; only your worship, senor, is always gravelling at everything I
say, nay, everything I do.

Cavilling, not gravelling,said Don Quixotethou prevaricator of
honest language, God confound thee!

Don't find fault with me, your worship,returned Sanchofor
you know I have not been bred up at court or trained at Salamanca,
to know whether I am adding or dropping a letter or so in my words.
Why! God bless me, it's not fair to force a Sayago-man to speak like a
Toledan; maybe there are Toledans who do not hit it off when it
comes to polished talk.

That is true,said the licentiatefor those who have been bred
up in the Tanneries and the Zocodover cannot talk like those who are
almost all day pacing the cathedral cloisters, and yet they are all
Toledans. Pure, correct, elegant and lucid language will be met with
in men of courtly breeding and discrimination, though they may have
been born in Majalahonda; I say of discrimination, because there are
many who are not so, and discrimination is the grammar of good
language, if it be accompanied by practice. I, sirs, for my sins
have studied canon law at Salamanca, and I rather pique myself on
expressing my meaning in clear, plain, and intelligible language.

If you did not pique yourself more on your dexterity with those
foils you carry than on dexterity of tongue,said the other
studentyou would have been head of the degrees, where you are now
tail.

Look here, bachelor Corchuelo,returned the licentiateyou
have the most mistaken idea in the world about skill with the sword,
if you think it useless.

It is no idea on my part, but an established truth,replied
Corchuelo; "and if you wish me to prove it to you by experimentyou
have swords thereand it is a good opportunity; I have a steady
hand and a strong armand these joined with my resolutionwhich is
not smallwill make you confess that I am not mistaken. Dismount
and put in practice your positions and circles and angles and science
for I hope to make you see stars at noonday with my rude raw


swordsmanshipin whichnext to GodI place my trust that the man is
yet to be born who will make me turn my backand that there is not
one in the world I will not compel to give ground."

As to whether you turn your back or not, I do not concern
myself,replied the master of fence; "though it might be that your
grave would be dug on the spot where you planted your foot the first
time; I mean that you would be stretched dead there for despising
skill with the sword."

We shall soon see,replied Corchueloand getting off his ass
brisklyhe drew out furiously one of the swords the licentiate
carried on his beast.

It must not be that way,said Don Quixote at this point; "I will
be the director of this fencing matchand judge of this often
disputed question;" and dismounting from Rocinante and grasping his
lancehe planted himself in the middle of the roadjust as the
licentiatewith an easygraceful bearing and stepadvanced
towards Corchuelowho came on against himdarting fire from his
eyesas the saying is. The other two of the companythe peasants
without dismounting from their assesserved as spectators of the
mortal tragedy. The cutsthrustsdown strokesback strokes and
doublesthat Corchuelo delivered were past countingand came thicker
than hops or hail. He attacked like an angry lionbut he was met by a
tap on the mouth from the button of the licentiate's sword that
checked him in the midst of his furious onsetand made him kiss it as
if it were a relicthough not as devoutly as relics are and ought
to he kissed. The end of it was that the licentiate reckoned up for
him by thrusts every one of the buttons of the short cassock he
woretore the skirts into stripslike the tails of a cuttlefish
knocked off his hat twiceand so completely tired him outthat in
vexationangerand ragehe took the sword by the hilt and flung
it away with such forcethat one of the peasants that were therewho
was a notaryand who went for itmade an affidavit afterwards that
he sent it nearly three-quarters of a leaguewhich testimony will
serveand has servedto show and establish with all certainty that
strength is overcome by skill.

Corchuelo sat down weariedand Sancho approaching him saidBy
my faith, senor bachelor, if your worship takes my advice, you will
never challenge anyone to fence again, only to wrestle and throw the
bar, for you have the youth and strength for that; but as for these
fencers as they call them, I have heard say they can put the point
of a sword through the eye of a needle.

I am satisfied with having tumbled off my donkey,said
Corchueloand with having had the truth I was so ignorant of
proved to me by experience;and getting up he embraced the
licentiateand they were better friends than ever; and not caring
to wait for the notary who had gone for the swordas they saw he
would be a long time about itthey resolved to push on so as to reach
the village of Quiteriato which they all belongedin good time.

During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held forth to
them on the excellences of the swordwith such conclusive
argumentsand such figures and mathematical proofsthat all were
convinced of the value of the scienceand Corchuelo cured of his
dogmatism.

It grew dark; but before they reached the town it seemed to them all
as if there was a heaven full of countless glittering stars in front
of it. They heardtoothe pleasant mingled notes of a variety of
instrumentsflutesdrumspsalteriespipestaborsand timbrels


and as they drew near they perceived that the trees of a leafy
arcade that had been constructed at the entrance of the town were
filled with lights unaffected by the windfor the breeze at the
time was so gentle that it had not power to stir the leaves on the
trees. The musicians were the life of the weddingwandering through
the pleasant grounds in separate bandssome dancingothers
singingothers playing the various instruments already mentioned.
In shortit seemed as though mirth and gaiety were frisking and
gambolling all over the meadow. Several other persons were engaged
in erecting raised benches from which people might conveniently see
the plays and dances that were to be performed the next day on the
spot dedicated to the celebration of the marriage of Camacho the
rich and the obsequies of Basilio. Don Quixote would not enter the
villagealthough the peasant as well as the bachelor pressed him;
he excused himselfhoweveron the groundsamply sufficient in his
opinionthat it was the custom of knights-errant to sleep in the
fields and woods in preference to townseven were it under gilded
ceilings; and so turned aside a little out of the roadvery much
against Sancho's willas the good quarters he had enjoyed in the
castle or house of Don Diego came back to his mind.

CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH
TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR

Scarce had the fair Aurora given bright Phoebus time to dry the
liquid pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his fervent rays
when Don Quixoteshaking off sloth from his limbssprang to his feet
and called to his squire Sanchowho was still snoring; seeing which
Don Quixote ere he roused him thus addressed him: "Happy thouabove
all the dwellers on the face of the earththatwithout envying or
being enviedsleepest with tranquil mindand that neither enchanters
persecute nor enchantments affright. SleepI sayand will say a
hundred timeswithout any jealous thoughts of thy mistress to make
thee keep ceaseless vigilsor any cares as to how thou art to pay the
debts thou owestor find to-morrow's food for thyself and thy needy
little familyto interfere with thy repose. Ambition breaks not thy
restnor doth this world's empty pomp disturb theefor the utmost
reach of thy anxiety is to provide for thy asssince upon my
shoulders thou hast laid the support of thyselfthe counterpoise
and burden that nature and custom have imposed upon masters. The
servant sleeps and the master lies awake thinking how he is to feed
himadvance himand reward him. The distress of seeing the sky
turn brazenand withhold its needful moisture from the earthis
not felt by the servant but by the masterwho in time of scarcity and
famine must support him who has served him in times of plenty and
abundance."

To all this Sancho made no reply because he was asleepnor would he
have wakened up so soon as he did had not Don Quixote brought him to
his senses with the butt of his lance. He awoke at lastdrowsy and
lazyand casting his eyes about in every directionobserved
There comes, if I don't mistake, from the quarter of that arcade a
steam and a smell a great deal more like fried rashers than
galingale or thyme; a wedding that begins with smells like that, by my
faith, ought to be plentiful and unstinting.

Have done, thou glutton,said Don Quixote; "comelet us go and
witness this bridaland see what the rejected Basilio does."


Let him do what he likes,returned Sancho; "be he not poorhe
would marry Quiteria. To make a grand match for himselfand he
without a farthing; is there nothing else? Faithsenorit's my
opinion the poor man should be content with what he can getand not
go looking for dainties in the bottom of the sea. I will bet my arm
that Camacho could bury Basilio in reals; and if that be soas no
doubt it iswhat a fool Quiteria would be to refuse the fine
dresses and jewels Camacho must have given her and will give her
and take Basilio's bar-throwing and sword-play. They won't give a pint
of wine at the tavern for a good cast of the bar or a neat thrust of
the sword. Talents and accomplishments that can't be turned into
moneylet Count Dirlos have them; but when such gifts fall to one
that has hard cashI wish my condition of life was as becoming as
they are. On a good foundation you can raise a good buildingand
the best foundation in the world is money."

For God's sake, Sancho,said Don Quixote herestop that
harangue; it is my belief, if thou wert allowed to continue all thou
beginnest every instant, thou wouldst have no time left for eating
or sleeping; for thou wouldst spend it all in talking.

If your worship had a good memory,replied Sanchoyou would
remember the articles of our agreement before we started from home
this last time; one of them was that I was to be let say all I
liked, so long as it was not against my neighbour or your worship's
authority; and so far, it seems to me, I have not broken the said
article.

I remember no such article, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "and even if
it were soI desire you to hold your tongue and come along; for the
instruments we heard last night are already beginning to enliven the
valleys againand no doubt the marriage will take place in the cool
of the morningand not in the heat of the afternoon."

Sancho did as his master bade himand putting the saddle on
Rocinante and the pack-saddle on Dapplethey both mounted and at a
leisurely pace entered the arcade. The first thing that presented
itself to Sancho's eyes was a whole ox spitted on a whole elm tree
and in the fire at which it was to be roasted there was burning a
middling-sized mountain of faggotsand six stewpots that stood
round the blaze had not been made in the ordinary mould of common
potsfor they were six half wine-jarseach fit to hold the
contents of a slaughter-house; they swallowed up whole sheep and hid
them away in their insides without showing any more sign of them
than if they were pigeons. Countless were the hares ready skinned
and the plucked fowls that hung on the trees for burial in the pots
numberless the wildfowl and game of various sorts suspended from the
branches that the air might keep them cool. Sancho counted more than
sixty wine skins of over six gallons eachand all filledas it
proved afterwardswith generous wines. There werebesidespiles
of the whitest breadlike the heaps of corn one sees on the
threshing-floors. There was a wall made of cheeses arranged like
open brick-workand two cauldrons full of oilbigger than those of a
dyer's shopserved for cooking fritterswhich when fried were
taken out with two mighty shovelsand plunged into another cauldron
of prepared honey that stood close by. Of cooks and cook-maids there
were over fiftyall cleanbriskand blithe. In the capacious
belly of the ox were a dozen soft little sucking-pigswhichsewn
up thereserved to give it tenderness and flavour. The spices of
different kinds did not seem to have been bought by the pound but by
the quarterand all lay open to view in a great chest. In short
all the preparations made for the wedding were in rustic stylebut
abundant enough to feed an army.


Sancho observed allcontemplated alland everything won his heart.
The first to captivate and take his fancy were the potsout of
which he would have very gladly helped himself to a moderate
pipkinful; then the wine skins secured his affections; and lastlythe
produce of the frying-pansifindeedsuch imposing cauldrons may be
called frying-pans; and unable to control himself or bear it any
longerhe approached one of the busy cooks and civilly but hungrily
begged permission to soak a scrap of bread in one of the pots; to
which the cook made answerBrother, this is not a day on which
hunger is to have any sway, thanks to the rich Camacho; get down and
look about for a ladle and skim off a hen or two, and much good may
they do you.

I don't see one,said Sancho.

Wait a bit,said the cook; "sinner that I am! how particular and
bashful you are!" and so sayinghe seized a bucket and plunging it
into one of the half jars took up three hens and a couple of geese
and said to SanchoFall to, friend, and take the edge off your
appetite with these skimmings until dinner-time comes.

I have nothing to put them in,said Sancho.

Well then,said the cooktake spoon and all; for Camacho's
wealth and happiness furnish everything.

While Sancho fared thusDon Quixote was watching the entranceat
one end of the arcadeof some twelve peasantsall in holiday and
gala dressmounted on twelve beautiful mares with rich handsome field
trappings and a number of little bells attached to their petralswho
marshalled in regular orderran not one but several courses over
the meadowwith jubilant shouts and cries of "Long live Camacho and
Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair; and she the fairest on earth!"

Hearing thisDon Quixote said to himselfIt is easy to see
these folk have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; for if they had
they would be more moderate in their praises of this Quiteria of
theirs.

Shortly after thisseveral bands of dancers of various sorts
began to enter the arcade at different pointsand among them one of
sword-dancers composed of some four-and-twenty lads of gallant and
high-spirited mienclad in the finest and whitest of linenand
with handkerchiefs embroidered in various colours with fine silk;
and one of those on the mares asked an active youth who led them if
any of the dancers had been wounded. "As yetthank Godno one has
been wounded said he, we are all safe and sound;" and he at once
began to execute complicated figures with the rest of his comrades
with so many turns and so great dexteritythat although Don Quixote
was well used to see dances of the same kindhe thought he had
never seen any so good as this. He also admired another that came in
composed of fair young maidensnone of whom seemed to be under
fourteen or over eighteen years of ageall clad in green stuff
with their locks partly braidedpartly flowing loosebut all of such
bright gold as to vie with the sunbeamsand over them they wore
garlands of jessaminerosesamaranthand honeysuckle. At their head
were a venerable old man and an ancient damemore brisk and active
howeverthan might have been expected from their years. The notes
of a Zamora bagpipe accompanied themand with modesty in their
countenances and in their eyesand lightness in their feetthey
looked the best dancers in the world.

Following these there came an artistic dance of the sort they call
speaking dances.It was composed of eight nymphs in two files


with the god Cupid leading one and Interest the otherthe former
furnished with wingsbowquiver and arrowsthe latter in a rich
dress of gold and silk of divers colours. The nymphs that followed
Love bore their names written on white parchment in large letters on
their backs. "Poetry" was the name of the firstWitof the
secondBirthof the thirdand "Valour" of the fourth. Those that
followed Interest were distinguished in the same way; the badge of the
first announced "Liberality that of the second Largess the
third Treasure and the fourth Peaceful Possession." In front of
them all came a wooden castle drawn by four wild menall clad in
ivy and hemp stained greenand looking so natural that they nearly
terrified Sancho. On the front of the castle and on each of the four
sides of its frame it bore the inscription "Castle of Caution." Four
skillful tabor and flute players accompanied themand the dance
having been openedCupidafter executing two figuresraised his
eyes and bent his bow against a damsel who stood between the turrets
of the castleand thus addressed her:

I am the mighty God whose sway
Is potent over land and sea.
The heavens above us own me; nay
The shades below acknowledge me.
I know not fearI have my will
Whate'er my whim or fancy be;
For me there's no impossible
I orderbindforbidset free.

Having concluded the stanza he discharged an arrow at the top of the
castleand went back to his place. Interest then came forward and
went through two more figuresand as soon as the tabors ceasedhe said:

But mightier than Love am I
Though Love it be that leads me on
Than mine no lineage is more high
Or olderunderneath the sun.
To use me rightly few know how
To act without me fewer still
For I am Interestand I vow
For evermore to do thy will.

Interest retiredand Poetry came forwardand when she had gone
through her figures like the othersfixing her eyes on the damsel
of the castleshe said:

With many a fanciful conceit
Fair Ladywinsome Poesy
Her soulan offering at thy feet
Presents in sonnets unto thee.
If thou my homage wilt not scorn
Thy fortunewatched by envious eyes
On wings of poesy upborne
Shall be exalted to the skies.

Poetry withdrewand on the side of Interest Liberality advanced
and after having gone through her figuressaid:

To givewhile shunning each extreme
The sparing handthe over-free
Therein consistsso wise men deem
The virtue Liberality.
But theefair ladyto enrich
Myself a prodigal I'll prove
A vice not wholly shamefulwhich
May find its fair excuse in love.


In the same manner all the characters of the two bands advanced
and retiredand each executed its figuresand delivered its
versessome of them gracefulsome burlesquebut Don Quixote's
memory (though he had an excellent one) only carried away those that
have been just quoted. All then mingled togetherforming chains and
breaking off again with gracefulunconstrained gaiety; and whenever
Love passed in front of the castle he shot his arrows up at it
while Interest broke gilded pellets against it. At lengthafter
they had danced a good whileInterest drew out a great pursemade of
the skin of a large brindled cat and to all appearance full of
moneyand flung it at the castleand with the force of the blow
the boards fell asunder and tumbled downleaving the damsel exposed
and unprotected. Interest and the characters of his band advancedand
throwing a great chain of gold over her neck pretended to take her and
lead her away captiveon seeing whichLove and his supporters made
as though they would release herthe whole action being to the
accompaniment of the tabors and in the form of a regular dance. The
wild men made peace between themand with great dexterity
readjusted and fixed the boards of the castleand the damsel once
more ensconced herself within; and with this the dance wound upto
the great enjoyment of the beholders.

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who it was that had composed and
arranged it. She replied that it was a beneficiary of the town who had
a nice taste in devising things of the sort. "I will lay a wager
said Don Quixote, that the same bachelor or beneficiary is a
greater friend of Camacho's than of Basilio'sand that he is better
at satire than at vespers; he has introduced the accomplishments of
Basilio and the riches of Camacho very neatly into the dance."
Sancho Panzawho was listening to all thisexclaimedThe king is
my cock; I stick to Camacho.It is easy to see thou art a clown,
Sancho,said Don Quixoteand one of that sort that cry 'Long life
to the conqueror.'

I don't know of what sort I am,returned Sanchobut I know
very well I'll never get such elegant skimmings off Basilio's pots
as these I have got off Camacho's;and he showed him the bucketful of
geese and hensand seizing one began to eat with great gaiety and
appetitesayingA fig for the accomplishments of Basilio! As much
as thou hast so much art thou worth, and as much as thou art worth
so much hast thou. As a grandmother of mine used to say, there are
only two families in the world, the Haves and the Haven'ts; and she
stuck to the Haves; and to this day, Senor Don Quixote, people would
sooner feel the pulse of 'Have,' than of 'Know;' an ass covered with
gold looks better than a horse with a pack-saddle. So once more I
say I stick to Camacho, the bountiful skimmings of whose pots are
geese and hens, hares and rabbits; but of Basilio's, if any ever
come to hand, or even to foot, they'll be only rinsings.

Hast thou finished thy harangue, Sancho?said Don Quixote. "Of
course I have finished it replied Sancho, because I see your
worship takes offence at it; but if it was not for thatthere was
work enough cut out for three days."

God grant I may see thee dumb before I die, Sancho,said Don
Quixote.

At the rate we are going,said SanchoI'll be chewing clay
before your worship dies; and then, maybe, I'll be so dumb that I'll
not say a word until the end of the world, or, at least, till the
day of judgment.


Even should that happen, O Sancho,said Don Quixotethy
silence will never come up to all thou hast talked, art talking, and
wilt talk all thy life; moreover, it naturally stands to reason,
that my death will come before thine; so I never expect to see thee
dumb, not even when thou art drinking or sleeping, and that is the
utmost I can say.

In good faith, senor,replied Sanchothere's no trusting that
fleshless one, I mean Death, who devours the lamb as soon as the
sheep, and, as I have heard our curate say, treads with equal foot
upon the lofty towers of kings and the lowly huts of the poor. That
lady is more mighty than dainty, she is no way squeamish, she
devours all and is ready for all, and fills her alforjas with people
of all sorts, ages, and ranks. She is no reaper that sleeps out the
noontide; at all times she is reaping and cutting down, as well the
dry grass as the green; she never seems to chew, but bolts and
swallows all that is put before her, for she has a canine appetite
that is never satisfied; and though she has no belly, she shows she
has a dropsy and is athirst to drink the lives of all that live, as
one would drink a jug of cold water.

Say no more, Sancho,said Don Quixote at this; "don't try to
better itand risk a fall; for in truth what thou hast said about
death in thy rustic phrase is what a good preacher might have said.
I tell theeSanchoif thou hadst discretion equal to thy mother wit
thou mightst take a pulpit in handand go about the world preaching
fine sermons." "He preaches well who lives well said Sancho, and
I know no more theology than that."

Nor needst thou,said Don Quixotebut I cannot conceive or
make out how it is that, the fear of God being the beginning of
wisdom, thou, who art more afraid of a lizard than of him, knowest
so much.

Pass judgment on your chivalries, senor,returned Sanchoand
don't set yourself up to judge of other men's fears or braveries,
for I am as good a fearer of God as my neighbours; but leave me to
despatch these skimmings, for all the rest is only idle talk that we
shall be called to account for in the other world;and so saying
he began a fresh attack on the bucketwith such a hearty appetite
that he aroused Don Quixote'swho no doubt would have helped him
had he not been prevented by what must be told farther on.

CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUEDWITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS

While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set
forth the last chapterthey heard loud shouts and a great noise
which were uttered and made by the men on the mares as they went at
full gallopshoutingto receive the bride and bridegroomwho were
approaching with musical instruments and pageantry of all sorts around
themand accompanied by the priest and the relatives of bothand all
the most distinguished people of the surrounding villages. When Sancho
saw the bridehe exclaimedBy my faith, she is not dressed like a
country girl, but like some fine court lady; egad, as well as I can
make out, the patena she wears rich coral, and her green Cuenca
stuff is thirty-pile velvet; and then the white linen trimming- by
my oath, but it's satin! Look at her hands- jet rings on them! May I
never have luck if they're not gold rings, and real gold, and set with
pearls as white as a curdled milk, and every one of them worth an


eye of one's head! Whoreson baggage, what hair she has! if it's not
a wig, I never saw longer or fairer all the days of my life. See how
bravely she bears herself- and her shape! Wouldn't you say she was
like a walking palm tree loaded with clusters of dates? for the
trinkets she has hanging from her hair and neck look just like them. I
swear in my heart she is a brave lass, and fit 'to pass over the banks
of Flanders.'

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's boorish eulogies and thought that
saving his lady Dulcinea del Tobosohe had never seen a more
beautiful woman. The fair Quiteria appeared somewhat palewhich
wasno doubtbecause of the bad night brides always pass dressing
themselves out for their wedding on the morrow. They advanced
towards a theatre that stood on one side of the meadow decked with
carpets and boughswhere they were to plight their trothand from
which they were to behold the dances and plays; but at the moment of
their arrival at the spot they heard a loud outcry behind themand
a voice exclaimingWait a little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are
hasty!At these words all turned roundand perceived that the
speaker was a man clad in what seemed to be a loose black coat
garnished with crimson patches like flames. He was crowned (as was
presently seen) with a crown of gloomy cypressand in his hand he
held a long staff. As he approached he was recognised by everyone as
the gay Basilioand all waited anxiously to see what would come of
his wordsin dread of some catastrophe in consequence of his
appearance at such a moment. He came up at last weary and
breathlessand planting himself in front of the bridal pairdrove
his staffwhich had a steel spike at the endinto the groundand
with a pale face and eyes fixed on Quiteriahe thus addressed her
in a hoarsetrembling voice:

Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the
holy law we acknowledge, so long as live thou canst take no husband;
nor art thou ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own
exertions would improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe
the respect due to thy honour; but thou, casting behind thee all
thou owest to my true love, wouldst surrender what is mine to
another whose wealth serves to bring him not only good fortune but
supreme happiness; and now to complete it (not that I think he
deserves it, but inasmuch as heaven is pleased to bestow it upon him),
I will, with my own hands, do away with the obstacle that may
interfere with it, and remove myself from between you. Long live the
rich Camacho! many a happy year may he live with the ungrateful
Quiteria! and let the poor Basilio die, Basilio whose poverty
clipped the wings of his happiness, and brought him to the grave!

And so sayinghe seized the staff he had driven into the ground
and leaving one half of it fixed thereshowed it to be a sheath
that concealed a tolerably long rapier; andwhat may he called its
hilt being planted in the groundhe swiftlycoollyand deliberately
threw himself upon itand in an instant the bloody point and half the
steel blade appeared at his backthe unhappy man falling to the earth
bathed in his bloodand transfixed by his own weapon.

His friends at once ran to his aidfilled with grief at his
misery and sad fateand Don Quixotedismounting from Rocinante
hastened to support himand took him in his armsand found he had
not yet ceased to breathe. They were about to draw out the rapierbut
the priest who was standing by objected to its being withdrawn
before he had confessed himas the instant of its withdrawal would be
that of this death. Basiliohoweverreviving slightlysaid in a
weak voiceas though in painIf thou wouldst consent, cruel
Quiteria, to give me thy hand as my bride in this last fatal moment, I
might still hope that my rashness would find pardon, as by its means I


attained the bliss of being thine.

Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his soul
rather than of the cravings of the bodyand in all earnestness
implore God's pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve; to which
Basilio replied that he was determined not to confess unless
Quiteria first gave him her hand in marriagefor that happiness would
compose his mind and give him courage to make his confession.

Don Quixote hearing the wounded man's entreatyexclaimed aloud that
what Basilio asked was just and reasonableand moreover a request
that might be easily complied with; and that it would be as much to
Senor Camacho's honour to receive the lady Quiteria as the widow of
the brave Basilio as if he received her direct from her father.

In this case,said heit will be only to say 'yes,' and no
consequences can follow the utterance of the word, for the nuptial
couch of this marriage must be the grave.

Camacho was listening to all thisperplexed and bewildered and
not knowing what to say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of
Basilio's friendsimploring him to allow Quiteria to give him her
handso that his soulquitting this life in despairshould not be
lostthat they movednayforced himto say that if Quiteria were
willing to give it he was satisfiedas it was only putting off the
fulfillment of his wishes for a moment. At once all assailed
Quiteria and pressed hersome with prayersand others with tears
and others with persuasive argumentsto give her hand to poor
Basilio; but sheharder than marble and more unmoved than any statue
seemed unable or unwilling to utter a wordnor would she have given
any reply had not the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant to
doas Basilio now had his soul at his teethand there was no time
for hesitation.

On this the fair Quiteriato all appearance distressedgrieved
and repentantadvanced without a word to where Basilio layhis
eyes already turned in his headhis breathing short and painful
murmuring the name of Quiteria between his teethand apparently about
to die like a heathen and not like a Christian. Quiteria approached
himand kneelingdemanded his hand by signs without speaking.
Basilio opened his eyes and gazing fixedly at hersaidO
Quiteria, why hast thou turned compassionate at a moment when thy
compassion will serve as a dagger to rob me of life, for I have not
now the strength left either to bear the happiness thou givest me in
accepting me as thine, or to suppress the pain that is rapidly drawing
the dread shadow of death over my eyes? What I entreat of thee, O thou
fatal star to me, is that the hand thou demandest of me and wouldst
give me, be not given out of complaisance or to deceive me afresh, but
that thou confess and declare that without any constraint upon thy
will thou givest it to me as to thy lawful husband; for it is not meet
that thou shouldst trifle with me at such a moment as this, or have
recourse to falsehoods with one who has dealt so truly by thee.

While uttering these words he showed such weakness that the
bystanders expected each return of faintness would take his life
with it. Then Quiteriaovercome with modesty and shameholding in
her right hand the hand of BasiliosaidNo force would bend my
will; as freely, therefore, as it is possible for me to do so, I
give thee the hand of a lawful wife, and take thine if thou givest
it to me of thine own free will, untroubled and unaffected by the
calamity thy hasty act has brought upon thee.

Yes, I give it,said Basilionot agitated or distracted, but
with unclouded reason that heaven is pleased to grant me, thus do I


give myself to be thy husband.

And I give myself to be thy wife,said Quiteriawhether thou
livest many years, or they carry thee from my arms to the grave.

For one so badly wounded,observed Sancho at this pointthis
young man has a great deal to say; they should make him leave off
billing and cooing, and attend to his soul; for to my thinking he
has it more on his tongue than at his teeth.

Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined handsthe priestdeeply
moved and with tears in his eyespronounced the blessing upon them
and implored heaven to grant an easy passage to the soul of the
newly wedded manwhothe instant he received the blessingstarted
nimbly to his feet and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the
rapier that had been sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were
astoundedand somemore simple than inquiringbegan shoutingA
miracle, a miracle!But Basilio repliedNo miracle, no miracle;
only a trick, a trick!The priestperplexed and amazedmade haste
to examine the wound with both handsand found that the blade had
passednot through Basilio's flesh and ribsbut through a hollow
iron tube full of bloodwhich he had adroitly fixed at the placethe
bloodas was afterwards ascertainedhaving been so prepared as not
to congeal. In shortthe priest and Camacho and most of those present
saw they were tricked and made fools of. The bride showed no signs
of displeasure at the deception; on the contraryhearing them say
that the marriagebeing fraudulentwould not be validshe said that
she confirmed it afreshwhence they all concluded that the affair had
been planned by agreement and understanding between the pair
whereat Camacho and his supporters were so mortified that they
proceeded to revenge themselves by violenceand a great number of
them drawing their swords attacked Basilioin whose protection as
many more swords were in an instant unsheathedwhile Don Quixote
taking the lead on horsebackwith his lance over his arm and well
covered with his shieldmade all give way before him. Sanchowho
never found any pleasure or enjoyment in such doingsretreated to the
wine-jars from which he had taken his delectable skimmings
considering thatas a holy placethat spot would be respected.

Hold, sirs, hold!cried Don Quixote in a loud voice; "we have no
right to take vengeance for wrongs that love may do to us: remember
love and war are the same thingand as in war it is allowable and
common to make use of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemyso
in the contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices
employed to attain the desired end are justifiableprovided they be
not to the discredit or dishonour of the loved object. Quiteria
belonged to Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria by the just and beneficent
disposal of heaven. Camacho is richand can purchase his pleasure
whenwhereand as it pleases him. Basilio has but this ewe-lamband
no onehowever powerful he may beshall take her from him; these two
whom God hath joined man cannot separate; and he who attempts it
must first pass the point of this lance;" and so saying he
brandished it so stoutly and dexterously that he overawed all who
did not know him.

But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria made on
Camacho's mind that it banished her at once from his thoughts; and
so the counsels of the priestwho was a wise and kindly disposed man
prevailed with himand by their means he and his partisans were
pacified and tranquillisedand to prove it put up their swords again
inveighing against the pliancy of Quiteria rather than the
craftiness of Basilio; Camacho maintaining thatif Quiteria as a
maiden had such a love for Basilioshe would have loved him too as
a married womanand that he ought to thank heaven more for having


taken her than for having given her.

Camacho and those of his followingthereforebeing consoled and
pacifiedthose on Basilio's side were appeased; and the rich Camacho
to show that he felt no resentment for the trickand did not care
about itdesired the festival to go on just as if he were married
in reality. Neither Basiliohowevernor his bridenor their
followers would take any part in itand they withdrew to Basilio's
village; for the poorif they are persons of virtue and good sense
have those who followhonourand uphold themjust as the rich
have those who flatter and dance attendance on them. With them they
carried Don Quixoteregarding him as a man of worth and a stout
one. Sancho alone had a cloud on his soulfor he found himself
debarred from waiting for Camacho's splendid feast and festivalwhich
lasted until night; and thus dragged awayhe moodily followed his
masterwho accompanied Basilio's partyand left behind him the
flesh-pots of Egypt; though in his heart he took them with himand
their now nearly finished skimmings that he carried in the bucket
conjured up visions before his eyes of the glory and abundance of
the good cheer he was losing. And sovexed and dejected though not
hungrywithout dismounting from Dapple he followed in the footsteps
of Rocinante.

CHAPTER XXII
WHERIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN
THE HEART OF LA MANCHAWHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A
HAPPY TERMINATION

Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly
married couplewho felt themselves under an obligation to him for
coming forward in defence of their cause; and they exalted his
wisdom to the same level with his couragerating him as a Cid in
armsand a Cicero in eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for
three days at the expense of the pairfrom whom they learned that the
sham wound was not a scheme arranged with the fair Quiteriabut a
device of Basilio'swho counted on exactly the result they had
seen; he confessedit is truethat he had confided his idea to
some of his friendsso that at the proper time they might aid him
in his purpose and insure the success of the deception.

That,said Don Quixoteis not and ought not to be called
deception which aims at virtuous ends;and the marriage of lovers
he maintained to be a most excellent endreminding themhowever
that love has no greater enemy than hunger and constant want; for love
is all gaietyenjoymentand happinessespecially when the lover
is in the possession of the object of his loveand poverty and want
are the declared enemies of all these; which he said to urge Senor
Basilio to abandon the practice of those accomplishments he was
skilled infor though they brought him famethey brought him no
moneyand apply himself to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate
industrywhich will never fail those who are prudent and persevering.
The poor man who is a man of honour (if indeed a poor man can be a man
of honour) has a jewel when he has a fair wifeand if she is taken
from himhis honour is taken from him and slain. The fair woman who
is a woman of honourand whose husband is poordeserves to be
crowned with the laurels and crowns of victory and triumph. Beauty
by itself attracts the desires of all who behold itand the royal
eagles and birds of towering flight stoop on it as on a dainty lure;
but if beauty be accompanied by want and penurythen the ravens and
the kites and other birds of prey assail itand she who stands firm
against such attacks well deserves to be called the crown of her


husband. "RememberO prudent Basilio added Don Quixote, it was the
opinion of a certain sageI know not whomthat there was not more
than one good woman in the whole world; and his advice was that each
one should think and believe that this one good woman was his own
wifeand in this way he would live happy. I myself am not married
norso farhas it ever entered my thoughts to be so; nevertheless
I would venture to give advice to anyone who might ask itas to the
mode in which he should seek a wife such as he would be content to
marry. The first thing I would recommend himwould be to look to good
name rather than to wealthfor a good woman does not win a good
name merely by being goodbut by letting it he seen that she is so
and open looseness and freedom do much more damage to a woman's honour
than secret depravity. If you take a good woman into your house it
will he an easy matter to keep her goodand even to make her still
better; but if you take a bad one you will find it hard work to mend
herfor it is no very easy matter to pass from one extreme to
another. I do not say it is impossiblebut I look upon it as
difficult."

Sancholistening to all thissaid to himselfThis master of
mine, when I say anything that has weight and substance, says I
might take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine
sermons; but I say of him that, when he begins stringing maxims
together and giving advice not only might he take a pulpit in hand,
but two on each finger, and go into the market-places to his heart's
content. Devil take you for a knight-errant, what a lot of things
you know! I used to think in my heart that the only thing he knew
was what belonged to his chivalry; but there is nothing he won't
have a finger in.

Sancho muttered this somewhat aloudand his master overheard him
and askedWhat art thou muttering there, Sancho?

I'm not saying anything or muttering anything,said Sancho; "I was
only saying to myself that I wish I had heard what your worship has
said just now before I married; perhaps I'd say now'The ox that's
loose licks himself well.'"

Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?

She is not very bad,replied Sancho; "but she is not very good; at
least she is not as good as I could wish."

Thou dost wrong, Sancho,said Don Quixoteto speak ill of thy
wife; for after all she is the mother of thy children.We are
quits,returned Sancho; "for she speaks ill of me whenever she
takes it into her headespecially when she is jealous; and Satan
himself could not put up with her then."

In finethey remained three days with the newly married couple
by whom they were entertained and treated like kings. Don Quixote
begged the fencing licentiate to find him a guide to show him the
way to the cave of Montesinosas he had a great desire to enter it
and see with his own eyes if the wonderful tales that were told of
it all over the country were true. The licentiate said he would get
him a cousin of his owna famous scholarand one very much given
to reading books of chivalrywho would have great pleasure in
conducting him to the mouth of the very caveand would show him the
lakes of Ruiderawhich were likewise famous all over La Manchaand
even all over Spain; and he assured him he would find him
entertainingfor he was a youth who could write books good enough
to be printed and dedicated to princes. The cousin arrived at last
leading an ass in foalwith a pack-saddle covered with a
parti-coloured carpet or sackcloth; Sancho saddled Rocinantegot


Dapple readyand stocked his alforjasalong with which went those of
the cousinlikewise well filled; and socommending themselves to God
and bidding farewell to allthey set outtaking the road for the
famous cave of Montesinos.

On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character
his pursuitsavocationsand studies wereto which he replied that
he was by profession a humanistand that his pursuits and studies
were making books for the pressall of great utility and no less
entertainment to the nation. One was called "The Book of Liveries in
which he described seven hundred and three liveries, with their
colours, mottoes, and ciphers, from which gentlemen of the court might
pick and choose any they fancied for festivals and revels, without
having to go a-begging for them from anyone, or puzzling their brains,
as the saying is, to have them appropriate to their objects and
purposes; for said he, I give the jealousthe rejectedthe
forgottenthe absentwhat will suit themand fit them without fail.
I have another booktoowhich I shall call 'Metamorphosesor the
Spanish Ovid' one of rare and original inventionfor imitating
Ovid in burlesque styleI show in it who the Giralda of Seville and
the Angel of the Magdalena werewhat the sewer of Vecinguerra at
Cordova waswhat the bulls of Guisandothe Sierra Morenathe
Leganitos and Lavapies fountains at Madridnot forgetting those of
the Piojoof the Cano Doradoand of the Priora; and all with their
allegoriesmetaphorsand changesso that they are amusing
interestingand instructiveall at once. Another book I have which I
call 'The Supplement to Polydore Vergil' which treats of the
invention of thingsand is a work of great erudition and research
for I establish and elucidate elegantly some things of great
importance which Polydore omitted to mention. He forgot to tell us who
was the first man in the world that had a cold in his headand who
was the first to try salivation for the French diseasebut I give
it accurately set forthand quote more than five-and-twenty authors
in proof of itso you may perceive I have laboured to good purpose
and that the book will be of service to the whole world."

Sanchowho had been very attentive to the cousin's wordssaid to
himTell me, senor- and God give you luck in printing your bookscan
you tell me (for of course you know, as you know everything) who
was the first man that scratched his head? For to my thinking it
must have been our father Adam.

So it must,replied the cousin; "for there is no doubt but Adam
had a head and hair; and being the first man in the world he would
have scratched himself sometimes."

So I think,said Sancho; "but now tell mewho was the first
tumbler in the world?"

Really, brother,answered the cousinI could not at this
moment say positively without having investigated it; I will look it
up when I go back to where I have my books, and will satisfy you the
next time we meet, for this will not be the last time.

Look here, senor,said Sanchodon't give yourself any trouble
about it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I asked you. The
first tumbler in the world, you must know, was Lucifer, when they cast
or pitched him out of heaven; for he came tumbling into the bottomless
pit.

You are right, friend,said the cousin; and said Don Quixote
Sancho, that question and answer are not thine own; thou hast heard
them from some one else.


Hold your peace, senor,said Sancho; "faithif I take to asking
questions and answeringI'll go on from this till to-morrow
morning. Nay! to ask foolish things and answer nonsense I needn't go
looking for help from my neighbours."

Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho,said Don
Quixote; "for there are some who weary themselves out in learning
and proving things thatafter they are known and provedare not
worth a farthing to the understanding or memory."

In this and other pleasant conversation the day went byand that
night they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not more than two
leagues to the cave of Montesinosso the cousin told Don Quixote
addingthat if he was bent upon entering itit would be requisite
for him to provide himself with ropesso that he might be tied and
lowered into its depths. Don Quixote said that even if it reached to
the bottomless pit he meant to see where it went to; so they bought
about a hundred fathoms of ropeand next day at two in the
afternoon they arrived at the cavethe mouth of which is spacious and
widebut full of thorn and wild-fig bushes and brambles and briars
so thick and matted that they completely close it up and cover it
over.

On coming within sight of it the cousinSanchoand Don Quixote
dismountedand the first two immediately tied the latter very
firmly with the ropesand as they were girding and swathing him
Sancho said to himMind what you are about, master mine; don't go
burying yourself alive, or putting yourself where you'll be like a
bottle put to cool in a well; it's no affair or business of your
worship's to become the explorer of this, which must be worse than a
Moorish dungeon.

Tie me and hold thy peace,said Don Quixotefor an emprise
like this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me;and said the guideI
beg of you, Senor Don Quixote, to observe carefully and examine with a
hundred eyes everything that is within there; perhaps there may be
some things for me to put into my book of 'Transformations.'

The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well enough,
said Sancho Panza.

When he had said this and finished the tying (which was not over the
armour but only over the doublet) Don Quixote observedIt was
careless of us not to have provided ourselves with a small cattle-bell
to be tied on the rope close to me, the sound of which would show that
I was still descending and alive; but as that is out of the question
now, in God's hand be it to guide me;and forthwith he fell on his
knees and in a low voice offered up a prayer to heavenimploring
God to aid him and grant him success in this to all appearance
perilous and untried adventureand then exclaimed aloudO
mistress of my actions and movements, illustrious and peerless
Dulcinea del Toboso, if so be the prayers and supplications of this
fortunate lover can reach thy ears, by thy incomparable beauty I
entreat thee to listen to them, for they but ask thee not to refuse me
thy favour and protection now that I stand in such need of them. I
am about to precipitate, to sink, to plunge myself into the abyss that
is here before me, only to let the world know that while thou dost
favour me there is no impossibility I will not attempt and
accomplish.With these words he approached the cavernand
perceived that it was impossible to let himself down or effect an
entrance except by sheer force or cleaving a passage; so drawing his
sword he began to demolish and cut away the brambles at the mouth of
the caveat the noise of which a vast multitude of crows and
choughs flew out of it so thick and so fast that they knocked Don


Quixote down; and if he had been as much of a believer in augury as he
was a Catholic Christian he would have taken it as a bad omen and
declined to bury himself in such a place. He got uphoweverand as
there came no more crowsor night-birds like the bats that flew out
at the same time with the crowsthe cousin and Sancho giving him
ropehe lowered himself into the depths of the dread cavern; and as
he entered it Sancho sent his blessing after himmaking a thousand
crosses over him and sayingGod, and the Pena de Francia, and the
Trinity of Gaeta guide thee, flower and cream of knights-errant. There
thou goest, thou dare-devil of the earth, heart of steel, arm of
brass; once more, God guide thee and send thee back safe, sound, and
unhurt to the light of this world thou art leaving to bury thyself
in the darkness thou art seeking there;and the cousin offered up
almost the same prayers and supplications.

Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and more ropeand
they gave it out little by littleand by the time the callswhich
came out of the cave as out of a pipeceased to be heard they had let
down the hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don
Quixote up againas they could give him no more rope; howeverthey
waited about half an hourat the end of which time they began to
gather in the rope again with great ease and without feeling any
weightwhich made them fancy Don Quixote was remaining below; and
persuaded that it was soSancho wept bitterlyand hauled away in
great haste in order to settle the question. Whenhoweverthey had
come toas it seemedrather more than eighty fathoms they felt a
weightat which they were greatly delighted; and at lastat ten
fathoms morethey saw Don Quixote distinctlyand Sancho called out
to himsayingWelcome back, senor, for we had begun to think you
were going to stop there to found a family.But Don Quixote
answered not a wordand drawing him out entirely they perceived he
had his eyes shut and every appearance of being fast asleep.

They stretched him on the ground and untied himbut still he did
not awake; howeverthey rolled him back and forwards and shook and
pulled him aboutso that after some time he came to himself
stretching himself just as if he were waking up from a deep and
sound sleepand looking about him he saidGod forgive you, friends;
ye have taken me away from the sweetest and most delightful
existence and spectacle that ever human being enjoyed or beheld. Now
indeed do I know that all the pleasures of this life pass away like
a shadow and a dream, or fade like the flower of the field. O
ill-fated Montesinos! O sore-wounded Durandarte! O unhappy Belerma!
O tearful Guadiana, and ye O hapless daughters of Ruidera who show
in your waves the tears that flowed from your beauteous eyes!

The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention to the
words of Don Quixotewho uttered them as though with immense pain
he drew them up from his very bowels. They begged of him to explain
himselfand tell them what he had seen in that hell down there.

Hell do you call it?said Don Quixote; "call it by no such name
for it does not deserve itas ye shall soon see."

He then begged them to give him something to eatas he was very
hungry. They spread the cousin's sackcloth on the grassand put the
stores of the alforjas into requisitionand all three sitting down
lovingly and sociablythey made a luncheon and a supper of it all
in one; and when the sackcloth was removedDon Quixote of La Mancha
saidLet no one rise, and attend to me, my sons, both of you.


CHAPTER XXIII

OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW
IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOSTHE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF
WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL

It was about four in the afternoon when the sunveiled in clouds
with subdued light and tempered beamsenabled Don Quixote to
relatewithout heat or inconveniencewhat he had seen in the cave of
Montesinos to his two illustrious hearersand he began as follows:

A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man's height down in
this pit, on the right-hand side, there is a recess or space, roomy
enough to contain a large cart with its mules. A little light
reaches it through some chinks or crevices, communicating with it
and open to the surface of the earth. This recess or space I perceived
when I was already growing weary and disgusted at finding myself
hanging suspended by the rope, travelling downwards into that dark
region without any certainty or knowledge of where I was going, so I
resolved to enter it and rest myself for a while. I called out,
telling you not to let out more rope until I bade you, but you
cannot have heard me. I then gathered in the rope you were sending me,
and making a coil or pile of it I seated myself upon it, ruminating
and considering what I was to do to lower myself to the bottom, having
no one to hold me up; and as I was thus deep in thought and
perplexity, suddenly and without provocation a profound sleep fell
upon me, and when I least expected it, I know not how, I awoke and
found myself in the midst of the most beautiful, delightful meadow
that nature could produce or the most lively human imagination
conceive. I opened my eyes, I rubbed them, and found I was not
asleep but thoroughly awake. Nevertheless, I felt my head and breast
to satisfy myself whether it was I myself who was there or some
empty delusive phantom; but touch, feeling, the collected thoughts
that passed through my mind, all convinced me that I was the same then
and there that I am this moment. Next there presented itself to my
sight a stately royal palace or castle, with walls that seemed built
of clear transparent crystal; and through two great doors that
opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and advancing towards me a
venerable old man, clad in a long gown of mulberry-coloured serge that
trailed upon the ground. On his shoulders and breast he had a green
satin collegiate hood, and covering his head a black Milanese
bonnet, and his snow-white beard fell below his girdle. He carried
no arms whatever, nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than fair-sized
filberts, each tenth bead being like a moderate ostrich egg; his
bearing, his gait, his dignity and imposing presence held me
spellbound and wondering. He approached me, and the first thing he did
was to embrace me closely, and then he said to me, 'For a long time
now, O valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, we who are here
enchanted in these solitudes have been hoping to see thee, that thou
mayest make known to the world what is shut up and concealed in this
deep cave, called the cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered,
an achievement reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous
courage alone to attempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and I will
show thee the marvels hidden within this transparent castle, whereof I
am the alcaide and perpetual warden; for I am Montesinos himself, from
whom the cave takes its name.'

The instant he told me he was MontesinosI asked him if the
story they told in the world above here was truethat he had taken
out the heart of his great friend Durandarte from his breast with a
little daggerand carried it to the lady Belermaas his friend
when at the point of death had commanded him. He said in reply that
they spoke the truth in every respect except as to the daggerfor
it was not a daggernor littlebut a burnished poniard sharper


than an awl."

That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces the
Sevillian,said Sancho.

I do not know,said Don Quixote; "it could not have been by that
poniard makerhoweverbecause Ramon de Hoces was a man of yesterday
and the affair of Roncesvalleswhere this mishap occurredwas long
ago; but the question is of no great importancenor does it affect or
make any alteration in the truth or substance of the story."

That is true,said the cousin; "continueSenor Don Quixotefor I
am listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world."

And with no less do I tell the tale,said Don Quixote; "and soto
proceed- the venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal
wherein a lower chamberstrangely cool and entirely of alabaster
was an elaborately wrought marble tombupon which I beheldstretched
at full lengtha knightnot of bronzeor marbleor jasperas
are seen on other tombsbut of actual flesh and bone. His right
hand (which seemed to me somewhat hairy and sinewya sign of great
strength in its owner) lay on the side of his heart; but before I
could put any question to Montesinosheseeing me gazing at the tomb
in amazementsaid to me'This is my friend Durandarteflower and
mirror of the true lovers and valiant knights of his time. He is
held enchanted hereas I myself and many others areby that French
enchanter Merlinwhothey saywas the devil's son; but my belief
isnot that he was the devil's sonbut that he knewas the saying
isa point more than the devil. How or why he enchanted usno one
knowsbut time will telland I suspect that time is not far off.
What I marvel at isthat I know it to be as sure as that it is now
daythat Durandarte ended his life in my armsand thatafter his
deathI took out his heart with my own hands; and indeed it must have
weighed more than two poundsforaccording to naturalistshe who
has a large heart is more largely endowed with valour than he who
has a small one. Thenas this is the caseand as the knight did
really diehow comes it that he now moans and sighs from time to
timeas if he were still alive?'

As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice:

O cousin Montesinos!

'T was my last request of thee,
When my soul hath left the body,

And that lying dead I be,
With thy poniard or thy dagger

Cut the heart from out my breast,
And bear it to Belerma.

This was my last request.

On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before
the unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, 'Long since,
Senor Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since have I done what you
bade me on that sad day when I lost you; I took out your heart as well
as I could, not leaving an atom of it in your breast, I wiped it
with a lace handkerchief, and I took the road to France with it,
having first laid you in the bosom of the earth with tears enough to
wash and cleanse my hands of the blood that covered them after
wandering among your bowels; and more by token, O cousin of my soul,
at the first village I came to after leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled
a little salt upon your heart to keep it sweet, and bring it, if not
fresh, at least pickled, into the presence of the lady Belerma,
whom, together with you, myself, Guadiana your squire, the duenna
Ruidera and her seven daughters and two nieces, and many more of


your friends and acquaintances, the sage Merlin has been keeping
enchanted here these many years; and although more than five hundred
have gone by, not one of us has died; Ruidera and her daughters and
nieces alone are missing, and these, because of the tears they shed,
Merlin, out of the compassion he seems to have felt for them,
changed into so many lakes, which to this day in the world of the
living, and in the province of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of
Ruidera. The seven daughters belong to the kings of Spain and the
two nieces to the knights of a very holy order called the Order of St.
John. Guadiana your squire, likewise bewailing your fate, was
changed into a river of his own name, but when he came to the
surface and beheld the sun of another heaven, so great was his grief
at finding he was leaving you, that he plunged into the bowels of
the earth; however, as he cannot help following his natural course, he
from time to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and the
world. The lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with these,
and others that come to him, he makes a grand and imposing entrance
into Portugal; but for all that, go where he may, he shows his
melancholy and sadness, and takes no pride in breeding dainty choice
fish, only coarse and tasteless sorts, very different from those of
the golden Tagus. All this that I tell you now, O cousin mine, I
have told you many times before, and as you make no answer, I fear
that either you believe me not, or do not hear me, whereat I feel
God knows what grief. I have now news to give you, which, if it serves
not to alleviate your sufferings, will not in any wise increase
them. Know that you have here before you (open your eyes and you
will see) that great knight of whom the sage Merlin has prophesied
such great things; that Don Quixote of La Mancha I mean, who has
again, and to better purpose than in past times, revived in these days
knight-errantry, long since forgotten, and by whose intervention and
aid it may be we shall be disenchanted; for great deeds are reserved
for great men.'

'And if that may not be' said the wretched Durandarte in a low and
feeble voice'if that may not bethenmy cousinI say "patience
and shuffle;"' and turning over on his sidehe relapsed into his
former silence without uttering another word.

And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompanied
by deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystal
wall I saw passing through another chamber a procession of two lines
of fair damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans of
Turkish fashion on their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there
came a lady, for so from her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in
black, with a white veil so long and ample that it swept the ground.
Her turban was twice as large as the largest of any of the others; her
eyebrows met, her nose was rather flat, her mouth was large but with
ruddy lips, and her teeth, of which at times she allowed a glimpse,
were seen to be sparse and ill-set, though as white as peeled almonds.
She carried in her hands a fine cloth, and in it, as well as I could
make out, a heart that had been mummied, so parched and dried was
it. Montesinos told me that all those forming the procession were
the attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were enchanted there
with their master and mistress, and that the last, she who carried the
heart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her damsels,
four days in the week went in procession singing, or rather weeping,
dirges over the body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that if
she appeared to me somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as fame
reported her, it was because of the bad nights and worse days that she
passed in that enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circles
round her eyes, and her sickly complexion; 'her sallowness, and the
rings round her eyes,' said he, 'are not caused by the periodical
ailment usual with women, for it is many months and even years since
she has had any, but by the grief her own heart suffers because of


that which she holds in her hand perpetually, and which recalls and
brings back to her memory the sad fate of her lost lover; were it
not for this, hardly would the great Dulcinea del Toboso, so
celebrated in all these parts, and even in the world, come up to her
for beauty, grace, and gaiety.'

'Hold hard!' said I at this'tell your story as you oughtSenor
Don Montesinosfor you know very well that all comparisons are
odiousand there is no occasion to compare one person with another;
the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she isand the lady Dona
Belerma is what she is and has beenand that's enough.' To which he
made answer'Forgive meSenor Don Quixote; I own I was wrong and
spoke unadvisedly in saying that the lady Dulcinea could scarcely come
up to the lady Belerma; for it were enough for me to have learned
by what means I know notthat youare her knightto make me bite my
tongue out before I compared her to anything save heaven itself.'
After this apology which the great Montesinos made memy heart
recovered itself from the shock I had received in hearing my lady
compared with Belerma."

Still I wonder,said Sanchothat your worship did not get upon
the old fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and pluck
his beard until you didn't leave a hair in it.

Nay, Sancho, my friend,said Don Quixoteit would not have
been right in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect to
the aged, even though they be not knights, but especially to those who
are, and who are enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as he
brought in the many other questions and answers we exchanged.

I cannot understand, Senor Don Quixote,remarked the cousin
herehow it is that your worship, in such a short space of time as
you have been below there, could have seen so many things, and said
and answered so much.

How long is it since I went down?asked Don Quixote.

Little better than an hour,replied Sancho.

That cannot be,returned Don Quixotebecause night overtook me
while I was there, and day came, and it was night again and day
again three times; so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days in
those remote regions beyond our ken.

My master must be right,replied Sancho; "for as everything that
has happened to him is by enchantmentmaybe what seems to us an
hour would seem three days and nights there."

That's it,said Don Quixote.

And did your worship eat anything all that time, senor?asked
the cousin.

I never touched a morsel,answered Don Quixotenor did I feel
hunger, or think of it.

And do the enchanted eat?said the cousin.

They neither eat,said Don Quixote; "nor are they subject to the
greater excrementsthough it is thought that their nailsbeardsand
hair grow."

And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor?asked Sancho.


Certainly not,replied Don Quixote; "at leastduring those
three days I was with them not one of them closed an eyenor did I
either."

The proverb, 'Tell me what company thou keepest and I'll tell
thee what thou art,' is to the point here,said Sancho; "your worship
keeps company with enchanted people that are always fasting and
watching; what wonder is itthenthat you neither eat nor sleep
while you are with them? But forgive mesenorif I say that of all
this you have told us nowmay God take me- I was just going to say
the devil- if I believe a single particle."

What!said the cousinhas Senor Don Quixote, then, been lying?
Why, even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and put
together such a host of lies.

I don't believe my master lies,said Sancho.

If not, what dost thou believe?asked Don Quixote.

I believe,replied Sanchothat this Merlin, or those
enchanters who enchanted the whole crew your worship says you saw
and discoursed with down there, stuffed your imagination or your
mind with all this rigmarole you have been treating us to, and all
that is still to come.

All that might be, Sancho,replied Don Quixote; "but it is not so
for everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyesand
touched with my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now
howamong the countless other marvellous things Montesinos showed
me (of which at leisure and at the proper time I will give thee an
account in the course of our journeyfor they would not be all in
place here)he showed me three country girls who went skipping and
capering like goats over the pleasant fields thereand the instant
I beheld them I knew one to be the peerless Dulcinea del Tobosoand
the other two those same country girls that were with her and that
we spoke to on the road from El Toboso! I asked Montesinos if he
knew themand he told me he did notbut he thought they must be some
enchanted ladies of distinctionfor it was only a few days before
that they had made their appearance in those meadows; but I was not to
be surprised at thatbecause there were a great many other ladies
there of times past and presentenchanted in various strange
shapesand among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere and her
dame Quintanonashe who poured out the wine for Lancelot when he came
from Britain."

When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to take
leave of his sensesor die with laughter; foras he knew the real
truth about the pretended enchantment of Dulcineain which he himself
had been the enchanter and concocter of all the evidencehe made up
his mind at last thatbeyond all doubthis master was out of his
wits and stark madso he said to himIt was an evil hour, a worse
season, and a sorrowful day, when your worship, dear master mine, went
down to the other world, and an unlucky moment when you met with Senor
Montesinos, who has sent you back to us like this. You were well
enough here above in your full senses, such as God had given you,
delivering maxims and giving advice at every turn, and not as you
are now, talking the greatest nonsense that can be imagined.

As I know thee, Sancho,said Don QuixoteI heed not thy words.

Nor I your worship's,said Sanchowhether you beat me or kill me
for those I have spoken, and will speak if you don't correct and
mend your own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how or by


what did you recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to her,
what did you say, and what did she answer?

I recognised her,said Don Quixoteby her wearing the same
garments she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to her,
but she did not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned her
back on me and took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt could
not have overtaken her. I wished to follow her, and would have done so
had not Montesinos recommended me not to take the trouble as it
would be useless, particularly as the time was drawing near when it
would be necessary for me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover,
that in course of time he would let me know how he and Belerma, and
Durandarte, and all who were there, were to be disenchanted. But of
all I saw and observed down there, what gave me most pain was, that
while Montesinos was speaking to me, one of the two companions of
the hapless Dulcinea approached me on one without my having seen her
coming, and with tears in her eyes said to me, in a low, agitated
voice, 'My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses your worship's hands, and
entreats you to do her the favour of letting her know how you are;
and, being in great need, she also entreats your worship as
earnestly as she can to be so good as to lend her half a dozen
reals, or as much as you may have about you, on this new dimity
petticoat that I have here; and she promises to repay them very
speedily.' I was amazed and taken aback by such a message, and turning
to Senor Montesinos I asked him, 'Is it possible, Senor Montesinos,
that persons of distinction under enchantment can be in need?' To
which he replied, 'Believe me, Senor Don Quixote, that which is called
need is to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all quarters and
reaches everyone, and does not spare even the enchanted; and as the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, and the
pledge is to all appearance a good one, there is nothing for it but to
give them to her, for no doubt she must be in some great strait.' 'I
will take no pledge of her,' I replied, 'nor yet can I give her what
she asks, for all I have is four reals; which I gave (they were
those which thou, Sancho, gavest me the other day to bestow in alms
upon the poor I met along the road), and I said, 'Tell your
mistress, my dear, that I am grieved to the heart because of her
distresses, and wish I was a Fucar to remedy them, and that I would
have her know that I cannot be, and ought not be, in health while
deprived of the happiness of seeing her and enjoying her discreet
conversation, and that I implore her as earnestly as I can, to allow
herself to be seen and addressed by this her captive servant and
forlorn knight. Tell her, too, that when she least expects it she will
hear it announced that I have made an oath and vow after the fashion
of that which the Marquis of Mantua made to avenge his nephew Baldwin,
when he found him at the point of death in the heart of the mountains,
which was, not to eat bread off a tablecloth, and other trifling
matters which he added, until he had avenged him; and I will make
the same to take no rest, and to roam the seven regions of the earth
more thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal ever roamed
them, until I have disenchanted her.' 'All that and more, you owe my
lady,' the damsel's answer to me, and taking the four reals, instead
of making me a curtsey she cut a caper, springing two full yards
into the air.

O blessed God!exclaimed Sancho aloud at thisis it possible
that such things can be in the world, and that enchanters and
enchantments can have such power in it as to have changed my
master's right senses into a craze so full of absurdity! O senor,
senor, for God's sake, consider yourself, have a care for your honour,
and give no credit to this silly stuff that has left you scant and
short of wits.

Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho,said


Don Quixote; "and not being experienced in the things of the world
everything that has some difficulty about it seems to thee impossible;
but time will passas I said beforeand I will tell thee some of the
things I saw down there which will make thee believe what I have
related nowthe truth of which admits of neither reply nor question."

CHAPTER XXIV

WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERSAS TRIVIAL AS
THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

He who translated this great history from the original written by
its first authorCide Hamete Benengelisays that on coming to the
chapter giving the adventures of the cave of Montesinos he found
written on the margin of itin Hamete's own handthese exact words:

I cannot convince or persuade myself that everything that is
written in the preceding chapter could have precisely happened to
the valiant Don Quixote; and for this reason, that all the
adventures that have occurred up to the present have been possible and
probable; but as for this one of the cave, I see no way of accepting
it as true, as it passes all reasonable bounds. For me to believe that
Don Quixote could lie, he being the most truthful gentleman and the
noblest knight of his time, is impossible; he would not have told a
lie though he were shot to death with arrows. On the other hand, I
reflect that he related and told the story with all the
circumstances detailed, and that he could not in so short a space have
fabricated such a vast complication of absurdities; if, then, this
adventure seems apocryphal, it is no fault of mine; and so, without
affirming its falsehood or its truth, I write it down. Decide for
thyself in thy wisdom, reader; for I am not bound, nor is it in my
power, to do more; though certain it is they say that at the time of
his death he retracted, and said he had invented it, thinking it
matched and tallied with the adventures he had read of in his
histories.And then he goes on to say:

The cousin was amazed as well at Sancho's boldness as at the
patience of his masterand concluded that the good temper the
latter displayed arose from the happiness he felt at having seen his
lady Dulcineaeven enchanted as she was; because otherwise the
words and language Sancho had addressed to him deserved a thrashing;
for indeed he seemed to him to have been rather impudent to his
masterto whom he now observedI, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha,
look upon the time I have spent in travelling with your worship as
very well employed, for I have gained four things in the course of it;
the first is that I have made your acquaintance, which I consider
great good fortune; the second, that I have learned what the cave of
Montesinos contains, together with the transformations of Guadiana and
of the lakes of Ruidera; which will be of use to me for the Spanish
Ovid that I have in hand; the third, to have discovered the
antiquity of cards, that they were in use at least in the time of
Charlemagne, as may be inferred from the words you say Durandarte
uttered when, at the end of that long spell while Montesinos was
talking to him, he woke up and said, 'Patience and shuffle.' This
phrase and expression he could not have learned while he was
enchanted, but only before he had become so, in France, and in the
time of the aforesaid emperor Charlemagne. And this demonstration is
just the thing for me for that other book I am writing, the
'Supplement to Polydore Vergil on the Invention of Antiquities;' for I
believe he never thought of inserting that of cards in his book, as
I mean to do in mine, and it will be a matter of great importance,


particularly when I can cite so grave and veracious an authority as
Senor Durandarte. And the fourth thing is, that I have ascertained the
source of the river Guadiana, heretofore unknown to mankind.

You are right,said Don Quixote; "but I should like to knowif by
God's favour they grant you a licence to print those books of yourswhich
I doubt- to whom do you mean dedicate them?"

There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can be
dedicated,said the cousin.

Not many,said Don Quixote; "not that they are unworthy of itbut
because they do not care to accept books and incur the obligation of
making the return that seems due to the author's labour and
courtesy. One prince I know who makes up for all the restand morehow
much moreif I ventured to sayperhaps I should stir up envy
in many a noble breast; but let this stand over for some more
convenient timeand let us go and look for some place to shelter
ourselves in to-night."

Not far from this,said the cousinthere is a hermitage, where
there lives a hermit, who they say was a soldier, and who has the
reputation of being a good Christian and a very intelligent and
charitable man. Close to the hermitage he has a small house which he
built at his own cost, but though small it is large enough for the
reception of guests.

Has this hermit any hens, do you think?asked Sancho.

Few hermits are without them,said Don Quixote; "for those we
see now-a-days are not like the hermits of the Egyptian deserts who
were clad in palm-leavesand lived on the roots of the earth. But
do not think that by praising these I am disparaging the others; all I
mean to say is that the penances of those of the present day do not
come up to the asceticism and austerity of former times; but it does
not follow from this that they are not all worthy; at least I think
them so; and at the worst the hypocrite who pretends to be good does
less harm than the open sinner."

At this point they saw approaching the spot where they stood a man
on footproceeding at a rapid paceand beating a mule loaded with
lances and halberds. When he came up to themhe saluted them and
passed on without stopping. Don Quixote called to himStay, good
fellow; you seem to be making more haste than suits that mule.

I cannot stop, senor,answered the man; "for the arms you see I
carry here are to be used tomorrowso I must not delay; God be with
you. But if you want to know what I am carrying them forI mean to
lodge to-night at the inn that is beyond the hermitageand if you
be going the same road you will find me thereand I will tell you
some curious things; once more God be with you;" and he urged on his
mule at such a pace that Don Quixote had no time to ask him what these
curious things were that he meant to tell them; and as he was somewhat
inquisitiveand always tortured by his anxiety to learn something
newhe decided to set out at onceand go and pass the night at the
inn instead of stopping at the hermitagewhere the cousin would
have had them halt. Accordingly they mounted and all three took the
direct road for the innwhich they reached a little before nightfall.
On the road the cousin proposed they should go up to the hermitage
to drink a sup. The instant Sancho heard this he steered his Dapple
towards itand Don Quixote and the cousin did the same; but it
seems Sancho's bad luck so ordered it that the hermit was not at home
for so a sub-hermit they found in the hermitage told them. They called
for some of the best. She replied that her master had nonebut that


if they liked cheap water she would give it with great pleasure.

If I found any in water,said Sanchothere are wells along the
road where I could have had enough of it. Ah, Camacho's wedding, and
plentiful house of Don Diego, how often do I miss you!

Leaving the hermitagethey pushed on towards the innand a
little farther they came upon a youth who was pacing along in front of
them at no great speedso that they overtook him. He carried a
sword over his shoulderand slung on it a budget or bundle of his
clothes apparentlyprobably his breeches or pantaloonsand his cloak
and a shirt or two; for he had on a short jacket of velvet with a
gloss like satin on it in placesand had his shirt out; his stockings
were of silkand his shoes square-toed as they wear them at court.
His age might have been eighteen or nineteen; he was of a merry
countenanceand to all appearance of an active habitand he went
along singing seguidillas to beguile the wearisomeness of the road. As
they came up with him he was just finishing onewhich the cousin
got by heart and they say ran thus-

I'm off to the wars
For the want of pence
Ohhad I but money
I'd show more sense.

The first to address him was Don Quixotewho saidYou travel very
airily, sir gallant; whither bound, may we ask, if it is your pleasure
to tell us?

To which the youth repliedThe heat and my poverty are the
reason of my travelling so airily, and it is to the wars that I am
bound.

How poverty?asked Don Quixote; "the heat one can understand."

Senor,replied the youthin this bundle I carry velvet
pantaloons to match this jacket; if I wear them out on the road, I
shall not be able to make a decent appearance in them in the city, and
I have not the wherewithal to buy others; and so for this reason, as
well as to keep myself cool, I am making my way in this fashion to
overtake some companies of infantry that are not twelve leagues off,
in which I shall enlist, and there will be no want of baggage trains
to travel with after that to the place of embarkation, which they
say will be Carthagena; I would rather have the King for a master, and
serve him in the wars, than serve a court pauper.

And did you get any bounty, now?asked the cousin.

If I had been in the service of some grandee of Spain or
personage of distinction,replied the youthI should have been safe
to get it; for that is the advantage of serving good masters, that out
of the servants' hall men come to be ancients or captains, or get a
good pension. But I, to my misfortune, always served place-hunters and
adventurers, whose keep and wages were so miserable and scanty that
half went in paying for the starching of one's collars; it would be
a miracle indeed if a page volunteer ever got anything like a
reasonable bounty.

And tell me, for heaven's sake,asked Don Quixoteis it
possible, my friend, that all the time you served you never got any
livery?

They gave me two,replied the page; "but just as when one quits


a religious community before making professionthey strip him of
the dress of the order and give him back his own clothesso did my
masters return me mine; for as soon as the business on which they came
to court was finishedthey went home and took back the liveries
they had given merely for show."

What spilorceria!- as an Italian would say,said Don Quixote; "but
for all thatconsider yourself happy in having left court with as
worthy an object as you havefor there is nothing on earth more
honourable or profitable than servingfirst of all Godand then
one's king and natural lordparticularly in the profession of arms
by whichif not more wealthat least more honour is to be won than
by lettersas I have said many a time; for though letters may have
founded more great houses than armsstill those founded by arms
have I know not what superiority over those founded by lettersand
a certain splendour belonging to them that distinguishes them above
all. And bear in mind what I am now about to say to youfor it will
be of great use and comfort to you in time of trouble; it isnot to
let your mind dwell on the adverse chances that may befall you; for
the worst of all is deathand if it be a good deaththe best of
all is to die. They asked Julius Caesarthe valiant Roman emperor
what was the best death. He answeredthat which is unexpected
which comes suddenly and unforeseen; and though he answered like a
paganand one without the knowledge of the true Godyetas far as
sparing our feelings is concernedhe was right; for suppose you are
killed in the first engagement or skirmishwhether by a cannon ball
or blown up by minewhat matters it? It is only dyingand all is
over; and according to Terencea soldier shows better dead in battle
than alive and safe in flight; and the good soldier wins fame in
proportion as he is obedient to his captains and those in command over
him. And remembermy sonthat it is better for the soldier to
smell of gunpowder than of civetand that if old age should come upon
you in this honourable callingthough you may be covered with
wounds and crippled and lameit will not come upon you without
honourand that such as poverty cannot lessen; especially now that
provisions are being made for supporting and relieving old and
disabled soldiers; for it is not right to deal with them after the
fashion of those who set free and get rid of their black slaves when
they are old and uselessandturning them out of their houses
under the pretence of making them freemake them slaves to hunger
from which they cannot expect to be released except by death. But
for the present I won't say more than get ye up behind me on my
horse as far as the innand sup with me thereand to-morrow you
shall pursue your journeyand God give you as good speed as your
intentions deserve."

The page did not accept the invitation to mountthough he did
that to supper at the inn; and here they say Sancho said to himself
God be with you for a master; is it possible that a man who can say
things so many and so good as he has said just now, can say that he
saw the impossible absurdities he reports about the cave of
Montesinos? Well, well, we shall see.

And nowjust as night was fallingthey reached the innand it was
not without satisfaction that Sancho perceived his master took it
for a real innand not for a castle as usual. The instant they
entered Don Quixote asked the landlord after the man with the lances
and halberdsand was told that he was in the stable seeing to his
mule; which was what Sancho and the cousin proceeded to do for their
beastsgiving the best manger and the best place in the stable to
Rocinante.


CHAPTER XXV

WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTUREAND THE DROLL ONE OF
THE PUPPET-SHOWMANTOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE
DIVINING APE

Don Quixote's bread would not bakeas the common saying isuntil
he had heard and learned the curious things promised by the man who
carried the arms. He went to seek him where the innkeeper said be
was and having found himbade him say now at any rate what he had
to say in answer to the question he had asked him on the road. "The
tale of my wonders must be taken more leisurely and not standing
said the man; let me finish foddering my beastgood sir; and then
I'll tell you things that will astonish you."

Don't wait for that,said Don Quixote; "I'll help you in
everything and so he did, sifting the barley for him and cleaning
out the manger; a degree of humility which made the other feel bound
to tell him with a good grace what he had asked; so seating himself on
a bench, with Don Quixote beside him, and the cousin, the page, Sancho
Panza, and the landlord, for a senate and an audience, he began his
story in this way:

You must know that in a village four leagues and a half from this
innit so happened that one of the regidorsby the tricks and
roguery of a servant girl of his (it's too long a tale to tell)
lost an ass; and though he did all he possibly could to find itit
was all to no purpose. A fortnight might have gone byso the story
goessince the ass had been missingwhenas the regidor who had
lost it was standing in the plazaanother regidor of the same town
said to him'Pay me for good newsgossip; your ass has turned up.'
'That I willand wellgossip' said the other; 'but tell uswhere
has he turned up?' 'In the forest' said the finder; 'I saw him this
morning without pack-saddle or harness of any sortand so lean that
it went to one's heart to see him. I tried to drive him before me
and bring him to youbut he is already so wild and shy that when I
went near him he made off into the thickest part of the forest. If you
have a mind that we two should go back and look for himlet me put up
this she-ass at my house and I'll be back at once.' 'You will be doing
me a great kindness' said the owner of the ass'and I'll try to
pay it back in the same coin.' It is with all these circumstancesand
in the very same way I am telling it nowthat those who know all
about the matter tell the story. Well thenthe two regidors set off
on footarm in armfor the forestand coming to the place where
they hoped to find the ass they could not find himnor was he to be
seen anywhere aboutsearch as they might. Seeingthenthat there
was no sign of himthe regidor who had seen him said to the other
'Look heregossip; a plan has occurred to meby whichbeyond a
doubtwe shall manage to discover the animaleven if he is stowed
away in the bowels of the earthnot to say the forest. Here it is.
I can bray to perfectionand if you can ever so littlethe thing's
as good as done.' 'Ever so little did you saygossip?' said the
other; 'by GodI'll not give in to anybodynot even to the asses
themselves.' 'We'll soon see' said the second regidor'for my plan
is that you should go one side of the forestand I the otherso as
to go all round about it; and every now and then you will bray and I
will bray; and it cannot be but that the ass will hear usand
answer us if he is in the forest.' To which the owner of the ass
replied'It's an excellent planI declaregossipand worthy of
your great genius;' and the two separating as agreedit so fell out
that they brayed almost at the same momentand eachdeceived by
the braying of the otherran to lookfancying the ass had turned
up at last. When they came in sight of one anothersaid the loser


'Is it possiblegossipthat it was not my ass that brayed?' 'No
it was I' said the other. 'Well thenI can tell yougossip' said
the ass's owner'that between you and an ass there is not an atom
of difference as far as braying goesfor I never in all my life saw
or heard anything more natural.' 'Those praises and compliments belong
to you more justly than to megossip' said the inventor of the plan;
'forby the God that made meyou might give a couple of brays odds
to the best and most finished brayer in the world; the tone you have
got is deepyour voice is well kept up as to time and pitchand your
finishing notes come thick and fast; in factI own myself beatenand
yield the palm to youand give in to you in this rare
accomplishment.' 'Well then' said the owner'I'll set a higher value
on myself for the futureand consider that I know somethingas I
have an excellence of some sort; for though I always thought I
brayed wellI never supposed I came up to the pitch of perfection you
say.' 'And I say too' said the second'that there are rare gifts
going to loss in the worldand that they are ill bestowed upon
those who don't know how to make use of them.' 'Ours' said the
owner of the ass'unless it is in cases like this we have now in
handcannot be of any service to usand even in this God grant
they may be of some use.' So saying they separatedand took to
their braying once morebut every instant they were deceiving one
anotherand coming to meet one another againuntil they arranged
by way of countersignso as to know that it was they and not the ass
to give two braysone after the other. In this waydoubling the
brays at every stepthey made the complete circuit of the forestbut
the lost ass never gave them an answer or even the sign of one. How
could the poor ill-starred brute have answeredwhenin the
thickest part of the forestthey found him devoured by wolves? As
soon as he saw him his owner said'I was wondering he did not answer
for if he wasn't dead he'd have brayed when he heard usor he'd
have been no ass; but for the sake of having heard you bray to such
perfectiongossipI count the trouble I have taken to look for him
well bestowedeven though I have found him dead.' 'It's in a good
handgossip' said the other; 'if the abbot sings wellthe acolyte
is not much behind him.' So they returned disconsolate and hoarse to
their villagewhere they told their friendsneighboursand
acquaintances what had befallen them in their search for the asseach
crying up the other's perfection in braying. The whole story came to
be known and spread abroad through the villages of the
neighbourhood; and the devilwho never sleepswith his love for
sowing dissensions and scattering discord everywhereblowing mischief
about and making quarrels out of nothingcontrived to make the people
of the other towns fall to braying whenever they saw anyone from our
villageas if to throw the braying of our regidors in our teeth. Then
the boys took to itwhich was the same thing for it as getting into
the hands and mouths of all the devils of hell; and braying spread
from one town to another in such a way that the men of the braying
town are as easy to be known as blacks are to be known from whites
and the unlucky joke has gone so far that several times the scoffed
have come out in arms and in a body to do battle with the scoffers
and neither king nor rookfear nor shamecan mend matters. To-morrow
or the day afterI believethe men of my townthat isof the
braying townare going to take the field against another village
two leagues away from oursone of those that persecute us most; and
that we may turn out well prepared I have bought these lances and
halberds you have seen. These are the curious things I told you I
had to telland if you don't think them soI have got no others;"
and with this the worthy fellow brought his story to a close.

