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Don Quixote
Cervantes, Migeul de
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D
ON QUIXOTE by Miguel de Cervantes Translated by John Ormsby
Don Quixote
2
PREFACE − 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
journeys, and 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 doubt, be relished by a minority,
but 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 vigour, but also a full
measure of the faults, of 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
Spanish, but 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 original, it savours of truism or platitude to say so, for 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 unmanageable, or that the
untranslatable words, numerous enough no doubt, are so superabundant, but rather that the
sententious terseness to which the humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to
Spanish, and can at best be only distantly imitated in any other tongue.
The history of our English translations of «Don Quixote» is instructive. Shelton's, the
first in any language, was made, apparently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of
course was only the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second, published in 1620, is not
the work of Shelton, but there is nothing to support the assertion save the fact that it has less
spirit, less of what we generally understand by «go,» about it than the first, which would be
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 3
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
says, «according to the humour of our modern language.» His «Quixote» is not so much a
translation as a travesty, and a travesty that for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is
almost unexampled even in the literature of that day.
Ned Ward's «Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, merrily translated into
Hudibrastic Verse» (1700), can scarcely be reckoned a translation, but 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 Motteux,
who 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 facetiousness, as Motteux's operators did, is not merely an impertinence like
larding a sirloin of prize beef, but an absolute falsification of the spirit of the book, and 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 represent, worse than worthless as
misrepresenting− should have been favoured as it has been.
It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation undertaken and executed in a
very different spirit, that of Charles Jervas, the portrait painter, and friend of Pope, Swift,
Arbuthnot, and Gay. Jervas has been allowed little credit for his work, indeed it may be said
none, for it is known to the world in general as Jarvis's. It was not published until after his
death, and 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 other, it is admitted on all hands to be by far the most faithful,
and 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 preface, where among many true words about
Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, he rashly and unjustly charges Shelton with having
translated not from the Spanish, but from the Italian version of Franciosini, which did not
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 4
appear until ten years after Shelton's first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too, seems
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 Shelton, whom he disparaged. It is true that in a few
difficult or obscure passages he has followed Shelton, and gone astray with him; but for one
case of this sort, there are fifty where he is right and Shelton wrong. As for Pope's dictum,
anyone who examines Jervas's version carefully, side by side with the original, will see that
he was a sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one than Shelton, except perhaps in
mere colloquial Spanish. He was, in fact, an honest, faithful, and painstaking translator, and
he has left a version which, whatever its shortcomings may be, is singularly free from errors
and mistranslations.
The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry− «wooden» in a word,− and 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 light, flippant, jocose style of his predecessors. He
was one of the few, very few, translators 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 things, and 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 editions, it should be observed,
his style has been smoothed and smartened, but without any reference to the original
Spanish, so that if he has been made to read more agreeably he has also been robbed of his
chief merit of fidelity.
Smollett's version, published in 1755, may be almost counted as one of these. At any
rate it is plain that in its construction Jervas's translation was very freely drawn upon, and
very little or probably no heed given to the original Spanish.
The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George Kelly's, which appeared
in 1769, «printed for the Translator,» was an impudent imposture, being nothing more than
Motteux's version with a few of the words, here and there, artfully transposed; Charles
Wilmot's (1774) was only an abridgment like Florian's, but not so skilfully executed; and the
version published by Miss Smirke in 1818, to accompany her brother's plates, was merely a
patchwork production made out of former translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J. Duffield's, it
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 me, and since then I may say vidi
tantum, having 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
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 5
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 classic, should 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 general, or, if it is, the fault rests with him who makes so. The method by
which Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish people ought, mutatis mutandis, to be equally
effective with the great majority of English readers. At any rate, even if there are readers to
whom it is a matter of indifference, fidelity to the method is as much a part of the translator's
duty as fidelity to the matter. If he can please all parties, so 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 them, faithful to the letter so long as fidelity is practicable, faithful to the spirit so far
as he can make it.
My purpose here is not to dogmatise on the rules of translation, but to indicate those I
have followed, or at least tried to the best of my ability to follow, in the present instance.
One which, it 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
speeches, the 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 mouths,
it 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 deserves, will 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 ask,
who and what manner of man was this Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra whose name is on the
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 6
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 existed, transmitted from men who had known him, had long
since died out, and 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 baptism, or the draft of his will, or the orthography of his name
that we seek; no letter of his writing, no record of his conversation, no character of him
drawn ... by a contemporary has been produced.»
It is only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cervantes, forced to make brick
without straw, should have recourse largely to conjecture, and 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 conjecture, and 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 literature,
Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Quevedo, Calderon, Garcilaso de la Vega, the Mendozas,
Gongora, were all men of ancient families, and, curiously, all, except the last, of 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 origin, and 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 Ancestry, Glorious Deeds, and Noble
Posterity of the Famous Nuno Alfonso, Alcaide 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.
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 7
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 Servantes, and 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.» Ford, as all know who have taken
him for a companion and counsellor on the roads of Spain, is seldom wrong in matters of
literature or history. In this instance, however, he 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. Gonzalo, above mentioned, it may be readily conceived, did not
relish the appropriation by his brother of a name to which he himself had an equal right, for
though nominally taken from the castle, it was in reality derived from the ancient territorial
possession of the family, and as a set−off, and to distinguish himself (diferenciarse) from his
brother, he took as a surname the name of the castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the
building of which, according to a family tradition, his great−grandfather had a share.
Both brothers founded families. The Cervantes branch had more tenacity; it sent
offshoots in various directions, Andalusia, Estremadura, Galicia, and Portugal, and produced
a goodly line of men distinguished in the service of Church and State. Gonzalo himself, and
apparently a son of his, followed 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
Granada, and his descendants intermarried with some of the noblest families of the
Peninsula and numbered among them soldiers, magistrates, and Church dignitaries,
including at least two cardinal−archbishops.
Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Deigo de Cervantes, Commander of the Order of
Santiago, married Juana Avellaneda, daughter of Juan Arias de Saavedra, and had several
sons, of whom one was Gonzalo Gomez, Corregidor of Jerez and ancestor of the Mexican
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 8
and Columbian branches of the family; and another, Juan, whose son Rodrigo married Dona
Leonor de Cortinas, and by her had four children, Rodrigo, Andrea, Luisa, and Miguel, our
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 point, too, to what he says in more than one
place about families that have once been great and have tapered away until they have come
to nothing, like 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 October, 1547. Of his boyhood and youth we know nothing, unless 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 glimpse, however, is a significant one, for 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 older, and of which this very preface, written only a few months before his death,
is such a striking proof. He gives us to understand, too, that he was a great reader in his
youth; but of this no assurance was needed, for the First Part of «Don Quixote» alone proves
a vast amount of miscellaneous reading, romances of chivalry, ballads, popular poetry,
chronicles, for 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 always, it may be noticed,
those 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 absolute, and the Church
and Inquisition adroitly adjusted to keep him so. The nobles, who had always resisted
absolutism as strenuously as they had fought the Moors, had been divested of all political
power, a like fate had befallen the cities, the free constitutions of Castile and Aragon had
been swept away, and the only function that remained to the Cortes was that of granting
money at the King's dictation.
The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Garcilaso de la Vega and Diego
Hurtado de Mendoza, followed the Italian wars, had brought back from Italy the products of
the post−Renaissance literature, which took root and flourished and even threatened to
extinguish the native growths. Damon and Thyrsis, Phyllis and Chloe had been fairly
naturalised in Spain, together 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
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 9
this, the old historical and traditional ballads, and the true pastorals, the songs and ballads of
peasant life, were being collected assiduously and printed in the cancioneros that succeeded
one another with increasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence, perhaps, of 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 reading, solid or light, there could have been no better spot in Spain
than Alcala de Henares in the middle of the sixteenth century. It was then a busy, populous
university town, something more than the enterprising rival of Salamanca, and altogether a
very different place from the melancholy, silent, deserted Alcala the traveller sees now as he
goes from Madrid to Saragossa. Theology and medicine may have been the strong points of
the university, but the town itself seems to have inclined rather to the humanities and light
literature, and as a producer of books Alcala was already beginning to compete with the
older presses of Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca and Seville.
A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his first playgoings might, no doubt,
have been often seen in the streets of Alcala at that time; a bright, eager, tawny−haired boy
peering into a book−shop where the latest volumes lay open to tempt the public, wondering,
it may be, what that little book with the woodcut of the blind beggar and his boy, that called
itself «Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes, segunda 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 education, we are told, he went to Salamanca. But why Rodrigo de
Cervantes, who was very poor, should have sent his son to a university a hundred and fifty
miles away when he had one at his own door, would be a puzzle, if we had any reason for
supposing that he did so. The only evidence is a vague statement by Professor Tomas
Gonzalez, that 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 had, and if the date
corresponded, it would prove nothing, as there were at least two other Miguels born about
the middle of the century; one of them, moreover, a Cervantes Saavedra, a cousin, no doubt,
who 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 did, and he has nowhere left a
single reminiscence of student life− for 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.»
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 10
This was in a little collection of verses by different hands on the death of Isabel de Valois,
second queen of Philip II, published by the professor in 1569, to which Cervantes
contributed four pieces, including an elegy, and 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 sort, and Cervantes was
no Milton. His verses are no worse than such things usually are; so much, at least, may be
said for them.
By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as fate ordered it, for twelve
years, the most eventful ones of his life. Giulio, afterwards Cardinal, Acquaviva had been
sent at the end of 1568 to Philip II by the Pope on a mission, partly of condolence, partly
political, and on his return to Rome, which was somewhat brusquely expedited by the King,
he 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 it, but in the summer of 1570 he resigned it and enlisted as a private
soldier in Captain Diego Urbina's company, belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada's
regiment, but at that time forming a part of the command of Marc Antony Colonna. What
impelled him to this step we know not, whether it was distaste for the career before him, or
purely military enthusiasm. It may well have been the latter, for it was a stirring time; the
events, however, which led to the alliance between Spain, Venice, and the Pope, against the
common enemy, the Porte, and to the victory of the combined fleets at Lepanto, belong
rather to the history of Europe than to the life of Cervantes. He was one of those that sailed
from Messina, in September 1571, under the command of Don John of Austria; but on the
morning of the 7th of October, when the Turkish fleet was sighted, he was lying below ill
with fever. At the news that the enemy was in sight he rose, and, in spite of the
remonstrances of his comrades and superiors, insisted on taking his post, saying he preferred
death in the service of God and the King to health. His galley, the Marquesa, was in the
thick of the fight, and before it was over he had received three gunshot wounds, two in the
breast and one in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the battle, according to
Navarrete, he had an interview with the commander−in−chief, Don John, who was making a
personal inspection of the wounded, one result of which was an addition of three crowns to
his pay, and another, apparently, the friendship of his general.
How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from the fact, that with youth, a
vigorous frame, and as cheerful and buoyant a temperament as ever invalid had, he 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 it, as Mercury told him in the «Viaje del
Parnaso» for the greater glory of the right. This, however, did not absolutely unfit him for
service, and in April 1572 he joined Manuel Ponce de Leon's company of Lope de
Figueroa's regiment, in which, it seems probable, his brother Rodrigo was serving, and
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
Turks, he obtained leave to return to Spain, and sailed from Naples in September 1575 on
board the Sun galley, in company with his brother Rodrigo, Pedro Carrillo de Quesada, late
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 11
Governor of the Goletta, and some others, and furnished with letters from Don John of
Austria and the Duke of Sesa, the Viceroy of Sicily, recommending him to the King for the
command of a company, on account of his services; a dono infelice as events proved. On the
26th they fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and 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 condition, and the poor people at Alcala at once strove to raise the ransom money, the
father disposing of all he possessed, and 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 Sesa, and, 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
Rodrigo, however, was more easily satisfied; ransom was accepted in his case, and 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 Oran, then a Spanish post, on foot; but after the first day's journey, the Moor who had
agreed to act as their guide deserted them, and they had no choice but to return. The second
attempt was more disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the sea−shore, he constructed,
with the help of the gardener, a Spaniard, a hiding−place, to which he brought, one by one,
fourteen of his fellow−captives, keeping them there in secrecy for several months, and
supplying them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador, «the Gilder.» How he, a
captive himself, contrived to do all this, is one of the mysteries of the story. Wild as the
project may appear, it was very nearly successful. The vessel procured by Rodrigo made its
appearance off the coast, and under cover of night was proceeding to take off the refugees,
when the crew were alarmed by a passing fishing boat, and beat a hasty retreat. On renewing
the attempt shortly afterwards, they, or a portion of them at least, were taken prisoners, and
just as the poor fellows in the garden were exulting in the thought that in a few moments
more freedom would be within their grasp, they found themselves surrounded by Turkish
troops, horse and foot. The Dorador had revealed the whole scheme to the Dey Hassan.
When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged his companions to lay all the
blame upon him, and as they were being bound he declared aloud that the whole plot was of
his contriving, and that nobody else had any share in it. Brought before the Dey, he 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 master, and the
prisoners taken possession of by the Dey, who, however, afterwards restored most of them
to their masters, but kept Cervantes, paying Dali Mami 500 crowns for him. He felt, no
doubt, that a man of such resource, energy, and daring, was too dangerous a piece of
property to be left in private hands; and he had him heavily ironed and lodged in his own
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prison. If he thought that by these means he could break the spirit or shake the resolution of
his prisoner, he was soon undeceived, for Cervantes contrived before long to despatch a
letter to the Governor of Oran, entreating him to send him some one that could be trusted, to
enable him and three other gentlemen, fellow−captives of his, to 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 Oran, and the letter being found
upon him, he was sent back to Algiers, where by the order of the Dey he was promptly
impaled as a warning to others, while Cervantes was condemned to receive two thousand
blows of the stick, a 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
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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 crown, and utterly penniless now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was
in the expeditions to the Azores in 1582 and the following year, and on the conclusion of the
war returned to Spain in the autumn of 1583, bringing with him the manuscript of his
pastoral romance, the «Galatea,» and probably also, to judge by internal evidence, that of the
first portion of «Persiles and Sigismunda.» He also brought back with him, his biographers
assert, an infant daughter, the offspring of an amour, as some of them with great
circumstantiality inform us, with a Lisbon lady of noble birth, whose name, however, as
well as that of the street she lived in, they 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 Saavedra,
who is described in an official document as his natural daughter, and 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 services, and 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 mind, therefore, to cast his lot with literature, and for a first venture committed
his «Galatea» to the press. It was published, as Salva y Mallen shows conclusively, at
Alcala, his own birth−place, in 1585 and no doubt helped to make his name more widely
known, but certainly did not do him much good in any other way.
While it was going through the press, he married Dona Catalina de Palacios Salazar y
Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias near Madrid, and apparently a friend of the family, who
brought him a fortune which may possibly have served to keep the wolf from the door, but if
so, that was all. The drama had by this time outgrown market−place stages and strolling
companies, and with his old love for it he naturally turned to it for a congenial employment.
In about three years he wrote twenty or thirty plays, which he tells us were performed
without any throwing of cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their course without any
hisses, outcries, or disturbance. In other words, his plays were not bad enough to be hissed
off the stage, but not good enough to hold their own upon it. Only two of them have been
preserved, but as they happen to be two of the seven or eight he mentions with complacency,
we may assume they are favourable specimens, and no one who reads the «Numancia» and
the «Trato de Argel» will feel any surprise that they failed as acting dramas. Whatever
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PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 14
merits they may have, whatever occasional they may show, they are, as regards construction,
incurably 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 cause, as is often said, notwithstanding his own words to the contrary. When Lope
began to write for the stage is uncertain, but it was certainly after Cervantes went to Seville.
Among the «Nuevos Documentos» printed by Senor Asensio y Toledo is one dated
1592, and curiously characteristic of Cervantes. It is an agreement with one Rodrigo Osorio,
a manager, who was to accept six comedies at fifty ducats (about 6l.) apiece, not 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 found, no doubt, more than one letter like that we see in the «Rake's Progress,»
«Sir, I have read your play, and it will not doo.»
He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 1595 in honour of the
canonisation of St. Jacinto, when his composition won the first prize, three 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 merchant, who failed and absconded; and as the bankrupt's assets were
insufficient to cover the whole, he was sent to prison at Seville in September 1597. The
balance against him, however, was a small one, about 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 taxes, that 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 sunshades, mounted on their tall mules; the
strollers in costume bound for the next village; the barber with his basin on his head, on his
way to bleed a patient; the recruit with his breeches in his bundle, tramping 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 in, the
ox−tail hanging up with the landlord's comb stuck in it, the wine−skins at the bed−head, and
those notable examples of hostelry art, Helen going off in high spirits on Paris's arm, and
Dido on the tower dropping tears as big as walnuts. Nay, it may well be that on those
journeys into remote regions he came across now and then a specimen of the pauper
gentleman, with his lean hack and his greyhound and his books of chivalry, dreaming 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 vocation, though he himself
would not by any means have admitted it to be so. It was there, in Triana, that he was first
tempted to try his hand at drawing from life, and first brought his humour into play in the
exquisite little sketch of «Rinconete y Cortadillo,» the germ, in more ways than one, of
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 15
«Don Quixote.»
Where and when that was written, we cannot tell. After his imprisonment all trace of
Cervantes in his official capacity disappears, from 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 II,
but 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 book, and wrote the beginning of it at least, in a prison, and 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's, which 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 it, that he did not
care to incur the expense of securing the copyright for Aragon or Portugal, contenting
himself with that for Castile. The printing was finished in December, and the book came out
with the new year, 1605. 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 Valencia, and to bring out a second edition
with the additional copyrights for Aragon and Portugal, which he secured in February.
No doubt it was received with something more than coldness by certain sections of the
community. Men of wit, taste, and discrimination among the aristocracy gave it a hearty
welcome, but 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
enemy, and it is plain that he was equally obnoxious to the other clique, the culto poets who
had Gongora for their chief. Navarrete, who knew nothing of the letter above mentioned,
tries hard to show that the relations between Cervantes and Lope were of a very friendly
sort, as indeed they were until «Don Quixote» was written. Cervantes, indeed, to the last
generously and manfully declared his admiration of Lope's powers, his unfailing invention,
and 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 places, there are, if we read
between the lines, sly hits at Lope's vanities and affectations that argue no personal
good−will; and Lope openly sneers at «Don Quixote» and Cervantes, and 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
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PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 16
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 favour, and its author's name was now
known beyond the Pyrenees. In 1607 an edition was printed at Brussels. Robles, the Madrid
publisher, found it necessary to meet the demand by a third edition, the seventh in all, in
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 that, with 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.
But, to all appearance, nothing 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 Quixote, he set to work to write more of these «Novelas
Exemplares» as he afterwards called them, with a view to making a book of them.
The novels were published in the summer of 1613, with a dedication to the Conde de
Lemos, the Maecenas of the day, and with one of those chatty confidential prefaces
Cervantes was so fond of. In this, eight years and a half after the First Part of «Don
Quixote» had appeared, we 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 one, for, as we know by the date to Sancho's letter,
he had barely one−half of the book completed that time twelvemonth.
But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his dramatic ambition that
engrossed his thoughts. The same indomitable spirit that kept him from despair in the
bagnios of Algiers, and prompted him to attempt the escape of himself and his comrades
again and again, made 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 novels, with the aquiline features,
chestnut hair, smooth untroubled forehead, and bright cheerful eyes, is 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
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PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 17
great national drama, based on the true principles of art, that was to be the envy of all
nations; he was to drive from the stage the silly, childish plays, the «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 do, could
he once get a hearing: there was the initial difficulty.
He shows plainly enough, too, that «Don Quixote» and the demolition of the chivalry
romances was not the work that lay next his heart. He was, indeed, as he says himself in his
preface, more a stepfather than a father to «Don Quixote.» Never was great work so
neglected by its author. That it was written carelessly, hastily, and by fits and starts, was not
always his fault, but it seems clear he never read what he sent to the press. He knew how the
printers had blundered, but he never took the trouble to correct them when the third edition
was in progress, as 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 entretenimiento, an
amusing book, a thing, as he says in the «Viaje,» «to divert the melancholy moody heart at
any time or season.» No doubt he had an affection for his hero, and 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 proud, too, of the popularity and success of the
book, and 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 Mayor, for one such success as Lope de Vega was
enjoying on an average once a week.
And so he went on, dawdling over «Don Quixote,» adding a chapter now and again, and
putting it aside to turn to «Persiles and Sigismunda» −which, as we know, was to be the
most entertaining book in the language, and the rival of «Theagenes and Chariclea»− or
finishing off one of his darling comedies; and if Robles asked when «Don Quixote» would
be ready, the answer no doubt was: En breve− shortly, 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 coming, however. He had got as far as Chapter LIX, which at his leisurely
pace he could hardly have reached before October or November 1614, when there was put
into his hand a small octave lately printed at Tarragona, and 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 him,
and his irritation was not likely to be lessened by the reflection that he had no one to blame
but himself. Had Avellaneda, in fact, been 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,
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PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 18
«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 be, I imagine, the verdict of the vast majority of
unprejudiced readers. He is, at best, a 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 personage, and Sancho mistake
words, invert proverbs, and display his gluttony; all through he shows a proclivity to
coarseness and dirt, and 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 be, we must not forget the debt we owe
them. But for them, there can be no doubt, «Don Quixote» would have come to us a mere
torso instead of a complete work. Even if Cervantes had finished the volume he had in hand,
most 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 chivalry, and but for Avellaneda he would have tried to carry it out. But it is more
likely that, with his plans, and projects, and hopefulness, the volume would have remained
unfinished till his death, and that we should have never made the acquaintance of the Duke
and Duchess, or 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 aside, he
set himself to finish off his task and protect Don Quixote in the only way he could, by
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PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 19
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 is, at any rate, a conclusion and for that we must thank Avellaneda.
The new volume was ready for the press in February, but was not printed till the very
end of 1615, and during the interval Cervantes put together the comedies and interludes he
had written within the last few years, and, as he adds plaintively, found no demand for
among the managers, and published them with a preface, worth the book it introduces
tenfold, in which he gives an account of the early Spanish stage, and 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 reader, however, was not to suppose they were his last
word or final effort in the drama, for 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
activity, his restless invention and his sanguine temperament, and 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
bargain, perhaps, as far as happiness in life is concerned.
Of his burial−place nothing is known except that he was buried, in accordance with his
will, in the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter,
Isabel de Saavedra, was an inmate, and that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to
another convent, carrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of Cervantes were
included in the removal or not no one knows, and 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 memory, or at least that it was insensible to
his merits, and left him to live in misery and die of want. To talk of his hard life and
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unworthy employments in Andalusia is absurd. What had he done to distinguish him from
thousands of other struggling men earning a precarious livelihood? True, he was a gallant
soldier, who had been wounded and had undergone captivity and suffering in his country's
cause, but there were hundreds of others in the same case. He had written a mediocre
specimen of an insipid class of romance, and some plays which manifestly did not comply
with the primary condition of pleasing: were the playgoers to patronise plays that did not
amuse them, because the author was to produce «Don Quixote» twenty years afterwards?
The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed immediately on the
appearance of the book, does not look like general insensibility to its merits. No doubt it was
received coldly by some, but 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 readers, the sentimentalists, the
dramatists, and the poets of the period all against him, it 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 days, it 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 it, and 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 monument, that is to say, of him; for the bronze statue in the little
garden of the Plaza de las Cortes, a fair work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it
been set up to the local poet in the market−place of some provincial town, is 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 quoeris, circumspice. 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
died, thirty thousand copies in all, according to his own estimate, and a tenth was printed at
Barcelona the year after his death. So large a number naturally supplied the demand for
some time, but 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 Bible, in fact, no book has been so widely diffused as «Don
Quixote.» The «Imitatio Christi» may have been translated into as many different languages,
and perhaps «Robinson Crusoe» and the «Vicar of Wakefield» into nearly as many, but in
multiplicity of translations and editions «Don Quixote» leaves them all far behind.
Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion. «Don Quixote» has been
thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas about knight−errantry, if they had any at
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 21
all, were of the vaguest, who had never seen or heard of a book of chivalry, who could not
possibly feel the humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the author's purpose. Another
curious fact is that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the world, is one of the most
intensely national. «Manon Lescaut» is not more thoroughly French, «Tom Jones» not more
English, «Rob Roy» not more Scotch, than «Don Quixote» is Spanish, in character, in ideas,
in sentiment, in local colour, in everything. What, then, is the secret of this unparalleled
popularity, increasing year by year for well−nigh three centuries? One explanation, no
doubt, is that of all the books in the world, «Don Quixote» is the most catholic. There is
something in it for every sort of reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As
Cervantes himself says with a touch of pride, «It 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 which, more than its humour, or its
wisdom, or the fertility of invention or knowledge of human nature it displays, has insured
its success with the multitude, is the vein of farce that runs through it. It was the attack upon
the sheep, the battle with the wine−skins, Mambrino's helmet, the balsam of Fierabras, Don
Quixote knocked over by the sails of the windmill, Sancho tossed in the blanket, the mishaps
and misadventures of master and man, that were originally the great attraction, and perhaps
are so still to some extent with the majority of readers. It is plain that «Don Quixote» was
generally regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for a long time, as little more than a queer
droll book, full of laughable incidents and absurd situations, very amusing, but not entitled
to much consideration or care. All the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to 1771, when the
famous printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade editions, badly and carelessly printed on
vile paper and got up in the style of chap−books intended only for popular use, with, in 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 1738, commonly called
Lord Carteret's from having been suggested by him, was not a mere edition de luxe. It
produced «Don Quixote» in becoming form as regards paper and type, and embellished with
plates which, if not particularly happy as illustrations, were at least well intentioned and well
executed, but it also aimed at correctness of text, a 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 successful, for though some of its emendations are inadmissible, a
good many of them have been adopted by all subsequent editors.
The zeal of publishers, editors, and 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 denied, but, according to the new view, it was rated as an altogether
secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than the stalking−horse under the
presentation of which Cervantes shot his philosophy or his satire, or whatever it was he
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 22
meant to shoot; for on this point opinions varied. All were agreed, however, that 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 Second, that he had no other object in view than to
discredit these books, and this, to advanced criticism, made it clear that his object must have
been something else.
One theory was that the book was a kind of allegory, setting forth the eternal struggle
between the ideal and the real, between 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 antagonism, no doubt, is 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 fell, and as chivalry was essentially republican in its nature, it 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
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PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 23
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 mistresses, that
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 history, the
man that was seen in that once celebrated drapery was pointed at as a Don Quixote, and
found himself the jest of high and low. And I verily believe that to this, and this only, we
owe that dampness and poverty of spirit which has run through all our councils for a century
past, so little agreeable to those nobler actions of our famous ancestors.»
To call «Don Quixote» a sad book, preaching a pessimist view of life, argues a total
misconception of its drift. It would be so if its moral were that, in this world, true
enthusiasm naturally leads to ridicule and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort;
its moral, so far as it can be said to have one, is that the spurious enthusiasm that is born of
vanity and self−conceit, that is made an end in itself, not a means to an end, that acts on
mere impulse, regardless of circumstances and consequences, is mischievous to its owner,
and a very considerable nuisance to the community at large. To those who cannot
distinguish between the one kind and the other, no 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 written, a 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 plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter into the original scheme, for
had Cervantes thought of him he certainly would not have omitted him in his hero's outfit,
which 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 first, like the others, without any division and without the
intervention of Cide Hamete Benengeli; and it seems not unlikely that Cervantes had some
intention of bringing Dulcinea, or Aldonza Lorenzo, on the scene in person. It was probably
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 24
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. What, if instead of a mere
string of farcical misadventures, he were to make his tale a burlesque of one of these books,
caricaturing their style, incidents, and spirit?
In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and somewhat clumsily divided what he
had written into chapters on the model of «Amadis,» invented the fable of a mysterious
Arabic manuscript, and set up Cide Hamete Benengeli in imitation of the almost invariable
practice of the chivalry−romance authors, who were fond of tracing their books to some
recondite source. In working out the new ideas, he soon found the value of Sancho Panza.
Indeed, the keynote, not only to Sancho's part, but to the whole book, is 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 glance, the stolid unconsciousness of Sancho
and the perplexity of his master, upon 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 absurdum, always 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 earnest, the case was very much altered.
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had not merely found favour, but had already become, what
they have never since ceased to be, veritable entities to the popular imagination. There was
no occasion for him now to interpolate extraneous matter; nay, his readers told him plainly
that what they wanted of him was more Don Quixote and more Sancho Panza, and not
novels, tales, or digressions. To himself, too, his creations had become realities, and he had
become proud of them, especially of Sancho. He began the Second Part, therefore, under
very different conditions, and the difference makes itself manifest at once. Even in
translation the style will be seen to be far easier, more flowing, more natural, and more like
that of a man sure of himself and of his audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a
change also. In the First Part, Don 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
therefore, it is absurd to speak of him in the gushing strain of the sentimental critics when
they dilate upon his nobleness, disinterestedness, dauntless courage, and so forth. It was the
business of a knight−errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and succour the distressed, and
this, as a matter of course, he makes his business when he takes up the part; a knight−errant
was bound to be intrepid, and so he feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all Byron's melodious
nonsense about Don Quixote, the 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.
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 25
In the Second Part, Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader, as 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 chivalry, and that on every other subject he is discreto, one, in
fact, whose 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 reflections, and so,
without seeming to digress, allow 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 him, such as his mixture of irascibility
and placability, and his curious affection for Sancho together with his impatience of the
squire's loquacity and impertinence; but in the main, apart from his craze, he is little more
than a thoughtful, cultured gentleman, with instinctive good taste and a great deal of
shrewdness and originality of mind.
As to Sancho, it is plain, from the concluding words of the preface to the First Part, that
he was a favourite with his creator even before he had been taken into favour by the public.
An inferior genius, taking him in hand a second time, would very likely have tried to
improve him by making him more comical, clever, amiable, or virtuous. But Cervantes was
too true an artist to spoil his work in this way. Sancho, when he reappears, is the old Sancho
with the old familiar features; but with a difference; they have been brought out more
distinctly, but at the same time with a careful avoidance of anything like caricature; the
outline has been filled in where filling in was necessary, and, vivified 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; indeed,
it 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's, they resemble the father that begets them;
they are simple, homely, plump lies; plain working lies, in short. But in the service of such a
master as Don Quixote he develops rapidly, as we see when he comes to palm off the three
country wenches as Dulcinea and her ladies in waiting. It is worth noticing how, flushed by
his success in this instance, he 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
romances, and 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 former, but to one
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 26
of Cervantes' humour the latter was naturally an attractive subject for ridicule. Like
everything else in these romances, it is a gross exaggeration of the real sentiment of
chivalry, but its peculiar extravagance is probably due to the influence of those masters of
hyperbole, the Provencal poets. When a troubadour professed his readiness to obey his lady
in all things, he made it incumbent upon the next comer, if he wished to avoid the
imputation of tameness and commonplace, to declare himself the slave of her will, which 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 auction, and a conventional language
of gallantry and theory of love came into being that in time permeated the literature of
Southern Europe, and bore fruit, in one direction in the transcendental worship of Beatrice
and Laura, and 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 Dulcinea,
and in no instance has he carried out the burlesque more happily. By keeping Dulcinea in the
background, and making her a vague shadowy being of whose very existence we are left in
doubt, he invests Don Quixote's worship of her virtues and charms with an additional
extravagance, and 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
Mancha, but 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 dreary, they 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 commonplace, there is nothing venerable
about them, they have not even the picturesqueness of poverty; indeed, Don Quixote's own
village, Argamasilla, has 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 well, the mere style and title of «Don Quixote of La
Mancha» gave 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 helmet, the farm−labourer on
ass−back for a squire, knighthood conferred by a rascally ventero, convicts taken for victims
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 27
of oppression, and the rest of the incongruities between Don Quixote's world and the world
he lived in, between things as he saw them and things as they were.
It is strange that this element of incongruity, underlying the whole humour and purpose
of the book, should have been so little heeded by the majority of those who have undertaken
to interpret «Don Quixote.» It has been completely overlooked, for example, by the
illustrators. To be sure, the 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 inn, and they could not therefore do full justice to the humour of Don Quixote's
misconception in taking it for a castle, or 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. Take, for instance, Gustave Dore's drawing of Don Quixote watching his
armour in the inn−yard. Whether or not the Venta de Quesada on the Seville road is, as
tradition maintains, the 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 him,
watching 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 sight, or, more properly speaking, never think about themselves at
all, unlike our latter−day school of humourists, who seem to have revived the old
horse−collar method, and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque assumption of ignorance,
imbecility, or bad taste.
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 28
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 Spanish, be it ever
so colloquial, that make an absurdity doubly absurd, and 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 flat, but 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 Cervantes, they are no worse than his own
countrymen. Indeed, were 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 criticisms, or 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 be, here and there, more elaborate studies of character, but there is
no book richer in individualised character. What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in minimis
is true of Cervantes; he never, even for the most temporary purpose, puts forward a lay
figure. There is life and individuality in all his characters, however little they may have to
do, or however short a time they may be before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the curate,
Teresa Panza, Altisidora, even the two students met on the road to the cave of Montesinos,
all 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 Maritornes, with her
deplorable morals, has a kind heart of her own and «some faint and distant resemblance to a
Christian about her;» and as for Sancho, though on dissection we fail to find a lovable trait
in him, unless it be a sort of dog−like affection for his master, who is there that in his heart
does not love him?
But it is, after all, the 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 it, «the best novel in the world beyond all comparison.» It is its varied
humour, ranging from broad farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare's or Moliere's that has
naturalised it in every country where there are readers, and made it a classic in every
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 29
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 «ladies, arms, and cavaliers:» A new Orlando
Furioso− Innamorato, rather− 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; Thou, whose sole
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 30
beverage was the bitter brine Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate Of silver, copper,
tin, in lowly state Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine; Live thou, of 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 slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed, I was the foremost knight of chivalry,
Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see; Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed;
Great were my feats, eternal 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 Chance, submitting to control, Grasped by the
forelock, yielded to my will. Yet− though above yon horned moon enthroned My fortune
seems to sit− great Quixote, still Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.
THE LADY OF ORIANA To Dulcinea del Toboso
SONNET
Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could 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! Oh, could
mine but acquire that livery Of countless charms thy mind and body show so! Or him, now
famous grown− thou mad'st him grow so− Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!
Oh, could 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 envy, all would
envy me, And happiness be mine without alloy.
GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL, To Sancho Panza, squire of Don
Quixote
SONNET
All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when 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
Dapple, and 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.
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 31
FROM EL DONOSO, THE 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 Villadiego, called the Si−,
Maintained that only in reti− Was found the secret of well−be−, According to the
«Celesti−:» A book divine, except for sin− By speech too plain, in my opin−
ON ROCINANTE
I am that Rocinante fa−, Great−grandson of great Babie−, Who, all 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 Peer, peer thou hast none; Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer; Nor
is there room for one when thou art near, Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one!
Orlando, by 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 rival, for thy fame
And prowess rise above all rivalry, Albeit both bereft of wits we go. But, though the
Scythian or the Moor to tame Was not thy lot, still 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 Spain, marvel of courtesy,
Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine That smote from east to west as lightnings fly. I
scorned all empire, and 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. But,
Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove, For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name, And
famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.
FROM SOLISDAN To Don Quixote of La Mancha
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 32
SONNET
Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it 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 Dulcinea, your
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 he,
hard−hearted she, and you no lover.
DIALOGUE Between Babieca and Rocinante
SONNET
B. «How comes it, Rocinante, you're so lean?» R. «I'm underfed, with 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. «Come, come, you show ill−breeding, sir, I ween; 'T is like an ass your
master thus to scorn.» R. He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born; Why, he'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 squire, then.«− R. »Why,
what's the good? I might indeed complain of him,I grant ye, But, squire or master, where's
the difference? They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante."
Don Quixote
PREFACE − TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE 33
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
I
dle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this book, as it is the
child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined. But I could
not counteract Nature's law that everything shall beget its like; and what, then, could this
sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full
of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any other imagination− just what might
be begotten in a prison, where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes its
dwelling? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, bright skies, murmuring brooks,
peace of mind, these are the things that go far to make even the most barren muses fertile,
and bring into the world births that fill it with wonder and delight. Sometimes when a father
has an ugly, loutish son, the love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his
defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind and body, and talks of them to
his friends as wit and grace. I, however− for though I pass for the father, I am but the
stepfather to «Don Quixote»− have no desire to go with the current of custom, or to implore
thee, dearest reader, almost with tears in my eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse the
defects thou wilt perceive in this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friend,
thy soul is thine own and thy will as free as any man's, whate'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
saying, «Under my cloak I kill the king;» all which exempts and frees thee from every
consideration and obligation, and 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 sonnets, epigrams, and
eulogies, such as are commonly put at the beginning of books. For I can tell thee, though
composing it cost me some labour, I found none greater than the making of this Preface thou
art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many did I lay it down
again, not knowing what to write. One of these times, as I was pondering with the paper
before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking of
what I should say, there came in unexpectedly a certain lively, clever friend of mine, who,
seeing me so deep in thought, asked the reason; to which I, making no mystery of it,
answered 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.
"For, how 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
oblivion, coming out now with all my years upon my back, and with a book as dry as a rush,
devoid of invention, meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly wanting in learning and
Don Quixote
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 34
wisdom, without quotations in the margin or annotations at the end, after the fashion of other
books I see, which, though all fables and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and
Plato, and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the readers with amazement and
convince them that the authors are men of learning, erudition, and eloquence. And then,
when they quote the Holy Scriptures!− anyone would say they are St. Thomases or other
doctors of the Church, observing 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 book, for I have
nothing to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know what authors I
follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do, under the letters A, B, C, beginning
with Aristotle and ending with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer
and the other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the beginning, at least
sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets.
Though if I were to ask two or three obliging friends, I know they would give me them, and
such as the productions of those that have the highest reputation in our Spain could not
equal.
«In short, my friend,» I continued, «I 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 this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead and breaking into a hearty
laugh, exclaimed, «Before 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 I, listening to his talk; «how do you propose to make up for my
diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I am in?»
To which he made answer, "Your first difficulty about the sonnets, epigrams, or
complimentary verses which you want for the beginning, and which ought to be by persons
Don Quixote
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 35
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 story, it is only contriving to fit in nicely any
sentences or scraps of Latin you may happen to have by heart, or at any rate that will not
give you much trouble to look up; so as, when you speak of freedom and captivity, to insert
Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;
and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it; or, if you allude to the power
of death, to 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 enemy, go at once to the Holy
Scriptures, which you can do with a very small amount of research, and quote no less than
the words of God himself: Ego autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros. If you speak of
evil thoughts, turn to the Gospel: De corde exeunt cogitationes malae. If of the fickleness of
friends, there is Cato, who will give you his distich:
Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos, Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.
With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a grammarian at all events,
and 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.
"Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and cosmography,
manage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story, and there you are at once with
another famous annotation, setting 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 ocean, kissing the walls of
the famous city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that it has golden sands, If you should
have anything to do with robbers, I will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by heart; if
Don Quixote
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 36
with loose women, there is the Bishop of Mondonedo, who will give you the loan of Lamia,
Laida, and Flora, any reference to whom will bring you great credit; if with hard−hearted
ones, Ovid will furnish you with Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer has
Calypso, and Virgil Circe; if with valiant captains, Julius Caesar himself will lend you
himself in his own 'Commentaries,' and Plutarch will give you a thousand Alexanders. If you
should deal with love, with two ounces you may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the
Hebrew, who 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 short, all you have to
do is to manage to quote these names, or refer to these stories I have mentioned, and leave it
to me to insert the annotations and quotations, and 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.»
Don Quixote
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 37
In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his observations made such an
impression on me that, without attempting to question them, I admitted their soundness, and
out of them I determined to make this Preface; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt perceive my
friend's good sense, my good fortune in finding such an adviser in such a time of need, and
what thou hast gained in receiving, without addition or alteration, the story of the famous
Don Quixote of La Mancha, who 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 Panza, his squire, in whom, to
my thinking, I 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 health, and not
forget me. Vale.
Don Quixote
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 38
DEDICATION OF PART I
T
O THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON, COUNT OF
BENALCAZAR AND BANARES, VICECOUNT OF THE
PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS OF CAPILLA, CURIEL AND
BURGUILLOS
In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency bestows on all sort of
books, as prince so inclined to favor good arts, chiefly those who by their nobleness do not
submit to the service and bribery of the vulgar, I have determined bringing to light The
Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of Your Excellency's glamorous
name, to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such grandeur, I pray to receive it agreeably
under his protection, so that in this shadow, though deprived of that precious ornament of
elegance and erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of those who know, it
dares appear with assurance in the judgment of some who, trespassing the bounds of their
own ignorance, use 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 purpose,
will not disdain the littleness of so humble a service.
Miguel de Cervantes
Don Quixote
DEDICATION OF PART I 40
CHAPTER I
W
HICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS
GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there
lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance−rack, an old
buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton,
a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on
Sundays, made 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 holidays, while on week−days he
made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a
niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market−place, who 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 habit, spare, gaunt−featured, a 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, however, is 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 know, then, that 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−sports, and
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 read, and 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 composition, for their lucidity of style and complicated
conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon
courtships and cartels, where 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 again, «the 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 wits, and 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 took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons
who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered all over with seams and
scars. He commended, however, the author's way of ending his book with the promise of
that interminable adventure, and 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 done, and made a successful
Don Quixote
CHAPTER I 41
piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.
Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned man, and a
graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or
Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that neither of
them came up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with
him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was
equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in
the matter of valour he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his
books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring
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, enchantments, quarrels,
battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and 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 knight, but 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
enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the son
of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, although of the
giant breed which is always arrogant and ill−conditioned, he alone was affable and
well−bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him
sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the seas he
stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout
of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece
into the bargain.
In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever madman in
this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the
support of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a
knight−errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest
of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual
practices of knights−errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and
danger from which, in the issue, he 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 so, led
away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he 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−grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and
covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one
great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency,
however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half−helmet of pasteboard which,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER I 42
fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong
and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the 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 somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again,
fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring
to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most
perfect construction.
He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a real and more
blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that «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, «If,
for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common
occurrence with knights−errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder
to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I
may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet
lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the
island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight
Don Quixote
CHAPTER I 43
Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Grace,
that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure'?» Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed
the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his Lady!
There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good−looking farm−girl with
whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor
gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and 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 own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great
lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso −she being of El Toboso− a name, to
his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon
himself and the things belonging to him.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER I 44
CHAPTER II
W
HICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE
MADE FROM HOME
These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution of his
design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing what
wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and
duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and without
anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day (which was one of the
hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with his
patched−up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and 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 plain, when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon
the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and
that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any
knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice knight, to wear white armour,
without a device upon the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections
made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up
his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by the first one he came across, following the
example of others in the same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this pass.
As for white armour, he resolved, on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter
than an ermine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse
chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Thus setting out, our new−fledged adventurer paced along, talking to himself and
saying, «Who 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 age, happy the time,» he continued, «in which shall be made
known my deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned in
pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it
shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good
Don Quixote
CHAPTER II 45
Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings.» Presently he broke out
again, as if he were love−stricken in earnest, «O 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 absurdities, all in the style of those his
books had taught him, imitating 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 him, at which he was in despair, for 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 point, and what I
have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and
towards nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all
around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd's shanty where he might refresh
himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn, which was as
welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if 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 women, girls of the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some
carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our
adventurer, everything he saw or imaged seemed to him to be and to happen after the
fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle
with its four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat
and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this inn, which to him
seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping
that some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give
notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, and
that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the
two gay damsels who were standing there, and 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 (for, without any apology, that is what they are called) gave a blast
of his horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he
was expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with prodigious
satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort
approaching in full armour and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn,
when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed
his dry dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, «Your
ladyships need not fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood
Don Quixote
CHAPTER II 46
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 obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a
thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which made Don
Quixote wax indignant, and 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' laughter, and that increased his irritation, and matters might have gone
farther if at that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a
very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any
more than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the
damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in awe of such a
complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, «Senor 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 Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the
fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, "Sir 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 Andalusian, and one from the strand of San Lucar, as 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 so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of sleeplessness under
this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a single night." So saying, he advanced to hold the
stirrup for Don Quixote, who 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 horse, as 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 said, nor even half as good; and putting him up in the
stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom the damsels, who had by
this time made their peace with him, were now relieving of his armour. They had taken off
his breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or
remove his make−shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was
no untying the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by any means consent
to, so he remained all the evening with his helmet on, the 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 castle, he said to them with great
sprightliness:
Don Quixote
CHAPTER II 47
Oh, never, surely, was there knight So served by hand of dame, As served was he, Don
Quixote hight, When from his town he came; With maidens waiting on himself, Princesses
on his hack−
−or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and 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 known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of
Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether
prematurely. A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command and me to obey,
and then the might of my arm will show my desire to serve you."