Just at this moment there came in at the gate of the inn a man
entirely clad in chamois leatherhosebreechesand doubletwho
said in a loud voiceSenor host, have you room? Here's the
divining ape and the show of the Release of Melisendra just coming.


Ods body!said the landlordwhy, it's Master Pedro! We're in for
a grand night!I forgot to mention that the said Master Pedro had his
left eye and nearly half his cheek covered with a patch of green
taffetyshowing that something ailed all that side. "Your worship
is welcomeMaster Pedro continued the landlord; but where are
the ape and the showfor I don't see them?" "They are close at hand
said he in the chamois leather, but I came on first to know if
there was any room." "I'd make the Duke of Alva himself clear out to
make room for Master Pedro said the landlord; bring in the ape
and the show; there's company in the inn to-night that will pay to see
that and the cleverness of the ape." "So be it by all means said the
man with the patch; I'll lower the priceand he well satisfied if
I only pay my expenses; and now I'll go back and hurry on the cart
with the ape and the show;" and with this he went out of the inn.

Don Quixote at once asked the landlord what this Master Pedro was
and what was the show and what was the ape he had with him; which
the landlord repliedThis is a famous puppet-showman, who for some
time past has been going about this Mancha de Aragon, exhibiting a
show of the release of Melisendra by the famous Don Gaiferos, one of
the best and best-represented stories that have been seen in this part
of the kingdom for many a year; he has also with him an ape with the
most extraordinary gift ever seen in an ape or imagined in a human
being; for if you ask him anything, he listens attentively to the
question, and then jumps on his master's shoulder, and pressing
close to his ear tells him the answer which Master Pedro then
delivers. He says a great deal more about things past than about
things to come; and though he does not always hit the truth in every
case, most times he is not far wrong, so that he makes us fancy he has
got the devil in him. He gets two reals for every question if the
ape answers; I mean if his master answers for him after he has
whispered into his ear; and so it is believed that this same Master
Pedro is very rich. He is a 'gallant man' as they say in Italy, and
good company, and leads the finest life in the world; talks more
than six, drinks more than a dozen, and all by his tongue, and his
ape, and his show.

Master Pedro now came backand in a cart followed the show and
the ape- a big onewithout a tail and with buttocks as bare as
feltbut not vicious-looking. As soon as Don Quixote saw himhe
asked himCan you tell me, sir fortune-teller, what fish do we
catch, and how will it be with us? See, here are my two reals,and he
bade Sancho give them to Master Pedro; but he answered for the ape and
saidSenor, this animal does not give any answer or information
touching things that are to come; of things past he knows something,
and more or less of things present.

Gad,said SanchoI would not give a farthing to be told what's
past with me, for who knows that better than I do myself? And to pay
for being told what I know would be mighty foolish. But as you know
things present, here are my two reals, and tell me, most excellent sir
ape, what is my wife Teresa Panza doing now, and what is she diverting
herself with?

Master Pedro refused to take the moneysayingI will not
receive payment in advance or until the service has been first
rendered;and then with his right hand he gave a couple of slaps on
his left shoulderand with one spring the ape perched himself upon
itand putting his mouth to his master's ear began chattering his
teeth rapidly; and having kept this up as long as one would be
saying a credowith another spring he brought himself to the
groundand the same instant Master Pedro ran in great haste and
fell upon his knees before Don Quixoteand embracing his legs


exclaimedThese legs do I embrace as I would embrace the two pillars
of Hercules, O illustrious reviver of knight-errantry, so long
consigned to oblivion! O never yet duly extolled knight, Don Quixote
of La Mancha, courage of the faint-hearted, prop of the tottering, arm
of the fallen, staff and counsel of all who are unfortunate!

Don Quixote was thunderstruckSancho astoundedthe cousin
staggeredthe page astonishedthe man from the braying town agape
the landlord in perplexityandin shorteveryone amazed at the
words of the puppet-showmanwho went on to sayAnd thou, worthy
Sancho Panza, the best squire and squire to the best knight in the
world! Be of good cheer, for thy good wife Teresa is well, and she
is at this moment hackling a pound of flax; and more by token she
has at her left hand a jug with a broken spout that holds a good
drop of wine, with which she solaces herself at her work.

That I can well believe,said Sancho. "She is a lucky oneand
if it was not for her jealousy I would not change her for the giantess
Andandonawho by my master's account was a very clever and worthy
woman; my Teresa is one of those that won't let themselves want for
anythingthough their heirs may have to pay for it."

Now I declare,said Don Quixotehe who reads much and travels
much sees and knows a great deal. I say so because what amount of
persuasion could have persuaded me that there are apes in the world
that can divine as I have seen now with my own eyes? For I am that
very Don Quixote of La Mancha this worthy animal refers to, though
he has gone rather too far in my praise; but whatever I may be, I
thank heaven that it has endowed me with a tender and compassionate
heart, always disposed to do good to all and harm to none.

If I had money,said the pageI would ask senor ape what will
happen me in the peregrination I am making.

To this Master Pedrowho had by this time risen from Don
Quixote's feetrepliedI have already said that this little beast
gives no answer as to the future; but if he did, not having money
would be of no consequence, for to oblige Senor Don Quixote, here
present, I would give up all the profits in the world. And now,
because I have promised it, and to afford him pleasure, I will set
up my show and offer entertainment to all who are in the inn,
without any charge whatever.As soon as he heard thisthe
landlorddelighted beyond measurepointed out a place where the show
might be fixedwhich was done at once.

Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of
the apeas he did not think it proper that an ape should divine
anythingeither past or future; so while Master Pedro was arranging
the showhe retired with Sancho into a corner of the stablewhere
without being overheard by anyonehe said to himLook here, Sancho,
I have been seriously thinking over this ape's extraordinary gift, and
have come to the conclusion that beyond doubt this Master Pedro, his
master, has a pact, tacit or express, with the devil.

If the packet is express from the devil,said Sanchoit must
be a very dirty packet no doubt; but what good can it do Master
Pedro to have such packets?

Thou dost not understand me, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "I only
mean he must have made some compact with the devil to infuse this
power into the apethat he may get his livingand after he has grown
rich he will give him his soulwhich is what the enemy of mankind
wants; this I am led to believe by observing that the ape only answers
about things past or presentand the devil's knowledge extends no


further; for the future he knows only by guessworkand that not
always; for it is reserved for God alone to know the times and the
seasonsand for him there is neither past nor future; all is present.
This being as it isit is clear that this ape speaks by the spirit of
the devil; and I am astonished they have not denounced him to the Holy
Officeand put him to the questionand forced it out of him by whose
virtue it is that he divines; because it is certain this ape is not an
astrologer; neither his master nor he sets upor knows how to set up
those figures they call judiciarywhich are now so common in Spain
that there is not a jadeor pageor old cobblerthat will not
undertake to set up a figure as readily as pick up a knave of cards
from the groundbringing to nought the marvellous truth of the
science by their lies and ignorance. I know of a lady who asked one of
these figure schemers whether her little lap-dog would be in pup and
would breedand how many and of what colour the little pups would be.
To which senor astrologerafter having set up his figuremade answer
that the bitch would be in pupand would drop three pupsone
greenanother bright redand the third parti-colouredprovided
she conceived between eleven and twelve either of the day or night
and on a Monday or Saturday; but as things turned outtwo days
after this the bitch died of a surfeitand senor planet-ruler had the
credit all over the place of being a most profound astrologeras most
of these planet-rulers have."

Still,said SanchoI would be glad if your worship would make
Master Pedro ask his ape whether what happened your worship in the
cave of Montesinos is true; for, begging your worship's pardon, I, for
my part, take it to have been all flam and lies, or at any rate
something you dreamt.

That may be,replied Don Quixote; "howeverI will do what you
suggest; though I have my own scruples about it."

At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixoteto
tell him the show was now ready and to come and see itfor it was
worth seeing. Don Quixote explained his wishand begged him to ask
his ape at once to tell him whether certain things which had
happened to him in the cave of Montesinos were dreams or realities
for to him they appeared to partake of both. Upon this Master Pedro
without answeringwent back to fetch the apeandhaving placed it
in front of Don Quixote and Sanchosaid: "See heresenor apethis
gentleman wishes to know whether certain things which happened to
him in the cave called the cave of Montesinos were false or true."
On his making the usual sign the ape mounted on his left shoulder
and seemed to whisper in his earand Master Pedro said at once
The ape says that the things you saw or that happened to you in
that cave are, part of them false, part true; and that he only knows
this and no more as regards this question; but if your worship
wishes to know more, on Friday next he will answer all that may be
asked him, for his virtue is at present exhausted, and will not return
to him till Friday, as he has said.

Did I not say, senor,said Sanchothat I could not bring
myself to believe that all your worship said about the adventures in
the cave was true, or even the half of it?

The course of events will tell, Sancho,replied Don Quixote;
time, that discloses all things, leaves nothing that it does not drag
into the light of day, though it be buried in the bosom of the
earth. But enough of that for the present; let us go and see Master
Pedro's show, for I am sure there must be something novel in it.

Something!said Master Pedro; "this show of mine has sixty
thousand novel things in it; let me tell youSenor Don Quixoteit is


one of the best-worth-seeing things in the world this day; but
operibus credite et non verbisand now let's get to workfor it is
growing lateand we have a great deal to do and to say and show."

Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed him and went to where the show was
already put up and uncoveredset all around with lighted wax tapers
which made it look splendid and bright. When they came to it Master
Pedro ensconced himself inside itfor it was he who had to work the
puppetsand a boya servant of hisposted himself outside to act as
showman and explain the mysteries of the exhibitionhaving a wand
in his hand to point to the figures as they came out. And soall
who were in the inn being arranged in front of the showsome of
them standingand Don QuixoteSanchothe pageand cousin
accommodated with the best placesthe interpreter began to say what
he will hear or see who reads or hears the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXVI

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN
TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD

All were silentTyrians and Trojans; I mean all who were watching
the show were hanging on the lips of the interpreter of its wonders
when drums and trumpets were heard to sound inside it and cannon to go
off. The noise was soon overand then the boy lifted up his voice and
saidThis true story which is here represented to your worships is
taken word for word from the French chronicles and from the Spanish
ballads that are in everybody's mouth, and in the mouth of the boys
about the streets. Its subject is the release by Senor Don Gaiferos of
his wife Melisendra, when a captive in Spain at the hands of the Moors
in the city of Sansuena, for so they called then what is now called
Saragossa; and there you may see how Don Gaiferos is playing at the
tables, just as they sing it-

At tables playing Don Gaiferos sits,
For Melisendra is forgotten now.

And that personage who appears there with a crown on his head and a
sceptre in his hand is the Emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of
Melisendra, who, angered to see his son-in-law's inaction and
unconcern, comes in to chide him; and observe with what vehemence
and energy he chides him, so that you would fancy he was going to give
him half a dozen raps with his sceptre; and indeed there are authors
who say he did give them, and sound ones too; and after having said
a great deal to him about imperilling his honour by not effecting
the release of his wife, he said, so the tale runs,

Enough I've said, see to it now.

Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don Gaiferos
fuming; and you see now how in a burst of anger, he flings the table
and the board far from him and calls in haste for his armour, and asks
his cousin Don Roland for the loan of his sword, Durindana, and how
Don Roland refuses to lend it, offering him his company in the
difficult enterprise he is undertaking; but he, in his valour and
anger, will not accept it, and says that he alone will suffice to
rescue his wife, even though she were imprisoned deep in the centre of
the earth, and with this he retires to arm himself and set out on
his journey at once. Now let your worships turn your eyes to that
tower that appears there, which is supposed to be one of the towers of
the alcazar of Saragossa, now called the Aljaferia; that lady who


appears on that balcony dressed in Moorish fashion is the peerless
Melisendra, for many a time she used to gaze from thence upon the road
to France, and seek consolation in her captivity by thinking of
Paris and her husband. Observe, too, a new incident which now
occurs, such as, perhaps, never was seen. Do you not see that Moor,
who silently and stealthily, with his finger on his lip, approaches
Melisendra from behind? Observe now how he prints a kiss upon her
lips, and what a hurry she is in to spit, and wipe them with the white
sleeve of her smock, and how she bewails herself, and tears her fair
hair as though it were to blame for the wrong. Observe, too, that
the stately Moor who is in that corridor is King Marsilio of Sansuena,
who, having seen the Moor's insolence, at once orders him (though
his kinsman and a great favourite of his) to be seized and given two
hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of the city
according to custom, with criers going before him and officers of
justice behind; and here you see them come out to execute the
sentence, although the offence has been scarcely committed; for
among the Moors there are no indictments nor remands as with us.

Here Don Quixote called outChild, child, go straight on with your
story, and don't run into curves and slants, for to establish a fact
clearly there is need of a great deal of proof and confirmation;
and said Master Pedro from withinBoy, stick to your text and do
as the gentleman bids you; it's the best plan; keep to your plain
song, and don't attempt harmonies, for they are apt to break down from
being over fine.

I will,said the boyand he went on to sayThis figure that you
see here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is Don Gaiferos
himself, whom his wife, now avenged of the insult of the amorous Moor,
and taking her stand on the balcony of the tower with a calmer and
more tranquil countenance, has perceived without recognising him;
and she addresses her husband, supposing him to be some traveller, and
holds with him all that conversation and colloquy in the ballad that runs-

If you, sir knight, to France are bound,
Oh! for Gaiferos ask


which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust; suffice
it to observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and that by her
joyful gestures Melisendra shows us she has recognised him; and what
is more, we now see she lowers herself from the balcony to place
herself on the haunches of her good husband's horse. But ah! unhappy
lady, the edge of her petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the
balcony and she is left hanging in the air, unable to reach the
ground. But you see how compassionate heaven sends aid in our sorest
need; Don Gaiferos advances, and without minding whether the rich
petticoat is torn or not, he seizes her and by force brings her to the
ground, and then with one jerk places her on the haunches of his
horse, astraddle like a man, and bids her hold on tight and clasp
her arms round his neck, crossing them on his breast so as not to
fall, for the lady Melisendra was not used to that style of riding.
You see, too, how the neighing of the horse shows his satisfaction
with the gallant and beautiful burden he bears in his lord and lady.
You see how they wheel round and quit the city, and in joy and
gladness take the road to Paris. Go in peace, O peerless pair of
true lovers! May you reach your longed-for fatherland in safety, and
may fortune interpose no impediment to your prosperous journey; may
the eyes of your friends and kinsmen behold you enjoying in peace
and tranquillity the remaining days of your life- and that they may be
as many as those of Nestor!

Here Master Pedro called out again and saidSimplicity, boy!
None of your high flights; all affectation is bad.


The interpreter made no answerbut went on to sayThere was no
want of idle eyes, that see everything, to see Melisendra come down
and mount, and word was brought to King Marsilio, who at once gave
orders to sound the alarm; and see what a stir there is, and how the
city is drowned with the sound of the bells pealing in the towers of
all the mosques.

Nay, nay,said Don Quixote at this; "on that point of the bells
Master Pedro is very inaccuratefor bells are not in use among the
Moors; only kettledrumsand a kind of small trumpet somewhat like our
clarion; to ring bells this way in Sansuena is unquestionably a
great absurdity."

On hearing thisMaster Pedro stopped ringingand saidDon't look
into trifles, Senor Don Quixote, or want to have things up to a
pitch of perfection that is out of reach. Are there not almost every
day a thousand comedies represented all round us full of thousands
of inaccuracies and absurdities, and, for all that, they have a
successful run, and are listened to not only with applause, but with
admiration and all the rest of it? Go on, boy, and don't mind; for
so long as I fill my pouch, no matter if I show as many inaccuracies
as there are motes in a sunbeam.

True enough,said Don Quixote; and the boy went on: "See what a
numerous and glittering crowd of horsemen issues from the city in
pursuit of the two faithful loverswhat a blowing of trumpets there
iswhat sounding of hornswhat beating of drums and tabors; I fear
me they will overtake them and bring them back tied to the tail of
their own horsewhich would be a dreadful sight."

Don Quixotehoweverseeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing
such a dinthought it would be right to aid the fugitivesand
standing up he exclaimed in a loud voiceNever, while I live, will I
permit foul play to be practised in my presence on such a famous
knight and fearless lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble,
follow him not nor pursue him, or ye will have to reckon with me in
battle!and suiting the action to the wordhe drew his swordand
with one bound placed himself close to the showand with unexampled
rapidity and fury began to shower down blows on the puppet troop of
Moorsknocking over somedecapitating othersmaiming this one and
demolishing that; and among many more he delivered one down stroke
whichif Master Pedro had not duckedmade himself smalland got out
of the waywould have sliced off his head as easily as if it had been
made of almond-paste. Master Pedro kept shoutingHold hard! Senor
Don Quixote! can't you see they're not real Moors you're knocking down
and killing and destroying, but only little pasteboard figures!
Look- sinner that I am!- how you're wrecking and ruining all that
I'm worth!But in spite of thisDon Quixote did not leave off
discharging a continuous rain of cutsslashesdownstrokesand
backstrokesand at lengthin less than the space of two credoshe
brought the whole show to the groundwith all its fittings and
figures shivered and knocked to piecesKing Marsilio badly wounded
and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown and head split in two.
The whole audience was thrown into confusionthe ape fled to the roof
of the innthe cousin was frightenedand even Sancho Panza himself
was in mighty fearforas he swore after the storm was overhe
had never seen his master in such a furious passion.

The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplishedDon
Quixote became a little calmersaidI wish I had here before me now
all those who do not or will not believe how useful knights-errant are
in the world; just think, if I had not been here present, what would
have become of the brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra!


Depend upon it, by this time those dogs would have overtaken them
and inflicted some outrage upon them. So, then, long live
knight-errantry beyond everything living on earth this day!

Let it live, and welcome,said Master Pedro at this in a feeble
voiceand let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I can say with
King Don Rodrigo-

Yesterday was I lord of Spain
To-day I've not a turret left
That I may call mine own.

Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord of kings
and emperors, with my stables filled with countless horses, and my
trunks and bags with gay dresses unnumbered; and now I find myself
ruined and laid low, destitute and a beggar, and above all without
my ape, for, by my faith, my teeth will have to sweat for it before
I have him caught; and all through the reckless fury of sir knight
here, who, they say, protects the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and
does other charitable deeds; but whose generous intentions have been
found wanting in my case only, blessed and praised be the highest
heavens! Verily, knight of the rueful figure he must be to have
disfigured mine.

Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro's wordsand said to him
Don't weep and lament, Master Pedro; you break my heart; let me
tell you my master, Don Quixote, is so catholic and scrupulous a
Christian that, if he can make out that he has done you any wrong,
he will own it, and be willing to pay for it and make it good, and
something over and above.

Only let Senor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the work he
has destroyed,said Master Pedroand I would be content, and his
worship would ease his conscience, for he cannot be saved who keeps
what is another's against the owner's will, and makes no restitution.

That is true,said Don Quixote; "but at present I am not aware
that I have got anything of yoursMaster Pedro."

What!returned Master Pedro; "and these relics lying here on the
bare hard ground- what scattered and shattered them but the invincible
strength of that mighty arm? And whose were the bodies they belonged
to but mine? And what did I get my living by but by them?"

Now am I fully convinced,said Don Quixoteof what I had many
a time before believed; that the enchanters who persecute me do
nothing more than put figures like these before my eyes, and then
change and turn them into what they please. In truth and earnest, I
assure you gentlemen who now hear me, that to me everything that has
taken place here seemed to take place literally, that Melisendra was
Melisendra, Don Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and
Charlemagne Charlemagne. That was why my anger was roused; and to be
faithful to my calling as a knight-errant I sought to give aid and
protection to those who fled, and with this good intention I did
what you have seen. If the result has been the opposite of what I
intended, it is no fault of mine, but of those wicked beings that
persecute me; but, for all that, I am willing to condemn myself in
costs for this error of mine, though it did not proceed from malice;
let Master Pedro see what he wants for the spoiled figures, for I
agree to pay it at once in good and current money of Castile.

Master Pedro made him a bowsayingI expected no less of the rare
Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true helper
and protector of all destitute and needy vagabonds; master landlord


here and the great Sancho Panza shall be the arbitrators and
appraisers between your worship and me of what these dilapidated
figures are worth or may be worth.

The landlord and Sancho consentedand then Master Pedro picked up
from the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head offand
saidHere you see how impossible it is to restore this king to his
former state, so I think, saving your better judgments, that for his
death, decease, and demise, four reals and a half may be given me.

Proceed,said Don Quixote.

Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom,continued
Master Pedrotaking up the split Emperor Charlemagneit would not
be much if I were to ask five reals and a quarter.

It's not little,said Sancho.

Nor is it much,said the landlord; "make it evenand say five
reals."

Let him have the whole five and a quarter,said Don Quixote;
for the sum total of this notable disaster does not stand on a
quarter more or less; and make an end of it quickly, Master Pedro, for
it's getting on to supper-time, and I have some hints of hunger.

For this figure,said Master Pedrothat is without a nose, and
wants an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and I am reasonable
in my charge, two reals and twelve maravedis.

The very devil must be in it,said Don Quixoteif Melisendra and
her husband are not by this time at least on the French border, for
the horse they rode on seemed to me to fly rather than gallop; so
you needn't try to sell me the cat for the hare, showing me here a
noseless Melisendra when she is now, may be, enjoying herself at her
ease with her husband in France. God help every one to his own, Master
Pedro, and let us all proceed fairly and honestly; and now go on.

Master Pedroperceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander
and return to his original fancywas not disposed to let him
escapeso he said to himThis cannot be Melisendra, but must be one
of the damsels that waited on her; so if I'm given sixty maravedis for
her, I'll be content and sufficiently paid.

And so he went onputting values on ever so many more smashed
figureswhichafter the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the
satisfaction of both partiescame to forty reals and
three-quarters; and over and above this sumwhich Sancho at once
disbursedMaster Pedro asked for two reals for his trouble in
catching the ape.

Let him have them, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "not to catch the
apebut to get drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute for
the good newsto anyone who could tell me positivelythat the lady
Dona Melisandra and Senor Don Gaiferos were now in France and with
their own people."

No one could tell us that better than my ape,said Master Pedro;
but there's no devil that could catch him now; I suspect, however,
that affection and hunger will drive him to come looking for me
to-night; but to-morrow will soon be here and we shall see.

In shortthe puppet-show storm passed offand all supped in
peace and good fellowship at Don Quixote's expensefor he was the


height of generosity. Before it was daylight the man with the lances
and halberds took his departureand soon after daybreak the cousin
and the page came to bid Don Quixote farewellthe former returning
homethe latter resuming his journeytowards whichto help himDon
Quixote gave him twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage
in any more palaver with Don Quixotewhom he knew right well; so he
rose before the sunand having got together the remains of his show
and caught his apehe too went off to seek his adventures. The
landlordwho did not know Don Quixotewas as much astonished at
his mad freaks as at his generosity. To concludeSanchoby his
master's orderspaid him very liberallyand taking leave of him they
quitted the inn at about eight in the morning and took to the road
where we will leave them to pursue their journeyfor this is
necessary in order to allow certain other matters to be set forth
which are required to clear up this famous history.

CHAPTER XXVII

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERETOGETHER WITH
THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTUREWHICH HE DID
NOT CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED

Cide Hametethe chronicler of this great historybegins this
chapter with these wordsI swear as a Catholic Christian;with
regard to which his translator says that Cide Hamete's swearing as a
Catholic Christianhe being- as no doubt he was- a Mooronly meant
thatjust as a Catholic Christian taking an oath swearsor ought
to swearwhat is trueand tell the truth in what he aversso he was
telling the truthas much as if he swore as a Catholic Christian
in all he chose to write about Quixoteespecially in declaring who
Master Pedro was and what was the divining ape that astonished all the
villages with his divinations. He saysthenthat he who has read the
First Part of this history will remember well enough the Gines de
Pasamonte whomwith other galley slavesDon Quixote set free in
the Sierra Morena: a kindness for which he afterwards got poor
thanks and worse payment from that evil-mindedill-conditioned set.
This Gines de Pasamonte- Don Ginesillo de ParapillaDon Quixote
called him- it was that stole Dapple from Sancho Panza; whichbecause
by the fault of the printers neither the how nor the when was stated
in the First Parthas been a puzzle to a good many peoplewho
attribute to the bad memory of the author what was the error of the
press. In facthoweverGines stole him while Sancho Panza was asleep
on his backadopting the plan and device that Brunello had recourse
to when he stole Sacripante's horse from between his legs at the siege
of Albracca; andas has been toldSancho afterwards recovered him.
This Ginesthenafraid of being caught by the officers of justice
who were looking for him to punish him for his numberless
rascalities and offences (which were so many and so great that he
himself wrote a big book giving an account of them)resolved to shift
his quarters into the kingdom of Aragonand cover up his left eye
and take up the trade of a puppet-showman; for thisas well as
jugglinghe knew how to practise to perfection. From some released
Christians returning from Barbaryit so happenedhe bought the
apewhich he taught to mount upon his shoulder on his making a
certain signand to whisperor seem to do soin his ear. Thus
preparedbefore entering any village whither he was bound with his
show and his apehe used to inform himself at the nearest villageor
from the most likely person he could findas to what particular
things had happened thereand to whom; and bearing them well in mind
the first thing be did was to exhibit his showsometimes one story
sometimes anotherbut all livelyamusingand familiar. As soon as


the exhibition was over he brought forward the accomplishments of
his apeassuring the public that he divined all the past and the
presentbut as to the future he had no skill. For each question
answered he asked two realsand for some he made a reductionjust as
he happened to feel the pulse of the questioners; and when now and
then he came to houses where things that he knew of had happened to
the people living thereeven if they did not ask him a question
not caring to pay for ithe would make the sign to the ape and then
declare that it had said so and sowhich fitted the case exactly.
In this way he acquired a prodigious name and all ran after him; on
other occasionsbeing very craftyhe would answer in such a way that
the answers suited the questions; and as no one cross-questioned him
or pressed him to tell how his ape divinedhe made fools of them
all and filled his pouch. The instant he entered the inn he knew Don
Quixote and Sanchoand with that knowledge it was easy for him to
astonish them and all who were there; but it would have cost him
dear had Don Quixote brought down his hand a little lower when he
cut off King Marsilio's head and destroyed all his horsemenas
related in the preceeding chapter.

So much for Master Pedro and his ape; and now to return to Don
Quixote of La Mancha. After he had left the inn he determined to
visitfirst of allthe banks of the Ebro and that neighbourhood
before entering the city of Saragossafor the ample time there was
still to spare before the jousts left him enough for all. With this
object in view he followed the road and travelled along it for two
dayswithout meeting any adventure worth committing to writing
until on the third dayas he was ascending a hillhe heard a great
noise of drumstrumpetsand musket-shots. At first he imagined
some regiment of soldiers was passing that wayand to see them he
spurred Rocinante and mounted the hill. On reaching the top he saw
at the foot of it over two hundred menas it seemed to himarmed
with weapons of various sortslancescrossbowspartisanshalberds
and pikesand a few muskets and a great many bucklers. He descended
the slope and approached the band near enough to see distinctly the
flagsmake out the colours and distinguish the devices they bore
especially one on a standard or ensign of white satinon which
there was painted in a very life-like style an ass like a little sard
with its head upits mouth open and its tongue outas if it were
in the act and attitude of braying; and round it were inscribed in
large characters these two lines-

They did not bray in vain
Our alcaldes twain.

From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must be
from the braying townand he said so to Sanchoexplaining to him
what was written on the standard. At the same time be observed that
the man who had told them about the matter was wrong in saying that
the two who brayed were regidorsfor according to the lines of the
standard they were alcaldes. To which Sancho repliedSenor,
there's nothing to stick at in that, for maybe the regidors who brayed
then came to he alcaldes of their town afterwards, and so they may
go by both titles; moreover, it has nothing to do with the truth of
the story whether the brayers were alcaldes or regidors, provided at
any rate they did bray; for an alcalde is just as likely to bray as
a regidor.They perceivedin shortclearly that the town which
had been twitted had turned out to do battle with some other that
had jeered it more than was fair or neighbourly.

Don Quixote proceeded to join themnot a little to Sancho's
uneasinessfor he never relished mixing himself up in expeditions
of that sort. The members of the troop received him into the midst
of themtaking him to he some one who was on their side. Don Quixote


putting up his visoradvanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to
the standard with the assand all the chief men of the army
gathered round him to look at himstaring at him with the usual
amazement that everybody felt on seeing him for the first time. Don
Quixoteseeing them examining him so attentivelyand that none of
them spoke to him or put any question to himdetermined to take
advantage of their silence; sobreaking his ownhe lifted up his
voice and saidWorthy sirs, I entreat you as earnestly as I can
not to interrupt an argument I wish to address to you, until you
find it displeases or wearies you; and if that come to pass, on the
slightest hint you give me I will put a seal upon my lips and a gag
upon my tongue.

They all bade him say what he likedfor they would listen to him
willingly.

With this permission Don Quixote went on to sayI, sirs, am a
knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose profession is
to protect those who require protection, and give help to such as
stand in need of it. Some days ago I became acquainted with your
misfortune and the cause which impels you to take up arms again and
again to revenge yourselves upon your enemies; and having many times
thought over your business in my mind, I find that, according to the
laws of combat, you are mistaken in holding yourselves insulted; for a
private individual cannot insult an entire community; unless it be
by defying it collectively as a traitor, because he cannot tell who in
particular is guilty of the treason for which he defies it. Of this we
have an example in Don Diego Ordonez de Lara, who defied the whole
town of Zamora, because he did not know that Vellido Dolfos alone
had committed the treachery of slaying his king; and therefore he
defied them all, and the vengeance and the reply concerned all;
though, to be sure, Senor Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very
much beyond the limits of a defiance; for he had no occasion to defy
the dead, or the waters, or the fishes, or those yet unborn, and all
the rest of it as set forth; but let that pass, for when anger
breaks out there's no father, governor, or bridle to check the tongue.
The case being, then, that no one person can insult a kingdom,
province, city, state, or entire community, it is clear there is no
reason for going out to avenge the defiance of such an insult,
inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it would be if the people of
the clock town were to be at loggerheads every moment with everyone
who called them by that name, -or the Cazoleros, Berengeneros,
Ballenatos, Jaboneros, or the bearers of all the other names and
titles that are always in the mouth of the boys and common people!
It would be a nice business indeed if all these illustrious cities
were to take huff and revenge themselves and go about perpetually
making trombones of their swords in every petty quarrel! No, no; God
forbid! There are four things for which sensible men and
well-ordered States ought to take up arms, draw their swords, and risk
their persons, lives, and properties. The first is to defend the
Catholic faith; the second, to defend one's life, which is in
accordance with natural and divine law; the third, in defence of one's
honour, family, and property; the fourth, in the service of one's king
in a just war; and if to these we choose to add a fifth (which may
be included in the second), in defence of one's country. To these
five, as it were capital causes, there may be added some others that
may be just and reasonable, and make it a duty to take up arms; but to
take them up for trifles and things to laugh at and he amused by
rather than offended, looks as though he who did so was altogether
wanting in common sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge (and
there cannot be any just one) is directly opposed to the sacred law
that we acknowledge, wherein we are commanded to do good to our
enemies and to love them that hate us; a command which, though it
seems somewhat difficult to obey, is only so to those who have in them


less of God than of the world, and more of the flesh than of the
spirit; for Jesus Christ, God and true man, who never lied, and
could not and cannot lie, said, as our law-giver, that his yoke was
easy and his burden light; he would not, therefore, have laid any
command upon us that it was impossible to obey. Thus, sirs, you are
bound to keep quiet by human and divine law.

The devil take me,said Sancho to himself at thisbut this
master of mine is a tologian; or, if not, faith, he's as like one as
one egg is like another.

Don Quixote stopped to take breathandobserving that silence
was still preservedhad a mind to continue his discourseand would
have done so had not Sancho interposed with his smartness; for he
seeing his master pausetook the leadsayingMy lord Don Quixote
of La Mancha, who once was called the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance, but now is called the Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman
of great discretion who knows Latin and his mother tongue like a
bachelor, and in everything that he deals with or advises proceeds
like a good soldier, and has all the laws and ordinances of what
they call combat at his fingers' ends; so you have nothing to do but
to let yourselves be guided by what he says, and on my head be it if
it is wrong. Besides which, you have been told that it is folly to
take offence at merely hearing a bray. I remember when I was a boy I
brayed as often as I had a fancy, without anyone hindering me, and
so elegantly and naturally that when I brayed all the asses in the
town would bray; but I was none the less for that the son of my
parents who were greatly respected; and though I was envied because of
the gift by more than one of the high and mighty ones of the town, I
did not care two farthings for it; and that you may see I am telling
the truth, wait a bit and listen, for this art, like swimming, once
learnt is never forgotten;and thentaking hold of his nosehe
began to bray so vigorously that all the valleys around rang again.

One of thosehoweverthat stood near himfancying he was
mocking themlifted up a long staff he had in his hand and smote
him such a blow with it that Sancho dropped helpless to the ground.
Don Quixoteseeing him so roughly handledattacked the man who had
struck him lance in handbut so many thrust themselves between them
that he could not avenge him. Far from itfinding a shower of
stones rained upon himand crossbows and muskets unnumbered
levelled at himhe wheeled Rocinante round andas fast as his best
gallop could take himfled from the midst of themcommending himself
to God with all his heart to deliver him out of this perilin dread
every step of some ball coming in at his back and coming out at his
breastand every minute drawing his breath to see whether it had gone
from him. The members of the bandhoweverwere satisfied with seeing
him take to flightand did not fire on him. They put up Sancho
scarcely restored to his senseson his assand let him go after
his master; not that he was sufficiently in his wits to guide the
beastbut Dapple followed the footsteps of Rocinantefrom whom he
could not remain a moment separated. Don Quixote having got some way
off looked backand seeing Sancho comingwaited for himas he
perceived that no one followed him. The men of the troop stood their
ground till nightand as the enemy did not come out to battlethey
returned to their town exulting; and had they been aware of the
ancient custom of the Greeksthey would have erected a trophy on
the spot.

CHAPTER XXVIII


OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOWIF HE
READS THEM WITH ATTENTION

When the brave man fleestreachery is manifest and it is for wise
men to reserve themselves for better occasions. This proved to be
the case with Don Quixotewhogiving way before the fury of the
townsfolk and the hostile intentions of the angry trooptook to
flight andwithout a thought of Sancho or the danger in which he
was leaving himretreated to such a distance as he thought made him
safe. Sancholying across his assfollowed himas has been said
and at length came uphaving by this time recovered his sensesand
on joining him let himself drop off Dapple at Rocinante's feet
sorebruisedand belaboured. Don Quixote dismounted to examine his
woundsbut finding him whole from head to foothe said to him
angrily enoughIn an evil hour didst thou take to braying, Sancho!
Where hast thou learned that it is well done to mention the rope in
the house of the man that has been hanged? To the music of brays
what harmonies couldst thou expect to get but cudgels? Give thanks
to God, Sancho, that they signed the cross on thee just now with a
stick, and did not mark thee per signum crucis with a cutlass.

I'm not equal to answering,said Sanchofor I feel as if I was
speaking through my shoulders; let us mount and get away from this;
I'll keep from braying, but not from saying that knights-errant fly
and leave their good squires to be pounded like privet, or made meal
of at the hands of their enemies.

He does not fly who retires,returned Don Quixote; "for I would
have thee knowSanchothat the valour which is not based upon a
foundation of prudence is called rashnessand the exploits of the
rash man are to be attributed rather to good fortune than to
courage; and so I own that I retiredbut not that I fled; and therein
I have followed the example of many valiant men who have reserved
themselves for better times; the histories are full of instances of
thisbut as it would not be any good to thee or pleasure to meI
will not recount them to thee now."

Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don Quixotewho
then himself mounted Rocinanteand at a leisurely pace they proceeded
to take shelter in a grove which was in sight about a quarter of a
league off. Every now and then Sancho gave vent to deep sighs and
dismal groansand on Don Quixote asking him what caused such acute
sufferinghe replied thatfrom the end of his back-bone up to the
nape of his neckhe was so sore that it nearly drove him out of his
senses.

The cause of that soreness,said Don Quixotewill be, no
doubt, that the staff wherewith they smote thee being a very long one,
it caught thee all down the back, where all the parts that are sore
are situated, and had it reached any further thou wouldst be sorer
still.

By God,said Sanchoyour worship has relieved me of a great
doubt, and cleared up the point for me in elegant style! Body o' me!
is the cause of my soreness such a mystery that there's any need to
tell me I am sore everywhere the staff hit me? If it was my ankles
that pained me there might be something in going divining why they
did, but it is not much to divine that I'm sore where they thrashed
me. By my faith, master mine, the ills of others hang by a hair; every
day I am discovering more and more how little I have to hope for
from keeping company with your worship; for if this time you have
allowed me to be drubbed, the next time, or a hundred times more,
we'll have the blanketings of the other day over again, and all the
other pranks which, if they have fallen on my shoulders now, will be


thrown in my teeth by-and-by. I would do a great deal better (if I was
not an ignorant brute that will never do any good all my life), I
would do a great deal better, I say, to go home to my wife and
children and support them and bring them up on what God may please
to give me, instead of following your worship along roads that lead
nowhere and paths that are none at all, with little to drink and
less to eat. And then when it comes to sleeping! Measure out seven
feet on the earth, brother squire, and if that's not enough for you,
take as many more, for you may have it all your own way and stretch
yourself to your heart's content. Oh that I could see burnt and turned
to ashes the first man that meddled with knight-errantry or at any
rate the first who chose to be squire to such fools as all the
knights-errant of past times must have been! Of those of the present
day I say nothing, because, as your worship is one of them, I
respect them, and because I know your worship knows a point more
than the devil in all you say and think.

I would lay a good wager with you, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat
now that you are talking on without anyone to stop you, you don't feel
a pain in your whole body. Talk away, my son, say whatever comes
into your head or mouth, for so long as you feel no pain, the
irritation your impertinences give me will he a pleasure to me; and if
you are so anxious to go home to your wife and children, God forbid
that I should prevent you; you have money of mine; see how long it
is since we left our village this third time, and how much you can and
ought to earn every month, and pay yourself out of your own hand.

When I worked for Tom Carrasco, the father of the bachelor Samson
Carrasco that your worship knows,replied SanchoI used to earn two
ducats a month besides my food; I can't tell what I can earn with your
worship, though I know a knight-errant's squire has harder times of it
than he who works for a farmer; for after all, we who work for
farmers, however much we toil all day, at the worst, at night, we have
our olla supper and sleep in a bed, which I have not slept in since
I have been in your worship's service, if it wasn't the short time
we were in Don Diego de Miranda's house, and the feast I had with
the skimmings I took off Camacho's pots, and what I ate, drank, and
slept in Basilio's house; all the rest of the time I have been
sleeping on the hard ground under the open sky, exposed to what they
call the inclemencies of heaven, keeping life in me with scraps of
cheese and crusts of bread, and drinking water either from the
brooks or from the springs we come to on these by-paths we travel.

I own, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat all thou sayest is true;
how much, thinkest thou, ought I to give thee over and above what
Tom Carrasco gave thee?

I think,said Sanchothat if your worship was to add on two
reals a month I'd consider myself well paid; that is, as far as the
wages of my labour go; but to make up to me for your worship's
pledge and promise to me to give me the government of an island, it
would be fair to add six reals more, making thirty in all.

Very good,said Don Quixote; "it is twenty-five days since we left
our villageso reckon upSanchoaccording to the wages you have
made out for yourselfand see how much I owe you in proportionand
pay yourselfas I said beforeout of your own hand."

O body o' me!said Sanchobut your worship is very much out in
that reckoning; for when it comes to the promise of the island we must
count from the day your worship promised it to me to this present hour
we are at now.

Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised it to you?said Don


Quixote.

If I remember rightly,said Sanchoit must be over twenty years,
three days more or less.

Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to
laugh heartilyand said heWhy, I have not been wandering, either
in the Sierra Morena or in the whole course of our sallies, but barely
two months, and thou sayest, Sancho, that it is twenty years since I
promised thee the island. I believe now thou wouldst have all the
money thou hast of mine go in thy wages. If so, and if that be thy
pleasure, I give it to thee now, once and for all, and much good may
it do thee, for so long as I see myself rid of such a good-for-nothing
squire I'll be glad to be left a pauper without a rap. But tell me,
thou perverter of the squirely rules of knight-errantry, where hast
thou ever seen or read that any knight-errant's squire made terms with
his lord, 'you must give me so much a month for serving you'?
Plunge, scoundrel, rogue, monster- for such I take thee to be- plunge,
I say, into the mare magnum of their histories; and if thou shalt find
that any squire ever said or thought what thou hast said now, I will
let thee nail it on my forehead, and give me, over and above, four
sound slaps in the face. Turn the rein, or the halter, of thy
Dapple, and begone home; for one single step further thou shalt not
make in my company. O bread thanklessly received! O promises
ill-bestowed! O man more beast than human being! Now, when I was about
to raise thee to such a position, that, in spite of thy wife, they
would call thee 'my lord,' thou art leaving me? Thou art going now
when I had a firm and fixed intention of making thee lord of the
best island in the world? Well, as thou thyself hast said before
now, honey is not for the mouth of the ass. Ass thou art, ass thou
wilt be, and ass thou wilt end when the course of thy life is run; for
I know it will come to its close before thou dost perceive or
discern that thou art a beast.

Sancho regarded Don Quixote earnestly while he was giving him this
ratingand was so touched by remorse that the tears came to his eyes
and in a piteous and broken voice he said to himMaster mine, I
confess that, to be a complete ass, all I want is a tail; if your
worship will only fix one on to me, I'll look on it as rightly placed,
and I'll serve you as an ass all the remaining days of my life.
Forgive me and have pity on my folly, and remember I know but
little, and, if I talk much, it's more from infirmity than malice; but
he who sins and mends commends himself to God.

I should have been surprised, Sancho,said Don Quixoteif thou
hadst not introduced some bit of a proverb into thy speech. Well,
well, I forgive thee, provided thou dost mend and not show thyself
in future so fond of thine own interest, but try to be of good cheer
and take heart, and encourage thyself to look forward to the
fulfillment of my promises, which, by being delayed, does not become
impossible.

Sancho said he would do soand keep up his heart as best he
could. They then entered the groveand Don Quixote settled himself at
the foot of an elmand Sancho at that of a beechfor trees of this
kind and others like them always have feet but no hands. Sancho passed
the night in painfor with the evening dews the blow of the staff
made itself felt all the more. Don Quixote passed it in his
never-failing meditations; butfor all thatthey had some winks of
sleepand with the appearance of daylight they pursued their
journey in quest of the banks of the famous Ebrowhere that befell
them which will be told in the following chapter.


CHAPTER XXIX

OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK

By stages as already described or left undescribedtwo days after
quitting the grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the river Ebro
and the sight of it was a great delight to Don Quixote as he
contemplated and gazed upon the charms of its banksthe clearness
of its streamthe gentleness of its current and the abundance of
its crystal waters; and the pleasant view revived a thousand tender
thoughts in his mind. Above allhe dwelt upon what he had seen in the
cave of Montesinos; for though Master Pedro's ape had told him that of
those things part was truepart falsehe clung more to their truth
than to their falsehoodthe very reverse of Sanchowho held them all
to be downright lies.

As they were thus proceedingthenthey discovered a small boat
without oars or any other gearthat lay at the water's edge tied to
the stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don Quixote looked all
roundand seeing nobodyat oncewithout more adodismounted from
Rocinante and bade Sancho get down from Dapple and tie both beasts
securely to the trunk of a poplar or willow that stood there. Sancho
asked him the reason of this sudden dismounting and tying. Don Quixote
made answerThou must know, Sancho, that this bark is plainly, and
without the possibility of any alternative, calling and inviting me to
enter it, and in it go to give aid to some knight or other person of
distinction in need of it, who is no doubt in some sore strait; for
this is the way of the books of chivalry and of the enchanters who
figure and speak in them. When a knight is involved in some difficulty
from which he cannot be delivered save by the hand of another
knight, though they may be at a distance of two or three thousand
leagues or more one from the other, they either take him up on a
cloud, or they provide a bark for him to get into, and in less than
the twinkling of an eye they carry him where they will and where his
help is required; and so, Sancho, this bark is placed here for the
same purpose; this is as true as that it is now day, and ere this
one passes tie Dapple and Rocinante together, and then in God's hand
be it to guide us; for I would not hold back from embarking, though
barefooted friars were to beg me.

As that's the case,said Sanchoand your worship chooses to give
in to these- I don't know if I may call them absurdities- at every
turn, there's nothing for it but to obey and bow the head, bearing
in mind the proverb, 'Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to
table with him;' but for all that, for the sake of easing my
conscience, I warn your worship that it is my opinion this bark is
no enchanted one, but belongs to some of the fishermen of the river,
for they catch the best shad in the world here.

As Sancho said thishe tied the beastsleaving them to the care
and protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart.
Don Quixote bade him not be uneasy about deserting the animalsfor
he who would carry themselves over such longinquous roads and
regions would take care to feed them.

I don't understand that logiquous,said Sanchonor have I ever
heard the word all the days of my life.

Longinquous,replied Don Quixotemeans far off; but it is no
wonder thou dost not understand it, for thou art not bound to know
Latin, like some who pretend to know it and don't.


Now they are tied,said Sancho; "what are we to do next?"

What?said Don Quixotecross ourselves and weigh anchor; I mean,
embark and cut the moorings by which the bark is held;and the bark
began to drift away slowly from the bank. But when Sancho saw
himself somewhere about two yards out in the riverhe began to
tremble and give himself up for lost; but nothing distressed him
more than hearing Dapple bray and seeing Rocinante struggling to get
looseand said he to his masterDapple is braying in grief at our
leaving him, and Rocinante is trying to escape and plunge in after us.
O dear friends, peace be with you, and may this madness that is taking
us away from you, turned into sober sense, bring us back to you.
And with this he fell weeping so bitterlythat Don Quixote said to
himsharply and angrilyWhat art thou afraid of, cowardly creature?
What art thou weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who pursues or
molests thee, thou soul of a tame mouse? What dost thou want,
unsatisfied in the very heart of abundance? Art thou, perchance,
tramping barefoot over the Riphaean mountains, instead of being seated
on a bench like an archduke on the tranquil stream of this pleasant
river, from which in a short space we shall come out upon the broad
sea? But we must have already emerged and gone seven hundred or
eight hundred leagues; and if I had here an astrolabe to take the
altitude of the pole, I could tell thee how many we have travelled,
though either I know little, or we have already crossed or shall
shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts the two opposite
poles midway.

And when we come to that line your worship speaks of,said Sancho
how far shall we have gone?

Very far,said Don Quixotefor of the three hundred and sixty
degrees that this terraqueous globe contains, as computed by
Ptolemy, the greatest cosmographer known, we shall have travelled
one-half when we come to the line I spoke of.

By God,said Sanchoyour worship gives me a nice authority for
what you say, putrid Dolly something transmogrified, or whatever it
is.

Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon
computed,and the name of the cosmographer Ptolemyand said he
Thou must know, Sancho, that with the Spaniards and those who
embark at Cadiz for the East Indies, one of the signs they have to
show them when they have passed the equinoctial line I told thee of,
is, that the lice die upon everybody on board the ship, and not a
single one is left, or to be found in the whole vessel if they gave
its weight in gold for it; so, Sancho, thou mayest as well pass thy
hand down thy thigh, and if thou comest upon anything alive we shall
be no longer in doubt; if not, then we have crossed.

I don't believe a bit of it,said Sancho; "stillI'll do as
your worship bids me; though I don't know what need there is for
trying these experimentsfor I can see with my own eyes that we
have not moved five yards away from the bankor shifted two yards
from where the animals standfor there are Rocinante and Dapple in
the very same place where we left them; and watching a pointas I
do nowI swear by all that's goodwe are not stirring or moving at
the pace of an ant."

Try the test I told thee of, Sancho,said Don Quixoteand
don't mind any other, for thou knowest nothing about colures, lines,
parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets,
signs, bearings, the measures of which the celestial and terrestrial
spheres are composed; if thou wert acquainted with all these things,


or any portion of them, thou wouldst see clearly how many parallels we
have cut, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we have
left behind and are now leaving behind. But again I tell thee, feel
and hunt, for I am certain thou art cleaner than a sheet of smooth
white paper.

Sancho feltand passing his hand gently and carefully down to the
hollow of his left kneehe looked up at his master and said
Either the test is a false one, or we have not come to where your
worship says, nor within many leagues of it.

Why, how so?asked Don Quixote; "hast thou come upon aught?"

Ay, and aughts,replied Sancho; and shaking his fingers he
washed his whole hand in the river along which the boat was quietly
gliding in midstreamnot moved by any occult intelligence or
invisible enchanterbut simply by the currentjust there smooth
and gentle.

They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the
middle of the riverand the instant Don Quixote saw them he cried
outSeest thou there, my friend? there stands the castle or
fortress, where there is, no doubt, some knight in durance, or
ill-used queen, or infanta, or princess, in whose aid I am brought
hither.

What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship talking
about, senor?said Sancho; "don't you see that those are mills that
stand in the river to grind corn?"

Hold thy peace, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "though they look like
mills they are not so; I have already told thee that enchantments
transform things and change their proper shapes; I do not mean to
say they really change them from one form into anotherbut that it
seems as though they didas experience proved in the transformation
of Dulcineasole refuge of my hopes."

By this timethe boathaving reached the middle of the stream
began to move less slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to
the millswhen they saw the boat coming down the riverand on the
point of being sucked in by the draught of the wheelsran out in
hasteseveral of themwith long poles to stop itand being all
mealywith faces and garments covered with flourthey presented a
sinister appearance. They raised loud shoutscryingDevils of
men, where are you going to? Are you mad? Do you want to drown
yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces among these wheels?

Did I not tell thee, Sancho,said Don Quixote at thisthat we
had reached the place where I am to show what the might of my arm
can do? See what ruffians and villains come out against me; see what
monsters oppose me; see what hideous countenances come to frighten us!
You shall soon see, scoundrels!And then standing up in the boat he
began in a loud voice to hurl threats at the millersexclaiming
Ill-conditioned and worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and
freedom the person ye hold in durance in this your fortress or prison,
high or low or of whatever rank or quality he be, for I am Don Quixote
of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by
the disposition of heaven above, it is reserved to give a happy
issue to this adventure;and so saying he drew his sword and began
making passes in the air at the millerswhohearing but not
understanding all this nonsensestrove to stop the boatwhich was
now getting into the rushing channel of the wheels. Sancho fell upon
his knees devoutly appealing to heaven to deliver him from such
imminent peril; which it did by the activity and quickness of the


millerswhopushing against the boat with their polesstopped it
nothoweverwithout upsetting and throwing Don Quixote and Sancho
into the water; and lucky it was for Don Quixote that he could swim
like a goosethough the weight of his armour carried him twice to the
bottom; and had it not been for the millerswho plunged in and
hoisted them both outit would have been Troy town with the pair of
them. As soon asmore drenched than thirstythey were landedSancho
went down on his knees and with clasped hands and eyes raised to
heavenprayed a long and fervent prayer to God to deliver him
evermore from the rash projects and attempts of his master. The
fishermenthe owners of the boatwhich the mill-wheels had knocked
to piecesnow came upand seeing it smashed they proceeded to
strip Sancho and to demand payment for it from Don Quixote; but he
with great calmnessjust as if nothing had happened himtold the
millers and fishermen that he would pay for the bark most
cheerfullyon condition that they delivered up to himfree and
unhurtthe person or persons that were in durance in that castle of
theirs.

What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman? Art thou
for carrying off the people who come to grind corn in these mills?

That's enough,said Don Quixote to himselfit would be preaching
in the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to do any
virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty enchanters must have
encountered one another, and one frustrates what the other attempts;
one provided the bark for me, and the other upset me; God help us,
this world is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one
with the other. I can do no more.And then turning towards the
mills he said aloudFriends, whoe'er ye be that are immured in
that prison, forgive me that, to my misfortune and yours, I cannot
deliver you from your misery; this adventure is doubtless reserved and
destined for some other knight.

So saying he settled with the fishermenand paid fifty reals for
the boatwhich Sancho handed to them very much against the grain
sayingWith a couple more bark businesses like this we shall have
sunk our whole capital.

The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at the
two figuresso very different to all appearance from ordinary men
and were wholly unable to make out the drift of the observations and
questions Don Quixote addressed to them; and coming to the
conclusion that they were madmenthey left them and betook
themselvesthe millers to their millsand the fishermen to their
huts. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to their beastsand to their
life of beastsand so ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

CHAPTER XXX

OF DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS

They reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humour enough
knight and squireSancho particularlyfor with him what touched
the stock of money touched his heartand when any was taken from
him he felt as if he was robbed of the apples of his eyes. In fine
without exchanging a wordthey mounted and quitted the famous
riverDon Quixote absorbed in thoughts of his loveSancho in
thinking of his advancementwhich just thenit seemed to himhe was
very far from securing; forfool as he washe saw clearly enough
that his master's acts were all or most of them utterly senseless; and


he began to cast about for an opportunity of retiring from his service
and going home some daywithout entering into any explanations or
taking any farewell of him. Fortunehoweverordered matters after
a fashion very much the opposite of what he contemplated.

It so happened that the next day towards sunseton coming out of
a woodDon Quixote cast his eyes over a green meadowand at the
far end of it observed some peopleand as he drew nearer saw that
it was a hawking party. Coming closerhe distinguished among them a
lady of graceful mienon a pure white palfrey or hackney
caparisoned with green trappings and a silver-mounted side-saddle. The
lady was also in greenand so richly and splendidly dressed that
splendour itself seemed personified in her. On her left hand she
bore a hawka proof to Don Quixote's mind that she must be some great
lady and the mistress of the whole hunting partywhich was the
fact; so he said to SanchoRun Sancho, my son, and say to that
lady on the palfrey with the hawk that I, the Knight of the Lions,
kiss the hands of her exalted beauty, and if her excellence will grant
me leave I will go and kiss them in person and place myself at her
service for aught that may be in my power and her highness may
command; and mind, Sancho, how thou speakest, and take care not to
thrust in any of thy proverbs into thy message.

You've got a likely one here to thrust any in!said Sancho; "leave
me alone for that! Whythis is not the first time in my life I have
carried messages to high and exalted ladies."

Except that thou didst carry to the lady Dulcinea,said Don
QuixoteI know not that thou hast carried any other, at least in
my service.

That is true,replied Sancho; "but pledges don't distress a good
payerand in a house where there's plenty supper is soon cooked; I
mean there's no need of telling or warning me about anything; for
I'm ready for everything and know a little of everything."

That I believe, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "go and good luck to
theeand God speed thee."

Sancho went off at top speedforcing Dapple out of his regular
paceand came to where the fair huntress was standingand
dismounting knelt before her and saidFair lady, that knight that
you see there, the Knight of the Lions by name, is my master, and I am
a squire of his, and at home they call me Sancho Panza. This same
Knight of the Lions, who was called not long since the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, sends by me to say may it please your highness
to give him leave that, with your permission, approbation, and
consent, he may come and carry out his wishes, which are, as he says
and I believe, to serve your exalted loftiness and beauty; and if
you give it, your ladyship will do a thing which will redound to
your honour, and he will receive a most distinguished favour and
happiness.

You have indeed, squire,said the ladydelivered your message
with all the formalities such messages require; rise up, for it is not
right that the squire of a knight so great as he of the Rueful
Countenance, of whom we have heard a great deal here, should remain on
his knees; rise, my friend, and bid your master welcome to the
services of myself and the duke my husband, in a country house we have
here.

Sancho got upcharmed as much by the beauty of the good lady as
by her high-bred air and her courtesybutabove allby what she had
said about having heard of his masterthe Knight of the Rueful


Countenance; for if she did not call him Knight of the Lions it was no
doubt because he had so lately taken the name. "Tell mebrother
squire asked the duchess (whose title, however, is not known), this
master of yoursis he not one of whom there is a history extant in
printcalled 'The Ingenious GentlemanDon Quixote of La Mancha' who
has for the lady of his heart a certain Dulcinea del Toboso?"


He is the same, senora,replied Sancho; "and that squire of his
who figuresor ought to figurein the said history under the name of
Sancho Panzais myselfunless they have changed me in the cradle
I mean in the press."


I am rejoiced at all this,said the duchess; "gobrother Panza
and tell your master that he is welcome to my estateand that nothing
could happen me that could give me greater pleasure."


Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this
gratifying answerand told him all the great lady had said to him
lauding to the skiesin his rustic phraseher rare beautyher
graceful gaietyand her courtesy. Don Quixote drew himself up briskly
in his saddlefixed himself in his stirrupssettled his visor
gave Rocinante the spurand with an easy bearing advanced to kiss the
hands of the duchesswhohaving sent to summon the duke her husband
told him while Don Quixote was approaching all about the message;
and as both of them had read the First Part of this historyand
from it were aware of Don Quixote's crazy turnthey awaited him
with the greatest delight and anxiety to make his acquaintance
meaning to fall in with his humour and agree with everything he
saidandso long as he stayed with themto treat him as a
knight-errantwith all the ceremonies usual in the books of
chivalry they had readfor they themselves were very fond of them.


Don Quixote now came up with his visor raisedand as he seemed
about to dismount Sancho made haste to go and hold his stirrup for
him; but in getting down off Dapple he was so unlucky as to hitch
his foot in one of the ropes of the pack-saddle in such a way that
he was unable to free itand was left hanging by it with his face and
breast on the ground. Don Quixotewho was not used to dismount
without having the stirrup heldfancying that Sancho had by this time
come to hold it for himthrew himself off with a lurch and brought
Rocinante's saddle after himwhich was no doubt badly girthedand
saddle and he both came to the ground; not without discomfiture to him
and abundant curses muttered between his teeth against the unlucky
Sanchowho had his foot still in the shackles. The duke ordered his
huntsmen to go to the help of knight and squireand they raised Don
Quixotesorely shaken by his fall; and helimpingadvanced as
best he could to kneel before the noble pair. Thishoweverthe
duke would by no means permit; on the contrarydismounting from his
horsehe went and embraced Don QuixotesayingI am grieved, Sir
Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that your first experience on my
ground should have been such an unfortunate one as we have seen; but
the carelessness of squires is often the cause of worse accidents.


That which has happened me in meeting you, mighty prince,
replied Don Quixotecannot be unfortunate, even if my fall had not
stopped short of the depths of the bottomless pit, for the glory of
having seen you would have lifted me up and delivered me from it. My
squire, God's curse upon him, is better at unloosing his tongue in
talking impertinence than in tightening the girths of a saddle to keep
it steady; but however I may be, allen or raised up, on foot or on
horseback, I shall always be at your service and that of my lady the
duchess, your worthy consort, worthy queen of beauty and paramount
princess of courtesy.



Gently, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha,said the duke; "where my
lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso isit is not right that other
beauties should he praised."

Sanchoby this time released from his entanglementwas standing
byand before his master could answer he saidThere is no
denying, and it must be maintained, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso
is very beautiful; but the hare jumps up where one least expects it;
and I have heard say that what we call nature is like a potter that
makes vessels of clay, and he who makes one fair vessel can as well
make two, or three, or a hundred; I say so because, by my faith, my
lady the duchess is in no way behind my mistress the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso.

Don Quixote turned to the duchess and saidYour highness may
conceive that never had knight-errant in this world a more talkative
or a droller squire than I have, and he will prove the truth of what I
say, if your highness is pleased to accept of my services for a few
days.

To which the duchess made answerthat worthy Sancho is droll I
consider a very good thing, because it is a sign that he is shrewd;
for drollery and sprightliness, Senor Don Quixote, as you very well
know, do not take up their abode with dull wits; and as good Sancho is
droll and sprightly I here set him down as shrewd.

And talkative,added Don Quixote.

So much the better,said the dukefor many droll things cannot
be said in few words; but not to lose time in talking, come, great
Knight of the Rueful Countenance-

Of the Lions, your highness must say,said Sanchofor there is
no Rueful Countenance nor any such character now.

He of the Lions be it,continued the duke; "I saylet Sir
Knight of the Lions come to a castle of mine close bywhere he
shall be given that reception which is due to so exalted a
personageand which the duchess and I are wont to give to all
knights-errant who come there."

By this time Sancho had fixed and girthed Rocinante's saddleand
Don Quixote having got on his back and the duke mounted a fine
horsethey placed the duchess in the middle and set out for the
castle. The duchess desired Sancho to come to her sidefor she
found infinite enjoyment in listening to his shrewd remarks. Sancho
required no pressingbut pushed himself in between them and the duke
who thought it rare good fortune to receive such a knight-errant and
such a homely squire in their castle.

CHAPTER XXXI

WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS

Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself
as it seemedan established favourite with the duchessfor he looked
forward to finding in her castle what he had found in Don Diego's
house and in Basilio's; he was always fond of good livingand
always seized by the forelock any opportunity of feasting himself
whenever it presented itself. The history informs usthenthat
before they reached the country house or castlethe duke went on in


advance and instructed all his servants how they were to treat Don
Quixote; and so the instant he came up to the castle gates with the
duchesstwo lackeys or equerriesclad in what they call morning
gowns of fine crimson satin reaching to their feethastened out
and catching Don Quixote in their arms before he saw or heard them
said to himYour highness should go and take my lady the duchess off
her horse.Don Quixote obeyedand great bandying of compliments
followed between the two over the matter; but in the end the duchess's
determination carried the dayand she refused to get down or dismount
from her palfrey except in the arms of the dukesaying she did not
consider herself worthy to impose so unnecessary a burden on so
great a knight. At length the duke came out to take her downand as
they entered a spacious court two fair damsels came forward and
threw over Don Quixote's shoulders a large mantle of the finest
scarlet clothand at the same instant all the galleries of the
court were lined with the men-servants and women-servants of the
householdcryingWelcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry!
while all or most of them flung pellets filled with scented water over
Don Quixote and the duke and duchess; at all which Don Quixote was
greatly astonishedand this was the first time that he thoroughly
felt and believed himself to be a knight-errant in reality and not
merely in fancynow that he saw himself treated in the same way as he
had read of such knights being treated in days of yore.

Sanchodeserting Dapplehung on to the duchess and entered the
castlebut feeling some twinges of conscience at having left the
ass alonehe approached a respectable duenna who had come out with
the rest to receive the duchessand in a low voice he said to her
Senora Gonzalez, or however your grace may be called-

I am called Dona Rodriguez de Grijalba,replied the duenna;
what is your will, brother?To which Sancho made answerI should
be glad if your worship would do me the favour to go out to the castle
gate, where you will find a grey ass of mine; make them, if you
please, put him in the stable, or put him there yourself, for the poor
little beast is rather easily frightened, and cannot bear being
alone at all.

If the master is as wise as the man,said the duennawe have got
a fine bargain. Be off with you, brother, and bad luck to you and
him who brought you here; go, look after your ass, for we, the duennas
of this house, are not used to work of that sort.

Well then, in troth,returned SanchoI have heard my master, who
is the very treasure-finder of stories, telling the story of
Lancelot when he came from Britain, say that ladies waited upon him
and duennas upon his hack; and, if it comes to my ass, I wouldn't
change him for Senor Lancelot's hack.

If you are a jester, brother,said the duennakeep your
drolleries for some place where they'll pass muster and be paid for;
for you'll get nothing from me but a fig.

At any rate, it will be a very ripe one,said Sanchofor you
won't lose the trick in years by a point too little.

Son of a bitch,said the duennaall aglow with angerwhether
I'm old or not, it's with God I have to reckon, not with you, you
garlic-stuffed scoundrel!and she said it so loudthat the duchess
heard itand turning round and seeing the duenna in such a state of
excitementand her eyes flaming soasked whom she was wrangling
with.

With this good fellow here,said the duennawho has particularly


requested me to go and put an ass of his that is at the castle gate
into the stable, holding it up to me as an example that they did the
same I don't know where- that some ladies waited on one Lancelot,
and duennas on his hack; and what is more, to wind up with, he
called me old.

That,said the duchessI should have considered the greatest
affront that could be offered me;and addressing Sanchoshe said
to himYou must know, friend Sancho, that Dona Rodriguez is very
youthful, and that she wears that hood more for authority and custom
sake than because of her years.

May all the rest of mine be unlucky,said Sanchoif I meant it
that way; I only spoke because the affection I have for my ass is so
great, and I thought I could not commend him to a more kind-hearted
person than the lady Dona Rodriguez.

Don Quixotewho was listeningsaid to himIs this proper
conversation for the place, Sancho?

Senor,replied Sanchoevery one must mention what he wants
wherever he may be; I thought of Dapple here, and I spoke of him here;
if I had thought of him in the stable I would have spoken there.

On which the duke observedSancho is quite right, and there is
no reason at all to find fault with him; Dapple shall be fed to his
heart's content, and Sancho may rest easy, for he shall be treated
like himself.

While this conversationamusing to all except Don Quixotewas
proceedingthey ascended the staircase and ushered Don Quixote into a
chamber hung with rich cloth of gold and brocade; six damsels relieved
him of his armour and waited on him like pagesall of them prepared
and instructed by the duke and duchess as to what they were to doand
how they were to treat Don Quixoteso that he might see and believe
they were treating him like a knight-errant. When his armour was
removedthere stood Don Quixote in his tight-fitting breeches and
chamois doubletleanlankyand longwith cheeks that seemed to
be kissing each other inside; such a figurethat if the damsels
waiting on him had not taken care to check their merriment (which
was one of the particular directions their master and mistress had
given them)they would have burst with laughter. They asked him to
let himself be stripped that they might put a shirt on himbut he
would not on any accountsaying that modesty became knights-errant
just as much as valour. Howeverhe said they might give the shirt
to Sancho; and shutting himself in with him in a room where there
was a sumptuous bedhe undressed and put on the shirt; and then
finding himself alone with Sanchohe said to himTell me, thou
new-fledged buffoon and old booby, dost thou think it right to
offend and insult a duenna so deserving of reverence and respect as
that one just now? Was that a time to bethink thee of thy Dapple, or
are these noble personages likely to let the beasts fare badly when
they treat their owners in such elegant style? For God's sake, Sancho,
restrain thyself, and don't show the thread so as to let them see what
a coarse, boorish texture thou art of. Remember, sinner that thou art,
the master is the more esteemed the more respectable and well-bred his
servants are; and that one of the greatest advantages that princes
have over other men is that they have servants as good as themselves
to wait on them. Dost thou not see- shortsighted being that thou
art, and unlucky mortal that I am!- that if they perceive thee to be a
coarse clown or a dull blockhead, they will suspect me to be some
impostor or swindler? Nay, nay, Sancho friend, keep clear, oh, keep
clear of these stumbling-blocks; for he who falls into the way of
being a chatterbox and droll, drops into a wretched buffoon the


first time he trips; bridle thy tongue, consider and weigh thy words
before they escape thy mouth, and bear in mind we are now in
quarters whence, by God's help, and the strength of my arm, we shall
come forth mightily advanced in fame and fortune.

Sancho promised him with much earnestness to keep his mouth shut
and to bite off his tongue before he uttered a word that was not
altogether to the purpose and well consideredand told him he might
make his mind easy on that pointfor it should never be discovered
through him what they were.

Don Quixote dressed himselfput on his baldric with his sword
threw the scarlet mantle over his shouldersplaced on his head a
montera of green satin that the damsels had given himand thus
arrayed passed out into the large roomwhere he found the damsels
drawn up in double filethe same number on each sideall with the
appliances for washing the handswhich they presented to him with
profuse obeisances and ceremonies. Then came twelve pagestogether
with the seneschalto lead him to dinneras his hosts were already
waiting for him. They placed him in the midst of themand with much
pomp and stateliness they conducted him into another roomwhere there
was a sumptuous table laid with but four covers. The duchess and the
duke came out to the door of the room to receive himand with them
a grave ecclesiasticone of those who rule noblemen's houses; one
of those whonot being born magnates themselvesnever know how to
teach those who are how to behave as such; one of those who would have
the greatness of great folk measured by their own narrowness of
mind; one of those whowhen they try to introduce economy into the
household they rulelead it into meanness. One of this sortI say
must have been the grave churchman who came out with the duke and
duchess to receive Don Quixote.

A vast number of polite speeches were exchangedand at length
taking Don Quixote between themthey proceeded to sit down to
table. The duke pressed Don Quixote to take the head of the table
andthough he refusedthe entreaties of the duke were so urgent that
he had to accept it.

The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to himand the duke and
duchess those at the sides. All this time Sancho stood bygaping with
amazement at the honour he saw shown to his master by these
illustrious persons; and observing all the ceremonious pressing that
had passed between the duke and Don Quixote to induce him to take
his seat at the head of the tablehe saidIf your worship will give
me leave I will tell you a story of what happened in my village
about this matter of seats.

The moment Sancho said this Don Quixote trembledmaking sure that
he was about to say something foolish. Sancho glanced at himand
guessing his thoughtssaidDon't be afraid of my going astray,
senor, or saying anything that won't be pat to the purpose; I
haven't forgotten the advice your worship gave me just now about
talking much or little, well or ill.

I have no recollection of anything, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "say
what thou wiltonly say it quickly."

Well then,said Sanchowhat I am going to say is so true that my
master Don Quixote, who is here present, will keep me from lying.

Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho,said Don Quixote
for I am not going to stop thee, but consider what thou art going
to say.


I have so considered and reconsidered,said Sanchothat the
bell-ringer's in a safe berth; as will be seen by what follows.

It would be well,said Don Quixoteif your highnesses would
order them to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap of
nonsense.

By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away from me for
a moment,said the duchess; "I am very fond of himfor I know he
is very discreet."

Discreet be the days of your holiness,said Sanchofor the
good opinion you have of my wit, though there's none in me; but the
story I want to tell is this. There was an invitation given by a
gentleman of my town, a very rich one, and one of quality, for he
was one of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married to Dona
Mencia de Quinones, the daughter of Don Alonso de Maranon, Knight of
the Order of Santiago, that was drowned at the Herradura- him there
was that quarrel about years ago in our village, that my master Don
Quixote was mixed up in, to the best of my belief, that Tomasillo
the scapegrace, the son of Balbastro the smith, was wounded in.- Isn't
all this true, master mine? As you live, say so, that these gentlefolk
may not take me for some lying chatterer.

So far,said the ecclesiasticI take you to be more a
chatterer than a liar; but I don't know what I shall take you for
by-and-by.

Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho,said Don
Quixotethat I have no choice but to say thou must be telling the
truth; go on, and cut the story short, for thou art taking the way not
to make an end for two days to come.

He is not to cut it short,said the duchess; "on the contraryfor
my gratificationhe is to tell it as he knows itthough he should
not finish it these six days; and if he took so many they would be
to me the pleasantest I ever spent."

Well then, sirs, I say,continued Sanchothat this same
gentleman, whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for it's not a
bowshot from my house to his, invited a poor but respectable
labourer-

Get on, brother,said the churchman; "at the rate you are going
you will not stop with your story short of the next world."

I'll stop less than half-way, please God,said Sancho; "and so I
say this labourercoming to the house of the gentleman I spoke of
that invited him- rest his soulhe is now dead; and more by token
he died the death of an angelso they say; for I was not therefor
just at that time I had gone to reap at Tembleque-"

As you live, my son,said the churchmanmake haste back from
Tembleque, and finish your story without burying the gentleman, unless
you want to make more funerals.

Well then, it so happened,said Sanchothat as the pair of
them were going to sit down to table -and I think I can see them now
plainer than ever-

Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from the
irritation the worthy churchman showed at the long-windedhalting way
Sancho had of telling his storywhile Don Quixote was chafing with
rage and vexation.


So, as I was saying,continued Sanchoas the pair of them were
going to sit down to table, as I said, the labourer insisted upon
the gentleman's taking the head of the table, and the gentleman
insisted upon the labourer's taking it, as his orders should be obeyed
in his house; but the labourer, who plumed himself on his politeness
and good breeding, would not on any account, until the gentleman,
out of patience, putting his hands on his shoulders, compelled him
by force to sit down, saying, 'Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever
I sit will he the head to you; and that's the story, and, troth, I
think it hasn't been brought in amiss here.

Don Quixote turned all colourswhichon his sunburnt facemottled
it till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their
laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don Quixotefor they saw
through Sancho's impertinence; and to change the conversationand
keep Sancho from uttering more absurditiesthe duchess asked Don
Quixote what news he had of the lady Dulcineaand if he had sent
her any presents of giants or miscreants latelyfor he could not
but have vanquished a good many.

To which Don Quixote repliedSenora, my misfortunes, though they
had a beginning, will never have an end. I have vanquished giants
and I have sent her caitiffs and miscreants; but where are they to
find her if she is enchanted and turned into the most ill-favoured
peasant wench that can be imagined?

I don't know,said Sancho Panza; "to me she seems the fairest
creature in the world; at any ratein nimbleness and jumping she
won't give in to a tumbler; by my faithsenora duchessshe leaps
from the ground on to the back of an ass like a cat."

Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?asked the duke.

What, seen her!said Sancho; "whywho the devil was it but myself
that first thought of the enchantment business? She is as much
enchanted as my father."

The ecclesiasticwhen he heard them talking of giants and
caitiffs and enchantmentsbegan to suspect that this must be Don
Quixote of La Manchawhose story the duke was always reading; and
he had himself often reproved him for ittelling him it was foolish
to read such fooleries; and becoming convinced that his suspicion
was correctaddressing the dukehe said very angrily to himSenor,
your excellence will have to give account to God for what this good
man does. This Don Quixote, or Don Simpleton, or whatever his name is,
cannot, I imagine, be such a blockhead as your excellence would have
him, holding out encouragement to him to go on with his vagaries and
follies.Then turning to address Don Quixote he saidAnd you,
num-skull, who put it into your head that you are a knight-errant, and
vanquish giants and capture miscreants? Go your ways in a good hour,
and in a good hour be it said to you. Go home and bring up your
children if you have any, and attend to your business, and give over
going wandering about the world, gaping and making a laughing-stock of
yourself to all who know you and all who don't. Where, in heaven's
name, have you discovered that there are or ever were
knights-errant? Where are there giants in Spain or miscreants in La
Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas, or all the rest of the silly things
they tell about you?

Don Quixote listened attentively to the reverend gentleman's
wordsand as soon as he perceived he had done speakingregardless of
the presence of the duke and duchesshe sprang to his feet with angry
looks and an agitated countenanceand said -But the reply deserves


a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER XXXII

OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURERWITH OTHER INCIDENTS
GRAVE AND DROLL

Don Quixotethenhaving risen to his feettrembling from head
to foot like a man dosed with mercurysaid in a hurriedagitated
voiceThe 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 minefor there's nothing more in the world to be said
thoughtor insisted on; and besideswhen this gentleman deniesas
he hasthat there are or ever have been any knights-errant in the
worldis it any wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been
talking about?"

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


Yes, I am,said Sanchoand 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 dukefor 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 Quixoteand kiss the feet
of his excellence for the favour he has bestowed upon thee.

Sancho obeyedand on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up from
table completely out of temperexclaimingBy 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 wordor eating another morselhe went
offthe entreaties of the duke and duchess being entirely
unavailing to stop him; not that the duke said much to himfor he
could notbecause of the laughter his uncalled-for anger provoked.

When he had done laughinghe said to Don QuixoteYou 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 Quixoteand 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 faithI'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; aylet him tackle themand he'll see how he'll get out of
their hands!"