The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had 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
Friday, and 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 troutlet, for 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; moreover, it may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or kid,
which is better than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for 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 air, and the host brought him a portion of ill−soaked and worse
cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a
laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver up, he
could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless some one else placed it
there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was
impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored a reed, and 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 sowgelder, who, as he approached,
sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby completely convinced Don Quixote
that he was in some famous castle, and that they were regaling him with music, and that the
stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and 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 knight, for it was plain
to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiving the order of
knighthood.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER II 48
CHAPTER III
W
HEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD
HIMSELF DUBBED A KNIGHT
Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse supper, and having
finished it called the landlord, and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees
before him, saying, «From 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
landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in
bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no
purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon demanded of him. «I looked for no less, my
lord, from 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
morning, and that to−night I shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus
tomorrow, as I have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully
to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf of those in
distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights−errant like myself, whose ambition is
directed to such deeds.»
The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and had already
some suspicion of his guest's want of wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this
kind from him, and 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 view, and 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 calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of the world, among
others the Curing−grounds of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little
Market of Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San
Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters, where he had
proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his fingers, doing many wrongs,
cheating many widows, ruining maids and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself
under the notice of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he had
retired to this castle of his, where 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 be, all for
the great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with him in return for
his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his there was no chapel in
which he could watch his armour, as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that
in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch it that
night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies
Don Quixote
CHAPTER III 49
might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that
nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote
replied that he had not a farthing, as 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; for, though
not recorded in the histories, because in the author's opinion there was no need to mention
anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed
therefore that they did not carry them, and 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 emergency, and 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 wounded, it was not always that there was some one to
cure them, unless 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 occur, the knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with money
and other requisites, such 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 croup, as if it were
something else of more importance, because, unless for some such reason, carrying
saddle−bags was not very favourably regarded among knights−errant. He therefore advised
him (and, as his godson so soon to be, he might even command him) never from that time
forth to travel without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the advantage
of them when he least expected it.
Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was arranged forthwith
that he should watch his armour in a large yard at one side of the inn; so, collecting it all
together, Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and 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 trough, and 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 guest, the
watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder at so
strange a form of madness, they flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what
composure he sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed 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 it, everything the novice
knight did was plainly seen by all.
Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water his team, and 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 voice, «O 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER III 50
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 this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his
thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, «Aid 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;» and, with these words and others to the
same purpose, dropping 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 ground, so stunned that had he
followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a surgeon to cure him. This
done, he picked up his armour and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.
Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the carrier still lay
senseless), came with the same object of giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to
remove the armour in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word
or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his
lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier's head into pieces, made more than
three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot,
and among them the landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and
with his hand on his sword exclaimed, «O 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 Quixote,
who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and
leave his armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had
already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he
killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the
lord of the castle, who allowed knights−errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a
low−born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to account
for his treachery. «But of you,» he cried, «base and vile rabble, I make no account; fling,
strike, come on, do all ye can against me, ye 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 fear, and 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 wounded, and 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 landlord, so he
determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at once the unlucky order of
knighthood before any further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised
for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low
people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had already told
him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it needed for what remained to be
Don Quixote
CHAPTER III 51
done, for, as he understood the ceremonial of the order, the 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
armour, for all requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been
more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to
obey him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch as possible; for, if he were again
attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive
in the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding.
Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in which he used
to enter the straw and barley he served out to the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a
candle−end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote
stood, and bade him kneel down. Then, reading from his account−book as if he were
repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand and gave him
a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all
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 sword, which she did with great self−possession and
gravity, and 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 him, «May 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 received, as 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
Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the stalls of
Sanchobienaya, and 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 would, and then the other buckled
on his spur, and with her followed almost the same conversation as with the lady of the
sword. He asked her name, and she said it was La Molinera, and 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 Molinera, making offers to her further services and
favours.
Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these
never−till−now−seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw himself on
horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and saddling Rocinante at once he mounted,
and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he
addressed him in language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it or
report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric though with
shorter words, and without calling upon him to pay the reckoning let him go with a
Godspeed.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER III 52
CHAPTER IV
O
F WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN
Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so exhilarated at
finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse−girths.
However, recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him,
especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide himself
with all, and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm−labourer, a neighbour
of his, a poor man with a family, but very well qualified for the office of squire to a knight.
With this object he turned his horse's head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus reminded
of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.
He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to come feeble
cries as of some one in distress, and the instant he heard them he exclaimed, «Thanks 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
wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had
gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another,
and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the
cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and
following up every blow with scoldings and commands, repeating, «Your mouth shut and
your eyes open!» while the youth made answer, «I 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 on, Don 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 farmer, seeing before him this
figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself up for dead, and made
answer meekly, «Sir 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 not, by
the God that rules us I will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him
instantly.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER IV 53
The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of whom Don Quixote
asked how much his master owed him.
He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it up, found that it
came to sixty−three reals, and told the farmer to pay it down immediately, if 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 him, and 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 for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber
took blood from him when he was sick, you 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. «Nay, God forbid! No, senor, not for the world; for
once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint Bartholomew.»
«He will do nothing of the kind,» said Don Quixote; «I have only to command, and he
will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of knighthood which he has received, I
leave him free, and I guarantee the payment.»
«Consider what you are saying, senor,» said the youth; «this master of mine is not a
knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of
Quintanar.»
«That matters little,» replied Don Quixote; «there may be Haldudos knights; moreover,
everyone is the son of his works.»
«That is true,» said Andres; «but this master of mine− of what works is he the son,
when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?»
«I do not refuse, brother Andres,» said the farmer, «be 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 reals, and I shall
be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come
Don Quixote
CHAPTER IV 54
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 you, that you be more
firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer
of wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and keep in mind what you have
promised and sworn under those penalties that have been already declared to you.»
So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The farmer followed
him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared the wood and was no longer in sight,
he turned to his boy Andres, and said, «Come 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 Andres, «your worship will be well advised to obey the command
of that good knight− may he live a thousand years− for, 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 you, I want to
add to the debt in order to add to the payment;» and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up
again, and gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.
«Now, Master Andres,» said the farmer, «call 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 him, and 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 mouth, swearing he would go to look for the valiant
Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had happened, and that all would have
to be repaid him sevenfold; but for all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood
laughing.
Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly satisfied with what
had taken place, as he considered he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his
knighthood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self−content, saying 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 directions, and 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 while, and after having deeply considered it, he
Don Quixote
CHAPTER IV 55
gave Rocinante his head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out his
first intention, which was to make straight for his own stable. After he had gone about two
miles Don Quixote perceived a large party of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were
some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them coming
along under their sunshades, with four servants mounted, and 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 books, here seemed to come one made on purpose, which he resolved to
attempt. So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups, got
his lance ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and planting himself in the middle of
the road, stood waiting the approach of these knights−errant, for such he now considered
and held them to be; and when they had come near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed
with a haughty gesture, «All 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 it, and from both figure and language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they
wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object of this confession that was demanded
of them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp−witted, said to
him, «Sir 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 Quixote, «what 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 trader, «I 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 rage,
«nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and civet in cotton; nor is she one−eyed or
Don Quixote
CHAPTER IV 56
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 saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who had spoken, with
such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived that Rocinante should stumble
midway and come down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader. Down went
Rocinante, and over went his master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and when
he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and
the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was struggling to get up he kept saying,
«Fly not, cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am I stretched
here.»
One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good nature in him,
hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this style, was unable to refrain from giving him
an answer on his ribs; and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in
pieces, with one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and
in spite of his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His masters called out not to
lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but the muleteers blood was up, and he did not care to
drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining
fragments of the lance he finished with a discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all
through the storm of sticks that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and earth,
and the brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired, and the traders
continued their journey, taking 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 sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and well−nigh
knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it seemed to him that this was
a regular knight−errant's mishap, and entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse.
However, battered in body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.
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CHAPTER IV 57
CHAPTER V
I
N WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP IS CONTINUED
Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of having recourse to
his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage in his books, and his craze brought to
his mind that about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on
the mountain side, a story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by the young men,
and 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 himself,
so, making a show of severe suffering, he 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 thou, lady mine, that thou My sorrow dost not rue? Thou canst not know it,
lady 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 it, when he had got to this line there happened to come by a
peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had been with a load of wheat to the
mill, and he, seeing the man stretched there, came 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 Mantua, his uncle, so
the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in which he told the tale of his
misfortune, and 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 nonsense, and relieving him of the visor,
already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face, which was covered with dust, and as
soon as he had done so he recognised him and said, «Senor 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 this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate and backpiece to
see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then
contrived to raise him from the ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass,
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CHAPTER V 58
which seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms, even to the
splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and leading him by the bridle and the ass
by the halter he took the road for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote
was talking. Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could not sit
upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so 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 adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he
bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera, Rodrigo 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 him, he gave him for reply the same words and
phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the
story in the «Diana» of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written, applying 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 which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, and
so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of Don
Quixote's; who, at the end of it, said, «Senor 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 answered, «Senor− 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 Quixote, «and 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 fall, but 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 confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who were great friends of
Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voice, «What 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 him, or the hack, or the
buckler, lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that I was born
to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so
constantly, have 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 books, that have brought to ruin in this way the finest
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CHAPTER V 59
understanding there was in all La Mancha!»
The niece said the same, and, more: «You must know, Master 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 misventures, after 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 Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him.
But I take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships of my uncle's
vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and 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 curate, «and 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 heard, and from it he understood at last what was the matter with his
neighbour, so he began calling aloud, «Open, 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 out, and when they recognised their friend, master, and
uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass because he could not, they ran to embrace
him.
«Hold!» said he, «for 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 once, and we will
contrive to cure you here without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a
hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship to such a
pass.»
They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds could find none, but
he said they were all bruises from having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in
combat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.
«So, so!» said the curate, «are there giants in the dance? By the sign of the Cross I will
burn them to−morrow before the day over.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER V 60
They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all was− give him
something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did so, and
the curate questioned the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He
told him, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which made
the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, which was to summon his friend
the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote's house.
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CHAPTER V 61
CHAPTER VI
O
F 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
books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and right willingly she gave them. They all went
in, the housekeeper with them, and found more than a hundred volumes of big books very
well bound, and some other small ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them she turned
about and ran out of the room, and came back immediately with a saucer of holy water and a
sprinkler, saying, «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 laugh, and he directed the barber
to give him the books one by one to see what they were about, as there might be some to be
found among them that did not deserve the penalty of fire.
«No,» said the niece, «there 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 same, so
eager were they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but 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, «for, as I have heard say, this was
the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and 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 barber, «I 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 barber, «the 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the lawful son of Amadis of Gaul.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER VI 62
«Then verily,» said the curate, «the 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 satisfaction, and the worthy «Esplandian» went
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 barber, «is '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 Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and his eclogues, and the bedevilled and
involved discourses of his author, I 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 housekeeper, «here, into the yard with them!»
They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she spared herself the
staircase, and flung them down out of the window.
«Who is that tub there?» said the curate.
«This,» said the barber, «is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'»
«The author of that book,» said the curate, «was 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 yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and visionary adventures, for the
stiffness and dryness of his style deserve nothing else; into the yard with him and the other,
mistress housekeeper.»
«With all my heart, senor,» said she, and executed the order with great delight.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER VI 63
«This,» said the barber, «is The Knight Platir.'»
«An old book that,» said the curate, «but I find no reason for clemency in it; send it
after the others without appeal;» which was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, «The Knight of the Cross.»
«For the sake of the holy name this book has,» said the curate, «its ignorance might be
excused; but then, they say, 'behind the cross there's the devil; to the fire with it.»
Taking down another book, the barber said, «This 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 Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of
France with the veracious historian Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to more
than perpetual banishment, because, at any rate, they have some share in the invention of the
famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his web, to
whom, if I find him here, and speaking any language but his own, I 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 barber, «but I do not understand him.»
«Nor would it be well that you should understand him,» said the curate, «and 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 assent, and looked upon it as right and proper, being
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 alone, and
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 book, gossip,
is of authority for two reasons, first because it is very good, and secondly because it is said
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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 contrivance, and the language is polished and
clear, studying and observing the style befitting the speaker with propriety and judgment. So
then, provided it seems good to you, Master Nicholas, I say let this and 'Amadis of Gaul' be
remitted the penalty of fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without further question or
query.»
«Nay, gossip,» said the barber, «for this that I have here is the famous 'Don Belianis.'»
«Well,» said the curate, «that 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 chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take all the big ones and throw them into the
yard. It was not said to one dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than
weaving the broadest and finest web that could be; and seizing about eight at a time, she
flung them out of the window.
In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the barber, who took it up,
curious to know whose it was, and found it said, «History 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 Montemayor, and, supposing all the others to be of the same
sort, «these,» he said, «do not deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor
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CHAPTER VI 65
can do the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of entertainment that can
hurt no one.»
«Ah, senor!» said the niece, «your 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 curate, «and 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 barber, «is 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 curate, «let 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 barber, opening another, «is the ten books of the 'Fortune of
Love,' written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet.»
«By the orders I have received,» said the curate, «since 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 satisfaction, and 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 curate, «is 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 curate, «but a highly polished courtier; let it be preserved as a
precious jewel.»
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CHAPTER VI 66
«This large one here,» said the barber, «is called 'The Treasury of various Poems.'»
«If there were not so many of them,» said the curate, «they 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 barber, «is the 'Cancionero' of Lopez de Maldonado.»
«The author of that book, too,» said the curate, «is 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 together, the 'Araucana' of Don
Alonso de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of Juan Rufo, Justice of Cordova, and the 'Montserrate' of
Christobal de Virues, the Valencian poet.»
«These three books,» said the curate, «are 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 books, and so he decided that,
«contents uncertified,» all the rest should be burned; but just then the barber held open one,
called «The Tears of Angelica.»
«I should have shed tears myself,» said the curate when he heard the title, «had 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.»
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CHAPTER VI 67
CHAPTER VII
O
F THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MANCHA
At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, «Here, 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 outcry, they proceeded no farther
with the scrutiny of the remaining books, and 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 truth, Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is
a great disgrace for us who call ourselves the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the
knights of the Court to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers having carried off
the honour on the three former days.»
«Hush, gossip,» said the curate; «please God, the luck may turn, and what is lost to−day
may be won to−morrow; for the present let your worship have a care of your health, for it
seems to me that you are over−fatigued, if not badly wounded.»
«Wounded no,» said Don Quixote, «but 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 eat, and once more he fell asleep,
leaving 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
archives, but their fate and the laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was
verified the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.
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CHAPTER VII 68
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 were, so 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 off, room and all; and this was done
with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the first thing he did was to go
and look at his books, and not finding the room where he had left it, he wandered from side
to side looking for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it with his
hands, and 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 housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she was to answer, said,
«What 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 niece, «but 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 housekeeper, «I
only know that his name ended with 'ton.'»
«So it does,» said Don Quixote, «and 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; «but, uncle, who 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 wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and
come back shorn?»
«Oh, niece of mine,» replied Don Quixote, «how 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.»
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CHAPTER VII 69
The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw that his anger was
kindling.
In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly without showing any signs
of a desire to take up with his former delusions, and during this time he held lively
discussions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point he maintained, that
knights−errant were what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be
accomplished the revival of knight−errantry. The curate sometimes contradicted him,
sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed this precaution he would have been
unable to bring him to reason.
Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his, an honest
man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate.
In a word, he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor
clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote,
among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because 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 children, and engaged himself as esquire to his neighbour. Don
Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling one thing and pawning another, and
making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He provided himself with a
buckler, which he begged as a loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as best
he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he might
provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above all, he charged him to take
alforjas with him. The other said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he
had, as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, 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. For all that, however, he
determined to take him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when a
chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the first discourteous knight he
encountered. Himself he provided with shirts and such other things as he could, according to
the advice the host had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho Panza
of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and niece, they sallied forth
unseen by anybody from the village one night, and made such good way in the course of it
that by daylight they held themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for
them.
Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with 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 journey, that over the Campo
de Montiel, which he travelled with less discomfort than on the last occasion, for, as it was
early morning and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.
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CHAPTER VII 70
And now said Sancho Panza to his master, «Your 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 replied, «Thou 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 Panza, «if 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 Panza, «because 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 Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «specially 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.»
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CHAPTER VII 71
CHAPTER VIII
O
F THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN
THE TERRIBLE AND UNDREAMT−OF ADVENTURE OF
THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO
BE FITLY RECORDED
At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on plain, and as
soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, «Fortune 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 master, «with the long arms, and some have
them nearly two leagues long.»
«Look, your worship,» said Sancho; «what we see there are not giants but windmills,
and 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 Quixote, «that 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 saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries his squire
Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly they were windmills and not giants
he was going to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants that he neither heard
the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them
shouting, «Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you.»
A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to move, seeing
which Don Quixote exclaimed, «Though ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye
have to reckon with me.»
So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady Dulcinea, imploring
her to support him in such a peril, with lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged
at Rocinante's fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as he
Don Quixote
CHAPTER VIII 72
drove his lance−point into the sail the wind whirled it round with such force that it shivered
the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a
sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he
came up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.
«God bless me!» said Sancho, «did 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 Quixote, «the 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 Panza, and helping him to rise got him up again
on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, discussing the late adventure, they
followed the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find
adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he was
much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, «I 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 Sancho, «I 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «I 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.»
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CHAPTER VIII 73
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 liked, for, so far, he had never
read of anything to the contrary in the order of knighthood.
Sancho bade him remember it was dinner−time, to which his master answered that he
wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might eat when he had a mind. With this
permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of
the alforjas what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master munching
deliberately, and 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 way, gulping down
draught after draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had made
him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation going in quest of adventures,
however dangerous they might be. Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one
of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed
on it the head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake
thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how
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 it, for having his stomach full of
something stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if 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 before, which 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 fast, for, as has been already said, he confined himself to savoury
recollections for nourishment.
They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto Lapice, and 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 observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put
a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless 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 Sancho, «your 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 Quixote, «but in this matter of aiding me against knights thou
must put a restraint upon thy natural impetuosity.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER VIII 74
«I will do so, I promise you,» answered Sancho, «and 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.
Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for 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
was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where her husband was
about to take passage for the Indies with an appointment of high honour. The friars, though
going the same road, were not in her company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived them
he said to his squire, «Either 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. Benedict, and 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 Quixote, «that on the subject of
adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as thou shalt see presently.»
So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road along which the
friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had come near enough to hear what he
said, he 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 words, to which they replied, «Senor 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 Quixote, and without
waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with levelled lance charged the first friar with
such fury and determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the mule, he would
have brought him to the ground against his will, and sore wounded, if not killed outright.
The second brother, seeing how his comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a
mule and made off across the country faster than the wind.
Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly from his ass,
rushed 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
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lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had
no idea of a joke and did not understand all this about battles and spoils, seeing that Don
Quixote was some distance off talking to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho,
knocked him down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured him with kicks and
left him stretched breathless and senseless on the ground; and without any more delay
helped the friar to mount, who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in
the saddle, spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance looking on,
watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the end of the affair just
begun, they pursued their journey making more crosses than if they had the devil after them.
Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach: «Your beauty,
lady mine,» said he, «may now dispose of your person as may be most in accordance with
your pleasure, for 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 deliverer, know that I
am called Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight−errant and adventurer, and 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 Toboso, and 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 coach, a Biscayan, was listening to all Don
Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would not allow the coach to go on, but was
saying it must return at once to El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his lance addressed
him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, «Begone, 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 well, and answered him very quietly, «If thou wert a
knight, as thou art none, I should have already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable
creature.» To which the Biscayan returned, «I 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 sword, braced his buckler on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan,
bent upon taking his life.
The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dismount from his
mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for hire, he had no confidence, had no
choice but to draw his sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach,
from 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 them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase that if they
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did not let him finish his battle he would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to prevent
him. The lady in the coach, amazed and terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to
draw aside a little, and set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which the
Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of his buckler,
which, given to one without armour, would have cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling
the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud, saying, «O 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 this, to lift his sword, to shelter
himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an instant,
determined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The Biscayan, seeing him come on
in this way, was convinced of his courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his
example, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion, being unable to
execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this
kind of game, could not stir a step.
On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan, with uplifted
sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for
him sword in hand, and under the protection of his cushion; and all present stood trembling,
waiting in suspense the result of blows such as threatened to fall, and 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 Spain, that God might deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril
in which they found themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and crisis the author of the
history leaves this battle impending, giving 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 oblivion, or 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 persuasion, he did not despair
of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven favouring him, he did find
in a way that shall be related in the Second Part.
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CHAPTER IX
I
N 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 uplifted, ready 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 greatly, because 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 that, so it seemed to me, was 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 say, went after
adventures; for every one of them had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not only
recorded their deeds but described their most trifling thoughts and follies, however 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 mutilated, and I laid the blame on Time,
the devourer and destroyer of all things, that had either concealed or consumed it.
On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch 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
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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 margin, as I told you, this is written: 'This Dulcinea del Toboso so
often mentioned in this history, had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La Mancha
for salting pigs.'»
When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and amazement,
for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained the history of Don Quixote.