The duchessas she listened to Sanchowas ready to die with
laughterand 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 calmand dinner came to an endand as the
cloth was removed four damsels came inone of them with a silver
basinanother with a jug also of silvera third with two fine
white towels on her shoulderand the fourth with her arms bared to
the elbowsand in her white hands (for white they certainly were) a
round ball of Naples soap. The one with the basin approachedand with
arch composure and impudencethrust it under Don Quixote's chinwho
wondering at such a ceremonysaid never a wordsupposing it to be
the custom of that country to wash beards instead of hands; he
therefore stretched his out as far as he couldand at the same
instant the jug began to pour and the damsel with the soap rubbed
his beard brisklyraising snow-flakesfor the soap lather was no
less whitenot only over the beardbut all over the faceand over
the eyes of the submissive knightso that they were perforce
obliged to keep shut. The duke and duchesswho had not known anything
about thiswaited to see what came of this strange washing. The
barber damselwhen she had him a hand's breadth deep in lather
pretended that there was no more waterand bade the one with the
jug go and fetch somewhile Senor Don Quixote waited. She did soand
Don Quixote was left the strangest and most ludicrous figure that
could be imagined. All those presentand there were a good manywere
watching himand as they saw him there with half a yard of neck
and that uncommonly brownhis eyes shutand his beard full of
soapit was a great wonderand only by great discretionthat they
were able to restrain their laughter. The damselsthe concocters of
the jokekept their eyes downnot daring to look at their master and
mistress; and as for themlaughter and anger struggled within them
and they knew not what to dowhether to punish the audacity of the
girlsor 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 Quixoteand the one who carried the towels very
deliberately wiped him and dried him; and all four together making him
a profound obeisance and curtseythey were about to gowhen the
dukelest Don Quixote should see through the jokecalled out to
the one with the basin sayingCome and wash me, and take care that
there is water enough.The girlsharp-witted and promptcame and
placed the basin for the duke as she had done for Don Quixoteand


they soon had him well soaped and washedand 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 impudencewhich they adroitly
atoned for by soaping him as well.

Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very attentivelyand
said to himselfGod 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 repliedthat 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 youand even put you in the tub if
necessary."

I'll be content with the beard,said Sanchoat 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 himwhile the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at table
discussing a great variety of thingsbut all bearing on the calling
of arms and knight-errantry.

The duchess begged Don Quixoteas he seemed to have a retentive
memoryto describe and portray to her the beauty and features of
the lady Dulcinea del Tobosoforjudging by what fame trumpeted
abroad of her beautyshe felt sure she must be the fairest creature
in the worldnayin all La Mancha.

Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess's requestand saidIf 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 Quixotemeans 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. NeverthelessSenor Don Quixote would greatly gratify us


if he would depict her to us; for never feareven in an outline or
sketch she will be something to make the fairest envious."

I would do so certainly,said Don Quixotehad 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 thiswho 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 goodand glorify and exalt the deeds of the
wicked? Enchanters have persecuted meenchanters persecute me
stilland 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 withof the sun that gives him lightof the food whereby he
lives. Many a time before have I said itand I say it now once
morea knight-errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves
a building without a foundationor a shadow without the body that
causes it."

There is no denying it,said the duchess; "but stillif we are to
believe the history of Don Quixote that has come out here lately
with general applauseit is to be inferred from itif I mistake not
that you never saw the lady Dulcineaand that the said lady is
nothing in the world but an imaginary ladyone that you yourself
begot and gave birth to in your brainand 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 he 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 readfrom which it is to be inferred thatgranting there
is a Dulcinea in El Tobosoor out of itand that she is in the
highest degree beautiful as you have described her to usas regards
the loftiness of her lineage she is not on a par with the Orianas
AlastrajareasMadasimasor others of that sortwith whomas you
well knowthe histories abound."


To that I may reply,said Don Quixotethat 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 duchessthat 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 answerSenora, 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 he
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 dukeduchessand Don Quixote had reached this point in their
conversationwhen they heard voices and a great hubbub in the palace
and Sancho burst abruptly into the room all glowing with angerwith a
straining-cloth by way of a biband followed by several servantsor
more properly speakingkitchen-boys and other underlingsone of whom
carried a small trough full of waterthat from its colour and
impurity was plainly dishwater. The one with the trough pursued him
and followed him everywhere he wentendeavouring with the utmost
persistence to thrust it under his chinwhile 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 repliedThe gentleman will not let
himself be washed as is customary, and as my lord the and the senor
his master have been.

Yes, I will,said Sanchoin a great rage; "but I'd like it to
be with cleaner towelsclearer lyeand 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 beardand I don't require to be refreshed
in that fashionand whoever comes to wash me or touch a hair of my
headI mean to say my beardwith all due respect be it saidI'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 trimwith the dingy towel about himand the
hangers-on of the kitchen all round him; so making a low bow to the
duke and duchessas if to ask their permission to speakhe addressed
the rout in a dignified tone: "Holloagentlemen! you let that youth
aloneand go back to where you came fromor anywhere else if you
like; my squire is as clean as any other personand those troughs are
as bad as narrow thin-necked jars to him; take my advice and leave him
alonefor neither he nor I understand joking."

Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went onNay, 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 thisthe duchesslaughing all the whilesaidSancho
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 servitorsand even the seneschal who came with them
took the duchess to be speaking in earnestso they removed the
straining-cloth from Sancho's neckand 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 dangeras it seemed to him
ran and fell on his knees before the duchesssayingFrom 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 he longer in
obeying than your grace in commanding.

It is easy to see, Sancho,replied the duchessthat you have
learned to he 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 thisthe conversation came to an endand Don Quixote
retired to take his midday sleep; but the duchess begged Sancho
unless he had a very great desire to go to sleepto come and spend
the afternoon with her and her damsels in a very cool chamber.
Sancho replied thatthough he certainly had the habit of sleeping
four or five hours in the heat of the day in summerto serve her


excellence he would try with all his might not to sleep even one
that dayand that he would come in obedience to her commandand with
that he went off. The duke gave fresh orders with respect to
treating Don Quixote as a knight-errantwithout departing even in
smallest particular from the style in whichas the stories tell us
they used to treat the knights of old.

CHAPTER XXXIII

OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD
WITH SANCHO PANZAWELL WORTH READING AND NOTING

The history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoonbut in
order to keep his word camebefore he had well done dinnerto
visit the duchesswhofinding enjoyment in listening to himmade
him sit down beside her on a low seatthough Sanchoout of pure good
breedingwanted not to sit down; the duchesshowevertold him he
was to sit down as governor and talk as squireas in both respects he
was worthy of even the chair of the Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho
shrugged his shouldersobeyedand sat downand all the duchess's
damsels and duennas gathered round himwaiting in profound silence to
hear what he would say. It was the duchesshoweverwho spoke
firstsaying:

Now that we are alone, and that there is nobody here to overhear
us, I should be glad if the senor governor would relieve me of certain
doubts I have, rising out of the history of the great Don Quixote that
is now in print. One is: inasmuch as worthy Sancho never saw Dulcinea,
I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, nor took Don Quixote's letter
to her, for it was left in the memorandum book in the Sierra Morena,
how did he dare to invent the answer and all that about finding her
sifting wheat, the whole story being a deception and falsehood, and so
much to the prejudice of the peerless Dulcinea's good name, a thing
that is not at all becoming the character and fidelity of a good
squire?

At these wordsSanchowithout uttering one in replygot up from
his chairand with noiseless stepswith his body bent and his finger
on his lipswent all round the room lifting up the hangings; and this
donehe came back to his seat and saidNow, senora, that I have
seen that there is no one except the bystanders listening to us on the
sly, I will answer what you have asked me, and all you may ask me,
without fear or dread. And the first thing I have got to say is,
that for my own part I hold my master Don Quixote to be stark mad,
though sometimes he says things that, to my mind, and indeed
everybody's that listens to him, are so wise, and run in such a
straight furrow, that Satan himself could not have said them better;
but for all that, really, and beyond all question, it's my firm belief
he is cracked. Well, then, as this is clear to my mind, I can
venture to make him believe things that have neither head nor tail,
like that affair of the answer to the letter, and that other of six or
eight days ago, which is not yet in history, that is to say, the
affair of the enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for I made him
believe she is enchanted, though there's no more truth in it than over
the hills of Ubeda.

The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment or
deception, so Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had
happened, and his hearers were not a little amused by it; and then
resuming, the duchess said, In consequence of what worthy Sancho
has told mea doubt starts up in my mindand there comes a kind of


whisper to my ear that says'If Don Quixote be madcrazyand
crackedand Sancho Panza his squire knows itandnotwithstanding
serves and follows himand goes trusting to his empty promisesthere
can be no doubt he must be still madder and sillier than his master;
and that being soit will be cast in your teethsenora duchessif
you give the said Sancho an island to govern; for how will he who does
not know how to govern himself know how to govern others?'"

By God, senora,said Sanchobut that doubt comes timely; but
your grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or as you like; for I
know what you say is true, and if I were wise I should have left my
master long ago; but this was my fate, this was my bad luck; I can't
help it, I must follow him; we're from the same village, I've eaten
his bread, I'm fond of him, I'm grateful, he gave me his ass-colts,
and above all I'm faithful; so it's quite impossible for anything to
separate us, except the pickaxe and shovel. And if your highness
does not like to give me the government you promised, God made me
without it, and maybe your not giving it to me will be all the
better for my conscience, for fool as I am I know the proverb 'to
her hurt the ant got wings,' and it may be that Sancho the squire will
get to heaven sooner than Sancho the governor. 'They make as good
bread here as in France,' and 'by night all cats are grey,' and 'a
hard case enough his, who hasn't broken his fast at two in the
afternoon,' and 'there's no stomach a hand's breadth bigger than
another,' and the same can he filled 'with straw or hay,' as the
saying is, and 'the little birds of the field have God for their
purveyor and caterer,' and 'four yards of Cuenca frieze keep one
warmer than four of Segovia broad-cloth,' and 'when we quit this world
and are put underground the prince travels by as narrow a path as
the journeyman,' and 'the Pope's body does not take up more feet of
earth than the sacristan's,' for all that the one is higher than the
other; for when we go to our graves we all pack ourselves up and
make ourselves small, or rather they pack us up and make us small in
spite of us, and then- good night to us. And I say once more, if
your ladyship does not like to give me the island because I'm a
fool, like a wise man I will take care to give myself no trouble about
it; I have heard say that 'behind the cross there's the devil,' and
that 'all that glitters is not gold,' and that from among the oxen,
and the ploughs, and the yokes, Wamba the husbandman was taken to be
made King of Spain, and from among brocades, and pleasures, and
riches, Roderick was taken to be devoured by adders, if the verses
of the old ballads don't lie.

To be sure they don't lie!exclaimed Dona Rodriguezthe duenna
who was one of the listeners. "Whythere's a ballad that says they
put King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of toadsand addersand
lizardsand that two days afterwards the kingin a plaintivefeeble
voicecried out from within the tomb-

They gnaw me nowthey gnaw me now
There where I most did sin.

And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say he would
rather be a labouring man than a kingif vermin are to eat him."

The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna
or wondering at the language and proverbs of Sanchoto whom she said
Worthy Sancho knows very well that when once a knight has made a
promise he strives to keep it, though it should cost him his life.
My lord and husband the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is
none the less a knight for that reason, and will keep his word about
the promised island, in spite of the envy and malice of the world. Let
Sancho he of good cheer; for when he least expects it he will find
himself seated on the throne of his island and seat of dignity, and


will take possession of his government that he may discard it for
another of three-bordered brocade. The charge I give him is to be
careful how he governs his vassals, bearing in mind that they are
all loyal and well-born.

As to governing them well,said Sanchothere's no need of
charging me to do that, for I'm kind-hearted by nature, and full of
compassion for the poor; there's no stealing the loaf from him who
kneads and bakes;' and by my faith it won't do to throw false dice
with me; I am an old dog, and I know all about 'tus, tus;' I can be
wide-awake if need be, and I don't let clouds come before my eyes, for
I know where the shoe pinches me; I say so, because with me the good
will have support and protection, and the bad neither footing nor
access. And it seems to me that, in governments, to make a beginning
is everything; and maybe, after having been governor a fortnight, I'll
take kindly to the work and know more about it than the field labour I
have been brought up to.

You are right, Sancho,said the duchessfor no one is born ready
taught, and the bishops are made out of men and not out of stones. But
to return to the subject we were discussing just now, the
enchantment of the lady Dulcinea, I look upon it as certain, and
something more than evident, that Sancho's idea of practising a
deception upon his master, making him believe that the peasant girl
was Dulcinea and that if he did not recognise her it must be because
she was enchanted, was all a device of one of the enchanters that
persecute Don Quixote. For in truth and earnest, I know from good
authority that the coarse country wench who jumped up on the ass was
and is Dulcinea del Toboso, and that worthy Sancho, though he
fancies himself the deceiver, is the one that is deceived; and that
there is no more reason to doubt the truth of this, than of anything
else we never saw. Senor Sancho Panza must know that we too have
enchanters here that are well disposed to us, and tell us what goes on
in the world, plainly and distinctly, without subterfuge or deception;
and believe me, Sancho, that agile country lass was and is Dulcinea
del Toboso, who is as much enchanted as the mother that bore her;
and when we least expect it, we shall see her in her own proper
form, and then Sancho will he disabused of the error he is under at
present.

All that's very possible,said Sancho Panza; "and now I'm
willing to believe what my master says about what he saw in the cave
of Montesinoswhere he says he saw the lady Dulcinea del Toboso in
the very same dress and apparel that I said I had seen her in when I
enchanted her all to please myself. It must be all exactly the other
wayas your ladyship says; because it is impossible to suppose that
out of my poor wit such a cunning trick could be concocted in a
momentnor do I think my master is so mad that by my weak and
feeble persuasion he could be made to believe a thing so out of all
reason. Butsenorayour excellence must not therefore think me
ill-disposedfor a dolt like me is not bound to see into the thoughts
and plots of those vile enchanters. I invented all that to escape my
master's scoldingand not with any intention of hurting him; and if
it has turned out differentlythere is a God in heaven who judges our
hearts."

That is true,said the duchess; "but tell meSanchowhat is this
you say about the cave of Montesinosfor I should like to know."

Sancho upon this related to herword for wordwhat has been said
already touching that adventureand having heard it the duchess said
From this occurrence it may be inferred that, as the great Don
Quixote says he saw there the same country wench Sancho saw on the way
from El Toboso, it is, no doubt, Dulcinea, and that there are some


very active and exceedingly busy enchanters about.

So I say,said Sanchoand if my lady Dulcinea is enchanted, so
much the worse for her, and I'm not going to pick a quarrel with my
master's enemies, who seem to be many and spiteful. The truth is
that the one I saw was a country wench, and I set her down to be a
country wench; and if that was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my
door, nor should I be called to answer for it or take the
consequences. But they must go nagging at me at every step- 'Sancho
said it, Sancho did it, Sancho here, Sancho there,' as if Sancho was
nobody at all, and not that same Sancho Panza that's now going all
over the world in books, so Samson Carrasco told me, and he's at any
rate one that's a bachelor of Salamanca; and people of that sort can't
lie, except when the whim seizes them or they have some very good
reason for it. So there's no occasion for anybody to quarrel with
me; and then I have a good character, and, as I have heard my master
say, 'a good name is better than great riches;' let them only stick me
into this government and they'll see wonders, for one who has been a
good squire will be a good governor.

All worthy Sancho's observations,said the duchessare
Catonian sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of Michael
Verino himself, who florentibus occidit annis. In fact, to speak in
his own style, 'under a bad cloak there's often a good drinker.'

Indeed, senora,said SanchoI never yet drank out of wickedness;
from thirst I have very likely, for I have nothing of the hypocrite in
me; I drink when I'm inclined, or, if I'm not inclined, when they
offer it to me, so as not to look either strait-laced or ill-bred; for
when a friend drinks one's health what heart can be so hard as not
to return it? But if I put on my shoes I don't dirty them; besides,
squires to knights-errant mostly drink water, for they are always
wandering among woods, forests and meadows, mountains and crags,
without a drop of wine to be had if they gave their eyes for it.

So I believe,said the duchess; "and now let Sancho go and take
his sleepand we will talk by-and-by at greater lengthand settle
how he may soon go and stick himself into the governmentas he says."

Sancho once more kissed the duchess's handand entreated her to let
good care be taken of his Dapplefor he was the light of his eyes.

What is Dapple?said the duchess.

My ass,said Sanchowhich, not to mention him by that name,
I'm accustomed to call Dapple; I begged this lady duenna here to
take care of him when I came into the castle, and she got as angry
as if I had said she was ugly or old, though it ought to be more
natural and proper for duennas to feed asses than to ornament
chambers. God bless me! what a spite a gentleman of my village had
against these ladies!

He must have been some clown,said Dona Rodriguez the duenna; "for
if he had been a gentleman and well-born he would have exalted them
higher than the horns of the moon."

That will do,said the duchess; "no more of this; hushDona
Rodriguezand let Senor Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of
Dapple in my chargefor as he is a treasure of Sancho'sI'll put him
on the apple of my eye."

It will be enough for him to he in the stable,said Sanchofor
neither he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple of your
highness's eye, and I'd as soon stab myself as consent to it; for


though my master says that in civilities it is better to lose by a
card too many than a card too few, when it comes to civilities to
asses we must mind what we are about and keep within due bounds.

Take him to your government, Sancho,said the duchessand
there you will be able to make as much of him as you like, and even
release him from work and pension him off.

Don't think, senora duchess, that you have said anything absurd,
said Sancho; "I have seen more than two asses go to governmentsand
for me to take mine with me would he nothing new."

Sancho's words made the duchess laugh again and gave her fresh
amusementand dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the
duke the conversation she had had with himand between them they
plotted and arranged to play a joke upon Don Quixote that was to be
a rare one and entirely in knight-errantry styleand in that same
style they practised several upon himso much in keeping and so
clever that they form the best adventures this great history contains.

CHAPTER XXXIV

WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO
DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSOWHICH IS ONE OF THE
RAREST ADVENTURES IN THIS BOOK

Great was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the conversation
of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; andmore bent than ever upon the
plan they had of practising some jokes upon them that should have
the look and appearance of adventuresthey took as their basis of
action what Don Quixote had already told them about the cave of
Montesinosin order to play him a famous one. But what the duches
marvelled at above all was that Sancho's simplicity could be so
great as to make him believe as absolute truth that Dulcinea had
been enchantedwhen it was he himself who had been the enchanter
and trickster in the business. Havingthereforeinstructed their
servants in everything they were to dosix days afterwards they
took him out to huntwith as great a retinue of huntsmen and
beaters as a crowned king.

They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suitand Sancho with
another of the finest green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his
onsaying that he must soon return to the hard pursuit of armsand
could not carry wardrobes or stores with him. Sanchohowevertook
what they gave himmeaning to sell it the first opportunity.

The appointed day having arrivedDon Quixote armed himselfand
Sancho arrayed himselfand mounted on his Dapple (for he would not
give him up though they offered him a horse)he placed himself in the
midst of the troop of huntsmen. The duchess came out splendidly
attiredand Don Quixotein pure courtesy and politenessheld the
rein of her palfreythough the duke wanted not to allow him; and at
last they reached a wood that lay between two high mountainswhere
after occupying various postsambushesand pathsand distributing
the party in different positionsthe hunt began with great noise
shoutingand hallooingso thatbetween the baying of the hounds and
the blowing of the hornsthey could not hear one another. The duchess
dismountedand with a sharp boar-spear in her hand posted herself
where she knew the wild boars were in the habit of passing. The duke
and Don Quixote likewise dismounted and placed themselves one at
each side of her. Sancho took up a position in the rear of all without


dismounting from Dapplewhom he dared not desert lest some mischief
should befall him. Scarcely had they taken their stand in a line
with several of their servantswhen they saw a huge boarclosely
pressed by the hounds and followed by the huntsmenmaking towards
themgrinding his teeth and tusksand scattering foam from his
mouth. As soon as he saw him Don Quixotebracing his shield on his
armand drawing his swordadvanced to meet him; the duke with
boar-spear did the same; but the duchess would have gone in front of
them all had not the duke prevented her. Sancho alonedeserting
Dapple at the sight of the mighty beasttook to his heels as hard
as he could and strove in vain to mount a tall oak. As he was clinging
to a branchhoweverhalf-way up in his struggle to reach the top
the boughsuch was his ill-luck and hard fategave wayand caught
in his fall by a broken limb of the oakhe hung suspended in the
air unable to reach the ground. Finding himself in this position
and that the green coat was beginning to tearand reflecting that
if the fierce animal came that way he might be able to get at him
he began to utter such criesand call for help so earnestlythat all
who heard him and did not see him felt sure he must be in the teeth of
some wild beast. In the end the tusked boar fell pierced by the blades
of the many spears they held in front of him; and Don Quixoteturning
round at the cries of Sanchofor he knew by them that it was he
saw him hanging from the oak head downwardswith Dapplewho did
not forsake him in his distressclose beside him; and Cide Hamete
observes that he seldom saw Sancho Panza without seeing Dappleor
Dapple without seeing Sancho Panza; such was their attachment and
loyalty one to the other. Don Quixote went over and unhooked Sancho
whoas soon as he found himself on the groundlooked at the rent
in his huntingcoat and was grieved to the heartfor he thought he had
got a patrimonial estate in that suit.

Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a
muleand having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of
myrtlethey bore it away as the spoils of victory to some large
field-tents which had been pitched in the middle of the woodwhere
they found the tables laid and dinner servedin such grand and
sumptuous style that it was easy to see the rank and magnificence of
those who had provided it. Sanchoas he showed the rents in his
torn suit to the duchessobservedIf we had been hunting hares,
or after small birds, my coat would have been safe from being in the
plight it's in; I don't know what pleasure one can find in lying in
wait for an animal that may take your life with his tusk if he gets at
you. I recollect having heard an old ballad sung that says,

By bears be thou devoured, as erst
Was famous Favila.

That,said Don Quixotewas a Gothic king, who, going
a-hunting, was devoured by a bear.

Just so,said Sancho; "and I would not have kings and princes
expose themselves to such dangers for the sake of a pleasure whichto
my mindought not to be oneas it consists in killing an animal that
has done no harm whatever."

Quite the contrary, Sancho; you are wrong there,said the duke;
for hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings and princes than
for anybody else. The chase is the emblem of war; it has stratagems,
wiles, and crafty devices for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it
extreme cold and intolerable heat have to be borne, indolence and
sleep are despised, the bodily powers are invigorated, the limbs of
him who engages in it are made supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit
which may be followed without injury to anyone and with enjoyment to


many; and the best of it is, it is not for everybody, as
field-sports of other sorts are, except hawking, which also is only
for kings and great lords. Reconsider your opinion therefore,
Sancho, and when you are governor take to hunting, and you will find
the good of it.

Nay,said Sanchothe good governor should have a broken leg
and keep at home;it would be a nice thing ifafter people had
been at the trouble of coming to look for him on businessthe
governor were to be away in the forest enjoying himself; the
government would go on badly in that fashion. By my faithsenor
hunting and amusements are more fit for idlers than for governors;
what I intend to amuse myself with is playing all fours at Eastertime
and bowls on Sundays and holidays; for these huntings don't suit my
condition or agree with my conscience."

God grant it may turn out so,said the duke; "because it's a
long step from saying to doing."

Be that as it may,said Sancho'pledges don't distress a good
payer,' and 'he whom God helps does better than he who gets up early,'
and 'it's the tripes that carry the feet and not the feet the tripes;'
I mean to say that if God gives me help and I do my duty honestly,
no doubt I'll govern better than a gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a
finger in my mouth, and they'll see whether I can bite or not.

The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed
Sancho!exclaimed Don Quixote; "when will the day come- as I have
often said to thee- when I shall hear thee make one single coherent
rational remark without proverbs? Prayyour highnessesleave this
fool alonefor he will grind your souls betweennot to say two
but two thousand proverbsdragged in as much in seasonand as much
to the purpose as- may God grant as much health to himor to me if
I want to listen to them!"

Sancho Panza's proverbs,said the duchessthough more in
number than the Greek Commander's, are not therefore less to be
esteemed for the conciseness of the maxims. For my own part, I can say
they give me more pleasure than others that may be better brought in
and more seasonably introduced.

In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the tent
into the woodand the day was spent in visiting some of the posts and
hiding-placesand then night closed innothoweveras
brilliantly or tranquilly as might have been expected at the season
for it was then midsummer; but bringing with it a kind of haze that
greatly aided the project of the duke and duchess; and thusas
night began to falland a little after twilight set insuddenly
the whole wood on all four sides seemed to be on fireand shortly
afterherethereon all sidesa vast number of trumpets and
other military instruments were heardas if several troops of cavalry
were passing through the wood. The blaze of the fire and the noise
of the warlike instruments almost blinded the eyes and deafened the
ears of those that stood byand indeed of all who were in the wood.
Then there were heard repeated lelilies after the fashion of the Moors
when they rush to battle; trumpets and clarions brayeddrums beat
fifes playedso unceasingly and so fast that he could not have had
any senses who did not lose them with the confused din of so many
instruments. The duke was astoundedthe duchess amazedDon Quixote
wonderingSancho Panza tremblingand indeedeven they who were
aware of the cause were frightened. In their fearsilence fell upon
themand a postillionin the guise of a demonpassed in front of
themblowingin lieu of a buglea huge hollow horn that gave out
a horrible hoarse note.


Ho there! brother courier,cried the dukewho are you? Where are
you going? What troops are these that seem to be passing through the
wood?

To which the courier replied in a harshdiscordant voiceI am the
devil; I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha; those who are
coming this way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing on a
triumphal car the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso; she comes under
enchantment, together with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give
instructions to Don Quixote as to how, she the said lady, may be
disenchanted.

If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance
indicates,said the dukeyou would have known the said knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha, for you have him here before you.

By God and upon my conscience,said the devilI never observed
it, for my mind is occupied with so many different things that I was
forgetting the main thing I came about.

This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Christian,said
Sancho; "for if he wasn't he wouldn't swear by God and his conscience;
I feel sure now there must be good souls even in hell itself."

Without dismountingthe demon then turned to Don Quixote and
saidThe unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends me to thee,
the Knight of the Lions (would that I saw thee in their claws),
bidding me tell thee to wait for him wherever I may find thee, as he
brings with him her whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may
show thee what is needful in order to disenchant her; and as I came
for no more I need stay no longer; demons of my sort be with thee, and
good angels with these gentles;and so saying he blew his huge
hornturned about and went off without waiting for a reply from
anyone.

They all felt fresh wonderbut particularly Sancho and Don Quixote;
Sancho to see howin defiance of the truththey would have it that
Dulcinea was enchanted; Don Quixote because he could not feel sure
whether what had happened to him in the cave of Montesinos was true or
not; and as he was deep in these cogitations the duke said to himDo
you mean to wait, Senor Don Quixote?

Why not?replied he; "here will I waitfearless and firm
though all hell should come to attack me."

Well then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like the
last, I'll wait here as much as in Flanders,said Sancho.

Night now closed in more completelyand many lights began to flit
through the woodjust as those fiery exhalations from the earththat
look like shooting-stars to our eyesflit through the heavens; a
frightful noisetoowas heardlike that made by the solid wheels
the ox-carts usually haveby the harshceaseless creaking of
whichthey saythe bears and wolves are put to flightif there
happen to be any where they are passing. In addition to all this
commotionthere came a further disturbance to increase the tumult
for now it seemed as if in truthon all four sides of the wood
four encounters or battles were going on at the same time; in one
quarter resounded the dull noise of a terrible cannonadein another
numberless muskets were being dischargedthe shouts of the combatants
sounded almost close at handand farther away the Moorish lelilies
were raised again and again. In a wordthe buglesthe hornsthe
clarionsthe trumpetsthe drumsthe cannonthe musketryand above


all the tremendous noise of the cartsall made up together a din so
confused and terrific that Don Quixote had need to summon up all his
courage to brave it; but Sancho's gave wayand he fell fainting on
the skirt of the duchess's robewho let him lie there and promptly
bade them throw water in his face. This was doneand he came to
himself by the time that one of the carts with the creaking wheels
reached the spot. It was drawn by four plodding oxen all covered
with black housings; on each horn they had fixed a large lighted wax
taperand on the top of the cart was constructed a raised seaton
which sat a venerable old man with a beard whiter than the very
snowand so long that it fell below his waist; he was dressed in a
long robe of black buckram; for as the cart was thickly set with a
multitude of candles it was easy to make out everything that was on
it. Leading it were two hideous demonsalso clad in buckramwith
countenances so frightful that Sanchohaving once seen themshut his
eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as the cart came opposite
the spot the old man rose from his lofty seatand standing up said in
a loud voiceI am the sage Lirgandeo,and without another word
the cart then passed on. Behind it came another of the same formwith
another aged man enthronedwhostopping the cartsaid in a voice no
less solemn than that of the firstI am the sage Alquife, the
great friend of Urganda the Unknown,and passed on. Then another cart
came by at the same pacebut the occupant of the throne was not old
like the othersbut a man stalwart and robustand of a forbidding
countenancewho as he came up said in a voice far hoarser and more
devilishI am the enchanter Archelaus, the mortal enemy of Amadis of
Gaul and all his kindred,and then passed on. Having gone a short
distance the three carts halted and the monotonous noise of their
wheels ceasedand soon after they heard anothernot noisebut sound
of sweetharmonious musicof which Sancho was very gladtaking it
to be a good sign; and said he to the duchessfrom whom he did not
stir a stepor for a single instantSenora, where there's music
there can't be mischief.

Nor where there are lights and it is bright,said the duchess;
to which Sancho repliedFire gives light, and it's bright where
there are bonfires, as we see by those that are all round us and
perhaps may burn us; but music is a sign of mirth and merrymaking.

That remains to be seen,said Don Quixotewho was listening to
all that passed; and he was rightas is shown in the following
chapter.

CHAPTER XXXV

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING
THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEATOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS

They saw advancing towards themto the sound of this pleasing
musicwhat they call a triumphal cardrawn by six grey mules with
white linen housingson each of which was mounted a penitentrobed
also in whitewith a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car was
twice orperhapsthree times as large as the former onesand in
front and on the sides stood twelve more penitentsall as white as
snow and all with lighted tapersa spectacle to excite fear as well
as wonder; and on a raised throne was seated a nymph draped in a
multitude of silver-tissue veils with an embroidery of countless
gold spangles glittering all over themthat made her appearif not
richlyat least brilliantlyapparelled. She had her face covered
with thin transparent sendalthe texture of which did not prevent the
fair features of a maiden from being distinguishedwhile the numerous


lights made it possible to judge of her beauty and of her yearswhich
seemed to be not less than seventeen but not to have yet reached
twenty. Beside her was a figure in a robe of stateas they call it
reaching to the feetwhile the head was covered with a black veil.
But the instant the car was opposite the duke and duchess and Don
Quixote the music of the clarions ceasedand then that of the lutes
and harps on the carand the figure in the robe rose upand flinging
it apart and removing the veil from its facedisclosed to their
eyes the shape of Death itselffleshless and hideousat which
sight Don Quixote felt uneasySancho frightenedand the duke and
duchess displayed a certain trepidation. Having risen to its feet
this living deathin a sleepy voice and with a tongue hardly awake
held forth as follows:

I am that Merlin who the legends say
The devil had for fatherand the lie
Hath gathered credence with the lapse of time.
Of magic princeof Zoroastric lore
Monarch and treasurerwith jealous eye
I view the efforts of the age to hide
The gallant deeds of doughty errant knights
Who areand ever have beendear to me.

Enchanters and magicians and their kind

Are mostly hard of heart; not so am I;
For mine is tendersoftcompassionate
And its delight is doing good to all.
In the dim caverns of the gloomy Dis
Wheretracing mystic lines and characters
My soul abideth nowthere came to me
The sorrow-laden plaint of herthe fair
The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.
I knew of her enchantment and her fate
From high-born dame to peasant wench transformed
And touched with pityfirst I turned the leaves
Of countless volumes of my devilish craft
And thenin this grim grisly skeleton
Myself encasinghither have I come
To show where lies the fitting remedy
To give relief in such a piteous case.


O thouthe pride and pink of all that wear

The adamantine steel! O shining light
O beaconpolestarpath and guide of all
Whoscorning slumber and the lazy down
Adopt the toilsome life of bloodstained arms!
To theegreat hero who all praise transcends
La Mancha's lustre and Iberia's star
Don Quixotewise as braveto thee I say-
For peerless Dulcinea del Toboso
Her pristine form and beauty to regain
'T is needful that thy esquire Sancho shall
On his own sturdy buttocks bared to heaven
Three thousand and three hundred lashes lay
And that they smart and sting and hurt him well.
Thus have the authors of her woe resolved.
And this isgentleswherefore I have come.


By all that's good,exclaimed Sancho at thisI'll just as soon
give myself three stabs with a dagger as three, not to say three
thousand, lashes. The devil take such a way of disenchanting! I
don't see what my backside has got to do with enchantments. By God, if



Senor Merlin has not found out some other way of disenchanting the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, she may go to her grave enchanted.

But I'll take you, Don Clown stuffed with garlic,said Don
Quixoteand tie you to a tree as naked as when your mother brought
you forth, and give you, not to say three thousand three hundred,
but six thousand six hundred lashes, and so well laid on that they
won't be got rid of if you try three thousand three hundred times;
don't answer me a word or I'll tear your soul out.

On hearing this Merlin saidThat will not do, for the lashes
worthy Sancho has to receive must be given of his own free will and
not by force, and at whatever time he pleases, for there is no fixed
limit assigned to him; but it is permitted him, if he likes to commute
by half the pain of this whipping, to let them be given by the hand of
another, though it may be somewhat weighty.

Not a hand, my own or anybody else's, weighty or weighable, shall
touch me,said Sancho. "Was it I that gave birth to the lady Dulcinea
del Tobosothat my backside is to pay for the sins of her eyes? My
masterindeedthat's a part of her- forhe's always calling her
'my life' and 'my soul' and his stay and prop- may and ought to
whip himself for her and take all the trouble required for her
disenchantment. But for me to whip myself! Abernuncio!"

As soon as Sancho had done speaking the nymph in silver that was
at the side of Merlin's ghost stood upand removing the thin veil
from her face disclosed one that seemed to all something more than
exceedingly beautiful; and with a masculine freedom from embarrassment
and in a voice not very like a lady'saddressing Sancho directly
saidThou wretched squire, soul of a pitcher, heart of a cork
tree, with bowels of flint and pebbles; if, thou impudent thief,
they bade thee throw thyself down from some lofty tower; if, enemy
of mankind, they asked thee to swallow a dozen of toads, two of
lizards, and three of adders; if they wanted thee to slay thy wife and
children with a sharp murderous scimitar, it would be no wonder for
thee to show thyself stubborn and squeamish. But to make a piece of
work about three thousand three hundred lashes, what every poor little
charity-boy gets every month- it is enough to amaze, astonish, astound
the compassionate bowels of all who hear it, nay, all who come to hear
it in the course of time. Turn, O miserable, hard-hearted animal,
turn, I say, those timorous owl's eyes upon these of mine that are
compared to radiant stars, and thou wilt see them weeping trickling
streams and rills, and tracing furrows, tracks, and paths over the
fair fields of my cheeks. Let it move thee, crafty, ill-conditioned
monster, to see my blooming youth- still in its teens, for I am not
yet twenty- wasting and withering away beneath the husk of a rude
peasant wench; and if I do not appear in that shape now, it is a
special favour Senor Merlin here has granted me, to the sole end
that my beauty may soften thee; for the tears of beauty in distress
turn rocks into cotton and tigers into ewes. Lay on to that hide of
thine, thou great untamed brute, rouse up thy lusty vigour that only
urges thee to eat and eat, and set free the softness of my flesh,
the gentleness of my nature, and the fairness of my face. And if
thou wilt not relent or come to reason for me, do so for the sake of
that poor knight thou hast beside thee; thy master I mean, whose
soul I can this moment see, how he has it stuck in his throat not
ten fingers from his lips, and only waiting for thy inflexible or
yielding reply to make its escape by his mouth or go back again into
his stomach.

Don Quixote on hearing this felt his throatand turning to the duke
he saidBy God, senor, Dulcinea says true, I have my soul stuck here
in my throat like the nut of a crossbow.


What say you to this, Sancho?said the duchess.

I say, senora,returned Sanchowhat I said before; as for the
lashes, abernuncio!

Abrenuncio, you should say, Sancho, and not as you do,said the
duke.

Let me alone, your highness,said Sancho. "I'm not in a humour now
to look into niceties or a letter more or lessfor these lashes
that are to be given meor I'm to give myselfhave so upset methat
I don't know what I'm saying or doing. But I'd like to know of this
ladymy lady Dulcinea del Tobosowhere she learned this way she
has of asking favours. She comes to ask me to score my flesh with
lashesand she calls me soul of a pitcherand great untamed brute
and a string of foul names that the devil is welcome to. Is my flesh
brass? or is it anything to me whether she is enchanted or not? Does
she bring with her a basket of fair linenshirtskerchiefssocksnot
that wear any- to coax me? Nonothing but one piece of abuse
after anotherthough she knows the proverb they have here that 'an
ass loaded with gold goes lightly up a mountain' and that 'gifts
break rocks' and 'praying to God and plying the hammer' and that
'one "take" is better than two "I'll give thee's."' Then there's my
masterwho ought to stroke me down and pet me to make me turn wool
and carded cotton; he says if he gets hold of me he'll tie me naked to
a tree and double the tale of lashes on me. These tender-hearted
gentry should consider that it's not merely a squirebut a governor
they are asking to whip himself; just as if it was 'drink with
cherries.' Let them learnplague take themthe right way to askand
begand behave themselves; for all times are not alikenor are
people always in good humour. I'm now ready to burst with grief at
seeing my green coat tornand they come to ask me to whip myself of
my own free willI having as little fancy for it as for turning
cacique."

Well then, the fact is, friend Sancho,said the dukethat unless
you become softer than a ripe fig, you shall not get hold of the
government. It would be a nice thing for me to send my islanders a
cruel governor with flinty bowels, who won't yield to the tears of
afflicted damsels or to the prayers of wise, magisterial, ancient
enchanters and sages. In short, Sancho, either you must be whipped
by yourself, or they must whip you, or you shan't be governor.

Senor,said Sanchowon't two days' grace be given me in which to
consider what is best for me?

No, certainly not,said Merlin; "herethis minuteand on the
spotthe matter must be settled; either Dulcinea will return to the
cave of Montesinos and to her former condition of peasant wenchor
else in her present form shall be carried to the Elysian fieldswhere
she will remain waiting until the number of stripes is completed."

Now then, Sancho!said the duchessshow courage, and gratitude
for your master Don Quixote's bread that you have eaten; we are all
bound to oblige and please him for his benevolent disposition and
lofty chivalry. Consent to this whipping, my son; to the devil with
the devil, and leave fear to milksops, for 'a stout heart breaks bad
luck,' as you very well know.

To this Sancho replied with an irrelevant remarkwhich
addressing Merlinhe made to himWill your worship tell me, Senor
Merlin- when that courier devil came up he gave my master a message
from Senor Montesinos, charging him to wait for him here, as he was


coming to arrange how the lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso was to be
disenchanted; but up to the present we have not seen Montesinos, nor
anything like him.

To which Merlin made answerThe devil, Sancho, is a blockhead
and a great scoundrel; I sent him to look for your master, but not
with a message from Montesinos but from myself; for Montesinos is in
his cave expecting, or more properly speaking, waiting for his
disenchantment; for there's the tail to be skinned yet for him; if
he owes you anything, or you have any business to transact with him,
I'll bring him to you and put him where you choose; but for the
present make up your mind to consent to this penance, and believe me
it will be very good for you, for soul as well for body- for your soul
because of the charity with which you perform it, for your body
because I know that you are of a sanguine habit and it will do you
no harm to draw a little blood.

There are a great many doctors in the world; even the enchanters
are doctors,said Sancho; "howeveras everybody tells me the same
thing -though I can't see it myself- I say I am willing to give myself
the three thousand three hundred lashesprovided I am to lay them
on whenever I likewithout any fixing of days or times; and I'll
try and get out of debt as quickly as I canthat the world may
enjoy the beauty of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; as it seems
contrary to what I thoughtthat she is beautiful after all. It must
be a conditiontoothat I am not to be bound to draw blood with
the scourgeand that if any of the lashes happen to he fly-flappers
they are to count. Itemthatin case I should make any mistake in
the reckoningSenor Merlinas he knows everythingis to keep count
and let me know how many are still wanting or over the number."

There will be no need to let you know of any over,said Merlin
because, when you reach the full number, the lady Dulcinea will at
once, and that very instant, be disenchanted, and will come in her
gratitude to seek out the worthy Sancho, and thank him, and even
reward him for the good work. So you have no cause to be uneasy
about stripes too many or too few; heaven forbid I should cheat anyone
of even a hair of his head.

Well then, in God's hands be it,said Sancho; "in the hard case
I'm in I give in; I say I accept the penance on the conditions laid
down."

The instant Sancho uttered these last words the music of the
clarions struck up once moreand again a host of muskets were
dischargedand Don Quixote hung on Sancho's neck kissing him again
and again on the forehead and cheeks. The duchess and the duke
expressed the greatest satisfactionthe car began to move onand
as it passed the fair Dulcinea bowed to the duke and duchess and
made a low curtsey to Sancho.

And now bright smiling dawn came on apace; the flowers of the field
revivedraised up their headsand the crystal waters of the
brooksmurmuring over the grey and white pebbleshastened to pay
their tribute to the expectant rivers; the glad earththe unclouded
skythe fresh breezethe clear lighteach and all showed that the
day that came treading on the skirts of morning would be calm and
bright. The duke and duchesspleased with their hunt and at having
carried out their plans so cleverly and successfullyreturned to
their castle resolved to follow up their joke; for to them there was
no reality that could afford them more amusement.


CHAPTER XXXVI

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE
DISTRESSED DUENNAALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDITOGETHER WITH A LETTER
WHICH SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFETERESA PANZA

The duke had a majordomo of a very facetious and sportive turn
and he it was that played the part of Merlinmade all the
arrangements for the late adventurecomposed the versesand got a
page to represent Dulcinea; and nowwith the assistance of his master
and mistresshe got up another of the drollest and strangest
contrivances that can be imagined.

The duchess asked Sancho the next day if he had made a beginning
with his penance task which he had to perform for the disenchantment
of Dulcinea. He said he hadand had given himself five lashes
overnight.

The duchess asked him what he had given them with.

He said with his hand.

That,said the duchessis more like giving oneself slaps than
lashes; I am sure the sage Merlin will not be satisfied with such
tenderness; worthy Sancho must make a scourge with claws, or a
cat-o'-nine tails, that will make itself felt; for it's with blood
that letters enter, and the release of so great a lady as Dulcinea
will not be granted so cheaply, or at such a paltry price; and
remember, Sancho, that works of charity done in a lukewarm and
half-hearted way are without merit and of no avail.

To which Sancho repliedIf your ladyship will give me a proper
scourge or cord, I'll lay on with it, provided it does not hurt too
much; for you must know, boor as I am, my flesh is more cotton than
hemp, and it won't do for me to destroy myself for the good of anybody
else.

So be it by all means,said the duchess; "tomorrow I'll give you a
scourge that will be just the thing for youand will accommodate
itself to the tenderness of your fleshas if it was its own sister."

Then said SanchoYour highness must know, dear lady of my soul,
that I have a letter written to my wife, Teresa Panza, giving her an
account of all that has happened me since I left her; I have it here
in my bosom, and there's nothing wanting but to put the address to it;
I'd be glad if your discretion would read it, for I think it runs in
the governor style; I mean the way governors ought to write.

And who dictated it?asked the duchess.

Who should have dictated but myself, sinner as I am?said Sancho.

And did you write it yourself?said the duchess.

That I didn't,said Sancho; "for I can neither read nor write
though I can sign my name."

Let us see it,said the duchessfor never fear but you display
in it the quality and quantity of your wit.

Sancho drew out an open letter from his bosomand the duchess
taking itfound it ran in this fashion:


SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO HIS WIFETERESA PANZA

If I was well whipped I went mounted like a gentleman; if I have got
a good government it is at the cost of a good whipping. Thou wilt
not understand this just nowmy Teresa; by-and-by thou wilt know what
it means. I may tell theeTeresaI mean thee to go in a coachfor
that is a matter of importancebecause every other way of going is
going on all-fours. Thou art a governor's wife; take care that
nobody speaks evil of thee behind thy back. I send thee here a green
hunting suit that my lady the duchess gave me; alter it so as to
make a petticoat and bodice for our daughter. Don Quixotemy
masterif I am to believe what I hear in these partsis a madman
of some senseand a droll blockheadand I am no way behind him. We
have been in the cave of Montesinosand the sage Merlin has laid hold
of me for the disenchantment of Dulcinea del Tobosoher that is
called Aldonza Lorenzo over there. With three thousand three hundred
lashesless fivethat I'm to give myselfshe will be left as
entirely disenchanted as the mother that bore her. Say nothing of this
to anyone; formake thy affairs publicand some will say they are
white and others will say they are black. I shall leave this in a
few days for my governmentto which I am going with a mighty great
desire to make moneyfor they tell me all new governors set out
with the same desire; I will feel the pulse of it and will let thee
know if thou art to come and live with me or not. Dapple is well and
sends many remembrances to thee; I am not going to leave him behind
though they took me away to be Grand Turk. My lady the duchess
kisses thy hands a thousand times; do thou make a return with two
thousandfor as my master saysnothing costs less or is cheaper than
civility. God has not been pleased to provide another valise for me
with another hundred crownslike the one the other day; but never
mindmy Teresathe bell-ringer is in safe quartersand all will
come out in the scouring of the government; only it troubles me
greatly what they tell me- that once I have tasted it I will eat my
hands off after it; and if that is so it will not come very cheap to
me; though to be sure the maimed have a benefice of their own in the
alms they beg for; so that one way or another thou wilt be rich and in
luck. God give it to thee as he canand keep me to serve thee. From
this castlethe 20th of July1614.

Thy husbandthe governor.

SANCHO PANZA

When she had done reading the letter the duchess said to SanchoOn
two points the worthy governor goes rather astray; one is in saying or
hinting that this government has been bestowed upon him for the lashes
that he is to give himself, when he knows (and he cannot deny it) that
when my lord the duke promised it to him nobody ever dreamt of such
a thing as lashes; the other is that he shows himself here to he
very covetous; and I would not have him a money-seeker, for
'covetousness bursts the bag,' and the covetous governor does
ungoverned justice.

I don't mean it that way, senora,said Sancho; "and if you think
the letter doesn't run as it ought to doit's only to tear it up
and make another; and maybe it will be a worse one if it is left to my
gumption."

No, no,said the duchessthis one will do, and I wish the duke
to see it.


With this they betook themselves to a garden where they were to
dineand the duchess showed Sancho's letter to the dukewho was
highly delighted with it. They dinedand after the cloth had been
removed and they had amused themselves for a while with Sancho's
rich conversationthe melancholy sound of a fife and harsh discordant
drum made itself heard. All seemed somewhat put out by this dull
confusedmartial harmonyespecially Don Quixotewho could not
keep his seat from pure disquietude; as to Sanchoit is needless to
say that fear drove him to his usual refugethe side or the skirts of
the duchess; and indeed and in truth the sound they heard was a most
doleful and melancholy one. While they were still in uncertainty
they saw advancing towards them through the garden two men clad in
mourning robes so long and flowing that they trailed upon the
ground. As they marched they beat two great drums which were
likewise draped in blackand beside them came the fife player
black and sombre like the others. Following these came a personage
of gigantic stature enveloped rather than clad in a gown of the
deepest blackthe skirt of which was of prodigious dimensions. Over
the gowngirdling or crossing his figurehe had a broad baldric
which was also blackand from which hung a huge scimitar with a black
scabbard and furniture. He had his face covered with a transparent
black veilthrough which might be descried a very long beard as white
as snow. He came on keeping step to the sound of the drums with
great gravity and dignity; andin shorthis staturehis gaitthe
sombreness of his appearance and his following might well have
struck with astonishmentas they didall who beheld him without
knowing who he was. With this measured pace and in this guise he
advanced to kneel before the dukewhowith the othersawaited him
standing. The dukehoweverwould not on any account allow him to
speak until he had risen. The prodigious scarecrow obeyedand
standing upremoved the veil from his face and disclosed the most
enormousthe longestthe whitest and the thickest beard that human
eyes had ever beheld until that momentand then fetching up a
gravesonorous voice from the depths of his broadcapacious chest
and fixing his eyes on the dukehe said:

Most high and mighty senor, my name is Trifaldin of the White
Beard; I am squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the
Distressed Duenna, on whose behalf I bear a message to your
highness, which is that your magnificence will be pleased to grant her
leave and permission to come and tell you her trouble, which is one of
the strangest and most wonderful that the mind most familiar with
trouble in the world could have imagined; but first she desires to
know if the valiant and never vanquished knight, Don Quixote of La
Mancha, is in this your castle, for she has come in quest of him on
foot and without breaking her fast from the kingdom of Kandy to your
realms here; a thing which may and ought to be regarded as a miracle
or set down to enchantment; she is even now at the gate of this
fortress or plaisance, and only waits for your permission to enter.
I have spoken.And with that he coughedand stroked down his beard
with both his handsand stood very tranquilly waiting for the
response of the dukewhich was to this effect: "Many days agoworthy
squire Trifaldin of the White Beardwe heard of the misfortune of
my lady the Countess Trifaldiwhom the enchanters have caused to be
called the Distressed Duenna. Bid her enterO stupendous squire
and tell her that the valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha is here
and from his generous disposition she may safely promise herself every
protection and assistance; and you may tell hertoothat if my aid
be necessary it will not be withheldfor I am bound to give it to her
by my quality of knightwhich involves the protection of women of all
sortsespecially widowedwrongedand distressed damessuch as
her ladyship seems to be."


On hearing this Trifaldin bent the knee to the groundand making
a sign to the fifer and drummers to strike uphe turned and marched
out of the garden to the same notes and at the same pace as when he
enteredleaving them all amazed at his bearing and solemnity. Turning
to Don Quixotethe duke saidAfter all, renowned knight, the
mists of malice and ignorance are unable to hide or obscure the
light of valour and virtue. I say so, because your excellence has been
barely six days in this castle, and already the unhappy and the
afflicted come in quest of you from lands far distant and remote,
and not in coaches or on dromedaries, but on foot and fasting,
confident that in that mighty arm they will find a cure for their
sorrows and troubles; thanks to your great achievements, which are
circulated all over the known earth.

I wish, senor duke,replied Don Quixotethat blessed
ecclesiastic, who at table the other day showed such ill-will and
bitter spite against knights-errant, were here now to see with his own
eyes whether knights of the sort are needed in the world; he would
at any rate learn by experience that those suffering any extraordinary
affliction or sorrow, in extreme cases and unusual misfortunes do
not go to look for a remedy to the houses of jurists or village
sacristans, or to the knight who has never attempted to pass the
bounds of his own town, or to the indolent courtier who only seeks for
news to repeat and talk of, instead of striving to do deeds and
exploits for others to relate and record. Relief in distress, help
in need, protection for damsels, consolation for widows, are to be
found in no sort of persons better than in knights-errant; and I
give unceasing thanks to heaven that I am one, and regard any
misfortune or suffering that may befall me in the pursuit of so
honourable a calling as endured to good purpose. Let this duenna
come and ask what she will, for I will effect her relief by the
might of my arm and the dauntless resolution of my bold heart.

CHAPTER XXXVII

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA

The duke and duchess were extremely glad to see how readily Don
Quixote fell in with their scheme; but at this moment Sancho observed
I hope this senora duenna won't be putting any difficulties in the
way of the promise of my government; for I have heard a Toledo
apothecary, who talked like a goldfinch, say that where duennas were
mixed up nothing good could happen. God bless me, how he hated them,
that same apothecary! And so what I'm thinking is, if all duennas,
of whatever sort or condition they may be, are plagues and busybodies,
what must they be that are distressed, like this Countess Three-skirts
or Three-tails!- for in my country skirts or tails, tails or skirts,
it's all one.

Hush, friend Sancho,said Don Quixote; "since this lady duenna
comes in quest of me from such a distant land she cannot be one of
those the apothecary meant; moreover this is a countessand when
countesses serve as duennas it is in the service of queens and
empressesfor in their own houses they are mistresses paramount and
have other duennas to wait on them."

To this Dona Rodriguezwho was presentmade answerMy lady the
duchess has duennas in her service that might be countesses if it
was the will of fortune; 'but laws go as kings like;' let nobody speak
ill of duennas, above all of ancient maiden ones; for though I am
not one myself, I know and am aware of the advantage a maiden duenna


has over one that is a widow; but 'he who clipped us has kept the
scissors.'

For all that,said Sanchothere's so much to be clipped about
duennas, so my barber said, that 'it will be better not to stir the
rice even though it sticks.'

These squires,returned Dona Rodriguezare always our enemies;
and as they are the haunting spirits of the antechambers and watch
us at every step, whenever they are not saying their prayers (and
that's often enough) they spend their time in tattling about us,
digging up our bones and burying our good name. But I can tell these
walking blocks that we will live in spite of them, and in great houses
too, though we die of hunger and cover our flesh, be it delicate or
not, with widow's weeds, as one covers or hides a dunghill on a
procession day. By my faith, if it were permitted me and time allowed,
I could prove, not only to those here present, but to all the world,
that there is no virtue that is not to be found in a duenna.

I have no doubt,said the duchessthat my good Dona Rodriguez is
right, and very much so; but she had better bide her time for fighting
her own battle and that of the rest of the duennas, so as to crush the
calumny of that vile apothecary, and root out the prejudice in the
great Sancho Panza's mind.

To which Sancho repliedEver since I have sniffed the governorship
I have got rid of the humours of a squire, and I don't care a wild fig
for all the duennas in the world.

They would have carried on this duenna dispute further had they
not heard the notes of the fife and drums once morefrom which they
concluded that the Distressed Duenna was making her entrance. The
duchess asked the duke if it would be proper to go out to receive her
as she was a countess and a person of rank.

In respect of her being a countess,said Sanchobefore the duke
could replyI am for your highnesses going out to receive her; but
in respect of her being a duenna, it is my opinion you should not stir
a step.

Who bade thee meddle in this, Sancho?said Don Quixote.

Who, senor?said Sancho; "I meddle for I have a right to meddle
as a squire who has learned the rules of courtesy in the school of
your worshipthe most courteous and best-bred knight in the whole
world of courtliness; and in these thingsas I have heard your
worship sayas much is lost by a card too many as by a card too
fewand to one who has his ears openfew words."

Sancho is right,said the duke; "we'll see what the countess is
likeand by that measure the courtesy that is due to her."

And now the drums and fife made their entrance as before; and here
the author brought this short chapter to an end and began the next
following up the same adventurewhich is one of the most notable in
the history.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES


Following the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as
many as twelve duennasin two linesall dressed in ample mourning
robes apparently of milled sergewith hoods of fine white gauze so
long that they allowed only the border of the robe to be seen.
Behind them came the Countess Trifaldithe squire Trifaldin of the
White Beard leading her by the handclad in the finest unnapped black
baizesuch thathad it a napevery tuft would have shown as big
as a Martos chickpea; the tailor skirtor whatever it might be
calledended in three points which were borne up by the hands of
three pageslikewise dressed in mourningforming an elegant
geometrical figure with the three acute angles made by the three
pointsfrom which all who saw the peaked skirt concluded that it must
be because of it the countess was called Trifaldias though it were
Countess of the Three Skirts; and Benengeli says it was soand that
by her right name she was called the Countess Lobunabecause wolves
bred in great numbers in her country; and ifinstead of wolves
they had been foxesshe would have been called the Countess
Zorrunaas it was the custom in those parts for lords to take
distinctive titles from the thing or things most abundant in their
dominions; this countesshoweverin honour of the new fashion of her
skirtdropped Lobuna and took up Trifaldi.

The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession pacetheir
faces being covered with black veilsnot transparent ones like
Trifaldin'sbut so close that they allowed nothing to be seen through
them. As soon as the band of duennas was fully in sightthe dukethe
duchessand Don Quixote stood upas well as all who were watching
the slow-moving procession. The twelve duennas halted and formed a
lanealong which the Distressed One advancedTrifaldin still holding
her hand. On seeing this the dukethe duchessand Don Quixote went
some twelve paces forward to meet her. She thenkneeling on the
groundsaid in a voice hoarse and roughrather than fine and
delicateMay it please your highnesses not to offer such
courtesies to this your servant, I should say to this your handmaid,
for I am in such distress that I shall never be able to make a
proper return, because my strange and unparalleled misfortune has
carried off my wits, and I know not whither; but it must be a long way
off, for the more I look for them the less I find them.

He would be wanting in wits, senora countess,said the duke
who did not perceive your worth by your person, for at a glance it
may be seen it deserves all the cream of courtesy and flower of polite
usage;and raising her up by the hand he led her to a seat beside the
duchesswho likewise received her with great urbanity. Don Quixote
remained silentwhile Sancho was dying to see the features of
Trifaldi and one or two of her many duennas; but there was no
possibility of it until they themselves displayed them of their own
accord and free will.

All kept stillwaiting to see who would break silencewhich the
Distressed Duenna did in these words: "I am confidentmost mighty
lordmost fair ladyand most discreet companythat my most
miserable misery will be accorded a reception no less dispassionate
than generous and condolent in your most valiant bosomsfor it is one
that is enough to melt marblesoften diamondsand mollify the
steel of the most hardened hearts in the world; but ere it is
proclaimed to your hearingnot to say your earsI would fain be
enlightened whether there be present in this societycircleor
companythat knight immaculatissimusDon Quixote de la
Manchissimaand his squirissimus Panza."

The Panza is here,said Sanchobefore anyone could replyand
Don Quixotissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duenissima, you
may say what you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any


servissimus.

On this Don Quixote roseand addressing the Distressed Duenna
saidIf your sorrows, afflicted lady, can indulge in any hope of
relief from the valour or might of any knight-errant, here are mine,
which, feeble and limited though they be, shall be entirely devoted to
your service. I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose calling it is to
give aid to the needy of all sorts; and that being so, it is not
necessary for you, senora, to make any appeal to benevolence, or
deal in preambles, only to tell your woes plainly and
straightforwardly: for you have hearers that will know how, if not
to remedy them, to sympathise with them.

On hearing thisthe Distressed Duenna made as though she would
throw herself at Don Quixote's feetand actually did fall before them
and saidas she strove to embrace themBefore these feet and legs I
cast myself, O unconquered knight, as before, what they are, the
foundations and pillars of knight-errantry; these feet I desire to
kiss, for upon their steps hangs and depends the sole remedy for my
misfortune, O valorous errant, whose veritable achievements leave
behind and eclipse the fabulous ones of the Amadises, Esplandians, and
Belianises!Then turning from Don Quixote to Sancho Panzaand
grasping his handsshe saidO thou, most loyal squire that ever
served knight-errant in this present age or ages past, whose
goodness is more extensive than the beard of Trifaldin my companion
here of present, well mayest thou boast thyself that, in serving the
great Don Quixote, thou art serving, summed up in one, the whole
host of knights that have ever borne arms in the world. I conjure
thee, by what thou owest to thy most loyal goodness, that thou wilt
become my kind intercessor with thy master, that he speedily give
aid to this most humble and most unfortunate countess.

To this Sancho made answerAs to my goodness, senora, being as
long and as great as your squire's beard, it matters very little to
me; may I have my soul well bearded and moustached when it comes to
quit this life, that's the point; about beards here below I care
little or nothing; but without all these blandishments and prayers,
I will beg my master (for I know he loves me, and, besides, he has
need of me just now for a certain business) to help and aid your
worship as far as he can; unpack your woes and lay them before us, and
leave us to deal with them, for we'll be all of one mind.

The duke and duchessas it was they who had made the experiment
of this adventurewere ready to burst with laughter at all this
and between themselves they commended the clever acting of the
Trifaldiwhoreturning to her seatsaidQueen Dona Maguncia
reigned over the famous kingdom of Kandy, which lies between the great
Trapobana and the Southern Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin. She
was the widow of King Archipiela, her lord and husband, and of their
marriage they had issue the Princess Antonomasia, heiress of the
kingdom; which Princess Antonomasia was reared and brought up under my
care and direction, I being the oldest and highest in rank of her
mother's duennas. Time passed, and the young Antonomasia reached the
age of fourteen, and such a perfection of beauty, that nature could
not raise it higher. Then, it must not be supposed her intelligence
was childish; she was as intelligent as she was fair, and she was
fairer than all the world; and is so still, unless the envious fates
and hard-hearted sisters three have cut for her the thread of life.
But that they have not, for Heaven will not suffer so great a wrong to
Earth, as it would be to pluck unripe the grapes of the fairest
vineyard on its surface. Of this beauty, to which my poor feeble
tongue has failed to do justice, countless princes, not only of that
country, but of others, were enamoured, and among them a private
gentleman, who was at the court, dared to raise his thoughts to the


heaven of so great beauty, trusting to his youth, his gallant bearing,
his numerous accomplishments and graces, and his quickness and
readiness of wit; for I may tell your highnesses, if I am not wearying
you, that he played the guitar so as to make it speak, and he was,
besides, a poet and a great dancer, and he could make birdcages so
well, that by making them alone he might have gained a livelihood, had
he found himself reduced to utter poverty; and gifts and graces of
this kind are enough to bring down a mountain, not to say a tender
young girl. But all his gallantry, wit, and gaiety, all his graces and
accomplishments, would have been of little or no avail towards gaining
the fortress of my pupil, had not the impudent thief taken the
precaution of gaining me over first. First, the villain and
heartless vagabond sought to win my good-will and purchase my
compliance, so as to get me, like a treacherous warder, to deliver
up to him the keys of the fortress I had in charge. In a word, he
gained an influence over my mind, and overcame my resolutions with I
know not what trinkets and jewels he gave me; but it was some verses I
heard him singing one night from a grating that opened on the street
where he lived, that, more than anything else, made me give way and
led to my fall; and if I remember rightly they ran thus:

From that sweet enemy of mine

My bleeding heart hath had its wound;

And to increase the pain I'm bound
To suffer and to make no sign.

The lines seemed pearls to me and his voice sweet as syrup; and
afterwards, I may say ever since then, looking at the misfortune
into which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as Plato advised,
ought to he banished from all well-ordered States; at least the
amatory ones, for they write verses, not like those of 'The Marquis of
Mantua,' that delight and draw tears from the women and children,
but sharp-pointed conceits that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and
like the lightning strike it, leaving the raiment uninjured. Another
time he sang:

Come Death, so subtly veiled that I

Thy coming know not, how or when,

Lest it should give me life again
To find how sweet it is to die.

-and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as enchant when
sung and fascinate when written. And then, when they condescend to
compose a sort of verse that was at that time in vogue in Kandy, which
they call seguidillas! Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks
forth, and the body grows restless and all the senses turn
quicksilver. And so I say, sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve
to be banished to the isles of the lizards. Though it is not they that
are in fault, but the simpletons that extol them, and the fools that
believe in them; and had I been the faithful duenna I should have
been, his stale conceits would have never moved me, nor should I
have been taken in by such phrases as 'in death I live,' 'in ice I
burn,' 'in flames I shiver,' 'hopeless I hope,' 'I go and stay,' and
paradoxes of that sort which their writings are full of. And then when
they promise the Phoenix of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the horses
of the Sun, the pearls of the South, the gold of Tibar, and the balsam
of Panchaia! Then it is they give a loose to their pens, for it
costs them little to make promises they have no intention or power
of fulfilling. But where am I wandering to? Woe is me, unfortunate
being! What madness or folly leads me to speak of the faults of
others, when there is so much to be said about my own? Again, woe is
me, hapless that I am! it was not verses that conquered me, but my own
simplicity; it was not music made me yield, but my own imprudence;
my own great ignorance and little caution opened the way and cleared


the path for Don Clavijo's advances, for that was the name of the
gentleman I have referred to; and so, with my help as go-between, he
found his way many a time into the chamber of the deceived Antonomasia
(deceived not by him but by me) under the title of a lawful husband;
for, sinner though I was, would not have allowed him to approach the
edge of her shoe-sole without being her husband. No, no, not that;
marriage must come first in any business of this sort that I take in
hand. But there was one hitch in this case, which was that of
inequality of rank, Don Clavijo being a private gentleman, and the
Princess Antonomasia, as I said, heiress to the kingdom. The
entanglement remained for some time a secret, kept hidden by my
cunning precautions, until I perceived that a certain expansion of
waist in Antonomasia must before long disclose it, the dread of
which made us all there take counsel together, and it was agreed
that before the mischief came to light, Don Clavijo should demand
Antonomasia as his wife before the Vicar, in virtue of an agreement to
marry him made by the princess, and drafted by my wit in such
binding terms that the might of Samson could not have broken it. The
necessary steps were taken; the Vicar saw the agreement, and took
the lady's confession; she confessed everything in full, and he
ordered her into the custody of a very worthy alguacil of the court.

Are there alguacils of the court in Kandy, too,said Sancho at
thisand poets, and seguidillas? I swear I think the world is the
same all over! But make haste, Senora Trifaldi; for it is late, and
I am dying to know the end of this long story.

I will,replied the countess.

CHAPTER XXXIX

IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY

By every word that Sancho utteredthe duchess was as much delighted
as Don Quixote was driven to desperation. He bade him hold his tongue
and the Distressed One went on to say: "At lengthafter much
questioning and answeringas the princess held to her story
without changing or varying her previous declarationthe Vicar gave
his decision in favour of Don Clavijoand she was delivered over to
him as his lawful wife; which the Queen Dona Magunciathe Princess
Antonomasia's motherso took to heartthat within the space of three
days we buried her."

She died, no doubt,said Sancho.

Of course,said Trifaldin; "they don't bury living people in
Kandyonly the dead."

Senor Squire,said Sanchoa man in a swoon has been known to
be buried before now, in the belief that he was dead; and it struck me
that Queen Maguncia ought to have swooned rather than died; because
with life a great many things come right, and the princess's folly was
not so great that she need feel it so keenly. If the lady had
married some page of hers, or some other servant of the house, as many
another has done, so I have heard say, then the mischief would have
been past curing. But to marry such an elegant accomplished
gentleman as has been just now described to us- indeed, indeed, though
it was a folly, it was not such a great one as you think; for
according to the rules of my master here- and he won't allow me to
lie- as of men of letters bishops are made, so of gentlemen knights,
specially if they be errant, kings and emperors may be made.


Thou art right, Sancho,said Don Quixotefor with a
knight-errant, if he has but two fingers' breadth of good fortune,
it is on the cards to become the mightiest lord on earth. But let
senora the Distressed One proceed; for I suspect she has got yet to
tell us the bitter part of this so far sweet story.

The bitter is indeed to come,said the countess; "and such
bitter that colocynth is sweet and oleander toothsome in comparison.
The queenthenbeing deadand not in a swoonwe buried her; and
hardly had we covered her with earthhardly had we said our last
farewellswhenquis talia fando temperet a lachrymis? over the
queen's grave there appearedmounted upon a wooden horsethe giant
MalambrunoMaguncia's first cousinwho besides being cruel is an
enchanter; and heto revenge the death of his cousinpunish the
audacity of Don Clavijoand in wrath at the contumacy of Antonomasia
left them both enchanted by his art on the grave itself; she being
changed into an ape of brassand he into a horrible crocodile of some
unknown metal; while between the two there stands a pillaralso of
metalwith certain characters in the Syriac language inscribed upon
itwhichbeing translated into Kandianand now into Castilian
contain the following sentence: 'These two rash lovers shall not
recover their former shape until the valiant Manchegan comes to do
battle with me in single combat; for the Fates reserve this unexampled
adventure for his mighty valour alone.' This donehe drew from its
sheath a huge broad scimitarand seizing me by the hair he made as
though he meant to cut my throat and shear my head clean off. I was
terror-strickenmy voice stuck in my throatand I was in the deepest
distress; nevertheless I summoned up my strength as well as I could
and in a trembling and piteous voice I addressed such words to him
as induced him to stay the infliction of a punishment so severe. He
then caused all the duennas of the palacethose that are here
presentto be brought before him; and after having dwelt upon the
enormity of our offenceand denounced duennastheir characters
their evil ways and worse intrigueslaying to the charge of all
what I alone was guilty ofhe said he would not visit us with capital
punishmentbut with others of a slow nature which would be in
effect civil death for ever; and the very instant he ceased speaking
we all felt the pores of our faces openingand pricking usas if
with the points of needles. We at once put our hands up to our faces
and found ourselves in the state you now see."

Here the Distressed One and the other duennas raised the veils
with which they were coveredand disclosed countenances all bristling
with beardssome redsome blacksome whiteand some grizzledat
which spectacle the duke and duchess made a show of being filled
with wonder. Don Quixote and Sancho were overwhelmed with amazement
and the bystanders lost in astonishmentwhile the Trifaldi went on to
say: "Thus did that malevolent villain Malambruno punish us
covering the tenderness and softness of our faces with these rough
bristles! Would to heaven that he had swept off our heads with his
enormous scimitar instead of obscuring the light of our countenances
with these wool-combings that cover us! For if we look into the
mattersirs (and what I am now going to say I would say with eyes
flowing like fountainsonly that the thought of our misfortune and
the oceans they have already weptkeep them as dry as barley
spearsand so I say it without tears)whereI askcan a duenna
with a beard to to? What father or mother will feel pity for her?
Who will help her? Forif even when she has a smooth skinand a face
tortured by a thousand kinds of washes and cosmeticsshe can hardly
get anybody to love herwhat will she do when she shows a
countenace turned into a thicket? Oh duennascompanions mine! it
was an unlucky moment when we were born and an ill-starred hour when
our fathers begot us!" And as she said this she showed signs of


being about to faint.

CHAPTER XL

OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS
MEMORABLE HISTORY

Verily and truly all those who find pleasure in histories like
this ought show their gratitude to Cide Hameteits original author
for the scrupulous care he has taken to set before us all its minute
particularsnot leaving anythinghowever trifling it may bethat he
does not make clear and plain. He portrays the thoughtshe reveals
the fancieshe answers implied questionsclears up doubtssets
objections at restandin a wordmakes plain the smallest points
the most inquisitive can desire to know. O renowned author! O happy
Don Quixote! O famous famous droll Sancho! All and eachmay ye live
countless ages for the delight and amusement of the dwellers on earth!

The history goes on to say that when Sancho saw the Distressed One
faint he exclaimed: "I swear by the faith of an honest man and the
shades of all my ancestors the Panzasthat never I did see or hear
ofnor has my master related or conceived in his mindsuch an
adventure as this. A thousand devils- not to curse thee- take thee
Malambrunofor an enchanter and a giant! Couldst thou find no other
sort of punishment for these sinners but bearding them? Would it not
have been better- it would have been better for them- to have taken
off half their noses from the middle upwardseven though they'd
have snuffled when they spokethan to have put beards on them? I'll
bet they have not the means of paying anybody to shave them."

That is the truth, senor,said one of the twelve; "we have not the
money to get ourselves shavedand so we havesome of ustaken to
using sticking-plasters by way of an economical remedyfor by
applying them to our faces and plucking them off with a jerk we are
left as bare and smooth as the bottom of a stone mortar. There areto
be surewomen in Kandy that go about from house to house to remove
downand trim eyebrowsand make cosmetics for the use of the
womenbut wethe duennas of my ladywould never let them infor
most of them have a flavour of agents that have ceased to be
principals; and if we are not relieved by Senor Don Quixote we shall
be carried to our graves with beards."

I will pluck out my own in the land of the Moors,said Don
Quixoteif I don't cure yours.

At this instant the Trifaldi recovered from her swoon and saidThe
chink of that promise, valiant knight, reached my ears in the midst of
my swoon, and has been the means of reviving me and bringing back my
senses; and so once more I implore you, illustrious errant,
indomitable sir, to let your gracious promises be turned into deeds.

There shall be no delay on my part,said Don Quixote. "Bethink
yousenoraof what I must dofor my heart is most eager to serve
you."

The fact is,replied the Distressed Oneit is five thousand
leagues, a couple more or less, from this to the kingdom of Kandy,
if you go by land; but if you go through the air and in a straight
line, it is three thousand two hundred and twenty-seven. You must
know, too, that Malambruno told me that, whenever fate provided the
knight our deliverer, he himself would send him a steed far better and


with less tricks than a post-horse; for he will be that same wooden
horse on which the valiant Pierres carried off the fair Magalona;
which said horse is guided by a peg he has in his forehead that serves
for a bridle, and flies through the air with such rapidity that you
would fancy the very devils were carrying him. This horse, according
to ancient tradition, was made by Merlin. He lent him to Pierres,
who was a friend of his, and who made long journeys with him, and,
as has been said, carried off the fair Magalona, bearing her through
the air on its haunches and making all who beheld them from the
earth gape with astonishment; and he never lent him save to those whom
he loved or those who paid him well; and since the great Pierres we
know of no one having mounted him until now. From him Malambruno stole
him by his magic art, and he has him now in his possession, and
makes use of him in his journeys which he constantly makes through
different parts of the world; he is here to-day, to-morrow in
France, and the next day in Potosi; and the best of it is the said
horse neither eats nor sleeps nor wears out shoes, and goes at an
ambling pace through the air without wings, so that he whom he has
mounted upon him can carry a cup full of water in his hand without
spilling a drop, so smoothly and easily does he go, for which reason
the fair Magalona enjoyed riding him greatly.

For going smoothly and easily,said Sancho at thisgive me my
Dapple, though he can't go through the air; but on the ground I'll
back him against all the amblers in the world.

They all laughedand the Distressed One continued: "And this same
horseif so be that Malambruno is disposed to put an end to our
sufferingswill be here before us ere the night shall have advanced
half an hour; for he announced to me that the sign he would give me
whereby I might know that I had found the knight I was in quest of
would be to send me the horse wherever he might bespeedily and
promptly."

And how many is there room for on this horse?asked Sancho.

Two,said the Distressed Oneone in the saddle, and the other on
the croup; and generally these two are knight and squire, when there
is no damsel that's being carried off.

I'd like to know, Senora Distressed One,said Sanchowhat is the
name of this horse?

His name,said the Distressed Oneis not the same as
Bellerophon's horse that was called Pegasus, or Alexander the Great's,
called Bucephalus, or Orlando Furioso's, the name of which was
Brigliador, nor yet Bayard, the horse of Reinaldos of Montalvan, nor
Frontino like Ruggiero's, nor Bootes or Peritoa, as they say the
horses of the sun were called, nor is he called Orelia, like the horse
on which the unfortunate Rodrigo, the last king of the Goths, rode
to the battle where he lost his life and his kingdom.

I'll bet,said Sanchothat as they have given him none of
these famous names of well-known horses, no more have they given him
the name of my master's Rocinante, which for being apt surpasses all
that have been mentioned.

That is true,said the bearded countessstill it fits him very
well, for he is called Clavileno the Swift, which name is in
accordance with his being made of wood, with the peg he has in his
forehead, and with the swift pace at which he travels; and so, as
far as name goes, he may compare with the famous Rocinante.

I have nothing to say against his name,said Sancho; "but with


what sort of bridle or halter is he managed?"

I have said already,said the Trifaldithat it is with a peg, by
turning which to one side or the other the knight who rides him
makes him go as he pleases, either through the upper air, or
skimming and almost sweeping the earth, or else in that middle
course that is sought and followed in all well-regulated proceedings.

I'd like to see him,said Sancho; "but to fancy I'm going to mount
himeither in the saddle or on the croupis to ask pears of the
elm tree. A good joke indeed! I can hardly keep my seat upon Dapple
and on a pack-saddle softer than silk itselfand here they'd have
me hold on upon haunches of plank without pad or cushion of any
sort! GadI have no notion of bruising myself to get rid of
anyone's beard; let each one shave himself as best he can; I'm not
going to accompany my master on any such long journey; besidesI
can't give any help to the shaving of these beards as I can to the
disenchantment of my lady Dulcinea."

Yes, you can, my friend,replied the Trifaldi; "and so much
that without youso I understandwe shall be able to do nothing."

In the king's name!exclaimed Sanchowhat have squires got to do
with the adventures of their masters? Are they to have the fame of
such as they go through, and we the labour? Body o' me! if the
historians would only say, 'Such and such a knight finished such and
such an adventure, but with the help of so and so, his squire, without
which it would have been impossible for him to accomplish it;' but
they write curtly, Don Paralipomenon of the Three Stars
accomplished the adventure of the six monsters;' without mentioning
such a person as his squirewho was there all the timejust as if
there was no such being. Once moresirsI say my master may go
aloneand much good may it do him; and I'll stay here in the
company of my lady the duchess; and maybe when he comes backhe
will find the lady Dulcinea's affair ever so much advanced; for I mean
in leisure hoursand at idle momentsto give myself a spell of
whipping without so much as a hair to cover me."

For all that you must go if it be necessary, my good Sancho,
said the duchessfor they are worthy folk who ask you; and the faces
of these ladies must not remain overgrown in this way because of
your idle fears; that would be a hard case indeed.

In the king's name, once more!said Sancho; "If this charitable
work were to be done for the sake of damsels in confinement or
charity-girlsa man might expose himself to some hardships; but to
bear it for the sake of stripping beards off duennas! Devil take it!
I'd sooner see them all beardedfrom the highest to the lowestand
from the most prudish to the most affected."

You are very hard on duennas, Sancho my friend,said the
duchess; "you incline very much to the opinion of the Toledo
apothecary. But indeed you are wrong; there are duennas in my house
that may serve as patterns of duennas; and here is my Dona
Rodriguezwho will not allow me to say otherwise."

Your excellence may say it if you like,said the Rodriguez; "for
God knows the truth of everything; and whether we duennas are good
or badbearded or smoothwe are our mothers' daughters like other
women; and as God sent us into the worldhe knows why he didand
on his mercy I relyand not on anybody's beard."

Well, Senora Rodriguez, Senora Trifaldi, and present company,said
Don QuixoteI trust in Heaven that it will look with kindly eyes


upon your troubles, for Sancho will do as I bid him. Only let
Clavileno come and let me find myself face to face with Malambruno,
and I am certain no razor will shave you more easily than my sword
shall shave Malambruno's head off his shoulders; for 'God bears with
the wicked, but not for ever.

Ah!exclaimed the Distressed One at thismay all the stars of
the celestial regions look down upon your greatness with benign
eyes, valiant knight, and shed every prosperity and valour upon your
heart, that it may be the shield and safeguard of the abused and
downtrodden race of duennas, detested by apothecaries, sneered at by
squires, and made game of by pages. Ill betide the jade that in the
flower of her youth would not sooner become a nun than a duenna!
Unfortunate beings that we are, we duennas! Though we may be descended
in the direct male line from Hector of Troy himself, our mistresses
never fail to address us as 'you' if they think it makes queens of
them. O giant Malambruno, though thou art an enchanter, thou art
true to thy promises. Send us now the peerless Clavileno, that our
misfortune may be brought to an end; for if the hot weather sets in
and these beards of ours are still there, alas for our lot!

The Trifaldi said this in such a pathetic way that she drew tears
from the eyes of all and even Sancho's filled up; and he resolved in
his heart to accompany his master to the uttermost ends of the
earthif so be the removal of the wool from those venerable
countenances depended upon it.

CHAPTER XLI

OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE

And now night cameand with it the appointed time for the arrival
of the famous horse Clavilenothe non-appearance of which was already
beginning to make Don Quixote uneasyfor it struck him thatas
Malambruno was so long about sending iteither he himself was not the
knight for whom the adventure was reservedor else Malambruno did not
dare to meet him in single combat. But lo! suddenly there came into
the garden four wild-men all clad in green ivy bearing on their
shoulders a great wooden horse. They placed it on its feet on the
groundand one of the wild-men saidLet the knight who has heart
for it mount this machine.

Here Sancho exclaimedI don't mount, for neither have I the
heart nor am I a knight.

And let the squire, if he has one,continued the wild-mantake
his seat on the croup, and let him trust the valiant Malambruno; for
by no sword save his, nor by the malice of any other, shall he be
assailed. It is but to turn this peg the horse has in his neck, and he
will bear them through the air to where Malambruno awaits them; but
lest the vast elevation of their course should make them giddy,
their eyes must be covered until the horse neighs, which will be the
sign of their having completed their journey.

With these wordsleaving Clavileno behind themthey retired with
easy dignity the way they came. As soon as the Distressed One saw
the horsealmost in tears she exclaimed to Don QuixoteValiant
knight, the promise of Malambruno has proved trustworthy; the horse
has come, our beards are growing, and by every hair in them all of
us implore thee to shave and shear us, as it is only mounting him with
thy squire and making a happy beginning with your new journey.


That I will, Senora Countess Trifaldi,said Don Quixotemost
gladly and with right goodwill, without stopping to take a cushion
or put on my spurs, so as not to lose time, such is my desire to see
you and all these duennas shaved clean.

That I won't,said Sanchowith good-will or bad-will, or any way
at all; and if this shaving can't be done without my mounting on the
croup, my master had better look out for another squire to go with
him, and these ladies for some other way of making their faces smooth;
I'm no witch to have a taste for travelling through the air. What
would my islanders say when they heard their governor was going,
strolling about on the winds? And another thing, as it is three
thousand and odd leagues from this to Kandy, if the horse tires, or
the giant takes huff, we'll he half a dozen years getting back, and
there won't be isle or island in the world that will know me: and
so, as it is a common saying 'in delay there's danger,' and 'when they
offer thee a heifer run with a halter,' these ladies' beards must
excuse me; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome;' I mean I am very well
in this house where so much is made of me, and I hope for such a
good thing from the master as to see myself a governor.

Friend Sancho,said the duke at thisthe island that I have
promised you is not a moving one, or one that will run away; it has
roots so deeply buried in the bowels of the earth that it will be no
easy matter to pluck it up or shift it from where it is; you know as
well as I do that there is no sort of office of any importance that is
not obtained by a bribe of some kind, great or small; well then,
that which I look to receive for this government is that you go with
your master Don Quixote, and bring this memorable adventure to a
conclusion; and whether you return on Clavileno as quickly as his
speed seems to promise, or adverse fortune brings you back on foot
travelling as a pilgrim from hostel to hostel and from inn to inn, you
will always find your island on your return where you left it, and
your islanders with the same eagerness they have always had to receive
you as their governor, and my good-will will remain the same; doubt
not the truth of this, Senor Sancho, for that would be grievously
wronging my disposition to serve you.

Say no more, senor,said Sancho; "I am a poor squire and not equal
to carrying so much courtesy; let my master mount; bandage my eyes and
commit me to God's careand tell me if I may commend myself to our
Lord or call upon the angels to protect me when we go towering up
there."

To this the Trifaldi made answerSancho, you may freely commend
yourself to God or whom you will; for Malambruno though an enchanter
is a Christian, and works his enchantments with great
circumspection, taking very good care not to fall out with anyone.

Well then,said SanchoGod and the most holy Trinity of Gaeta
give me help!

Since the memorable adventure of the fulling mills,said Don
QuixoteI have never seen Sancho in such a fright as now; were I
as superstitious as others his abject fear would cause me some
little trepidation of spirit. But come here, Sancho, for with the
leave of these gentles I would say a word or two to thee in
private;and drawing Sancho aside among the trees of the garden and
seizing both his hands he saidThou seest, brother Sancho, the
long journey we have before us, and God knows when we shall return, or
what leisure or opportunities this business will allow us; I wish thee
therefore to retire now to thy chamber, as though thou wert going to
fetch something required for the road, and in a trice give thyself


if it be only five hundred lashes on account of the three thousand
three hundred to which thou art bound; it will be all to the good, and
to make a beginning with a thing is to have it half finished.

By God,said Sanchobut your worship must be out of your senses!
This is like the common saying, 'You see me with child, and you want
me a virgin.' Just as I'm about to go sitting on a bare board, your
worship would have me score my backside! Indeed, your worship is not
reasonable. Let us be off to shave these duennas; and on our return
I promise on my word to make such haste to wipe off all that's due
as will satisfy your worship; I can't say more.

Well, I will comfort myself with that promise, my good Sancho,
replied Don Quixoteand I believe thou wilt keep it; for indeed
though stupid thou art veracious.

I'm not voracious,said Sanchoonly peckish; but even if I was a
little, still I'd keep my word.

With this they went back to mount Clavilenoand as they were
about to do so Don Quixote saidCover thine eyes, Sancho, and mount;
for one who sends for us from lands so far distant cannot mean to
deceive us for the sake of the paltry glory to be derived from
deceiving persons who trust in him; though all should turn out the
contrary of what I hope, no malice will be able to dim the glory of
having undertaken this exploit.

Let us be off, senor,said Sanchofor I have taken the beards
and tears of these ladies deeply to heart, and I shan't eat a bit to
relish it until I have seen them restored to their former
smoothness. Mount, your worship, and blindfold yourself, for if I am
to go on the croup, it is plain the rider in the saddle must mount
first.

That is true,said Don Quixoteandtaking a handkerchief out
of his pockethe begged the Distressed One to bandage his eyes very
carefully; but after having them bandaged he uncovered them again
sayingIf my memory does not deceive me, I have read in Virgil of
the Palladium of Troy, a wooden horse the Greeks offered to the
goddess Pallas, which was big with armed knights, who were
afterwards the destruction of Troy; so it would he as well to see,
first of all, what Clavileno has in his stomach.

There is no occasion,said the Distressed One; "I will be bail for
himand I know that Malambruno has nothing tricky or treacherous
about him; you may mount without any fearSenor Don Quixote; on my
head be it if any harm befalls you."

Don Quixote thought that to say anything further with regard to
his safety would be putting his courage in an unfavourable light;
and sowithout more wordshe mounted Clavilenoand tried the peg
which turned easily; and as he had no stirrups and his legs hung down
he looked like nothing so much as a figure in some Roman triumph
painted or embroidered on a Flemish tapestry.

Much against the grainand very slowlySancho proceeded to
mountandafter settling himself as well as he could on the croup
found it rather hardand not at all softand asked the duke if it
would be possible to oblige him with a pad of some kindor a cushion;
even if it were off the couch of his lady the duchessor the bed of
one of the pages; as the haunches of that horse were more like
marble than wood. On this the Trifaldi observed that Clavileno would
not bear any kind of harness or trappingsand that his best plan
would be to sit sideways like a womanas in that way he would not


feel the hardness so much.

Sancho did soandbidding them farewellallowed his eyes to he
bandagedbut immediately afterwards uncovered them againand looking
tenderly and tearfully on those in the gardenbade them help him in
his present strait with plenty of Paternosters and Ave Mariasthat
God might provide some one to say as many for themwhenever they
found themselves in a similar emergency.

At this Don Quixote exclaimedArt thou on the gallows, thief, or
at thy last moment, to use pitiful entreaties of that sort?
Cowardly, spiritless creature, art thou not in the very place the fair
Magalona occupied, and from which she descended, not into the grave,
but to become Queen of France; unless the histories lie? And I who
am here beside thee, may I not put myself on a par with the valiant
Pierres, who pressed this very spot that I now press? Cover thine
eyes, cover thine eyes, abject animal, and let not thy fear escape thy
lips, at least in my presence.

Blindfold me,said Sancho; "as you won't let me commend myself
or be commended to Godis it any wonder if I am afraid there is a
region of devils about here that will carry us off to Peralvillo?"

They were then blindfoldedand Don Quixotefinding himself settled
to his satisfactionfelt for the pegand the instant he placed his
fingers on itall the duennas and all who stood by lifted up their
voices exclaimingGod guide thee, valiant knight! God be with
thee, intrepid squire! Now, now ye go cleaving the air more swiftly
than an arrow! Now ye begin to amaze and astonish all who are gazing
at you from the earth! Take care not to wobble about, valiant
Sancho! Mind thou fall not, for thy fall will be worse than that
rash youth's who tried to steer the chariot of his father the Sun!

As Sancho heard the voicesclinging tightly to his master and
winding his arms round himhe saidSenor, how do they make out we
are going up so high, if their voices reach us here and they seem to
be speaking quite close to us?

Don't mind that, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "for as affairs of this
sortand flights like this are out of the common course of things
you can see and hear as much as you like a thousand leagues off; but
don't squeeze me so tight or thou wilt upset me; and really I know not
what thou hast to be uneasy or frightened atfor I can safely swear I
never mounted a smoother-going steed all the days of my life; one
would fancy we never stirred from one place. Banish fearmy friend
for indeed everything is going as it oughtand we have the wind
astern."

That's true,said Sanchofor such a strong wind comes against me
on this side, that it seems as if people were blowing on me with a
thousand pair of bellows;which was the case; they were puffing at
him with a great pair of bellows; for the whole adventure was so
well planned by the dukethe duchessand their majordomothat
nothing was omitted to make it perfectly successful.

Don Quixote nowfeeling the blastsaidBeyond a doubt, Sancho,
we must have already reached the second region of the air, where the
hail and snow are generated; the thunder, the lightning, and the
thunderbolts are engendered in the third region, and if we go on
ascending at this rate, we shall shortly plunge into the region of
fire, and I know not how to regulate this peg, so as not to mount up
where we shall be burned.

And now they began to warm their facesfrom a distancewith tow


that could be easily set on fire and extinguished againfixed on
the end of a cane. On feeling the heat Sancho saidMay I die if we
are not already in that fire place, or very near it, for a good part
of my beard has been singed, and I have a mind, senor, to uncover
and see whereabouts we are.

Do nothing of the kind,said Don Quixote; "remember the true story
of the licentiate Torralva that the devils carried flying through
the air riding on a stick with his eyes shut; who in twelve hours
reached Rome and dismounted at Torre di Nonawhich is a street of the
cityand saw the whole sack and storming and the death of Bourbon
and was back in Madrid the next morningwhere he gave an account of
all he had seen; and he said moreover that as he was going through the
airthe devil bade him open his eyesand he did soand saw
himself so near the body of the moonso it seemed to himthat he
could have laid hold of it with his handand that he did not dare
to look at the earth lest he should be seized with giddiness. So that
Sanchoit will not do for us to uncover ourselvesfor he who has
us in charge will be responsible for us; and perhaps we are gaining an
altitude and mounting up to enable us to descend at one swoop on the
kingdom of Kandyas the saker or falcon does on the heronso as to
seize it however high it may soar; and though it seems to us not
half an hour since we left the gardenbelieve me we must have
travelled a great distance."

I don't know how that may be,said Sancho; "all I know is that
if the Senora Magallanes or Magalona was satisfied with this croup
she could not have been very tender of flesh."

The dukethe duchessand all in the garden were listening to the
conversation of the two heroesand were beyond measure amused by
it; and nowdesirous of putting a finishing touch to this rare and
well-contrived adventurethey applied a light to Clavileno's tail
with some towand the horsebeing full of squibs and crackers
immediately blew up with a prodigious noiseand brought Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza to the ground half singed. By this time the bearded
band of duennasthe Trifaldi and allhad vanished from the garden
and those that remained lay stretched on the ground as if in a
swoon. Don Quixote and Sancho got up rather shakenandlooking about
themwere filled with amazement at finding themselves in the same
garden from which they had startedand seeing such a number of people
stretched on the ground; and their astonishment was increased when
at one side of the garden they perceived a tall lance planted in the
groundand hanging from it by two cords of green silk a smooth
white parchment on which there was the following inscription in
large gold letters: "The illustrious knight Don Quixote of La Mancha
hasby merely attempting itfinished and concluded the adventure
of the Countess Trifaldiotherwise called the Distressed Duenna;
Malambruno is now satisfied on every pointthe chins of the duennas
are now smooth and cleanand King Don Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia
in their original form; and when the squirely flagellation shall
have been completedthe white dove shall find herself delivered
from the pestiferous gerfalcons that persecute herand in the arms of
her beloved mate; for such is the decree of the sage Merlin
arch-enchanter of enchanters."

As soon as Don Quixote had read the inscription on the parchment
he perceived clearly that it referred to the disenchantment of
Dulcineaand returning hearty thanks to heaven that he had with so
little danger achieved so grand an exploit as to restore to their
former complexion the countenances of those venerable duennashe
advanced towards the duke and duchesswho had not yet come to
themselvesand taking the duke by the hand he saidBe of good
cheer, worthy sir, be of good cheer; it's nothing at all; the


adventure is now over and without any harm done, as the inscription
fixed on this post shows plainly.

The duke came to himself slowly and like one recovering
consciousness after a heavy sleepand the duchess and all who had
fallen prostrate about the garden did the samewith such
demonstrations of wonder and amazement that they would have almost
persuaded one that what they pretended so adroitly in jest had
happened to them in reality. The duke read the placard with
half-shut eyesand then ran to embrace Don Quixote with-open arms
declaring him to be the best knight that had ever been seen in any
age. Sancho kept looking about for the Distressed Oneto see what her
face was like without the beardand if she was as fair as her elegant
person promised; but they told him thatthe instant Clavileno
descended flaming through the air and came to the groundthe whole
band of duennas with the Trifaldi vanishedand that they were already
shaved and without a stump left.

The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long journeyto
which Sancho repliedI felt, senora, that we were flying through the
region of fire, as my master told me, and I wanted to uncover my
eyes for a bit; but my master, when I asked leave to uncover myself,
would not let me; but as I have a little bit of curiosity about me,
and a desire to know what is forbidden and kept from me, quietly and
without anyone seeing me I drew aside the handkerchief covering my
eyes ever so little, close to my nose, and from underneath looked
towards the earth, and it seemed to me that it was altogether no
bigger than a grain of mustard seed, and that the men walking on it
were little bigger than hazel nuts; so you may see how high we must
have got to then.

To this the duchess saidSancho, my friend, mind what you are
saying; it seems you could not have seen the earth, but only the men
walking on it; for if the earth looked to you like a grain of
mustard seed, and each man like a hazel nut, one man alone would
have covered the whole earth.

That is true,said Sanchobut for all that I got a glimpse of
a bit of one side of it, and saw it all.

Take care, Sancho,said the duchesswith a bit of one side one
does not see the whole of what one looks at.

I don't understand that way of looking at things,said Sancho;
I only know that your ladyship will do well to bear in mind that as
we were flying by enchantment so I might have seen the whole earth and
all the men by enchantment whatever way I looked; and if you won't
believe this, no more will you believe that, uncovering myself
nearly to the eyebrows, I saw myself so close to the sky that there
was not a palm and a half between me and it; and by everything that
I can swear by, senora, it is mighty great! And it so happened we came
by where the seven goats are, and by God and upon my soul, as in my
youth I was a goatherd in my own country, as soon as I saw them I felt
a longing to be among them for a little, and if I had not given way to
it I think I'd have burst. So I come and take, and what do I do?
without saying anything to anybody, not even to my master, softly
and quietly I got down from Clavileno and amused myself with the
goats- which are like violets, like flowers- for nigh three-quarters
of an hour; and Clavileno never stirred or moved from one spot.

And while the good Sancho was amusing himself with the goats,said
the dukehow did Senor Don Quixote amuse himself?

To which Don Quixote repliedAs all these things and such like


occurrences are out of the ordinary course of nature, it is no
wonder that Sancho says what he does; for my own part I can only say
that I did not uncover my eyes either above or below, nor did I see
sky or earth or sea or shore. It is true I felt that I was passing
through the region of the air, and even that I touched that of fire;
but that we passed farther I cannot believe; for the region of fire
being between the heaven of the moon and the last region of the air,
we could not have reached that heaven where the seven goats Sancho
speaks of are without being burned; and as we were not burned,
either Sancho is lying or Sancho is dreaming.

I am neither lying nor dreaming,said Sancho; "only ask me the
tokens of those same goatsand you'll see by that whether I'm telling
the truth or not."

Tell us them then, Sancho,said the duchess.

Two of them,said Sanchoare green, two blood-red, two blue, and
one a mixture of all colours.

An odd sort of goat, that,said the duke; "in this earthly
region of ours we have no such colours; I mean goats of such colours."

That's very plain,said Sancho; "of course there must be a
difference between the goats of heaven and the goats of the earth."

Tell me, Sancho,said the dukedid you see any he-goat among
those goats?

No, senor,said Sancho; "but I have heard say that none ever
passed the horns of the moon."

They did not care to ask him anything more about his journeyfor
they saw he was in the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving
an account of everything that went on therewithout having ever
stirred from the garden. Suchin shortwas the end of the
adventure of the Distressed Duennawhich gave the duke and duchess
laughing matter not only for the time beingbut for all their
livesand Sancho something to talk about for agesif he lived so
long; but Don Quixotecoming close to his earsaid to him
Sancho, as you would have us believe what you saw in heaven, I
require you to believe me as to what I saw in the cave of
Montesinos; I say no more.

CHAPTER XLII

OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET
OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLANDTOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS

The duke and duchess were so well pleased with the successful and
droll result of the adventure of the Distressed Onethat they
resolved to carry on the jokeseeing what a fit subject they had to
deal with for making it all pass for reality. So having laid their
plans and given instructions to their servants and vassals how to
behave to Sancho in his government of the promised islandthe next
daythat following Clavileno's flightthe duke told Sancho to
prepare and get ready to go and be governorfor his islanders were
already looking out for him as for the showers of May.

Sancho made him an obeisanceand saidEver since I came down from
heaven, and from the top of it beheld the earth, and saw how little it


is, the great desire I had to be a governor has been partly cooled
in me; for what is there grand in being ruler on a grain of mustard
seed, or what dignity or authority in governing half a dozen men about
as big as hazel nuts; for, so far as I could see, there were no more
on the whole earth? If your lordship would be so good as to give me
ever so small a bit of heaven, were it no more than half a league, I'd
rather have it than the best island in the world.

Recollect, Sancho,said the dukeI cannot give a bit of
heaven, no not so much as the breadth of my nail, to anyone; rewards
and favours of that sort are reserved for God alone. What I can give I
give you, and that is a real, genuine island, compact, well
proportioned, and uncommonly fertile and fruitful, where, if you
know how to use your opportunities, you may, with the help of the
world's riches, gain those of heaven.

Well then,said Sancholet the island come; and I'll try and
be such a governor, that in spite of scoundrels I'll go to heaven; and
it's not from any craving to quit my own humble condition or better
myself, but from the desire I have to try what it tastes like to be
a governor.

If you once make trial of it, Sancho,said the dukeyou'll eat
your fingers off after the government, so sweet a thing is it to
command and be obeyed. Depend upon it when your master comes to be
emperor (as he will beyond a doubt from the course his affairs are
taking), it will be no easy matter to wrest the dignity from him,
and he will be sore and sorry at heart to have been so long without
becoming one.

Senor,said Sanchoit is my belief it's a good thing to be in
command, if it's only over a drove of cattle.

May I be buried with you, Sancho,said the dukebut you know
everything; I hope you will make as good a governor as your sagacity
promises; and that is all I have to say; and now remember to-morrow is
the day you must set out for the government of the island, and this
evening they will provide you with the proper attire for you to
wear, and all things requisite for your departure.

Let them dress me as they like,said Sancho; "however I'm
dressed I'll be Sancho Panza."

That's true,said the duke; "but one's dress must be suited to the
office or rank one holds; for it would not do for a jurist to dress
like a soldieror a soldier like a priest. YouSanchoshall go
partly as a lawyerpartly as a captainforin the island I am
giving youarms are needed as much as lettersand letters as much as
arms."

Of letters I know but little,said Sanchofor I don't even
know the A B C; but it is enough for me to have the Christus in my
memory to be a good governor. As for arms, I'll handle those they give
me till I drop, and then, God be my help!

With so good a memory,said the dukeSancho cannot go wrong in
anything.

Here Don Quixote joined them; and learning what passedand how soon
Sancho was to go to his governmenthe with the duke's permission took
him by the handand retired to his room with him for the purpose of
giving him advice as to how he was to demean himself in his office. As
soon as they had entered the chamber he closed the door after himand
almost by force made Sancho sit down beside himand in a quiet tone


thus addressed him: "I give infinite thanks to heavenfriend
Sanchothatbefore I have met with any good luckfortune has come
forward to meet thee. I who counted upon my good fortune to
discharge the recompense of thy servicesfind myself still waiting
for advancementwhile thoubefore the timeand contrary to all
reasonable expectationseest thyself blessed in the fulfillment of
thy desires. Some will bribebegsolicitrise earlyentreat
persistwithout attaining the object of their suit; while another
comesand without knowing why or whereforefinds himself invested
with the place or office so many have sued for; and here it is that
the common saying'There is good luck as well as bad luck in
suits' applies. Thouwhoto my thinkingart beyond all doubt a
dullardwithout early rising or night watching or taking any trouble
with the mere breath of knight-errantry that has breathed upon thee
seest thyself without more ado governor of an islandas though it
were a mere matter of course. This I saySanchothat thou
attribute not the favour thou hast received to thine own meritsbut
give thanks to heaven that disposes matters beneficentlyand secondly
thanks to the great power the profession of knight-errantry contains
in itself. With a hearttheninclined to believe what I have said to
theeattendmy sonto thy Cato here who would counsel thee and be
thy polestar and guide to direct and pilot thee to a safe haven out of
this stormy sea wherein thou art about to ingulf thyself; for
offices and great trusts are nothing else but a mighty gulf of
troubles.

First of all, my son, thou must fear God, for in the fear of him is
wisdom, and being wise thou canst not err in aught.

Secondlythou must keep in view what thou artstriving to know
thyselfthe most difficult thing to know that the mind can imagine.
If thou knowest thyselfit will follow thou wilt not puff thyself
up like the frog that strove to make himself as large as the ox; if
thou dostthe recollection of having kept pigs in thine own country
will serve as the ugly feet for the wheel of thy folly."

That's the truth,said Sancho; "but that was when I was a boy;
afterwards when I was something more of a man it was geese I keptnot
pigs. But to my thinking that has nothing to do with it; for all who
are governors don't come of a kingly stock."

True,said Don Quixoteand for that reason those who are not
of noble origin should take care that the dignity of the office they
hold he accompanied by a gentle suavity, which wisely managed will
save them from the sneers of malice that no station escapes.

Glory in thy humble birthSanchoand he not ashamed of saying
thou art peasant-born; for when it is seen thou art not ashamed no one
will set himself to put thee to the blush; and pride thyself rather
upon being one of lowly virtue than a lofty sinner. Countless are they
whoborn of mean parentagehave risen to the highest dignities
pontifical and imperialand of the truth of this I could give thee
instances enough to weary thee.

Remember, Sancho, if thou make virtue thy aim, and take a pride
in doing virtuous actions, thou wilt have no cause to envy those who
have princely and lordly ones, for blood is an inheritance, but virtue
an acquisition, and virtue has in itself alone a worth that blood does
not possess.

This being soif perchance anyone of thy kinsfolk should come to
see thee when thou art in thine islandthou art not to repel or
slight himbut on the contrary to welcome himentertain himand
make much of him; for in so doing thou wilt be approved of heaven


(which is not pleased that any should despise what it hath made)
and wilt comply with the laws of well-ordered nature.


If thou carriest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those
that administer governments to be long without their wives), teach and
instruct her, and strive to smooth down her natural roughness; for all
that may be gained by a wise governor may be lost and wasted by a
boorish stupid wife.


If perchance thou art left a widower- a thing which may happen- and
in virtue of thy office seekest a consort of higher degreechoose not
one to serve thee for a hookor for a fishing-rodor for the hood of
thy 'won't have it;' for verilyI tell theefor all the judge's wife
receivesthe husband will be held accountable at the general
calling to account; where he will have repay in death fourfold
items that in life he regarded as naught.


Never go by arbitrary law, which is so much favoured by ignorant
men who plume themselves on cleverness.


Let the tears of the poor man find with thee more compassionbut
not more justicethan the pleadings of the rich.


Strive to lay bare the truth, as well amid the promises and
presents of the rich man, as amid the sobs and entreaties of the poor.


When equity may and should be brought into playpress not the
utmost rigour of the law against the guilty; for the reputation of the
stern judge stands not higher than that of the compassionate.


If perchance thou permittest the staff of justice to swerve, let it
be not by the weight of a gift, but by that of mercy.


If it should happen thee to give judgment in the cause of one who
is thine enemyturn thy thoughts away from thy injury and fix them on
the justice of the case.


Let not thine own passion blind thee in another man's cause; for
the errors thou wilt thus commit will be most frequently irremediable;
or if not, only to be remedied at the expense of thy good name and
even of thy fortune.


If any handsome woman come to seek justice of theeturn away thine
eyes from her tears and thine ears from her lamentationsand consider
deliberately the merits of her demandif thou wouldst not have thy
reason swept away by her weepingand thy rectitude by her sighs.


Abuse not by word him whom thou hast to punish in deed, for the
pain of punishment is enough for the unfortunate without the
addition of thine objurgations.


Bear in mind that the culprit who comes under thy jurisdiction is
but a miserable man subject to all the propensities of our depraved
natureand so far as may be in thy power show thyself lenient and
forbearing; for though the attributes of God are all equalto our
eyes that of mercy is brighter and loftier than that of justice.


If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy days will
be long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abundant, thy felicity
unutterable; thou wilt marry thy children as thou wouldst; they and
thy grandchildren will bear titles; thou wilt live in peace and
concord with all men; and, when life draws to a close, death will come
to thee in calm and ripe old age, and the light and loving hands of
thy great-grandchildren will close thine eyes.



What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions for the
adornment of thy mind; listen now to those which tend to that of the
body."

CHAPTER XLIII

OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA

Whohearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixotewould not
have set him down for a person of great good sense and greater
rectitude of purpose? Butas has been frequently observed in the
course of this great historyhe only talked nonsense when he
touched on chivalryand in discussing all other subjects showed
that he had a clear and unbiassed understanding; so that at every turn
his acts gave the lie to his intellectand his intellect to his acts;
but in the case of these second counsels that he gave Sancho he showed
himself to have a lively turn of humourand displayed conspicuously
his wisdomand also his folly.

Sancho listened to him with the deepest attentionand endeavoured
to fix his counsels in his memorylike one who meant to follow them
and by their means bring the full promise of his government to a happy
issue. Don Quixotethenwent on to say:

With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern thy person
and thy house, Sancho, the first charge I have to give thee is to be
clean, and to cut thy nails, not letting them grow as some do, whose
ignorance makes them fancy that long nails are an ornament to their
hands, as if those excrescences they neglect to cut were nails, and
not the talons of a lizard-catching kestrel- a filthy and unnatural
abuse.

Go not ungirt and looseSancho; for disordered attire is a sign of
an unstable mindunless indeed the slovenliness and slackness is to
he set down to craftas was the common opinion in the case of
Julius Caesar.

Ascertain cautiously what thy office may be worth; and if it will
allow thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them respectable and
serviceable, rather than showy and gay ones, and divide them between
thy servants and the poor; that is to say, if thou canst clothe six
pages, clothe three and three poor men, and thus thou wilt have
pages for heaven and pages for earth; the vainglorious never think
of this new mode of giving liveries.

Eat not garlic nor onionslest they find out thy boorish origin by
the smell; walk slowly and speak deliberatelybut not in such a way
as to make it seem thou art listening to thyselffor all
affectation is bad.

Dine sparingly and sup more sparingly still; for the health of
the whole body is forged in the workshop of the stomach.

Be temperate in drinkingbearing in mind that wine in excess keeps
neither secrets nor promises.

Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to eruct in
anybody's presence.

Eruct!said Sancho; "I don't know what that means."


To eruct, Sancho,said Don Quixotemeans to belch, and that is
one of the filthiest words in the Spanish language, though a very
expressive one; and therefore nice folk have had recourse to the
Latin, and instead of belch say eruct, and instead of belches say
eructations; and if some do not understand these terms it matters
little, for custom will bring them into use in the course of time,
so that they will be readily understood; this is the way a language is
enriched; custom and the public are all-powerful there.

In truth, senor,said Sanchoone of the counsels and cautions
I mean to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for I'm constantly
doing it.

Eruct, Sancho, not belch,said Don Quixote.

Eruct, I shall say henceforth, and I swear not to forget it,
said Sancho.

Likewise, Sancho,said Don Quixotethou must not mingle such a
quantity of proverbs in thy discourse as thou dost; for though
proverbs are short maxims, thou dost drag them in so often by the head
and shoulders that they savour more of nonsense than of maxims.

God alone can cure that,said Sancho; "for I have more proverbs in
me than a bookand when I speak they come so thick together into my
mouth that they fall to fighting among themselves to get out; that's
why my tongue lets fly the first that comethough they may not be pat
to the purpose. But I'll take care henceforward to use such as befit
the dignity of my office; for 'in a house where there's plentysupper
is soon cooked' and 'he who binds does not wrangle' and 'the
bell-ringer's in a safe berth' and 'giving and keeping require
brains.'"

That's it, Sancho!said Don Quixote; "packtackstring
proverbs together; nobody is hindering thee! 'My mother beats me
and I go on with my tricks.' I am bidding thee avoid proverbsand
here in a second thou hast shot out a whole litany of themwhich have
as much to do with what we are talking about as 'over the hills of
Ubeda.' MindSanchoI do not say that a proverb aptly brought in
is objectionable; but to pile up and string together proverbs at
random makes conversation dull and vulgar.

When thou ridest on horseback, do not go lolling with thy body on
the back of the saddle, nor carry thy legs stiff or sticking out
from the horse's belly, nor yet sit so loosely that one would
suppose thou wert on Dapple; for the seat on a horse makes gentlemen
of some and grooms of others.

Be moderate in thy sleep; for he who does not rise early does not
get the benefit of the day; and rememberSanchodiligence is the
mother of good fortuneand indolenceits oppositenever yet
attained the object of an honest ambition.

The last counsel I will give thee now, though it does not tend to
bodily improvement, I would have thee carry carefully in thy memory,
for I believe it will be no less useful to thee than those I have
given thee already, and it is this- never engage in a dispute about
families, at least in the way of comparing them one with another;
for necessarily one of those compared will be better than the other,
and thou wilt be hated by the one thou hast disparaged, and get
nothing in any shape from the one thou hast exalted.

Thy attire shall be hose of full lengtha long jerkinand a cloak


a trifle longer; loose breeches by no meansfor they are becoming
neither for gentlemen nor for governors.

For the present, Sancho, this is all that has occurred to me to
advise thee; as time goes by and occasions arise my instructions shall
follow, if thou take care to let me know how thou art circumstanced.

Senor,said SanchoI see well enough that all these things
your worship has said to me are good, holy, and profitable; but what
use will they be to me if I don't remember one of them? To be sure
that about not letting my nails grow, and marrying again if I have the
chance, will not slip out of my head; but all that other hash, muddle,
and jumble- I don't and can't recollect any more of it than of last
year's clouds; so it must be given me in writing; for though I can't
either read or write, I'll give it to my confessor, to drive it into
me and remind me of it whenever it is necessary.

Ah, sinner that I am!said Don Quixotehow bad it looks in
governors not to know how to read or write; for let me tell thee,
Sancho, when a man knows not how to read, or is left-handed, it argues
one of two things; either that he was the son of exceedingly mean
and lowly parents, or that he himself was so incorrigible and
ill-conditioned that neither good company nor good teaching could make
any impression on him. It is a great defect that thou labourest under,
and therefore I would have thee learn at any rate to sign thy name.

I can sign my name well enough,said Sanchofor when I was
steward of the brotherhood in my village I learned to make certain
letters, like the marks on bales of goods, which they told me made out
my name. Besides I can pretend my right hand is disabled and make some
one else sign for me, for 'there's a remedy for everything except
death;' and as I shall be in command and hold the staff, I can do as I
like; moreover, 'he who has the alcalde for his father-,' and I'll
be governor, and that's higher than alcalde. Only come and see! Let
them make light of me and abuse me; 'they'll come for wool and go back
shorn;' 'whom God loves, his house is known to Him;' 'the silly
sayings of the rich pass for saws in the world;' and as I'll be
rich, being a governor, and at the same time generous, as I mean to
be, no fault will he seen in me. 'Only make yourself honey and the
flies will suck you;' 'as much as thou hast so much art thou worth,'
as my grandmother used to say; and 'thou canst have no revenge of a
man of substance.'

Oh, God's curse upon thee, Sancho!here exclaimed Don Quixote;
sixty thousand devils fly away with thee and thy proverbs! For the
last hour thou hast been stringing them together and inflicting the
pangs of torture on me with every one of them. Those proverbs will
bring thee to the gallows one day, I promise thee; thy subjects will
take the government from thee, or there will be revolts among them.
Tell me, where dost thou pick them up, thou booby? How dost thou apply
them, thou blockhead? For with me, to utter one and make it apply
properly, I have to sweat and labour as if I were digging.

By God, master mine,said Sanchoyour worship is making a fuss
about very little. Why the devil should you be vexed if I make use
of what is my own? And I have got nothing else, nor any other stock in
trade except proverbs and more proverbs; and here are three just
this instant come into my head, pat to the purpose and like pears in a
basket; but I won't repeat them, for 'sage silence is called Sancho.'

That, Sancho, thou art not,said Don Quixote; "for not only art
thou not sage silencebut thou art pestilent prate and perversity;
still I would like to know what three proverbs have just now come into
thy memoryfor I have been turning over mine own- and it is a good
one- and none occurs to me."


What can be better,said Sanchothan 'never put thy thumbs
between two back teeth;' and 'to get out of my house" and "what do
you want with my wife?" there is no answer;' and 'whether the
pitcher hits the stoveor the stove the pitcherit's a bad
business for the pitcher;' all which fit to a hair? For no one
should quarrel with his governoror him in authority over him
because he will come off the worstas he does who puts his finger
between two back and if they are not back teeth it makes no
differenceso long as they are teeth; and to whatever the governor
may say there's no answerany more than to 'get out of my house'
and 'what do you want with my wife?' and thenas for that about the
stone and the pitchera blind man could see that. So that he 'who
sees the mote in another's eye had need to see the beam in his own'
that it be not said of himself'the dead woman was frightened at
the one with her throat cut;' and your worship knows well that 'the
fool knows more in his own house than the wise man in another's.'"

Nay, Sancho,said Don Quixotethe fool knows nothing, either
in his own house or in anybody else's, for no wise structure of any
sort can stand on a foundation of folly; but let us say no more
about it, Sancho, for if thou governest badly, thine will he the fault
and mine the shame; but I comfort myself with having done my duty in
advising thee as earnestly and as wisely as I could; and thus I am
released from my obligations and my promise. God guide thee, Sancho,
and govern thee in thy government, and deliver me from the misgiving I
have that thou wilt turn the whole island upside down, a thing I might
easily prevent by explaining to the duke what thou art and telling him
that all that fat little person of thine is nothing else but a sack
full of proverbs and sauciness.

Senor,said Sanchoif your worship thinks I'm not fit for this
government, I give it up on the spot; for the mere black of the nail
of my soul is dearer to me than my whole body; and I can live just
as well, simple Sancho, on bread and onions, as governor, on
partridges and capons; and what's more, while we're asleep we're all
equal, great and small, rich and poor. But if your worship looks
into it, you will see it was your worship alone that put me on to this
business of governing; for I know no more about the government of
islands than a buzzard; and if there's any reason to think that
because of my being a governor the devil will get hold of me, I'd
rather go Sancho to heaven than governor to hell.

By God, Sancho,said Don Quixotefor those last words thou
hast uttered alone, I consider thou deservest to be governor of a
thousand islands. Thou hast good natural instincts, without which no
knowledge is worth anything; commend thyself to God, and try not to
swerve in the pursuit of thy main object; I mean, always make it thy
aim and fixed purpose to do right in all matters that come before
thee, for heaven always helps good intentions; and now let us go to
dinner, for I think my lord and lady are waiting for us.

CHAPTER XLIV

HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENTAND OF THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE

It is statedthey sayin the true original of this historythat
when Cide Hamete came to write this chapterhis interpreter did not
translate it as he wrote it- that isas a kind of complaint the
Moor made against himself for having taken in hand a story so dry


and of so little variety as this of Don Quixotefor he found
himself forced to speak perpetually of him and Sanchowithout
venturing to indulge in digressions and episodes more serious and more
interesting. He saidtoothat to go onmindhandpen always
restricted to writing upon one single subjectand speaking through
the mouths of a few characterswas intolerable drudgerythe result
of which was never equal to the author's labourand that to avoid
this he had in the First Part availed himself of the device of novels
like "The Ill-advised Curiosity and The Captive Captain which
stand, as it were, apart from the story; the others are given there
being incidents which occurred to Don Quixote himself and could not be
omitted. He also thought, he says, that many, engrossed by the
interest attaching to the exploits of Don Quixote, would take none
in the novels, and pass them over hastily or impatiently without
noticing the elegance and art of their composition, which would be
very manifest were they published by themselves and not as mere
adjuncts to the crazes of Don Quixote or the simplicities of Sancho.
Therefore in this Second Part he thought it best not to insert novels,
either separate or interwoven, but only episodes, something like them,
arising out of the circumstances the facts present; and even these
sparingly, and with no more words than suffice to make them plain; and
as he confines and restricts himself to the narrow limits of the
narrative, though he has ability; capacity, and brains enough to
deal with the whole universe, he requests that his labours may not
be despised, and that credit be given him, not alone for what he
writes, but for what he has refrained from writing.

And so he goes on with his story, saying that the day Don Quixote
gave the counsels to Sancho, the same afternoon after dinner he handed
them to him in writing so that he might get some one to read them to
him. They had scarcely, however, been given to him when he let them
drop, and they fell into the hands of the duke, who showed them to the
duchess and they were both amazed afresh at the madness and wit of Don
Quixote. To carry on the joke, then, the same evening they
despatched Sancho with a large following to the village that was to
serve him for an island. It happened that the person who had him in
charge was a majordomo of the duke's, a man of great discretion and
humour- and there can be no humour without discretion- and the same
who played the part of the Countess Trifaldi in the comical way that
has been already described; and thus qualified, and instructed by
his master and mistress as to how to deal with Sancho, he carried
out their scheme admirably. Now it came to pass that as soon as Sancho
saw this majordomo he seemed in his features to recognise those of the
Trifaldi, and turning to his master, he said to him, Senoreither
the devil will carry me offhere on this spotrighteous and
believingor your worship will own to me that the face of this
majordomo of the duke's here is the very face of the Distressed One."

Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentivelyand having done
sosaid to SanchoThere is no reason why the devil should carry
thee off, Sancho, either righteous or believing- and what thou meanest
by that I know not; the face of the Distressed One is that of the
majordomo, but for all that the majordomo is not the Distressed One;
for his being so would involve a mighty contradiction; but this is not
the time for going into questions of the sort, which would be
involving ourselves in an inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my
friend, we must pray earnestly to our Lord that he deliver us both
from wicked wizards and enchanters.

It is no joke, senor,said Sanchofor before this I heard him
speak, and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi was
sounding in my ears. Well, I'll hold my peace; but I'll take care to
be on the look-out henceforth for any sign that may be seen to confirm
or do away with this suspicion.


Thou wilt do well, Sancho,said Don Quixoteand thou wilt let me
know all thou discoverest, and all that befalls thee in thy
government.

Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. He
was dressed in the garb of a lawyerwith a gaban of tawny watered
camlet over all and a montera cap of the same materialand mounted
a la gineta upon a mule. Behind himin accordance with the duke's
ordersfollowed Dapple with brand new ass-trappings and ornaments
of silkand from time to time Sancho turned round to look at his ass
so well pleased to have him with him that he would not have changed
places with the emperor of Germany. On taking leave he kissed the
hands of the duke and duchess and got his master's blessingwhich Don
Quixote gave him with tearsand he received blubbering.

Let worthy Sancho go in peaceand good luck to himGentle
Reader; and look out for two bushels of laughterwhich the account of
how he behaved himself in office will give thee. In the meantime
turn thy attention to what happened his master the same nightand
if thou dost not laugh thereatat any rate thou wilt stretch thy
mouth with a grin; for Don Quixote's adventures must be honoured
either with wonder or with laughter.

It is recordedthenthat as soon as Sancho had goneDon Quixote
felt his lonelinessand had it been possible for him to revoke the
mandate and take away the government from him he would have done so.
The duchess observed his dejection and asked him why he was
melancholy; becauseshe saidif it was for the loss of Sanchothere
were squiresduennasand damsels in her house who would wait upon
him to his full satisfaction.

The truth is, senora,replied Don Quixotethat I do feel the
loss of Sancho; but that is not the main cause of my looking sad;
and of all the offers your excellence makes me, I accept only the
good-will with which they are made, and as to the remainder I
entreat of your excellence to permit and allow me alone to wait upon
myself in my chamber.

Indeed, Senor Don Quixote,said the duchessthat must not be;
four of my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you.

To me,said Don Quixotethey will not be flowers, but thorns
to pierce my heart. They, or anything like them, shall as soon enter
my chamber as fly. If your highness wishes to gratify me still
further, though I deserve it not, permit me to please myself, and wait
upon myself in my own room; for I place a barrier between my
inclinations and my virtue, and I do not wish to break this rule
through the generosity your highness is disposed to display towards
me; and, in short, I will sleep in my clothes, sooner than allow
anyone to undress me.

Say no more, Senor Don Quixote, say no more,said the duchess;
I assure you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a
damsel, shall enter your room. I am not the one to undermine the
propriety of Senor Don Quixote, for it strikes me that among his
many virtues the one that is pre-eminent is that of modesty. Your
worship may undress and dress in private and in your own way, as you
please and when you please, for there will be no one to hinder you;
and in your chamber you will find all the utensils requisite to supply
the wants of one who sleeps with his door locked, to the end that no
natural needs compel you to open it. May the great Dulcinea del Toboso
live a thousand years, and may her fame extend all over the surface of
the globe, for she deserves to be loved by a knight so valiant and


so virtuous; and may kind heaven infuse zeal into the heart of our
governor Sancho Panza to finish off his discipline speedily, so that
the world may once more enjoy the beauty of so grand a lady.

To which Don Quixote repliedYour highness has spoken like what
you are; from the mouth of a noble lady nothing bad can come; and
Dulcinea will be more fortunate, and better known to the world by
the praise of your highness than by all the eulogies the greatest
orators on earth could bestow upon her.

Well, well, Senor Don Quixote,said the duchessis nearly
supper-timeand the duke is is probably waiting; come let us go to
supperand retire to rest earlyfor the journey you made yesterday
from Kandy was not such a short one but that it must have caused you
some fatigue."

I feel none, senora,said Don Quixotefor I would go so far as
to swear to your excellence that in all my life I never mounted a
quieter beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than Clavileno; and I
don't know what could have induced Malambruno to discard a steed so
swift and so gentle, and burn it so recklessly as he did.

Probably,said the duchessrepenting of the evil he had done
to the Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes he must have
committed as a wizard and enchanter, he resolved to make away with all
the instruments of his craft; and so burned Clavileno as the chief
one, and that which mainly kept him restless, wandering from land to
land; and by its ashes and the trophy of the placard the valour of the
great Don Quixote of La Mancha is established for ever.

Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess; and having supped
retired to his chamber alonerefusing to allow anyone to enter with
him to wait on himsuch was his fear of encountering temptations that
might lead or drive him to forget his chaste fidelity to his lady
Dulcinea; for he had always present to his mind the virtue of
Amadisthat flower and mirror of knights-errant. He locked the door
behind himand by the light of two wax candles undressed himselfbut
as he was taking off his stockings- O disaster unworthy of such a
personage!- there came a burstnot of sighsor anything belying
his delicacy or good breedingbut of some two dozen stitches in one
of his stockingsthat made it look like a window-lattice. The
worthy gentleman was beyond measure distressedand at that moment
he would have given an ounce of silver to have had half a drachm of
green silk there; I say green silkbecause the stockings were green.

Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writingO poverty, poverty! I
know not what could have possessed the great Cordovan poet to call
thee 'holy gift ungratefully received.' Although a Moor, I know well
enough from the intercourse I have had with Christians that holiness
consists in charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but
for all that, I say he must have a great deal of godliness who can
find any satisfaction in being poor; unless, indeed, it be the kind of
poverty one of their greatest saints refers to, saying, 'possess all
things as though ye possessed them not;' which is what they call
poverty in spirit. But thou, that other poverty- for it is of thee I
am speaking now- why dost thou love to fall out with gentlemen and men
of good birth more than with other people? Why dost thou compel them
to smear the cracks in their shoes, and to have the buttons of their
coats, one silk, another hair, and another glass? Why must their ruffs
be always crinkled like endive leaves, and not crimped with a crimping
iron?(From this we may perceive the antiquity of starch and
crimped ruffs.) Then he goes on: "Poor gentleman of good family!
always cockering up his honourdining miserably and in secretand
making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which he sallies out into the


street after eating nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellowI
saywith his nervous honourfancying they perceive a league off
the patch on his shoethe sweat-stains on his hatthe shabbiness
of his cloakand the hunger of his stomach!"

All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his
stitches; howeverhe comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho
had left behind a pair of travelling bootswhich he resolved to
wear the next day. At last he went to bedout of spirits and heavy at
heartas much because he missed Sancho as because of the
irreparable disaster to his stockingsthe stitches of which he
would have even taken up with silk of another colourwhich is one
of the greatest signs of poverty a gentleman can show in the course of
his never-failing embarrassments. He put out the candles; but the
night was warm and he could not sleep; he rose from his bed and opened
slightly a grated window that looked out on a beautiful gardenand as
he did so he perceived and heard people walking and talking in the
garden. He set himself to listen attentivelyand those below raised
their voices so that he could hear these words:

Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that ever since
this stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing
but only weep; besides my lady is a light rather than a heavy sleeper,
and I would not for all the wealth of the world that she found us
here; and even if she were asleep and did not waken, my singing
would be in vain, if this strange AEneas, who has come into my
neighbourhood to flout me, sleeps on and wakens not to hear it.

Heed not that, dear Altisidora,replied a voice; "the duchess is
no doubt asleepand everybody in the house save the lord of thy heart
and disturber of thy soul; for just now I perceived him open the
grated window of his chamberso he must be awake; singmy poor
suffererin a low sweet tone to the accompaniment of thy harp; and
even if the duchess hears us we can lay the blame on the heat of the
night."

That is not the point, Emerencia,replied Altisidorait is
that I would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, and that
I should be thought a light and wanton maiden by those who know not
the mighty power of love; but come what may; better a blush on the
cheeks than a sore in the heart;and here a harp softly touched
made itself heard. As he listened to all this Don Quixote was in a
state of breathless amazementfor immediately the countless
adventures like thiswith windowsgratingsgardensserenades
lovemakingsand languishingsthat he had read of in his trashy books
of chivalrycame to his mind. He at once concluded that some damsel
of the duchess's was in love with himand that her modesty forced her
to keep her passion secret. He trembled lest he should falland
made an inward resolution not to yield; and commending himself with
all his might and soul to his lady Dulcinea he made up his mind to
listen to the music; and to let them know he was there he gave a
pretended sneezeat which the damsels were not a little delighted
for all they wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So having
tuned the harpAltisidorarunning her hand across the stringsbegan
this ballad:

O thou that art above in bed
Between the holland sheets
A-lying there from night till morn
With outstretched legs asleep;

O thoumost valiant knight of all
The famed Manchegan breed
Of purity and virtue more


Than gold of Araby;

Give ear unto a suffering maid
Well-grown but evil-starr'd

For those two suns of thine have lit
A fire within her heart.

Adventures seeking thou dost rove
To others bringing woe;

Thou scatterest woundsbutahthe balm
To heal them dost withhold!

Sayvaliant youthand so may God
Thy enterprises speed

Didst thou the light mid Libya's sands
Or Jaca's rocks first see?

Did scaly serpents give thee suck?
Who nursed thee when a babe?

Wert cradled in the forest rude
Or gloomy mountain cave?

O Dulcinea may be proud
That plump and lusty maid;

For she alone hath had the power
A tiger fierce to tame.

And she for this shall famous be
From Tagus to Jarama

From Manzanares to Genil
From Duero to Arlanza.

Fain would I change with herand give
A petticoat to boot

The best and bravest that I have
All trimmed with gold galloon.

O for to be the happy fair
Thy mighty arms enfold

Or even sit beside thy bed
And scratch thy dusty poll!

I rave- to favours such as these
Unworthy to aspire;

Thy feet to tickle were enough
For one so mean as I.

What capswhat slippers silver-laced
Would I on thee bestow!

What damask breeches make for thee;
What fine long holland cloaks!

And I would give thee pearls that should
As big as oak-galls show;

So matchless big that each might well
Be called the great "Alone."

Manchegan Nerolook not down
From thy Tarpeian Rock

Upon this burning heartnor add
The fuel of thy wrath.

A virgin soft and young am I
Not yet fifteen years old;


(I'm only three months past fourteen

I swear upon my soul).
I hobble not nor do I limp
All blemish I'm without
And as I walk my lily locks

Are trailing on the ground.

And though my nose be rather flat

And though my mouth be wide
My teeth like topazes exalt

My beauty to the sky.

Thou knowest that my voice is sweet

That is if thou dost hear;
And I am moulded in a form

Somewhat below the mean.

These charmsand many moreare thine

Spoils to thy spear and bow all;
A damsel of this house am I

By name Altisidora.

Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an end
while the warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm; and with a
deep sigh he said to himselfO that I should be such an unlucky
knight that no damsel can set eyes on me but falls in love with me!
O that the peerless Dulcinea should be so unfortunate that they cannot
let her enjoy my incomparable constancy in peace! What would ye with
her, ye queens? Why do ye persecute her, ye empresses? Why ye pursue
her, ye virgins of from fourteen to fifteen? Leave the unhappy being
to triumph, rejoice and glory in the lot love has been pleased to
bestow upon her in surrendering my heart and yielding up my soul to
her. Ye love-smitten host, know that to Dulcinea only I am dough and
sugar-paste, flint to all others; for her I am honey, for you aloes.
For me Dulcinea alone is beautiful, wise, virtuous, graceful, and
high-bred, and all others are ill-favoured, foolish, light, and
low-born. Nature sent me into the world to be hers and no other's;
Altisidora may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they belaboured
me in the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to despair, but
I must be Dulcinea's, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and chaste, in
spite of all the magic-working powers on earth.And with that he shut
the window with a bangandas much out of temper and out of sorts as
if some great misfortune had befallen himstretched himself on his
bedwhere we will leave him for the presentas the great Sancho
Panzawho is about to set up his famous governmentnow demands our
attention.

CHAPTER XLV

OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLANDAND
OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING

O perpetual discoverer of the antipodestorch of the worldeye
of heavensweet stimulator of the water-coolers! Thimbraeus here
Phoebus therenow archernow physicianfather of poetryinventor
of music; thou that always risest andnotwithstanding appearances
never settest! To theeO Sunby whose aid man begetteth manto thee
I appeal to help me and lighten the darkness of my wit that I may be
able to proceed with scrupulous exactitude in giving an account of the
great Sancho Panza's government; for without thee I feel myself


weakfeebleand uncertain.

To come to the pointthen- Sancho with all his attendants arrived
at a village of some thousand inhabitantsand one of the largest
the duke possessed. They informed him that it was called the island of
Baratariaeither because the name of the village was Baratarioor
because of the joke by way of which the government had been
conferred upon him. On reaching the gates of the townwhich was a
walled onethe municipality came forth to meet himthe bells rang
out a pealand the inhabitants showed every sign of general
satisfaction; and with great pomp they conducted him to the
principal church to give thanks to Godand then with burlesque
ceremonies they presented him with the keys of the townand
acknowledged him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. The
costumethe beardand the fat squat figure of the new governor
astonished all those who were not in the secretand even all who
wereand they were not a few. Finallyleading him out of the
church they carried him to the judgment seat and seated him on itand
the duke's majordomo said to himIt is an ancient custom in this
island, senor governor, that he who comes to take possession of this
famous island is bound to answer a question which shall be put to him,
and which must he a somewhat knotty and difficult one; and by his
answer the people take the measure of their new governor's wit, and
hail with joy or deplore his arrival accordingly.

While the majordomo was making this speech Sancho was gazing at
several large letters inscribed on the wall opposite his seatand
as he could not read he asked what that was that was painted on the
wall. The answer wasSenor, there is written and recorded the day on
which your lordship took possession of this island, and the
inscription says, 'This day, the so-and-so of such-and-such a month
and year, Senor Don Sancho Panza took possession of this island;
many years may he enjoy it.'

And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?asked Sancho.

Your lordship,replied the majordomo; "for no other Panza but
the one who is now seated in that chair has ever entered this island."

Well then, let me tell you, brother,said SanchoI haven't got
the 'Don,' nor has any one of my family ever had it; my name is
plain Sancho Panza, and Sancho was my father's name, and Sancho was my
grandfather's and they were all Panzas, without any Dons or Donas
tacked on; I suspect that in this island there are more Dons than
stones; but never mind; God knows what I mean, and maybe if my
government lasts four days I'll weed out these Dons that no doubt
are as great a nuisance as the midges, they're so plenty. Let the
majordomo go on with his question, and I'll give the best answer I
can, whether the people deplore or not.

At this instant there came into court two old menone carrying a
cane by way of a walking-stickand the one who had no stick said
Senor, some time ago I lent this good man ten gold-crowns in gold
to gratify him and do him a service, on the condition that he was to
return them to me whenever I should ask for them. A long time passed
before I asked for them, for I would not put him to any greater
straits to return them than he was in when I lent them to him; but
thinking he was growing careless about payment I asked for them once
and several times; and not only will he not give them back, but he
denies that he owes them, and says I never lent him any such crowns;
or if I did, that he repaid them; and I have no witnesses either of
the loan, or the payment, for he never paid me; I want your worship to
put him to his oath, and if he swears he returned them to me I forgive
him the debt here and before God.


What say you to this, good old man, you with the stick?said
Sancho.

To which the old man repliedI admit, senor, that he lent them
to me; but let your worship lower your staff, and as he leaves it to
my oath, I'll swear that I gave them back, and paid him really and
truly.

The governor lowered the staffand as he did so the old man who had
the stick handed it to the other old man to hold for him while he
sworeas if he found it in his way; and then laid his hand on the
cross of the staffsaying that it was true the ten crowns that were
demanded of him had been lent him; but that he had with his own hand
given them back into the hand of the otherand that henot
recollecting itwas always asking for them.

Seeing this the great governor asked the creditor what answer he had
to make to what his opponent said. He said that no doubt his debtor
had told the truthfor he believed him to be an honest man and a good
Christianand he himself must have forgotten when and how he had
given him back the crowns; and that from that time forth he would make
no further demand upon him.

The debtor took his stick againand bowing his head left the court.
Observing thisand howwithout another wordhe made offand
observing too the resignation of the plaintiffSancho buried his head
in his bosom and remained for a short space in deep thoughtwith
the forefinger of his right hand on his brow and nose; then he
raised his head and bade them call back the old man with the stick
for he had already taken his departure. They brought him backand
as soon as Sancho saw him he saidHonest man, give me that stick,
for I want it.

Willingly,said the old man; "here it is senor and he put it
into his hand.

Sancho took it and, handing it to the other old man, said to him,
Goand God be with you; for now you are paid."

I, senor!returned the old man; "whyis this cane worth ten
gold-crowns?"

Yes,said the governoror if not I am the greatest dolt in the
world; now you will see whether I have got the headpiece to govern a
whole kingdom;and he ordered the cane to be broken in twotherein
the presence of all. It was doneand in the middle of it they found
ten gold-crowns. All were filled with amazementand looked upon their
governor as another Solomon. They asked him how he had come to the
conclusion that the ten crowns were in the cane; he repliedthat
observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to his opponent
while he was taking the oathand swore that he had really and truly
given him the crownsand how as soon as he had done swearing he asked
for the stick againit came into his head that the sum demanded
must be inside it; and from this he said it might be seen that God
sometimes guides those who govern in their judgmentseven though they
may be fools; besides he had himself heard the curate of his village
mention just such another caseand he had so good a memorythat if
it was not that he forgot everything he wished to rememberthere
would not be such a memory in all the island. To concludethe old men
went offone crestfallenand the other in high contentmentall
who were present were astonishedand he who was recording the
wordsdeedsand movements of Sancho could not make up his mind
whether he was to look upon him and set him down as a fool or as a man


of sense.

As soon as this case was disposed ofthere came into court a
woman holding on with a tight grip to a man dressed like a
well-to-do cattle dealerand she came forward making a great outcry
and exclaimingJustice, senor governor, justice! and if I don't
get it on earth I'll go look for it in heaven. Senor governor of my
soul, this wicked man caught me in the middle of the fields here and
used my body as if it was an ill-washed rag, and, woe is me! got
from me what I had kept these three-and-twenty years and more,
defending it against Moors and Christians, natives and strangers;
and I always as hard as an oak, and keeping myself as pure as a
salamander in the fire, or wool among the brambles, for this good
fellow to come now with clean hands to handle me!

It remains to be proved whether this gallant has clean hands or
not,said Sancho; and turning to the man he asked him what he had
to say in answer to the woman's charge.

He all in confusion made answerSirs, I am a poor pig dealer,
and this morning I left the village to sell (saving your presence)
four pigs, and between dues and cribbings they got out of me little
less than the worth of them. As I was returning to my village I fell
in on the road with this good dame, and the devil who makes a coil and
a mess out of everything, yoked us together. I paid her fairly, but
she not contented laid hold of me and never let go until she brought
me here; she says I forced her, but she lies by the oath I swear or am
ready to swear; and this is the whole truth and every particle of it.

The governor on this asked him if he had any money in silver about
him; he said he had about twenty ducats in a leather purse in his
bosom. The governor bade him take it out and hand it to the
complainant; he obeyed trembling; the woman took itand making a
thousand salaams to all and praying to God for the long life and
health of the senor governor who had such regard for distressed
orphans and virginsshe hurried out of court with the purse grasped
in both her handsfirst lookinghoweverto see if the money it
contained was silver.

As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealerwhose
tears were already starting and whose eyes and heart were following
his purseGood fellow, go after that woman and take the purse from
her, by force even, and come back with it here;and he did not say it
to one who was a fool or deaffor the man was off like a flash of
lightningand ran to do as he was bid.

All the bystanders waited anxiously to see the end of the case
and presently both man and woman came back at even closer grips than
beforeshe with her petticoat up and the purse in the lap of it
and he struggling hard to take it from herbut all to no purpose
so stout was the woman's defenceshe all the while crying out
Justice from God and the world! see here, senor governor, the
shamelessness and boldness of this villain, who in the middle of the
town, in the middle of the street, wanted to take from me the purse
your worship bade him give me.

And did he take it?asked the governor.

Take it!said the woman; "I'd let my life be taken from me
sooner than the purse. A pretty child I'd be! It's another sort of cat
they must throw in my faceand not that poor scurvy knave. Pincers
and hammersmallets and chisels would not get it out of my grip;
nonor lions' claws; the soul from out of my body first!"


She is right,said the man; "I own myself beaten and powerless;
I confess I haven't the strength to take it from her;" and he let go
his hold of her.


Upon this the governor said to the womanLet me see that purse, my
worthy and sturdy friend.She handed it to him at onceand the
governor returned it to the manand said to the unforced mistress
of forceSister, if you had shown as much, or only half as much,
spirit and vigour in defending your body as you have shown in
defending that purse, the strength of Hercules could not have forced
you. Be off, and God speed you, and bad luck to you, and don't show
your face in all this island, or within six leagues of it on any side,
under pain of two hundred lashes; be off at once, I say, you
shameless, cheating shrew.


The woman was cowed and went off disconsolatelyhanging her head;
and the governor said to the manHonest man, go home with your
money, and God speed you; and for the future, if you don't want to
lose it, see that you don't take it into your head to yoke with
anybody.The man thanked him as clumsily as he could and went his
wayand the bystanders were again filled with admiration at their new
governor's judgments and sentences.


Nexttwo menone apparently a farm labourerand the other a
tailorfor he had a pair of shears in his handpresented
themselves before himand the tailor saidSenor governor, this
labourer and I come before your worship by reason of this honest man
coming to my shop yesterday (for saving everybody's presence I'm a
passed tailor, God be thanked), and putting a piece of cloth into my
hands and asking me, 'Senor, will there be enough in this cloth to
make me a cap?' Measuring the cloth I said there would. He probably
suspected- as I supposed, and I supposed right- that I wanted to steal
some of the cloth, led to think so by his own roguery and the bad
opinion people have of tailors; and he told me to see if there would
he enough for two. I guessed what he would be at, and I said 'yes.'
He, still following up his original unworthy notion, went on adding
cap after cap, and I 'yes' after 'yes,' until we got as far as five.
He has just this moment come for them; I gave them to him, but he
won't pay me for the making; on the contrary, he calls upon me to
pay him, or else return his cloth.


Is all this true, brother?said Sancho.


Yes,replied the man; "but will your worship make him show the
five caps he has made me?"


With all my heart,said the tailor; and drawing his hand from
under his cloak he showed five caps stuck upon the five fingers of it
and saidthere are the caps this good man asks for; and by God and
upon my conscience I haven't a scrap of cloth left, and I'll let the
work be examined by the inspectors of the trade.


All present laughed at the number of caps and the novelty of the
suit; Sancho set himself to think for a momentand then saidIt
seems to me that in this case it is not necessary to deliver
long-winded arguments, but only to give off-hand the judgment of an
honest man; and so my decision is that the tailor lose the making
and the labourer the cloth, and that the caps go to the prisoners in
the gaol, and let there be no more about it.


If the previous decision about the cattle dealer's purse excited the
admiration of the bystandersthis provoked their laughter; however
the governor's orders were after all executed. All thishaving been
taken down by his chroniclerwas at once despatched to the duke



who was looking out for it with great eagerness; and here let us leave
the good Sancho; for his mastersorely troubled in mind by
Altisidora's musichas pressing claims upon us now.

CHAPTER XLVI

OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE
COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA'S WOOING

We left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of
the enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed
with themand just like fleas they would not let him sleep or get a
moment's restand the broken stitches of his stockings helped them.
But as Time is fleet and no obstacle can stay his coursehe came
riding on the hoursand morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don
Quixote quitted the soft downandnowise slothfuldressed himself
in his chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide the
disaster to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantleput
on his head a montera of green velvet trimmed with silver edging
flung across his shoulder the baldric with his good trenchant sword
took up a large rosary that he always carried with himand with great
solemnity and precision of gait proceeded to the antechamber where the
duke and duchess were already dressed and waiting for him. But as he
passed through a galleryAltisidora and the other damselher friend
were lying in wait for himand the instant Altisidora saw him she
pretended to faintwhile her friend caught her in her lapand
began hastily unlacing the bosom of her dress.

Don Quixote observed itand approaching them saidI know very
well what this seizure arises from.

I know not from what,replied the friendfor Altisidora is the
healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have never heard her
complain all the time I have known her. A plague on all the
knights-errant in the world, if they be all ungrateful! Go away, Senor
Don Quixote; for this poor child will not come to herself again so
long as you are here.

To which Don Quixote returnedDo me the favour, senora, to let a
lute be placed in my chamber to-night; and I will comfort this poor
maiden to the best of my power; for in the early stages of love a
prompt disillusion is an approved remedy;and with this he retired
so as not to be remarked by any who might see him there.

He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidorarecovering from her
swoonsaid to her companionThe lute must be left, for no doubt Don
Quixote intends to give us some music; and being his it will not be
bad.

They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going onand of
the lute Don Quixote asked forand shedelighted beyond measure
plotted with the duke and her two damsels to play him a trick that
should be amusing but harmless; and in high glee they waited for
nightwhich came quickly as the day had come; and as for the daythe
duke and duchess spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.

When eleven o'clock cameDon Quixote found a guitar in his chamber;
he tried itopened the windowand perceived that some persons were
walking in the garden; and having passed his fingers over the frets of
the guitar and tuned it as well as he couldhe spat and cleared his
chestand then with a voice a little hoarse but full-tonedhe sang


the following balladwhich he had himself that day composed:

Mighty Love the hearts of maidens
Doth unsettle and perplex
And the instrument he uses
Most of all is idleness.

Sewingstitchingany labour
Having always work to do
To the poison Love instilleth
Is the antidote most sure.


And to proper-minded maidens
Who desire the matron's name
Modesty's a marriage portion
Modesty their highest praise.

Men of prudence and discretion
Courtiers gay and gallant knights
With the wanton damsels dally
But the modest take to wife.
There are passionstransientfleeting
Loves in hostelries declar'd
Sunrise loveswith sunset ended
When the guest hath gone his way.

Love that springs up swift and sudden
Here to-dayto-morrow flown
Passesleaves no trace behind it
Leaves no image on the soul.

Painting that is laid on painting
Maketh no display or show;
Where one beauty's in possession
There no other can take hold.

Dulcinea del Toboso
Painted on my heart I wear;
Never from its tabletsnever
Can her image be eras'd.

The quality of all in lovers
Most esteemed is constancy;
'T is by this that love works wonders
This exalts them to the skies.

Don Quixote had got so far with his songto which the dukethe
duchessAltisidoraand nearly the whole household of the castle were
listeningwhen all of a sudden from a gallery above that was
exactly over his window they let down a cord with more than a
hundred bells attached to itand immediately after that discharged
a great sack full of catswhich also had bells of smaller size tied
to their tails. Such was the din of the bells and the squalling of the
catsthat though the duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke
they were startled by itwhile Don Quixote stood paralysed with fear;
and as luck would have ittwo or three of the cats made their way
in through the grating of his chamberand flying from one side to the
othermade it seem as if there was a legion of devils at large in it.
They extinguished the candles that were burning in the roomand
rushed about seeking some way of escape; the cord with the large bells
never ceased rising and falling; and most of the people of the castle
not knowing what was really the matterwere at their wits' end with
astonishment. Don Quixote sprang to his feetand drawing his sword


began making passes at the gratingshouting outAvaunt, malignant
enchanters! avaunt, ye witchcraft-working rabble! I am Don Quixote
of La Mancha, against whom your evil machinations avail not nor have
any power.And turning upon the cats that were running about the
roomhe made several cuts at them. They dashed at the grating and
escaped by itsave one thatfinding itself hard pressed by the
slashes of Don Quixote's swordflew at his face and held on to his
nose tooth and nailwith the pain of which he began to shout his
loudest. The duke and duchess hearing thisand guessing what it
wasran with all haste to his roomand as the poor gentleman was
striving with all his might to detach the cat from his facethey
opened the door with a master-key and went in with lights and
witnessed the unequal combat. The duke ran forward to part the
combatantsbut Don Quixote cried out aloudLet no one take him from
me; leave me hand to hand with this demon, this wizard, this
enchanter; I will teach him, I myself, who Don Quixote of La Mancha
is.The cathowevernever minding these threatssnarled and held
on; but at last the duke pulled it off and flung it out of the window.
Don Quixote was left with a face as full of holes as a sieve and a
nose not in very good conditionand greatly vexed that they did not
let him finish the battle he had been so stoutly fighting with that
villain of an enchanter. They sent for some oil of John's wortand
Altisidora herself with her own fair hands bandaged all the wounded
parts; and as she did so she said to him in a low voice. "All these
mishaps have befallen theehardhearted knightfor the sin of thy
insensibility and obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may
forget to whip himselfso that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of
thine may never be released from her enchantmentthat thou mayest
never come to her bedat least while I who adore thee am alive."

To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave deep sighs
and then stretched himself on his bedthanking the duke and duchess
for their kindnessnot because he stood in any fear of that
bell-ringing rabble of enchanters in cat shapebut because he
recognised their good intentions in coming to his rescue. The duke and
duchess left him to repose and withdrew greatly grieved at the
unfortunate result of the joke; as they never thought the adventure
would have fallen so heavy on Don Quixote or cost him so dearfor
it cost him five days of confinement to his bedduring which he had
another adventurepleasanter than the late onewhich his
chronicler will not relate just now in order that he may turn his
attention to Sancho Panzawho was proceeding with great diligence and
drollery in his government.

CHAPTER XLVII

WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED
HIMSELF IN HIS GOVERNMENT

The history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho
to a sumptuous palacewhere in a spacious chamber there was a table
laid out with royal magnificence. The clarions sounded as Sancho
entered the roomand four pages came forward to present him with
water for his handswhich Sancho received with great dignity. The
music ceasedand Sancho seated himself at the head of the table
for there was only that seat placedand no more than one cover
laid. A personagewho it appeared afterwards was a physician
placed himself standing by his side with a whalebone wand in his hand.
They then lifted up a fine white cloth covering fruit and a great
variety of dishes of different sorts; one who looked like a student
said graceand a page put a laced bib on Sanchowhile another who


played the part of head carver placed a dish of fruit before him.
But hardly had he tasted a morsel when the man with the wand touched
the plate with itand they took it away from before him with the
utmost celerity. The carverhoweverbrought him another dishand
Sancho proceeded to try it; but before he could get at itnot to
say taste italready the wand had touched it and a page had carried
it off with the same promptitude as the fruit. Sancho seeing this
was puzzledand looking from one to another asked if this dinner
was to be eaten after the fashion of a jugglery trick.

To this he with the wand repliedIt is not to be eaten, senor
governor, except as is usual and customary in other islands where
there are governors. I, senor, am a physician, and I am paid a
salary in this island to serve its governors as such, and I have a
much greater regard for their health than for my own, studying day and
night and making myself acquainted with the governor's constitution,
in order to be able to cure him when he falls sick. The chief thing
I have to do is to attend at his dinners and suppers and allow him
to eat what appears to me to be fit for him, and keep from him what
I think will do him harm and be injurious to his stomach; and
therefore I ordered that plate of fruit to be removed as being too
moist, and that other dish I ordered to he removed as being too hot
and containing many spices that stimulate thirst; for he who drinks
much kills and consumes the radical moisture wherein life consists.

Well then,said Sanchothat dish of roast partridges there
that seems so savoury will not do me any harm.

To this the physician repliedOf those my lord the governor
shall not eat so long as I live.

Why so?said Sancho.

Because,replied the doctorour master Hippocrates, the polestar
and beacon of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms omnis saturatio
mala, perdicis autem pessima, which means 'all repletion is bad, but
that of partridge is the worst of all.

In that case,said Sancholet senor doctor see among the
dishes that are on the table what will do me most good and least harm,
and let me eat it, without tapping it with his stick; for by the
life of the governor, and so may God suffer me to enjoy it, but I'm
dying of hunger; and in spite of the doctor and all he may say, to
deny me food is the way to take my life instead of prolonging it.

Your worship is right, senor governor,said the physician; "and
therefore your worshipI considershould not eat of those stewed
rabbits therebecause it is a furry kind of food; if that veal were
not roasted and served with picklesyou might try it; but it is out
of the question."

That big dish that is smoking farther off,said Sanchoseems
to me to be an olla podrida, and out of the diversity of things in
such ollas, I can't fail to light upon something tasty and good for
me.

Absit,said the doctor; "far from us be any such base thought!
There is nothing in the world less nourishing than an olla podrida; to
canonsor rectors of collegesor peasants' weddings with your
ollas podridasbut let us have none of them on the tables of
governorswhere everything that is present should be delicate and
refined; and the reason isthat alwayseverywhere and by
everybodysimple medicines are more esteemed than compound ones
for we cannot go wrong in those that are simplewhile in the compound


we mayby merely altering the quantity of the things composing
them. But what I am of opinion the governor should cat now in order to
preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes
and a few thin slices of conserve of quinceswhich will settle his
stomach and help his digestion."

Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and
surveyed the doctor steadilyand in a solemn tone asked him what
his name was and where he had studied.

He repliedMy name, senor governor, is Doctor Pedro Recio de
Aguero I am a native of a place called Tirteafuera which lies
between Caracuel and Almodovar del Campo, on the right-hand side,
and I have the degree of doctor from the university of Osuna.

To which Sanchoglowing all over with ragereturnedThen let
Doctor Pedro Recio de Malaguero, native of Tirteafuera, a place that's
on the right-hand side as we go from Caracuel to Almodovar del
Campo, graduate of Osuna, get out of my presence at once; or I swear
by the sun I'll take a cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with
him, I'll not leave a doctor in the whole island; at least of those
I know to be ignorant; for as to learned, wise, sensible physicians,
them I will reverence and honour as divine persons. Once more I say
let Pedro Recio get out of this or I'll take this chair I am sitting
on and break it over his head. And if they call me to account for
it, I'll clear myself by saying I served God in killing a bad
doctor- a general executioner. And now give me something to eat, or
else take your government; for a trade that does not feed its master
is not worth two beans.