With this idea I pressed him to read the beginning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand
into Castilian, he told me it meant, «History 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 ears, and snatching it from the silk mercer, I 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 them, he 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
cathedral, and begged him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the
Castilian tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering him whatever
payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of raisins and two bushels of wheat,
and promised to translate them faithfully and with all despatch; but to make the matter
easier, and not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I took him to my house, where 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 life, they planted in the same attitude as the history describes, their swords raised, and
the one protected by his buckler, the other by his cushion, and 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 said, «Don Sancho de Azpeitia,» which no doubt must have been his
name; and at the feet of Rocinante was another that said, «Don Quixote.» Rocinante was
marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so much backbone and so
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far gone in consumption, that 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 ass, at whose feet was another label that said, «Sancho Zancas,» and according to the
picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body, and long shanks, for which reason, no
doubt, the names of Panza and Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the
history several times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might be mentioned, but 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 truth, it can only be
that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very common propensity with those of that nation;
though, as they are such enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were omissions rather
than additions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion; for, where he could and
should give freedom to his pen in praise of so worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately
to pass it over in silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business and
duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from passion, and neither interest nor
fear, hatred nor love, should make them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is
history, rival of time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel for the
present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the
pleasantest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its hound of
an author and not the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part, according to the
translation, began in this way:
With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though the two valiant
and wrathful combatants stood threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with such resolution
and determination did they bear themselves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a
blow, which was delivered with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in its
course, that 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 things,
turned aside the sword of his adversary, so that although it smote him upon the left shoulder,
it did him no more harm than to strip all that side of its armour, carrying away a great part of
his helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving 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 is, it was
such that he again raised himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with
both hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full over the cushion
and over the head, that− even so good a shield proving useless− as if a mountain had fallen
on him, he began to bleed from nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards
from his mule, as no doubt he would have done had he not flung his arms about its neck; at
the same time, however, he slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms,
and the mule, taking fright at the terrible blow, made off across the plain, and with a few
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plunges flung its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and,
when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to him, and,
presenting the point of his sword to his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head
off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it would have
gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies in the coach, who had
hitherto been watching the combat in great terror, hastened 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 dignity, «In 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 ladies, without discussing Don Quixote's demand or
asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire should do all that had been
commanded.
«Then, on the faith of that promise,» said Don Quixote, «I shall do him no further harm,
though he well deserves it of me.»
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CHAPTER X
O
F THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON
QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA
Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling of the friars'
muleteers, and stood watching the battle of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to God in
his heart that it might be his will to grant him the victory, and that he might thereby win
some island to make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the
struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to mount Rocinante, he
approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could mount, he went on his knees
before him, and taking his hand, kissed it saying, «May 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 replied, «Thou 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 thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt of his hauberk,
helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow his
master, who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything further to the ladies
belonging to the coach, turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his
ass's best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced to
call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary
squire came up, who on reaching him said, «It 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 Sancho, «nor 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.»
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«Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend,» said Don Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «if 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 Quixote, «the 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 Panza, «I 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 Sancho, «then 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 dressing, for my ear
pains me more than I could wish.»
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CHAPTER X 83
Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when Don Quixote came
to see his helmet shattered, he was like to lose his senses, and clapping his hand upon his
sword and raising his eyes to heaven, be said, «I 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 this, Sancho said to him, «Your 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 him, but 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 not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw in doing so,
for I have one to imitate in the matter, since the very same thing to a hair happened in the
case of Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear."
«Senor,» replied Sancho, «let 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 Quixote, «for 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 then, and God grant us success, and that the time for
winning that island which is costing me so dear may soon come, and then let me die.»
«I have already told thee, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «not 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
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CHAPTER X 84
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 Sancho, «but
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
know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights−errant to go without eating for a month, and
even when they do eat, that 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 have, for, though they are very
many, among them all I have found no mention made of knights−errant eating, unless by
accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for them, and 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 functions, because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, it is plain too
that, wandering as they did the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without
a cook, their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou now offer me; so
that, friend Sancho, let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to make a
new world or pervert knight−errantry.»
«Pardon me, your worship,» said Sancho, «for, 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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «to 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 brought, the pair made their repast peaceably
and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the night, they with all despatch made an end
of their poor dry fare, mounted at once, and 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 goatherds, so they determined to pass the night there, and it was as much to
Sancho's discontent not to have reached a house, as it was to his master's satisfaction to
sleep under the open heaven, for he fancied that each time this happened to him he
performed an act of ownership that helped to prove his chivalry.
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CHAPTER XI
O
F WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS
He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best he could put
up Rocinante and the ass, drew 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 stomach, he refrained from doing so as the
goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the ground, quickly spread
their rude table, and 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 themselves, having first
with rough politeness pressed Don Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed
for him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to serve
the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his 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 Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «thou 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−errant, and all
they did was to eat in silence and stare at their guests, who with great elegance and appetite
were stowing away pieces as big as one's fist. The course of meat finished, they spread upon
the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they put down a half cheese
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XI 86
harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this while the horn was not idle, for it went
round so constantly, now full, now empty, like 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 acorns, and 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 trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of
their fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced save of their own
courtesy, shed the broad light bark that served at first to roof the houses supported by rude
stakes, a protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peace, all
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 satisfy, sustain, and 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 hill, with flowing locks, and 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−day, set off by Tyrian purple, and silk tortured in endless fashions, but
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 them, nor sought to commend themselves by forced and
rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice had then not yet mingled with truth and
sincerity. Justice held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favour and of
interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary law had not yet
established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there was no cause to judge and no one to
be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and unattended,
without fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were undone it was of
their own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful age of ours not one is safe, not 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
importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defence of these, as time
advanced and wickedness increased, the order of knights−errant was instituted, to defend
maidens, to protect widows and to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order I
belong, brother goatherds, to 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−errant, yet, seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and
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feasted me, it 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 goatherds, who listened to him gaping in
amazement without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate acorns,
and paid repeated visits to the second wine−skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to
keep the wine cool.
Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the end of which one
of the goatherds said, «That 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 speaking, when the notes of the rebeck reached their ears;
and shortly after, the player came up, a very good−looking young man of about
two−and−twenty. His comrades asked him if he had supped, and on his replying that he had,
he 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 man, and without waiting for more pressing he
seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began to sing to
these words.
ANTONIO'S BALLAD
Thou dost love me well, Olalla; Well I know it, even though Love's mute tongues, thine
eyes, have 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 is, Olalla, sometimes Thou hast all too plainly shown That thy heart is brass in
hardness, And thy snowy bosom stone.
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CHAPTER XI 88
Yet for all that, in thy coyness, And thy fickle fits between, Hope is there− at least the
border Of her garment may be seen.
Lures to faith are they, those 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 noticed− If 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; Sunday, Monday,
all 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 is, but as I said it,
By the girls I'm hated now.
For Teresa of the hillside At my praise of thee was sore; Said, "You 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 lie, and 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 love, and pure.
Cunning cords the holy Church has, Cords of softest silk they be; Put thy neck beneath
the yoke, dear; Mine will follow, thou 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.
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CHAPTER XI 89
Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote entreated him to
sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more inclined for sleep than for listening to
songs; so said he to his master, «Your 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 again, for it is giving me more pain than it need.»
Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the wound, told him not to
be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with which it would be soon healed; and gathering
some leaves of rosemary, of which there was a great quantity there, he chewed them and
mixed them with a little salt, and applying them to the ear he secured them firmly with a
bandage, assuring him that no other treatment would be required, and so it proved.
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CHAPTER XI 90
CHAPTER XII
O
F WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE
Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions from the
village, came up and said, «Do 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 man, «this 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 is, he has directed in his will
that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the
Cork−tree spring is, because, as 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 student, he who, like him, also went dressed as a
shepherd, replies that everything must be done without any omission according to the
directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all in commotion; however,
report says that, after all, what Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be
done, and 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 goatherds, «and cast lots to see who must stay to
mind the goats of all.»
«Thou sayest well, Pedro,» said one, «though 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 shepherdess,
to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead man was a wealthy gentleman
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XII 91
belonging to a village in those mountains, who had been a student at Salamanca for many
years, at the end of which he returned to his village with the reputation of being very learned
and deeply read. «Above all, they said, he was learned in the science of the stars and of what
went on yonder in the heavens and the sun and the moon, for 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 Pedro, not troubling himself with trifles, went on with his story, saying, «Also
he foretold when the year was going to be one of abundance or estility.»
«Sterility, you mean,» said Don Quixote.
«Sterility or estility,» answered Pedro, «it 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 Pedro, «but 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 Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd's confusion of words.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XII 92
«The sarna lives long enough,» answered Pedro; «and if, senor, you must go finding
fault with words at every step, we shall not make an end of it this twelvemonth.»
«Pardon me, friend,» said Don Quixote; «but, as there is such a difference between
sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives
longer than Sarra: so continue your story, and I will not object any more to anything.»
«I say then, my dear sir,» said the goatherd, «that 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 on, for the story is very good, and you,
good Pedro, tell 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 marriage, begging her
to marry and make a choice according to her own taste, she never gave any other answer
than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so young she did not think
herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses
that she made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XII 93
for it, lo and behold! one day the demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess;
and, in spite of her uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her, took to going
a−field with the other shepherd−lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. And so,
since she appeared in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not well tell
you how many rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume of
Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her. One of these, as has been already
said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say that he did not love but adore her. But you
must not suppose, because Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of so
little or rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even the semblance of one,
for disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the contrary, such and so great is the
vigilance with which she watches over her honour, that of all those that court and woo her
not one has boasted, or can with truth boast, that 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 shepherds, and treats them courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to
declare his intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of matrimony, she
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 her, but 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−hearted, and other names of the same sort which well
describe the nature of her character; and if you should remain here any time, senor, you
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
beeches, and there is not one of them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name
of Marcela, and 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
sighing, there another is lamenting; there love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One
will pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without
having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the morning bemused and bereft of
sense; and another without relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the
full heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the compassionate heavens, and
over one and the other, over 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 to, and 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 truth, I am
persuaded that what they say of the cause of Chrysostom's death, as our lad told us, is the
same. And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be present to−morrow at his burial, which will
be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many friends, and 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 Quixote, «and I thank you for the pleasure you
have given me by relating so interesting a tale.»
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CHAPTER XII 94
«Oh,» said the goatherd, «I 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 Panza, who 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 so, and passed all the rest of the night in
thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled
himself between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded,
but like a man who had been soundly kicked.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XII 95
CHAPTER XIII
I
N WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF
THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
Bit hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the east, when 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 Quixote, who
desired nothing better, rose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, which he did
with all despatch, and 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 hand, and along
with them there came two men of quality on horseback in handsome travelling dress, with
three servants on foot accompanying them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on
meeting, and inquiring one of the other which way each party was going, they learned that
all were bound for the scene of the burial, so 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 Vivaldo, «and 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 shepherds, and seeing them
dressed in this mournful fashion they had asked them the reason of their appearing in such a
guise; which one of them gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a
shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her, together with the death
of that Chrysostom to whose burial they were going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had
related to Don Quixote.
This conversation dropped, and 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 replied, «The 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.»
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CHAPTER XIII 96
The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to settle the point and
discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo proceeded to ask him what knights−errant
meant.
«Have not your worships,» replied Don Quixote, "read 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 him, at which they felt
the same astonishment that all felt on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who
was a person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to beguile the short
journey which they said was required to reach the mountain, the scene of the burial, sought
to give him an opportunity of going on with his absurdities. So he said to him, «It 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 Quixote, «but 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIII 97
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−errant, and 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 lives, they never at the moment of engaging in it think of commending themselves to
God, as 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 gods, a thing which
seems to me to savour somewhat of heathenism.»
«Sir,» answered Don Quixote, «that 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 traveller, «I 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
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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 lady, because 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 amour, and for the simple reason that without one he
would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who had gained entrance into the
stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the door, but over the wall like a thief and a
robber.»
«Nevertheless,» said the traveller, «if 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 answer, «Sir, 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 traveller, «it
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 said, «I 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
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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 replied, "She 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 Quixote, «has that never reached them?»
The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the conversation of the
pair, and 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 truth,
knowing 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 Toboso, because 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 way, when they saw descending a gap between
two high mountains some twenty shepherds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and
crowned with garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of them of yew, some of
cypress. Six of the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and
branches, on 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 spot, and did so by the time those who
came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them with sharp pickaxes were digging
a grave by the side of a hard rock. They greeted each other courteously, and then Don
Quixote and those who accompanied him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered with
flowers, they saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one thirty
years of age, and 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 books, and several papers open
and folded; and those who were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave and
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all the others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one of those who had borne
the body said to another, «Observe 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 was, he told me, that he saw for the first time that
mortal enemy of the human race, and here, too, for the first time he declared to her his
passion, as honourable as it was devoted, and 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; here, in
memory of misfortunes so great, he 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
Vivaldo, «for 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.»
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And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand and took up
some of those that were nearest to him; seeing which Ambrosio said, «Out 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.»
Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of them at once,
and saw that its title was «Lay of Despair.»
Ambrosio hearing it said, «That 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 him, and he, reading in a loud voice, found that it ran as follows.
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CHAPTER XIV
W
HEREIN 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
tongue, from 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 suffer, all that thou hast done, Forth shall the dread voice roll, and
bear along Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain. Then listen, not 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 roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl, The horrid hissing of the scaly snake, The
awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed, The crow's ill−boding croak, the 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 note, the wail of woe That
rises from the dreary choir of Hell, Commingled in one sound, confusing 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 rolls, or 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. For, though it be to solitudes remote The hoarse vague echoes of my
sorrows sound Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate Shall carry them to all the spacious
world.
Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies Slain by suspicion, be 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 death, inevitable, waits in
hall. But I, by some strange miracle, live on A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain; Racked by
suspicion as by certainty; Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone. And while I suffer thus,
there 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
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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 unveiled, and− bitter change!−
All his suspicions turned to certainties, And the fair truth transformed into a lie? Oh, thou
fierce tyrant of the realms of love, Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands, And bind me
with thy strongest cord, Disdain. But, woe is me! triumphant over all, My sufferings drown
the memory of you.
And now I die, and 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. Thus,
self−deluding, and 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 death, if 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 Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus With vulture, and 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 despair, grieve 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
propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all 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
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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 fire, he 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 Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty
exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed upon her in wonder
and silence, and 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 Marcela, «but
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 beautiful, thou must love me though I be ugly.«
But supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the inclinations must be
therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some 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 inclinations, and true love, I have heard it said,
is indivisible, and must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be,
why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you
love me? Nay− tell me− had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I
with justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you must remember that the
beauty I possess was no choice of mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it
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me without my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it, does not
deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither 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 burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come too near.
Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body, though it be so,
has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a
grace and charm to mind and body, why 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 free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the
trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to
the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid
aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I 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 doing, for 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 honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer that when
on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told
him that mine was to live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the
fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose
to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it that he should sink in
the depths of his infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified
him, I should have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was persistent in
spite of warning, he 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 complain, let him
give way to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom
I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide
to whom I make no promise, upon 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 fate, and to expect me
to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own
account, and let it be understood from this time forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of
jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any,
and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and
basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful,
withhold his service; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel,
pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no
kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom's impatience and violent
passion killed him, why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I
preserve my purity in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me preserve it
among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not
that of others; my taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor
hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or 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 mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is
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to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval
abode.»
With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed into the
thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving 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 her, heedless of the frank
declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting occasion for the
exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt
of his sword, exclaimed 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 Quixote, or because Ambrosio told them
to fulfil their duty to their good friend, none of the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot
until, having finished the grave and burned Chrysostom's papers, they 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 prepared, with 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. Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and 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 branches, and all
expressing their condolence with his friend ambrosio, took their Vivaldo and his companion
did the same; and Don Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to the travellers, who pressed
him to come with them to Seville, as being such a convenient place for finding adventures,
for 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 favour, and said that for the present he would not, and must not go to Seville until he
had cleared all these mountains of highwaymen and robbers, of whom report said they were
full. Seeing his good intention, the travellers were unwilling to press him further, and once
more bidding him farewell, they left him and pursued their journey, in 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 part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make
offer to her of all the service he could render her; but things did not fall out with him as he
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expected, according to what is related in the course of this veracious history, of which the
Second Part ends here.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIV 108
CHAPTER XV
I
N 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 Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into
the same wood which they had seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having
wandered for more than two hours in all directions in search of her without finding her, they
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 heat, which by this
time was beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and
turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on the grass that was there in abundance, they
ransacked the alforjas, and 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 Rocinante, feeling sure, from what he knew of his staidness and freedom from
incontinence, that all the mares in the Cordova pastures would not lead him into an
impropriety. Chance, however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordained it that
feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan
carriers, whose 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 happened, then, that Rocinante took a fancy to disport himself with
their ladyships the ponies, and abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he scented them,
he, without asking leave of his master, got up a briskish little trot and hastened to make
known his wishes to them; they, however, it seemed, preferred their pasture to him, and
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 carriers, seeing the violence he was offering to their mares, came running up armed with
stakes, and so belaboured him that they brought him sorely battered to the ground.
By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drubbing of Rocinante,
came up panting, and 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 Sancho, «if they are more than
twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps not more than one and a half?»
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«I count for a hundred,» replied Don Quixote, and without more words he drew his
sword and attacked the Yanguesans and excited and impelled by the example of his master,
Sancho did the same; and to begin with, Don Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that
laid open the leather jerkin he wore, together with a great portion of his shoulder. The
Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted by only two men while they were so many, betook
themselves to their stakes, and driving the two into the middle they began to lay on with
great zeal and energy; in fact, at the second blow they brought Sancho to the ground, and
Don Quixote fared the same way, all his skill and high mettle availing him nothing, and fate
willed it that he should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who had not yet risen; whereby it may
be seen how furiously stakes can pound in angry boorish hands. Then, seeing the mischief
they had done, the Yanguesans with all the haste they could loaded their team and pursued
their journey, leaving the two adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.
Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close to his master he called to him
in a weak and doleful voice, «Senor 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 Panza, «your 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 thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight−errant, ere two days are over,
unless fortune orders otherwise, I mean to have it in my possession, or 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 myself, for I had no business to put hand to sword
against men who where not dubbed knights like myself, and 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 Sancho, it is well thou
shouldst receive a hint on the matter which I am now about to mention to thee, for 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 them, for I shall not do so at
all; but do thou draw sword and chastise them to thy heart's content, and 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
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the stout Biscayan.
But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master's admonition as to let it pass without
saying in reply, «Senor, 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 reply, «I 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 Sancho, «I'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 Quixote, «ought 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 replied, «Senor, 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
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in his infinite mercy helps us.»
«Know, friend Sancho,» answered Don Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «for 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 Panza, «than 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.»
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«No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I mean to do,» returned
Don Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «since 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 Rocinante, carrying
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 mounted, for I remember having read how the good old Silenus,
the tutor and instructor of the gay god of laughter, when he entered the city of the hundred
gates, went very contentedly mounted on a handsome ass.»
«It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says,» answered Sancho, «but
there is a great difference between going mounted and going slung like a sack of manure.»
To which Don Quixote replied, «Wounds 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 Panza, «that 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 Quixote, «when 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
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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.
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CHAPTER XV 114
CHAPTER XVI
O
F 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 tow, as
there will be no want of some one to use it, for my loins too are rather sore.»
«Then you must have fallen too,» said the hostess.
«I did not fall,» said Sancho Panza, «but 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.»
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CHAPTER XVI 115
«That may well be,» said the young girl, «for 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 Panza, «that 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 Panza, «and 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 hostess, «that 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 Sancho, «for 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 could, and taking the hostess by the hand he said to her, «Believe 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 hostess, her daughter, and 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 Greek, though they could perceive they were all meant for expressions of good−will
and blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they stared at him
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CHAPTER XVI 116
and wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man of a different sort from those they
were used to, and thanking him in pothouse phrase for his civility they left him, while the
Asturian gave her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than his master.
The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation that night, and 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 them, even though she made them in a
forest and without any witness present, for she plumed herself greatly on being a lady and
held it no disgrace to be in such an employment as servant in an inn, because, she said,
misfortunes and ill−luck had brought her to that position. The hard, narrow, wretched,
rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the middle of this star−lit stable, and close beside it
Sancho made his, which 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 carrier,
made up, as has been said, of the pack−saddles and all the trappings of the two best mules he
had, though there were twelve of them, sleek, plump, and in prime condition, for he was one
of the rich carriers of Arevalo, according to the author of this history, who particularly
mentions this carrier because he knew him very well, and 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 things, as is very evident since he would not pass over in silence those that
have been already mentioned, however 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 carelessness, perverseness, or 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 proceed, then: after having paid a visit to his team and given them their second feed,
the carrier stretched himself on his pack−saddles and lay waiting for his conscientious
Maritornes. Sancho was by this time plastered and had lain down, and though he strove to
sleep the pain of his ribs would not let him, while Don Quixote with the pain of his had his
eyes as wide open as a hare's. The inn was all in silence, and 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 stillness, and the thoughts, always present to our knight's mind, of the incidents
described at every turn in the books that were the cause of his misfortune, conjured 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 (for, as has been said, all the inns he lodged in were
castles to his eyes), and that the daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of the lord of the
castle, and that she, won by his high−bred bearing, had fallen in love with him, and 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 fact, he began to feel uneasy and to
consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to encounter, and he resolved in his
heart to commit no treason to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though the queen
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CHAPTER XVI 117
Guinevere herself and the dame Quintanona should present themselves before him.
While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time and the hour− an unlucky one
for him− arrived for the Asturian to come, who in her smock, with bare feet and her hair
gathered into a fustian coif, with noiseless and cautious steps entered the chamber where the
three were quartered, in quest of the carrier; but scarcely had she gained the door when Don
Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in spite of his plasters and the pain of his
ribs, he stretched out his arms to receive his beauteous damsel. The Asturian, who went all
doubled up and in silence with her hands before her feeling for her lover, encountered the
arms of Don Quixote, who grasped her tightly by the wrist, and drawing her towards him,
while she dared not utter a word, made her sit down on the bed. He then felt her smock, and
although it was of sackcloth it appeared to him to be of the finest and softest silk: on her
wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they had the sheen of precious Orient pearls:
her hair, which in some measure resembled a horse's mane, he rated as threads of the
brightest gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the sun himself: her breath, which no
doubt smelt of yesterday's stale salad, seemed to him to diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance
from her mouth; and, in short, he 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 who,
smitten by love, came with all the adornments that are here set down, to see the sorely
wounded knight; and so great was the poor gentleman's blindness that neither touch, nor
smell, nor anything else about the good lass that would have made any but a carrier vomit,
were enough to undeceive him; on the contrary, he was persuaded he had the goddess of
beauty in his arms, and 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 Quixote, and
not understanding or heeding the words he addressed to her, she strove without speaking to
free herself. The worthy carrier, whose unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his
doxy the moment she entered the door, and was listening attentively to all Don Quixote said;
and jealous that the Asturian should have broken her word with him for another, drew 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 her, not 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 blood, and not content
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CHAPTER XVI 118
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 feet, unable
to support the additional weight of the carrier, came to the ground, and 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 up, and
lighting a lamp hastened to the quarter where he had heard the disturbance. The wench,
seeing that her master was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible, frightened and
panic−stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who still slept, and crouching upon it
made a ball of herself.