The doctor was dismayed when he saw the governor in such a
passionand he would have made a Tirteafuera out of the room but that
the same instant a post-horn sounded in the street; and the carver
putting his head out of the window turned round and saidIt's a
courier from my lord the duke, no doubt with some despatch of
importance.

The courier came in all sweating and flurriedand taking a paper
from his bosomplaced it in the governor's hands. Sancho handed it to
the majordomo and bade him read the superscriptionwhich ran thus: To
Don Sancho PanzaGovernor of the Island of Baratariainto his own
hands or those of his secretary. Sancho when he heard this said
Which of you is my secretary?I am, senor,said one of those
presentfor I can read and write, and am a Biscayan.With that
addition,said Sanchoyou might be secretary to the emperor
himself; open this paper and see what it says.The new-born secretary
obeyedand having read the contents said the matter was one to be
discussed in private. Sancho ordered the chamber to be clearedthe
majordomo and the carver only remaining; so the doctor and the
others withdrewand then the secretary read the letterwhich was
as follows:

It has come to my knowledgeSenor Don Sancho Panzathat certain
enemies of mine and of the island are about to make a furious attack
upon it some nightI know not when. It behoves you to be on the alert
and keep watchthat they surprise you not. I also know by trustworthy
spies that four persons have entered the town in disguise in order
to take your lifebecause they stand in dread of your great capacity;
keep your eyes open and take heed who approaches you to address you
and eat nothing that is presented to you. I will take care to send you
aid if you find yourself in difficultybut in all things you will act
as may be expected of your judgment. From this placethe Sixteenth of
Augustat four in the morning.


Your friend

THE DUKE

Sancho was astonishedand those who stood by made believe to be
so tooand turning to the majordomo he said to himWhat we have got
to do first, and it must be done at once, is to put Doctor Recio in
the lock-up; for if anyone wants to kill me it is he, and by a slow
death and the worst of all, which is hunger.

Likewise,said the carverit is my opinion your worship should
not eat anything that is on this table, for the whole was a present
from some nuns; and as they say, 'behind the cross there's the
devil.'

I don't deny it,said Sancho; "so for the present give me a
piece of bread and four pounds or so of grapes; no poison can come
in them; for the fact is I can't go on without eating; and if we are
to be prepared for these battles that are threatening us we must be
well provisioned; for it is the tripes that carry the heart and not
the heart the tripes. And yousecretaryanswer my lord the duke
and tell him that all his commands shall be obeyed to the letteras
he directs; and say from me to my lady the duchess that I kiss her
handsand that I beg of her not to forget to send my letter and
bundle to my wife Teresa Panza by a messenger; and I will take it as a
great favour and will not fail to serve her in all that may lie within
my power; and as you are about it you may enclose a kiss of the hand
to my master Don Quixote that he may see I am grateful bread; and as a
good secretary and a good Biscayan you may add whatever you like and
whatever will come in best; and now take away this cloth and give me
something to eatand I'll be ready to meet all the spies and
assassins and enchanters that may come against me or my island."

At this instant a page entered sayingHere is a farmer on
business, who wants to speak to your lordship on a matter of great
importance, he says.

It's very odd,said Sanchothe ways of these men on business; is
it possible they can be such fools as not to see that an hour like
this is no hour for coming on business? We who govern and we who are
judges- are we not men of flesh and blood, and are we not to be
allowed the time required for taking rest, unless they'd have us
made of marble? By God and on my conscience, if the government remains
in my hands (which I have a notion it won't), I'll bring more than one
man on business to order. However, tell this good man to come in;
but take care first of all that he is not some spy or one of my
assassins.

No, my lord,said the pagefor he looks like a simple fellow,
and either I know very little or he is as good as good bread.

There is nothing to be afraid of,said the majordomofor we
are all here.

Would it be possible, carver,said Sanchonow that Doctor
Pedro Recio is not here, to let me eat something solid and
substantial, if it were even a piece of bread and an onion?

To-night at supper,said the carverthe shortcomings of the
dinner shall be made good, and your lordship shall be fully
contented.


God grant it,said Sancho.

The farmer now came ina well-favoured man that one might see a
thousand leagues off was an honest fellow and a good soul. The first
thing he said wasWhich is the lord governor here?

Which should it be,said the secretarybut he who is seated in
the chair?

Then I humble myself before him,said the farmer; and going on his
knees he asked for his handto kiss it. Sancho refused itand bade
him stand up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyedand then said
I am a farmer, senor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two
leagues from Ciudad Real.

Another Tirteafuera!said Sancho; "say onbrother; I know
Miguelturra very well I can tell youfor it's not very far from my
own town."

The case is this, senor,continued the farmerthat by God's
mercy I am married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman
Catholic Church; I have two sons, students, and the younger is
studying to become bachelor, and the elder to be licentiate; I am a
widower, for my wife died, or more properly speaking, a bad doctor
killed her on my hands, giving her a purge when she was with child;
and if it had pleased God that the child had been born, and was a boy,
I would have put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his
brothers the bachelor and the licentiate.

So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you
would not now be a widower,said Sancho.

No, senor, certainly not,said the farmer.

We've got that much settled,said Sancho; "get onbrotherfor
it's more bed-time than business-time."

Well then,said the farmerthis son of mine who is going to be a
bachelor, fell in love in the said town with a damsel called Clara
Perlerina, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and
this name of Perlerines does not come to them by ancestry or
descent, but because all the family are paralytics, and for a better
name they call them Perlerines; though to tell the truth the damsel is
as fair as an Oriental pearl, and like a flower of the field, if you
look at her on the right side; on the left not so much, for on that
side she wants an eye that she lost by small-pox; and though her
face is thickly and deeply pitted, those who love her say they are not
pits that are there, but the graves where the hearts of her lovers are
buried. She is so cleanly that not to soil her face she carries her
nose turned up, as they say, so that one would fancy it was running
away from her mouth; and with all this she looks extremely well, for
she has a wide mouth; and but for wanting ten or a dozen teeth and
grinders she might compare and compete with the comeliest. Of her lips
I say nothing, for they are so fine and thin that, if lips might be
reeled, one might make a skein of them; but being of a different
colour from ordinary lips they are wonderful, for they are mottled,
blue, green, and purple- let my lord the governor pardon me for
painting so minutely the charms of her who some time or other will
be my daughter; for I love her, and I don't find her amiss.

Paint what you will,said Sancho; "I enjoy your paintingand if I
had dined there could be no dessert more to my taste than your
portrait."


That I have still to furnish,said the farmer; "but a time will
come when we may be able if we are not now; and I can tell yousenor
if I could paint her gracefulness and her tall figureit would
astonish you; but that is impossible because she is bent double with
her knees up to her mouth; but for all that it is easy to see that
if she could stand up she'd knock her head against the ceiling; and
she would have given her hand to my bachelor ere thisonly that she
can't stretch it outfor it's contracted; but still one can see its
elegance and fine make by its long furrowed nails."

That will do, brother,said Sancho; "consider you have painted her
from head to foot; what is it you want now? Come to the point
without all this beating about the bushand all these scraps and
additions."

I want your worship, senor,said the farmerto do me the
favour of giving me a letter of recommendation to the girl's father,
begging him to be so good as to let this marriage take place, as we
are not ill-matched either in the gifts of fortune or of nature; for
to tell the truth, senor governor, my son is possessed of a devil, and
there is not a day but the evil spirits torment him three or four
times; and from having once fallen into the fire, he has his face
puckered up like a piece of parchment, and his eyes watery and
always running; but he has the disposition of an angel, and if it
was not for belabouring and pummelling himself he'd be a saint.

Is there anything else you want, good man?said Sancho.

There's another thing I'd like,said the farmerbut I'm afraid
to mention it; however, out it must; for after all I can't let it be
rotting in my breast, come what may. I mean, senor, that I'd like your
worship to give me three hundred or six hundred ducats as a help to my
bachelor's portion, to help him in setting up house; for they must, in
short, live by themselves, without being subject to the
interferences of their fathers-in-law.

Just see if there's anything else you'd like,said Sanchoand
don't hold back from mentioning it out of bashfulness or modesty.

No, indeed there is not,said the farmer.

The moment he said this the governor started to his feetand
seizing the chair he had been sitting on exclaimedBy all that's
good, you ill-bred, boorish Don Bumpkin, if you don't get out of
this at once and hide yourself from my sight, I'll lay your head
open with this chair. You whoreson rascal, you devil's own painter,
and is it at this hour you come to ask me for six hundred ducats!
How should I have them, you stinking brute? And why should I give them
to you if I had them, you knave and blockhead? What have I to do
with Miguelturra or the whole family of the Perlerines? Get out I say,
or by the life of my lord the duke I'll do as I said. You're not
from Miguelturra, but some knave sent here from hell to tempt me. Why,
you villain, I have not yet had the government half a day, and you
want me to have six hundred ducats already!

The carver made signs to the farmer to leave the roomwhich he
did with his head downand to all appearance in terror lest the
governor should carry his threats into effectfor the rogue knew very
well how to play his part.

But let us leave Sancho in his wrathand peace be with them all;
and let us return to Don Quixotewhom we left with his face
bandaged and doctored after the cat woundsof which he was not


cured for eight days; and on one of these there befell him what Cide
Hamete promises to relate with that exactitude and truth with which he
is wont to set forth everything connected with this great history
however minute it may be.

CHAPTER XLVIII

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZTHE DUCHESS'S
DUENNATOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL
REMEMBRANCE

Exceedingly moody and dejected was the sorely wounded Don Quixote
with his face bandaged and markednot by the hand of Godbut by
the claws of a catmishaps incidental to knight-errantry. Six days he
remained without appearing in publicand one night as he lay awake
thinking of his misfortunes and of Altisidora's pursuit of himhe
perceived that some one was opening the door of his room with a key
and he at once made up his mind that the enamoured damsel was coming
to make an assault upon his chastity and put him in danger of
failing in the fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. "No
said he, firmly persuaded of the truth of his idea (and he said it
loud enough to be heard), the greatest beauty upon earth shall not
avail to make me renounce my adoration of her whom I bear stamped
and graved in the core of my heart and the secret depths of my bowels;
be thoulady minetransformed into a clumsy country wenchor into a
nymph of golden Tagus weaving a web of silk and goldlet Merlin or
Montesinos hold thee captive where they will; whereer thou artthou
art mineand where'er I ammust he thine." The very instant he had
uttered these wordsthe door opened. He stood up on the bed wrapped
from head to foot in a yellow satin coverletwith a cap on his
headand his face and his moustaches tied uphis face because of the
scratchesand his moustaches to keep them from drooping and falling
downin which trim he looked the most extraordinary scarecrow that
could be conceived. He kept his eyes fixed on the doorand just as he
was expecting to see the love-smitten and unhappy Altisidora make
her appearancehe saw coming in a most venerable duennain a long
white-bordered veil that covered and enveloped her from head to
foot. Between the fingers of her left hand she held a short lighted
candlewhile with her right she shaded it to keep the light from
her eyeswhich were covered by spectacles of great sizeand she
advanced with noiseless stepstreading very softly.

Don Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watchtowerand
observing her costume and noting her silencehe concluded that it
must be some witch or sorceress that was coming in such a guise to
work him some mischiefand he began crossing himself at a great rate.
The spectre still advancedand on reaching the middle of the room
looked up and saw the energy with which Don Quixote was crossing
himself; and if he was scared by seeing such a figure as hersshe was
terrified at the sight of his; for the moment she saw his tall
yellow form with the coverlet and the bandages that disfigured him
she gave a loud screamand exclaimingJesus! what's this I see?
let fall the candle in her frightand then finding herself in the
darkturned about to make offbut stumbling on her skirts in her
consternationshe measured her length with a mighty fall.

Don Quixote in his trepidation began sayingI conjure thee,
phantom, or whatever thou art, tell me what thou art and what thou
wouldst with me. If thou art a soul in torment, say so, and all that
my powers can do I will do for thee; for I am a Catholic Christian and
love to do good to all the world, and to this end I have embraced


the order of knight-errantry to which I belong, the province of
which extends to doing good even to souls in purgatory.

The unfortunate duenna hearing herself thus conjuredby her own
fear guessed Don Quixote's and in a low plaintive voice answered
Senor Don Quixote- if so be you are indeed Don Quixote- I am no
phantom or spectre or soul in purgatory, as you seem to think, but
Dona Rodriguez, duenna of honour to my lady the duchess, and I come to
you with one of those grievances your worship is wont to redress.

Tell me, Senora Dona Rodriguez,said Don Quixotedo you
perchance come to transact any go-between business? Because I must
tell you I am not available for anybody's purpose, thanks to the
peerless beauty of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso. In short, Senora
Dona Rodriguez, if you will leave out and put aside all love messages,
you may go and light your candle and come back, and we will discuss
all the commands you have for me and whatever you wish, saving only,
as I said, all seductive communications.

I carry nobody's messages, senor,said the duenna; "little you
know me. NayI'm not far enough advanced in years to take to any such
childish tricks. God be praised I have a soul in my body stilland
all my teeth and grinders in my mouthexcept one or two that the
coldsso common in this Aragon countryhave robbed me of. But wait a
littlewhile I go and light my candleand I will return
immediately and lay my sorrows before you as before one who relieves
those of all the world;" and without staying for an answer she quitted
the room and left Don Quixote tranquilly meditating while he waited
for her. A thousand thoughts at once suggested themselves to him on
the subject of this new adventureand it struck him as being ill done
and worse advised in him to expose himself to the danger of breaking
his plighted faith to his lady; and said he to himselfWho knows but
that the devil, being wily and cunning, may be trying now to entrap me
with a duenna, having failed with empresses, queens, duchesses,
marchionesses, and countesses? Many a time have I heard it said by
many a man of sense that he will sooner offer you a flat-nosed wench
than a roman-nosed one; and who knows but this privacy, this
opportunity, this silence, may awaken my sleeping desires, and lead me
in these my latter years to fall where I have never tripped? In
cases of this sort it is better to flee than to await the battle.
But I must be out of my senses to think and utter such nonsense; for
it is impossible that a long, white-hooded spectacled duenna could
stir up or excite a wanton thought in the most graceless bosom in
the world. Is there a duenna on earth that has fair flesh? Is there
a duenna in the world that escapes being ill-tempered, wrinkled, and
prudish? Avaunt, then, ye duenna crew, undelightful to all mankind.
Oh, but that lady did well who, they say, had at the end of her
reception room a couple of figures of duennas with spectacles and
lace-cushions, as if at work, and those statues served quite as well
to give an air of propriety to the room as if they had been real
duennas.

So saying he leaped off the bedintending to close the door and not
allow Senora Rodriguez to enter; but as he went to shut it Senora
Rodriguez returned with a wax candle lightedand having a closer view
of Don Quixotewith the coverlet round himand his bandages and
night-capshe was alarmed afreshand retreating a couple of paces
exclaimedAm I safe, sir knight? for I don't look upon it as a
sign of very great virtue that your worship should have got up out
of bed.

I may well ask the same, senora,said Don Quixote; "and I do ask
whether I shall be safe from being assailed and forced?"


Of whom and against whom do you demand that security, sir
knight?said the duenna.

Of you and against you I ask it,said Don Quixote; "for I am not
marblenor are you brassnor is it now ten o'clock in the morning
but midnightor a trifle past it I fancyand we are in a room more
secluded and retired than the cave could have been where the
treacherous and daring AEneas enjoyed the fair soft-hearted Dido.
But give me your handsenora; I require no better protection than
my own continenceand my own sense of propriety; as well as that
which is inspired by that venerable head-dress;" and so saying he
kissed her right hand and took it in his ownshe yielding it to him
with equal ceremoniousness. And here Cide Hamete inserts a parenthesis
in which he says that to have seen the pair marching from the door
to the bedlinked hand in hand in this wayhe would have given the
best of the two tunics he had.

Don Quixote finally got into bedand Dona Rodriguez took her seat
on a chair at some little distance from his couchwithout taking
off her spectacles or putting aside the candle. Don Quixote wrapped
the bedclothes round him and covered himself up completelyleaving
nothing but his face visibleand as soon as they had both regained
their composure he broke silencesayingNow, Senora Dona Rodriguez,
you may unbosom yourself and out with everything you have in your
sorrowful heart and afflicted bowels; and by me you shall be
listened to with chaste ears, and aided by compassionate exertions.

I believe it,replied the duenna; "from your worship's gentle
and winning presence only such a Christian answer could be expected.
The fact isthenSenor Don Quixotethat though you see me seated in
this chairhere in the middle of the kingdom of Aragonand in the
attire of a despised outcast duennaI am from the Asturias of Oviedo
and of a family with which many of the best of the province are
connected by blood; but my untoward fate and the improvidence of my
parentswhoI know not howwere unseasonably reduced to poverty
brought me to the court of Madridwhere as a provision and to avoid
greater misfortunesmy parents placed me as seamstress in the service
of a lady of qualityand I would have you know that for hemming and
sewing I have never been surpassed by any all my life. My parents left
me in service and returned to their own countryand a few years later
wentno doubtto heavenfor they were excellent good Catholic
Christians. I was left an orphan with nothing but the miserable
wages and trifling presents that are given to servants of my sort in
palaces; but about this timewithout any encouragement on my part
one of the esquires of the household fell in love with mea man
somewhat advanced in yearsfull-bearded and personableand above all
as good a gentleman as the king himselffor he came of a mountain
stock. We did not carry on our loves with such secrecy but that they
came to the knowledge of my ladyand shenot to have any fuss
about ithad us married with the full sanction of the holy mother
Roman Catholic Churchof which marriage a daughter was born to put an
end to my good fortuneif I had any; not that I died in childbirth
for I passed through it safely and in due seasonbut because
shortly afterwards my husband died of a certain shock he receivedand
had I time to tell you of it I know your worship would be
surprised;" and here she began to weep bitterly and saidPardon
me, Senor Don Quixote, if I am unable to control myself, for every
time I think of my unfortunate husband my eyes fill up with tears. God
bless me, with what an air of dignity he used to carry my lady
behind him on a stout mule as black as jet! for in those days they did
not use coaches or chairs, as they say they do now, and ladies rode
behind their squires. This much at least I cannot help telling you,
that you may observe the good breeding and punctiliousness of my
worthy husband. As he was turning into the Calle de Santiago in


Madrid, which is rather narrow, one of the alcaldes of the Court, with
two alguacils before him, was coming out of it, and as soon as my good
squire saw him he wheeled his mule about and made as if he would
turn and accompany him. My lady, who was riding behind him, said to
him in a low voice, 'What are you about, you sneak, don't you see that
I am here?' The alcalde like a polite man pulled up his horse and said
to him, 'Proceed, senor, for it is I, rather, who ought to accompany
my lady Dona Casilda'- for that was my mistress's name. Still my
husband, cap in hand, persisted in trying to accompany the alcalde,
and seeing this my lady, filled with rage and vexation, pulled out a
big pin, or, I rather think, a bodkin, out of her needle-case and
drove it into his back with such force that my husband gave a loud
yell, and writhing fell to the ground with his lady. Her two
lacqueys ran to rise her up, and the alcalde and the alguacils did the
same; the Guadalajara gate was all in commotion -I mean the idlers
congregated there; my mistress came back on foot, and my husband
hurried away to a barber's shop protesting that he was run right
through the guts. The courtesy of my husband was noised abroad to such
an extent, that the boys gave him no peace in the street; and on
this account, and because he was somewhat shortsighted, my lady
dismissed him; and it was chagrin at this I am convinced beyond a
doubt that brought on his death. I was left a helpless widow, with a
daughter on my hands growing up in beauty like the sea-foam; at
length, however, as I had the character of being an excellent
needlewoman, my lady the duchess, then lately married to my lord the
duke, offered to take me with her to this kingdom of Aragon, and my
daughter also, and here as time went by my daughter grew up and with
her all the graces in the world; she sings like a lark, dances quick
as thought, foots it like a gipsy, reads and writes like a
schoolmaster, and does sums like a miser; of her neatness I say
nothing, for the running water is not purer, and her age is now, if my
memory serves me, sixteen years five months and three days, one more
or less. To come to the point, the son of a very rich farmer, living
in a village of my lord the duke's not very far from here, fell in
love with this girl of mine; and in short, how I know not, they came
together, and under the promise of marrying her he made a fool of my
daughter, and will not keep his word. And though my lord the duke is
aware of it (for I have complained to him, not once but many and
many a time, and entreated him to order the farmer to marry my
daughter), he turns a deaf ear and will scarcely listen to me; the
reason being that as the deceiver's father is so rich, and lends him
money, and is constantly going security for his debts, he does not
like to offend or annoy him in any way. Now, senor, I want your
worship to take it upon yourself to redress this wrong either by
entreaty or by arms; for by what all the world says you came into it
to redress grievances and right wrongs and help the unfortunate. Let
your worship put before you the unprotected condition of my
daughter, her youth, and all the perfections I have said she
possesses; and before God and on my conscience, out of all the damsels
my lady has, there is not one that comes up to the sole of her shoe,
and the one they call Altisidora, and look upon as the boldest and
gayest of them, put in comparison with my daughter, does not come
within two leagues of her. For I would have you know, senor, all is
not gold that glitters, and that same little Altisidora has more
forwardness than good looks, and more impudence than modesty;
besides being not very sound, for she has such a disagreeable breath
that one cannot bear to be near her for a moment; and even my lady the
duchess- but I'll hold my tongue, for they say that walls have ears.


For heaven's sake, Dona Rodriguez, what ails my lady the
duchess?asked Don Quixote.


Adjured in that way,replied the duennaI cannot help
answering the question and telling the whole truth. Senor Don Quixote,



have you observed the comeliness of my lady the duchess, that smooth
complexion of hers like a burnished polished sword, those two cheeks
of milk and carmine, that gay lively step with which she treads or
rather seems to spurn the earth, so that one would fancy she went
radiating health wherever she passed? Well then, let me tell you she
may thank, first of all God, for this, and next, two issues that she
has, one in each leg, by which all the evil humours, of which the
doctors say she is full, are discharged.

Blessed Virgin!exclaimed Don Quixote; "and is it possible that my
lady the duchess has drains of that sort? I would not have believed it
if the barefoot friars had told it me; but as the lady Dona
Rodriguez says soit must be so. But surely such issuesand in
such placesdo not discharge humoursbut liquid amber. VerilyI
do believe now that this practice of opening issues is a very
important matter for the health."

Don Quixote had hardly said thiswhen the chamber door flew open
with a loud bangand with the start the noise gave her Dona Rodriguez
let the candle fall from her handand the room was left as dark as
a wolf's mouthas the saying is. Suddenly the poor duenna felt two
hands seize her by the throatso tightly that she could not croak
while some one elsewithout uttering a wordvery briskly hoisted
up her petticoatsand with what seemed to be a slipper began to lay
on so heartily that anyone would have felt pity for her; but
although Don Quixote felt it he never stirred from his bedbut lay
quiet and silentnay apprehensive that his turn for a drubbing
might be coming. Nor was the apprehension an idle one; one; for
leaving the duenna (who did not dare to cry out) well bastedthe
silent executioners fell upon Don Quixoteand stripping him of the
sheet and the coverletthey pinched him so fast and so hard that he
was driven to defend himself with his fistsand all this in
marvellous silence. The battle lasted nearly half an hourand then
the phantoms fled; Dona Rodriguez gathered up her skirtsand
bemoaning her fate went out without saying a word to Don Quixote
and hesorely pinchedpuzzledand dejectedremained aloneand
there we will leave himwondering who could have been the perverse
enchanter who had reduced him to such a state; but that shall be
told in due seasonfor Sancho claims our attentionand the
methodical arrangement of the story demands it.

CHAPTER XLIX

OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND

We left the great governor angered and irritated by that
portrait-painting rogue of a farmer whoinstructed the majordomo
as the majordomo was by the duketried to practise upon him; he
howeverfoolboorand clown as he washeld his own against them
allsaying to those round him and to Doctor Pedro Reciowho as
soon as the private business of the duke's letter was disposed of
had returned to the roomNow I see plainly enough that judges and
governors ought to be and must be made of brass not to feel the
importunities of the applicants that at all times and all seasons
insist on being heard, and having their business despatched, and their
own affairs and no others attended to, come what may; and if the
poor judge does not hear them and settle the matter- either because he
cannot or because that is not the time set apart for hearing themforthwith
they abuse him, and run him down, and gnaw at his bones, and
even pick holes in his pedigree. You silly, stupid applicant, don't be
in a hurry; wait for the proper time and season for doing business;


don't come at dinner-hour, or at bed-time; for judges are only flesh
and blood, and must give to Nature what she naturally demands of them;
all except myself, for in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to
Senor Doctor Pedro Recio Tirteafuera here, who would have me die of
hunger, and declares that death to be life; and the same sort of
life may God give him and all his kind- I mean the bad doctors; for
the good ones deserve palms and laurels.

All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him speak so
elegantlyand did not know what to attribute it to unless it were
that office and grave responsibility either smarten or stupefy men's
wits. At last Doctor Pedro Recio Agilers of Tirteafuera promised to
let him have supper that night though it might be in contravention
of all the aphorisms of Hippocrates. With this the governor was
satisfied and looked forward to the approach of night and
supper-time with great anxiety; and though timeto his mindstood
still and made no progressnevertheless the hour he so longed for
cameand they gave him a beef salad with onions and some boiled
calves' feet rather far gone. At this he fell to with greater relish
than if they had given him francolins from Milanpheasants from Rome
veal from Sorrentopartridges from Moronor geese from Lavajos
and turning to the doctor at supper he said to himLook here,
senor doctor, for the future don't trouble yourself about giving me
dainty things or choice dishes to eat, for it will be only taking my
stomach off its hinges; it is accustomed to goat, cow, bacon, hung
beef, turnips and onions; and if by any chance it is given these
palace dishes, it receives them squeamishly, and sometimes with
loathing. What the head-carver had best do is to serve me with what
they call ollas podridas (and the rottener they are the better they
smell); and he can put whatever he likes into them, so long as it is
good to eat, and I'll be obliged to him, and will requite him some
day. But let nobody play pranks on me, for either we are or we are
not; let us live and eat in peace and good-fellowship, for when God
sends the dawn, be sends it for all. I mean to govern this island
without giving up a right or taking a bribe; let everyone keep his eye
open, and look out for the arrow; for I can tell them 'the devil's
in Cantillana,' and if they drive me to it they'll see something
that will astonish them. Nay! make yourself honey and the flies eat
you.

Of a truth, senor governor,said the carveryour worship is in
the right of it in everything you have said; and I promise you in
the name of all the inhabitants of this island that they will serve
your worship with all zeal, affection, and good-will, for the mild
kind of government you have given a sample of to begin with, leaves
them no ground for doing or thinking anything to your worship's
disadvantage.

That I believe,said Sancho; "and they would be great fools if
they did or thought otherwise; once more I saysee to my feeding
and my Dapple's for that is the great point and what is most to the
purpose; and when the hour comes let us go the roundsfor it is my
intention to purge this island of all manner of uncleanness and of all
idle good-for-nothing vagabonds; for I would have you know that lazy
idlers are the same thing in a State as the drones in a hivethat eat
up the honey the industrious bees make. I mean to protect the
husbandmanto preserve to the gentleman his privilegesto reward the
virtuousand above all to respect religion and honour its
ministers. What say you to thatmy friends? Is there anything in what
I sayor am I talking to no purpose?"

There is so much in what your worship says, senor governor,said
the majordomothat I am filled with wonder when I see a man like
your worship, entirely without learning (for I believe you have none


at all), say such things, and so full of sound maxims and sage
remarks, very different from what was expected of your worship's
intelligence by those who sent us or by us who came here. Every day we
see something new in this world; jokes become realities, and the
jokers find the tables turned upon them.

Night cameand with the permission of Doctor Pedro Reciothe
governor had supper. They then got ready to go the roundsand he
started with the majordomothe secretarythe head-carverthe
chronicler charged with recording his deedsand alguacils and
notaries enough to form a fair-sized squadron. In the midst marched
Sancho with his staffas fine a sight as one could wish to seeand
but a few streets of the town had been traversed when they heard a
noise as of a clashing of swords. They hastened to the spotand found
that the combatants were but twowho seeing the authorities
approaching stood stilland one of them exclaimedHelp, in the name
of God and the king! Are men to he allowed to rob in the middle of
this town, and rush out and attack people in the very streets?

Be calm, my good man,said Sanchoand tell me what the cause
of this quarrel is; for I am the governor.

Said the other combatantSenor governor, I will tell you in a very
few words. Your worship must know that this gentleman has just now won
more than a thousand reals in that gambling house opposite, and God
knows how. I was there, and gave more than one doubtful point in his
favour, very much against what my conscience told me. He made off with
his winnings, and when I made sure he was going to give me a crown
or so at least by way of a present, as it is usual and customary to
give men of quality of my sort who stand by to see fair or foul
play, and back up swindles, and prevent quarrels, he pocketed his
money and left the house. Indignant at this I followed him, and
speaking him fairly and civilly asked him to give me if it were only
eight reals, for he knows I am an honest man and that I have neither
profession nor property, for my parents never brought me up to any
or left me any; but the rogue, who is a greater thief than Cacus and a
greater sharper than Andradilla, would not give me more than four
reals; so your worship may see how little shame and conscience he has.
But by my faith if you had not come up I'd have made him disgorge
his winnings, and he'd have learned what the range of the steel-yard
was.

What say you to this?asked Sancho. The other replied that all his
antagonist said was trueand that he did not choose to give him
more than four reals because he very often gave him money; and that
those who expected presents ought to be civil and take what is given
them with a cheerful countenanceand not make any claim against
winners unless they know them for certain to be sharpers and their
winnings to be unfairly won; and that there could be no better proof
that he himself was an honest man than his having refused to give
anything; for sharpers always pay tribute to lookers-on who know them.

That is true,said the majordomo; "let your worship consider
what is to be done with these men."

What is to be done,said Sanchois this; you, the winner, be you
good, bad, or indifferent, give this assailant of yours a hundred
reals at once, and you must disburse thirty more for the poor
prisoners; and you who have neither profession nor property, and
hang about the island in idleness, take these hundred reals now, and
some time of the day to-morrow quit the island under sentence of
banishment for ten years, and under pain of completing it in another
life if you violate the sentence, for I'll hang you on a gibbet, or at
least the hangman will by my orders; not a word from either of you, or


I'll make him feel my hand.

The one paid down the money and the other took itand the latter
quitted the islandwhile the other went home; and then the governor
saidEither I am not good for much, or I'll get rid of these
gambling houses, for it strikes me they are very mischievous.

This one at least,said one of the notariesyour worship will
not be able to get rid of, for a great man owns it, and what he
loses every year is beyond all comparison more than what he makes by
the cards. On the minor gambling houses your worship may exercise your
power, and it is they that do most harm and shelter the most barefaced
practices; for in the houses of lords and gentlemen of quality the
notorious sharpers dare not attempt to play their tricks; and as the
vice of gambling has become common, it is better that men should
play in houses of repute than in some tradesman's, where they catch an
unlucky fellow in the small hours of the morning and skin him alive.

I know already, notary, that there is a good deal to he said on
that point,said Sancho.

And now a tipstaff came up with a young man in his graspand
saidSenor governor, this youth was coming towards us, and as soon
as he saw the officers of justice he turned about and ran like a deer,
a sure proof that he must be some evil-doer; I ran after him, and
had it not been that he stumbled and fell, I should never have
caught him.

What did you run for, fellow?said Sancho.

To which the young man repliedSenor, it was to avoid answering
all the questions officers of justice put.

What are you by trade?

A weaver.

And what do you weave?

Lance heads, with your worship's good leave.

You're facetious with me! You plume yourself on being a wag? Very
good; and where were you going just now?

To take the air, senor.

And where does one take the air in this island?

Where it blows.

Good! your answers are very much to the point; you are a smart
youth; but take notice that I am the air, and that I blow upon you
a-stern, and send you to gaol. Ho there! lay hold of him and take
him off; I'll make him sleep there to-night without air.

By God,said the young manyour worship will make me sleep in
gaol just as soon as make me king.

Why shan't I make thee sleep in gaol?said Sancho. "Have I not the
power to arrest thee and release thee whenever I like?"

All the power your worship has,said the young manwon't be able
to make me sleep in gaol.


How? not able!said Sancho; "take him away at once where he'll see
his mistake with his own eyeseven if the gaoler is willing to
exert his interested generosity on his behalf; for I'll lay a
penalty of two thousand ducats on him if he allows him to stir a
step from the prison."

That's ridiculous,said the young man; "the fact isall the men
on earth will not make me sleep in prison."

Tell me, you devil,said Sanchohave you got any angel that will
deliver you, and take off the irons I am going to order them to put
upon you?

Now, senor governor,said the young man in a sprightly manner
let us be reasonable and come to the point. Granted your worship
may order me to be taken to prison, and to have irons and chains put
on me, and to be shut up in a cell, and may lay heavy penalties on the
gaoler if he lets me out, and that he obeys your orders; still, if I
don't choose to sleep, and choose to remain awake all night without
closing an eye, will your worship with all your power be able to
make me sleep if I don't choose?

No, truly,said the secretaryand the fellow has made his
point.

So then,said Sanchoit would be entirely of your own choice you
would keep from sleeping; not in opposition to my will?

No, senor,said the youthcertainly not.

Well then, go, and God be with you,said Sancho; "be off home to
sleepand God give you sound sleepfor I don't want to rob you of
it; but for the futurelet me advise you don't joke with the
authoritiesbecause you may come across some one who will bring
down the joke on your own skull."

The young man went his wayand the governor continued his round
and shortly afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a man in custody
and saidSenor governor, this person, who seems to be a man, is
not so, but a woman, and not an ill-favoured one, in man's clothes.
They raised two or three lanterns to her faceand by their light they
distinguished the features of a woman to all appearance of the age
of sixteen or a little morewith her hair gathered into a gold and
green silk netand fair as a thousand pearls. They scanned her from
head to footand observed that she had on red silk stockings with
garters of white taffety bordered with gold and pearl; her breeches
were of green and gold stuffand under an open jacket or jerkin of
the same she wore a doublet of the finest white and gold cloth; her
shoes were white and such as men wear; she carried no sword at her
beltbut only a richly ornamented daggerand on her fingers she
had several handsome rings. In shortthe girl seemed fair to look
at in the eyes of alland none of those who beheld her knew her
the people of the town said they could not imagine who she wasand
those who were in the secret of the jokes that were to be practised
upon Sancho were the ones who were most surprisedfor this incident
or discovery had not been arranged by them; and they watched anxiously
to see how the affair would end.

Sancho was fascinated by the girl's beautyand he asked her who she
waswhere she was goingand what had induced her to dress herself in
that garb. She with her eyes fixed on the ground answered in modest
confusionI cannot tell you, senor, before so many people what it is
of such consequence to me to have kept secret; one thing I wish to
be known, that I am no thief or evildoer, but only an unhappy maiden


whom the power of jealousy has led to break through the respect that
is due to modesty.

Hearing this the majordomo said to SanchoMake the people stand
back, senor governor, that this lady may say what she wishes with less
embarrassment.

Sancho gave the orderand all except the majordomothe
head-carverand the secretary fell back. Finding herself then in
the presence of no morethe damsel went on to sayI am the
daughter, sirs, of Pedro Perez Mazorca, the wool-farmer of this
town, who is in the habit of coming very often to my father's house.

That won't do, senora,said the majordomo; "for I know Pedro Perez
very welland I know he has no child at alleither son or
daughter; and besidesthough you say he is your fatheryou add
then that he comes very often to your father's house."

I had already noticed that,said Sancho.

I am confused just now, sirs,said the damseland I don't know
what I am saying; but the truth is that I am the daughter of Diego
de la Llana, whom you must all know.

Ay, that will do,said the majordomo; "for I know Diego de la
Llanaand know that he is a gentleman of position and a rich manand
that he has a son and a daughterand that since he was left a widower
nobody in all this town can speak of having seen his daughter's
face; for he keeps her so closely shut up that he does not give even
the sun a chance of seeing her; and for all that report says she is
extremely beautiful."

It is true,said the damseland I am that daughter; whether
report lies or not as to my beauty, you, sirs, will have decided by
this time, as you have seen me;and with this she began to weep
bitterly.

On seeing this the secretary leant over to the head-carver's ear
and said to him in a low voiceSomething serious has no doubt
happened this poor maiden, that she goes wandering from home in such a
dress and at such an hour, and one of her rank too.There can be
no doubt about it,returned the carverand moreover her tears
confirm your suspicion.Sancho gave her the best comfort he could
and entreated her to tell them without any fear what had happened her
as they would all earnestly and by every means in their power
endeavour to relieve her.

The fact is, sirs,said shethat my father has kept me shut up
these ten years, for so long is it since the earth received my mother.
Mass is said at home in a sumptuous chapel, and all this time I have
seen but the sun in the heaven by day, and the moon and the stars by
night; nor do I know what streets are like, or plazas, or churches, or
even men, except my father and a brother I have, and Pedro Perez the
wool-farmer; whom, because he came frequently to our house, I took
it into my head to call my father, to avoid naming my own. This
seclusion and the restrictions laid upon my going out, were it only to
church, have been keeping me unhappy for many a day and month past;
I longed to see the world, or at least the town where I was born,
and it did not seem to me that this wish was inconsistent with the
respect maidens of good quality should have for themselves. When I
heard them talking of bull-fights taking place, and of javelin
games, and of acting plays, I asked my brother, who is a year
younger than myself, to tell me what sort of things these were, and
many more that I had never seen; he explained them to me as well as he


could, but the only effect was to kindle in me a still stronger desire
to see them. At last, to cut short the story of my ruin, I begged
and entreated my brother- O that I had never made such an entreaty-
And once more she gave way to a burst of weeping.

Proceed, senora,said the majordomoand finish your story of
what has happened to you, for your words and tears are keeping us
all in suspense.

I have but little more to say, though many a tear to shed,said
the damsel; "for ill-placed desires can only be paid for in some
such way."

The maiden's beauty had made a deep impression on the
head-carver's heartand he again raised his lantern for another
look at herand thought they were not tears she was sheddingbut
seed-pearl or dew of the meadownayhe exalted them still higher
and made Oriental pearls of themand fervently hoped her misfortune
might not be so great a one as her tears and sobs seemed to
indicate. The governor was losing patience at the length of time the
girl was taking to tell her storyand told her not to keep them
waiting any longer; for it was lateand there still remained a good
deal of the town to be gone over.

Shewith broken sobs and half-suppressed sighswent on to sayMy
misfortune, my misadventure, is simply this, that I entreated my
brother to dress me up as a man in a suit of his clothes, and take
me some night, when our father was asleep, to see the whole town;
he, overcome by my entreaties, consented, and dressing me in this suit
and himself in clothes of mine that fitted him as if made for him (for
he has not a hair on his chin, and might pass for a very beautiful
young girl), to-night, about an hour ago, more or less, we left the
house, and guided by our youthful and foolish impulse we made the
circuit of the whole town, and then, as we were about to return
home, we saw a great troop of people coming, and my brother said to
me, 'Sister, this must be the round, stir your feet and put wings to
them, and follow me as fast as you can, lest they recognise us, for
that would be a bad business for us;' and so saying he turned about
and began, I cannot say to run but to fly; in less than six paces I
fell from fright, and then the officer of justice came up and
carried me before your worships, where I find myself put to shame
before all these people as whimsical and vicious.

So then, senora,said Sanchono other mishap has befallen you,
nor was it jealousy that made you leave home, as you said at the
beginning of your story?

Nothing has happened me,said shenor was it jealousy that
brought me out, but merely a longing to see the world, which did not
go beyond seeing the streets of this town.

The appearance of the tipstaffs with her brother in custodywhom
one of them had overtaken as he ran away from his sisternow fully
confirmed the truth of what the damsel said. He had nothing on but a
rich petticoat and a short blue damask cloak with fine gold lace
and his head was uncovered and adorned only with its own hairwhich
looked like rings of goldso bright and curly was it. The governor
the majordomoand the carver went aside with himandunheard by his
sisterasked him how he came to be in that dressand he with no less
shame and embarrassment told exactly the same story as his sister
to the great delight of the enamoured carver; the governorhowever
said to themIn truth, young lady and gentleman, this has been a
very childish affair, and to explain your folly and rashness there was
no necessity for all this delay and all these tears and sighs; for


if you had said we are so-and-so, and we escaped from our father's
house in this way in order to ramble about, out of mere curiosity
and with no other object, there would have been an end of the
matter, and none of these little sobs and tears and all the rest of
it.

That is true,said the damselbut you see the confusion I was in
was so great it did not let me behave as I ought.

No harm has been done,said Sancho; "comewe will leave you at
your father's house; perhaps they will not have missed you; and
another time don't be so childish or eager to see the world; for a
respectable damsel should have a broken leg and keep at home; and
the woman and the hen by gadding about are soon lost; and she who is
eager to see is also eager to be seen; I say no more."

The youth thanked the governor for his kind offer to take them home
and they directed their steps towards the housewhich was not far
off. On reaching it the youth threw a pebble up at a gratingand
immediately a woman-servant who was waiting for them came down and
opened the door to themand they went inleaving the party
marvelling as much at their grace and beauty as at the fancy they
had for seeing the world by night and without quitting the village;
whichhoweverthey set down to their youth.

The head-carver was left with a heart pierced through and through
and he made up his mind on the spot to demand the damsel in marriage
of her father on the morrowmaking sure she would not be refused
him as he was a servant of the duke's; and even to Sancho ideas and
schemes of marrying the youth to his daughter Sanchica suggested
themselvesand he resolved to open the negotiation at the proper
seasonpersuading himself that no husband could be refused to a
governor's daughter. And so the night's round came to an endand a
couple of days later the governmentwhereby all his plans were
overthrown and swept awayas will be seen farther on.

CHAPTER L

WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO
FLOGGED THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTEAND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE
PAGE WHO CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZASANCHO PANZA'S WIFE

Cide Hametethe painstaking investigator of the minute points of
this veracious historysays that when Dona Rodriguez left her own
room to go to Don Quixote'sanother duenna who slept with her
observed herand as all duennas are fond of pryinglisteningand
sniffingshe followed her so silently that the good Rodriguez never
perceived it; and as soon as the duenna saw her enter Don Quixote's
roomnot to fail in a duenna's invariable practice of tattlingshe
hurried off that instant to report to the duchess how Dona Rodriguez
was closeted with Don Quixote. The duchess told the dukeand asked
him to let her and Altisidora go and see what the said duenna wanted
with Don Quixote. The duke gave them leaveand the pair cautiously
and quietly crept to the door of the room and posted themselves so
close to it that they could hear all that was said inside. But when
the duchess heard how the Rodriguez had made public the Aranjuez of
her issues she could not restrain herselfnor Altisidora either;
and sofilled with rage and thirsting for vengeancethey burst
into the room and tormented Don Quixote and flogged the duenna in
the manner already described; for indignities offered to their
charms and self-esteem mightily provoke the anger of women and make


them eager for revenge. The duchess told the duke what had happened
and he was much amused by it; and shein pursuance of her design of
making merry and diverting herself with Don Quixotedespatched the
page who had played the part of Dulcinea in the negotiations for her
disenchantment (which Sancho Panza in the cares of government had
forgotten all about) to Teresa Panza his wife with her husband's
letter and another from herselfand also a great string of fine coral
beads as a present.

Now the history says this page was very sharp and quick-witted;
and eager to serve his lord and lady he set off very willingly for
Sancho's village. Before he entered it he observed a number of women
washing in a brookand asked them if they could tell him whether
there lived there a woman of the name of Teresa Panzawife of one
Sancho Panzasquire to a knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha. At
the question a young girl who was washing stood up and saidTeresa
Panza is my mother, and that Sancho is my father, and that knight is
our master.

Well then, miss,said the pagecome and show me where your
mother is, for I bring her a letter and a present from your father.

That I will with all my heart, senor,said the girlwho seemed to
be about fourteenmore or less; and leaving the clothes she was
washing to one of her companionsand without putting anything on
her head or feetfor she was bare-legged and had her hair hanging
about heraway she skipped in front of the page's horsesaying
Come, your worship, our house is at the entrance of the town, and
my mother is there, sorrowful enough at not having had any news of
my father this ever so long.

Well,said the pageI am bringing her such good news that she
will have reason to thank God.

And thenskippingrunningand caperingthe girl reached the
townbut before going into the house she called out at the door
Come out, mother Teresa, come out, come out; here's a gentleman
with letters and other things from my good father.At these words her
mother Teresa Panza came out spinning a bundle of flaxin a grey
petticoat (so short was it one would have fancied "they to her shame
had cut it short")a grey bodice of the same stuffand a smock.
She was not very oldthough plainly past fortystronghealthy
vigorousand sun-dried; and seeing her daughter and the page on
horsebackshe exclaimedWhat's this, child? What gentleman is
this?

A servant of my lady, Dona Teresa Panza,replied the page; and
suiting the action to the word he flung himself off his horseand
with great humility advanced to kneel before the lady Teresa
sayingLet me kiss your hand, Senora Dona Teresa, as the lawful
and only wife of Senor Don Sancho Panza, rightful governor of the
island of Barataria.

Ah, senor, get up, do that,said Teresa; "for I'm not a bit of a
court ladybut only a poor country womanthe daughter of a
clodcrusherand the wife of a squire-errant and not of any governor
at all."

You are,said the pagethe most worthy wife of a most
arch-worthy governor; and as a proof of what I say accept this
letter and this present;and at the same time he took out of his
pocket a string of coral beads with gold claspsand placed it on
her neckand saidThis letter is from his lordship the governor,
and the other as well as these coral beads from my lady the duchess,


who sends me to your worship.

Teresa stood lost in astonishmentand her daughter just as much
and the girl saidMay I die but our master Don Quixote's at the
bottom of this; he must have given father the government or county
he so often promised him.

That is the truth,said the page; "for it is through Senor Don
Quixote that Senor Sancho is now governor of the island of
Baratariaas will be seen by this letter."

Will your worship read it to me, noble sir?said Teresa; "for
though I can spin I can't readnot a scrap."

Nor I either,said Sanchica; "but wait a bitand I'll go and
fetch some one who can read iteither the curate himself or the
bachelor Samson Carrascoand they'll come gladly to hear any news
of my father."

There is no need to fetch anybody,said the page; "for though I
can't spin I can readand I'll read it;" and so he read it through
but as it has been already given it is not inserted here; and then
he took out the other one from the duchesswhich ran as follows:

Friend Teresa- Your husband Sancho's good qualitiesof heart as
well as of headinduced and compelled me to request my husband the
duke to give him the government of one of his many islands. I am
told he governs like a gerfalconof which I am very gladand my lord
the dukeof coursealso; and I am very thankful to heaven that I
have not made a mistake in choosing him for that same government;
for I would have Senora Teresa know that a good governor is hard to
find in this world and may God make me as good as Sancho's way of
governing. Herewith I send youmy deara string of coral beads
with gold clasps; I wish they were Oriental pearls; but "he who
gives thee a bone does not wish to see thee dead;" a time will come
when we shall become acquainted and meet one anotherbut God knows
the future. Commend me to your daughter Sanchicaand tell her from me
to hold herself in readinessfor I mean to make a high match for
her when she least expects it. They tell me there are big acorns in
your village; send me a couple of dozen or soand I shall value
them greatly as coming from your hand; and write to me at length to
assure me of your health and well-being; and if there be anything
you stand in need ofit is but to open your mouthand that shall
be the measure; and so God keep you.

From this place.
Your loving friend
THE DUCHESS.

Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady!said Teresa when she heard the
letter; "that I may be buried with ladies of that sortand not the
gentlewomen we have in this townthat fancy because they are
gentlewomen the wind must not touch themand go to church with as
much airs as if they were queensno lessand seem to think they
are disgraced if they look at a farmer's wife! And see here how this
good ladyfor all she's a duchesscalls me 'friend' and treats me
as if I was her equal- and equal may I see her with the tallest
church-tower in La Mancha! And as for the acornssenorI'll send her
ladyship a peck and such big ones that one might come to see them as a
show and a wonder. And nowSanchicasee that the gentleman is


comfortable; put up his horseand get some eggs out of the stable
and cut plenty of baconand let's give him his dinner like a
prince; for the good news he has broughtand his own bonny face
deserve it all; and meanwhile I'll run out and give the neighbours the
news of our good luckand father curateand Master Nicholas the
barberwho are and always have been such friends of thy father's."

That I will, mother,said Sanchica; "but mindyou must give me
half of that string; for I don't think my lady the duchess could
have been so stupid as to send it all to you."

It is all for thee, my child,said Teresa; "but let me wear it
round my neck for a few days; for verily it seems to make my heart
glad."

You will be glad too,said the pagewhen you see the bundle
there is in this portmanteau, for it is a suit of the finest cloth,
that the governor only wore one day out hunting and now sends, all for
Senora Sanchica.

May he live a thousand years,said Sanchicaand the bearer as
many, nay two thousand, if needful.

With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the lettersand with
the string of beads round her neckand went along thrumming the
letters as if they were a tambourineand by chance coming across
the curate and Samson Carrasco she began capering and sayingNone of
us poor now, faith! We've got a little government! Ay, let the
finest fine lady tackle me, and I'll give her a setting down!

What's all this, Teresa Panza,said they; "what madness is this
and what papers are those?"

The madness is only this,said shethat these are the letters of
duchesses and governors, and these I have on my neck are fine coral
beads, with ave-marias and paternosters of beaten gold, and I am a
governess.

God help us,said the curatewe don't understand you, Teresa, or
know what you are talking about.

There, you may see it yourselves,said Teresaand she handed them
the letters.

The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hearand Samson and
he regarded one another with looks of astonishment at what they had
readand the bachelor asked who had brought the letters. Teresa in
reply bade them come with her to her house and they would see the
messengera most elegant youthwho had brought another present which
was worth as much more. The curate took the coral beads from her
neck and examined them again and againand having satisfied himself
as to their fineness he fell to wondering afreshand saidBy the
gown I wear I don't know what to say or think of these letters and
presents; on the one hand I can see and feel the fineness of these
coral beads, and on the other I read how a duchess sends to beg for
a couple of dozen of acorns.

Square that if you can,said Carrasco; "welllet's go and see the
messengerand from him we'll learn something about this mystery
that has turned up."

They did soand Teresa returned with them. They found the page
sifting a little barley for his horseand Sanchica cutting a rasher
of bacon to be paved with eggs for his dinner. His looks and his


handsome apparel pleased them both greatly; and after they had saluted
him courteouslyand he themSamson begged him to give them his news
as well of Don Quixote as of Sancho Panzaforhe saidthough they
had read the letters from Sancho and her ladyship the duchessthey
were still puzzled and could not make out what was meant by Sancho's
governmentand above all of an islandwhen all or most of those in
the Mediterranean belonged to his Majesty.

To this the page repliedAs to Senor Sancho Panza's being a
governor there is no doubt whatever; but whether it is an island or
not that he governs, with that I have nothing to do; suffice it that
it is a town of more than a thousand inhabitants; with regard to the
acorns I may tell you my lady the duchess is so unpretending and
unassuming that, not to speak of sending to beg for acorns from a
peasant woman, she has been known to send to ask for the loan of a
comb from one of her neighbours; for I would have your worships know
that the ladies of Aragon, though they are just as illustrious, are
not so punctilious and haughty as the Castilian ladies; they treat
people with greater familiarity.

In the middle of this conversation Sanchica came in with her skirt
full of eggsand said she to the pageTell me, senor, does my
father wear trunk-hose since he has been governor?

I have not noticed,said the page; "but no doubt he wears them."

Ah! my God!said Sanchicawhat a sight it must be to see my
father in tights! Isn't it odd that ever since I was born I have had a
longing to see my father in trunk-hose?

As things go you will see that if you live,said the page; "by God
he is in the way to take the road with a sunshade if the government
only lasts him two months more."

The curate and the bachelor could see plainly enough that the page
spoke in a waggish vein; but the fineness of the coral beadsand
the hunting suit that Sancho sent (for Teresa had already shown it
to them) did away with the impression; and they could not help
laughing at Sanchica's wishand still more when Teresa saidSenor
curate, look about if there's anybody here going to Madrid or
Toledo, to buy me a hooped petticoat, a proper fashionable one of
the best quality; for indeed and indeed I must do honour to my
husband's government as well as I can; nay, if I am put to it and have
to, I'll go to Court and set a coach like all the world; for she who
has a governor for her husband may very well have one and keep one.

And why not, mother!said Sanchica; "would to God it were to-day
instead of to-morroweven though they were to say when they saw me
seated in the coach with my mother'See that rubbishthat
garlic-stuffed fellow's daughterhow she goes stretched at her ease
in a coach as if she was a she-pope!' But let them tramp through the
mudand let me go in my coach with my feet off the ground. Bad luck
to backbiters all over the world; 'let me go warm and the people may
laugh.' Do I say rightmother?"

To be sure you do, my child,said Teresa; "and all this good luck
and even moremy good Sancho foretold me; and thou wilt seemy
daughterhe won't stop till he has made me a countess; for to make
a beginning is everything in luck; and as I have heard thy good father
say many a time (for besides being thy father he's the father of
proverbs too)'When they offer thee a heiferrun with a halter; when
they offer thee a governmenttake it; when they would give thee a
countyseize it; when they sayHere, here!to thee with
something goodswallow it.' Oh no! go to sleepand don't answer


the strokes of good fortune and the lucky chances that are knocking at
the door of your house!"

And what do I care,added Sanchicawhether anybody says when
he sees me holding my head up, 'The dog saw himself in hempen
breeches,' and the rest of it?

Hearing this the curate saidI do believe that all this family
of the Panzas are born with a sackful of proverbs in their insides,
every one of them; I never saw one of them that does not pour them out
at all times and on all occasions.

That is true,said the pagefor Senor Governor Sancho utters
them at every turn; and though a great many of them are not to the
purpose, still they amuse one, and my lady the duchess and the duke
praise them highly.

Then you still maintain that all this about Sancho's government
is true, senor,said the bachelorand that there actually is a
duchess who sends him presents and writes to him? Because we, although
we have handled the present and read the letters, don't believe it and
suspect it to be something in the line of our fellow-townsman Don
Quixote, who fancies that everything is done by enchantment; and for
this reason I am almost ready to say that I'd like to touch and feel
your worship to see whether you are a mere ambassador of the
imagination or a man of flesh and blood.

All I know, sirs,replied the pageis that I am a real
ambassador, and that Senor Sancho Panza is governor as a matter of
fact, and that my lord and lady the duke and duchess can give, and
have given him this same government, and that I have heard the said
Sancho Panza bears himself very stoutly therein; whether there be
any enchantment in all this or not, it is for your worships to settle
between you; for that's all I know by the oath I swear, and that is by
the life of my parents whom I have still alive, and love dearly.

It may be so,said the bachelor; "but dubitat Augustinus."

Doubt who will,said the page; "what I have told you is the truth
and that will always rise above falsehood as oil above water; if not
operibus crediteet non verbis. Let one of you come with meand he
will see with his eyes what he does not believe with his ears."

It's for me to make that trip,said Sanchica; "take me with you
senorbehind you on your horse; for I'll go with all my heart to
see my father."

Governors' daughters,said the pagemust not travel along the
roads alone, but accompanied by coaches and litters and a great number
of attendants.

By God,said SanchicaI can go just as well mounted on a she-ass
as in a coach; what a dainty lass you must take me for!

Hush, girl,said Teresa; "you don't know what you're talking
about; the gentleman is quite rightfor 'as the time so the
behaviour;' when it was Sancho it was 'Sancha;' when it is governor
it's 'senora;' I don't know if I'm right."

Senora Teresa says more than she is aware of,said the page;
and now give me something to eat and let me go at once, for I mean to
return this evening.

Come and do penance with me,said the curate at this; "for


Senora Teresa has more will than means to serve so worthy a guest."

The page refusedbut had to consent at last for his own sake; and
the curate took him home with him very gladlyin order to have an
opportunity of questioning him at leisure about Don Quixote and his
doings. The bachelor offered to write the letters in reply for Teresa;
but she did not care to let him mix himself up in her affairsfor she
thought him somewhat given to joking; and so she gave a cake and a
couple of eggs to a young acolyte who was a penmanand he wrote for
her two lettersone for her husband and the other for the duchess
dictated out of her own headwhich are not the worst inserted in this
great historyas will be seen farther on.

CHAPTER LI

OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENTAND OTHER SUCH
ENTERTAINING MATTERS

Day came after the night of the governor's round; a night which
the head-carver passed without sleepingso were his thoughts of the
face and air and beauty of the disguised damselwhile the majordomo
spent what was left of it in writing an account to his lord and lady
of all Sancho said and didbeing as much amazed at his sayings as
at his doingsfor there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in
all his words and deeds. The senor governor got upand by Doctor
Pedro Recio's directions they made him break his fast on a little
conserve and four sups of cold waterwhich Sancho would have
readily exchanged for a piece of bread and a bunch of grapes; but
seeing there was no help for ithe submitted with no little sorrow of
heart and discomfort of stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded him that
light and delicate diet enlivened the witsand that was what was most
essential for persons placed in command and in responsible situations
where they have to employ not only the bodily powers but those of
the mind also.

By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure hungerand
hunger so keen that in his heart he cursed the governmentand even
him who had given it to him; howeverwith his hunger and his conserve
he undertook to deliver judgments that dayand the first thing that
came before him was a question that was submitted to him by a
strangerin the presence of the majordomo and the other attendants
and it was in these words: "Senora large river separated two
districts of one and the same lordship- will your worship please to
pay attentionfor the case is an important and a rather knotty one?
Well thenon this river there was a bridgeand at one end of it a
gallowsand a sort of tribunalwhere four judges commonly sat to
administer the law which the lord of riverbridge and the lordship
had enactedand which was to this effect'If anyone crosses by
this bridge from one side to the other he shall declare on oath
where he is going to and with what object; and if he swears truly
he shall be allowed to passbut if falselyhe shall be put to
death for it by hanging on the gallows erected therewithout any
remission.' Though the law and its severe penalty were knownmany
persons crossedbut in their declarations it was easy to see at
once they were telling the truthand the judges let them pass free.
It happenedhoweverthat one manwhen they came to take his
declarationswore and said that by the oath he took he was going to
die upon that gallows that stood thereand nothing else. The judges
held a consultation over the oathand they said'If we let this
man pass free he has sworn falselyand by the law he ought to die;
but if we hang himas he swore he was going to die on that gallows


and therefore swore the truthby the same law he ought to go free.'
It is asked of your worshipsenor governorwhat are the judges to do
with this man? For they are still in doubt and perplexity; and
having heard of your worship's acute and exalted intellectthey
have sent me to entreat your worship on their behalf to give your
opinion on this very intricate and puzzling case."

To this Sancho made answerIndeed those gentlemen the judges
that send you to me might have spared themselves the trouble, for I
have more of the obtuse than the acute in me; but repeat the case over
again, so that I may understand it, and then perhaps I may be able
to hit the point.

The querist repeated again and again what he had said beforeand
then Sancho saidIt seems to me I can set the matter right in a
moment, and in this way; the man swears that he is going to die upon
the gallows; but if he dies upon it, he has sworn the truth, and by
the law enacted deserves to go free and pass over the bridge; but if
they don't hang him, then he has sworn falsely, and by the same law
deserves to be hanged.

It is as the senor governor says,said the messenger; "and as
regards a complete comprehension of the casethere is nothing left to
desire or hesitate about."

Well then I say,said Sanchothat of this man they should let
pass the part that has sworn truly, and hang the part that has lied;
and in this way the conditions of the passage will be fully complied
with.

But then, senor governor,replied the queristthe man will
have to be divided into two parts; and if he is divided of course he
will die; and so none of the requirements of the law will be carried
out, and it is absolutely necessary to comply with it.

Look here, my good sir,said Sancho; "either I'm a numskull or
else there is the same reason for this passenger dying as for his
living and passing over the bridge; for if the truth saves him the
falsehood equally condemns him; and that being the case it is my
opinion you should say to the gentlemen who sent you to me that as the
arguments for condemning him and for absolving him are exactly
balancedthey should let him pass freelyas it is always more
praiseworthy to do good than to do evil; this I would give signed with
my name if I knew how to sign; and what I have said in this case is
not out of my own headbut one of the many precepts my master Don
Quixote gave me the night before I left to become governor of this
islandthat came into my mindand it was thisthat when there was
any doubt about the justice of a case I should lean to mercy; and it
is God's will that I should recollect it nowfor it fits this case as
if it was made for it."

That is true,said the majordomo; "and I maintain that Lycurgus
himselfwho gave laws to the Lacedemonianscould not have pronounced
a better decision than the great Panza has given; let the morning's
audience close with thisand I will see that the senor governor has
dinner entirely to his liking."

That's all I ask for- fair play,said Sancho; "give me my
dinnerand then let it rain cases and questions on meand I'll
despatch them in a twinkling."

The majordomo kept his wordfor he felt it against his conscience
to kill so wise a governor by hunger; particularly as he intended to
have done with him that same nightplaying off the last joke he was


commissioned to practise upon him.

It came to passthenthat after he had dined that dayin
opposition to the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafueraas they
were taking away the cloth there came a courier with a letter from Don
Quixote for the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to read it to
himselfand if there was nothing in it that demanded secrecy to
read it aloud. The secretary did soand after he had skimmed the
contents he saidIt may well be read aloud, for what Senor Don
Quixote writes to your worship deserves to be printed or written in
letters of gold, and it is as follows.

DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA'S LETTER TO SANCHO PANZA
GOVERNOR OF THE ISLAND OF BARATARIA.

When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blundersfriend
SanchoI have received intelligence of thy displays of good sense
for which I give special thanks to heaven that can raise the poor from
the dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell me thou dost
govern as if thou wert a manand art a man as if thou wert a beast
so great is the humility wherewith thou dost comport thyself. But I
would have thee bear in mindSanchothat very often it is fitting
and necessary for the authority of office to resist the humility of
the heart; for the seemly array of one who is invested with grave
duties should be such as they require and not measured by what his own
humble tastes may lead him to prefer. Dress well; a stick dressed up
does not look like a stick; I do not say thou shouldst wear trinkets
or fine raimentor that being a judge thou shouldst dress like a
soldierbut that thou shouldst array thyself in the apparel thy
office requiresand that at the same time it be neat and handsome. To
win the good-will of the people thou governest there are two things
among othersthat thou must do; one is to be civil to all (this
howeverI told thee before)and the other to take care that food
be abundantfor there is nothing that vexes the heart of the poor
more than hunger and high prices. Make not many proclamations; but
those thou makest take care that they be good onesand above all that
they be observed and carried out; for proclamations that are not
observed are the same as if they did not exist; naythey encourage
the idea that the prince who had the wisdom and authority to make them
had not the power to enforce them; and laws that threaten and are
not enforced come to he like the logthe king of the frogsthat
frightened them at firstbut that in time they despised and mounted
upon. Be a father to virtue and a stepfather to vice. Be not always
strictnor yet always lenientbut observe a mean between these two
extremesfor in that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the gaolsthe
slaughter-housesand the market-places; for the presence of the
governor is of great importance in such places; it comforts the
prisoners who are in hopes of a speedy releaseit is the bugbear of
the butchers who have then to give just weightand it is the terror
of the market-women for the same reason. Let it not be seen that
thou art (even if perchance thou artwhich I do not believe)
covetousa follower of womenor a glutton; for when the people and
those that have dealings with thee become aware of thy special
weakness they will bring their batteries to bear upon thee in that
quartertill they have brought thee down to the depths of
perdition. Consider and reconsidercon and con over again the advices
and the instructions I gave thee before thy departure hence to thy
governmentand thou wilt see that in themif thou dost follow
themthou hast a help at hand that will lighten for thee the troubles
and difficulties that beset governors at every step. Write to thy lord
and lady and show thyself grateful to themfor ingratitude is the
daughter of prideand one of the greatest sins we know of; and he who


is grateful to those who have been good to him shows that he will be
so to God also who has bestowed and still bestows so many blessings
upon him.


My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and another
present to thy wife Teresa Panza; we expect the answer every moment. I
have been a little indisposed through a certain scratching I came in
fornot very much to the benefit of my nose; but it was nothing;
for if there are enchanters who maltreat methere are also some who
defend me. Let me know if the majordomo who is with thee had any share
in the Trifaldi performanceas thou didst suspect; and keep me
informed of everything that happens theeas the distance is so short;
all the more as I am thinking of giving over very shortly this idle
life I am now leadingfor I was not born for it. A thing has occurred
to me which I am inclined to think will put me out of favour with
the duke and duchess; but though I am sorry for it I do not care
for after all I must obey my calling rather than their pleasurein
accordance with the common sayingamicus Platosed magis amica
veritas. I quote this Latin to thee because I conclude that since thou
hast been a governor thou wilt have learned it. Adieu; God keep thee
from being an object of pity to anyone.


Thy friend
DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.


Sancho listened to the letter with great attentionand it was
praised and considered wise by all who heard it; he then rose up
from tableand calling his secretary shut himself in with him in
his own roomand without putting it off any longer set about
answering his master Don Quixote at once; and he bade the secretary
write down what he told him without adding or suppressing anything
which he didand the answer was to the following effect.


SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.


The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time
to scratch my head or even to cut my nails; and I have them so long-
God send a remedy for it. I say thismaster of my soulthat you
may not be surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I
farewell or illin this governmentin which I am suffering more
hunger than when we two were wandering through the woods and wastes.


My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that certain
spies had got into this island to kill me; but up to the present I
have not found out any except a certain doctor who receives a salary
in this town for killing all the governors that come here; he is
called Doctor Pedro Recioand is from Tirteafuera; so you see what
a name he has to make me dread dying under his hands. This doctor says
of himself that he does not cure diseases when there are anybut
prevents them comingand the medicines he uses are diet and more diet
until he brings one down to bare bones; as if leanness was not worse
than fever.


In short he is killing me with hungerand I am dying myself of
vexation; for when I thought I was coming to this government to get my
meat hot and my drink cooland take my ease between holland sheets on
feather bedsI find I have come to do penance as if I was a hermit;
and as I don't do it willingly I suspect that in the end the devil
will carry me off.



So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribesand I
don't know what to think of it; for here they tell me that the
governors that come to this islandbefore entering it have plenty
of money either given to them or lent to them by the people of the
townand that this is the usual custom not only here but with all who
enter upon governments.

Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man's
clothesand a brother of hers dressed as a woman; my head-carver
has fallen in love with the girland has in his own mind chosen her
for a wifeso he saysand I have chosen youth for a son-in-law;
to-day we are going to explain our intentions to the father of the
pairwho is one Diego de la Llanaa gentleman and an old Christian
as much as you please.

I have visited the market-placesas your worship advises meand
yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazel nuts and proved her
to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a bushel of
new; I confiscated the whole for the children of the charity-school
who will know how to distinguish them well enoughand I sentenced her
not to come into the market-place for a fortnight; they told me I
did bravely. I can tell your worship it is commonly said in this
town that there are no people worse than the market-womenfor they
are all barefacedunconscionableand impudentand I can well
believe it from what I have seen of them in other towns.

I am very glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife Teresa
Panza and sent her the present your worship speaks of; and I will
strive to show myself grateful when the time comes; kiss her hands for
meand tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a hole
in itas she will see in the end. I should not like your worship to
have any difference with my lord and lady; for if you fall out with
them it is plain it must do me harm; and as you give me advice to be
grateful it will not do for your worship not to be so yourself to
those who have shown you such kindnessand by whom you have been
treated so hospitably in their castle.

That about the scratching I don't understand; but I suppose it
must be one of the ill-turns the wicked enchanters are always doing
your worship; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I could
send your worship something; but I don't know what to sendunless
it be some very curious clyster pipesto work with bladdersthat
they make in this island; but if the office remains with me I'll
find out something to sendone way or another. If my wife Teresa
Panza writes to mepay the postage and send me the letterfor I have
a very great desire to hear how my house and wife and children are
going on. And somay God deliver your worship from evil-minded
enchantersand bring me well and peacefully out of this government
which I doubtfor I expect to take leave of it and my life
togetherfrom the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats me.

Your worship's servant
SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR.

The secretary sealed the letterand immediately dismissed the
courier; and those who were carrying on the joke against Sancho
putting their heads together arranged how he was to be dismissed
from the government. Sancho spent the afternoon in drawing up
certain ordinances relating to the good government of what he
fancied the island; and he ordained that there were to be no provision
hucksters in the Stateand that men might import wine into it from
any place they pleasedprovided they declared the quarter it came


fromso that a price might be put upon it according to its quality
reputationand the estimation it was held in; and he that watered his
wineor changed the namewas to forfeit his life for it. He
reduced the prices of all manner of shoesbootsand stockingsbut
of shoes in particularas they seemed to him to run extravagantly
high. He established a fixed rate for servants' wageswhich were
becoming recklessly exorbitant. He laid extremely heavy penalties upon
those who sang lewd or loose songs either by day or night. He
decreed that no blind man should sing of any miracle in verse
unless he could produce authentic evidence that it was truefor it
was his opinion that most of those the blind men sing are trumped
upto the detriment of the true ones. He established and created an
alguacil of the poornot to harass thembut to examine them and
see whether they really were so; for many a sturdy thief or drunkard
goes about under cover of a make-believe crippled limb or a sham sore.
In a wordhe made so many good rules that to this day they are
preserved thereand are called The constitutions of the great
governor Sancho Panza.

CHAPTER LII

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR
AFFLICTED DUENNAOTHERWISE CALLED DONA RODRIGUEZ

Cide Hamete relates that Don Quixote being now cured of his
scratches felt that the life he was leading in the castle was entirely
inconsistent with the order of chivalry he professedso he determined
to ask the duke and duchess to permit him to take his departure for
Saragossaas the time of the festival was now drawing nearand he
hoped to win there the suit of armour which is the prize at
festivals of the sort. But one day at table with the duke and duchess
just as he was about to carry his resolution into effect and ask for
their permissionlo and behold suddenly there came in through the
door of the great hall two womenas they afterwards proved to be
draped in mourning from head to footone of whom approaching Don
Quixote flung herself at full length at his feetpressing her lips to
themand uttering moans so sadso deepand so doleful that she
put all who heard and saw her into a state of perplexity; and though
the duke and duchess supposed it must be some joke their servants were
playing off upon Don Quixotestill the earnest way the woman sighed
and moaned and wept puzzled them and made them feel uncertainuntil
Don Quixotetouched with compassionraised her up and made her
unveil herself and remove the mantle from her tearful face. She
complied and disclosed what no one could have ever anticipatedfor
she disclosed the countenance of Dona Rodriguezthe duenna of the
house; the other female in mourning being her daughterwho had been
made a fool of by the rich farmer's son. All who knew her were
filled with astonishmentand the duke and duchess more than any;
for though they thought her a simpleton and a weak creaturethey
did not think her capable of crazy pranks. Dona Rodriguezat
lengthturning to her master and mistress said to themWill your
excellences be pleased to permit me to speak to this gentleman for a
moment, for it is requisite I should do so in order to get
successfully out of the business in which the boldness of an
evil-minded clown has involved me?

The duke said that for his part he gave her leaveand that she
might speak with Senor Don Quixote as much as she liked.

She thenturning to Don Quixote and addressing herself to him said
Some days since, valiant knight, I gave you an account of the


injustice and treachery of a wicked farmer to my dearly beloved
daughter, the unhappy damsel here before you, and you promised me to
take her part and right the wrong that has been done her; but now it
has come to my hearing that you are about to depart from this castle
in quest of such fair adventures as God may vouchsafe to you;
therefore, before you take the road, I would that you challenge this
froward rustic, and compel him to marry my daughter in fulfillment
of the promise he gave her to become her husband before he seduced
her; for to expect that my lord the duke will do me justice is to
ask pears from the elm tree, for the reason I stated privately to your
worship; and so may our Lord grant you good health and forsake us
not.

To these words Don Quixote replied very gravely and solemnly
Worthy duenna, check your tears, or rather dry them, and spare your
sighs, for I take it upon myself to obtain redress for your
daughter, for whom it would have been better not to have been so ready
to believe lovers' promises, which are for the most part quickly
made and very slowly performed; and so, with my lord the duke's leave,
I will at once go in quest of this inhuman youth, and will find him
out and challenge him and slay him, if so be he refuses to keep his
promised word; for the chief object of my profession is to spare the
humble and chastise the proud; I mean, to help the distressed and
destroy the oppressors.

There is no necessity,said the dukefor your worship to take
the trouble of seeking out the rustic of whom this worthy duenna
complains, nor is there any necessity, either, for asking my leave
to challenge him; for I admit him duly challenged, and will take
care that he is informed of the challenge, and accepts it, and comes
to answer it in person to this castle of mine, where I shall afford to
both a fair field, observing all the conditions which are usually
and properly observed in such trials, and observing too justice to
both sides, as all princes who offer a free field to combatants within
the limits of their lordships are bound to do.

Then with that assurance and your highness's good leave,said
Don QuixoteI hereby for this once waive my privilege of gentle
blood, and come down and put myself on a level with the lowly birth of
the wrong-doer, making myself equal with him and enabling him to enter
into combat with me; and so, I challenge and defy him, though
absent, on the plea of his malfeasance in breaking faith with this
poor damsel, who was a maiden and now by his misdeed is none; and
say that he shall fulfill the promise he gave her to become her lawful
husband, or else stake his life upon the question.

And then plucking off a glove he threw it down in the middle of
the halland the duke picked it upsayingas he had said before
that he accepted the challenge in the name of his vassaland fixed
six days thence as the timethe courtyard of the castle as the place
and for arms the customary ones of knightslance and shield and
full armourwith all the other accessorieswithout trickery
guileor charms of any sortand examined and passed by the judges of
the field. "But first of all he said, it is requisite that this
worthy duenna and unworthy damsel should place their claim for justice
in the hands of Don Quixote; for otherwise nothing can be donenor
can the said challenge be brought to a lawful issue."

I do so place it,replied the duenna.

And I too,added her daughterall in tears and covered with shame
and confusion.

This declaration having been madeand the duke having settled in


his own mind what he would do in the matterthe ladies in black
withdrewand the duchess gave orders that for the future they were
not to be treated as servants of hersbut as lady adventurers who
came to her house to demand justice; so they gave them a room to
themselves and waited on them as they would on strangersto the
consternation of the other women-servantswho did not know where
the folly and imprudence of Dona Rodriguez and her unlucky daughter
would stop.

And nowto complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring the dinner
to a satisfactory endlo and behold the page who had carried the
letters and presents to Teresa Panzathe wife of the governor Sancho
entered the hall; and the duke and duchess were very well pleased to
see himbeing anxious to know the result of his journey; but when
they asked him the page said in reply that he could not give it before
so many people or in a few wordsand begged their excellences to be
pleased to let it wait for a private opportunityand in the
meantime amuse themselves with these letters; and taking out the
letters he placed them in the duchess's hand. One bore by way of
addressLetter for my lady the Duchess So-and-soof I don't know
where; and the other To my husband Sancho Panzagovernor of the
island of Baratariawhom God prosper longer than me. The duchess's
bread would not bakeas the saying isuntil she had read her letter;
and having looked over it herself and seen that it might be read aloud
for the duke and all present to hearshe read out as follows.

TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS.

The letter your highness wrote memy ladygave me great
pleasurefor indeed I found it very welcome. The string of coral
beads is very fineand my husband's hunting suit does not fall
short of it. All this village is very much pleased that your
ladyship has made a governor of my good man Sancho; though nobody will
believe itparticularly the curateand Master Nicholas the barber
and the bachelor Samson Carrasco; but I don't care for thatfor so
long as it is trueas it isthey may all say what they like; though
to tell the truthif the coral beads and the suit had not come I
would not have believed it either; for in this village everybody
thinks my husband a numskulland except for governing a flock of
goatsthey cannot fancy what sort of government he can be fit for.
God grant itand direct him according as he sees his children stand
in need of it. I am resolved with your worship's leavelady of my
soulto make the most of this fair dayand go to Court to stretch
myself at ease in a coachand make all those I have envying me
already burst their eyes out; so I beg your excellence to order my
husband to send me a small trifle of moneyand to let it be something
to speak ofbecause one's expenses are heavy at the Court; for a loaf
costs a realand meat thirty maravedis a poundwhich is beyond
everything; and if he does not want me to go let him tell me in
timefor my feet are on the fidgets to he off; and my friends and
neighbours tell me that if my daughter and I make a figure and a brave
show at Courtmy husband will come to be known far more by me than
I by himfor of course plenty of people will askWho are those
ladies in that coach?and some servant of mine will answerThe wife
and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria;
and in this way Sancho will become knownand I'll be thought well of
and "to Rome for everything." I am as vexed as vexed can be that
they have gathered no acorns this year in our village; for all that
I send your highness about half a peck that I went to the wood to
gather and pick out one by one myselfand I could find no bigger
ones; I wish they were as big as ostrich eggs.