The innkeeper came in exclaiming, «Where art thou, strumpet? Of course this is some
of thy work.» At this Sancho awoke, and feeling this mass almost on top of him fancied he
had the nightmare and began to distribute fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share fell
upon Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain and flinging modesty aside, paid back so many
in return to Sancho that she woke him up in spite of himself. He then, finding himself so
handled, by whom he knew not, raising himself up as well as he could, grappled with
Maritornes, and he and she between them began the bitterest and drollest scrimmage in the
world. The carrier, however, perceiving by the light of the innkeeper candle how it fared
with his ladylove, quitting Don Quixote, ran to bring her the help she needed; and the
innkeeper did the same but with a different intention, for his was to chastise the lass, as he
believed that beyond a doubt she alone was the cause of all the harmony. And so, as the
saying is, cat to rat, rat to rope, rope to stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the lass,
she him, and the innkeeper her, and 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 out, and 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 Toledo, who, also hearing the extraordinary noise of the
conflict, seized his staff and the tin case with his warrants, and 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 Quixote, who lay stretched
senseless on his back upon his broken−down bed, and, his hand falling on the beard as he
felt about, he continued to cry, «Help for the Jurisdiction!» but perceiving that he whom he
had laid hold of did not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and that those in the
room were his murderers, and with this suspicion he raised his voice still higher, calling out,
«Shut the inn gate; see that no one goes out; they have killed a man here!» This cry startled
them all, and each dropped the contest at the point at which the voice reached him. The
innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his pack−saddles, the 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 beard, and went out to look for a light to search for
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CHAPTER XVI 119
and apprehend the culprits; but not finding one, as the innkeeper had purposely extinguished
the lantern on retreating to his room, he was compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where
after much time and trouble he lit another lamp.
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CHAPTER XVII
I
N WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH
THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA
ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH 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, «Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou,
friend Sancho?»
«How can I sleep, curses on it!» returned Sancho discontentedly and bitterly, «when it
is plain that all the devils have been at me this night?»
«Thou mayest well believe that,» answered Don Quixote, «because, either I know little,
or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know− but 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 Quixote, «because I hate taking away anyone's good name.»
«I say,» replied Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «that thou wouldst see me dead
so soon?»
«It is not for that,» replied Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «I 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
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CHAPTER XVII 121
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 Sancho, «for 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 Quixote, «for 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 lamp, and came in to see the
man that he thought had been killed; and as Sancho caught sight of him at the door, seeing
him coming in his shirt, with a cloth on his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very
forbidding countenance, he said to his master, «Senor, 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 Quixote, «for 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 not,
let my shoulders speak to the point.»
«Mine could speak too,» said Don Quixote, «but that is not a sufficient reason for
believing that what we see is the enchanted Moor.»
The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful conversation, stood
amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still lay on his back unable to move from pure
pummelling and plasters. The officer turned to him and said, «Well, how goes it, good
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CHAPTER XVII 122
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
individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full of oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow
with it on the head that he gave him a badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went
out, and Sancho Panza said, «That 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 Quixote, «and 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 bones, and went after the innkeeper in the dark,
and meeting the officer, who was looking to see what had become of his enemy, he said to
him, «Senor, 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 way, he took him for a man out of his senses,
and as day was now beginning to break, he opened the inn gate, and calling the host, he told
him what this good man wanted. The host furnished him with what he required, and Sancho
brought it to Don Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was bewailing the pain of the
blow of the lamp, which had done him no more harm than raising a couple of rather large
lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the sweat that flowed from him in his sufferings
during the late storm. To be brief, he took the materials, of which he made a compound,
mixing 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 into, and as there was not one in the inn,
he 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−marias,
salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a cross by way of benediction, at all
which there were present Sancho, the innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was now
peacefully engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules.
This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on the spot, of the virtue
of this precious balsam, as he considered it, and 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
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CHAPTER XVII 123
stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke into a profuse sweat, on
account of which he bade them cover him up and leave him alone. They did so, and he lay
sleeping more than three hours, at the end of which he awoke and felt very great bodily
relief and so much ease from his bruises that he thought himself quite cured, and verily
believed he had hit upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he might
thenceforward, without any fear, face any kind of destruction, battle, or combat, however
perilous it might be.
Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as miraculous, begged
him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which was no small quantity. Don Quixote
consented, and he, taking it with both hands, in good faith and with a better will, gulped
down and drained off very little less than his master. But the fact is, that the stomach of poor
Sancho was of necessity not so delicate as that of his master, and so, before vomiting, he
was seized with such gripings and retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and
truly be believed his last hour had come, and 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 said, «It 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 effect, and 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 hours, at the end of which he was left,
not like his master, but so weak and exhausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote,
however, who, as has been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to take his
departure at once in quest of adventures, as 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
protection, all the more when he had the security and confidence his balsam afforded him;
and so, urged by this impulse, he saddled Rocinante himself and put the pack−saddle on his
squire's beast, whom 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 there, to serve
him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who were more than twenty persons, stood
watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was likewise observing him, and he too never took
his eyes off her, and 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.
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CHAPTER XVII 124
As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called to the host and said
in a very grave and measured voice, «Many 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 calmness, «Sir 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 me, and let
us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care about is to get my money.»
«You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper,» said Don Quixote, and putting spurs to Rocinante
and bringing his pike to the slope he rode out of the inn before anyone could stop him, and
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 Sancho,
who said that as his master would not pay neither would he, because, being as he was squire
to a knight−errant, the 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 wroth, and
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 rap,
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CHAPTER XVII 125
though it cost him his life; for the excellent and ancient usage of knights−errant was not
going to be violated by him, nor 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 Segovia, three needle−makers from the Colt of Cordova,
and two lodgers from the Fair of Seville, lively fellows, tender−hearted, fond of a joke, and
playful, who, almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse, made up to Sancho
and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them went in for the blanket of the host's
bed; but on flinging him into it they looked up, and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat
lower what they required for their work, they decided upon going out into the yard, which
was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho in the middle of the blanket, they began
to raise him high, making 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
master, who, halting to listen attentively, was persuaded that some new adventure was
coming, until he clearly perceived that it was his squire who uttered them. Wheeling about
he came up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and 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 yard, which was
not very high, he 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 him, it
is my belief he would have laughed. He tried to climb from his horse on to the top of the
wall, but 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: they, however,
did not stay their laughter or their work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his
lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to little purpose, or none
at all, until from pure weariness they left off. They then brought him his ass, and mounting
him on top of it they put his jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing
him so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and that it might be all the
cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, and as he was raising it to his mouth he
was stopped by the cries of his master exclaiming, «Sancho, 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 asquint, and in a still louder voice said, «Can 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 it, and
begged Maritornes to fetch him some wine, which she did with right good will, and paid for
it with her own money; for indeed they say of her that, though she was in that line of life,
there was some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her. When Sancho had
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done drinking he dug his heels into his ass, and the gate of the inn being thrown open he
passed out very well pleased at having paid nothing and carried his point, though it had been
at the expense of his usual sureties, his shoulders. It is true that the innkeeper detained his
alforjas in payment of what was owing to him, but Sancho took his departure in such a flurry
that he never missed them. The innkeeper, as soon as he saw him off, wanted to bar the gate
close, but the blanketers would not agree to it, for they were fellows who would not have
cared two farthings for Don Quixote, even had he been really one of the knights−errant of
the Round Table.
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CHAPTER XVIII
I
N WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD
WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, AND 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 said, «I 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; nay, tell me, what greater
pleasure can there be in the world, or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, and
triumphing over one's enemy? None, beyond all doubt.»
«Very likely,» answered Sancho, «though I do not know it; all I know is that since we
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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 it, and 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
possessed, for, besides having the said virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armour,
however strong and enchanted it might be, that could resist it.»
«Such is my luck,» said Sancho, «that 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 talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the road they
were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a large and thick cloud of dust,
on 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 Sancho, «for on this opposite side also
there rises just such another cloud of dust.»
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing exceedingly, he
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 battles, enchantments,
adventures, crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of chivalry, and
everything he said, thought, or 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, which, because of the dust, did not become visible until they drew near, but Don
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CHAPTER XVIII 129
Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies that Sancho was led to believe it and
say, «Well, 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 know, Sancho, that 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 Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, for
he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.»
«But why are these two lords such enemies?»
«They are at enmity,» replied Don Quixote, «because 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 Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «and 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 so, and 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; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he
did not see and what did not exist, he 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
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CHAPTER XVIII 130
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 imagination, and to all
he assigned off−hand their arms, colours, devices, and mottoes, carried away by the illusions
of his unheard−of craze; and without a pause, he continued, «People 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 speaking, and from time to time
turned to try if he could see the knights and giants his master was describing, and 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.»
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«How canst thou say that!» answered Don Quixote; «dost thou not hear the neighing of
the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the drums?»
«I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,» said Sancho; which was true,
for by this time the two flocks had come close.
«The fear thou art in, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «prevents 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 spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot down the slope like a
thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying, «Come 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 out, «Ho, 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 saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and 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
use, they 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, but, letting 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
smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for certain, and recollecting his liquor
he drew out his flask, and 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
pieces, knocking three or four teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely
crushing two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the second, that
the poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his horse. The shepherds came
up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste they collected their flock together, took
up the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, and made off without waiting to
ascertain anything further.
All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his master was
performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and the occasion when fortune had
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CHAPTER XVIII 132
made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then, brought to the ground, and that the
shepherds had taken themselves off, he 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 know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for those of his sort to make
us believe what they choose; and this malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the
glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy into droves
of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that
what I say is true; mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when they
have gone some little distance from this they will return to their original shape and, ceasing
to be sheep, become 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 hither, and see how many of my teeth and
grinders are missing, for 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 Quixote, so, at the very instant when
Sancho came to examine his mouth, he discharged all its contents with more force than a
musket, and full into the beard of the compassionate squire.
«Holy Mary!» cried Sancho, «what 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 colour, taste, and smell, that 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 turned, and he vomited up his inside over his very master, and both were
left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something wherewith to clean himself,
and relieve his master, out of his alforjas; but not finding them, he well−nigh took leave of
his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart resolved to quit his master and return
home, even though he forfeited the wages of his service and all hopes of the promised
island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep his teeth from
falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of the bridle of Rocinante, who 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 cheek, like one in deep
dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don 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
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CHAPTER XVIII 133
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
treasures, did 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 Sancho, «if 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 Quixote, «I 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 encampment, as if they had graduated in the University of Paris;
whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pen, nor 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 night, and God grant it may be somewhere where there are no
blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil
take the whole concern.»
«Ask that of God, my son,» said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on where thou wilt, for
this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach me here thy hand, and feel with thy
finger, and find out how many of my teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of
the upper jaw, for it is there I feel the pain."
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CHAPTER XVIII 134
Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, «How many grinders used your
worship have on this side?»
«Four,» replied Don Quixote, «besides the back−tooth, all whole and quite sound.»
«Mind what you are saying, senor.»
«I say four, if not five,» answered Don Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «in 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 Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire gave him; «I
had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the sword−arm; for I tell thee,
Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a millstone, and 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. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at whatever pace thou wilt.»
Sancho did as he bade him, and 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 along, then, at 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
kind, and among the things he said to him was that which will be told in the following
chapter.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVIII 135
CHAPTER XIX
O
F THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD
WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH
A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER 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 Quixote, «but 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 no, it will not be ill done to
provide ourselves with a remedy.»
«In that case,» said Sancho, «mind 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 talk, night 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 hunger, for 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
darkly, but for all that they pushed on, Sancho 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 along,
then, in this way, the night dark, the squire hungry, the master sharp−set, they 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 them, nor did Don Quixote
altogether relish them: the one pulled up his ass by the halter, the other his hack by the
bridle, and they stood still, watching anxiously to see what all this would turn out to be, and
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CHAPTER XIX 136
found that the lights were approaching them, and the nearer they came the greater they
seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake like a man dosed with mercury, and Don
Quixote's hair stood on end; he, however, plucking up spirit a little, said:
«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 phantoms, as
I am beginning to think it is, where shall I find the ribs to bear it?»
«Be they phantoms ever so much,» said Don Quixote, «I 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 Sancho, «what
difference will it make being on the open plain or not?»
«For all that,» replied Don Quixote, «I entreat thee, Sancho, to keep a good heart, for
experience will tell thee what mine is.»
«I will, please God,» answered Sancho, and 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 encamisados, all on horseback, with lighted torches
in their hands, the awe−inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the courage of
Sancho, who 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 heart, and even into his
master's; and (save in Don Quixote's case) did so, for all Sancho's resolution had now broken
down. It was just the opposite with his master, whose 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 knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved for him alone; and without
any further reasoning he laid his lance in rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and 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:
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CHAPTER XIX 137
«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 encamisados, «and 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 answer, and seizing the mule by the bridle
he said, «Halt, 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 shy, and 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 foot, seeing the
encamisado fall, began to abuse Don Quixote, who now moved to anger, without any more
ado, laying his lance in rest charged one of the men in mourning and brought him badly
wounded to the ground, and as he wheeled round upon the others the agility with which he
attacked and routed them was a sight to see, for it seemed just as if wings had that instant
grown upon Rocinante, so lightly and proudly did he bear himself. The encamisados were
all timid folk and unarmed, so they speedily made their escape from the fray and set off at a
run across the plain with their lighted torches, looking exactly like maskers running on some
gala or festival night. The mourners, too, enveloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns,
were unable to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself Don Quixote
belaboured them all and drove them off against their will, for 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 lord, and said to himself,
«Clearly 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 thrown, by the
light of which Don Quixote perceived him, and coming up to him he presented the point of
the lance to his face, calling on him to yield himself prisoner, or else he would kill him; to
which the prostrate man replied, «I 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.»
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CHAPTER XIX 138
«Then still worse awaits you,» said Don Quixote, «if you do not satisfy me as to all I
asked you at first.»
«You shall be soon satisfied,» said the licentiate; «you must know, then, that though
just now I said I was a licentiate, I am only a bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am
a native of Alcobendas, I come from the city of Baeza with eleven others, priests, the same
who fled with the torches, and we are going to the city of Segovia accompanying a dead
body which is in that litter, and is that of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was
interred; and now, as I said, we are taking his bones to their burial−place, which is in
Segovia, where 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 Quixote, «the 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 bachelor, «for 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 bachelor, «I 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 Sancho, who, however, had no mind to come, as he was just then
engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, well laden with provender, which these worthy
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CHAPTER XIX 139
gentlemen had brought with them. Sancho made a bag of his coat, and, getting together as
much as he could, and as the bag would hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey
his master's call, and helped him to remove the bachelor from under the mule; then putting
him on her back he gave him the torch, and Don Quixote bade him follow the track of his
companions, and beg pardon of them on his part for the wrong which he could not help
doing them.
And said Sancho, «If 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 Quixote, «but 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 departure, as 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 unfortunate, and 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 combat, or else to the want of teeth and grinders.»
«It is not that,» replied Don Quixote, «but 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.»
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CHAPTER XIX 140
«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 own, face to face,
to those who look at you, and without anything more, either image or shield, they will call
you 'Him of the Rueful Countenance' and believe me I am telling you the truth, for I assure
you, senor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the loss of your grinders have given you
such an ill−favoured face that, as I say, the rueful picture may be very well spared.»
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved to call himself by
that name, and 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 not,
but Sancho would not have it, saying:
«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, who, feeling that Sancho
was right, did so without replying; and after proceeding some little distance between two
hills they found themselves in a wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and Sancho
unloaded his beast, and stretched upon the green grass, with hunger for sauce, they
breakfasted, dined, lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying 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 them, which Sancho held the worst of all, and that was that they had no wine
to drink, nor even water to moisten their lips; and as thirst tormented them, Sancho,
observing that the meadow where they were was full of green and tender grass, said what
will be told in the following chapter.
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CHAPTER XIX 141
CHAPTER XX
O
F 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 Quixote, and, he leading Rocinante by the bridle and
Sancho the ass by the halter, after he had packed away upon him the remains of the supper,
they advanced the meadow feeling their way, for the darkness of the night made it
impossible to see anything; but they had not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of
water, as if falling from great rocks, struck 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 Sancho,
who was by nature timid and faint−hearted. They heard, I say, strokes falling with a
measured beat, and a certain rattling of iron and chains that, together with the furious din of
the water, would have struck terror into any heart but Don Quixote's. The night was, as has
been said, dark, and they had happened to reach a spot in among some tall trees, whose
leaves stirred by a gentle breeze made a low ominous sound; so that, what with the solitude,
the place, the darkness, the noise of the water, and the rustling of the leaves, everything
inspired awe and dread; more especially as they perceived that the strokes did not cease, nor
the wind lull, nor morning approach; to all which might be added their ignorance as to where
they were. But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on Rocinante, and
bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his pike to the slope, and said, «Friend 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
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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 way,
saying:
«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 Quixote, «where 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 Sancho, «but 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.»
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«Let it want what it may,» replied Don Quixote, «it 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 resolve, and how little his tears, counsels, and
entreaties prevailed with him, determined to have recourse to his own ingenuity and compel
him, if he could, to wait till daylight; and so, while tightening the girths of the horse, he
quietly and without being felt, with his ass' halter tied both Rocinante's legs, so that when
Don Quixote strove to go he was unable as the horse could only move by jumps. Seeing the
success of his trick, Sancho 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 desperate, but the more he drove his heels into the horse, the
less he stirred him; and not having any suspicion of the tying, he was fain to resign himself
and wait till daybreak or until Rocinante could move, firmly 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 Sancho, «for 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 I,
thinkest thou, one of those knights that take their rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou
who art born to sleep, or do as thou wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent with my
character.»
«Be not angry, master mine,» replied Sancho, «I 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 embrace, not 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 proposed, to 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 which, if I can manage to relate it, and nobody interferes with the telling, is the
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best of stories, and let your worship give me your attention, for here I begin. What was, was;
and may the good that is to come be for all, and 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 Roman, that says 'the evil for
him that goes to look for it,' and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to finger, to show
that your worship should keep quiet and not go looking for evil in any quarter, and that we
should go back by some other road, since nobody forces us to follow this in which so many
terrors affright us.»
«Go on with thy story, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «and leave the choice of our road to
my care.»
«I say then,» continued Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «repeating 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
Sancho, «and 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 thee, go on.»
«And so, lord of my soul,» continued Sancho, as I have said, this shepherd was in love
with Torralva the shepherdess, who was a wild buxom lass with something of the look of a
man about her, for she had little moustaches; I fancy I see her now."
«Then you knew her?» said Don Quixote.
«I did not know her,» said Sancho, «but 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
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Lope, was immediately smitten with love for him, though she had never loved him before.»
«That is the natural way of women,» said Don Quixote, «to scorn the one that loves
them, and love the one that hates them: go on, Sancho.»
«It came to pass,» said Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «what 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 over, that if there be a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou
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 crossed, and you answered you did not know, at that very instant all I had to
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say passed away out of my memory, and, faith, there was much virtue in it, and
entertainment.»
«So, then,» said Don Quixote, «the story has come to an end?»
«As much as my mother has,» said Sancho.
«In truth,» said Don Quixote, «thou 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 Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «and let us see if Rocinante
can go;» and again he spurred him, and again Rocinante made jumps and remained where he
was, so well tied was he.
Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was now approaching, or that he
had eaten something laxative at supper, or 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 heart, he dared not separate himself from his master by as much as the black of his nail;
to escape doing what he wanted was, however, also impossible; so what he did for peace's
sake was to remove his right hand, which held the back of the saddle, and with it to untie
gently and silently the running string which alone held up his breeches, so 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 quarters, no slim ones. But, this accomplished, which he fancied
was all he had to do to get out of this terrible strait and embarrassment, another still greater
difficulty presented itself, for it seemed to him impossible to relieve himself without making
some noise, and he ground his teeth and squeezed his shoulders together, holding his breath
as much as he could; but in spite of his precautions he was unlucky enough after all to make
a little noise, very different from that which was causing him so much fear.
Don Quixote, hearing it, said, «What noise is that, Sancho?»
«I don't know, senor,» said he; «it must be something new, for adventures and
misadventures never begin with a trifle.» Once more he tried his luck, and succeeded so
well, that 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 hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked with him that the fumes rose almost in a
straight line, it could not be but that some should reach his nose, and as soon as they did he
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came to its relief by compressing it between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffing tone,
«Sancho, 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 Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, all 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 Sancho, «that 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 night, till Sancho,
perceiving that daybreak was coming on apace, very cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up
his breeches. As soon as Rocinante found himself free, though by nature he was not at all
mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively and began pawing− for as to capering, begging his
pardon, he knew not what it meant. Don Quixote, then, observing that Rocinante could
move, took 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 trees, chestnuts, which cast a very deep shade; he perceived likewise
that the sound of the strokes did not cease, but could not discover what caused it, and so
without any further delay he let Rocinante feel the spur, and once more taking leave of
Sancho, he told him to wait for him there three days at most, as he had said before, and if he
should not have returned by that time, he 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 Dulcinea, and said he was not
to be uneasy as to the payment of his services, for before leaving home he had made his will,
in 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 safe, sound, and unhurt out of that
danger, he 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 master, and 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
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as to make him show any weakness; on the contrary, hiding what he felt as well as he could,
he began to move towards that quarter whence the sound of the water and of the strokes
seemed to come.
Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his custom was, his ass, his
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 rocks, down 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 came, they perceived, the
din and clatter of blows, which still continued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at
the noise of the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don Quixote advanced step by step
towards the houses, commending himself with all his heart to his lady, imploring her support
in that dread pass and enterprise, and on the way commending himself to God, too, not to
forget him. Sancho who never quitted his side, stretched 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 farther, when on
turning a corner the true cause, beyond the possibility of any mistake, of that
dread−sounding and to them awe−inspiring noise that had kept them all the night in such
fear and perplexity, appeared plain and obvious; and it was (if, reader, thou art not disgusted
and disappointed) six fulling hammers which by their alternate strokes made all the din.
When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he 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 laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and 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 stopped, and as many times did his
laughter break out afresh with the same violence as at first, whereat Don Quixote grew
furious, above all when he heard him say mockingly, «Thou 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 Quixote, then, seeing 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 if, instead of
catching them on his shoulders, he had caught them on his head there would have been no
wages to pay, unless indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting an awkward
return in earnest for his jest, and fearing his master might carry it still further, said to him
very humbly, «Calm yourself, sir, for by God I am only joking.»