Let not your high mightiness forget to write to me; and I will


take care to answerand let you know how I amand whatever news
there may be in this placewhere I remainpraying our Lord to have
your highness in his keeping and not to forget me.

Sancha my daughterand my sonkiss your worship's hands.

She who would rather see your ladyship than write to you

Your servant
TERESA PANZA.

All were greatly amused by Teresa Panza's letterbut particularly
the duke and duchess; and the duchess asked Don Quixote's opinion
whether they might open the letter that had come for the governor
which she suspected must be very good. Don Quixote said that to
gratify them he would open itand did soand found that it ran as
follows.

TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA.

I got thy letterSancho of my souland I promise thee and swear as
a Catholic Christian that I was within two fingers' breadth of going
mad I was so happy. I can tell theebrotherwhen I came to hear that
thou wert a governor I thought I should have dropped dead with pure
joy; and thou knowest they say sudden joy kills as well as great
sorrow; and as for Sanchica thy daughtershe leaked from sheer
happiness. I had before me the suit thou didst send meand the
coral beads my lady the duchess sent me round my neckand the letters
in my handsand there was the bearer of them standing byand in
spite of all this I verily believed and thought that what I saw and
handled was all a dream; for who could have thought that a goatherd
would come to be a governor of islands? Thou knowestmy friend
what my mother used to saythat one must live long to see much; I say
it because I expect to see more if I live longer; for I don't expect
to stop until I see thee a farmer of taxes or a collector of
revenuewhich are offices wherethough the devil carries off those
who make a bad use of themstill they make and handle money. My
lady the duchess will tell thee the desire I have to go to the
Court; consider the matter and let me know thy pleasure; I will try to
do honour to thee by going in a coach.

Neither the curatenor the barbernor the bachelornor even the
sacristancan believe that thou art a governorand they say the
whole thing is a delusion or an enchantment affairlike everything
belonging to thy master Don Quixote; and Samson says he must go in
search of thee and drive the government out of thy head and the
madness out of Don Quixote's skull; I only laughand look at my
string of beadsand plan out the dress I am going to make for our
daughter out of thy suit. I sent some acorns to my lady the duchess; I
wish they had been gold. Send me some strings of pearls if they are in
fashion in that island. Here is the news of the village; La Berrueca
has married her daughter to a good-for-nothing painterwho came
here to paint anything that might turn up. The council gave him an
order to paint his Majesty's arms over the door of the town-hall; he
asked two ducatswhich they paid him in advance; he worked for
eight daysand at the end of them had nothing paintedand then
said he had no turn for painting such trifling things; he returned the
moneyand for all that has married on the pretence of being a good
workman; to be sure he has now laid aside his paint-brush and taken
a spade in handand goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro
Lobo's son has received the first orders and tonsurewith the


intention of becoming a priest. MinguillaMingo Silvato's
granddaughterfound it outand has gone to law with him on the score
of having given her promise of marriage. Evil tongues say she is
with child by himbut he denies it stoutly. There are no olives
this yearand there is not a drop of vinegar to be had in the whole
village. A company of soldiers passed through here; when they left
they took away with them three of the girls of the village; I will not
tell thee who they are; perhaps they will come backand they will
be sure to find those who will take them for wives with all their
blemishesgood or bad. Sanchica is making bonelace; she earns eight
maravedis a day clearwhich she puts into a moneybox as a help
towards house furnishing; but now that she is a governor's daughter
thou wilt give her a portion without her working for it. The
fountain in the plaza has run dry. A flash of lightning struck the
gibbetand I wish they all lit there. I look for an answer to this
and to know thy mind about my going to the Court; and soGod keep
thee longer than meor as longfor I would not leave thee in this
world without me.

Thy wife
TERESA PANZA.

The letters were applaudedlaughed overrelishedand admired; and
thenas if to put the seal to the businessthe courier arrived
bringing the one Sancho sent to Don Quixoteand thistoowas read
outand it raised some doubts as to the governor's simplicity. The
duchess withdrew to hear from the page about his adventures in
Sancho's villagewhich he narrated at full length without leaving a
single circumstance unmentioned. He gave her the acornsand also a
cheese which Teresa had given him as being particularly good and
superior to those of Tronchon. The duchess received it with greatest
delightin which we will leave herto describe the end of the
government of the great Sancho Panzaflower and mirror of all
governors of islands.

CHAPTER LIII
OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT CAME TO

To fancy that in this life anything belonging to it will remain
for ever in the same state is an idle fancy; on the contraryin it
everything seems to go in a circleI mean round and round. The spring
succeeds the summerthe summer the fallthe fall the autumnthe
autumn the winterand the winter the springand so time rolls with
never-ceasing wheel. Man's life aloneswifter than timespeeds
onward to its end without any hope of renewalsave it be in that
other life which is endless and boundless. Thus saith Cide Hamete
the Mahometan philosopher; for there are many that by the light of
nature alonewithout the light of faithhave a comprehension of
the fleeting nature and instability of this present life and the
endless duration of that eternal life we hope for; but our author is
here speaking of the rapidity with which Sancho's government came to
an endmelted awaydisappearedvanished as it were in smoke and
shadow. For as he lay in bed on the night of the seventh day of his
governmentsatednot with bread and winebut with delivering
judgments and giving opinions and making laws and proclamations
just as sleepin spite of hungerwas beginning to close his eyelids
he heard such a noise of bell-ringing and shouting that one would have
fancied the whole island was going to the bottom. He sat up in bed and
remained listening intently to try if he could make out what could
be the cause of so great an uproar; not onlyhoweverwas he unable


to discover what it wasbut as countless drums and trumpets now
helped to swell the din of the bells and shoutshe was more puzzled
than everand filled with fear and terror; and getting up he put on a
pair of slippers because of the dampness of the floorand without
throwing a dressing gown or anything of the kind over him he rushed
out of the door of his roomjust in time to see approaching along a
corridor a band of more than twenty persons with lighted torches and
naked swords in their handsall shouting outTo arms, to arms,
senor governor, to arms! The enemy is in the island in countless
numbers, and we are lost unless your skill and valour come to our
support.

Keeping up this noisetumultand uproarthey came to where Sancho
stood dazed and bewildered by what he saw and heardand as they
approached one of them called out to himArm at once, your lordship,
if you would not have yourself destroyed and the whole island lost.

What have I to do with arming?said Sancho. "What do I know
about arms or supports? Better leave all that to my master Don
Quixotewho will settle it and make all safe in a trice; for I
sinner that I amGod help medon't understand these scuffles."

Ah, senor governor,said anotherwhat slackness of mettle this
is! Arm yourself; here are arms for you, offensive and defensive; come
out to the plaza and be our leader and captain; it falls upon you by
right, for you are our governor.

Arm me then, in God's name,said Sanchoand they at once produced
two large shields they had come provided withand placed them upon
him over his shirtwithout letting him put on anything elseone
shield in front and the other behindand passing his arms through
openings they had madethey bound him tight with ropesso that there
he was walled and boarded up as straight as a spindle and unable to
bend his knees or stir a single step. In his hand they placed a lance
on which he leant to keep himself from fallingand as soon as they
had him thus fixed they bade him march forward and lead them on and
give them all courage; for with him for their guide and lamp and
morning starthey were sure to bring their business to a successful
issue.

How am I to march, unlucky being that I am?said Sanchowhen I
can't stir my knee-caps, for these boards I have bound so tight to
my body won't let me. What you must do is carry me in your arms, and
lay me across or set me upright in some postern, and I'll hold it
either with this lance or with my body.

On, senor governor!cried anotherit is fear more than the
boards that keeps you from moving; make haste, stir yourself, for
there is no time to lose; the enemy is increasing in numbers, the
shouts grow louder, and the danger is pressing.

Urged by these exhortations and reproaches the poor governor made an
attempt to advancebut fell to the ground with such a crash that he
fancied he had broken himself all to pieces. There he lay like a
tortoise enclosed in its shellor a side of bacon between two
kneading-troughsor a boat bottom up on the beach; nor did the gang
of jokers feel any compassion for him when they saw him down; so far
from thatextinguishing their torches they began to shout afresh
and to renew the calls to arms with such energytrampling on poor
Sanchoand slashing at him over the shield with their swords in
such a way thatif he had not gathered himself together and made
himself small and drawn in his head between the shieldsit would have
fared badly with the poor governorassqueezed into that narrow
compasshe laysweating and sweating againand commending himself


with all his heart to God to deliver him from his present peril.
Some stumbled over himothers fell upon himand one there was who
took up a position on top of him for some timeand from thence as
if from a watchtower issued orders to the troopsshouting outHere,
our side! Here the enemy is thickest! Hold the breach there! Shut that
gate! Barricade those ladders! Here with your stink-pots of pitch
and resin, and kettles of boiling oil! Block the streets with
feather beds!In shortin his ardour he mentioned every little
thingand every implement and engine of war by means of which an
assault upon a city is warded offwhile the bruised and battered
Sanchowho heard and suffered allwas saying to himselfO if it
would only please the Lord to let the island be lost at once, and I
could see myself either dead or out of this torture!Heaven heard his
prayerand when he least expected it he heard voices exclaiming
Victory, victory! The enemy retreats beaten! Come, senor governor,
get up, and come and enjoy the victory, and divide the spoils that
have been won from the foe by the might of that invincible arm.

Lift me up,said the wretched Sancho in a woebegone voice. They
helped him to riseand as soon as he was on his feet saidThe enemy
I have beaten you may nail to my forehead; I don't want to divide
the spoils of the foe, I only beg and entreat some friend, if I have
one, to give me a sup of wine, for I'm parched with thirst, and wipe
me dry, for I'm turning to water.

They rubbed him downfetched him wine and unbound the shields
and he seated himself upon his bedand with fearagitationand
fatigue he fainted away. Those who had been concerned in the joke were
now sorry they had pushed it so far; howeverthe anxiety his fainting
away had caused them was relieved by his returning to himself. He
asked what o'clock it was; they told him it was just daybreak. He said
no moreand in silence began to dress himselfwhile all watched him
waiting to see what the haste with which he was putting on his clothes
meant.

He got himself dressed at lastand thenslowlyfor he was
sorely bruised and could not go fasthe proceeded to the stable
followed by all who were presentand going up to Dapple embraced
him and gave him a loving kiss on the foreheadand said to himnot
without tears in his eyesCome along, comrade and friend and partner
of my toils and sorrows; when I was with you and had no cares to
trouble me except mending your harness and feeding your little
carcass, happy were my hours, my days, and my years; but since I
left you, and mounted the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand
miseries, a thousand troubles, and four thousand anxieties have
entered into my soul;and all the while he was speaking in this
strain he was fixing the pack-saddle on the asswithout a word from
anyone. Then having Dapple saddledhewith great pain and
difficultygot up on himand addressing himself to the majordomo
the secretarythe head-carverand Pedro Recio the doctor and several
others who stood byhe saidMake way, gentlemen, and let me go back
to my old freedom; let me go look for my past life, and raise myself
up from this present death. I was not born to be a governor or protect
islands or cities from the enemies that choose to attack them.
Ploughing and digging, vinedressing and pruning, are more in my way
than defending provinces or kingdoms. 'Saint Peter is very well at
Rome; I mean each of us is best following the trade he was born to.
A reaping-hook fits my hand better than a governor's sceptre; I'd
rather have my fill of gazpacho' than be subject to the misery of a
meddling doctor who me with hunger, and I'd rather lie in summer under
the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap myself in a double sheepskin
jacket in freedom, than go to bed between holland sheets and dress
in sables under the restraint of a government. God be with your
worships, and tell my lord the duke that 'naked I was born, naked I


find myself, I neither lose nor gain;' I mean that without a
farthing I came into this government, and without a farthing I go
out of it, very different from the way governors commonly leave
other islands. Stand aside and let me go; I have to plaster myself,
for I believe every one of my ribs is crushed, thanks to the enemies
that have been trampling over me to-night.

That is unnecessary, senor governor,said Doctor Reciofor I
will give your worship a draught against falls and bruises that will
soon make you as sound and strong as ever; and as for your diet I
promise your worship to behave better, and let you eat plentifully
of whatever you like.

You spoke late,said Sancho. "I'd as soon turn Turk as stay any
longer. Those jokes won't pass a second time. By God I'd as soon
remain in this governmentor take anothereven if it was offered
me between two platesas fly to heaven without wings. I am of the
breed of the Panzasand they are every one of them obstinateand
if they once say 'odds' odds it must beno matter if it is evensin
spite of all the world. Here in this stable I leave the ant's wings
that lifted me up into the air for the swifts and other birds to eat
meand let's take to level ground and our feet once more; and if
they're not shod in pinked shoes of cordovanthey won't want for
rough sandals of hemp; 'every ewe to her like' 'and let no one
stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet;' and now let me
passfor it's growing late with me."

To this the majordomo saidSenor governor, we would let your
worship go with all our hearts, though it sorely grieves us to lose
you, for your wit and Christian conduct naturally make us regret
you; but it is well known that every governor, before he leaves the
place where he has been governing, is bound first of all to render
an account. Let your worship do so for the ten days you have held
the government, and then you may go and the peace of God go with you.

No one can demand it of me,said Sanchobut he whom my lord
the duke shall appoint; I am going to meet him, and to him I will
render an exact one; besides, when I go forth naked as I do, there
is no other proof needed to show that I have governed like an angel.

By God the great Sancho is right,said Doctor Recioand we
should let him go, for the duke will be beyond measure glad to see
him.

They all agreed to thisand allowed him to gofirst offering to
bear him company and furnish him with all he wanted for his own
comfort or for the journey. Sancho said he did not want anything more
than a little barley for Dappleand half a cheese and half a loaf
for himself; for the distance being so short there was no occasion for
any better or bulkier provant. They all embraced himand he with
tears embraced all of themand left them filled with admiration not
only at his remarks but at his firm and sensible resolution.

CHAPTER XLIV

WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER

The duke and duchess resolved that the challenge Don Quixote had
for the reason already mentionedgiven their vassalshould be
proceeded with; and as the young man was in Flanderswhither he had
fled to escape having Dona Rodriguez for a mother-in-lawthey


arranged to substitute for him a Gascon lacqueynamed Tosilos
first of all carefully instructing him in all he had to do. Two days
later the duke told Don Quixote that in four days from that time his
opponent would present himself on the field of battle armed as a
knightand would maintain that the damsel lied by half a beardnay a
whole beardif she affirmed that he had given her a promise of
marriage. Don Quixote was greatly pleased at the newsand promised
himself to do wonders in the listsand reckoned it rare good
fortune that an opportunity should have offered for letting his
noble hosts see what the might of his strong arm was capable of; and
so in high spirits and satisfaction he awaited the expiration of the
four dayswhich measured by his impatience seemed spinning themselves
out into four hundred ages. Let us leave them to pass as we do other
thingsand go and bear Sancho companyas mounted on Dapplehalf
gladhalf sadhe paced along on his road to join his masterin
whose society he was happier than in being governor of all the islands
in the world. Well thenit so happened that before he had gone a
great way from the island of his government (and whether it was
islandcitytownor village that he governed he never troubled
himself to inquire) he saw coming along the road he was travelling six
pilgrims with stavesforeigners of that sort that beg for alms
singing; who as they drew near arranged themselves in a line and
lifting up their voices all together began to sing in their own
language something that Sancho could not with the exception of one
word which sounded plainly "alms from which he gathered that it
was alms they asked for in their song; and being, as Cide Hamete says,
remarkably charitable, he took out of his alforias the half loaf and
half cheese he had been provided with, and gave them to them,
explaining to them by signs that he had nothing else to give them.
They received them very gladly, but exclaimed, Geld! Geld!"

I don't understand what you want of me, good people,said Sancho.

On this one of them took a purse out of his bosom and showed it to
Sanchoby which he comprehended they were asking for moneyand
putting his thumb to his throat and spreading his hand upwards he gave
them to understand that he had not the sign of a coin about himand
urging Dapple forward he broke through them. But as he was passing
one of them who had been examining him very closely rushed towards
himand flinging his arms round him exclaimed in a loud voice and
good SpanishGod bless me! What's this I see? Is it possible that
I hold in my arms my dear friend, my good neighbour Sancho Panza?
But there's no doubt about it, for I'm not asleep, nor am I drunk just
now.

Sancho was surprised to hear himself called by his name and find
himself embraced by a foreign pilgrimand after regarding him
steadily without speaking he was still unable to recognise him; but
the pilgrim perceiving his perplexity criedWhat! and is it
possible, Sancho Panza, that thou dost not know thy neighbour
Ricote, the Morisco shopkeeper of thy village?

Sancho upon this looking at him more carefully began to recall his
featuresand at last recognised him perfectlyand without getting
off the ass threw his arms round his neck sayingWho the devil could
have known thee, Ricote, in this mummer's dress thou art in? Tell
me, who bas frenchified thee, and how dost thou dare to return to
Spain, where if they catch thee and recognise thee it will go hard
enough with thee?

If thou dost not betray me, Sancho,said the pilgrimI am
safe; for in this dress no one will recognise me; but let us turn
aside out of the road into that grove there where my comrades are
going to eat and rest, and thou shalt eat with them there, for they


are very good fellows; I'll have time enough to tell thee then all
that has happened me since I left our village in obedience to his
Majesty's edict that threatened such severities against the
unfortunate people of my nation, as thou hast heard.

Sancho compliedand Ricote having spoken to the other pilgrims they
withdrew to the grove they sawturning a considerable distance out of
the road. They threw down their stavestook off their pilgrim's
cloaks and remained in their under-clothing; they were all
good-looking young fellowsexcept Ricotewho was a man somewhat
advanced in years. They carried alforjas all of themand all
apparently well filledat least with things provocative of thirst
such as would summon it from two leagues off. They stretched
themselves on the groundand making a tablecloth of the grass they
spread upon it breadsaltkniveswalnutscraps of cheeseand
well-picked ham-bones which if they were past gnawing were not past
sucking. They also put down a black dainty calledthey saycaviar
and made of the eggs of fisha great thirst-wakener. Nor was there
any lack of olivesdryit is trueand without any seasoningbut
for all that toothsome and pleasant. But what made the best show in
the field of the banquet was half a dozen botas of winefor each of
them produced his own from his alforjas; even the good Ricotewho
from a Morisco had transformed himself into a German or Dutchmantook
out hiswhich in size might have vied with the five others. They then
began to eat with very great relish and very leisurelymaking the
most of each morsel- very small ones of everything- they took up on
the point of the knife; and then all at the same moment raised their
arms and botas aloftthe mouths placed in their mouthsand all
eyes fixed on heaven just as if they were taking aim at it; and in
this attitude they remained ever so longwagging their heads from
side to side as if in acknowledgment of the pleasure they were
enjoying while they decanted the bowels of the bottles into their
own stomachs.

Sancho beheld alland nothing gave him pain;so far from that
acting on the proverb he knew so wellwhen thou art at Rome do as
thou seest,he asked Ricote for his bota and took aim like the rest
of themand with not less enjoyment. Four times did the botas bear
being upliftedbut the fifth it was all in vainfor they were
drier and more sapless than a rush by that timewhich made the
jollity that had been kept up so far begin to flag.

Every now and then some one of them would grasp Sancho's right
hand in his own sayingEspanoli y Tudesqui tuto uno: bon compano;
and Sancho would answerBon compano, jur a Di!and then go off into
a fit of laughter that lasted an hourwithout a thought for the
moment of anything that had befallen him in his government; for
cares have very little sway over us while we are eating and
drinking. At lengththe wine having come to an end with them
drowsiness began to come over themand they dropped asleep on their
very table and tablecloth. Ricote and Sancho alone remained awakefor
they had eaten more and drunk lessand Ricote drawing Sancho aside
they seated themselves at the foot of a beechleaving the pilgrims
buried in sweet sleep; and without once falling into his own Morisco
tongue Ricote spoke as follows in pure Castilian:

Thou knowest well, neighbour and friend Sancho Panza, how the
proclamation or edict his Majesty commanded to be issued against those
of my nation filled us all with terror and dismay; me at least it did,
insomuch that I think before the time granted us for quitting Spain
was out, the full force of the penalty had already fallen upon me
and upon my children. I decided, then, and I think wisely (just like
one who knows that at a certain date the house he lives in will be
taken from him, and looks out beforehand for another to change


into), I decided, I say, to leave the town myself, alone and without
my family, and go to seek out some place to remove them to comfortably
and not in the hurried way in which the others took their departure;
for I saw very plainly, and so did all the older men among us, that
the proclamations were not mere threats, as some said, but positive
enactments which would be enforced at the appointed time; and what
made me believe this was what I knew of the base and extravagant
designs which our people harboured, designs of such a nature that I
think it was a divine inspiration that moved his Majesty to carry
out a resolution so spirited; not that we were all guilty, for some
there were true and steadfast Christians; but they were so few that
they could make no head against those who were not; and it was not
prudent to cherish a viper in the bosom by having enemies in the
house. In short it was with just cause that we were visited with the
penalty of banishment, a mild and lenient one in the eyes of some, but
to us the most terrible that could be inflicted upon us. Wherever we
are we weep for Spain; for after all we were born there and it is
our natural fatherland. Nowhere do we find the reception our unhappy
condition needs; and in Barbary and all the parts of Africa where we
counted upon being received, succoured, and welcomed, it is there they
insult and ill-treat us most. We knew not our good fortune until we
lost it; and such is the longing we almost all of us have to return to
Spain, that most of those who like myself know the language, and there
are many who do, come back to it and leave their wives and children
forsaken yonder, so great is their love for it; and now I know by
experience the meaning of the saying, sweet is the love of one's
country.

I left our villageas I saidand went to Francebut though
they gave us a kind reception there I was anxious to see all I
could. I crossed into Italyand reached Germanyand there it
seemed to me we might live with more freedomas the inhabitants do
not pay any attention to trifling points; everyone lives as he
likesfor in most parts they enjoy liberty of conscience. I took a
house in a town near Augsburgand then joined these pilgrimswho are
in the habit of coming to Spain in great numbers every year to visit
the shrines therewhich they look upon as their Indies and a sure and
certain source of gain. They travel nearly all over itand there is
no town out of which they do not go full up of meat and drinkas
the saying isand with a realat leastin moneyand they come
off at the end of their travels with more than a hundred crowns saved
whichchanged into goldthey smuggle out of the kingdom either in
the hollow of their staves or in the patches of their pilgrim's cloaks
or by some device of their ownand carry to their own country in
spite of the guards at the posts and passes where they are searched.
Now my purpose isSanchoto carry away the treasure that I left
buriedwhichas it is outside the townI shall be able to do
without riskand to writeor cross over from Valenciato my
daughter and wifewho I know are at Algiersand find some means of
bringing them to some French port and thence to Germanythere to
await what it may be God's will to do with us; forafter allSancho
I know well that Ricota my daughter and Francisca Ricota my wife are
Catholic Christiansand though I am not so much sostill I am more
of a Christian than a Moorand it is always my prayer to God that
he will open the eyes of my understanding and show me how I am to
serve him; but what amazes me and I cannot understand is why my wife
and daughter should have gone to Barbary rather than to France
where they could live as Christians."

To this Sancho repliedRemember, Ricote, that may not have been
open to them, for Juan Tiopieyo thy wife's brother took them, and
being a true Moor he went where he could go most easily; and another
thing I can tell thee, it is my belief thou art going in vain to
look for what thou hast left buried, for we heard they took from thy


brother-in-law and thy wife a great quantity of pearls and money in
gold which they brought to be passed.

That may be,said Ricote; "but I know they did not touch my hoard
for I did not tell them where it wasfor fear of accidents; and so
if thou wilt come with meSanchoand help me to take it away and
conceal itI will give thee two hundred crowns wherewith thou
mayest relieve thy necessitiesandas thou knowestI know they
are many."

I would do it,said Sancho; "but I am not at all covetousfor I
gave up an office this morning in whichif I wasI might have made
the walls of my house of gold and dined off silver plates before six
months were over; and so for this reasonand because I feel I would
be guilty of treason to my king if I helped his enemiesI would not
go with thee if instead of promising me two hundred crowns thou wert
to give me four hundred here in hand."

And what office is this thou hast given up, Sancho?asked Ricote.

I have given up being governor of an island,said Sanchoand
such a one, faith, as you won't find the like of easily.

And where is this island?said Ricote.

Where?said Sancho; "two leagues from hereand it is called the
island of Barataria."

Nonsense! Sancho,said Ricote; "islands are away out in the sea;
there are no islands on the mainland."

What? No islands!said Sancho; "I tell theefriend RicoteI left
it this morningand yesterday I was governing there as I pleased like
a sagittarius; but for all that I gave it upfor it seemed to me a
dangerous officea governor's."

And what hast thou gained by the government?asked Ricote.

I have gained,said Sanchothe knowledge that I am no good for
governing, unless it is a drove of cattle, and that the riches that
are to be got by these governments are got at the cost of one's rest
and sleep, ay and even one's food; for in islands the governors must
eat little, especially if they have doctors to look after their
health.

I don't understand thee, Sancho,said Ricote; "but it seems to
me all nonsense thou art talking. Who would give thee islands to
govern? Is there any scarcity in the world of cleverer men than thou
art for governors? Hold thy peaceSanchoand come back to thy
sensesand consider whether thou wilt come with me as I said to
help me to take away treasure I left buried (for indeed it may be
called a treasureit is so large)and I will give thee wherewithal
to keep theeas I told thee."

And I have told thee already, Ricote, that I will not,said
Sancho; "let it content thee that by me thou shalt not be betrayed
and go thy way in God's name and let me go mine; for I know that
well-gotten gain may be lostbut ill-gotten gain is lostitself
and its owner likewise."

I will not press thee, Sancho,said Ricote; "but tell mewert
thou in our village when my wife and daughter and brother-in-law
left it?"


I was so,said Sancho; "and I can tell thee thy daughter left it
looking so lovely that all the village turned out to see herand
everybody said she was the fairest creature in the world. She wept
as she wentand embraced all her friends and acquaintances and
those who came out to see herand she begged them all to commend
her to God and Our Lady his motherand this in such a touching way
that it made me weep myselfthough I'm not much given to tears
commonly; andfaithmany a one would have liked to hide heror go
out and carry her off on the road; but the fear of going against the
king's command kept them back. The one who showed himself most moved
was Don Pedro Gregoriothe rich young heir thou knowest ofand
they say he was deep in love with her; and since she left he has not
been seen in our village againand we all suspect he has gone after
her to steal her awaybut so far nothing has been heard of it."

I always had a suspicion that gentleman had a passion for my
daughter,said Ricote; "but as I felt sure of my Ricota's virtue it
gave me no uneasiness to know that he loved her; for thou must have
heard it saidSanchothat the Morisco women seldom or never engage
in amours with the old Christians; and my daughterwho I fancy
thought more of being a Christian than of lovemakingwould not
trouble herself about the attentions of this heir."

God grant it,said Sanchofor it would be a bad business for
both of them; but now let me be off, friend Ricote, for I want to
reach where my master Don Quixote is to-night.

God be with thee, brother Sancho,said Ricote; "my comrades are
beginning to stirand it is timetoofor us to continue our
journey;" and then they both embracedand Sancho mounted Dapple
and Ricote leant upon his staffand so they parted.

CHAPTER LV
OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROADAND OTHER THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED

The length of time he delayed with Ricote prevented Sancho from
reaching the duke's castle that daythough he was within half a
league of it when nightsomewhat dark and cloudyovertook him. This
howeveras it was summer timedid not give him much uneasiness
and he turned aside out of the road intending to wait for morning; but
his ill luck and hard fate so willed it that as he was searching about
for a place to make himself as comfortable as possiblehe and
Dapple fell into a deep dark hole that lay among some very old
buildings. As he fell he commended himself with all his heart to
Godfancying he was not going to stop until he reached the depths
of the bottomless pit; but it did not turn out sofor at little
more than thrice a man's height Dapple touched bottomand he found
himself sitting on him without having received any hurt or damage
whatever. He felt himself all over and held his breath to try
whether he was quite sound or had a hole made in him anywhereand
finding himself all right and whole and in perfect health he was
profuse in his thanks to God our Lord for the mercy that had been
shown himfor he made sure he had been broken into a thousand pieces.
He also felt along the sides of the pit with his hands to see if it
were possible to get out of it without helpbut he found they were
quite smooth and afforded no hold anywhereat which he was greatly
distressedespecially when he heard how pathetically and dolefully
Dapple was bemoaning himselfand no wonder he complainednor was
it from ill-temperfor in truth he was not in a very good case.
Alas,said Sanchowhat unexpected accidents happen at every step
to those who live in this miserable world! Who would have said that


one who saw himself yesterday sitting on a throne, governor of an
island, giving orders to his servants and his vassals, would see
himself to-day buried in a pit without a soul to help him, or
servant or vassal to come to his relief? Here must we perish with
hunger, my ass and myself, if indeed we don't die first, he of his
bruises and injuries, and I of grief and sorrow. At any rate I'll
not be as lucky as my master Don Quixote of La Mancha, when he went
down into the cave of that enchanted Montesinos, where he found people
to make more of him than if he had been in his own house; for it seems
he came in for a table laid out and a bed ready made. There he saw
fair and pleasant visions, but here I'll see, I imagine, toads and
adders. Unlucky wretch that I am, what an end my follies and fancies
have come to! They'll take up my bones out of this, when it is
heaven's will that I'm found, picked clean, white and polished, and my
good Dapple's with them, and by that, perhaps, it will be found out
who we are, at least by such as have heard that Sancho Panza never
separated from his ass, nor his ass from Sancho Panza. Unlucky
wretches, I say again, that our hard fate should not let us die in our
own country and among our own people, where if there was no help for
our misfortune, at any rate there would be some one to grieve for it
and to close our eyes as we passed away! O comrade and friend, how ill
have I repaid thy faithful services! Forgive me, and entreat
Fortune, as well as thou canst, to deliver us out of this miserable
strait we are both in; and I promise to put a crown of laurel on thy
head, and make thee look like a poet laureate, and give thee double
feeds.

In this strain did Sancho bewail himselfand his ass listened to
himbut answered him never a wordsuch was the distress and
anguish the poor beast found himself in. At lengthafter a night
spent in bitter moanings and lamentationsday cameand by its
light Sancho perceived that it was wholly impossible to escape out
of that pit without helpand he fell to bemoaning his fate and
uttering loud shouts to find out if there was anyone within hearing;
but all his shouting was only crying in the wildernessfor there
was not a soul anywhere in the neighbourhood to hear himand then
at last he gave himself up for dead. Dapple was lying on his backand
Sancho helped him to his feetwhich he was scarcely able to keep; and
then taking a piece of bread out of his alforjas which had shared
their fortunes in the fallhe gave it to the assto whom it was
not unwelcomesaying to him as if he understood himWith bread
all sorrows are less.

And now he perceived on one side of the pit a hole large enough to
admit a person if he stooped and squeezed himself into a small
compass. Sancho made for itand entered it by creepingand found
it wide and spacious on the insidewhich he was able to see as a
ray of sunlight that penetrated what might be called the roof showed
it all plainly. He observed too that it opened and widened out into
another spacious cavity; seeing which he made his way back to where
the ass wasand with a stone began to pick away the clay from the
hole until in a short time he had made room for the beast to pass
easilyand this accomplishedtaking him by the halterhe
proceeded to traverse the cavern to see if there was any outlet at the
other end. He advancedsometimes in the darksometimes without
lightbut never without fear; "God Almighty help me!" said he to
himself; "this that is a misadventure to me would make a good
adventure for my master Don Quixote. He would have been sure to take
these depths and dungeons for flowery gardens or the palaces of
Galianaand would have counted upon issuing out of this darkness
and imprisonment into some blooming meadow; but Iunlucky that I
amhopeless and spiritlessexpect at every step another pit deeper
than the first to open under my feet and swallow me up for good;
'welcome evilif thou comest alone.'"


In this way and with these reflections he seemed to himself to
have travelled rather more than half a leaguewhen at last he
perceived a dim light that looked like daylight and found its way in
on one sideshowing that this roadwhich appeared to him the road to
the other worldled to some opening.

Here Cide Hamete leaves himand returns to Don Quixotewho in high
spirits and satisfaction was looking forward to the day fixed for
the battle he was to fight with him who had robbed Dona Rodriguez's
daughter of her honourfor whom he hoped to obtain satisfaction for
the wrong and injury shamefully done to her. It came to passthen
that having sallied forth one morning to practise and exercise himself
in what he would have to do in the encounter he expected to find
himself engaged in the next dayas he was putting Rocinante through
his paces or pressing him to the chargehe brought his feet so
close to a pit that but for reining him in tightly it would have
been impossible for him to avoid falling into it. He pulled him up
howeverwithout a falland coming a little closer examined the
hole without dismounting; but as he was looking at it he heard loud
cries proceeding from itand by listening attentively was able to
make out that he who uttered them was sayingHo, above there! is
there any Christian that hears me, or any charitable gentleman that
will take pity on a sinner buried alive, on an unfortunate disgoverned
governor?

It struck Don Quixote that it was the voice of Sancho Panza he
heardwhereat he was taken aback and amazedand raising his own
voice as much as he couldhe cried outWho is below there? Who is
that complaining?

Who should be here, or who should complain,was the answerbut
the forlorn Sancho Panza, for his sins and for his ill-luck governor
of the island of Barataria, squire that was to the famous knight Don
Quixote of La Mancha?

When Don Quixote heard this his amazement was redoubled and his
perturbation grew greater than everfor it suggested itself to his
mind that Sancho must be deadand that his soul was in torment down
there; and carried away by this idea he exclaimedI conjure thee
by everything that as a Catholic Christian I can conjure thee by, tell
me who thou art; and if thou art a soul in torment, tell me what
thou wouldst have me do for thee; for as my profession is to give
aid and succour to those that need it in this world, it will also
extend to aiding and succouring the distressed of the other, who
cannot help themselves.

In that case,answered the voiceyour worship who speaks to me
must be my master Don Quixote of La Mancha; nay, from the tone of
the voice it is plain it can be nobody else.

Don Quixote I am,replied Don Quixotehe whose profession it
is to aid and succour the living and the dead in their necessities;
wherefore tell me who thou art, for thou art keeping me in suspense;
because, if thou art my squire Sancho Panza, and art dead, since the
devils have not carried thee off, and thou art by God's mercy in
purgatory, our holy mother the Roman Catholic Church has
intercessory means sufficient to release thee from the pains thou
art in; and I for my part will plead with her to that end, so far as
my substance will go; without further delay, therefore, declare
thyself, and tell me who thou art.

By all that's good,was the answerand by the birth of
whomsoever your worship chooses, I swear, Senor Don Quixote of La


Mancha, that I am your squire Sancho Panza, and that I have never died
all my life; but that, having given up my government for reasons
that would require more time to explain, I fell last night into this
pit where I am now, and Dapple is witness and won't let me lie, for
more by token he is here with me.

Nor was this all; one would have fancied the ass understood what
Sancho saidbecause that moment he began to bray so loudly that the
whole cave rang again.

Famous testimony!exclaimed Don Quixote; "I know that bray as well
as if I was its motherand thy voice toomy Sancho. Wait while I
go to the duke's castlewhich is close byand I will bring some
one to take thee out of this pit into which thy sins no doubt have
brought thee."

Go, your worship,said Sanchoand come back quick for God's
sake; for I cannot bear being buried alive any longer, and I'm dying
of fear.

Don Quixote left himand hastened to the castle to tell the duke
and duchess what had happened Sanchoand they were not a little
astonished at it; they could easily understand his having fallenfrom
the confirmatory circumstance of the cave which had been in
existence there from time immemorial; but they could not imagine how
he had quitted the government without their receiving any intimation
of his coming. To be briefthey fetched ropes and tackleas the
saying isand by dint of many hands and much labour they drew up
Dapple and Sancho Panza out of the darkness into the light of day. A
student who saw him remarkedThat's the way all bad governors should
come out of their governments, as this sinner comes out of the
depths of the pit, dead with hunger, pale, and I suppose without a
farthing.

Sancho overheard him and saidIt is eight or ten days, brother
growler, since I entered upon the government of the island they gave
me, and all that time I never had a bellyful of victuals, no not for
an hour; doctors persecuted me and enemies crushed my bones; nor had I
any opportunity of taking bribes or levying taxes; and if that be
the case, as it is, I don't deserve, I think, to come out in this
fashion; but 'man proposes and God disposes;' and God knows what is
best, and what suits each one best; and 'as the occasion, so the
behaviour;' and 'let nobody say I won't drink of this water;"' and
'where one thinks there are flitchesthere are no pegs;' God knows my
meaning and that's enough; I say no morethough I could."

Be not angry or annoyed at what thou hearest, Sancho,said Don
Quixoteor there will never be an end of it; keep a safe
conscience and let them say what they like; for trying to stop
slanderers' tongues is like trying to put gates to the open plain.
If a governor comes out of his government rich, they say he has been a
thief; and if he comes out poor, that he has been a noodle and a
blockhead.

They'll be pretty sure this time,said Sanchoto set me down for
a fool rather than a thief.

Thus talkingand surrounded by boys and a crowd of peoplethey
reached the castlewhere in one of the corridors the duke and duchess
stood waiting for them; but Sancho would not go up to see the duke
until he had first put up Dapple in the stablefor he said he had
passed a very bad night in his last quarters; then he went upstairs to
see his lord and ladyand kneeling before them he saidBecause it
was your highnesses' pleasure, not because of any desert of my own,


I went to govern your island of Barataria, which 'I entered naked, and
naked I find myself; I neither lose nor gain.' Whether I have governed
well or ill, I have had witnesses who will say what they think fit.
I have answered questions, I have decided causes, and always dying
of hunger, for Doctor Pedro Recio of Tirteafuera, the island and
governor doctor, would have it so. Enemies attacked us by night and
put us in a great quandary, but the people of the island say they came
off safe and victorious by the might of my arm; and may God give
them as much health as there's truth in what they say. In short,
during that time I have weighed the cares and responsibilities
governing brings with it, and by my reckoning I find my shoulders
can't bear them, nor are they a load for my loins or arrows for my
quiver; and so, before the government threw me over I preferred to
throw the government over; and yesterday morning I left the island
as I found it, with the same streets, houses, and roofs it had when
I entered it. I asked no loan of anybody, nor did I try to fill my
pocket; and though I meant to make some useful laws, I made hardly
any, as I was afraid they would not be kept; for in that case it comes
to the same thing to make them or not to make them. I quitted the
island, as I said, without any escort except my ass; I fell into a
pit, I pushed on through it, until this morning by the light of the
sun I saw an outlet, but not so easy a one but that, had not heaven
sent me my master Don Quixote, I'd have stayed there till the end of
the world. So now my lord and lady duke and duchess, here is your
governor Sancho Panza, who in the bare ten days he has held the
government has come by the knowledge that he would not give anything
to be governor, not to say of an island, but of the whole world; and
that point being settled, kissing your worships' feet, and imitating
the game of the boys when they say, 'leap thou, and give me one,' I
take a leap out of the government and pass into the service of my
master Don Quixote; for after all, though in it I eat my bread in fear
and trembling, at any rate I take my fill; and for my part, so long as
I'm full, it's all alike to me whether it's with carrots or with
partridges.

Here Sancho brought his long speech to an endDon Quixote having
been the whole time in dread of his uttering a host of absurdities;
and when he found him leave off with so fewhe thanked heaven in
his heart. The duke embraced Sancho and told him he was heartily sorry
he had given up the government so soonbut that he would see that
he was provided with some other post on his estate less onerous and
more profitable. The duchess also embraced himand gave orders that
he should be taken good care ofas it was plain to see he had been
badly treated and worse bruised.

CHAPTER LVI

OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN
DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE
DAUGHTER OF DONA RODRIGUEZ

The duke and duchess had no reason to regret the joke that had
been played upon Sancho Panza in giving him the government; especially
as their majordomo returned the same dayand gave them a minute
account of almost every word and deed that Sancho uttered or did
during the time; and to wind up witheloquently described to them the
attack upon the island and Sancho's fright and departurewith which
they were not a little amused. After this the history goes on to say
that the day fixed for the battle arrivedand that the dukeafter
having repeatedly instructed his lacquey Tosilos how to deal with
Don Quixote so as to vanquish him without killing or wounding him


gave orders to have the heads removed from the lancestelling Don
Quixote that Christian charityon which he plumed himselfcould
not suffer the battle to be fought with so much risk and danger to
life; and that he must be content with the offer of a battlefield on
his territory (though that was against the decree of the holy Council
which prohibits all challenges of the sort) and not push such an
arduous venture to its extreme limits. Don Quixote bade his excellence
arrange all matters connected with the affair as he pleasedas on his
part he would obey him in everything. The dread daythenhaving
arrivedand the duke having ordered a spacious stand to be erected
facing the court of the castle for the judges of the field and the
appellant duennasmother and daughtervast crowds flocked from all
the villages and hamlets of the neighbourhood to see the novel
spectacle of the battle; nobodydead or alivein those parts
having ever seen or heard of such a one.

The first person to enter the-field and the lists was the master
of the ceremonieswho surveyed and paced the whole ground to see that
there was nothing unfair and nothing concealed to make the
combatants stumble or fall; then the duennas entered and seated
themselvesenveloped in mantles covering their eyesnay even their
bosomsand displaying no slight emotion as Don Quixote appeared in
the lists. Shortly afterwardsaccompanied by several trumpets and
mounted on a powerful steed that threatened to crush the whole
placethe great lacquey Tosilos made his appearance on one side of
the courtyard with his visor down and stiffly cased in a suit of stout
shining armour. The horse was a manifest Frieslanderbroad-backed and
flea-bittenand with half a hundred of wool hanging to each of his
fetlocks. The gallant combatant came well primed by his master the
duke as to how he was to bear himself against the valiant Don
Quixote of La Mancha; being warned that he must on no account slay
himbut strive to shirk the first encounter so as to avoid the risk
of killing himas he was sure to do if he met him full tilt. He
crossed the courtyard at a walkand coming to where the duennas
were placed stopped to look at her who demanded him for a husband; the
marshal of the field summoned Don Quixotewho had already presented
himself in the courtyardand standing by the side of Tosilos he
addressed the duennasand asked them if they consented that Don
Quixote of La Mancha should do battle for their right. They said
they didand that whatever he should do in that behalf they
declared rightly donefinal and valid. By this time the duke and
duchess had taken their places in a gallery commanding the
enclosurewhich was filled to overflowing with a multitude of
people eager to see this perilous and unparalleled encounter. The
conditions of the combat were that if Don Quixote proved the victor
his antagonist was to marry the daughter of Dona Rodriguez; but if
he should be vanquished his opponent was released from the promise
that was claimed against him and from all obligations to give
satisfaction. The master of the ceremonies apportioned the sun to
themand stationed themeach on the spot where he was to stand.
The drums beatthe sound of the trumpets filled the airthe earth
trembled under footthe hearts of the gazing crowd were full of
anxietysome hoping for a happy issuesome apprehensive of an
untoward ending to the affairand lastlyDon Quixotecommending
himself with all his heart to God our Lord and to the lady Dulcinea
del Tobosostood waiting for them to give the necessary signal for
the onset. Our lacqueyhoweverwas thinking of something very
different; he only thought of what I am now going to mention.

It seems that as he stood contemplating his enemy she struck him
as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen all his life; and the
little blind boy whom in our streets they commonly call Love had no
mind to let slip the chance of triumphing over a lacquey heartand
adding it to the list of his trophies; and sostealing gently upon


him unseenhe drove a dart two yards long into the poor lacquey's
left side and pierced his heart through and through; which he was able
to do quite at his easefor Love is invisibleand comes in and
goes out as he likeswithout anyone calling him to account for what
he does. Well thenwhen they gave the signal for the onset our
lacquey was in an ecstasymusing upon the beauty of her whom he had
already made mistress of his libertyand so he paid no attention to
the sound of the trumpetunlike Don Quixotewho was off the
instant he heard itandat the highest speed Rocinante was capable
ofset out to meet his enemyhis good squire Sancho shouting lustily
as he saw him startGod guide thee, cream and flower of
knights-errant! God give thee the victory, for thou hast the right
on thy side!But though Tosilos saw Don Quixote coming at him he
never stirred a step from the spot where he was posted; and instead of
doing so called loudly to the marshal of the fieldto whom when he
came up to see what he wanted he saidSenor, is not this battle to
decide whether I marry or do not marry that lady?Just so,was
the answer. "Well then said the lacquey, I feel qualms of
conscienceand I should lay a-heavy burden upon it if I were to
proceed any further with the combat; I therefore declare that I
yield myself vanquishedand that I am willing to marry the lady at
once."

The marshal of the field was lost in astonishment at the words of
Tosilos; and as he was one of those who were privy to the
arrangement of the affair he knew not what to say in reply. Don
Quixote pulled up in mid career when he saw that his enemy was not
coming on to the attack. The duke could not make out the reason why
the battle did not go on; but the marshal of the field hastened to him
to let him know what Tosilos saidand he was amazed and extremely
angry at it. In the meantime Tosilos advanced to where Dona
Rodriguez sat and said in a loud voiceSenora, I am willing to marry
your daughter, and I have no wish to obtain by strife and fighting
what I can obtain in peace and without any risk to my life.

The valiant Don Quixote heard himand saidAs that is the case
I am released and absolved from my promise; let them marry by all
means, and as 'God our Lord has given her, may Saint Peter add his
blessing.'

The duke had now descended to the courtyard of the castleand going
up to Tosilos he said to himIs it true, sir knight, that you
yield yourself vanquished, and that moved by scruples of conscience
you wish to marry this damsel?

It is, senor,replied Tosilos.

And he does well,said Sanchofor what thou hast to give to
the mouse, give to the cat, and it will save thee all trouble.

Tosilos meanwhile was trying to unlace his helmetand he begged
them to come to his help at onceas his power of breathing was
failing himand he could not remain so long shut up in that
confined space. They removed it in all hasteand his lacquey features
were revealed to public gaze. At this sight Dona Rodriguez and her
daughter raised a mighty outcryexclaimingThis is a trick! This is
a trick! They have put Tosilos, my lord the duke's lacquey, upon us in
place of the real husband. The justice of God and the king against
such trickery, not to say roguery!

Do not distress yourselves, ladies,said Don Quixote; "for this is
no trickery or roguery; or if it isit is not the duke who is at
the bottom of itbut those wicked enchanters who persecute meand
whojealous of my reaping the glory of this victoryhave turned your


husband's features into those of this personwho you say is a lacquey
of the duke's; take my adviceand notwithstanding the malice of my
enemies marry himfor beyond a doubt he is the one you wish for a
husband."

When the duke heard this all his anger was near vanishing in a fit
of laughterand he saidThe things that happen to Senor Don Quixote
are so extraordinary that I am ready to believe this lacquey of mine
is not one; but let us adopt this plan and device; let us put off
the marriage for, say, a fortnight, and let us keep this person
about whom we are uncertain in close confinement, and perhaps in the
course of that time he may return to his original shape; for the spite
which the enchanters entertain against Senor Don Quixote cannot last
so long, especially as it is of so little advantage to them to
practise these deceptions and transformations.

Oh, senor,said Sanchothose scoundrels are well used to
changing whatever concerns my master from one thing into another. A
knight that he overcame some time back, called the Knight of the
Mirrors, they turned into the shape of the bachelor Samson Carrasco of
our town and a great friend of ours; and my lady Dulcinea del Toboso
they have turned into a common country wench; so I suspect this
lacquey will have to live and die a lacquey all the days of his life.

Here the Rodriguez's daughter exclaimedLet him be who he may,
this man that claims me for a wife; I am thankful to him for the same,
for I had rather he the lawful wife of a lacquey than the cheated
mistress of a gentleman; though he who played me false is nothing of
the kind.

To be briefall the talk and all that had happened ended in Tosilos
being shut up until it was seen how his transformation turned out. All
hailed Don Quixote as victorbut the greater number were vexed and
disappointed at finding that the combatants they had been so anxiously
waiting for had not battered one another to piecesjust as the boys
are disappointed when the man they are waiting to see hanged does
not come outbecause the prosecution or the court has pardoned him.
The people dispersedthe duke and Don Quixote returned to the castle
they locked up TosilosDona Rodriguez and her daughter remained
perfectly contented when they saw that any way the affair must end
in marriageand Tosilos wanted nothing else.

CHAPTER LVII

WHICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKEAND OF
WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORAONE OF THE
DUCHESS'S DAMSELS

Don Quixote now felt it right to quit a life of such idleness as
he was leading in the castle; for he fancied that he was making
himself sorely missed by suffering himself to remain shut up and
inactive amid the countless luxuries and enjoyments his hosts lavished
upon him as a knight. and he felt too that he would have to render a
strict account to heaven of that indolence and seclusion; and so one
day he asked the duke and duchess to grant him permission to take
his departure. They gave itshowing at the same time that they were
very sorry he was leaving them. The duchess gave his wife's letters to
Sancho Panzawho shed tears over themsayingWho would have
thought that such grand hopes as the news of my government bred in
my wife Teresa Panza's breast would end in my going back now to the
vagabond adventures of my master Don Quixote of La Mancha? Still I'm


glad to see my Teresa behaved as she ought in sending the acorns,
for if she had not sent them I'd have been sorry, and she'd have shown
herself ungrateful. It is a comfort to me that they can't call that
present a bribe; for I had got the government already when she sent
them, and it's but reasonable that those who have had a good turn done
them should show their gratitude, if it's only with a trifle. After
all I went into the government naked, and I come out of it naked; so I
can say with a safe conscience -and that's no small matter- 'naked I
was born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain.'

Thus did Sancho soliloquise on the day of their departureas Don
Quixotewho had the night before taken leave of the duke and duchess
coming out made his appearance at an early hour in full armour in
the courtyard of the castle. The whole household of the castle were
watching him from the corridorsand the duke and duchesstoocame
out to see him. Sancho was mounted on his Dapplewith his alforjas
valiseand proven. supremely happy because the duke's majordomo
the same that had acted the part of the Trifaldihad given him a
little purse with two hundred gold crowns to meet the necessary
expenses of the roadbut of this Don Quixote knew nothing as yet.
While all wereas has been saidobserving himsuddenly from among
the duennas and handmaidens the impudent and witty Altisidora lifted
up her voice and said in pathetic tones:

Give earcruel knight;
Draw rein; where's the need
Of spurring the flanks
Of that ill-broken steed?
From what art thou flying?
No dragon I am
Not even a sheep
But a tender young lamb.
Thou hast jilted a maiden
As fair to behold
As nymph of Diana
Or Venus of old.

BirenoAEneaswhat worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

In thy clawsruthless robber
Thou bearest away
The heart of a meek
Loving maid for thy prey
Three kerchiefs thou stealest
And garters a pair
From legs than the whitest
Of marble more fair;
And the sighs that pursue thee
Would burn to the ground
Two thousand Troy Towns
If so many were found.

BirenoAEneaswhat worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

May no bowels of mercy
To Sancho be granted
And thy Dulcinea
Be left still enchanted
May thy falsehood to me
Find its punishment in her


For in my land the just
Often pays for the sinner.
May thy grandest adventures
Discomfitures prove
May thy joys be all dreams
And forgotten thy love.

BirenoAEneaswhat worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

May thy name be abhorred
For thy conduct to ladies
From London to England
From Seville to Cadiz;
May thy cards be unlucky
Thy hands contain ne'er a
Kingsevenor ace
When thou playest primera;
When thy corns are cut
May it be to the quick;
When thy grinders are drawn
May the roots of them stick.

BirenoAEneaswhat worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

All the while the unhappy Altisidora was bewailing herself in the
above strain Don Quixote stood staring at her; and without uttering
a word in reply to her he turned round to Sancho and saidSancho
my friend, I conjure thee by the life of thy forefathers tell me the
truth; say, hast thou by any chance taken the three kerchiefs and
the garters this love-sick maid speaks of?

To this Sancho made answerThe three kerchiefs I have; but the
garters, as much as 'over the hills of Ubeda.'

The duchess was amazed at Altisidora's assurance; she knew that
she was boldlivelyand impudentbut not so much so as to venture
to make free in this fashion; and not being prepared for the jokeher
astonishment was all the greater. The duke had a mind to keep up the
sportso he saidIt does not seem to me well done in you, sir
knight, that after having received the hospitality that has been
offered you in this very castle, you should have ventured to carry off
even three kerchiefs, not to say my handmaid's garters. It shows a bad
heart and does not tally with your reputation. Restore her garters, or
else I defy you to mortal combat, for I am not afraid of rascally
enchanters changing or altering my features as they changed his who
encountered you into those of my lacquey, Tosilos.

God forbid,said Don Quixotethat I should draw my sword against
your illustrious person from which I have received such great favours.
The kerchiefs I will restore, as Sancho says he has them; as to the
garters that is impossible, for I have not got them, neither has he;
and if your handmaiden here will look in her hiding-places, depend
upon it she will find them. I have never been a thief, my lord duke,
nor do I mean to be so long as I live, if God cease not to have me
in his keeping. This damsel by her own confession speaks as one in
love, for which I am not to blame, and therefore need not ask
pardon, either of her or of your excellence, whom I entreat to have
a better opinion of me, and once more to give me leave to pursue my
journey.


And may God so prosper it, Senor Don Quixote,said the duchess
that we may always hear good news of your exploits; God speed you;
for the longer you stay, the more you inflame the hearts of the
damsels who behold you; and as for this one of mine, I will so
chastise her that she will not transgress again, either with her
eyes or with her words.


One word and no more, O valiant Don Quixote, I ask you to hear,
said Altisidoraand that is that I beg your pardon about the theft
of the garters; for by God and upon my soul I have got them on, and
I have fallen into the same blunder as he did who went looking for his
ass being all the while mounted on it.


Didn't I say so?said Sancho. "I'm a likely one to hide thefts!
Why if I wanted to deal in themopportunities came ready enough to me
in my government."


Don Quixote bowed his headand saluted the duke and duchess and all
the bystandersand wheeling Rocinante roundSancho following him
on Dapplehe rode out of the castleshaping his course for
Saragossa.


CHAPTER LVIII


WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH
NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME


When Don Quixote saw himself in open countryfreeand relieved
from the attentions of Altisidorahe felt at his easeand in fresh
spirits to take up the pursuit of chivalry once more; and turning to
Sancho he saidFreedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts
that heaven has bestowed upon men; no treasures that the earth holds
buried or the sea conceals can compare with it; for freedom, as for
honour, life may and should be ventured; and on the other hand,
captivity is the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man. I
say this, Sancho, because thou hast seen the good cheer, the abundance
we have enjoyed in this castle we are leaving; well then, amid those
dainty banquets and snow-cooled beverages I felt as though I were
undergoing the straits of hunger, because I did not enjoy them with
the same freedom as if they had been mine own; for the sense of
being under an obligation to return benefits and favours received is a
restraint that checks the independence of the spirit. Happy he, to
whom heaven has given a piece of bread for which he is not bound to
give thanks to any but heaven itself!


For all your worship says,said Sanchoit is not becoming that
there should he no thanks on our part for two hundred gold crowns that
the duke's majordomo has given me in a little purse which I carry next
my heart, like a warming plaster or comforter, to meet any chance
calls; for we shan't always find castles where they'll entertain us;
now and then we may light upon roadside inns where they'll cudgel us.


In conversation of this sort the knight and squire errant were
pursuing their journeywhenafter they had gone a little more than
half a leaguethey perceived some dozen men dressed like labourers
stretched upon their cloaks on the grass of a green meadow eating
their dinner. They had beside them what seemed to be white sheets
concealing some objects under themstanding upright or lying flat
and arranged at intervals. Don Quixote approached the dinersand
saluting them courteously firsthe asked them what it was those



cloths covered. "Senor answered one of the party, under these
cloths are some images carved in relief intended for a retablo we
are putting up in our village; we carry them covered up that they
may not be soiledand on our shoulders that they may not be broken."

With your good leave,said Don QuixoteI should like to see
them; for images that are carried so carefully no doubt must be fine
ones.

I should think they were!said the other; "let the money they cost
speak for that; for as a matter of fact there is not one of them
that does not stand us in more than fifty ducats; and that your
worship may judge; wait a momentand you shall see with your own
eyes;" and getting up from his dinner he went and uncovered the
first imagewhich proved to be one of Saint George on horseback
with a serpent writhing at his feet and the lance thrust down its
throat with all that fierceness that is usually depicted. The whole
group was one blaze of goldas the saying is. On seeing it Don
Quixote saidThat knight was one of the best knights-errant the army
of heaven ever owned; he was called Don Saint George, and he was
moreover a defender of maidens. Let us see this next one.

The man uncovered itand it was seen to be that of Saint Martin
on his horsedividing his cloak with the beggar. The instant Don
Quixote saw it he saidThis knight too was one of the Christian
adventurers, but I believe he was generous rather than valiant, as
thou mayest perceive, Sancho, by his dividing his cloak with the
beggar and giving him half of it; no doubt it was winter at the
time, for otherwise he would have given him the whole of it, so
charitable was he.

It was not that, most likely,said Sanchobut that he held
with the proverb that says, 'For giving and keeping there's need of
brains.'

Don Quixote laughedand asked them to take off the next cloth
underneath which was seen the image of the patron saint of the
Spains seated on horsebackhis sword stained with bloodtrampling on
Moors and treading heads underfoot; and on seeing it Don Quixote
exclaimedAy, this is a knight, and of the squadrons of Christ! This
one is called Don Saint James the Moorslayer, one of the bravest
saints and knights the world ever had or heaven has now.

They then raised another cloth which it appeared covered Saint
Paul falling from his horsewith all the details that are usually
given in representations of his conversion. When Don Quixote saw it
rendered in such lifelike style that one would have said Christ was
speaking and Paul answeringThis,he saidwas in his time the
greatest enemy that the Church of God our Lord had, and the greatest
champion it will ever have; a knight-errant in life, a steadfast saint
in death, an untiring labourer in the Lord's vineyard, a teacher of
the Gentiles, whose school was heaven, and whose instructor and master
was Jesus Christ himself.

There were no more imagesso Don Quixote bade them cover them up
againand said to those who had brought themI take it as a happy
omen, brothers, to have seen what I have; for these saints and knights
were of the same profession as myself, which is the calling of arms;
only there is this difference between them and me, that they were
saints, and fought with divine weapons, and I am a sinner and fight
with human ones. They won heaven by force of arms, for heaven
suffereth violence; and I, so far, know not what I have won by dint of
my sufferings; but if my Dulcinea del Toboso were to be released
from hers, perhaps with mended fortunes and a mind restored to


itself I might direct my steps in a better path than I am following at
present.

May God hear and sin be deaf,said Sancho to this.

The men were filled with wonderas well at the figure as at the
words of Don Quixotethough they did not understand one half of
what he meant by them. They finished their dinnertook their images
on their backsand bidding farewell to Don Quixote resumed their
journey.

Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master's knowledgeas
much as if he had never known himfor it seemed to him that there was
no story or event in the world that he had not at his fingers' ends
and fixed in his memoryand he said to himIn truth, master mine,
if this that has happened to us to-day is to be called an adventure,
it has been one of the sweetest and pleasantest that have befallen
us in the whole course of our travels; we have come out of it
unbelaboured and undismayed, neither have we drawn sword nor have we
smitten the earth with our bodies, nor have we been left famishing;
blessed be God that he has let me see such a thing with my own eyes!

Thou sayest well, Sancho,said Don Quixotebut remember all
times are not alike nor do they always run the same way; and these
things the vulgar commonly call omens, which are not based upon any
natural reason, will by him who is wise be esteemed and reckoned happy
accidents merely. One of these believers in omens will get up of a
morning, leave his house, and meet a friar of the order of the blessed
Saint Francis, and, as if he had met a griffin, he will turn about and
go home. With another Mendoza the salt is spilt on his table, and
gloom is spilt over his heart, as if nature was obliged to give
warning of coming misfortunes by means of such trivial things as
these. The wise man and the Christian should not trifle with what it
may please heaven to do. Scipio on coming to Africa stumbled as he
leaped on shore; his soldiers took it as a bad omen; but he,
clasping the soil with his arms, exclaimed, 'Thou canst not escape me,
Africa, for I hold thee tight between my arms.' Thus, Sancho,
meeting those images has been to me a most happy occurrence.

I can well believe it,said Sancho; "but I wish your worship would
tell me what is the reason that the Spaniardswhen they are about
to give battlein calling on that Saint James the Moorslayersay
'Santiago and close Spain!' Is Spainthenopenso that it is
needful to close it; or what is the meaning of this form?"

Thou art very simple, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "Godlook you
gave that great knight of the Red Cross to Spain as her patron saint
and protectorespecially in those hard struggles the Spaniards had
with the Moors; and therefore they invoke and call upon him as their
defender in all their battles; and in these he has been many a time
seen beating downtrampling under footdestroying and slaughtering
the Hagarene squadrons in the sight of all; of which fact I could give
thee many examples recorded in truthful Spanish histories."

Sancho changed the subjectand said to his masterI marvel,
senor, at the boldness of Altisidora, the duchess's handmaid; he
whom they call Love must have cruelly pierced and wounded her; they
say he is a little blind urchin who, though blear-eyed, or more
properly speaking sightless, if he aims at a heart, be it ever so
small, hits it and pierces it through and through with his arrows. I
have heard it said too that the arrows of Love are blunted and
robbed of their points by maidenly modesty and reserve; but with
this Altisidora it seems they are sharpened rather than blunted.


Bear in mind, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat love is influenced
by no consideration, recognises no restraints of reason, and is of the
same nature as death, that assails alike the lofty palaces of kings
and the humble cabins of shepherds; and when it takes entire
possession of a heart, the first thing it does is to banish fear and
shame from it; and so without shame Altisidora declared her passion,
which excited in my mind embarrassment rather than commiseration.

Notable cruelty!exclaimed Sancho; "unheard-of ingratitude! I
can only say for myself that the very smallest loving word of hers
would have subdued me and made a slave of me. The devil! What a
heart of marblewhat bowels of brasswhat a soul of mortar! But I
can't imagine what it is that this damsel saw in your worship that
could have conquered and captivated her so. What gallant figure was
itwhat bold bearingwhat sprightly gracewhat comeliness of
featurewhich of these things by itselfor what all together
could have made her fall in love with you? For indeed and in truth
many a time I stop to look at your worship from the sole of your
foot to the topmost hair of your headand I see more to frighten
one than to make one fall in love; moreover I have heard say that
beauty is the first and main thing that excites loveand as your
worship has none at allI don't know what the poor creature fell in
love with."

Recollect, Sancho,replied Don Quixotethere are two sorts of
beauty, one of the mind, the other of the body; that of the mind
displays and exhibits itself in intelligence, in modesty, in
honourable conduct, in generosity, in good breeding; and all these
qualities are possible and may exist in an ugly man; and when it is
this sort of beauty and not that of the body that is the attraction,
love is apt to spring up suddenly and violently. I, Sancho, perceive
clearly enough that I am not beautiful, but at the same time I know
I am not hideous; and it is enough for an honest man not to be a
monster to he an object of love, if only he possesses the endowments
of mind I have mentioned.

While engaged in this discourse they were making their way through a
wood that lay beyond the roadwhen suddenlywithout expecting
anything of the kindDon Quixote found himself caught in some nets of
green cord stretched from one tree to another; and unable to
conceive what it could behe said to SanchoSancho, it strikes me
this affair of these nets will prove one of the strangest adventures
imaginable. May I die if the enchanters that persecute me are not
trying to entangle me in them and delay my journey, by way of
revenge for my obduracy towards Altisidora. Well then let me tell them
that if these nets, instead of being green cord, were made of the
hardest diamonds, or stronger than that wherewith the jealous god of
blacksmiths enmeshed Venus and Mars, I would break them as easily as
if they were made of rushes or cotton threads.But just as he was
about to press forward and break through allsuddenly from among some
trees two shepherdesses of surpassing beauty presented themselves to
his sight- or at least damsels dressed like shepherdessessave that
their jerkins and sayas were of fine brocade; that is to saythe
sayas were rich farthingales of gold embroidered tabby. Their hair
that in its golden brightness vied with the beams of the sun itself
fell loose upon their shoulders and was crowned with garlands twined
with green laurel and red everlasting; and their years to all
appearance were not under fifteen nor above eighteen. Such was the
spectacle that filled Sancho with amazementfascinated Don Quixote
made the sun halt in his course to behold themand held all four in a
strange silence. One of the shepherdessesat lengthwas the first to
speak and said to Don QuixoteHold, sir knight, and do not break
these nets; for they are not spread here to do you any harm, but
only for our amusement; and as I know you will ask why they have


been put up, and who we are, I will tell you in a few words. In a
village some two leagues from this, where there are many people of
quality and rich gentlefolk, it was agreed upon by a number of friends
and relations to come with their wives, sons and daughters,
neighbours, friends and kinsmen, and make holiday in this spot,
which is one of the pleasantest in the whole neighbourhood, setting up
a new pastoral Arcadia among ourselves, we maidens dressing
ourselves as shepherdesses and the youths as shepherds. We have
prepared two eclogues, one by the famous poet Garcilasso, the other by
the most excellent Camoens, in its own Portuguese tongue, but we
have not as yet acted them. Yesterday was the first day of our
coming here; we have a few of what they say are called field-tents
pitched among the trees on the bank of an ample brook that
fertilises all these meadows; last night we spread these nets in the
trees here to snare the silly little birds that startled by the
noise we make may fly into them. If you please to he our guest, senor,
you will be welcomed heartily and courteously, for here just now
neither care nor sorrow shall enter.

She held her peace and said no moreand Don Quixote made answer
Of a truth, fairest lady, Actaeon when he unexpectedly beheld Diana
bathing in the stream could not have been more fascinated and
wonderstruck than I at the sight of your beauty. I commend your mode
of entertainment, and thank you for the kindness of your invitation;
and if I can serve you, you may command me with full confidence of
being obeyed, for my profession is none other than to show myself
grateful, and ready to serve persons of all conditions, but especially
persons of quality such as your appearance indicates; and if,
instead of taking up, as they probably do, but a small space, these
nets took up the whole surface of the globe, I would seek out new
worlds through which to pass, so as not to break them; and that ye may
give some degree of credence to this exaggerated language of mine,
know that it is no less than Don Quixote of La Mancha that makes
this declaration to you, if indeed it be that such a name has
reached your ears.

Ah! friend of my soul,instantly exclaimed the other
shepherdesswhat great good fortune has befallen us! Seest thou this
gentleman we have before us? Well then let me tell thee he is the most
valiant and the most devoted and the most courteous gentleman in all
the world, unless a history of his achievements that has been
printed and I have read is telling lies and deceiving us. I will lay a
wager that this good fellow who is with him is one Sancho Panza his
squire, whose drolleries none can equal.

That's true,said Sancho; "I am that same droll and squire you
speak ofand this gentleman is my master Don Quixote of La Mancha
the same that's in the history and that they talk about."

Oh, my friend,said the otherlet us entreat him to stay; for it
will give our fathers and brothers infinite pleasure; I too have heard
just what thou hast told me of the valour of the one and the
drolleries of the other; and what is more, of him they say that he
is the most constant and loyal lover that was ever heard of, and
that his lady is one Dulcinea del Toboso, to whom all over Spain the
palm of beauty is awarded.

And justly awarded,said Don Quixoteunless, indeed, your
unequalled beauty makes it a matter of doubt. But spare yourselves the
trouble, ladies, of pressing me to stay, for the urgent calls of my
profession do not allow me to take rest under any circumstances.

At this instant there came up to the spot where the four stood a
brother of one of the two shepherdesseslike them in shepherd


costumeand as richly and gaily dressed as they were. They told him
that their companion was the valiant Don Quixote of La Manchaand the
other Sancho his squireof whom he knew already from having read
their history. The gay shepherd offered him his services and begged
that he would accompany him to their tentsand Don Quixote had to
give way and comply. And now the gave was startedand the nets were
filled with a variety of birds that deceived by the colour fell into
the danger they were flying from. Upwards of thirty personsall gaily
attired as shepherds and shepherdessesassembled on the spotand
were at once informed who Don Quixote and his squire werewhereat
they were not a little delightedas they knew of him already
through his history. They repaired to the tentswhere they found
tables laid outand choicelyplentifullyand neatly furnished. They
treated Don Quixote as a person of distinctiongiving him the place
of honourand all observed himand were full of astonishment at
the spectacle. At last the cloth being removedDon Quixote with great
composure lifted up his voice and said:

One of the greatest sins that men are guilty of is- some will say
pride- but I say ingratitude, going by the common saying that hell
is full of ingrates. This sin, so far as it has lain in my power, I
have endeavoured to avoid ever since I have enjoyed the faculty of
reason; and if I am unable to requite good deeds that have been done
me by other deeds, I substitute the desire to do so; and if that be
not enough I make them known publicly; for he who declares and makes
known the good deeds done to him would repay them by others if it were
in his power, and for the most part those who receive are the
inferiors of those who give. Thus, God is superior to all because he
is the supreme giver, and the offerings of man fall short by an
infinite distance of being a full return for the gifts of God; but
gratitude in some degree makes up for this deficiency and shortcoming.
I therefore, grateful for the favour that has been extended to me
here, and unable to make a return in the same measure, restricted as I
am by the narrow limits of my power, offer what I can and what I
have to offer in my own way; and so I declare that for two full days I
will maintain in the middle of this highway leading to Saragossa, that
these ladies disguised as shepherdesses, who are here present, are the
fairest and most courteous maidens in the world, excepting only the
peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts, be it said
without offence to those who hear me, ladies and gentlemen.

On hearing this Sanchowho had been listening with great attention
cried out in a loud voiceIs it possible there is anyone in the
world who will dare to say and swear that this master of mine is a
madman? Say, gentlemen shepherds, is there a village priest, be he
ever so wise or learned, who could say what my master has said; or
is there knight-errant, whatever renown he may have as a man of
valour, that could offer what my master has offered now?

Don Quixote turned upon Sanchoand with a countenance glowing
with anger said to himIs it possible, Sancho, there is anyone in
the whole world who will say thou art not a fool, with a lining to
match, and I know not what trimmings of impertinence and roguery?
Who asked thee to meddle in my affairs, or to inquire whether I am a
wise man or a blockhead? Hold thy peace; answer me not a word;
saddle Rocinante if he be unsaddled; and let us go to put my offer
into execution; for with the right that I have on my side thou
mayest reckon as vanquished all who shall venture to question it;and
in a great rageand showing his anger plainlyhe rose from his seat
leaving the company lost in wonderand making them feel doubtful
whether they ought to regard him as a madman or a rational being. In
the endthough they sought to dissuade him from involving himself
in such a challengeassuring him they admitted his gratitude as fully
establishedand needed no fresh proofs to be convinced of his valiant


spiritas those related in the history of his exploits were
sufficientstill Don Quixote persisted in his resolve; and mounted on
Rocinantebracing his buckler on his arm and grasping his lancehe
posted himself in the middle of a high road that was not far from
the green meadow. Sancho followed on Dappletogether with all the
members of the pastoral gatheringeager to see what would be the
upshot of his vainglorious and extraordinary proposal.

Don Quixotethenhavingas has been saidplanted himself in
the middle of the roadmade the welkin ring with words to this
effect: "Ho ye travellers and wayfarersknightssquiresfolk on
foot or on horsebackwho pass this way or shall pass in the course of
the next two days! Know that Don Quixote of La Mancha
knight-errantis posted here to maintain by arms that the beauty
and courtesy enshrined in the nymphs that dwell in these meadows and
groves surpass all upon earthputting aside the lady of my heart
Dulcinea del Toboso. Whereforelet him who is of the opposite opinion
come onfor here I await him."

Twice he repeated the same wordsand twice they fell unheard by any
adventurer; but fatethat was guiding affairs for him from better
to betterso ordered it that shortly afterwards there appeared on the
road a crowd of men on horsebackmany of them with lances in their
handsall riding in a compact body and in great haste. No sooner
had those who were with Don Quixote seen them than they turned about
and withdrew to some distance from the roadfor they knew that if
they stayed some harm might come to them; but Don Quixote with
intrepid heart stood his groundand Sancho Panza shielded himself
with Rocinante's hind-quarters. The troop of lancers came upand
one of them who was in advance began shouting to Don QuixoteGet out
of the way, you son of the devil, or these bulls will knock you to
pieces!

Rabble!returned Don QuixoteI care nothing for bulls, be they
the fiercest Jarama breeds on its banks. Confess at once,
scoundrels, that what I have declared is true; else ye have to deal
with me in combat.

The herdsman had no time to replynor Don Quixote to get out of the
way even if he wished; and so the drove of fierce bulls and tame
bullockstogether with the crowd of herdsmen and others who were
taking them to be penned up in a village where they were to be run the
next daypassed over Don Quixote and over SanchoRocinante and
Dapplehurling them all to the earth and rolling them over on the
ground. Sancho was left crushedDon Quixote scaredDapple belaboured
and Rocinante in no very sound condition. They all got uphoweverat
lengthand Don Quixote in great hastestumbling here and falling
therestarted off running after the droveshouting outHold! stay!
ye rascally rabble, a single knight awaits you, and he is not of the
temper or opinion of those who say, 'For a flying enemy make a
bridge of silver.'The retreating party in their hastehowever
did not stop for thator heed his menaces any more than last year's
clouds. Weariness brought Don Quixote to a haltand more enraged than
avenged he sat down on the road to wait until SanchoRocinante and
Dapple came up. When they reached him master and man mounted once
moreand without going back to bid farewell to the mock or
imitation Arcadiaand more in humiliation than contentmentthey
continued their journey.

CHAPTER LIX


WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THINGWHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN
ADVENTURETHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE

A clear limpid spring which they discovered in a cool grove relieved
Don Quixote and Sancho of the dust and fatigue due to the unpolite
behaviour of the bullsand by the side of thishaving turned
Dapple and Rocinante loose without headstall or bridlethe forlorn
pairmaster and manseated themselves. Sancho had recourse to the
larder of his alforjas and took out of them what he called the prog;
Don Quixote rinsed his mouth and bathed his faceby which cooling
process his flagging energies were revived. Out of pure vexation he
remained without eatingand out of pure politeness Sancho did not
venture to touch a morsel of what was before himbut waited for his
master to act as taster. Seeinghoweverthatabsorbed in thought
he was forgetting to carry the bread to his mouthhe said never a
wordand trampling every sort of good breeding under footbegan to
stow away in his paunch the bread and cheese that came to his hand.

Eat, Sancho my friend,said Don Quixote; "support lifewhich is
of more consequence to thee than to meand leave me to die under
the pain of my thoughts and pressure of my misfortunes. I was born
Sanchoto live dyingand thou to die eating; and to prove the
truth of what I saylook at meprinted in historiesfamed in
armscourteous in behaviourhonoured by princescourted by maidens;
and after allwhen I looked forward to palmstriumphsand crowns
won and earned by my valiant deedsI have this morning seen myself
trampled onkickedand crushed by the feet of unclean and filthy
animals. This thought blunts my teethparalyses my jawscramps my
handsand robs me of all appetite for food; so much so that I have
a mind to let myself die of hungerthe cruelest death of all deaths."