«Well, then, if you are joking I am not,» replied Don Quixote. «Look here, my lively
gentleman, if these, instead of being fulling hammers, had been some perilous adventure,
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have I not, think you, shown the courage required for the attempt and achievement? Am I,
perchance, being, as I am, a gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and tell
whether they come from fulling mills or not; and that, when perhaps, as is the case, I have
never in my life seen any as you have, low boor as you are, that have been born and bred
among them? But turn me these six hammers into six giants, and bring them to beard me,
one by one or all together, and if I do not knock them head over heels, then 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 me, your worship, now 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 at, and 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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «your 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 Quixote, «that 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
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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 Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «since 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 Quixote, «shalt thou live long on the face of the earth; for
next to parents, masters are to be respected as though they were parents.»
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CHAPTER XXI
W
HICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND
RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS
THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT
It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the fulling mills, but 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 gold, and 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 Sancho, «for 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 Sancho, «but, 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
me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us on a dappled grey steed, who has upon
his head a helmet of gold?»
«What I see and make out,» answered Sancho, «is 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
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me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a word, to save time, I 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 grant, I say once more, that 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 Quixote, «or 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 helmet, steed, and knight that Don Quixote saw,
was this. In that neighbourhood there were two villages, one of them so small that it had
neither apothecary's shop nor barber, which the other that was close to it had, so the barber
of the larger served the smaller, and in it there was a sick man who required to be bled and
another man who wanted to be shaved, and on this errand the barber was going, carrying
with him a brass basin; but as luck would have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and
not to spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin on his head, and being
clean it glittered at half a league's distance. He rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and 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 near, without entering into any parley with
him, at Rocinante's top speed he bore down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully
determined to run him through and through, and as he reached him, without checking the
fury of his charge, he cried to him:
«Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that which is so
reasonably my due.»
The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this apparition
coming down upon him, had 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 ground, with which Don Quixote contented himself, saying that
the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated the beaver, which finding itself pressed by
the hunters bites and cuts off with its teeth that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows it
is pursued.
He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his hands said:
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«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 master, who immediately put it on his head, turning it round, now this
way, now that, in search of fitment, and not finding it he said, «Clearly 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
laughter, but 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 he, «to 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 value, and who, not knowing what he
did, and seeing it to be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of
what it might be worth, and of the other made this which is like a barber's basin as thou
sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise it, its transformation makes no difference,
for I will set it to rights at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and 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 can, for 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 Sancho, «if 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 Quixote, «for thou knowest,
Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory.»
«So have I,» answered Sancho, «but 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 this, «for once an
injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it: but know that it is the part of noble and
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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 Sancho, «Let 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 Quixote, «of 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 Sancho, «or 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «that if they were for my own person I could not
want them more;» and forthwith, fortified by this licence, he effected the mutatio capparum,
rigging out his beast to the ninety−nines and making quite another thing of it. This done,
they broke their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule,
and drank of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, without casting a look in that
direction, in such loathing did they hold them for the alarm they had caused them; and, all
anger and gloom removed, they mounted and, without taking any fixed road (not to fix upon
any being the proper thing for true knights−errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante's will,
which carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass, which always
followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably; nevertheless they returned to the high
road, and pursued it at a venture without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in 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
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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 Quixote, «and be brief in thy discourse, for there is no
pleasure in one that is long.»
«Well then, senor,» returned Sancho, «I 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 Quixote, "but 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
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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 it, and none will bring it to an
end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the great enhancement of his fame, whereat
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 king, or prince, or whatever he
is, is engaged in a very bitter war with another as powerful as himself, and the stranger
knight, after having been some days at his court, requests leave from him to go and serve
him in the said war. The king will grant it very readily, and 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 sleeps, which looks upon a garden, and at
which he has already many times conversed with her, the go−between and confidante in the
matter being a damsel much trusted by the princess. He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel
will fetch water, much distressed because morning approaches, and 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 knight, who will kiss them a thousand
and a thousand times, bathing them with his tears. It will be arranged between them how
they are to inform each other of their good or evil fortunes, and the princess will entreat him
to make his absence as short as possible, which he will promise to do with many oaths; once
more he kisses her hands, and takes his leave in such grief that he is well−nigh ready to die.
He betakes him thence to his chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for sorrow at
parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the king, queen, and princess, and,
as he takes his leave of the pair, it is told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot
receive a visit; the knight thinks it is from grief at his departure, his heart is pierced, and he
is hardly able to keep from showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes all, goes to
tell her mistress, who listens with tears and says that one of her greatest distresses is not
knowing who this knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or not; the damsel assures
her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could
not exist in any save one who was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and she
strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in her parents, and at the end of
two days she appears in public. Meanwhile the knight has taken his departure; he fights in
the war, conquers the king's enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many battles, returns to
the court, sees his lady where he was wont to see her, and it is agreed that he shall demand
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her in marriage of her parents as the reward of his services; the king is unwilling to give her,
as he knows not who he is, but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other way it
may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and 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
kingdom, I know not what, for I fancy it is not likely to be on the map. The father dies, the
princess inherits, and 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's, who will be, no doubt, the one who
was confidante in their amour, and 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 Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «what 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
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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 Sancho, «there 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 Quixote, «and mean be
he who thinks himself mean.»
«In God's name let him be so,» said Sancho: «I am an old Christian, and to fit me for a
count that's enough.»
«And more than enough for thee,» said Don Quixote; «and even wert thou not, it would
make no difference, because I being the king can easily give thee nobility without purchase
or service rendered by thee, for when I make thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman;
and they may say what they will, but 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 behave, for once in my life I
was beadle of a brotherhood, and 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 be, then, when I put a duke's
robe on my back, or 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 Quixote, «but 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 Sancho, «than 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.»
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«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 man, and a
man following him on horseback in every turn he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why
this man did not join the other man, instead of always going behind him; they answered me
that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with nobles to have such persons behind
them, and ever since then I know it, for I have never forgotten it.»
«Thou art right,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 king, and make me a count.»
«So it shall be,» answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw what will be told in
the following chapter.
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CHAPTER XXII
O
F THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL
UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED
WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO
Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, relates in this most grave,
high−sounding, minute, delightful, and 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−one, Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road he
was following some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck, like beads, on a great
iron chain, and 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 muskets, those on foot with
javelins and swords, and 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 Sancho, «but that these are people condemned for their
crimes to serve by force in the king's galleys.»
«In fact,» replied Don Quixote, «however 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 Quixote, «here is a case for the exercise of my office, to put
down force and to succour and help the wretched.»
«Recollect, your worship,» said Sancho, «Justice, 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 up, and 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 majesty, that they were
going to the galleys, and that was all that was to be said and all he had any business to know.
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«Nevertheless,» replied Don Quixote, «I 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 permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they not granted
it, he 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; «why, if 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 well, and held it so close in my
embrace, that if the arm of the law had not forced it from me, I should never have let it go of
my own will to this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no occasion for torture, the
case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on the back, and three years of gurapas
besides, and that was the end of it.»
«What are gurapas?» asked Don Quixote.
«Gurapas are galleys,» answered the galley slave, who was a young man of about
four−and−twenty, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.
Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply, so downcast
and melancholy was he; but the first answered for him, and said, «He, sir, goes as a canary, I
mean as a musician and a singer.»
«What!» said Don Quixote, «for being musicians and singers are people sent to the
galleys too?»
«Yes, sir,» answered the galley slave, «for there is nothing worse than singing under
suffering.»
«On the contrary, I have heard say,» said Don Quixote, «that he who sings scares away
his woes.»
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«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 him, «Sir, 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 others, and the man answered very readily and unconcernedly, «I 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 slave, «is 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 fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a white beard
falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the reason of his being there began to
weep without answering a word, but the fifth acted as his tongue and said, «This worthy
man is going to the galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds in ceremony and on
horseback.»
«That means,» said Sancho Panza, «as I take it, to have been exposed to shame in
public.»
«Just so,» replied the galley slave, «and 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 Quixote, «be 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,
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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 man, «and 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 before, and 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 was, and 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 student, and one of the guards said he was a great talker
and a very elegant Latin scholar.
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Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very personable fellow, except that when
he looked, his eyes turned in a little one towards the other. He was bound differently from
the rest, for he had to his leg a chain so long that it was wound all round his body, and two
rings on his neck, one attached to the chain, the 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 guard, «which 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 this, «let 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 commissary,
«if you don't want me to make you hold your tongue in spite of your teeth.»
«It is easy to see,» returned the galley slave, «that 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 Gines, «but 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 commissary, «for 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 Gines, «though it were in for two hundred
ducats.»
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CHAPTER XXII 165
«Is it so good?» said Don Quixote.
«So good is it,» replied Gines, «that 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 other, «when 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 them, for there I shall have time to finish my book; I have still
many things left to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than enough leisure; though
I do not want much for what I have to write, for I have it by heart.»
«You seem a clever fellow,» said Don Quixote.
«And an unfortunate one,» replied Gines, «for 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 here, but to conduct and take us
where his majesty orders you; if not, by 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 on, for we have had quite enough of this
entertainment.»
The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for his threats, but Don
Quixote came between them, and begged him not to ill−use him, as 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
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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 Quixote, «these 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 them,
or he to order us to do so! Go your way, sir, and good luck to you; put that basin straight that
you've got on your head, and don't go looking for three feet on a cat.»
'Tis you that are the cat, rat, and 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
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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 slaves, who were now running riot, and had stripped the
commissary to the skin, he collected them round him to hear what he had to say, and
addressed them as follows: «To be grateful for benefits received is the part of persons of
good birth, and one of the sins most offensive to God is ingratitude; I say so because, sirs, ye
have already seen by manifest proof the benefit ye have received of me; in return for which I
desire, and it is my good pleasure that, laden with that chain which I have taken off your
necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of El Toboso, and there present yourselves
before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of the Rueful
Countenance, sends to commend himself to her; and that ye recount to her in full detail all
the particulars of this notable adventure, up to the recovery of your longed−for liberty; and
this done ye may go where ye will, and good fortune attend you.»
Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, «That 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.»
Pasamonte, who 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 fashion, gave the wink to his companions, and
falling back they began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite
unable to protect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more heeded the spur than
if he had been made of brass. Sancho planted himself behind his ass, and 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 him, snatched the basin from his head, and with it struck three or four blows on his
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CHAPTER XXII 168
shoulders, and as many more on the ground, knocking it almost to pieces. They then stripped
him of a jacket that he wore over his armour, and they would have stripped off his stockings
if his greaves had not prevented them. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving him in his
shirt−sleeves; and dividing among themselves the remaining spoils of the battle, they went
each one his own way, more solicitous about keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood they
dreaded, than about burdening themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves
before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were
all that were left upon the spot; the ass with drooping head, serious, 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 master, for he too had been brought to the ground by a stone;
Sancho stripped, and 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.
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CHAPTER XXIII
O
F WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN
THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES
RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY
Seeing himself served in this way, Don 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; «but, as
you say this mischief might have been avoided if you had believed me, believe me now, and
a still greater one will be avoided; for I tell you chivalry is of no account with the Holy
Brotherhood, and 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 Quixote, «but 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 Sancho, «to 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 replying, and, Sancho leading the way on his ass, they
entered the side of the Sierra Morena, which was close by, as it was Sancho's design to cross
it entirely and come out again at El Viso or Almodovar del Campo, and hide for some days
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CHAPTER XXIII 170
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 slaves, a circumstance that he regarded as a
miracle, seeing how they pillaged and ransacked.
That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena, where it seemed prudent to
Sancho to pass the night and even some days, at least as many as the stores he carried might
last, and so they encamped between two rocks and among some cork trees; but fatal destiny,
which, according to the opinion of those who have not the light of the true faith, directs,
arranges, and settles everything in its own way, so ordered it that Gines de Pasamonte, the
famous knave and thief who by the virtue and madness of Don Quixote had been released
from the chain, driven by fear of the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good reason to dread,
resolved 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 ungrateful, and necessity leads to
evildoing, and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations of the future, Gines, who
was neither grateful nor well−principled, made up his mind to steal Sancho Panza's ass, not
troubling himself about Rocinante, as being a prize that was no good either to pledge or sell.
While Sancho slept he stole his ass, and before day dawned he was far out of reach.
Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth but sadness to Sancho
Panza, for he found that his Dapple was missing, and seeing himself bereft of him he began
the saddest and most doleful lament in the world, so loud that Don Quixote awoke at his
exclamations and heard him saying, «O 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 Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the cause, consoled Sancho with
the best arguments he could, entreating him to be patient, and 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 this, dried his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned thanks for the
kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was rejoiced to the heart on entering
the mountains, as 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 wilds, and he went along reflecting on these things, so
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 spoils, and so he marched
behind his master laden with what Dapple used to carry, emptying the sack and packing his
paunch, and so long as he could go that way, he would not have given a farthing to meet
with another adventure.
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CHAPTER XXIII 171
While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master had halted, and was trying
with the point of his pike to lift some bulky object that lay upon the ground, on which he
hastened to join him and help him if it were needful, and reached him just as with the point
of the pike he was raising a saddle−pad with a valise attached to it, half or rather wholly
rotten and torn; but so heavy were they that Sancho had to help to take them up, and 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 padlock, from its torn and rotten condition he
was able to see its contents, which were four shirts of fine holland, and other articles of linen
no less curious than clean; and in a handkerchief he found a good lot of gold crowns, and 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 him, telling him to take the money and keep it for himself. Sancho kissed his hands
for the favour, and cleared the valise of its linen, which he stowed away in the provision
sack. Considering the whole matter, Don Quixote observed:
«It seems to me, Sancho− and it is impossible it can be otherwise− that 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 Sancho, «because if they had been robbers they would not
have left this money.»
«Thou art right,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 it, and the first thing he found in it, written roughly but in a very good hand,
was a sonnet, and reading it aloud that Sancho might hear it, he 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 God,
it follows thence That he knows all, and certain it remains No God loves cruelty; then who
ordains This penance that enthrals while it torments? It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee 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.»
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CHAPTER XXIII 172
«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 doubt, is the name of the lady of
whom the author of the sonnet complains; and, faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know
little of the craft.»
«Then your worship understands rhyming too?»
«And better than thou thinkest,» replied Don Quixote, «as 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 Sancho, «and you will find something that will
enlighten us.»
Don Quixote turned the page and said, «This 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 Sancho, «for I am very fond of love
matters.»
«With all my heart,» said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud as Sancho had requested
him, he 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 one, thou 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 angel, by them I
know thou art a woman. Peace be with thee who hast sent war to me, and Heaven grant that
the deceit of thy husband be ever hidden from thee, so that thou repent not of what thou hast
done, and I reap not a revenge I would not have.
When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, «There is less to be gathered from
this than from the verses, except that he who wrote it is some rejected lover;» and turning
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over nearly all the pages of the book he found more verses and letters, some of which he
could read, while others he could not; but they were all made up of complaints, laments,
misgivings, desires and aversions, favours and rejections, some rapturous, some doleful.
While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho examined the valise, not leaving a corner in
the whole of it or in the pad that he did not search, peer into, and explore, or seam that he
did not rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick to pieces, lest anything should escape for
want of care and pains; so keen was the covetousness excited in him by the discovery of the
crowns, which amounted to near a hundred; and though he found no more booty, he held the
blanket flights, balsam vomits, stake benedictions, carriers' fisticuffs, missing alforjas, stolen
coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and weariness he had endured in the service of his good
master, cheap 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 be, conjecturing from the sonnet and letter, from the money in gold, and
from the fineness of the shirts, that 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 inquire, he saw nothing else for it
but to push on, taking 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 along, then, occupied with these thoughts, he 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
unclad, with a thick black beard, long tangled hair, and bare legs and feet, his thighs were
covered by breeches apparently of tawny velvet but so ragged that they showed his skin in
several places. He was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with which he passed
as has been described, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance observed and noted all these
trifles, and though he made the attempt, he was unable to follow him, for it was not granted
to the feebleness of Rocinante to make way over such rough ground, he being, moreover,
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 valise, and made up his mind to go in search of
him, even 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 mountain, while he himself
went by the other, and 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 Sancho, «for 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 Countenance, «and 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
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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 answer, «Far 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 Quixote, «for 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 spur, and Sancho followed him on foot and
loaded, and after having partly made the circuit of the mountain they found lying in a ravine,
dead and half devoured by dogs and pecked by jackdaws, a mule saddled and bridled, all
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
flock, and 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 them, a man advanced in years. Don
Quixote called aloud to him and begged him to come down to where they stood. He shouted
in return, asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom or never trodden except by the
feet of goats, or of the wolves and other wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return
bade him come down, and they would explain all to him.
The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don Quixote stood, he said, «I
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 Quixote, «nor on anything except a
saddle−pad and a little valise that we found not far from this.»
«I found it too,» said the goatherd, «but 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.»
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«That's exactly what I say,» said Sancho; «I found it too, and I would not go within a
stone's throw of it; there I left it, and there it lies just as it was, for I don't want a dog with a
bell.»
«Tell me, good man,» said Don Quixote, «do you know who is the owner of this
property?»
«All I can tell you,» said the goatherd, "is 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.
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CHAPTER XXIII 176
"But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became silent, keeping his eyes
fixed upon the ground for some time, during which we stood still waiting anxiously to see
what would come of this abstraction; and with no little pity, for from his behaviour, now
staring at the ground with fixed gaze and eyes wide open without moving an eyelid, again
closing them, compressing his lips and raising his eyebrows, we 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 truth, for he arose in a fury from the ground where he had thrown himself,
and attacked the first he found near him with such rage and fierceness that if we had not
dragged him off him, he would have beaten or bitten him to death, all the while exclaiming,
'Oh faithless Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay the penalty of the wrong thou hast done me;
these hands shall tear out that heart of thine, abode and dwelling of all iniquity, but 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 side, and he was now filled with amazement at what he heard from the goatherd,
and more eager than ever to discover who the unhappy madman was; and in his heart he
resolved, as he had done before, to search for him all over the mountain, not leaving a corner
or cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance arranged matters better than he
expected or hoped, for at that very moment, in a gorge on the mountain that opened where
they stood, the youth he wished to find made his appearance, coming 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 described, save that as he drew near, Don Quixote perceived
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that a tattered doublet which he wore was amber−tanned, from which he concluded that one
who wore such garments could not be of very low rank.
Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice but with great
courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation with equal politeness, and dismounting from
Rocinante advanced with well−bred bearing and grace to embrace him, and 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 Countenance, as Don Quixote was of the Rueful, after
submitting to the embrace pushed him back a little and, placing his hands on Don Quixote's
shoulders, stood gazing at him as if seeking to see whether he knew him, not less amazed,
perhaps, at the sight of the face, figure, and armour of Don Quixote than Don Quixote was at
the sight of him. To be brief, the first to speak after embracing was the Ragged One, and he
said what will be told farther on.
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CHAPTER XXIV
I
N 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 Sierra, who 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 Quixote, «is 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 Quixote, «by 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 Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Countenance talk in this strain,
did nothing but stare at him, and stare at him again, and again survey him from head to foot;
and when he had thoroughly examined him, he 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 sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, furnished the Ragged One with
the means of appeasing his hunger, and what they gave him he ate like a half−witted being,
so hastily that he took no time between mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing; and
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CHAPTER XXIV 179
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 him, which they did, and 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 grass, and the others did the same, all keeping silence, until the Ragged One, settling
himself in his place, said:
«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
him, when he failed to keep count of the goats that had crossed the river and the story
remained unfinished; but to return to the Ragged One, he 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 others, and 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
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CHAPTER XXIV 180
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
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CHAPTER XXIV 181
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 permission, and ordered me to accompany him; we arrived at my
city, and my father gave him the reception due to his rank; I saw Luscinda without delay,
and, though it had not been dead or deadened, my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I
told the story of it to Don Fernando, for I thought that in virtue of the great friendship he
bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from him. I extolled her beauty, her gaiety, her wit,
so warmly, that my praises excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such
attractions. To my misfortune I yielded to it, showing 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−gown, she drove all the beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection;
speech failed him, his head turned, he was spell−bound, and in the end love−smitten, as you
will see in the course of the story of my misfortune; and to inflame still further his passion,
which he hid from me and revealed to Heaven alone, it so happened that one day he found a
note of hers entreating me to demand her of her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest,
and so tender, that 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 true, and I own it now, that though I knew what good cause Don Fernando had to
praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to hear these praises from his mouth, and I began to
fear, and with reason to feel distrust of him, for there was no moment when he was not ready
to talk of Luscinda, and he would start the subject himself even though he dragged it in
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unseasonably, a 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 me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the wit and sense of
both. It so happened, then, that Luscinda having begged of me a book of chivalry to read,
one that she was very fond of, Amadis of Gaul−»
Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, than 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 this, Cardenio allowed his head to fall upon his breast,
and seemed plunged in deep thought; and though twice Don Quixote bade him go on with
his story, he neither looked up nor uttered a word in reply; but after some time he raised his
head and said, «I 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 wrath, turning upon him
angrily, as his way was; «and it is a very great slander, or rather villainy. Queen Madasima
was a very illustrious lady, and 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 scoundrel, and I
will give him to know it, on foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or
as he likes best.»
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Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having now come upon him, he
had no disposition to go on with his story, nor would Don Quixote have listened to it, so
much had what he had heard about Madasima disgusted him. Strange to say, he stood up for
her as if she were in earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his unholy books
brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he heard himself given the lie,
and called a scoundrel and other insulting names, not relishing the jest, snatched up a stone
that he found near him, and with it delivered such a blow on Don Quixote's breast that he
laid him on his back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this fashion, attacked 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 feet, and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to
his own satisfaction; the goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared the same fate; and having
beaten and pummelled them all he left them and quietly withdrew to his hiding−place on the
mountain. Sancho rose, and with the rage he felt at finding himself so belaboured without
deserving it, ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not giving them
warning that this man was at times taken with a mad fit, for if they had known it they would
have been on their guard to protect themselves. The goatherd replied that he had said so, and
that if he had not heard him, that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd
rejoined, and the altercation ended in their seizing each other by the beard, and exchanging
such fisticuffs that if Don Quixote had not made peace between them, they would have
knocked one another to pieces.
«Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,» said Sancho, grappling with
the goatherd, «for 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 Quixote, «but I know that he is not to blame for what has
happened.»
With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it would be possible to find
Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxiety to know the end of his story. The goatherd told him,
as he had told him before, that 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.
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CHAPTER XXIV 184
CHAPTER XXV
W
HICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE
STOUT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS
IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF BELTENEBROS
Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more mounting Rocinante bade
Sancho follow him, which he having no ass, did very discontentedly. They proceeded
slowly, making their way into the most rugged part of the mountain, Sancho all the while
dying to have a talk with his master, and longing for him to begin, so 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 removed, and say what thou wilt while we are
wandering in these mountains.»
«So be it,» said Sancho; «let me speak now, for God knows what will happen
by−and−by; and to take advantage of the permit at once, I ask, what made your worship
stand up so for that Queen Majimasa, or whatever her name is, or 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 story,
and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and more than half a dozen cuffs would have been
escaped.»
«In faith, Sancho,» answered Don Quixote, «if 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
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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 worship, and he had sent that stone at your
head instead of at your breast, a fine way we should have been in for standing up for my
lady yonder, God confound her! And then, would 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
vineyard, I know nothing; I am not fond of prying into other men's lives; he who buys and
lies feels it in his purse; moreover, naked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor
gain; but if they did, what 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 Quixote, «what 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 Sancho, «is 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 Quixote, «for 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
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CHAPTER XXV 186
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 Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «that your worship means to do in such an
out−of−the−way place as this?»
«Have I not told thee,» answered Don Quixote, «that 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,
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CHAPTER XXV 187
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 Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «and 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 answer, «By 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.»
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CHAPTER XXV 188
«Look here, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «by 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 brook, all 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 abundance, and shrubs and flowers, added to the charms of the spot. Upon this
place the Knight of the Rueful Countenance fixed his choice for the performance of his
penance, and 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 Rocinante, and in an instant relieved him of saddle and bridle,
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CHAPTER XXV 189
and giving him a slap on the croup, said, «He 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 said, «Good 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 Quixote, «it 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
garments, to scatter about my armour, knock my head against these rocks, and more of the
same sort of thing, which thou must witness.»
«For the love of God,» said Sancho, «be 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 Quixote, «but 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.»
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CHAPTER XXV 190
«It was worse losing the ass,» replied Sancho, «for 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 Quixote, «rather call it hell, or even
worse if there be anything worse.»
«For one who is in hell,» said Sancho, «nulla est retentio, as I have heard say.»
«I do not understand what retentio means,» said Don Quixote.
«Retentio,» answered Sancho, «means 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 Countenance, «but 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 paper, it would be well
done to write it on the leaves of trees, as the ancients did, or 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 written, and that is in the note−book that
belonged to Cardenio, and thou wilt take care to have it copied on paper, in a good hand, at
the first village thou comest to where there is a schoolmaster, or if not, any sacristan will
copy it; but see thou give it not to any notary to copy, for 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.
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CHAPTER XXV 191
«That is all very well,» said Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «and 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 Toboso,
otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?»
«She it is,» said Don Quixote, «and she it is that is worthy to be lady of the whole
universe.»
«I know her well,» said Sancho, «and 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,
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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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «and 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.»
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Don Quixote took out the note−book, and, retiring to one side, very deliberately began
to write the letter, and when he had finished it he called to Sancho, saying he wished to read
it to him, so that he might commit it to memory, in case of losing it on the road; for with evil
fortune like his anything might be apprehended. To which Sancho replied, «Write 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 Quixote, "this 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 Sancho, when 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 Sancho, «let 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 Quixote, and 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.»
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CHAPTER XXV 194
«That will do,» said Sancho; «now let your worship sign it.»
«There is no need to sign it,» said Don Quixote, «but 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 Rocinante, and be
ready to give me your blessing, for 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 Quixote, «I 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 Sancho, «let 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 Quixote, «to all appearance thou art no sounder in thy wits
than I.»
«I am not so mad,» answered Sancho, «but 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 Quixote, «for 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 you, it is such an out−of−the−way place.»
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CHAPTER XXV 195
«Observe the landmarks well,» said Don Quixote, «for 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 Panza, and having cut some, he asked his master's blessing,
and not without many tears on both sides, took his leave of him, and mounting Rocinante, of
whom Don Quixote charged him earnestly to have as much care as of his own person, he set
out for the plain, strewing at intervals the branches of broom as his master had
recommended him; and so he went his way, though Don Quixote still entreated him to see
him do were it only a couple of mad acts. He had not gone a hundred paces, however, when
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. «Wait, Sancho, and 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.
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CHAPTER XXV 196
CHAPTER XXVI
I
N 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
was, when, after all, he was enchanted, and nobody could kill him save by thrusting a
corking pin into the sole of his foot, and he always wore shoes with seven iron soles?
Though cunning devices did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpio, who knew all about
them, and strangled him in his arms at Roncesvalles. But putting the question of his valour
aside, let us come to his losing his wits, for certain it is that he did lose them in consequence
of the proofs he discovered at the fountain, and the intelligence the shepherd gave him of
Angelica having slept more than two siestas with Medoro, a little curly−headed Moor, and
page to Agramante. If he was persuaded that this was true, and that his lady had wronged
him, it is no wonder that he should have gone mad; but I, how am I to imitate him in his
madness, unless I can imitate him in the cause of it? For my Dulcinea, I will venture to
swear, never saw a Moor in her life, as he is, in his proper costume, and she is this day as the
mother that bore her, and I should plainly be doing her a wrong if, fancying anything else, I
were to go mad with the same kind of madness as Roland the Furious. On the other hand, I
see that Amadis of Gaul, without losing his senses and without doing anything mad,
acquired as a lover as much fame as the most famous; for, according to his history, on
finding himself rejected by his lady Oriana, who had ordered him not to appear in her
presence until it should be her pleasure, all he did was to retire to the Pena Pobre in
company with a hermit, and 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 true, as it is, why should I now take the
trouble to strip stark naked, or do mischief to these trees which have done me no harm, or
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 said, as was said of the other, that if he
did not achieve great things, he died in attempting them; and if I am not repulsed or rejected
by my Dulcinea, it is enough for me, as I have said, to be absent from her. And so, now to
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CHAPTER XXVI 197
business; come to my memory ye deeds of Amadis, and 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 rosary, for I have not got one?»
And then it occurred to him how he might make one, and that was by tearing a great
strip off the tail of his shirt which hung down, and making eleven knots on it, one bigger
than the rest, and this served him for a rosary all the time he was there, during 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 sadness, and some in praise of
Dulcinea; but, when he was found there afterwards, the only ones completely legible that
could be discovered were those that follow here:
Ye on the mountain side that grow, Ye green things all, trees, shrubs, and bushes, Are
ye aweary of the woe That this poor aching bosom crushes? If it disturb you, and I owe
Some reparation, it 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 him, he 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 heights, down rocky valleys, But hill or dale,
or high or low, Mishap attendeth all his sallies: Love still pursues him to and fro, And plies
his cruel scourge− ah me! a Relentless fate, an 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 lines, for 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 fact, as he himself afterwards admitted. He wrote many
more, but, as has been said, these three verses were all that could be plainly and perfectly
deciphered. In this way, and in sighing and calling on the fauns and satyrs of the woods and
the nymphs of the streams, and Echo, moist and mournful, to answer, console, and hear him,
as well as in looking for herbs to sustain him, he passed his time until Sancho's return; and
had that been delayed three weeks, as it was three days, the 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 him, wrapped up in sighs and
verses, to relate how Sancho Panza fared on his mission.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXVI 198
As for him, coming out upon the high road, he 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 air, and he could not bring himself to
enter it though it was an hour when he might well have done so, for it was dinner−time, and
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 inn, still undecided whether to go in or not, and
as he was hesitating there came out two persons who at once recognised him, and 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 licentiate, «and 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 village, the
same who had carried out the scrutiny and sentence upon the books; and as soon as they
recognised Sancho Panza and Rocinante, being anxious to hear of Don Quixote, they
approached, and calling him by his name the curate said, «Friend Sancho Panza, where is
your master?»
Sancho recognised them at once, and determined to keep secret the place and
circumstances where and under which he had left his master, so 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 barber, «if 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 Sancho, "for 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXVI 199
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 Sancho, «but 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 Sancho, «that 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 him, telling him that when his master was found he would get him
to renew the order, and make a fresh draft on paper, as was usual and customary; for those
made in notebooks were never accepted or honoured.
Sancho comforted himself with this, and said if that were so the loss of Dulcinea's letter
did not trouble him much, for he had it almost by heart, and it could be taken down from
him wherever and whenever they liked.
«Repeat it then, Sancho,» said the barber, «and we will write it down afterwards.»
Sancho Panza stopped to scratch his head to bring back the letter to his memory, and
balanced himself now on one foot, now the other, one moment staring at the ground, the
next at the sky, and after having half gnawed off the end of a finger and kept them in
suspense waiting for him to begin, he said, after a long pause, «By 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 barber, «but 'superhuman' or 'sovereign.'»
«That is it,» said Sancho; «then, as well as I remember, it went on, 'The wounded, and
wanting of sleep, and the pierced, kisses your worship's hands, ungrateful 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 death, the Knight
of the Rueful Countenance.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXVI 200
It gave them no little amusement, both of them, to see what a good memory Sancho
had, and they complimented him greatly upon it, and begged him to repeat the letter a
couple of times more, so that they too might get it by heart to write it out by−and−by.
Sancho repeated it three times, and as he did, uttered 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 them, moreover, how his
lord, if he brought him a favourable answer from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was to put
himself in the way of endeavouring to become an emperor, or at least a monarch; for it had
been so settled between them, and 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 time, as a matter of course) and was to give him
as a wife one of the damsels of the empress, the heiress of some rich and grand state on the
mainland, having nothing to do with islands of any sort, for 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 error, as they considered that since it did not
in any way hurt his conscience it would be better to leave him in it, and they would have all
the more amusement in listening to his simplicities; and so they bade him pray to God for
his lord's health, as it was a very likely and a very feasible thing for him in course of time to
come to be an emperor, as he said, or at least an archbishop or some other dignitary of equal
rank.
To which Sancho made answer, «If 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 curate, some simple benefice or cure, or some
place as sacristan which brings them a good fixed income, not counting the altar fees, which
may be reckoned at as much more."
«But for that,» said Sancho, «the 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 barber, «for 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 him, and
where he may be able to bestow most favours upon me.»
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CHAPTER XXVI 201
«You speak like a man of sense,» said the curate, «and 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 in, but that he would wait there outside, and that he would
tell them afterwards the reason why he was unwilling, and why it did not suit him to enter it;
but be begged them to bring him out something to eat, and to let it be hot, and also to bring
barley for Rocinante. They left him and went in, and 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 object, the curate hit upon an idea very well adapted to humour
Don Quixote, and effect their purpose; and his notion, which he explained to the barber, was
that he himself should assume the disguise of a wandering damsel, while the other should try
as best he could to pass for a squire, and that they should thus proceed to where Don
Quixote was, and he, pretending to be an aggrieved and distressed damsel, should ask a
favour of him, which 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 him, in
order to redress a wrong which a wicked knight had done her, while at the same time she
should entreat him not to require her to remove her mask, nor 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 terms, and that in this way they
might remove him and take him to his own village, where they would endeavour to find out
if his extraordinary madness admitted of any kind of remedy.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXVI 202
CHAPTER XXVII
O
F 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 barber, but on the contrary so good that
they immediately set about putting it in execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the
landlady, leaving 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 for, and the curate told her in a few
words about the madness of Don Quixote, and 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
squire, and they told the curate all that had passed between him and them, not 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
broad, all 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 him, but put on his head a little quilted linen cap which he used for a
night−cap, and bound his forehead with a strip of black silk, while with another he made a
mask with which he concealed his beard and face very well. He then put on his hat, which
was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella, and enveloping himself in his cloak seated
himself woman−fashion on his mule, while the barber mounted his with a beard down to the
waist of mingled red and white, for it was, as has been said, the tail of a clay−red ox.
They took leave of all, and of the good Maritornes, who, sinner as she was, promised 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 fashion, as 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 dresses, as it was fitter he should be
the distressed damsel, while he himself would play the squire's part, which would be less
derogatory to his dignity; otherwise he was resolved to have nothing more to do with the
matter, and let the devil take Don Quixote. Just at this moment Sancho came up, and on
seeing the pair in such a costume he was unable to restrain his laughter; the barber, however,
agreed to do as the curate wished, and, altering their plan, the 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 instruction, and as he did not care to dress
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CHAPTER XXVII 203
himself up until they were near where Don Quixote was, he folded up the garments, and the
curate adjusted his beard, and they set out under the guidance of Sancho Panza, who went
along telling them of the encounter with the madman they met in the Sierra, saying nothing,
however, about 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 entrance, and that they would do well to dress themselves, if 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 were, or that he
knew them, and should he ask, as ask he would, if he had given the letter to Dulcinea, to say
that he had, and that, as she did not know how to read, she had given an answer by word of
mouth, saying that she commanded him, on pain of her displeasure, to come and see her at
once; and it was a very important matter for himself, because 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 monarch, for there was no fear of his
becoming an archbishop. All this Sancho listened to and fixed it well in his memory, and
thanked them heartily for intending to recommend his master to be an emperor instead of an
archbishop, for he felt sure that in the way of bestowing rewards on their squires emperors
could do more than archbishops−errant. He said, too, that it would be as well for him to go
on before them to find him, and 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 proposed, and resolved to wait for him until he brought back word
of having found his master.
Sancho pushed on into the glens of the Sierra, leaving them in one through which there
flowed a little gentle rivulet, and where the rocks and trees afforded a cool and grateful
shade. It was an August day with all the heat of one, and the heat in those parts is intense,
and the hour was three in the afternoon, all which made the spot the more inviting and
tempted them to wait there for Sancho's return, which they did. They were reposing, then, in
the shade, when a voice unaccompanied by the notes of any instrument, but sweet and
pleasing in its tone, reached their ears, at which they were not a little astonished, as 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 fields, this 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 shepherds, but of the polished wits of the city;
and so it proved, for 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 so,
then for my grief Where shall I turn to seek relief, When hope on every side lies slain By
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Absence, Jealousies, Disdain?
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 so, I but
await The stroke of a resistless fate, Since, working for my woe, these three, Love, Chance
and Heaven, in league I see.
What must I do to find a remedy? Die. What is the lure for love when coy and strange?
Change. What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness? Madness. If that be so, it is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy: Ask where it lies; the answer saith In Change, in Madness, or
in Death.
The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice and skill of the singer, all
contributed to the wonder and delight of the two listeners, who remained still waiting to hear
something more; finding, however, that the silence continued some little time, they 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 voice, which once more fell upon their ears, singing
this
SONNET
When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou 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
semblance, and upon it to bestow Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy, Parading in thy
shape, deceives the eye, And makes its vileness bright as virtue show. Friendship, return to
us, or force the cheat That wears it now, thy 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 sigh, and 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 piteous, and 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. He, showing no astonishment
when he saw them, stood still with his head bent down upon his breast like one in deep
thought, without raising his eyes to look at them after the first glance when they suddenly
came upon him. The curate, who was aware of his misfortune and recognised him by the
description, being a man of good address, approached him and in a few sensible words
entreated and urged him to quit a life of such misery, lest he should end it there, which
would be the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was then in his right mind, free from any
attack of that madness which so frequently carried him away, and seeing them dressed in a
fashion so unusual among the frequenters of those wilds, could not help showing some
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surprise, especially 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 they, both of them, desired nothing more than to hear from his own lips the cause of
his suffering, they 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 before, when, through Master Elisabad, and Don Quixote's scrupulous
observance of what was due to chivalry, the tale was left unfinished, as this history has
already recorded; but now fortunately the mad fit kept off, allowed him to tell it to the end;
and so, coming 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.»
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"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 proceed, then: Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle to the execution of
his treacherous and wicked design, resolved to send me to his elder brother under the pretext
of asking money from him to pay for six horses which, purposely, and with the sole object
of sending me away that he might the better carry out his infernal scheme, he had purchased
the very day he offered to speak to my father, and 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 that, I offered with the greatest pleasure to go at once, in my satisfaction at
the good bargain that had been made. That night I spoke with Luscinda, and told her what
had been agreed upon with Don Fernando, and how I had strong hopes of our fair and
reasonable wishes being realised. She, as unsuspicious as I was of the treachery of Don
Fernando, bade me try to return speedily, as 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 tears, and 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 turn, which I never before observed in her. for we
always conversed, whenever good fortune and my ingenuity gave us the chance, with the
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greatest gaiety and cheerfulness, mingling tears, sighs, jealousies, doubts, or 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 beauty, I 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 about, and the utmost extent of my boldness was to take, almost by
force, one of her fair white hands and carry it to my lips, as well as the closeness of the low
grating that separated us allowed me. But the night before the unhappy day of my departure
she wept, she moaned, she sighed, and 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 departure, sad and
dejected, my heart filled with fancies and suspicions, but 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 it, as it seemed
to me impossible to endure life for so many days separated from Luscinda, especially after
leaving her in the sorrowful mood I have described to you; nevertheless as a dutiful servant I
obeyed, though 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 me, and 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
distance, as she seldom did so when I was near. Before reading it I asked the man who it was
that had given it to him, and 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 noon, a very
beautiful lady called to him from a window, and with tears in her eyes said to him hurriedly,
'Brother, if you are, as you seem to be, a Christian, for 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
address, all which is well known, and 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 window, though not before she saw me
take the letter and the handkerchief, and I had by signs let her know that I would do as she
bade me; and so, seeing myself so well paid for the trouble I would have in bringing it to
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you, and knowing by the address that it was to you it was sent (for, senor, I know you very
well), and also unable to resist that beautiful lady's tears, I resolved to trust no one else, but
to come myself and give it to you, and in sixteen hours from the time when it was given me I
have made the journey, which, as you know, is 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 mine, he has
fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to your advantage. I have to tell you, senor,
that be has demanded me for a wife, and my father, led away by what he considers Don
Fernando's superiority over you, has favoured his suit so cordially, that 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 words, for I perceived that they called her
away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. Now the night of my sorrow set in, the sun of
my happiness went down, I felt my eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could not enter
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the house, nor was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important it was that I
should be present at what might take place on the occasion, I nerved myself as best I could
and went in, for I well knew all the entrances and outlets; and besides, with the confusion
that in secret pervaded the house no one took notice of me, so, without being seen, I found
an opportunity of placing myself in the recess formed by a window of the hall itself, and
concealed by the ends and borders of two tapestries, from between which I could, without
being seen, see 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 be, nor were it well they should be, told. Suffice it to
say that the bridegroom entered the hall in his usual dress, without 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
antechamber, attended by her mother and two of her damsels, arrayed and adorned as
became her rank and beauty, and 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 colours, which were crimson and white, and the glitter of the gems and jewels
on her head dress and apparel, surpassed 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 memory, mortal foe of my peace! why bring before me
now the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of mine? Were it not better, cruel
memory, to remind me and recall what she then did, that stirred by a wrong so glaring I may
seek, if not vengeance now, at least to rid myself of life? Be not weary, sirs, of listening to
these digressions; my sorrow is not one of those that can or should be told tersely and
briefly, for 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 him, but that
the details he mentioned interested them greatly, being 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 hall, the priest of
the parish came in and as he took the pair by the hand to perform the requisite ceremony, at
the words, 'Will you, Senora Luscinda, take Senor Don Fernando, here present, for your
lawful husband, as the holy Mother Church ordains?' I thrust my head and neck out from
between the tapestries, and with eager ears and throbbing heart set myself to listen to
Luscinda's answer, awaiting in her reply the sentence of death or the grant of life. Oh, that 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. O, treacherous Don Fernando! robber of my glory, death of my life! What seekest
thou? Remember that thou canst not as a Christian attain the object of thy wishes, for
Luscinda is my bride, and I am her husband!' Fool that I am! now that I am far away, and
out of danger, I say I should have done what I did not do: now that I have allowed my
precious treasure to be robbed from me, I curse the robber, on whom I might have taken
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vengeance had I as much heart for it as I have for bewailing my fate; in short, as I was then a
coward and a fool, little wonder is it if I am now dying shame−stricken, remorseful, and
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 confusion, I ventured to come out regardless whether I
were seen or not, and determined, if I were, to do some frenzied deed that would prove to all
the world the righteous indignation of my breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don
Fernando, and even in that of the fickle fainting traitress. But my fate, doubtless reserving
me for greater sorrows, if such there be, so 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 taken, as all thought of
me was so far from their minds), I resolved to take it upon myself, and on myself to inflict
the pain they deserved, perhaps with even greater severity than I should have dealt out to
them had I then slain them; for sudden pain is soon over, but that which is protracted by
tortures is ever slaying without ending life. In a word, I quitted the house and reached that of
the man with whom I had left my mule; I made him saddle it for me, mounted without
bidding him farewell, and rode out of the city, like another Lot, not daring to turn my head
to look back upon it; and when I found myself alone in the open country, screened by the
darkness of the night, and tempted by the stillness to give vent to my grief without
apprehension or fear of being heard or seen, then I broke silence and lifted up my voice in
maledictions upon Luscinda and Don Fernando, as if I could thus avenge the wrong they had
done me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, thankless, but above all covetous, since the
wealth of my enemy had blinded the eyes of her affection, and turned it from me to transfer
it to one to whom fortune had been more generous and liberal. And yet, in the midst of this
outburst of execration and upbraiding, I found excuses for her, saying it was no wonder that
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a young girl in the seclusion of her parents' house, trained and schooled to obey them
always, should have been ready to yield to their wishes when they offered her for a husband
a gentleman of such distinction, wealth, and noble birth, that if she had refused to accept him
she would have been thought out of her senses, or to have set her affection elsewhere, a
suspicion injurious to her fair name and fame. But then again, I said, had she declared I was
her husband, they would have seen that in choosing me she had not chosen so ill but that
they might excuse her, for before Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves could
not have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more eligible husband for their
daughter than I was; and she, before taking the last fatal step of giving her hand, might
easily have said that I had already given her mine, for I should have come forward to
support any assertion of hers to that effect. In short, I came to the conclusion that feeble
love, little reflection, great ambition, and a craving for rank, had made her forget the words
with which she had deceived me, encouraged 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
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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.