So then,said Sanchomunching hard all the timeyour worship
does not agree with the proverb that says, 'Let Martha die, but let
her die with a full belly.' I, at any rate, have no mind to kill
myself; so far from that, I mean to do as the cobbler does, who
stretches the leather with his teeth until he makes it reach as far as
he wants. I'll stretch out my life by eating until it reaches the
end heaven has fixed for it; and let me tell you, senor, there's no
greater folly than to think of dying of despair as your worship
does; take my advice, and after eating lie down and sleep a bit on
this green grass-mattress, and you will see that when you awake you'll
feel something better.

Don Quixote did as he recommendedfor it struck him that Sancho's
reasoning was more like a philosopher's than a blockhead'sand said
heSancho, if thou wilt do for me what I am going to tell thee my
ease of mind would be more assured and my heaviness of heart not so
great; and it is this; to go aside a little while I am sleeping in
accordance with thy advice, and, making bare thy carcase to the air,
to give thyself three or four hundred lashes with Rocinante's reins,
on account of the three thousand and odd thou art to give thyself
for the disenchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a great pity that the
poor lady should be left enchanted through thy carelessness and
negligence.

There is a good deal to be said on that point,said Sancho; "let
us both go to sleep nowand after thatGod has decreed what will
happen. Let me tell your worship that for a man to whip himself in
cold blood is a hard thingespecially if the stripes fall upon an
ill-nourished and worse-fed body. Let my lady Dulcinea have
patienceand when she is least expecting itshe will see me made a
riddle of with whippingand 'until death it's all life;' I mean
that I have still life in meand the desire to make good what I
have promised."


Don Quixote thanked himand ate a littleand Sancho a good deal
and then they both lay down to sleepleaving those two inseparable
friends and comradesRocinante and Dappleto their own devices and
to feed unrestrained upon the abundant grass with which the meadow was
furnished. They woke up rather latemounted once more and resumed
their journeypushing on to reach an inn which was in sight
apparently a league off. I say an innbecause Don Quixote called it
socontrary to his usual practice of calling all inns castles. They
reached itand asked the landlord if they could put up there. He said
yeswith as much comfort and as good fare as they could find in
Saragossa. They dismountedand Sancho stowed away his larder in a
room of which the landlord gave him the key. He took the beasts to the
stablefed themand came back to see what orders Don Quixotewho
was seated on a bench at the doorhad for himgiving special
thanks to heaven that this inn had not been taken for a castle by
his master. Supper-time cameand they repaired to their roomand
Sancho asked the landlord what he had to give them for supper. To this
the landlord replied that his mouth should be the measure; he had only
to ask what he would; for that inn was provided with the birds of
the air and the fowls of the earth and the fish of the sea.

There's no need of all that,said Sancho; "if they'll roast us a
couple of chickens we'll be satisfiedfor my master is delicate and
eats littleand I'm not over and above gluttonous."

The landlord replied he had no chickensfor the kites had stolen
them.

Well then,said Sancholet senor landlord tell them to roast a
pullet, so that it is a tender one.

Pullet! My father!said the landlord; "indeed and in truth it's
only yesterday I sent over fifty to the city to sell; but saving
pullets ask what you will."

In that case,said Sanchoyou will not be without veal or kid.

Just now,said the landlordthere's none in the house, for
it's all finished; but next week there will he enough and to spare.

Much good that does us,said Sancho; "I'll lay a bet that all
these short-comings are going to wind up in plenty of bacon and eggs."

By God,said the landlordmy guest's wits must he precious dull;
I tell him I have neither pullets nor hens, and he wants me to have
eggs! Talk of other dainties, if you please, and don't ask for hens
again.

Body o' me!said Sancholet's settle the matter; say at once
what you have got, and let us have no more words about it.

In truth and earnest, senor guest,said the landlordall I
have is a couple of cow-heels like calves' feet, or a couple of
calves' feet like cowheels; they are boiled with chick-peas, onions,
and bacon, and at this moment they are crying 'Come eat me, come eat
me.

I mark them for mine on the spot,said Sancho; "let nobody touch
them; I'll pay better for them than anyone elsefor I could not
wish for anything more to my taste; and I don't care a pin whether
they are feet or heels."

Nobody shall touch them,said the landlord; "for the other


guests I havebeing persons of high qualitybring their own cook and
caterer and larder with them."

If you come to people of quality,said Sanchothere's nobody
more so than my master; but the calling he follows does not allow of
larders or store-rooms; we lay ourselves down in the middle of a
meadow, and fill ourselves with acorns or medlars.

Here ended Sancho's conversation with the landlordSancho not
caring to carry it any farther by answering him; for he had already
asked him what calling or what profession it was his master was of.

Supper-time having comethenDon Quixote betook himself to his
roomthe landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it wasand he
sat himself down to sup very resolutely. It seems that in another
roomwhich was next to Don Quixote'swith nothing but a thin
partition to separate ithe overheard these wordsAs you live,
Senor Don Jeronimo, while they are bringing supper, let us read
another chapter of the Second Part of 'Don Quixote of La Mancha.'

The instant Don Quixote heard his own name be started to his feet
and listened with open ears to catch what they said about himand
heard the Don Jeronimo who had been addressed say in replyWhy would
you have us read that absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is impossible
for anyone who has read the First Part of the history of 'Don
Quixote of La Mancha' to take any pleasure in reading this Second
Part?

For all that,said he who was addressed as Don Juanwe shall
do well to read it, for there is no book so bad but it has something
good in it. What displeases me most in it is that it represents Don
Quixote as now cured of his love for Dulcinea del Toboso.

On hearing this Don Quixotefull of wrath and indignationlifted
up his voice and saidWhoever he may be who says that Don Quixote of
La Mancha has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will
teach him with equal arms that what he says is very far from the
truth; for neither can the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be
forgotten, nor can forgetfulness have a place in Don Quixote; his
motto is constancy, and his profession to maintain the same with his
life and never wrong it.

Who is this that answers us?said they in the next room.

Who should it be,said Sanchobut Don Quixote of La Mancha
himself, who will make good all he has said and all he will say; for
pledges don't trouble a good payer.

Sancho had hardly uttered these words when two gentlemenfor such
they seemed to beentered the roomand one of themthrowing his
arms round Don Quixote's necksaid to himYour appearance cannot
leave any question as to your name, nor can your name fail to identify
your appearance; unquestionably, senor, you are the real Don Quixote
of La Mancha, cynosure and morning star of knight-errantry, despite
and in defiance of him who has sought to usurp your name and bring
to naught your achievements, as the author of this book which I here
present to you has done;and with this he put a book which his
companion carried into the hands of Don Quixotewho took itand
without replying began to run his eye over it; but he presently
returned it sayingIn the little I have seen I have discovered three
things in this author that deserve to be censured. The first is some
words that I have read in the preface; the next that the language is
Aragonese, for sometimes he writes without articles; and the third,
which above all stamps him as ignorant, is that he goes wrong and


departs from the truth in the most important part of the history,
for here he says that my squire Sancho Panza's wife is called Mari
Gutierrez, when she is called nothing of the sort, but Teresa Panza;
and when a man errs on such an important point as this there is good
reason to fear that he is in error on every other point in the
history.

A nice sort of historian, indeed!exclaimed Sancho at this; "he
must know a deal about our affairs when he calls my wife Teresa Panza
Mari Gutierrez; take the book againsenorand see if I am in it
and if he has changed my name."

From your talk, friend,said Don Jeronimono doubt you are
Sancho Panza, Senor Don Quixote's squire.

Yes, I am,said Sancho; "and I'm proud of it."

Faith, then,said the gentlemanthis new author does not
handle you with the decency that displays itself in your person; he
makes you out a heavy feeder and a fool, and not in the least droll,
and a very different being from the Sancho described in the First Part
of your master's history.

God forgive him,said Sancho; "he might have left me in my
corner without troubling his head about me; 'let him who knows how
ring the bells; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome.'"

The two gentlemen pressed Don Quixote to come into their room and
have supper with themas they knew very well there was nothing in
that inn fit for one of his sort. Don Quixotewho was always
politeyielded to their request and supped with them. Sancho stayed
behind with the stew. and invested with plenary delegated authority
seated himself at the head of the tableand the landlord sat down
with himfor he was no less fond of cow-heel and calves' feet than
Sancho was.

While at supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news he had of the
lady Dulcinea del Tobosowas she marriedhad she been brought to
bedor was she with childor did she in maidenhoodstill preserving
her modesty and delicacycherish the remembrance of the tender
passion of Senor Don Quixote?

To this he repliedDulcinea is a maiden still, and my passion more
firmly rooted than ever, our intercourse unsatisfactory as before, and
her beauty transformed into that of a foul country wench;and then he
proceeded to give them a full and particular account of the
enchantment of Dulcineaand of what had happened him in the cave of
Montesinostogether with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for
her disenchantmentnamely the scourging of Sancho.

Exceedingly great was the amusement the two gentlemen derived from
hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history;
and if they were amazed by his absurdities they were equally amazed by
the elegant style in which he delivered them. On the one hand they
regarded him as a man of wit and senseand on the other he seemed
to them a maundering blockheadand they could not make up their minds
whereabouts between wisdom and folly they ought to place him.

Sancho having finished his supperand left the landlord in the X
conditionrepaired to the room where his master wasand as he came
in saidMay I die, sirs, if the author of this book your worships
have got has any mind that we should agree; as he calls me glutton
(according to what your worships say) I wish he may not call me
drunkard too.


But he does,said Don Jeronimo; "I cannot rememberhoweverin
what waythough I know his words are offensiveand what is more
lyingas I can see plainly by the physiognomy of the worthy Sancho
before me."

Believe me,said Sanchothe Sancho and the Don Quixote of this
history must be different persons from those that appear in the one
Cide Hamete Benengeli wrote, who are ourselves; my master valiant,
wise, and true in love, and I simple, droll, and neither glutton nor
drunkard.

I believe it,said Don Juan; "and were it possiblean order
should be issued that no one should have the presumption to deal
with anything relating to Don Quixotesave his original author Cide
Hamete; just as Alexander commanded that no one should presume to
paint his portrait save Apelles."

Let him who will paint me,said Don Quixote; "but let him not
abuse me; for patience will often break down when they heap insults
upon it."

None can be offered to Senor Don Quixote,said Don Juanthat
he himself will not be able to avenge, if he does not ward it off with
the shield of his patience, which, I take it, is great and strong.

A considerable portion of the night passed in conversation of this
sortand though Don Juan wished Don Quixote to read more of the
book to see what it was all abouthe was not to be prevailed upon
saying that he treated it as read and pronounced it utterly silly;
andif by any chance it should come to its author's ears that he
had it in his handhe did not want him to flatter himself with the
idea that he had read it; for our thoughtsand still more our eyes
should keep themselves aloof from what is obscene and filthy.

They asked him whither he meant to direct his steps. He replied
to Saragossato take part in the harness jousts which were held in
that city every year. Don Juan told him that the new history described
how Don Quixotelet him be who he mighttook part there in a tilting
at the ringutterly devoid of inventionpoor in mottoesvery poor
in costumethough rich in sillinesses.

For that very reason,said Don QuixoteI will not set foot in
Saragossa; and by that means I shall expose to the world the lie of
this new history writer, and people will see that I am not the Don
Quixote he speaks of.

You will do quite right,said Don Jeronimo; "and there are other
jousts at Barcelona in which Senor Don Quixote may display his
prowess."

That is what I mean to do,said Don Quixote; "and as it is now
timeI pray your worships to give me leave to retire to bedand to
place and retain me among the number of your greatest friends and
servants."

And me too,said Sancho; "maybe I'll be good for something."

With this they exchanged farewellsand Don Quixote and Sancho
retired to their roomleaving Don Juan and Don Jeronimo amazed to see
the medley he made of his good sense and his craziness; and they
felt thoroughly convinced that theseand not those their Aragonese
author describedwere the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote
rose betimesand bade adieu to his hosts by knocking at the partition


of the other room. Sancho paid the landlord magnificentlyand
recommended him either to say less about the providing of his inn or
to keep it better provided.

CHAPTER LX

OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA

It was a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as Don Quixote
quitted the innfirst of all taking care to ascertain the most direct
road to Barcelona without touching upon Saragossa; so anxious was he
to make out this new historianwho they said abused him soto be a
liar. Wellas it fell outnothing worthy of being recorded
happened him for six daysat the end of whichhaving turned aside
out of the roadhe was overtaken by night in a thicket of oak or cork
trees; for on this point Cide Hamete is not as precise as he usually
is on other matters.

Master and man dismounted from their beastsand as soon as they had
settled themselves at the foot of the treesSanchowho had had a
good noontide meal that daylet himselfwithout more adopass the
gates of sleep. But Don Quixotewhom his thoughtsfar more than
hungerkept awakecould not close an eyeand roamed in fancy to and
fro through all sorts of places. At one moment it seemed to him that
he was in the cave of Montesinos and saw Dulcineatransformed into
a country wenchskipping and mounting upon her she-ass; again that
the words of the sage Merlin were sounding in his earssetting
forth the conditions to be observed and the exertions to be made for
the disenchantment of Dulcinea. He lost all patience when he
considered the laziness and want of charity of his squire Sancho;
for to the best of his belief he had only given himself five lashesa
number paltry and disproportioned to the vast number required. At this
thought he felt such vexation and anger that he reasoned the matter
thus: "If Alexander the Great cut the Gordian knotsaying'To cut
comes to the same thing as to untie' and yet did not fail to become
lord paramount of all Asianeither more nor less could happen now
in Dulcinea's disenchantment if I scourge Sancho against his will;
forif it is the condition of the remedy that Sancho shall receive
three thousand and odd lasheswhat does it matter to me whether he
inflicts them himselfor some one else inflicts themwhen the
essential point is that he receives themlet them come from
whatever quarter they may?"

With this idea he went over to Sanchohaving first taken
Rocinante's reins and arranged them so as to be able to flog him
with themand began to untie the points (the common belief is he
had but one in front) by which his breeches were held up; but the
instant he approached him Sancho woke up in his full senses and
cried outWhat is this? Who is touching me and untrussing me?

It is I,said Don Quixoteand I come to make good thy
shortcomings and relieve my own distresses; I come to whip thee,
Sancho, and wipe off some portion of the debt thou hast undertaken.
Dulcinea is perishing, thou art living on regardless, I am dying of
hope deferred; therefore untruss thyself with a good will, for mine it
is, here, in this retired spot, to give thee at least two thousand
lashes.

Not a bit of it,said Sancho; "let your worship keep quietor
else by the living God the deaf shall hear us; the lashes I pledged
myself to must be voluntary and not forced upon meand just now I


have no fancy to whip myself; it is enough if I give you my word to
flog and flap myself when I have a mind."

It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho,said Don
Quixotefor thou art hard of heart and, though a clown, tender of
flesh;and at the same time he strove and struggled to untie him.

Seeing this Sancho got upand grappling with his master he
gripped him with all his might in his armsgiving him a trip with the
heel stretched him on the ground on his backand pressing his right
knee on his chest held his hands in his own so that he could neither
move nor breathe.

How now, traitor!exclaimed Don Quixote. "Dost thou revolt against
thy master and natural lord? Dost thou rise against him who gives thee
his bread?"

I neither put down king, nor set up king,said Sancho; "I only
stand up for myself who am my own lord; if your worship promises me to
be quietand not to offer to whip me nowI'll let you go free and
unhindered; if not-

Traitor and Dona Sancha's foe
Thou diest on the spot."

Don Quixote gave his promiseand swore by the life of his
thoughts not to touch so much as a hair of his garmentsand to
leave him entirely free and to his own discretion to whip himself
whenever he pleased.

Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spotbut as he was
about to place himself leaning against another tree he felt
something touch his headand putting up his hands encountered
somebody's two feet with shoes and stockings on them. He trembled with
fear and made for another treewhere the very same thing happened
to himand he fell a-shoutingcalling upon Don Quixote to come and
protect him. Don Quixote did soand asked him what had happened to
himand what he was afraid of. Sancho replied that all the trees were
full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt themand guessed at
once what it wasand said to SanchoThou hast nothing to be
afraid of, for these feet and legs that thou feelest but canst not see
belong no doubt to some outlaws and freebooters that have been
hanged on these trees; for the authorities in these parts are wont
to hang them up by twenties and thirties when they catch them; whereby
I conjecture that I must be near Barcelona;and it wasin factas
he supposed; with the first light they looked up and saw that the
fruit hanging on those trees were freebooters' bodies.

And now day dawned; and if the dead freebooters had scared them
their hearts were no less troubled by upwards of forty living ones
who all of a sudden surrounded themand in the Catalan tongue bade
them stand and wait until their captain came up. Don Quixote was on
foot with his horse unbridled and his lance leaning against a tree
and in short completely defenceless; he thought it best therefore to
fold his arms and bow his head and reserve himself for a more
favourable occasion and opportunity. The robbers made haste to
search Dappleand did not leave him a single thing of all he
carried in the alforjas and in the valise; and lucky it was for Sancho
that the duke's crowns and those he brought from home were in a girdle
that he wore round him; but for all that these good folk would have
stripped himand even looked to see what he had hidden between the
skin and fleshbut for the arrival at that moment of their captain
who was about thirty-four years of age apparentlystrongly built


above the middle heightof stern aspect and swarthy complexion. He
was mounted upon a powerful horseand had on a coat of mailwith
four of the pistols they call petronels in that country at his
waist. He saw that his squires (for so they call those who follow that
trade) were about to rifle Sancho Panzabut he ordered them to desist
and was at once obeyedso the girdle escaped. He wondered to see
the lance leaning against the treethe shield on the groundand
Don Quixote in armour and dejectedwith the saddest and most
melancholy face that sadness itself could produce; and going up to him
he saidBe not so cast down, good man, for you have not fallen
into the hands of any inhuman Busiris, but into Roque Guinart's, which
are more merciful than cruel.

The cause of my dejection,returned Don Quixoteis not that I
have fallen into thy hands, O valiant Roque, whose fame is bounded
by no limits on earth, but that my carelessness should have been so
great that thy soldiers should have caught me unbridled, when it is my
duty, according to the rule of knight-errantry which I profess, to
be always on the alert and at all times my own sentinel; for let me
tell thee, great Roque, had they found me on my horse, with my lance
and shield, it would not have been very easy for them to reduce me
to submission, for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, he who hath filled
the whole world with his achievements.

Roque Guinart at once perceived that Don Quixote's weakness was more
akin to madness than to swagger; and though he had sometimes heard him
spoken ofhe never regarded the things attributed to him as truenor
could he persuade himself that such a humour could become dominant
in the heart of man; he was extremely gladthereforeto meet him and
test at close quarters what he had heard of him at a distance; so he
said to himDespair not, valiant knight, nor regard as an untoward
fate the position in which thou findest thyself; it may be that by
these slips thy crooked fortune will make itself straight; for
heaven by strange circuitous ways, mysterious and incomprehensible
to man, raises up the fallen and makes rich the poor.

Don Quixote was about to thank himwhen they heard behind them a
noise as of a troop of horses; there washoweverbut oneriding
on which at a furious pace came a youthapparently about twenty years
of ageclad in green damask edged with gold and breeches and a
loose frockwith a hat looped up in the Walloon fashion
tight-fitting polished bootsgilt spursdagger and swordand in his
hand a musketoonand a pair of pistols at his waist.

Roque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely figure
which drawing near thus addressed himI came in quest of thee,
valiant Roque, to find in thee if not a remedy at least relief in my
misfortune; and not to keep thee in suspense, for I see thou dost
not recognise me, I will tell thee who I am; I am Claudia Jeronima,
the daughter of Simon Forte, thy good friend, and special enemy of
Clauquel Torrellas, who is thine also as being of the faction
opposed to thee. Thou knowest that this Torrellas has a son who is
called, or at least was not two hours since, Don Vicente Torrellas.
Well, to cut short the tale of my misfortune, I will tell thee in a
few words what this youth has brought upon me. He saw me, he paid
court to me, I listened to him, and, unknown to my father, I loved
him; for there is no woman, however secluded she may live or close she
may be kept, who will not have opportunities and to spare for
following her headlong impulses. In a word, he pledged himself to be
mine, and I promised to be his, without carrying matters any
further. Yesterday I learned that, forgetful of his pledge to me, he
was about to marry another, and that he was to go this morning to
plight his troth, intelligence which overwhelmed and exasperated me;
my father not being at home I was able to adopt this costume you


see, and urging my horse to speed I overtook Don Vicente about a
league from this, and without waiting to utter reproaches or hear
excuses I fired this musket at him, and these two pistols besides, and
to the best of my belief I must have lodged more than two bullets in
his body, opening doors to let my honour go free, enveloped in his
blood. I left him there in the hands of his servants, who did not dare
and were not able to interfere in his defence, and I come to seek from
thee a safe-conduct into France, where I have relatives with whom I
can live; and also to implore thee to protect my father, so that Don
Vicente's numerous kinsmen may not venture to wreak their lawless
vengeance upon him.

Roquefilled with admiration at the gallant bearinghigh spirit
comely figureand adventure of the fair Claudiasaid to her
Come, senora, let us go and see if thy enemy is dead; and then we
will consider what will be best for thee.Don Quixotewho had been
listening to what Claudia said and Roque Guinart said in reply to her
exclaimedNobody need trouble himself with the defence of this lady,
for I take it upon myself. Give me my horse and arms, and wait for
me here; I will go in quest of this knight, and dead or alive I will
make him keep his word plighted to so great beauty.

Nobody need have any doubt about that,said Sanchofor my master
has a very happy knack of matchmaking; it's not many days since he
forced another man to marry, who in the same way backed out of his
promise to another maiden; and if it had not been for his
persecutors the enchanters changing the man's proper shape into a
lacquey's the said maiden would not be one this minute.

Roquewho was paying more attention to the fair Claudia's adventure
than to the words of master or mandid not hear them; and ordering
his squires to restore to Sancho everything they had stripped Dapple
ofhe directed them to return to the place where they had been
quartered during the nightand then set off with Claudia at full
speed in search of the wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached
the spot where Claudia met himbut found nothing there save freshly
spilt blood; looking all roundhoweverthey descried some people
on the slope of a hill above themand concludedas indeed it
proved to bethat it was Don Vicentewhom either dead or alive his
servants were removing to attend to his wounds or to bury him. They
made haste to overtake themwhichas the party moved slowlythey
were able to do with ease. They found Don Vicente in the arms of his
servantswhom he was entreating in a broken feeble voice to leave him
there to dieas the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to go any
farther. Claudia and Roque threw themselves off their horses and
advanced towards him; the servants were overawed by the appearance
of Roqueand Claudia was moved by the sight of Don Vicenteand going
up to him half tenderly half sternlyshe seized his hand and said
to himHadst thou given me this according to our compact thou
hadst never come to this pass.

The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyesand
recognising Claudia saidI see clearly, fair and mistaken lady, that
it is thou that hast slain me, a punishment not merited or deserved by
my feelings towards thee, for never did I mean to, nor could I,
wrong thee in thought or deed.

It is not true, then,said Claudiathat thou wert going this
morning to marry Leonora the daughter of the rich Balvastro?

Assuredly not,replied Don Vicente; "my cruel fortune must have
carried those tidings to thee to drive thee in thy jealousy to take my
life; and to assure thyself of thispress my hands and take me for
thy husband if thou wilt; I have no better satisfaction to offer


thee for the wrong thou fanciest thou hast received from me."

Claudia wrung his handsand her own heart was so wrung that she lay
fainting on the bleeding breast of Don Vicentewhom a death spasm
seized the same instant. Roque was in perplexity and knew not what
to do; the servants ran to fetch water to sprinkle their facesand
brought some and bathed them with it. Claudia recovered from her
fainting fitbut not so Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had
overtaken himfor his life had come to an end. On perceiving this
Claudiawhen she had convinced herself that her beloved husband was
no morerent the air with her sighs and made the heavens ring with
her lamentations; she tore her hair and scattered it to the windsshe
beat her face with her hands and showed all the signs of grief and
sorrow that could be conceived to come from an afflicted heart.
Cruel, reckless woman!she criedhow easily wert thou moved to
carry out a thought so wicked! O furious force of jealousy, to what
desperate lengths dost thou lead those that give thee lodging in their
bosoms! O husband, whose unhappy fate in being mine hath borne thee
from the marriage bed to the grave!

So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of Claudia that
they drew tears from Roque's eyesunused as they were to shed them on
any occasion. The servants weptClaudia swooned away again and again
and the whole place seemed a field of sorrow and an abode of
misfortune. In the end Roque Guinart directed Don Vicente's servants
to carry his body to his father's villagewhich was close byfor
burial. Claudia told him she meant to go to a monastery of which an
aunt of hers was abbesswhere she intended to pass her life with a
better and everlasting spouse. He applauded her pious resolution
and offered to accompany her whithersoever she wishedand to
protect her father against the kinsmen of Don Vicente and all the
worldshould they seek to injure him. Claudia would not on any
account allow him to accompany her; and thanking him for his offers as
well as she couldtook leave of him in tears. The servants of Don
Vicente carried away his bodyand Roque returned to his comradesand
so ended the love of Claudia Jeronima; but what wonderwhen it was
the insuperable and cruel might of jealousy that wove the web of her
sad story?

Roque Guinart found his squires at the place to which he had ordered
themand Don Quixote on Rocinante in the midst of them delivering a
harangue to them in which he urged them to give up a mode of life so
full of perilas well to the soul as to the body; but as most of them
were Gasconsrough lawless fellowshis speech did not make much
impression on them. Roque on coming up asked Sancho if his men had
returned and restored to him the treasures and jewels they had
stripped off Dapple. Sancho said they hadbut that three kerchiefs
that were worth three cities were missing.

What are you talking about, man?said one of the bystanders; "I
have got themand they are not worth three reals."

That is true,said Don Quixote; "but my squire values them at
the rate he saysas having been given me by the person who gave
them."

Roque Guinart ordered them to be restored at once; and making his
men fall in in line he directed all the clothingjewelleryand money
that they had taken since the last distribution to be produced; and
making a hasty valuationand reducing what could not be divided
into moneyhe made shares for the whole band so equitably and
carefullythat in no case did he exceed or fall short of strict
distributive justice.


When this had been doneand all left satisfiedRoque observed to
Don QuixoteIf this scrupulous exactness were not observed with
these fellows there would be no living with them.

Upon this Sancho remarkedFrom what I have seen here, justice is
such a good thing that there is no doing without it, even among the
thieves themselves.

One of the squires heard thisand raising the butt-end of his
harquebuss would no doubt have broken Sancho's head with it had not
Roque Guinart called out to him to hold his hand. Sancho was
frightened out of his witsand vowed not to open his lips so long
as he was in the company of these people.

At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted as
sentinels on the roadsto watch who came along them and report what
passed to their chiefcame up and saidSenor, there is a great
troop of people not far off coming along the road to Barcelona.

To which Roque repliedHast thou made out whether they are of
the sort that are after us, or of the sort we are after?

The sort we are after,said the squire.

Well then, away with you all,said Roqueand bring them here
to me at once without letting one of them escape.

They obeyedand Don QuixoteSanchoand Roqueleft by themselves
waited to see what the squires broughtand while they were waiting
Roque said to Don QuixoteIt must seem a strange sort of life to
Senor Don Quixote, this of ours, strange adventures, strange
incidents, and all full of danger; and I do not wonder that it
should seem so, for in truth I must own there is no mode of life
more restless or anxious than ours. What led me into it was a
certain thirst for vengeance, which is strong enough to disturb the
quietest hearts. I am by nature tender-hearted and kindly, but, as I
said, the desire to revenge myself for a wrong that was done me so
overturns all my better impulses that I keep on in this way of life in
spite of what conscience tells me; and as one depth calls to
another, and one sin to another sin, revenges have linked themselves
together, and I have taken upon myself not only my own but those of
others: it pleases God, however, that, though I see myself in this
maze of entanglements, I do not lose all hope of escaping from it
and reaching a safe port.

Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque utter such excellent and just
sentimentsfor he did not think that among those who followed such
trades as robbingmurderingand waylayingthere could be anyone
capable of a virtuous thoughtand he said in replySenor Roque, the
beginning of health lies in knowing the disease and in the sick
man's willingness to take the medicines which the physician
prescribes; you are sick, you know what ails you, and heaven, or
more properly speaking God, who is our physician, will administer
medicines that will cure you, and cure gradually, and not of a
sudden or by a miracle; besides, sinners of discernment are nearer
amendment than those who are fools; and as your worship has shown good
sense in your remarks, all you have to do is to keep up a good heart
and trust that the weakness of your conscience will be strengthened.
And if you have any desire to shorten the journey and put yourself
easily in the way of salvation, come with me, and I will show you
how to become a knight-errant, a calling wherein so many hardships and
mishaps are encountered that if they be taken as penances they will
lodge you in heaven in a trice.


Roque laughed at Don Quixote's exhortationand changing the
conversation he related the tragic affair of Claudia Jeronimaat
which Sancho was extremely grieved; for he had not found the young
woman's beautyboldnessand spirit at all amiss.

And now the squires despatched to make the prize came upbringing
with them two gentlemen on horsebacktwo pilgrims on footand a
coach full of women with some six servants on foot and on horseback in
attendance on themand a couple of muleteers whom the gentlemen had
with them. The squires made a ring round themboth victors and
vanquished maintaining profound silencewaiting for the great Roque
Guinart to speak. He asked the gentlemen who they werewhither they
were goingand what money they carried with them; "Senor replied
one of them, we are two captains of Spanish infantry; our companies
are at Naplesand we are on our way to embark in four galleys which
they say are at Barcelona under orders for Sicily; and we have about
two or three hundred crownswith which we areaccording to our
notionsrich and contentedfor a soldier's poverty does not allow
a more extensive hoard."

Roque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to the
captainsand was answered that they were going to take ship for Rome
and that between them they might have about sixty reals. He asked also
who was in the coachwhither they were bound and what money they had
and one of the men on horseback repliedThe persons in the coach are
my lady Dona Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the regent of the Vicaria at
Naples, her little daughter, a handmaid and a duenna; we six
servants are in attendance upon her, and the money amounts to six
hundred crowns.

So then,said Roque Guinartwe have got here nine hundred crowns
and sixty reals; my soldiers must number some sixty; see how much
there falls to each, for I am a bad arithmetician.As soon as the
robbers heard this they raised a shout of "Long life to Roque Guinart
in spite of the lladres that seek his ruin!"

The captains showed plainly the concern they feltthe regent's lady
was downcastand the pilgrims did not at all enjoy seeing their
property confiscated. Roque kept them in suspense in this way for a
while; but he had no desire to prolong their distresswhich might
be seen a bowshot offand turning to the captains he saidSirs,
will your worships be pleased of your courtesy to lend me sixty
crowns, and her ladyship the regent's wife eighty, to satisfy this
band that follows me, for 'it is by his singing the abbot gets his
dinner;' and then you may at once proceed on your journey, free and
unhindered, with a safe-conduct which I shall give you, so that if you
come across any other bands of mine that I have scattered in these
parts, they may do you no harm; for I have no intention of doing
injury to soldiers, or to any woman, especially one of quality.

Profuse and hearty were the expressions of gratitude with which
the captains thanked Roque for his courtesy and generosity; for such
they regarded his leaving them their own money. Senora Dona Guiomar de
Quinones wanted to throw herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and
hands of the great Roquebut he would not suffer it on any account;
so far from thathe begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her
under pressure of the inexorable necessities of his unfortunate
calling. The regent's lady ordered one of her servants to give the
eighty crowns that had been assessed as her share at oncefor the
captains had already paid down their sixty. The pilgrims were about to
give up the whole of their little hoardbut Roque bade them keep
quietand turning to his men he saidOf these crowns two fall to
each man and twenty remain over; let ten be given to these pilgrims,
and the other ten to this worthy squire that he may be able to speak


favourably of this adventure;and then having writing materialswith
which he always went providedbrought to himhe gave them in writing
a safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands; and bidding them
farewell let them go free and filled with admiration at his
magnanimityhis generous dispositionand his unusual conductand
inclined to regard him as an Alexander the Great rather than a
notorious robber.


One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan
This captain of ours would make a better friar than highwayman; if he
wants to be so generous another time, let it be with his own
property and not ours.


The unlucky wight did not speak so low but that Roque overheard him
and drawing his sword almost split his head in twosayingThat is
the way I punish impudent saucy fellows.They were all taken aback
and not one of them dared to utter a wordsuch deference did they pay
him. Roque then withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend of
his at Barcelonatelling him that the famous Don Quixote of La
Manchathe knight-errant of whom there was so much talkwas with
himand washe assured himthe drollest and wisest man in the
world; and that in four days from that datethat is to sayon
Saint John the Baptist's Dayhe was going to deposit him in full
armour mounted on his horse Rocinantetogether with his squire Sancho
on an assin the middle of the strand of the city; and bidding him
give notice of this to his friends the Niarrosthat they might divert
themselves with him. He wishedhe saidhis enemies the Cadells could
be deprived of this pleasure; but that was impossiblebecause the
crazes and shrewd sayings of Don Quixote and the humours of his squire
Sancho Panza could not help giving general pleasure to all the
world. He despatched the letter by one of his squireswhoexchanging
the costume of a highwayman for that of a peasantmade his way into
Barcelona and gave it to the person to whom it was directed.


CHAPTER LXI


OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONATOGETHER WITH
OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS


Don Quixote passed three days and three nights with Roqueand had
he passed three hundred years he would have found enough to observe
and wonder at in his mode of life. At daybreak they were in one
spotat dinner-time in another; sometimes they fled without knowing
from whomat other times they lay in waitnot knowing for what. They
slept standingbreaking their slumbers to shift from place to
place. There was nothing but sending out spies and scoutsposting
sentinels and blowing the matches of harquebussesthough they carried
but fewfor almost all used flintlocks. Roque passed his nights in
some place or other apart from his menthat they might not know where
he wasfor the many proclamations the viceroy of Barcelona had issued
against his life kept him in fear and uneasinessand he did not
venture to trust anyoneafraid that even his own men would kill him
or deliver him up to the authorities; of a trutha weary miserable
life! At lengthby unfrequented roadsshort cutsand secret
pathsRoqueDon Quixoteand Sanchotogether with six squires
set out for Barcelona. They reached the strand on Saint John's Eve
during the night; and Roqueafter embracing Don Quixote and Sancho
(to whom he presented the ten crowns he had promised but had not until
then given)left them with many expressions of good-will on both
sides.



Roque went backwhile Don Quixote remained on horsebackjust as he
waswaiting for dayand it was not long before the countenance of
the fair Aurora began to show itself at the balconies of the east
gladdening the grass and flowersif not the earthough to gladden
that too there came at the same moment a sound of clarions and
drumsand a din of bellsand a tramptrampand cries of "Clear the
way there!" of some runnersthat seemed to issue from the city. The
dawn made way for the sun that with a face broader than a buckler
began to rise slowly above the low line of the horizon; Don Quixote
and Sancho gazed all round them; they beheld the seaa sight until
then unseen by them; it struck them as exceedingly spacious and broad
much more so than the lakes of Ruidera which they had seen in La
Mancha. They saw the galleys along the beachwhichlowering their
awningsdisplayed themselves decked with streamers and pennons that
trembled in the breeze and kissed and swept the waterwhile on
board the buglestrumpetsand clarions were sounding and filling the
air far and near with melodious warlike notes. Then they began to move
and execute a kind of skirmish upon the calm waterwhile a vast
number of horsemen on fine horses and in showy liveriesissuing
from the cityengaged on their side in a somewhat similar movement.
The soldiers on board the galleys kept up a ceaseless firewhich they
on the walls and forts of the city returnedand the heavy cannon rent
the air with the tremendous noise they madeto which the gangway guns
of the galleys replied. The bright seathe smiling earththe clear
air -though at times darkened by the smoke of the guns- all seemed
to fill the whole multitude with unexpected delight. Sancho could
not make out how it was that those great masses that moved over the
sea had so many feet.

And now the horsemen in livery came galloping up with shouts and
outlandish cries and cheers to where Don Quixote stood amazed and
wondering; and one of themhe to whom Roque had sent wordaddressing
him exclaimedWelcome to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure
of all knight-errantry in its widest extent! Welcome, I say, valiant
Don Quixote of La Mancha; not the false, the fictitious, the
apocryphal, that these latter days have offered us in lying histories,
but the true, the legitimate, the real one that Cide Hamete Benengeli,
flower of historians, has described to us!

Don Quixote made no answernor did the horsemen wait for onebut
wheeling again with all their followersthey began curvetting round
Don Quixotewhoturning to SanchosaidThese gentlemen have
plainly recognised us; I will wager they have read our history, and
even that newly printed one by the Aragonese.

The cavalier who had addressed Don Quixote again approached him
and saidCome with us, Senor Don Quixote, for we are all of us
your servants and great friends of Roque Guinart's;to which Don
Quixote returnedIf courtesy breeds courtesy, yours, sir knight,
is daughter or very nearly akin to the great Roque's; carry me where
you please; I will have no will but yours, especially if you deign
to employ it in your service.

The cavalier replied with words no less politeand thenall
closing in around himthey set out with him for the cityto the
music of the clarions and the drums. As they were entering itthe
wicked onewho is the author of all mischiefand the boys who are
wickeder than the wicked onecontrived that a couple of these
audacious irrepressible urchins should force their way through the
crowdand lifting upone of them Dapple's tail and the other
Rocinante'sinsert a bunch of furze under each. The poor beasts
felt the strange spurs and added to their anguish by pressing their
tails tightso much so thatcutting a multitude of capersthey
flung their masters to the ground. Don Quixotecovered with shame and


out of countenanceran to pluck the plume from his poor jade's
tailwhile Sancho did the same for Dapple. His conductors tried to
punish the audacity of the boysbut there was no possibility of doing
sofor they hid themselves among the hundreds of others that were
following them. Don Quixote and Sancho mounted once moreand with the
same music and acclamations reached their conductor's housewhich was
large and statelythat of a rich gentlemanin short; and there for
the present we will leave themfor such is Cide Hamete's pleasure.

CHAPTER LXII

WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEADTOGETHER
WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD

Don Quixote's host was one Don Antonio Moreno by namea gentleman
of wealth and intelligenceand very fond of diverting himself in
any fair and good-natured way; and having Don Quixote in his house
he set about devising modes of making him exhibit his mad points in
some harmless fashion; for jests that give pain are no jestsand no
sport is worth anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did
was to make Don Quixote take off his armourand lead himin that
tight chamois suit we have already described and depicted more than
onceout on a balcony overhanging one of the chief streets of the
cityin full view of the crowd and of the boyswho gazed at him as
they would at a monkey. The cavaliers in livery careered before him
again as though it were for him aloneand not to enliven the festival
of the daythat they wore itand Sancho was in high delightfor
it seemed to him thathow he knew nothe had fallen upon another
Camacho's weddinganother house like Don Diego de Miranda's
another castle like the duke's. Some of Don Antonio's friends dined
with him that dayand all showed honour to Don Quixote and treated
him as a knight-errantand he becoming puffed up and exalted in
consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction. Such were
the drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the houseand all
who heard himwere kept hanging upon his lips. While at table Don
Antonio said to himWe hear, worthy Sancho, that you are so fond
of manjar blanco and forced-meat balls, that if you have any left, you
keep them in your bosom for the next day.

No, senor, that's not true,said Sanchofor I am more cleanly
than greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows well that we two are
used to live for a week on a handful of acorns or nuts. To be sure, if
it so happens that they offer me a heifer, I run with a halter; I
mean, I eat what I'm given, and make use of opportunities as I find
them; but whoever says that I'm an out-of-the-way eater or not
cleanly, let me tell him that he is wrong; and I'd put it in a
different way if I did not respect the honourable beards that are at
the table.

Indeed,said Don QuixoteSancho's moderation and cleanliness
in eating might be inscribed and graved on plates of brass, to be kept
in eternal remembrance in ages to come. It is true that when he is
hungry there is a certain appearance of voracity about him, for he
eats at a great pace and chews with both jaws; but cleanliness he is
always mindful of; and when he was governor he learned how to eat
daintily, so much so that he eats grapes, and even pomegranate pips,
with a fork.

What!said Don Antoniohas Sancho been a governor?

Ay,said Sanchoand of an island called Barataria. I governed it


to perfection for ten days; and lost my rest all the time; and learned
to look down upon all the governments in the world; I got out of it by
taking to flight, and fell into a pit where I gave myself up for dead,
and out of which I escaped alive by a miracle.

Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole affair of
Sancho's governmentwith which he greatly amused his hearers.

On the cloth being removed Don Antoniotaking Don Quixote by the
handpassed with him into a distant room in which there was nothing
in the way of furniture except a tableapparently of jasper
resting on a pedestal of the sameupon which was set upafter the
fashion of the busts of the Roman emperorsa head which seemed to
be of bronze. Don Antonio traversed the whole apartment with Don
Quixote and walked round the table several timesand then saidNow,
Senor Don Quixote, that I am satisfied that no one is listening to us,
and that the door is shut, I will tell you of one of the rarest
adventures, or more properly speaking strange things, that can be
imagined, on condition that you will keep what I say to you in the
remotest recesses of secrecy.

I swear it,said Don Quixoteand for greater security I will put
a flag-stone over it; for I would have you know, Senor Don Antonio
(he had by this time learned his name)that you are addressing one
who, though he has ears to hear, has no tongue to speak; so that you
may safely transfer whatever you have in your bosom into mine, and
rely upon it that you have consigned it to the depths of silence.

In reliance upon that promise,said Don AntonioI will
astonish you with what you shall see and hear, and relieve myself of
some of the vexation it gives me to have no one to whom I can
confide my secrets, for they are not of a sort to be entrusted to
everybody.

Don Quixote was puzzledwondering what could be the object of
such precautions; whereupon Don Antonio taking his hand passed it over
the bronze head and the whole table and the pedestal of jasper on
which it stoodand then saidThis head, Senor Don Quixote, has been
made and fabricated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the
world ever saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the famous
Escotillo of whom such marvellous stories are told. He was here in
my house, and for a consideration of a thousand crowns that I gave him
he constructed this head, which has the property and virtue of
answering whatever questions are put to its ear. He observed the
points of the compass, he traced figures, he studied the stars, he
watched favourable moments, and at length brought it to the perfection
we shall see to-morrow, for on Fridays it is mute, and this being
Friday we must wait till the next day. In the interval your worship
may consider what you would like to ask it; and I know by experience
that in all its answers it tells the truth.

Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of the headand
was inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time
he had to wait to test the matterhe did not choose to say anything
except that he thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty a
secret. They then quitted the roomDon Antonio locked the doorand
they repaired to the chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were
assembled. In the meantime Sancho had recounted to them several of the
adventures and accidents that had happened his master.

That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a strollnot in his
armour but in street costumewith a surcoat of tawny cloth upon
himthat at that season would have made ice itself sweat. Orders were
left with the servants to entertain Sancho so as not to let him


leave the house. Don Quixote was mountednot on Rocinantebut upon a
tall mule of easy pace and handsomely caparisoned. They put the
surcoat on himand on the backwithout his perceiving itthey
stitched a parchment on which they wrote in large lettersThis is
Don Quixote of La Mancha.As they set out upon their excursion the
placard attracted the eyes of all who chanced to see himand as
they read outThis is Don Quixote of La Mancha,Don Quixote was
amazed to see how many people gazed at himcalled him by his name
and recognised himand turning to Don Antoniowho rode at his
sidehe observed to himGreat are the privileges knight-errantry
involves, for it makes him who professes it known and famous in
every region of the earth; see, Don Antonio, even the very boys of
this city know me without ever having seen me.

True, Senor Don Quixote,returned Don Antonio; "for as fire cannot
be hidden or kept secretvirtue cannot escape being recognised; and
that which is attained by the profession of arms shines
distinguished above all others."

It came to passhoweverthat as Don Quixote was proceeding amid
the acclamations that have been describeda Castilianreading the
inscription on his backcried out in a loud voiceThe devil take
thee for a Don Quixote of La Mancha! What! art thou here, and not dead
of the countless drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs? Thou art mad;
and if thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy madness,
it would not be so bad; but thou hast the gift of making fools and
blockheads of all who have anything to do with thee or say to thee.
Why, look at these gentlemen bearing thee company! Get thee home,
blockhead, and see after thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and
give over these fooleries that are sapping thy brains and skimming
away thy wits.

Go your own way, brother,said Don Antonioand don't offer
advice to those who don't ask you for it. Senor Don Quixote is in
his full senses, and we who bear him company are not fools; virtue
is to be honoured wherever it may be found; go, and bad luck to you,
and don't meddle where you are not wanted.

By God, your worship is right,replied the Castilian; "for to
advise this good man is to kick against the pricks; still for all that
it fills me with pity that the sound wit they say the blockhead has in
everything should dribble away by the channel of his
knight-errantry; but may the bad luck your worship talks of follow
me and all my descendantsiffrom this day forththough I should
live longer than MethuselahI ever give advice to anybody even if
he asks me for it."

The advice-giver took himself offand they continued their
stroll; but so great was the press of the boys and people to read
the placardthat Don Antonio was forced to remove it as if he were
taking off something else.

Night came and they went homeand there was a ladies' dancing
partyfor Don Antonio's wifea lady of rank and gaietybeauty and
withad invited some friends of hers to come and do honour to her
guest and amuse themselves with his strange delusions. Several of them
camethey supped sumptuouslythe dance began at about ten o'clock.
Among the ladies were two of a mischievous and frolicsome turnand
though perfectly modestsomewhat free in playing tricks for
harmless diversion sake. These two were so indefatigable in taking Don
Quixote out to dance that they tired him downnot only in body but in
spirit. It was a sight to see the figure Don Quixote madelonglank
leanand yellowhis garments clinging tight to himungainlyand
above all anything but agile. The gay ladies made secret love to


himand he on his part secretly repelled thembut finding himself
hard pressed by their blandishments he lifted up his voice and
exclaimedFugite, partes adversae! Leave me in peace, unwelcome
overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies, for she who is queen
of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, suffers none but hers to
lead me captive and subdue me;and so saying he sat down on the floor
in the middle of the roomtired out and broken down by all this
exertion in the dance.


Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried to bed
and the first that laid hold of him was Sanchosaying as he did so
In an evil hour you took to dancing, master mine; do you fancy all
mighty men of valour are dancers, and all knights-errant given to
capering? If you do, I can tell you you are mistaken; there's many a
man would rather undertake to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had
been the shoe-fling you were at I could take your place, for I can
do the shoe-fling like a gerfalcon; but I'm no good at dancing.


With these and other observations Sancho set the whole ball-room
laughingand then put his master to bedcovering him up well so that
he might sweat out any chill caught after his dancing.


The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make trial of
the enchanted headand with Don QuixoteSanchoand two others
friends of hisbesides the two ladies that had tired out Don
Quixote at the ballwho had remained for the night with Don Antonio's
wifehe locked himself up in the chamber where the head was. He
explained to them the property it possessed and entrusted the secret
to themtelling them that now for the first time he was going to
try the virtue of the enchanted head; but except Don Antonio's two
friends no one else was privy to the mystery of the enchantmentand
if Don Antonio had not first revealed it to them they would have
been inevitably reduced to the same state of amazement as the restso
artfully and skilfully was it contrived.


The first to approach the ear of the head was Don Antonio himself
and in a low voice but not so low as not to be audible to allhe said
to itHead, tell me by the virtue that lies in thee what am I at
this moment thinking of?


The headwithout any movement of the lipsanswered in a clear
and distinct voiceso as to be heard by allI cannot judge of
thoughts.


All were thunderstruck at thisand all the more so as they saw that
there was nobody anywhere near the table or in the whole room that
could have answered. "How many of us are here?" asked Don Antonio once
more; and it was answered him in the same way softlyThou and thy
wife, with two friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight
called Don Quixote of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza
by name.


Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone's hair was standing
on end with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed
This suffices to show me that I have not been deceived by him who
sold thee to me, O sage head, talking head, answering head,
wonderful head! Let some one else go and put what question he likes to
it.


And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitivethe first to
come forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio's wifeand her
question wasTell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?
and the answer she got wasBe very modest.



I question thee no further,said the fair querist.

Her companion then came up and saidI should like to know, Head,
whether my husband loves me or not;the answer given to her was
Think how he uses thee, and thou mayest guess;and the married
lady went off sayingThat answer did not need a question; for of
course the treatment one receives shows the disposition of him from
whom it is received.

Then one of Don Antonio's two friends advanced and asked itWho am
I?Thou knowest,was the answer. "That is not what I ask thee
said the gentleman, but to tell me if thou knowest me." "YesI
know theethou art Don Pedro Noriz was the reply.

I do not seek to know more said the gentleman, for this is
enough to convince meO Headthat thou knowest everything;" and as
he retired the other friend came forward and asked itTell me, Head,
what are the wishes of my eldest son?

I have said already,was the answerthat I cannot judge of
wishes; however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee.

That's 'what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,'
said the gentlemanso I ask no more.

Don Antonio's wife came up and saidI know not what to ask thee,
Head; I would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years
of enjoyment of my good husband;and the answer she received was
Thou shalt, for his vigour and his temperate habits promise many
years of life, which by their intemperance others so often cut short.

Then Don Quixote came forward and saidTell me, thou that
answerest, was that which I describe as having happened to me in the
cave of Montesinos the truth or a dream? Will Sancho's whipping be
accomplished without fail? Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be
brought about?

As to the question of the cave,was the replythere is much to
be said; there is something of both in it. Sancho's whipping will
proceed leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its
due consummation.

I seek to know no more,said Don Quixote; "let me but see Dulcinea
disenchantedand I will consider that all the good fortune I could
wish for has come upon me all at once."

The last questioner was Sanchoand his questions wereHead, shall
I by any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from
the hard life of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and
children?To which the answer cameThou shalt govern in thy
house; and if thou returnest to it thou shalt see thy wife and
children; and on ceasing to serve thou shalt cease to be a squire.

Good, by God!said Sancho Panza; "I could have told myself that;
the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more."

What answer wouldst thou have, beast?said Don Quixote; "is it not
enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put
to it?"

Yes, it is enough,said Sancho; "but I should have liked it to
have made itself plainer and told me more."

The questions and answers came to an end herebut not the wonder


with which all were filledexcept Don Antonio's two friends who
were in the secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal
at oncenot to keep the world in suspensefancying that the head had
some strange magical mystery in it. He saysthereforethat on the
model of another headthe work of an image makerwhich he had seen
at MadridDon Antonio made this one at home for his own amusement and
to astonish ignorant people; and its mechanism was as follows. The
table was of wood painted and varnished to imitate jasperand the
pedestal on which it stood was of the same materialwith four eagles'
claws projecting from it to support the weight more steadily. The
headwhich resembled a bust or figure of a Roman emperorand was
coloured like bronzewas hollow throughoutas was the tableinto
which it was fitted so exactly that no trace of the joining was
visible. The pedestal of the table was also hollow and communicated
with the throat and neck of the headand the whole was in
communication with another room underneath the chamber in which the
head stood. Through the entire cavity in the pedestaltablethroat
and neck of the bust or figurethere passed a tube of tin carefully
adjusted and concealed from sight. In the room below corresponding
to the one above was placed the person who was to answerwith his
mouth to the tubeand the voiceas in an ear-trumpetpassed from
above downwardsand from below upwardsthe words coming clearly
and distinctly; it was impossiblethusto detect the trick. A nephew
of Don Antonio'sa smart sharp-witted studentwas the answerer
and as he had been told beforehand by his uncle who the persons were
that would come with him that day into the chamber where the head was
it was an easy matter for him to answer the first question at once and
correctly; the others he answered by guess-workandbeing clever
cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous contrivance stood
for some ten or twelve days; but thatas it became noised abroad
through the city that he had in his house an enchanted head that
answered all who asked questions of itDon Antoniofearing it
might come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith
explained the matter to the inquisitorswho commanded him to break it
up and have done with itlest the ignorant vulgar should be
scandalised. By Don Quixotehoweverand by Sancho the head was still
held to be an enchanted oneand capable of answering questions
though more to Don Quixote's satisfaction than Sancho's.

The gentlemen of the cityto gratify Don Antonio and also to do the
honours to Don Quixoteand give him an opportunity of displaying
his follymade arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days
from that timewhichhoweverfor reason that will be mentioned
hereafterdid not take place.

Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on
footfor he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow
him; so he and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set
out for a walk. Thus it came to pass that going along one of the
streets Don Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large
letters over a doorBooks printed here,at which he was vastly
pleasedfor until then he had never seen a printing officeand he
was curious to know what it was like. He entered with all his
followingand saw them drawing sheets in one placecorrecting in
anothersetting up type hererevising there; in short all the work
that is to be seen in great printing offices. He went up to one case
and asked what they were about there; the workmen told himhe watched
them with wonderand passed on. He approached one manamong
othersand asked him what he was doing. The workman replied
Senor, this gentleman here(pointing to a man of prepossessing
appearance and a certain gravity of look) "has translated an Italian
book into our Spanish tongueand I am setting it up in type for the
press."


What is the title of the book?asked Don Quixote; to which the
author repliedSenor, in Italian the book is called Le Bagatelle.

And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish?asked Don
Quixote.

Le Bagatelle,said the authoris as though we should say in
Spanish Los Juguetes; but though the book is humble in name it has
good solid matter in it.

I,said Don Quixotehave some little smattering of Italian,
and I plume myself on singing some of Ariosto's stanzas; but tell
me, senor- I do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of
curiosity- have you ever met with the word pignatta in your book?

Yes, often,said the author.

And how do you render that in Spanish?

How should I render it,returned the authorbut by olla?

Body o' me,exclaimed Don Quixotewhat a proficient you are in
the Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say
in Italian piace you say in Spanish place, and where they say piu
you say mas, and you translate su by arriba and giu by abajo.

I translate them so of course,said the authorfor those are
their proper equivalents.

I would venture to swear,said Don Quixotethat your worship
is not known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare
wits and praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What
genius thrust away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it
seems to me that translation from one language into another, if it
be not from the queens of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is
like looking at Flemish tapestries on the wrong side; for though the
figures are visible, they are full of threads that make them
indistinct, and they do not show with the smoothness and brightness of
the right side; and translation from easy languages argues neither
ingenuity nor command of words, any more than transcribing or
copying out one document from another. But I do not mean by this to
draw the inference that no credit is to be allowed for the work of
translating, for a man may employ himself in ways worse and less
profitable to himself. This estimate does not include two famous
translators, Doctor Cristobal de Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and Don
Juan de Jauregui, in his Aminta, wherein by their felicity they
leave it in doubt which is the translation and which the original. But
tell me, are you printing this book at your own risk, or have you sold
the copyright to some bookseller?

I print at my own risk,said the authorand I expect to make a
thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of
two thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals
apiece.

A fine calculation you are making!said Don Quixote; "it is
plain you don't know the ins and outs of the printersand how they
play into one another's hands. I promise you when you find yourself
saddled with two thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will
astonish youparticularly if the book is a little out of the common
and not in any way highly spiced."

What!said the authorwould your worship, then, have me give
it to a bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and


think he is doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame
in the world, for I am known in it already by my works; I want to make
money, without which reputation is not worth a rap.

God send your worship good luck,said Don Quixote; and he moved on
to another casewhere he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with
the title of "Light of the Soul;" noticing it he observedBooks like
this, though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve
to be printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights
unnumbered are needed for all that are in darkness.

He passed onand saw they were also correcting another bookand
when he asked its title they told him it was calledThe Second
Part of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha,by one of
Tordesillas.

I have heard of this book already,said Don Quixoteand verily
and on my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to
ashes as a meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as
it does to every pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about
them the more nearly they approach the truth or what looks like it;
and true stories, the truer they are the better they are;and so
saying he walked out of the printing office with a certain amount of
displeasure in his looks. That same day Don Antonio arranged to take
him to see the galleys that lay at the beachwhereat Sancho was in
high delightas he had never seen any all his life. Don Antonio
sent word to the commandant of the galleys that he intended to bring
his guestthe famous Don Quixote of La Manchaof whom the commandant
and all the citizens had already heardthat afternoon to see them;
and what happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter.

CHAPTER LXIII

OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE
GALLEYSAND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO

Profound were Don Quixote's reflections on the reply of the
enchanted headnot one of themhoweverhitting on the secret of the
trickbut all concentrated on the promisewhich he regarded as a
certaintyof Dulcinea's disenchantment. This he turned over in his
mind again and again with great satisfactionfully persuaded that
he would shortly see its fulfillment; and as for Sanchothoughas
has been saidhe hated being a governorstill he had a longing to be
giving orders and finding himself obeyed once more; this is the
misfortune that being in authorityeven in jestbrings with it.

To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his
two friendswith Don Quixote and Sanchowent to the galleys. The
commandant had been already made aware of his good fortune in seeing
two such famous persons as Don Quixote and Sanchoand the instant
they came to the shore all the galleys struck their awnings and the
clarions rang out. A skiff covered with rich carpets and cushions of
crimson velvet was immediately lowered into the waterand as Don
Quixote stepped on board of itthe leading galley fired her gangway
gunand the other galleys did the same; and as he mounted the
starboard ladder the whole crew saluted him (as is the custom when a
personage of distinction comes on board a galley) by exclaiming "Hu
huhu three times. The general, for so we shall call him, a
Valencian gentleman of rank, gave him his hand and embraced him,
saying, I shall mark this day with a white stone as one of the


happiest I can expect to enjoy in my lifetimesince I have seen Senor
Don Quixote of La Manchapattern and image wherein we see contained
and condensed all that is worthy in knight-errantry."

Don Quixote delighted beyond measure with such a lordly reception
replied to him in words no less courteous. All then proceeded to the
poopwhich was very handsomely decoratedand seated themselves on
the bulwark benches; the boatswain passed along the gangway and
piped all hands to stripwhich they did in an instant. Sanchoseeing
such a number of men stripped to the skinwas taken abackand
still more when he saw them spread the awning so briskly that it
seemed to him as if all the devils were at work at it; but all this
was cakes and fancy bread to what I am going to tell now. Sancho was
seated on the captain's stageclose to the aftermost rower on the
right-hand side. Hepreviously instructed in what he was to do
laid hold of Sanchohoisting him up in his armsand the whole
crewwho were standing readybeginning on the rightproceeded to
pass him onwhirling him along from hand to hand and from bench to
bench with such rapidity that it took the sight out of poor Sancho's
eyesand he made quite sure that the devils themselves were flying
away with him; nor did they leave off with him until they had sent him
back along the left side and deposited him on the poop; and the poor
fellow was left bruised and breathless and all in a sweatand
unable to comprehend what it was that had happened to him.

Don Quixote when he saw Sancho's flight without wings asked the
general if this was a usual ceremony with those who came on board
the galleys for the first time; forif soas he had no intention
of adopting them as a professionhe had no mind to perform such feats
of agilityand if anyone offered to lay hold of him to whirl him
abouthe vowed to God he would kick his soul out; and as he said this
he stood up and clapped his hand upon his sword. At this instant
they struck the awning and lowered the yard with a prodigious
rattle. Sancho thought heaven was coming off its hinges and going to
fall on his headand full of terror he ducked it and buried it
between his knees; nor were Don Quixote's knees altogether under
controlfor he too shook a littlesqueezed his shoulders together
and lost colour. The crew then hoisted the yard with the same rapidity
and clatter as when they lowered itall the while keeping silence
as though they had neither voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the
signal to weigh anchorand leaping upon the middle of the gangway
began to lay on to the shoulders of the crew with his courbash or
whipand to haul out gradually to sea.

When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be)
moving all togetherhe said to himselfIt's these that are the real
chanted things, and not the ones my master talks of. What can those
wretches have done to be so whipped; and how does that one man who
goes along there whistling dare to whip so many? I declare this is
hell, or at least purgatory!

Don Quixoteobserving how attentively Sancho regarded what was
going onsaid to himAh, Sancho my friend, how quickly and
cheaply might you finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if you
would strip to the waist and take your place among those gentlemen!
Amid the pain and sufferings of so many you would not feel your own
much; and moreover perhaps the sage Merlin would allow each of these
lashes, being laid on with a good hand, to count for ten of those
which you must give yourself at last.

The general was about to ask what these lashes wereand what was
Dulcinea's disenchantmentwhen a sailor exclaimedMonjui signals
that there is an oared vessel off the coast to the west.


On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway cryingNow
then, my sons, don't let her give us the slip! It must be some
Algerine corsair brigantine that the watchtower signals to us.The
three others immediately came alongside the chief galley to receive
their orders. The general ordered two to put out to sea while he
with the other kept in shoreso that in this way the vessel could not
escape them. The crews plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously
that they seemed to fly. The two that had put out to seaafter a
couple of miles sighted a vessel whichso far as they could make out
they judged to be one of fourteen or fifteen banksand so she proved.
As soon as the vessel discovered the galleys she went about with the
object and in the hope of making her escape by her speed; but the
attempt failedfor the chief galley was one of the fastest vessels
afloatand overhauled her so rapidly that they on board the
brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility of escapingand the
rais therefore would have had them drop their oars and give themselves
up so as not to provoke the captain in command of our galleys to
anger. But chancedirecting things otherwiseso ordered it that just
as the chief galley came close enough for those on board the vessel to
hear the shouts from her calling on them to surrendertwo Toraquis
that is to say two Turksboth drunkenthat with a dozen more were on
board the brigantinedischarged their musketskilling two of the
soldiers that lined the sides of our vessel. Seeing this the general
swore he would not leave one of those he found on board the vessel
alivebut as he bore down furiously upon her she slipped away from
him underneath the oars. The galley shot a good way ahead; those on
board the vessel saw their case was desperateand while the galley
was coming about they made sailand by sailing and rowing once more
tried to sheer off; but their activity did not do them as much good as
their rashness did them harmfor the galley coming up with them in
a little more than half a mile threw her oars over them and took the
whole of them alive. The other two galleys now joined company and
all four returned with the prize to the beachwhere a vast
multitude stood waiting for themeager to see what they brought back.
The general anchored close inand perceived that the viceroy of the
city was on the shore. He ordered the skiff to push off to fetch
himand the yard to be lowered for the purpose of hanging forthwith
the rais and the rest of the men taken on board the vesselabout
six-and-thirty in numberall smart fellows and most of them Turkish
musketeers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantineand was
answered in Spanish by one of the prisoners (who afterwards proved
to he a Spanish renegade)This young man, senor that you see here is
our rais,and he pointed to one of the handsomest and most
gallant-looking youths that could be imagined. He did not seem to be
twenty years of age.

Tell me, dog,said the generalwhat led thee to kill my
soldiers, when thou sawest it was impossible for thee to escape? Is
that the way to behave to chief galleys? Knowest thou not that
rashness is not valour? Faint prospects of success should make men
bold, but not rash.

The rais was about to replybut the general could not at that
moment listen to himas he had to hasten to receive the viceroy
who was now coming on board the galleyand with him certain of his
attendants and some of the people.

You have had a good chase, senor general,said the viceroy.

Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game strung up to
this yard,replied the general.

How so?returned the viceroy.


Because,said the generalagainst all law, reason, and usages of
war they have killed on my hands two of the best soldiers on board
these galleys, and I have sworn to hang every man that I have taken,
but above all this youth who is the rais of the brigantine,and he
pointed to him as he stood with his hands already bound and the rope
round his neckready for death.

The viceroy looked at himand seeing him so well-favouredso
gracefuland so submissivehe felt a desire to spare his lifethe
comeliness of the youth furnishing him at once with a letter of
recommendation. He therefore questioned himsayingTell me, rais,
art thou Turk, Moor, or renegade?

To which the youth repliedalso in SpanishI am neither Turk, nor
Moor, nor renegade.

What art thou, then?said the viceroy.

A Christian woman,replied the youth.

A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such circumstances!
It is more marvellous than credible,said the viceroy.

Suspend the execution of the sentence,said the youth; "your
vengeance will not lose much by waiting while I tell you the story
of my life."

What heart could be so hard as not to he softened by these wordsat
any rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The
general bade him say what he pleasedbut not to expect pardon for his
flagrant offence. With this permission the youth began in these words.

Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy than
wise, upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. In the
course of our misfortune I was carried to Barbary by two uncles of
mine, for it was in vain that I declared I was a Christian, as in fact
I am, and not a mere pretended one, or outwardly, but a true
Catholic Christian. It availed me nothing with those charged with
our sad expatriation to protest this, nor would my uncles believe
it; on the contrary, they treated it as an untruth and a subterfuge
set up to enable me to remain behind in the land of my birth; and
so, more by force than of my own will, they took me with them. I had a
Christian mother, and a father who was a man of sound sense and a
Christian too; I imbibed the Catholic faith with my mother's milk, I
was well brought up, and neither in word nor in deed did I, I think,
show any sign of being a Morisco. To accompany these virtues, for such
I hold them, my beauty, if I possess any, grew with my growth; and
great as was the seclusion in which I lived it was not so great but
that a young gentleman, Don Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a
gentleman who is lord of a village near ours, contrived to find
opportunities of seeing me. How he saw me, how we met, how his heart
was lost to me, and mine not kept from him, would take too long to
tell, especially at a moment when I am in dread of the cruel cord that
threatens me interposing between tongue and throat; I will only say,
therefore, that Don Gregorio chose to accompany me in our
banishment. He joined company with the Moriscoes who were going
forth from other villages, for he knew their language very well, and
on the voyage he struck up a friendship with my two uncles who were
carrying me with them; for my father, like a wise and far-sighted man,
as soon as he heard the first edict for our expulsion, quitted the
village and departed in quest of some refuge for us abroad. He left
hidden and buried, at a spot of which I alone have knowledge, a
large quantity of pearls and precious stones of great value,
together with a sum of money in gold cruzadoes and doubloons. He


charged me on no account to touch the treasure, if by any chance
they expelled us before his return. I obeyed him, and with my
uncles, as I have said, and others of our kindred and neighbours,
passed over to Barbary, and the place where we took up our abode was
Algiers, much the same as if we had taken it up in hell itself. The
king heard of my beauty, and report told him of my wealth, which was
in some degree fortunate for me. He summoned me before him, and
asked me what part of Spain I came from, and what money and jewels I
had. I mentioned the place, and told him the jewels and money were
buried there; but that they might easily be recovered if I myself went
back for them. All this I told him, in dread lest my beauty and not
his own covetousness should influence him. While he was engaged in
conversation with me, they brought him word that in company with me
was one of the handsomest and most graceful youths that could be
imagined. I knew at once that they were speaking of Don Gaspar
Gregorio, whose comeliness surpasses the most highly vaunted beauty. I
was troubled when I thought of the danger he was in, for among those
barbarous Turks a fair youth is more esteemed than a woman, be she
ever so beautiful. The king immediately ordered him to be brought
before him that he might see him, and asked me if what they said about
the youth was true. I then, almost as if inspired by heaven, told
him it was, but that I would have him to know it was not a man, but
a woman like myself, and I entreated him to allow me to go and dress
her in the attire proper to her, so that her beauty might be seen to
perfection, and that she might present herself before him with less
embarrassment. He bade me go by all means, and said that the next
day we should discuss the plan to be adopted for my return to Spain to
carry away the hidden treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, I told him the
danger he was in if he let it be seen he was a man, I dressed him as a
Moorish woman, and that same afternoon I brought him before the
king, who was charmed when he saw him, and resolved to keep the damsel
and make a present of her to the Grand Signor; and to avoid the risk
she might run among the women of his seraglio, and distrustful of
himself, he commanded her to be placed in the house of some Moorish
ladies of rank who would protect and attend to her; and thither he was
taken at once. What we both suffered (for I cannot deny that I love
him) may be left to the imagination of those who are separated if they
love one an. other dearly. The king then arranged that I should return
to Spain in this brigantine, and that two Turks, those who killed your
soldiers, should accompany me. There also came with me this Spanish
renegade- and here she pointed to him who had first spoken- "whom I
know to be secretly a Christianand to be more desirous of being left
in Spain than of returning to Barbary. The rest of the crew of the
brigantine are Moors and Turkswho merely serve as rowers. The two
Turksgreedy and insolentinstead of obeying the orders we had to
land me and this renegade in Christian dress (with which we came
provided) on the first Spanish ground we came tochose to run along
the coast and make some prize if they couldfearing that if they
put us ashore firstwe mightin case of some accident befalling
usmake it known that the brigantine was at seaand thusif there
happened to be any galleys on the coastthey might be taken. We
sighted this shore last nightand knowing nothing of these galleys
we were discoveredand the result was what you have seen. To sum
upthere is Don Gregorio in woman's dressamong womenin imminent
danger of his life; and here am Iwith hands boundin expectation
or rather in dreadof losing my lifeof which I am already weary.
Heresirsends my sad storyas true as it is unhappy; all I ask
of you is to allow me to die like a Christianforas I have
already saidI am not to be charged with the offence of which those
of my nation are guilty;" and she stood silenther eyes filled with
moving tearsaccompanied by plenty from the bystanders. The
viceroytouched with compassionwent up to her without speaking
and untied the cord that bound the hands of the Moorish girl.


But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange
storyan elderly pilgrimwho had come on board of the galley at
the same time as the viceroykept his eyes fixed upon her; and the
instant she ceased speaking he threw himself at her feetand
embracing them said in a voice broken by sobs and sighsO Ana Felix,
my unhappy daughter, I am thy father Ricote, come back to look for
thee, unable to live without thee, my soul that thou art!

At these words of hisSancho opened his eyes and raised his head
which he had been holding downbrooding over his unlucky excursion;
and looking at the pilgrim he recognised in him that same Ricote he
met the day he quitted his governmentand felt satisfied that this
was his daughter. She being now unbound embraced her father
mingling her tears with hiswhile he addressing the general and the
viceroy saidThis, sirs, is my daughter, more unhappy in her
adventures than in her name. She is Ana Felix, surnamed Ricote,
celebrated as much for her own beauty as for my wealth. I quitted my
native land in search of some shelter or refuge for us abroad, and
having found one in Germany I returned in this pilgrim's dress, in the
company of some other German pilgrims, to seek my daughter and take up
a large quantity of treasure I had left buried. My daughter I did
not find, the treasure I found and have with me; and now, in this
strange roundabout way you have seen, I find the treasure that more
than all makes me rich, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and
her tears and mine can with strict justice open the door to
clemency, extend it to us, for we never had any intention of
injuring you, nor do we sympathise with the aims of our people, who
have been justly banished.

I know Ricote well,said Sancho at thisand I know too that what
he says about Ana Felix being his daughter is true; but as to those
other particulars about going and coming, and having good or bad
intentions, I say nothing.

While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the
general saidAt any rate your tears will not allow me to keep my
oath; live, fair Ana Felix, all the years that heaven has allotted
you; but these rash insolent fellows must pay the penalty of the crime
they have committed;and with that he gave orders to have the two
Turks who had killed his two soldiers hanged at once at the
yard-arm. The viceroyhoweverbegged him earnestly not to hang them
as their behaviour savoured rather of madness than of bravado. The
general yielded to the viceroy's requestfor revenge is not easily
taken in cold blood. They then tried to devise some scheme for
rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he had been
left. Ricote offered for that object more than two thousand ducats
that he had in pearls and gems; they proposed several plansbut
none so good as that suggested by the renegade already mentioned
who offered to return to Algiers in a small vessel of about six banks
manned by Christian rowersas he knew wherehowand when he could
and should landnor was he ignorant of the house in which Don
Gaspar was staying. The general and the viceroy had some hesitation
about placing confidence in the renegade and entrusting him with the
Christians who were to rowbut Ana Felix said she could answer for
himand her father offered to go and pay the ransom of the Christians
if by any chance they should not be forthcoming. Thisthenbeing
agreed uponthe viceroy landedand Don Antonio Moreno took the
fair Morisco and her father home with himthe viceroy charging him to
give them the best reception and welcome in his powerwhile on his
own part he offered all that house contained for their
entertainment; so great was the good-will and kindliness the beauty of
Ana Felix had infused into his heart.


CHAPTER LXIV

TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS
THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM

The wife of Don Antonio Morenoso the history sayswas extremely
happy to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great
kindnesscharmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in
both respects the fair Morisco was richly endowedand all the
people of the city flocked to see her as though they had been summoned
by the ringing of the bells.

Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don
Gregorio was not a good onefor its risks were greater than its
advantagesand that it would be better to land himself with his
arms and horse in Barbary; for he would carry him off in spite of
the whole Moorish hostas Don Gaiferos carried off his wife
Melisendra.

Remember, your worship,observed Sancho on hearing him say so
Senor Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took
her to France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don
Gregorio, we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there's the sea
between.

There's a remedy for everything except death,said Don Quixote;
if they bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be able to get
on board though all the world strive to prevent us.

Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy,said Sancho;
but 'it's a long step from saying to doing;' and I hold to the
renegade, for he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow.

Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful
the expedient of the great Don Quixote's expedition to Barbary
should be adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a
light vessel of six oars a-side manned by a stout crewand two days
later the galleys made sail eastwardthe general having begged the
viceroy to let him know all about the release of Don Gregorio and
about Ana Felixand the viceroy promised to do as he requested.

One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach
arrayed in full armour (foras he often saidthat was "his only
gearhis only rest the fray and he never was without it for a
moment), he saw coming towards him a knight, also in full armour, with
a shining moon painted on his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently
near to be heard, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don
Quixote, Illustrious knightand never sufficiently extolled Don
Quixote of La ManchaI am the Knight of the White Moonwhose
unheard-of achievements will perhaps have recalled him to thy
memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of thy
armto the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady
let her be who she mayis incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del
Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openlythou shalt
escape death and save me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if
thou fightest and I vanquish theeI demand no other satisfaction than
thatlaying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of
adventuresthou withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village
for the space of a yearand live there without putting hand to sword
in peace and quiet and beneficial reposethe same being needful for
the increase of thy substance and the salvation of thy soul; and if


thou dost vanquish memy head shall be at thy disposalmy arms and
horse thy spoilsand the renown of my deeds transferred and added
to thine. Consider which will be thy best courseand give me thy
answer speedilyfor this day is all the time I have for the
despatch of this business."

Don Quixote was amazed and astonishedas well at the Knight of
the White Moon's arroganceas at his reason for delivering the
defianceand with calm dignity he answered himKnight of the
White Moon, of whose achievements I have never heard until now, I will
venture to swear you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had
you seen her I know you would have taken care not to venture
yourself upon this issue, because the sight would have removed all
doubt from your mind that there ever has been or can be a beauty to be
compared with hers; and so, not saying you lie, but merely that you
are not correct in what you state, I accept your challenge, with the
conditions you have proposed, and at once, that the day you have fixed
may not expire; and from your conditions I except only that of the
renown of your achievements being transferred to me, for I know not of
what sort they are nor what they may amount to; I am satisfied with my
own, such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you
choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it may
Saint Peter add his blessing.

The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the cityand it was
told the viceroy how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The
viceroyfancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don
Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of the cityhurried out at
once to the beach accompanied by Don Antonio and several other
gentlemenjust as Don Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order
to take up the necessary distance. The viceroy upon thisseeing
that the pair of them were evidently preparing to come to the
chargeput himself between themasking them what it was that led
them to engage in combat all of a sudden in this way. The Knight of
the White Moon replied that it was a question of precedence of beauty;
and briefly told him what he had said to Don Quixoteand how the
conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides had been
accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonioand asked in a low
voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon wasor was it some
joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he
neither knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or in
earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexitynot
knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or not; but unable to
persuade himself that it was anything but a joke he fell backsaying
If there be no other way out of it, gallant knights, except to
confess or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and your worship of the
White Moon still more so, in God's hand be it, and fall on.

He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and
well-chosen words for the permission he gave themand so did Don
Quixotewho thencommending himself with all his heart to heaven and
to his Dulcineaas was his custom on the eve of any combat that
awaited himproceeded to take a little more distanceas he saw his
antagonist was doing the same; thenwithout blast of trumpet or other
warlike instrument to give them the signal to chargeboth at the same
instant wheeled their horses; and he of the White Moonbeing the
swiftermet Don Quixote after having traversed two-thirds of the
courseand there encountered him with such violence thatwithout
touching him with his lance (for he held it highto all appearance
purposely)he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the eartha
perilous fall. He sprang upon him at onceand placing the lance
over his visor said to himYou are vanquished, sir knight, nay
dead unless you admit the conditions of our defiance.


Don Quixotebruised and stupefiedwithout raising his visor said
in a weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tombDulcinea
del Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most
unfortunate knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth
should suffer by my feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and
take my life, since you have taken away my honour.

That will I not, in sooth,said he of the White Moon; "live the
fame of the lady Dulcinea's beauty undimmed as ever; all I require
is that the great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a yearor
for so long a time as shall by me be enjoined upon himas we agreed
before engaging in this combat."

The viceroyDon Antonioand several others who were present
heard all thisand heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long
as nothing in prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of himhe would
observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. The engagement
givenhe of the White Moon wheeled aboutand making obeisance to the
viceroy with a movement of the headrode away into the city at a half
gallop. The viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after himand by some
means or other find out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and
uncovered his faceand found him pale and bathed with sweat.
Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to
stir for the present. Sanchowholly dejected and woebegoneknew
not what to say or do. He fancied that all was a dreamthat the whole
business was a piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeatedand
bound not to take up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of
his achievements obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him
swept away like smoke before the wind; Rocinantehe fearedwas
crippled for lifeand his master's bones out of joint; for if he were
only shaken out of his madness it would be no small luck. In the end
they carried him into the city in a hand-chair which the viceroy
sent forand thither the viceroy himself returnedcager to ascertain
who this Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such
a sad plight.

CHAPTER LXV

WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE
DON GREGORIO'S RELEASEAND OTHER EVENTS

Don Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moonand a
number of boys followed him toonay pursued himuntil they had him
fairly housed in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonioeager
to make his acquaintanceentered also; a squire came out to meet
him and remove his armourand he shut himself into a lower room
still attended by Don Antoniowhose bread would not bake until he had
found out who he was. He of the White Moonseeing then that the
gentleman would not leave himsaidI know very well, senor, what
you have come for; it is to find out who I am; and as there is no
reason why I should conceal it from you, while my servant here is
taking off my armour I will tell you the true state of the case,
without leaving out anything. You must know, senor, that I am called
the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village as Don
Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who know
him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most;
and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping
at home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him
there. Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a
knight-errant, under the assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors,


intending to engage him in combat and overcome him without hurting
him, making it the condition of our combat that the vanquished
should be at the disposal of the victor. What I meant to demand of him
(for I regarded him as vanquished already) was that he should return
to his own village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time
he might he cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me
and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went his way, and I came
back conquered, covered with shame, and sorely bruised by my fall,
which was a particularly dangerous one. But this did not quench my
desire to meet him again and overcome him, as you have seen to-day.
And as he is so scrupulous in his observance of the laws of
knight-errantry, he will, no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey
the injunction I have laid upon him. This, senor, is how the matter
stands, and I have nothing more to tell you. I implore of you not to
betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am; so that my honest
endeavours may be successful, and that a man of excellent wits- were
he only rid of the fooleries of chivalry- may get them back again.

O senor,said Don Antoniomay God forgive you the wrong you have
done the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in
it back to his senses. Do you not see, senor, that the gain by Don
Quixote's sanity can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my
belief is that all the senor bachelor's pains will be of no avail to
bring a man so hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it
were not uncharitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for
by his recovery we lose not only his own drolleries, but his squire
Sancho Panza's too, any one of which is enough to turn melancholy
itself into merriment. However, I'll hold my peace and say nothing
to him, and we'll see whether I am right in my suspicion that Senor
Carrasco's efforts will be fruitless.

The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well
and he hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at
Don Antonio's commands he took his leave of him; and having had his
armour packed at once upon a mulehe rode away from the city the same
day on the horse he rode to battleand returned to his own country
without meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious
history.

Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told himand
the viceroy was not very well pleased to hear itfor with Don
Quixote's retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew
anything of his mad doings.

Six days did Don Quixote keep his beddejectedmelancholymoody
and out of sortsbrooding over the unhappy event of his defeat.
Sancho strove to comfort himand among other things he said to him
Hold up your head, senor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give
thanks to heaven that if you have had a tumble to the ground you
have not come off with a broken rib; and, as you know that 'where they
give they take,' and that 'there are not always fletches where there
are pegs,' a fig for the doctor, for there's no need of him to cure
this ailment. Let us go home, and give over going about in search of
adventures in strange lands and places; rightly looked at, it is I
that am the greater loser, though it is your worship that has had
the worse usage. With the government I gave up all wish to be a
governor again, but I did not give up all longing to be a count; and
that will never come to pass if your worship gives up becoming a
king by renouncing the calling of chivalry; and so my hopes are
going to turn into smoke.

Peace, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "thou seest my suspension and
retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured
callingand I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a


county to bestow on thee."

May God hear it and sin be deaf,said Sancho; "I have always heard
say that 'a good hope is better than a bad holding."

As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased
and exclaimingReward me for my good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don
Gregorio and the renegade who went for him have come ashore- ashore do
I say? They are by this time in the viceroy's house, and will be
here immediately.

Don Quixote cheered up a little and saidOf a truth I am almost
ready to say I should have been glad had it turned out just the
other way, for it would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary,
where by the might of my arm I should have restored to liberty, not
only Don Gregorio, but all the Christian captives there are in
Barbary. But what am I saying, miserable being that I am? Am I not
he that has been conquered? Am I not he that has been overthrown? Am I
not he who must not take up arms for a year? Then what am I making
professions for; what am I bragging about; when it is fitter for me to
handle the distaff than the sword?

No more of that, senor,said Sancho; "'let the hen liveeven
though it be with her pip; 'today for thee and to-morrow for me;' in
these affairs of encounters and whacks one must not mind themfor
he that falls to-day may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to
lie in bedI mean gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh
spirit for fresh battles; let your worship get up now to receive Don
Gregorio; for the household seems to be in a bustleand no doubt he
has come by this time;" and so it provedfor as soon as Don
Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy an account of the
voyage out and homeDon Gregorioeager to see Ana Felixcame with
the renegade to Don Antonio's house. When they carried him away from
Algiers he was in woman's dress; on board the vesselhoweverhe
exchanged it for that of a captive who escaped with him; but in
whatever dress he might be he looked like one to be loved and served
and esteemedfor he was surpassingly well-favouredand to judge by
appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his
daughter came out to welcome himthe father with tearsthe
daughter with bashfulness. They did not embrace each otherfor
where there is deep love there will never be overmuch boldness. Seen
side by sidethe comeliness of Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana
Felix were the admiration of all who were present. It was silence that
spoke for the lovers at that momentand their eyes were the tongues
that declared their pure and happy feelings. The renegade explained
the measures and means he had adopted to rescue Don Gregorioand
Don Gregorio at no great lengthbut in a few wordsin which he
showed that his intelligence was in advance of his yearsdescribed
the peril and embarrassment he found himself in among the women with
whom he had sojourned. To concludeRicote liberally recompensed and
rewarded as well the renegade as the men who had rowed; and the
renegade effected his readmission into the body of the Church and
was reconciled with itand from a rotten limb became by penance and
repentance a clean and sound one.

Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they
should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spainfor
it seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so
good a Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed
remaining there. Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the
capitalwhither he was compelled to go on some other business
hinting that many a difficult affair was settled there with the help
of favour and bribes.


Nay,said Ricotewho was present during the conversationit
will not do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great
Don Bernardino de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has
entrusted our expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor
appeals to compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he
mingles mercy with justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our
nation is tainted and corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns
rather than the salve that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity,
care and the fear he inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders
the weight of this great policy and carried it into effect, all our
schemes and plots, importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind
his Argus eyes, ever on the watch lest one of us should remain
behind in concealment, and like a hidden root come in course of time
to sprout and bear poisonous fruit in Spain, now cleansed, and
relieved of the fear in which our vast numbers kept it. Heroic resolve
of the great Philip the Third, and unparalleled wisdom to have
entrusted it to the said Don Bernardino de Velasco!

At any rate,said Don Antoniowhen I am there I will make all
possible efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio
will come with me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be
suffering on account of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house
with my wife, or in a monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad
that the worthy Ricote should stay with him until we see what terms
I can make.

The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on
learning what had passed declared he could not and would not on any
account leave Ana Felix; howeveras it was his purpose to go and
see his parents and devise some way of returning for herhe fell in
with the proposed arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's
wifeand Ricote in the viceroy's house.

The day for Don Antonio's departure came; and two days later that
for Don Quixote's and Sancho'sfor Don Quixote's fall did not
suffer him to take the road sooner. There were tears and sighs
swoonings and sobsat the parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix.
Ricote offered Don Gregorio a thousand crowns if he would have them
but he would not take any save five which Don Antonio lent him and
he promised to repay at the capital. So the two of them took their
departureand Don Quixote and Sancho afterwardsas has been
already saidDon Quixote without his armour and in travelling gear
and Sancho on footDapple being loaded with the armour.

CHAPTER LXVI

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEEOR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT
READ TO HIM WILL HEAR

As he left BarcelonaDon Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he
had fallen. "Here Troy was said he; here my ill-lucknot my
cowardicerobbed me of all the glory I had won; here Fortune made
me the victim of her caprices; here the lustre of my achievements
was dimmed; herein a wordfell my happiness never to rise again."

Senor,said Sancho on hearing thisit is the part of brave
hearts to be patient in adversity just as much as to be glad in
prosperity; I judge by myself, for, if when I was a governor I was
glad, now that I am a squire and on foot I am not sad; and I have
heard say that she whom commonly they call Fortune is a drunken


whimsical jade, and, what is more, blind, and therefore neither sees
what she does, nor knows whom she casts down or whom she sets up.

Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "thou
speakest very sensibly; I know not who taught thee. But I can tell
thee there is no such thing as Fortune in the worldnor does anything
which takes place therebe it good or badcome about by chance
but by the special preordination of heaven; and hence the common
saying that 'each of us is the maker of his own Fortune.' I have
been that of mine; but not with the proper amount of prudenceand
my self-confidence has therefore made me pay dearly; for I ought to
have reflected that Rocinante's feeble strength could not resist the
mighty bulk of the Knight of the White Moon's horse. In a wordI
ventured itI did my bestI was overthrownbut though I lost my
honour I did not lose nor can I lose the virtue of keeping my word.
When I was a knight-errantdaring and valiantI supported my
achievements by hand and deedand now that I am a humble squire I
will support my words by keeping the promise I have given. Forward
thenSancho my friendlet us go to keep the year of the novitiate in
our own countryand in that seclusion we shall pick up fresh strength
to return to the by me never-forgotten calling of arms."

Senor,returned Sanchotravelling on foot is not such a pleasant
thing that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to make long
marches. Let us leave this armour hung up on some tree, instead of
some one that has been hanged; and then with me on Dapple's back and
my feet off the ground we will arrange the stages as your worship
pleases to measure them out; but to suppose that I am going to
travel on foot, and make long ones, is to suppose nonsense.

Thou sayest well, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "let my armour be hung
up for a trophyand under it or round it we will carve on the trees
what was inscribed on the trophy of Roland's armour


These let none move
Who dareth not his might with Roland prove."


That's the very thing,said Sancho; "and if it was not that we
should feel the want of Rocinante on the roadit would be as well
to leave him hung up too."

And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armour hung up,
said Don Quixotethat it may not be said, 'for good service a bad
return.'

Your worship is right,said Sancho; "foras sensible people hold
'the fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack-saddle;' andas in
this affair the fault is your worship'spunish yourself and don't let
your anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour
or the meekness of Rocinanteor the tenderness of my feettrying
to make them travel more than is reasonable."

In converse of this sort the whole of that day went byas did the
four succeeding oneswithout anything occurring to interrupt their
journeybut on the fifth as they entered a village they found a great
number of people at the door of an inn enjoying themselvesas it
was a holiday. Upon Don Quixote's approach a peasant called out
One of these two gentlemen who come here, and who don't know the
parties, will tell us what we ought to do about our wager.

That I will, certainly,said Don Quixoteand according to the
rights of the case, if I can manage to understand it.


Well, here it is, worthy sir,said the peasant; "a man of this
village who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged
anothera neighbour of hiswho does not weigh more than nineto run
a race. The agreement was that they were to run a distance of a
hundred paces with equal weights; and when the challenger was asked
how the weights were to be equalised he said that the otheras he
weighed nine stoneshould put eleven in iron on his backand that in
this way the twenty stone of the thin man would equal the twenty stone
of the fat one."

Not at all,exclaimed Sancho at oncebefore Don Quixote could
answer; "it's for methat only a few days ago left off being a
governor and a judgeas all the world knowsto settle these doubtful
questions and give an opinion in disputes of all sorts."

Answer in God's name, Sancho my friend,said Don Quixotefor I
am not fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and
upset.

With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered
round himwaiting with open mouths for the decision to come from his
Brothers, what the fat man requires is not in reason, nor has it a
shadow of justice in it; because, if it be true, as they say, that the
challenged may choose the weapons, the other has no right to choose
such as will prevent and keep him from winning. My decision,
therefore, is that the fat challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and
correct himself, and take eleven stone of his flesh off his body, here
or there, as he pleases, and as suits him best; and being in this
way reduced to nine stone weight, he will make himself equal and
even with nine stone of his opponent, and they will be able to run
on equal terms.

By all that's good,said one of the peasants as he heard
Sancho's decisionbut the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and
given judgment like a canon! But I'll be bound the fat man won't
part with an ounce of his flesh, not to say eleven stone.

The best plan will be for them not to run,said anotherso
that neither the thin man break down under the weight, nor the fat one
strip himself of his flesh; let half the wager be spent in wine, and
let's take these gentlemen to the tavern where there's the best, and
'over me be the cloak when it rains.

I thank you, sirs,said Don Quixote; "but I cannot stop for an
instantfor sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force me to seem
discourteous and to travel apace;" and spurring Rocinante he pushed
onleaving them wondering at what they had seen and heardat his own
strange figure and at the shrewdness of his servantfor such they
took Sancho to be; and another of them observedIf the servant is so
clever, what must the master be? I'll bet, if they are going to
Salamanca to study, they'll come to be alcaldes of the Court in a
trice; for it's a mere joke- only to read and read, and have
interest and good luck; and before a man knows where he is he finds
himself with a staff in his hand or a mitre on his head.

That night master and man passed out in the fields in the open
airand the next day as they were pursuing their journey they saw
coming towards them a man on foot with alforjas at the neck and a
javelin or spiked staff in his handthe very cut of a foot courier;
whoas soon as he came close to Don Quixoteincreased his pace and
half running came up to himand embracing his right thighfor he
could reach no higherexclaimed with evident pleasureO Senor Don
Quixote of La Mancha, what happiness it will be to the heart of my
lord the duke when he knows your worship is coming back to his castle,


for he is still there with my lady the duchess!

I do not recognise you, friend,said Don Quixotenor do I know
who you are, unless you tell me.

I am Tosilos, my lord the duke's lacquey, Senor Don Quixote,
replied the courier; "he who refused to fight your worship about
marrying the daughter of Dona Rodriguez."

God bless me!exclaimed Don Quixote; "is it possible that you
are the one whom mine enemies the enchanters changed into the
lacquey you speak of in order to rob me of the honour of that battle?"

Nonsense, good sir!said the messenger; "there was no
enchantment or transformation at all; I entered the lists just as much
lacquey Tosilos as I came out of them lacquey Tosilos. I thought to
marry without fightingfor the girl had taken my fancy; but my scheme
had a very different resultfor as soon as your worship had left
the castle my lord the duke had a hundred strokes of the stick given
me for having acted contrary to the orders he gave me before
engaging in the combat; and the end of the whole affair is that the
girl has become a nunand Dona Rodriguez has gone back to Castile
and I am now on my way to Barcelona with a packet of letters for the
viceroy which my master is sending him. If your worship would like a
dropsound though warmI have a gourd here full of the bestand
some scraps of Tronchon cheese that will serve as a provocative and
wakener of your thirst if so be it is asleep."

I take the offer,said Sancho; "no more compliments about it; pour
outgood Tosilosin spite of all the enchanters in the Indies."

Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho,said
Don Quixoteand the greatest booby on earth, not to be able to see
that this courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a sham one; stop
with him and take thy fill; I will go on slowly and wait for thee to
come up with me.

The lacquey laughedunsheathed his gourdunwalletted his scraps
and taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves
on the green grassand in peace and good fellowship finished off
the contents of the alforjas down to the bottomso resolutely that
they licked the wrapper of the lettersmerely because it smelt of
cheese.

Said Tosilos to SanchoBeyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, this
master of thine ought to be a madman.

Ought!said Sancho; "he owes no man anything; he pays for
everythingparticularly when the coin is madness. I see it plain
enoughand I tell him so plain enough; but what's the use? especially
now that it is all over with himfor here he is beaten by the
Knight of the White Moon."

Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened himbut Sancho
replied that it would not be good manners to leave his master
waiting for him; and that some other day if they met there would be
time enough for that; and then getting upafter shaking his doublet
and brushing the crumbs out of his beardhe drove Dapple on before
himand bidding adieu to Tosilos left him and rejoined his master
who was waiting for him under the shade of a tree.


CHAPTER LXVII

OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO
A LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD
WAS RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY

If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he
had been overthrowna great many more harassed him since his fall. He
was under the shade of a treeas has been saidand therelike flies
on honeythoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of
them turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcineaothers upon the
life he was about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up
and spoke in high praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey
Tosilos.

Is it possible, Sancho,said Don Quixotethat thou dost still
think that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped
thy memory that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into
a peasant wench, and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor
Carrasco; all the work of the enchanters that persecute me. But tell
me now, didst thou ask this Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has
become of Altisidora, did she weep over my absence, or has she already
consigned to oblivion the love thoughts that used to afflict her
when I was present?

The thoughts that I had,said Sanchowere not such as to leave
time for asking fool's questions. Body o' me, senor! is your worship
in a condition now to inquire into other people's thoughts, above
all love thoughts?

Look ye, Sancho,said Don Quixotethere is a great difference
between what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude.
A knight may very possibly he proof against love; but it is
impossible, strictly speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora,
to all appearance, loved me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs
thou knowest of; she wept at my departure, she cursed me, she abused
me, casting shame to the winds she bewailed herself in public; all
signs that she adored me; for the wrath of lovers always ends in
curses. I had no hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her, for
mine are given to Dulcinea, and the treasures of knights-errant are
like those of the fairies,' illusory and deceptive; all I can give her
is the place in my memory I keep for her, without prejudice,
however, to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou art
wronging by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that
flesh- would that I saw it eaten by wolves- which would rather keep
itself for the worms than for the relief of that poor lady.

Senor,replied Sanchoif the truth is to be told, I cannot
persuade myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do
with the disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, 'If
your head aches rub ointment on your knees;' at any rate I'll make
bold to swear that in all the histories dealing with knight-errantry
that your worship has read you have never come across anybody
disenchanted by whipping; but whether or no I'll whip myself when I
have a fancy for it, and the opportunity serves for scourging myself
comfortably.

God grant it,said Don Quixote; "and heaven give thee grace to
take it to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my
ladywho is thine alsoinasmuch as thou art mine."

As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the
very same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don


Quixote recognised itand said he to SanchoThis is the meadow
where we came upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who
were trying to revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an
idea as novel as it was happy, in emulation whereof, if so he thou
dost approve of it, Sancho, I would have ourselves turn shepherds,
at any rate for the time I have to live in retirement. I will buy some
ewes and everything else requisite for the pastoral calling; and, I
under the name of the shepherd Quixotize and thou as the shepherd
Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves and meadows singing songs
here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of the crystal waters of
the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. The oaks will yield us
their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, the trunks of the hard cork
trees a seat, the willows shade, the roses perfume, the widespread
meadows carpets tinted with a thousand dyes; the clear pure air will
give us breath, the moon and stars lighten the darkness of the night
for us, song shall be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will
supply us with verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall make
ourselves famed for ever, not only in this but in ages to come.

Egad,said Sanchobut that sort of life squares, nay corners,
with my notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and
Master Nicholas the barber won't have well seen it before they'll want
to follow it and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may
not come into the curate's head to join the sheepfold too, he's so
jovial and fond of enjoying himself.

Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,said Don Quixote; "and the
bachelor Samson Carrascoif he enters the pastoral fraternityas
no doubt he willmay call himself the shepherd Samsoninoor
perhaps the shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself
Niculosoas old Boscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the
curate I don't know what name we can fit to him unless it be something
derived from his titleand we call him the shepherd Curiambro. For
the shepherdesses whose lovers we shall bewe can pick names as we
would pears; and as my lady's name does just as well for a
shepherdess's as for a princess'sI need not trouble myself to look
for one that will suit her better; to thineSanchothou canst give
what name thou wilt."

I don't mean to give her any but Teresona,said Sanchowhich
will go well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is
called Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I'll show
how chaste my passion is, for I'm not going to look 'for better
bread than ever came from wheat' in other men's houses. It won't do
for the curate to have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example;
and if the bachelor chooses to have one, that is his look-out.

God bless me, Sancho my friend!said Don Quixotewhat a life
we shall lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what
tabors, timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different
sorts of music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the
pastoral instruments will be there.

What are albogues?asked Sanchofor I never in my life heard
tell of them or saw them.

Albogues,said Don Quixoteare brass plates like candlesticks
that struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which,
if not very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords
very well with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word
albogue is Morisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that
begin with al; for example, almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil,
alhucema, almacen, alcancia, and others of the same sort, of which
there are not many more; our language has only three that are


Morisco and end in i, which are borcegui, zaquizami, and maravedi.
Alheli and alfaqui are seen to be Arabic, as well by the al at the
beginning as by the they end with. I mention this incidentally, the
chance allusion to albogues having reminded me of it; and it will be
of great assistance to us in the perfect practice of this calling that
I am something of a poet, as thou knowest, and that besides the
bachelor Samson Carrasco is an accomplished one. Of the curate I say
nothing; but I will wager he has some spice of the poet in him, and no
doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, or most of them, are
guitar players and stringers of verses. I will bewail my separation;
thou shalt glorify thyself as a constant lover; the shepherd Carrascon
will figure as a rejected one, and the curate Curiambro as whatever
may please him best; and so all will go as gaily as heart could wish.

To this Sancho made answerI am so unlucky, senor, that I'm afraid
the day will never come when I'll see myself at such a calling. O what
neat spoons I'll make when I'm a shepherd! What messes, creams,
garlands, pastoral odds and ends! And if they don't get me a name
for wisdom, they'll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My
daughter Sanchica will bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stayshe's
good-looking, and shepherds there are with more mischief than
simplicity in them; I would not have her 'come for wool and go back
shorn;' love-making and lawless desires are just as common in the
fields as in the cities, and in shepherds' shanties as in royal
palaces; 'do away with the cause, you do away with the sin;' 'if
eyes don't see hearts don't break' and 'better a clear escape than
good men's prayers.'

A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho,exclaimed Don Quixote; "any one
of those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning;
many a time have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with
proverbs and to exercise some moderation in delivering them; but it
seems to me it is only 'preaching in the desert;' 'my mother beats
me and I go on with my tricks."

It seems to me,said Sanchothat your worship is like the common
saying, 'Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.'
You chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples
yourself.

Observe, Sancho,replied Don QuixoteI bring in proverbs to
the purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger;
thou bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that
thou dost drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not
mistaken, I have told thee already that proverbs are short maxims
drawn from the experience and observation of our wise men of old;
but the proverb that is not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense
and not a maxim. But enough of this; as nightfall is drawing on let us
retire some little distance from the high road to pass the night; what
is in store for us to-morrow God knoweth.

They turned asideand supped late and poorlyvery much against
Sancho's willwho turned over in his mind the hardships attendant
upon knight-errantry in woods and forestseven though at times plenty
presented itself in castles and housesas at Don Diego de
Miranda'sat the wedding of Camacho the Richand at Don Antonio
Moreno's; he reflectedhoweverthat it could not be always day
nor always night; and so that night he passed in sleepingand his
master in waking.

CHAPTER LXVIII


OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE

The night was somewhat darkfor though there was a moon in the
sky it was not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the
lady Diana goes on a stroll to the antipodesand leaves the mountains
all black and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so
far as to sleep his first sleepbut did not give way to the second
very different from Sanchowho never had any secondbecause with him
sleep lasted from night till morningwherein he showed what a sound
constitution and few cares he had. Don Quixote's cares kept him
restlessso much so that he awoke Sancho and said to himI am
amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of thy temperament. I believe thou
art made of marble or hard brass, incapable of any emotion or
feeling whatever. I lie awake while thou sleepest, I weep while thou
singest, I am faint with fasting while thou art sluggish and torpid
from pure repletion. It is the duty of good servants to share the
sufferings and feel the sorrows of their masters, if it be only for
the sake of appearances. See the calmness of the night, the solitude
of the spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of some
sort. Rise as thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with a
good heart and cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred
lashes on account of Dulcinea's disenchantment score; and this I
entreat of thee, making it a request, for I have no desire to come
to grips with thee a second time, as I know thou hast a heavy hand. As
soon as thou hast laid them on we will pass the rest of the night, I
singing my separation, thou thy constancy, making a beginning at
once with the pastoral life we are to follow at our village.

Senor,replied SanchoI'm no monk to get up out of the middle of
my sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can
pass from one extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music.
Will your worship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping
myself? or you'll make me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet,
not to say my flesh.

O hard heart!said Don QuixoteO pitiless squire! O bread
ill-bestowed and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done thee
and those I mean to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself a
governor, and through me thou seest thyself in immediate expectation
of being a count, or obtaining some other equivalent title, for Ipost
tenebras spero lucem.

I don't know what that is,said Sancho; "all I know is that so
long as I am asleep I have neither fear nor hopetrouble nor glory;
and good luck betide him that invented sleepthe cloak that covers
over all a man's thoughtsthe food that removes hungerthe drink
that drives away thirstthe fire that warms the coldthe cold that
tempers the heatandto wind up withthe universal coin wherewith
everything is boughtthe weight and balance that makes the shepherd
equal with the king and the fool with the wise man. SleepI have
heard sayhas only one faultthat it is like death; for between a
sleeping man and a dead man there is very little difference."

Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho,said
Don Quixote; "and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou
dost sometimes quote'Not with whom thou art bredbut with whom thou
art fed.'"

Ha, by my life, master mine,said Sanchoit's not I that am
stringing proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship's
mouth faster than from mine; only there is this difference between
mine and yours, that yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but
anyhow, they are all proverbs.


At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that
seemed to spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood
up and laid his hand upon his swordand Sancho ensconced himself
under Dapple and put the bundle of armour on one side of him and the
ass's pack-saddle on the otherin fear and trembling as great as
Don Quixote's perturbation. Each instant the noise increased and
came nearer to the two terrified menor at least to onefor as to
the otherhis courage is known to all. The fact of the matter was
that some men were taking above six hundred pigs to sell at a fair
and were on their way with them at that hourand so great was the
noise they made and their grunting and blowingthat they deafened the
ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panzaand they could not make out what
it was. The wide-spread grunting drove came on in a surging mass
and without showing any respect for Don Quixote's dignity or Sancho's
passed right over the pair of themdemolishing Sancho's
entrenchmentsand not only upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping
Rocinante off his feet into the bargain; and what with the trampling
and the gruntingand the pace at which the unclean beasts went
pack-saddlearmourDapple and Rocinante were left scattered on the
ground and Sancho and Don Quixote at their wits' end.

Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give
him his swordsaying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty
unmannerly pigsfor he had by this time found out that that was
what they were.

Let them be, my friend,said Don Quixote; "this insult is the
penalty of my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that
jackals should devour a vanquished knightand wasps sting him and
pigs trample him under foot."

I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too,said Sancho
that flies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice
eat them, and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the
knights we serve, or their very near relations, it would be no
wonder if the penalty of their misdeeds overtook us, even to the
fourth generation. But what have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes?
Well, well, let's lie down again and sleep out what little of the
night there's left, and God will send us dawn and we shall be all
right.

Sleep thou, Sancho,returned Don Quixotefor thou wast born to
sleep as I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn
I will give a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a
little madrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last
night.

I should think,said Sanchothat the thoughts that allow one
to make verses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string
verses as much as you like and I'll sleep as much as I can;and
forthwithtaking the space of ground he requiredhe muffled
himself up and fell into a sound sleepundisturbed by bonddebt
or trouble of any sort. Don Quixotepropped up against the trunk of a
beech or a cork tree- for Cide Hamete does not specify what kind of
tree it was- sang in this strain to the accompaniment of his own
sighs:

When in my mind
I museO Loveupon thy cruelty
To death I flee
In hope therein the end of all to find.

But drawing near


That welcome haven in my sea of woe

Such joy I know
That life revivesand still I linger here.

Thus life doth slay
And death again to life restoreth me;

Strange destiny
That deals with life and death as with a play!

He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears
just like one whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his
separation from Dulcinea.

And now daylight cameand the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his
beams. He awokeroused himself upshook himself and stretched his
lazy limbsand seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores
he cursed the droveand more besides. Then the pair resumed their
journeyand as evening closed in they saw coming towards them some
ten men on horseback and four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart
beat quick and Sancho's quailed with fearfor the persons approaching
them carried lances and bucklersand were in very warlike guise.
Don Quixote turned to Sancho and saidIf I could make use of my
weapons, and my promise had not tied my hands, I would count this host
that comes against us but cakes and fancy bread; but perhaps it may
prove something different from what we apprehend.The men on
horseback now came upand raising their lances surrounded Don Quixote
in silenceand pointed them at his back and breastmenacing him with
death. One of those on footputting his finger to his lips as a
sign to him to be silentseized Rocinante's bridle and drew him out
of the roadand the others driving Sancho and Dapple before themand
all maintaining a strange silencefollowed in the steps of the one
who led Don Quixote. The latter two or three times attempted to ask
where they were taking him to and what they wantedbut the instant he
began to open his lips they threatened to close them with the points
of their lances; and Sancho fared the same wayfor the moment he
seemed about to speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad
and Dapple likewiseas if he too wanted to talk. Night set inthey
quickened their paceand the fears of the two prisoners grew greater
especially as they heard themselves assailed with- "Get onye
Troglodytes;" "Silenceye barbarians;" "Marchye cannibals;" "No
murmuringye Scythians;" "Don't open your eyesye murderous
Polyphemesye blood-thirsty lions and suchlike names with which
their captors harassed the ears of the wretched master and man. Sancho
went along saying to himself, Wetortolitesbarbersanimals! I
don't like those names at all; 'it's in a bad wind our corn is being
winnowed;' 'misfortune comes upon us all at once like sticks on a
dog' and God grant it may be no worse than them that this unlucky
adventure has in store for us."

Don Quixote rode completely dazedunable with the aid of all his
wits to make out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they
called themand the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there
was no good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And nowabout
an hour after midnightthey reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at
once was the duke'swhere they had been but a short time before. "God
bless me!" said heas he recognised the mansionwhat does this
mean? It is all courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the
vanquished good turns into evil, and evil into worse.

They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and
fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their
fearsas will be seen in the following chapter.


CHAPTER LXIX

OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

The horsemen dismountedandtogether with the men on footwithout
a moment's delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodilythey carried
them into the courtall round which near a hundred torches fixed in
sockets were burningbesides above five hundred lamps in the
corridorsso that in spite of the nightwhich was somewhat darkthe
want of daylight could not be perceived. In the middle of the court
was a catafalqueraised about two yards above the ground and
covered completely by an immense canopy of black velvetand on the
steps all round it white wax tapers burned in more than a hundred
silver candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was seen the dead body of a
damsel so lovely that by her beauty she made death itself look
beautiful. She lay with her head resting upon a cushion of brocade and
crowned with a garland of sweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts
her hands crossed upon her bosomand between them a branch of
yellow palm of victory. On one side of the court was erected a
stagewhere upon two chairs were seated two persons who from having
crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands appeared to be kings
of some sortwhether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage
which was reached by stepswere two other chairs on which the men
carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sanchoall in
silenceand by signs giving them to understand that they too were
to he silent; whichhoweverthey would have been without any
signsfor their amazement at all they saw held them tongue-tied.
And now two persons of distinctionwho were at once recognised by Don
Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchessascended the stage attended
by a numerous suiteand seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs
close to the two kingsas they seemed to be. Who would not have
been amazed at this? Nor was this allfor Don Quixote had perceived
that the dead body on the catafalque was that of the fair
Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote
and Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisancewhich they
returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official
crossed overand approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black
buckram painted all over with flames of fireand taking off his cap
put upon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the
Holy Office wear; and whispered in his ear that he must not open his
lipsor they would put a gag upon himor take his life. Sancho
surveyed himself from head to foot and saw himself all ablaze with
flames; but as they did not burn himhe did not care two farthings
for them. He took off the mitre and seeing painted with devils he
put it on againsaying to himselfWell, so far those don't burn
me nor do these carry me off.Don Quixote surveyed him tooand
though fear had got the better of his facultieshe could not help
smiling to see the figure Sancho presented. And now from underneath
the catafalqueso it seemedthere rose a low sweet sound of
fluteswhichcoming unbroken by human voice (for there silence
itself kept silence)had a soft and languishing effect. Then
beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead bodysuddenly
appeared a fair youth in a Roman habitwhoto the accompaniment of a
harp which he himself playedsang in a sweet and clear voice these
two stanzas:

While fair Altisidorawho the sport
Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been
Returns to lifeand in this magic court


The dames in sables come to grace the scene
And while her matrons all in seemly sort

My lady robes in baize and bombazine
Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing
With defter quill than touched the Thracian string.

But not in life alonemethinksto me

Belongs the office; Ladywhen my tongue
Is cold in deathbelieve meunto thee

My voice shall raise its tributary song.
My soulfrom this strait prison-house set free

As o'er the Stygian lake it floats along
Thy praises singing still shall hold its way
And make the waters of oblivion stay.

At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed
Enough, enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put
before us now the death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not
dead as the ignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame
and in the penance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to undergo to
restore her to the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O
Rhadamanthus, who sittest in judgment with me in the murky caverns
of Dis, as thou knowest all that the inscrutable fates have decreed
touching the resuscitation of this damsel, announce and declare it
at once, that the happiness we look forward to from her restoration be
no longer deferred.

No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said thisthan
Rhadamanthus rising up said:

Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make
haste hither one and all, and print on Sancho's face four-and-twenty
smacks, and give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back
and arms; for upon this ceremony depends the restoration of
Altisidora.

On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried outBy all that's
good, I'll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor.
Body o' me! What has handling my face got to do with the
resurrection of this damsel? 'The old woman took kindly to the
blits; they enchant Dulcinea, and whip me in order to disenchant
her; Altisidora dies of ailments God was pleased to send her, and to
bring her to life again they must give me four-and-twenty smacks,
and prick holes in my body with pins, and raise weals on my arms
with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in-law; 'I'm an old dog,
and tustus" is no use with me.'"

Thou shalt die,said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; "relentthou
tiger; humble thyselfproud Nimrod; suffer and he silentfor no
impossibilities are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire
into the difficulties in this matter; smacked thou must bepricked
thou shalt see thyselfand with pinches thou must be made to howl.
HoI sayofficialsobey my orders; or by the word of an honest man
ye shall see what ye were born for."

At this some six duennasadvancing across the courtmade their
appearance in processionone after the otherfour of them with
spectaclesand all with their right hands upliftedshowing four
fingers of wrist to make their hands look longeras is the fashion
now-a-days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than
bellowing like a bullhe exclaimedI might let myself be handled by
all the world; but allow duennas to touch me- not a bit of it! Scratch
my face, as my master was served in this very castle; run me through
the body with burnished daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers;


I'll bear all in patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I won't let
duennas touch me, though the devil should carry me off!

Here Don Quixotetoobroke silencesaying to SanchoHave
patience, my son, and gratify these noble persons, and give all thanks
to heaven that it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its
sufferings thou canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the
dead.

The duennas were now close to Sanchoand hehaving become more
tractable and reasonablesettling himself well in his chair presented
his face and beard to the firstwho delivered him a smack very
stoutly laid onand then made him a low curtsey.

Less politeness and less paint, senora duenna,said Sancho; "by
God your hands smell of vinegar-wash."

In fineall the duennas smacked him and several others of the
household pinched him; but what he could not stand was being pricked
by the pins; and soapparently out of patiencehe started up out
of his chairand seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell
upon the duennas and the whole set of his tormentorsexclaiming
Begone, ye ministers of hell; I'm not made of brass not to feel
such out-of-the-way tortures.

At this instant Altisidorawho probably was tired of having been so
long lying on her backturned on her side; seeing which the
bystanders cried out almost with one voiceAltisidora is alive!
Altisidora lives!

Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrathas the object they
had in view was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora movehe
went on his knees to Sancho saying to himNow is the time, son of my
bowels, not to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of
those lashes thou art bound to lay on for the disenchantment of
Dulcinea. Now, I say, is the time when the virtue that is in thee is
ripe, and endowed with efficacy to work the good that is looked for
from thee.

To which Sancho made answerThat's trick upon trick, I think,
and not honey upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping
to come now, on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had
better take a big stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into
a well; I should not mind it much, if I'm to be always made the cow of
the wedding for the cure of other people's ailments. Leave me alone;
or else by God I'll fling the whole thing to the dogs, let come what
may.

Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalqueand as she did
so the clarions soundedaccompanied by the flutesand the voices
of all present exclaimingLong life to Altisidora! long life to
Altisidora!The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus
stood upand alltogether with Don Quixote and Sanchoadvanced to
receive her and take her down from the catafalque; and shemaking
as though she were recovering from a swoonbowed her head to the duke
and duchess and to the kingsand looking sideways at Don Quixote
said to himGod forgive thee, insensible knight, for through thy
cruelty I have been, to me it seems, more than a thousand years in the
other world; and to thee, the most compassionate upon earth, I
render thanks for the life I am now in possession of. From this day
forth, friend Sancho, count as thine six smocks of mine which I bestow
upon thee, to make as many shirts for thyself, and if they are not all
quite whole, at any rate they are all clean.


Sancho kissed her hands in gratitudekneelingand with the mitre
in his hand. The duke bade them take it from himand give him back
his cap and doublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the
duke to let them leave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take
them home for a token and memento of that unexampled adventure. The
duchess said they must leave them with him; for he knew already what a
great friend of his she was. The duke then gave orders that the
court should be clearedand that all should retire to their chambers
and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their old
quarters.

CHAPTER LXX

WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR
THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don
Quixotea thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he
knew very well that with questions and answers his master would not
let him sleepand he was in no humour for talking muchas he still
felt the pain of his late martyrdomwhich interfered with his freedom
of speech; and it would have been more to his taste to sleep in a
hovel alonethan in that luxurious chamber in company. And so well
founded did his apprehension proveand so correct was his
anticipationthat scarcely had his master got into bed when he
saidWhat dost thou think of tonight's adventure, Sancho? Great
and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own
eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword,
nor by any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought
of the sternness and scorn with which I have always treated her.

She might have died and welcome,said Sanchowhen she pleased
and how she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never
made her fall in love or scorned her. I don't know nor can I imagine
how the recovery of Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise,
can have, as I have said before, anything to do with the sufferings of
Sancho Panza. Now I begin to see plainly and clearly that there are
enchanters and enchanted people in the world; and may God deliver me
from them, since I can't deliver myself; and so I beg of your
worship to let me sleep and not ask me any more questions, unless
you want me to throw myself out of the window.

Sleep, Sancho my friend,said Don Quixoteif the pinprodding and
pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will
let thee.

No pain came up to the insult of the smacks,said Sanchofor the
simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to
me; but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is
relief from misery to those who are miserable when awake.

Be it so, and God be with thee,said Don Quixote.

They fell asleepboth of themand Cide Hametethe author of
this great historytook this opportunity to record and relate what it
was that induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot
that has been described. The bachelor Samson Carrascohe saysnot
forgetting how he as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and
overthrown by Don Quixotewhich defeat and overthrow upset all his
plansresolved to try his hand againhoping for better luck than


he had before; and sohaving learned where Don Quixote was from the
page who brought the letter and present to Sancho's wifeTeresa
Panzahe got himself new armour and another horseand put a white
moon upon his shieldand to carry his arms he had a mule led by a
peasantnot by Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he should be
recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the duke's castleand
the duke informed him of the road and route Don Quixote had taken with
the intention of being present at the jousts at Saragossa. He told
himtooof the jokes he had practised upon himand of the device
for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho's
backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sancho had
played upon his mastermaking him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted
and turned into a country wench; and of how the duchesshis wifehad
persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceivedinasmuch
as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed not
a littleand marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity of
Sancho as at the length to which Don Quixote's madness went. The
duke begged of him if he found him (whether he overcame him or not) to
return that way and let him know the result. This the bachelor did; he
set out in quest of Don Quixoteand not finding him at Saragossa
he went onand how he fared has been already told. He returned to the
duke's castle and told him allwhat the conditions of the combat
wereand how Don Quixote was nowlike a loyal knight-errant
returning to keep his promise of retiring to his village for a year
by which timesaid the bachelorhe might perhaps be cured of his
madness; for that was the object that had led him to adopt these
disguisesas it was a sad thing for a gentleman of such good parts as
Don Quixote to be a madman. And so he took his leave of the duke
and went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixotewho was
coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the opportunity of
practising this mystification upon him; so much did he enjoy
everything connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads
about the castle far and neareverywhere he thought Don Quixote was
likely to pass on his returnoccupied by large numbers of his
servants on foot and on horsebackwho were to bring him to the
castleby fair means or foulif they met him. They did meet himand
sent word to the dukewhohaving already settled what was to be
doneas soon as he heard of his arrivalordered the torches and
lamps in the court to be lit and Altisidora to be placed on the
catafalque with all the pomp and ceremony that has been describedthe
whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it differed but
little from reality. And Cide Hamete saysmoreoverthat for his part
he considers the concocters of the joke as crazy as the victims of it
and that the duke and duchess were not two fingers' breadth removed
from being something like fools themselves when they took such pains
to make game of a pair of fools.

As for the latterone was sleeping soundly and the other lying
awake occupied with his desultory thoughtswhen daylight came to them
bringing with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a
delight to Don Quixotevictor or vanquished. Altisidoracome back
from death to life as Don Quixote fanciedfollowing up the freak of
her lord and ladyentered the chambercrowned with the garland she
had worn on the catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta
embroidered with gold flowersher hair flowing loose over her
shouldersand leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don
Quixotedisconcerted and in confusion at her appearancehuddled
himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogether with the sheets
and counterpane of the bedtongue-tiedand unable to offer her any
civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head of the bed
andafter a deep sighsaid to him in a feeblesoft voiceWhen
women of rank and modest maidens trample honour under foot, and give a
loose to the tongue that breaks through every impediment, publishing
abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts, they are reduced to sore


extremities. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, crushed,
conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffering and virtuous,
and so much so that my heart broke with grief and I lost my life.
For the last two days I have been dead, slain by the thought of the
cruelty with which thou hast treated me, obdurate knight,

O harder thou than marble to my plaint;

or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been
that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings
of this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world.

Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my
ass, and I should have been obliged to him,said Sancho. "But tell
mesenora- and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my masterwhat
did you see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of
course that's where one who dies in despair is bound for."

To tell you the truth,said AltisidoraI cannot have died
outright, for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very
certain I should never have come out again, do what I might. The truth
is, I came to the gate, where some dozen or so of devils were
playing tennis, all in breeches and doublets, with falling collars
trimmed with Flemish bonelace, and ruffles of the same that served
them for wristbands, with four fingers' breadth of the arms exposed to
make their hands look longer; in their hands they held rackets of
fire; but what amazed me still more was that books, apparently full of
wind and rubbish, served them for tennis balls, a strange and
marvellous thing; this, however, did not astonish me so much as to
observe that, although with players it is usual for the winners to
be glad and the losers sorry, there in that game all were growling,
all were snarling, and all were cursing one another.That's no
wonder,said Sancho; "for devilswhether playing or notcan never
be contentwin or lose."

Very likely,said Altisidora; "but there is another thing that
surprises me tooI mean surprised me thenand that was that no
ball outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it
was wonderful the constant succession there was of booksnew and old.
To one of thema brand-newwell-bound onethey gave such a stroke
that they knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about.
'Look what book that is' said one devil to anotherand the other
replied'It is the "Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La
Mancha not by Cide Hamete, the original author, but by an
Aragonese who by his own account is of Tordesillas.' 'Out of this with
it,' said the first, 'and into the depths of hell with it out of my
sight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other. 'So bad is it,' said the
first, 'that if I had set myself deliberately to make a worse, I could
not have done it.' They then went on with their game, knocking other
books about; and I, having heard them mention the name of Don
Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this vision in
my memory.

A vision it must have been, no doubt,said Don Quixotefor there
is no other I in the world; this history has been going about here for
some time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for
everybody gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by
hearing that I am wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of
the pit or in the daylight above, for I am not the one that history
treats of. If it should be good, faithful, and true, it will have ages
of life; but if it should be bad, from its birth to its burial will
not be a very long journey.

Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don


Quixotewhen he said to herI have several times told you, senora
that it grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as
from mine they can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born
to belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any,
dedicated me to her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the
place she occupies in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This
frank declaration should suffice to make you retire within the
bounds of your modesty, for no one can bind himself to do
impossibilities.

Hearing thisAltisidorawith a show of anger and agitation
exclaimedGod's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a
date, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when
he has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out!
Do you fancy, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your
sake? All that you have seen to-night has been make-believe; I'm not
the woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much
less die!

That I can well believe,said Sancho; "for all that about lovers
pining to death is absurd; they may talk of itbut as for doing it-
Judas may believe that!"

While they were talkingthe musiciansingerand poetwho had
sung the two stanzas given above came inand making a profound
obeisance to Don Quixote saidWill your worship, sir knight,
reckon and retain me in the number of your most faithful servants, for
I have long been a great admirer of yours, as well because of your
fame as because of your achievements?Will your worship tell me
who you are,replied Don Quixoteso that my courtesy may be
answerable to your deserts?The young man replied that he was the
musician and songster of the night before. "Of a truth said Don
Quixote, your worship has a most excellent voice; but what you sang
did not seem to me very much to the purpose; for what have
Garcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of this lady?"

Don't be surprised at that,returned the musician; "for with the
callow poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he
pleases and pilfer where he chooseswhether it be germane to the
matter or notand now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they
can sing or write that is not set down to poetic licence."

Don Quixote was about to replybut was prevented by the duke and
duchesswho came in to see himand with them there followed a long
and delightful conversationin the course of which Sancho said so
many droll and saucy things that he left the duke and duchess
wondering not only at his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote
begged their permission to take his departure that same day
inasmuch as for a vanquished knight like himself it was fitter he
should live in a pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it very
readilyand the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good
graces.

He repliedSenora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel's
ailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest
and constant employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn
in hell; and as she must know how to make it, let it never be out of
her hands; for when she is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and
fro, the image or images of what she loves will not shift to and fro
in her thoughts; this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my
advice.

And mine,added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a
lace-maker that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds


are more set on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves.
I speak from my own experience; for when I'm digging I never think
of my old woman; I mean my Teresa Panzawhom I love better than my
own eyelids." "You say wellSancho said the duchess, and I will
take care that my Altisidora employs herself henceforward in
needlework of some sort; for she is extremely expert at it." "There is
no occasion to have recourse to that remedysenora said Altisidora;
for the mere thought of the cruelty with which this vagabond
villain has treated me will suffice to blot him out of my memory
without any other device; with your highness's leave I will retire
not to have before my eyesI won't say his rueful countenancebut
his abominableugly looks." "That reminds me of the common saying
that 'he that rails is ready to forgive'" said the duke.

Altisidora thenpretending to wipe away her tears with a
handkerchiefmade an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted
the room.

Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel,said Sanchoill luck betide
thee! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart
as hard as oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have
crowed to thee.'

So the conversation came to an endand Don Quixote dressed
himself and dined with the duke and duchessand set out the same
evening.

CHAPTER LXXI

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE
WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE

The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in
one respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his
defeatand his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay
in Sanchoas had been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora;
though it was with difficulty he could persuade himself that the
love-smitten damsel had been really dead. Sancho went along anything
but cheerfulfor it grieved him that Altisidora had not kept her
promise of giving him the smocks; and turning this over in his mind he
said to his masterSurely, senor, I'm the most unlucky doctor in the
world; there's many a physician that, after killing the sick man he
had to cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only
signing a bit of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he
makes up, and, there, his labour is over; but with me though to cure
somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,
pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear
by all that's good if they put another patient into my hands,
they'll have to grease them for me before I cure him; for, as they
say, 'it's by his singing the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm not
going to believe that heaven has bestowed upon me the virtue I have,
that I should be dealing it out to others all for nothing.

Thou art right, Sancho my friend,said Don Quixoteand
Altisidora has behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she
promised; and although that virtue of thine is gratis data- as it
has cost thee no study whatever, any more than such study as thy
personal sufferings may be- I can say for myself that if thou
wouldst have payment for the lashes on account of the disenchant of
Dulcinea, I would have given it to thee freely ere this. I am not
sure, however, whether payment will comport with the cure, and I would


not have the reward interfere with the medicine. I think there will be
nothing lost by trying it; consider how much thou wouldst have,
Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself down with thine
own hand, as thou hast money of mine.

At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's
breadth wideand in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping
himselfand said he to his masterVery well then, senor, I'll
hold myself in readiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to
profit by it; for the love of my wife and children forces me to seem
grasping. Let your worship say how much you will pay me for each
lash I give myself.

If Sancho,replied Don QuixoteI were to requite thee as the
importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice,
the mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what
thou hast of mine, and put a price on each lash.

Of them,said Sanchothere are three thousand three hundred
and odd; of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the
five go for the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three
hundred, which at a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less
though the whole world should bid me) make three thousand three
hundred quarter reals; the three thousand are one thousand five
hundred half reals, which make seven hundred and fifty reals; and
the three hundred make a hundred and fifty half reals, which come to
seventy-five reals, which added to the seven hundred and fifty make
eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These I will stop out of
what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll return home rich and
content, though well whipped, for 'there's no taking trout'- but I say
no more.

O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!said Don Quixote; "how we shall
be bound to serve theeDulcinea and Iall the days of our lives that
heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot
be but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune
and my defeat a most happy triumph. But look hereSancho; when wilt
thou begin the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of itI
will give thee a hundred reals over and above."

When?said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship
order it so that we pass it out of doors and in the open airand I'll
scarify myself."

Nightlonged for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the
worldcame at lastthough it seemed to him that the wheels of
Apollo's car had broken downand that the day was drawing itself
out longer than usualjust as is the case with loverswho never make
the reckoning of their desires agree with time. They made their way at
length in among some pleasant trees that stood a little distance
from the roadand there vacating Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's
pack-saddlethey stretched themselves on the green grass and made
their supper off Sancho's storesand he making a powerful and
flexible whip out of Dapple's halter and headstall retreated about
twenty paces from his master among some beech trees. Don Quixote
seeing him march off with such resolution and spiritsaid to him
Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow the
lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so great a hurry as
to run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so
strenuously as to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached the
desired number; and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or
too little, I will station myself apart and count on my rosary here
the lashes thou givest thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good
intention deserves.


'Pledges don't distress a good payer,'said Sancho; "I mean to lay
on in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myselffor in
thatno doubtlies the essence of this miracle."


He then stripped himself from the waist upwardsand snatching up
the rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He
might have given himself six or eight when he began to think the
joke no trifleand its price very low; and holding his hand for a
momenthe told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind
bargainfor each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate
of half a real instead of a quarter.


Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened,said Don
Quixote; "for I double the stakes as to price."


In that case,said Sanchoin God's hand be it, and let it rain
lashes.But the rogue no longer laid them on his shouldersbut
laid on to the treeswith such groans every now and thenthat one
would have thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by
the roots. Don Quixotetouched to the heartand fearing he might
make an end of himselfand that through Sancho's imprudence he
might miss his own objectsaid to himAs thou livest, my friend,
let the matter rest where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very
rough one, and it will he well to have patience; 'Zamora was not won
in an hour.' If I have not reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over
a thousand lashes; that is enough for the present; 'for the ass,' to
put it in homely phrase, 'bears the load, but not the overload.'


No, no, senor,replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me'The
money paidthe arms broken;' go back a little furtheryour
worshipand let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more;
for in a couple of bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot
and there will be even cloth to spare."


As thou art in such a willing mood,said Don Quixotemay
heaven aid thee; lay on and I'll retire.


Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had
the bark stripped off several treessuch was the severity with
which he whipped himself; and one timeraising his voiceand
giving a beech a tremendous lashhe cried outHere dies Samson, and
all with him!


At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash
Don Quixote ran to him at onceand seizing the twisted halter that
served him for a courbashsaid to himHeaven forbid, Sancho my
friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed
for the support of thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a
better opportunity, and I will content myself with a hope soon to be
realised, and have patience until thou hast gained fresh strength so
as to finish off this business to the satisfaction of everybody.


As your worship will have it so, senor,said Sanchoso be it;
but throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't
want to take cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run.


Don Quixote obeyedand stripping himself covered Sanchowho
slept until the sun woke him; they then resumed their journeywhich
for the time being they brought to an end at a village that lay
three leagues farther on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don
Quixote recognised as such and did not take to be a castle with
moatturretsportcullisand drawbridge; for ever since he had
been vanquished he talked more rationally about everythingas will be



shown presently. They quartered him in a room on the ground floor
where in place of leather hangings there were pieces of painted
serge such as they commonly use in villages. On one of them was
painted by some very poor hand the Rape of Helenwhen the bold
guest carried her off from Menelausand on the other was the story of
Dido and AEneasshe on a high toweras though she were making
signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at sea
flying in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two stories
that Helen did not go very reluctantlyfor she was laughing slyly and
roguishly; but the fair Dido was shown dropping tears the size of
walnuts from her eyes. Don Quixote as he looked at them observed
Those two ladies were very unfortunate not to have been born in
this age, and I unfortunate above all men not to have been born in
theirs. Had I fallen in with those gentlemen, Troy would not have been
burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have been only for me to
slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been avoided.

I'll lay a bet,said Sanchothat before long there won't be a
tavern, roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of
our doings won't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of
a better painter than painted these.

Thou art right, Sancho,said Don Quixotefor this painter is
like Orbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him
what he was painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if
he chanced to paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a
cock,' for fear they might think it was a fox. The painter or
writer, for it's all the same, who published the history of this new
Don Quixote that has come out, must have been one of this sort I
think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote 'whatever it might turn out;'
or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleon that was about the Court
some years ago, who used to answer at haphazard whatever he was asked,
and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he replied De donde
diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast thou a mind to
have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thou rather have it
indoors or in the open air?

Egad, senor,said Sanchofor what I'm going to give myself, it
comes all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields;
still I'd like it to be among trees; for I think they are company
for me and help me to bear my pain wonderfully.

And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend,said Don Quixote;
but, to enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our
own village; for at the latest we shall get there the day after
tomorrow.

Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part
he would like to finish off the business quickly before his blood
cooled and while he had an appetitebecause "in delay there is apt to
be danger" very oftenand "praying to God and plying the hammer and
one take was better than two I'll give thee's and a sparrow in the
hand than a vulture on the wing."

For God's sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!exclaimed Don Quixote;
it seems to me thou art becoming sicut erat again; speak in a
plain, simple, straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and
thou wilt find the good of it.

I don't know what bad luck it is of mine,argument to my mind;
howeverI mean to mend said Sanchobut I can't utter a word without
a proverb that is not as good as an argument to my mind; however, I
mean to mend if I can;and so for the present the conversation ended.


CHAPTER LXXII

OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE

All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and
inn waiting for nightthe one to finish off his task of scourging
in the open countrythe other to see it accomplishedfor therein lay
the accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the
hostelry a traveller on horseback with three or four servantsone
of whom said to him who appeared to be the masterHere, Senor Don
Alvaro Tarfe, your worship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters
seem clean and cool.

When he heard this Don Quixote said to SanchoLook here, Sancho;
on turning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my
history I think I came casually upon this name of Don Alvaro Tarfe.

Very likely,said Sancho; "we had better let him dismountand
by-and-by we can ask about it."

The gentleman dismountedand the landlady gave him a room on the
ground floor opposite Don Quixote's and adorned with painted serge
hangings of the same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer
coatand coming out to the gateway of the hostelrywhich was wide
and cooladdressing Don Quixotewho was pacing up and down therehe
askedIn what direction your worship bound, gentle sir?

To a village near this which is my own village,replied Don
Quixote; "and your worshipwhere are you bound for?"

I am going to Granada, senor,said the gentlemanto my own
country.

And a goodly country,said Don Quixote; "but will your worship
do me the favour of telling me your namefor it strikes me it is of
more importance to me to know it than I can tell you."

My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe,replied the traveller.

To which Don Quixote returnedI have no doubt whatever that your
worship is that Don Alvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second
Part of the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and
published by a new author.

I am the same,replied the gentleman; "and that same Don
Quixotethe principal personage in the said historywas a very great
friend of mineand it was I who took him away from homeor at
least induced him to come to some jousts that were to be held at
Saragossawhither I was going myself; indeedI showed him many
kindnessesand saved him from having his shoulders touched up by
the executioner because of his extreme rashness."

Tell meSenor Don Alvaro said Don Quixote, am I at all like that
Don Quixote you talk of?"

No indeed,replied the travellernot a bit.

And that Don Quixote-said our onehad he with him a squire
called Sancho Panza?


He had,said Don Alvaro; "but though he had the name of being very
drollI never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it."


That I can well believe,said Sancho at thisfor to come out
with drolleries is not in everybody's line; and that Sancho your
worship speaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel,
dunderhead, and thief, all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and
I have more drolleries than if it rained them; let your worship only
try; come along with me for a year or so, and you will find they
fall from me at every turn, and so rich and so plentiful that though
mostly I don't know what I am saying I make everybody that hears me
laugh. And the real Don Quixote of La Mancha, the famous, the valiant,
the wise, the lover, the righter of wrongs, the guardian of minors and
orphans, the protector of widows, the killer of damsels, he who has
for his sole mistress the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is this
gentleman before you, my master; all other Don Quixotes and all
other Sancho Panzas are dreams and mockeries.


By God I believe it,said Don Alvaro; "for you have uttered more
drolleriesmy friendin the few words you have spoken than the other
Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from himand they were not a few. He
was more greedy than well-spokenand more dull than droll; and I am
convinced that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good
have been trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don't
know what to sayfor I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the
Casa del Nuncio at Toledoand here another Don Quixote turns up
though a very different one from mine."


I don't know whether I am good,said Don Quixotebut I can
safely say I am not 'the Bad;' and to prove it, let me tell you, Senor
Don Alvaro Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far
from that, when it was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had
been present at the jousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in
order to drag his falsehood before the face of the world; and so I
went on straight to Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven
of strangers, asylum of the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the
wronged, pleasant exchange of firm friendships, and city unrivalled in
site and beauty. And though the adventures that befell me there are
not by any means matters of enjoyment, but rather of regret, I do
not regret them, simply because I have seen it. In a word, Senor Don
Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, the one that fame
speaks of, and not the unlucky one that has attempted to usurp my name
and deck himself out in my ideas. I entreat your worship by your
devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make a declaration before
the alcalde of this village that you never in all your life saw me
until now, and that neither am I the Don Quixote in print in the
Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worship
knew.


That I will do most willingly,replied Don Alvaro; "though it
amazes me to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at onceas
much alike in name as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and
declare that what I saw I cannot have seenand that what happened
me cannot have happened."


No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del
Toboso,said Sancho; "and would to heaven your disenchantment
rested on my giving myself another three thousand and odd lashes
like what I'm giving myself for herfor I'd lay them on without
looking for anything."


I don't understand that about the lashes,said Don Alvaro.
Sancho replied that it was a long story to tellbut he would tell him
if they happened to he going the same road.



By this dinner-time arrivedand Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined
together. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn
together with a notaryand Don Quixote laid a petition before him
showing that it was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe
the gentleman there presentshould make a declaration before him that
he did not know Don Quixote of La Manchaalso there presentand that
he was not the one that was in print in a history entitled "Second
Part of Don Quixote of La Manchaby one Avellaneda of Tordesillas."
The alcalde finally put it in legal formand the declaration was made
with all the formalities required in such casesat which Don
Quixote and Sancho were in high delightas if a declaration of the
sort was of any great importance to themand as if their words and
deeds did not plainly show the difference between the two Don Quixotes
and the two Sanchos. Many civilities and offers of service were
exchanged by Don Alvaro and Don Quixotein the course of which the
great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he disabused Don Alvaro
of the error he was under; and heon his partfelt convinced he must
have been enchantednow that he had been brought in contact with
two such opposite Don Quixotes.

Evening camethey set out from the villageand after about half
a league two roads branched offone leading to Don Quixote's village
the other the road Don Alvaro was to follow. In this short interval
Don Quixote told him of his unfortunate defeatand of Dulcinea's
enchantment and the remedyall which threw Don Alvaro into fresh
amazementand embracing Don Quixote and Sancho he went his wayand
Don Quixote went his. That night he passed among trees again in
order to give Sancho an opportunity of working out his penance
which he did in the same fashion as the night beforeat the expense
of the bark of the beech trees much more than of his backof which he
took such good care that the lashes would not have knocked off a fly
had there been one there. The duped Don Quixote did not miss a
single stroke of the countand he found that together with those of
the night before they made up three thousand and twenty-nine. The
sun apparently had got up early to witness the sacrificeand with his
light they resumed their journeydiscussing the deception practised
on Don Alvaroand saying how well done it was to have taken his
declaration before a magistrate in such an unimpeachable form. That
day and night they travelled onnor did anything worth mention happen
themunless it was that in the course of the night Sancho finished
off his taskwhereat Don Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He
watched for daylightto see if along the road he should fall in
with his already disenchanted lady Dulcinea; and as he pursued his
journey there was no woman he met that he did not go up toto see
if she was Dulcinea del Tobosoas he held it absolutely certain
that Merlin's promises could not lie. Full of these thoughts and
anxietiesthey ascended a rising ground wherefrom they descried their
own villageat the sight of which Sancho fell on his knees
exclaimingOpen thine eyes, longed-for home, and see how thy son
Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich, very well
whipped! Open thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote, who,
if he comes vanquishe by the arm of another, comes victor over
himself, which, as he himself has told me, is the greatest victory
anyone can desire. I'm bringing back money, for if I was well whipped,
I went mounted like a gentleman.

Have done with these fooleries,said Don Quixote; "let us push
on straight and get to our own placewhere we will give free range to
our fanciesand settle our plans for our future pastoral life."

With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their
village.


CHAPTER LXXIII

OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGEAND
OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY

At the entrance of the villageso says Cide HameteDon Quixote saw
two boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor one of whom said
to the otherTake it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again
as long as thou livest.

Don Quixote heard thisand said he to SanchoDost thou not
mark, friend, what that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as
long as thou livest'?

Well,said Sanchowhat does it matter if the boy said so?

What!said Don Quixotedost thou not see that, applied to the
object of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea
more?

Sancho was about to answerwhen his attention was diverted by
seeing a hare come flying across the plain pursued by several
greyhounds and sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and
hide itself under Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to
Don Quixotewho was sayingMalum signum, malum signum! a hare
flies, greyhounds chase it, Dulcinea appears not.

Your worship's a strange man,said Sancho; "let's take it for
granted that this hare is Dulcineaand these greyhounds chasing it
the malignant enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she
fliesand I catch her and put her into your worship's handsand
you hold her in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is thator
what ill omen is there to be found here?"

The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare
and Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was
answered by the one who had saidThou shalt never see it again as
long as thou livest,that he had taken a cage full of crickets from
the other boyand did not mean to give it back to him as long as he
lived. Sancho took out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to
the boy for the cagewhich he placed in Don Quixote's hands
sayingThere, senor! there are the omens broken and destroyed, and
they have no more to do with our affairs, to my thinking, fool as I
am, than with last year's clouds; and if I remember rightly I have
heard the curate of our village say that it does not become Christians
or sensible people to give any heed to these silly things; and even
you yourself said the same to me some time ago, telling me that all
Christians who minded omens were fools; but there's no need of
making words about it; let us push on and go into our village.

The sportsmen came up and asked for their harewhich Don Quixote
gave them. They then went onand upon the green at the entrance of
the town they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco
busy with their breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had
thrownby way of a sumpter-clothover Dapple and over the bundle
of armourthe buckram robe painted with flames which they had put
upon him at the duke's castle the night Altisidora came back to
life. He had also fixed the mitre on Dapple's headthe oddest
transformation and decoration that ever ass in the world underwent.
They were at once recognised by both the curate and the bachelor
who came towards them with open arms. Don Quixote dismounted and


received them with a close embrace; and the boyswho are lynxes
that nothing escapesspied out the ass's mitre and came running to
see itcalling out to one anotherCome here, boys, and see Sancho
Panza's ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beast
leaner than ever.

So at lengthwith the boys capering round themand accompanied
by the curate and the bachelorthey made their entrance into the
townand proceeded to Don Quixote's houseat the door of which
they found his housekeeper and niecewhom the news of his arrival had
already reached. It had been brought to Teresa PanzaSancho's wife
as welland she with her hair all loose and half nakeddragging
Sanchica her daughter by the handran out to meet her husband; but
seeing him coming in by no means as good case as she thought a
governor ought to beshe said to himHow is it you come this way,
husband? It seems to me you come tramping and footsore, and looking
more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor.

Hold your tongue, Teresa,said Sancho; "often 'where there are
pegs there are no flitches;' let's go into the house and there
you'll hear strange things. I bring moneyand that's the main
thinggot by my own industry without wronging anybody."

You bring the money, my good husband,said Teresaand no
matter whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may
have got it, you'll not have brought any new practice into the world.

Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her
anythingfor she had been looking out for him as for the showers of
May; and she taking hold of him by the girdle on one sideand his
wife by the handwhile the daughter led Dapplethey made for their
houseleaving Don Quixote in hisin the hands of his niece and
housekeeperand in the company of the curate and the bachelor.

Don Quixote at oncewithout any regard to time or season
withdrew in private with the bachelor and the curateand in a few
words told them of his defeatand of the engagement he was under
not to quit his village for a yearwhich he meant to keep to the
letter without departing a hair's breadth from itas became a
knight-errant bound by scrupulous good faith and the laws of
knight-errantry; and of how he thought of turning shepherd for that
yearand taking his diversion in the solitude of the fieldswhere he
could with perfect freedom give range to his thoughts of love while he
followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he besought themif
they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more
important businessto consent to be his companionsfor he would
buy sheep enough to qualify them for shepherds; and the most important
point of the whole affairhe could tell themwas settledfor he had
given them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked what
they were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the
shepherd Quixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrasconand the
curate the shepherd Curambroand Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.

Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; howeverlest he
should once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of
his chivalrythey trusting that in the course of the year he might be
curedfell in with his new projectapplauded his crazy idea as a
bright oneand offered to share the life with him. "And what's more
said Samson Carrasco, I amas all the world knowsa very famous
poetand I'll be always making versespastoralor courtlyor as it
may come into my headto pass away our time in those secluded regions
where we shall be roaming. But what is most needfulsirsis that
each of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to
glorify in his versesand that we should not leave a treebe it ever


so hardwithout writing up and carving her name on itas is the
habit and custom of love-smitten shepherds."

That's the very thing,said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved
from looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdessfor there's the
peerless Dulcinea del Tobosothe glory of these brooksidesthe
ornament of these meadowsthe mainstay of beautythe cream of all
the gracesandin a wordthe being to whom all praise is
appropriatebe it ever so hyperbolical."

Very true,said the curate; "but we the others must look about for
accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or
another."

And,added Samson Carrascoif they fail us, we can call them
by the names of the ones in print that the world is filled with,
Filidas, Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as
they sell them in the market-places we may fairly buy them and make
them our own. If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to
be called Ana, I'll sing her praises under the name of Anarda, and
if Francisca, I'll call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it
all comes to the same thing; and Sancho Panza, if he joins this
fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa Panza as Teresaina.

Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the nameand the curate
bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he
had madeand again offered to bear him company all the time that he
could spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave
of himrecommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and
treat himself to a suitable diet.

It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three
of them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came
in to Don Quixoteand said the nieceWhat's this, uncle? Now that
we were thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet
respectable life there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements,
and turn 'young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd
going there?' Nay! indeed 'the straw is too hard now to make pipes
of.'

And,added the housekeeperwill your worship be able to bear,
out in the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter,
and the howling of the wolves? Not you; for that's a life and a
business for hardy men, bred and seasoned to such work almost from the
time they were in swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils,
it's better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor;
take my advice- and I'm not giving it to you full of bread and wine,
but fasting, and with fifty years upon my head- stay at home, look
after your affairs, go often to confession, be good to the poor, and
upon my soul be it if any evil comes to you.

Hold your peace, my daughters,said Don Quixote; "I know very well
what my duty is; help me to bedfor I don't feel very well; and
rest assured thatknight-errant now or wandering shepherd to beI
shall never fail to have a care for your interestsas you will see in
the end." And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were)the
housekeeper and niecehelped him to bedwhere they gave him
something to eat and made him as comfortable as possible.

CHAPTER LXXIV


OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICKAND OF THE WILL HE MADEAND HOW HE DIED

As nothing that is man's can last for everbut all tends ever
downwards from its beginning to its endand above all man's lifeand
as Don Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay
its courseits end and close came when he least looked for it. Forwhether
it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat producedor
of heaven's will that so ordered it- a fever settled upon him and kept
him in his bed for six daysduring which he was often visited by
his friends the curatethe bachelorand the barberwhile his good
squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. Theypersuaded that it
was grief at finding himself vanquishedand the object of his
heartthe liberation and disenchantment of Dulcineaunattainedthat
kept him in this statestrove by all the means in their power to
cheer him up; the bachelor bidding him take heart and get up to
begin his pastoral lifefor which he himselfhe saidhad already
composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of all Sannazaro had
ever writtenand had bought with his own money two famous dogs to
guard the flockone called Barcino and the other Butronwhich a
herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His
friends called in the doctorwho felt his pulse and was not very well
satisfied with itand said that in any case it would be well for
him to attend to the health of his soulas that of his body was in
a bad way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his
housekeeperhis nieceand his squirewho fell weeping bitterly
as if they had him lying dead before them. The doctor's opinion was
that melancholy and depression were bringing him to his end. Don
Quixote begged them to leave him to himselfas he had a wish to sleep
a little. They obeyedand he slept at one stretchas the saying
ismore than six hoursso that the housekeeper and niece thought
he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke
upand in a loud voice exclaimedBlessed be Almighty God, who has
shown me such goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the
sins of men can neither limit them nor keep them back!

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's wordsand they
struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from himat
least during his illnessso she askedWhat are you saying, senor?
Has anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are
you talking of?

The mercies, niece,said Don Quixoteare those that God has this
moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to
them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of
ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books
of chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and
deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my
illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some
amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece,
I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in
such a way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should
leave behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I
would not that the fact should be made plainer at my death. Call in to
me, my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco,
and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my
will.But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the
three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimedGood news for
you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but
Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am
I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of
his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of
knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which


reading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right
senses, I loathe them.

When the three heard him speak in this waythey had no doubt
whatever that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said
SamsonWhat? Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the
lady Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now,
just as we are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives
singing, like princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for
heaven's sake, be rational and let's have no more nonsense.

All that nonsense,said Don Quixotethat until now has been a
reality to my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my
good. I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to
jesting; let me have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make
my will; for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his
soul; and while the curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go
for the notary.

They looked at one anotherwondering at Don Quixote's words; but
though uncertainthey were inclined to believe himand one of the
signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so
sudden and complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to
the words already quoted he added much moreso well expressedso
devoutand so rationalas to banish all doubt and convince them that
he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all outand left alone
with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary and
returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sanchowhohaving
already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was inand
finding the housekeeper and niece weepingbegan to blubber and shed
tears.

The confession overthe curate came out sayingAlonso Quixano the
Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go
in to him while he makes his will.

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the
housekeepernieceand Sancho Panza his good squiremaking the tears
burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of
a truthas has been said more than oncewhether as plain Alonso
Quixano the Goodor as Don Quixote of La ManchaDon Quixote was
always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his waysand hence
he was belovednot only by those of his own housebut by all who
knew him.

The notary came in with the restand as soon as the preamble of the
had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with
all the devout formalities that are usualcoming to the bequests
he saidItem, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the
hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire),
inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain accounts and
debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any account
demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything remain over
and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance,
which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it do him;
and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the government
of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give him that of
a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his character and
the fidelity of his conduct deserve it.And thenturning to
Sanchohe saidForgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as
mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell
into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world.

Ah!said Sancho weepingdon't die, master, but take my advice


and live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this
life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody
killing him, or any hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come,
don't be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the
fields in shepherd's trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we
shall find the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be.
If it be that you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay
the blame on me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed
Rocinante badly; besides you must have seen in your books of
chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to upset one another,
and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror tomorrow.

Very true,said Samsonand good Sancho Panza's view of these
cases is quite right.

Sirs, not so fast,said Don Quixote'in last year's nests
there are no birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was
Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the
Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you
used to have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed.

ItemI leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my
niecehere presentafter all has been deducted from the most
available portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I
have made. And the first disbursement I desire to be made is the
payment of the wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served
mewith twenty ducatsover and abovefor a gown. The curate and the
bachelor Samson Carrasconow presentI appoint my executors.

Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to
marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all
ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of
chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if, in
spite of this, my niece insists upon marrying him, and does marry him,
then that she shall forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which
my executors shall devote to works of charity as they please.

ItemI entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executorsthatif
any happy chance should lead them to discover the author who is said
to have written a history now going about under the title of 'Second
Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha' they beg of him
on my behalf as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been
without intending itthe cause of his writing so many and such
monstrous absurdities as he has written in it; for I am leaving the
world with a feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write
them."

With this he closed his willand a faintness coming over him he
stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter
and made haste to relieve himand during the three days he lived
after that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The
house was all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the
housekeeper drank and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting
property wipes out or softens down in the heir the feeling of grief
the dead man might be expected to leave behind him.

At last Don Quixote's end cameafter he had received all the
sacramentsand had in full and forcible terms expressed his
detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at the time
and he said that in no book of chivalry had he ever read of any
knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so like a Christian as
Don Quixotewho amid the tears and lamentations of all present
yielded up his spiritthat is to say died. On perceiving it the
curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso Quixano the Good


commonly called Don Quixote of La Manchahad passed away from this
present lifeand died naturally; and said he desired this testimony
in order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cide
Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making
interminable stories out of his achievements.


Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Manchawhose
village Cide Hamete would not indicate preciselyin order to leave
all the towns and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves
for the right to adopt him and claim him as a sonas the seven cities
of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the
niece and housekeeper are omitted hereas well as the new epitaphs
upon his tomb; Samson Carrascohoweverput the following lines:


A doughty gentleman lies here;
A stranger all his life to fear;
Nor in his death could Death prevail
In that last hourto make him quail.
He for the world but little cared;
And at his feats the world was scared;
A crazy man his life he passed
But in his senses died at last.


And said most sage Cide Hamete to his penRest here, hung up by
this brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or
clumsy cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence,
unless presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to
profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou
canst, say to them:


Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!


Adventure it let none,
For this emprise, my lord the king,

Was meant for me alone.

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act,
mine to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in
spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or
would venture with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to
write the achievements of my valiant knight;- no burden for his
shoulders, nor subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou
shouldst come to know him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they
lie the weary mouldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to
carry him off, in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old
Castile, making him rise from the grave where in reality and truth
he lies stretched at full length, powerless to make any third
expedition or new sally; for the two that he has already made, so much
to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to whom they have become
known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are quite sufficient
for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of those made by
the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou discharge
thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that bears
ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been
the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as
he could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver
over to the detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of
the books of chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote,
are even now tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever.
Farewell.