«Such, sirs, is 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 relief, for 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's,
when she is or should be mine, let 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 superabundance, for to
them the impossibility of being consoled is itself a consolation, while to me it is the cause of
greater sorrows and sufferings, for I think that even in death there will not be an end of
them.»
Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and story, as full of misfortune as it
was of love; but just as the curate was going to address some words of comfort to him, he
was stopped by a voice that reached his ear, saying in melancholy tones what will be told in
the Fourth Part of this narrative; for at this point the sage and sagacious historian, Cide
Hamete Benengeli, brought the Third to a conclusion.
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CHAPTER XXVIII
W
HICH 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−errantry, we now enjoy in this age of ours, so poor in light
entertainment, not only the charm of his veracious history, but also of the tales and episodes
contained in it which are, in a measure, no less pleasing, ingenious, and truthful, than the
history itself; which, resuming its thread, carded, spun, and wound, relates that just as the
curate was going to offer consolation to Cardenio, he 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 by, as indeed it was, they got up to look for the speaker, and before they
had gone twenty paces they discovered behind a rock, seated at the foot of an ash tree, a
youth in the dress of a peasant, whose face they were unable at the moment to see as he was
leaning forward, bathing his feet in the brook that flowed past. They approached so silently
that he did not perceive them, being fully occupied in bathing his feet, which 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 surprise, for 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 so, finding they had not been noticed, the curate, who was in front,
made a sign to the other two to conceal themselves behind some fragments of rock that lay
there; which they did, observing 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 cloth, and on his head a brown montera; and he had
the gaiters turned up as far as the middle of the leg, which verily seemed to be of pure
alabaster.
As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feet, he wiped them with a towel he took
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from under the montera, on taking off which he raised his face, and 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 montera, and 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 woman, nay the most beautiful the eyes
of two of them had ever beheld, or even Cardenio's if they had not seen and known
Luscinda, for he afterwards declared that only the beauty of Luscinda could compare with
this. The long auburn tresses not only covered her shoulders, but such was their length and
abundance, concealed her all round beneath their masses, so that except the feet nothing of
her form was visible. She now used her hands as a comb, and if her feet had seemed like bits
of crystal in the water, her hands looked like pieces of driven snow among her locks; all
which increased not only the admiration of the three beholders, but their anxiety to learn
who she was. With this object they resolved to show themselves, and at the stir they made in
getting upon their feet the fair damsel raised her head, and parting her hair from before her
eyes with both hands, she looked to see who had made the noise, and the instant she
perceived them she started to her feet, and without waiting to put on her shoes or gather up
her hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that she had beside her, and,
scared and alarmed, endeavoured to take flight; but before she had gone six paces she fell to
the ground, her delicate feet being unable to bear the roughness of the stones; seeing which,
the three hastened towards her, and 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 bewildered, she made no reply to these words. They, however,
came towards her, and 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.»
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While the curate was speaking, the disguised damsel stood as if spell−bound, looking at
them without opening her lips or uttering a word, just 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 her, sighing 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 hesitation,
with so much ease and in so sweet a voice that they were not less charmed by her
intelligence than by her beauty, and as they again repeated their offers and entreaties to her
to fulfil her promise, she without further pressing, first modestly covering her feet and
gathering up her hair, seated herself on a stone with the three placed around her, and, after
an effort to restrain some tears that came to her eyes, in 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.
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«I was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of their old age, and the
object in which, with submission to Heaven, all their wishes centred, and mine were in
accordance with theirs, for I knew their worth; and as I was mistress of their hearts, so 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−mills, the
wine−presses, the count of the flocks and herds, the beehives, all in short that a rich farmer
like my father has or can have, I had under my care, and 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−shepherds,
overseers, and other labourers, I passed in such employments as are not only allowable but
necessary for young girls, those that the needle, embroidery cushion, and spinning wheel
usually afford, and if to refresh my mind I quitted them for a while, I found recreation in
reading some devotional book or playing the harp, for 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 minutely, it is not out of ostentation, or to let you
know that I am rich, but that you may see how, without any fault of mine, I have fallen from
the happy condition I have described, to the misery I am in at present. The truth is, that
while I was leading this busy life, in a retirement that might compare with that of a
monastery, and unseen as I thought by any except the servants of the house (for when I went
to Mass it was so early in the morning, and I was so closely attended by my mother and the
women of the household, and so thickly veiled and so shy, that my eyes scarcely saw more
ground than I trod on), in spite of all this, the eyes of love, or idleness, more properly
speaking, that the lynx's cannot rival, discovered me, with 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 sweat, with such signs of emotion that the curate and the barber, who
observed it, feared 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 attention, for he began to suspect who she was. She, however,
without noticing the excitement of Cardenio, continuing her story, went 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
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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 mine, which he must have taken for coyness, had 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 be, you would not know of it now, because 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
me, or at least to secure additional protectors to watch over me, and this intelligence or
suspicion made him act as you shall hear. One night, as I was in my chamber with no other
companion than a damsel who waited on me, with the doors carefully locked lest my honour
should be imperilled through any carelessness, I know not nor can conceive how it
happened, but, with all this seclusion and these precautions, and in the solitude and silence
of my retirement, I found him standing before me, a vision that so astounded me that it
deprived my eyes of sight, and my tongue of speech. I had no power to utter a cry, nor, I
think, did he give me time to utter one, as he immediately approached me, and taking me in
his arms (for, overwhelmed as I was, I was powerless, I say, to 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 words, and 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
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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 Dorothea, he showed fresh agitation and
felt convinced of the truth of his former suspicion, but he was unwilling to interrupt the
story, and wished to hear the end of what he already all but knew, so 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 attire,
and begged him if he knew anything concerning her to tell it to her at once, for 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 Cardenio, «of 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 Dorothea, "what 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.
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CHAPTER XXVIII 219
"All this that I have now repeated I said to him, and 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 mind, saying to myself, 'I shall not be the
first who has risen through marriage from a lowly to a lofty station, nor will Don Fernando
be the first whom beauty or, as is more likely, a blind attachment, has led to mate himself
below his rank. Then, since I am introducing no new usage or practice, I may as well avail
myself of the honour that chance offers me, for even though his inclination for me should
not outlast the attainment of his wishes, I shall be, after all, his wife before God. And if I
strive to repel him by scorn, I can see that, fair means failing, he is in a mood to use force,
and 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 quickly, I
imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for when desire has attained its object, the 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 maid, who was indeed the one who had admitted
him, gained the street before daybreak; but on taking leave of me he told me, though not
with as much earnestness and fervour as when he came, that 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 left, I know not
whether sorrowful or happy; all I can say is, I was left agitated and troubled in mind and
almost bewildered by what had taken place, and I had not the spirit, or else it did not occur
to me, to 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 parting, that as I was now his, he
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 night, he came no more, nor for more than a
month could I catch a glimpse of him in the street or in church, while I wearied myself with
watching for one; although I knew he was in the town, and almost every day went out
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CHAPTER XXVIII 220
hunting, a 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 remember, too, how my maid heard those
words in reproof of her audacity that she had not heard before, and 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 melancholy, and drive me to invent falsehoods in reply. But
all this was suddenly brought to an end, for the time came when all such considerations were
disregarded, and there was no further question of honour, when my patience gave way and
the secret of my heart became known abroad. The reason was, that 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 beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position, though not so rich that her
portion would entitle her to look for so brilliant a match; it was said, too, that her name was
Luscinda, and that at the betrothal some strange things had happened.»
Cardenio heard the name of Luscinda, but he only shrugged his shoulders, bit his lips,
bent his brows, and before long two streams of tears escaped from his eyes. Dorothea,
however, did not interrupt her story, but 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
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CHAPTER XXVIII 221
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 city, uncertain what to do, as I could not find Don Fernando, I
heard notice given by the public crier offering a great reward to anyone who should find me,
and 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
heart, showing how low my good name had fallen, since it was not enough that I should lose
it by my flight, but they must add with whom I had fled, and that one so much beneath me
and so unworthy of my consideration. The instant I heard the notice I quitted the city with
my servant, who now began to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to me, and the same
night, for fear of discovery, we entered the most thickly wooded part of these mountains.
But, as is commonly said, one evil calls up another and the end of one misfortune is apt to be
the beginning of one still greater, and so it proved in my case; for my worthy servant, until
then so faithful and trusty when he found me in this lonely spot, moved more by his own
villainy than by my beauty, sought to take advantage of the opportunity which these
solitudes seemed to present him, and 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 language, he laid aside the entreaties which he had employed at
first, and began to use violence. But just Heaven, that seldom fails to watch over and aid
good intentions, so aided mine that with my slight strength and with little exertion I pushed
him over a precipice, where I left him, whether dead or alive I know not; and then, with
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greater speed than seemed possible in my terror and fatigue, I made my way into the
mountains, without any other thought or purpose save that of hiding myself among them,
and 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 here, where I met a herdsman who
engaged me as his servant at a place in the heart of this Sierra, and all this time I have been
serving him as herd, striving to keep always afield to hide these locks which have now
unexpectedly betrayed me. But all my care and pains were unavailing, for my master made
the discovery that I was not a man, and harboured the same base designs as my servant; and
as fortune does not always supply a remedy in cases of difficulty, and I had no precipice or
ravine at hand down which to fling the master and cure his passion, as I had in the servant's
case, I thought it a lesser evil to leave him and again conceal myself among these crags, than
make trial of my strength and argument with him. So, as I say, once 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 it, or let me die among the
solitudes, leaving no trace of an unhappy being who, by no fault of hers, has furnished
matter for talk and scandal at home and abroad.»
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CHAPTER XXIX
W
HICH 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 silent, and 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 him, saying, «So then, senora, you are the fair Dorothea, the
only daughter of the rich Clenardo?» Dorothea was astonished at hearing her father's name,
and at the miserable appearance of him who mentioned it, for 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 Cardenio, «whom, 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
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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 Dorothea, and not knowing how to
return thanks for such an offer, she attempted to kiss his feet; but Cardenio would not permit
it, and the licentiate replied for both, commended the sound reasoning of Cardenio, and
lastly, begged, advised, and urged them to come with him to his village, where they might
furnish themselves with what they needed, and take measures to discover Don Fernando, or
restore Dorothea to her parents, or do what seemed to them most advisable. Cardenio and
Dorothea thanked him, and accepted the kind offer he made them; and the barber, who had
been listening to all attentively and in silence, on his part some kindly words also, and 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 there, and
the strange nature of Don Quixote's madness, and how they were waiting for his squire, who
had gone in search of him. Like the recollection of a dream, the quarrel he had had with Don
Quixote came back to Cardenio's memory, and he described it to the others; but he was
unable to say what the dispute was about.
At this moment they heard a shout, and recognised it as coming from Sancho Panza,
who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling aloud to them. They went to meet
him, and in answer to their inquiries about Don Quixote, be told them how he had found him
stripped to his shirt, lank, yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for his lady Dulcinea;
and although he had told him that she commanded him to quit that place and come to El
Toboso, where she was expecting him, he 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 on, Sancho said, he ran the risk of not becoming an emperor as in
duty bound, or even an archbishop, which 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 uneasy, for they would fetch him away in spite of himself. He then told
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Cardenio and Dorothea what they had proposed to do to cure Don Quixote, or 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 life, and that
they might trust to her acting the part in every particular requisite for carrying out their
scheme, for she had read a great many books of chivalry, and knew exactly the style in
which afflicted damsels begged boons of knights−errant.
«In that case,» said the curate, «there 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 stuff, and a
green mantle of some other fine material, and a necklace and other ornaments out of a little
box, and with these in an instant she so arrayed herself that she looked like a great and rich
lady. All this, and more, she said, she had taken from home in case of need, but that until
then she had had no occasion to make use of it. They were all highly delighted with her
grace, air, and beauty, and 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 Panza, for 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 was, and what
she wanted in these out−of−the−way quarters.
«This fair lady, brother Sancho,» replied the curate, «is 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.»
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«She is called the Princess Micomicona,» said the curate; «for as her kingdom is
Micomicon, it is clear that must be her name.»
«There's no doubt of that,» replied Sancho, «for 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 mule, and the barber had
fitted the ox−tail beard to his face, and they now told Sancho to conduct them to where Don
Quixote was, warning him not to say that he knew either the licentiate or the barber, as his
master's becoming an emperor entirely depended on his not recognising them; neither the
curate nor Cardenio, however, thought fit to go with them; Cardenio lest he should remind
Don Quixote of the quarrel he had with him, and the curate as there was no necessity for his
presence just yet, so they allowed the others to go on before them, while they themselves
followed slowly on foot. The curate did not forget to instruct Dorothea how to act, but she
said they might make their minds easy, as 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 rocks, by this time clothed, but without his armour; and as soon as Dorothea
saw him and was told by Sancho that that was Don Quixote, she whipped her palfrey, the
well−bearded barber following her, and on coming up to him her squire sprang from his
mule and came forward to receive her in his arms, and she dismounting with great ease of
manner advanced to kneel before the feet of Don Quixote; and though he strove to raise her
up, she 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.»
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«I will not rise, senor,» answered the afflicted damsel, «unless of your courtesy the
boon I ask is first granted me.»
«I grant and accord it,» said Don Quixote, «provided 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
softly, «Your 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 Quixote, «I 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 said, «Let your great beauty rise, for I grant the boon which you would ask of
me.»
«Then what I ask,» said the damsel, «is 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 so, lady, you may from this day
forth lay aside the melancholy that distresses you, and let your failing hopes gather new life
and strength, for with the help of God and of my arm you will soon see yourself restored to
your kingdom, and seated upon the throne of your ancient and mighty realm,
notwithstanding and despite of the felons who would gainsay it; and now hands to the work,
for in delay there is apt to be danger.»
The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss his hands; but Don Quixote,
who was in all things a polished and courteous knight, would by no means allow it, but
made her rise and embraced her with great courtesy and politeness, and ordered Sancho to
look to Rocinante's girths, and to arm him without a moment's delay. Sancho took down the
armour, which was hung up on a tree like a trophy, and having seen to the girths armed his
master in a trice, who 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 fall, for had it fallen maybe their fine scheme would have come to nothing; but
now seeing the boon granted, and the promptitude with which Don Quixote prepared to set
out in compliance with it, he rose and took his lady's hand, and between them they placed
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CHAPTER XXIX 228
her upon the mule. Don Quixote then mounted Rocinante, and the barber settled himself on
his beast, Sancho being left to go on foot, which 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 princess, and be king of Micomicon at least. The
only thing that troubled him was the reflection that this kingdom was in the land of the
blacks, and that the people they would give him for vassals would be all black; but for this
he soon found a remedy in his fancy, and said he to himself, «What 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 on, so 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 bushes, not knowing
how to join company with the others; but the curate, who was very fertile in devices, soon
hit upon a way of effecting their purpose, and with a pair of scissors he had in a case he
quickly cut off Cardenio's beard, and putting on him a grey jerkin of his own he gave him a
black cloak, leaving himself in his breeches and doublet, while 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 this, although the others had gone on ahead while they
were disguising themselves, they easily came out on the high road before them, for 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
Sierra, and as soon as Don Quixote and his companions emerged from it the curate began to
examine him very deliberately, as though he were striving to recognise him, and after having
stared at him for some time he hastened towards him with open arms exclaiming, «A 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. He, astonished at the stranger's words and behaviour, looked at him
attentively, and at length recognised him, very much surprised to see him there, and made
great efforts to dismount. This, however, the curate would not allow, on which Don Quixote
said, «Permit 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
horseback, for it is on horseback you achieve the greatest deeds and adventures that have
been beheld in our age; as for me, an unworthy priest, it will serve me well enough to mount
on the haunches of one of the mules of these gentlefolk who accompany your worship, if
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they have no objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed Pegasus, or on the zebra
or charger that bore the famous Moor, Muzaraque, who to this day lies enchanted in the
great hill of Zulema, a little distance from the great Complutum.»
«Nor even that will I consent to, senor licentiate,» answered Don Quixote, «and 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 princess, «and 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 barber, and at once alighting, he offered his saddle to the curate,
who accepted it without much entreaty; but unfortunately as the barber was mounting
behind, the mule, being as it happened a hired one, which is the same thing as saying
ill−conditioned, lifted its hind hoofs and let fly a couple of kicks in the air, which 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 was, they so took him by surprise that he came
to the ground, giving so little heed to his beard that it fell off, and 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 detached,
without jaws or blood, from 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 curate, seeing the danger of discovery that threatened his scheme, at once pounced
upon the beard and hastened with it to where Master Nicholas lay, still uttering moans, and
drawing his head to his breast had it on in an instant, muttering over him some words which
he said were a certain special charm for sticking on beards, as they would see; and as soon
as he had it fixed he left him, and the squire appeared well bearded and whole as before,
whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure astonished, and begged the curate to teach him
that charm when he had an opportunity, as he was persuaded its virtue must extend beyond
the sticking on of beards, for it was clear that where the beard had been stripped off the flesh
must have remained torn and lacerated, and when it could heal all that it must be good for
more than beards.
«And so it is,» said the curate, and he promised to teach it to him on the first
opportunity. They then agreed that for the present the curate should mount, and that the three
should ride by turns until they reached the inn, which might be about six leagues from where
they were.
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Three then being mounted, that is to say, Don Quixote, the princess, and the curate, and
three on foot, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza, Don 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.»
She, being ready on all points, understood that she was to answer «Yes,» so she said
«Yes, senor, my way lies towards that kingdom.»
«In that case,» said the curate, «we 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
it, and though I never had good weather, nevertheless I am here to behold what I so longed
for, and that is my lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose fame came to my ears as soon as
I set foot in Spain and impelled me to go in search of him, to commend myself to his
courtesy, and entrust the justice of my cause to the might of his invincible arm.»
«Enough; no more praise,» said Don Quixote at this, «for 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 then, Senor Don
Quixote, that Master Nicholas, our friend and barber, and 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 eight, full weight, which is
something; and passing by this place yesterday we were attacked by four footpads, who
stripped us even to our beards, and them they stripped off so that the barber found it
necessary to put on a false one, and even this young man here»− pointing to Cardenio−
«they completely transformed. But the best of it is, the story goes in the neighbourhood that
those who attacked us belong to a number of galley slaves who, they say, were set free
almost on the very same spot by a man of such valour that, in spite of the commissary and of
the guards, he released the whole of them; and beyond all doubt he must have been out of
his senses, or he must be as great a scoundrel as they, or some man without heart or
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CHAPTER XXIX 231
conscience to let the wolf loose among the sheep, the fox among the hens, the fly among the
honey. He has defrauded justice, and opposed his king and lawful master, for he opposed his
just commands; he has, I say, robbed the galleys of their feet, stirred up the Holy
Brotherhood which for many years past has been quiet, and, lastly, has 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 slaves, which, so much to his glory, his master had
achieved, and 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 word, not daring to say that it was he
who had been the liberator of those worthy people. «These, then,» 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.»
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CHAPTER XXX
W
HICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY
THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING
The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said, «In 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 this, «it 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
basin, which according to him was Mambrino's helmet, he carried hanging at the
saddle−bow until he could repair the damage done to it by the galley slaves.
Dorothea, who was shrewd and sprightly, and by this time thoroughly understood Don
Quixote's crazy turn, and that all except Sancho Panza were making game of him, not to be
behind the rest said to him, on observing his irritation, «Sir 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 curate, «and I would have even plucked off a
moustache.»
«I will hold my peace, senora,» said Don Quixote, «and 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
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your behalf?»
«That I will do with all my heart,» replied Dorothea, «if 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 replied,
«Well, if that be so, give me your attention.» As soon as she said this, Cardenio 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 same, for he was as much taken in by her as his
master; and she having settled herself comfortably in the saddle, and with the help of
coughing and other preliminaries taken time to think, began 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
moment, for she forgot the name the curate had given her; but he came to her relief, seeing
what her difficulty was, and said, «It 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
prompting, and I shall bring my true story safe into port, and here it is. The king my father,
who was called Tinacrio the Sapient, was very learned in what they call magic arts, and
became aware by his craft that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, was to die
before he did, and that soon after he too was to depart this life, and I was to be left an orphan
without father or mother. But all this, he declared, did not so much grieve or distress him as
his certain knowledge that a prodigious giant, the lord of a great island close to our
kingdom, Pandafilando of the Scowl by name −for it is averred that, though his eyes are
properly placed and straight, he always looks askew as if he squinted, and this he does out of
malignity, to strike fear and terror into those he looks at− that he knew, I say, that this giant
on becoming aware of my orphan condition would overrun my kingdom with a mighty force
and strip me of all, not 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; however, as far as he could see,
he never expected that I would consent to a marriage so unequal; and he said no more than
the truth in this, for it has never entered my mind to marry that giant, or any other, let him be
ever so great or enormous. My father said, too, that when he was dead, and I saw
Pandafilando about to invade my kingdom, I was not to wait and attempt to defend myself,
for that would be destructive to me, but 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 vassals, for there
would be no possibility of defending myself against the giant's devilish power; and that I
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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 kingdom, and who would be called, if I remember rightly, Don 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 said, moreover, that he would be tall of stature and lank
featured; and that on his right side under the left shoulder, or thereabouts, he would have a
grey mole with hairs like bristles.»
On hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, «Here, 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 backbone, which is the mark of a strong man.»
«That is enough,» said Dorothea, «for 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 Quixote, «when it is not a
seaport?»
But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her, saying, «The 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?»
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«There is no more to add,» said Dorothea, «save 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 then, how 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
satisfaction, and then ran to seize the bridle of Dorothea's mule, and checking it fell on his
knees before her, begging 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
hand, and promised to make him a great lord in her kingdom, when Heaven should be so
good as to permit her to recover and enjoy it, for which Sancho returned thanks in words
that set them all laughing again.
«This, sirs,» continued Dorothea, «is 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 Quixote,
«however 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 teeth, and then
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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 Quixote, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against his lady Dulcinea, could
not endure it, and lifting his pike, without saying anything to Sancho or uttering a word, he
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 pause, «you 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 said, and rising with some
degree of nimbleness he ran to place himself behind Dorothea's palfrey, and 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?
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CHAPTER XXX 237
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 Sancho, «that 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 Sancho, «and 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 Quixote, «take heed of what thou sayest, for the pitcher
goes so often to the well− I need say no more to thee.»
«Well, well,» said Sancho, «God 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; «run, Sancho, and kiss your lord's hand and beg his
pardon, and henceforward be more circumspect with your praise and abuse; and say nothing
in disparagement of that lady Toboso, of whom I know nothing save that I am her servant;
and put your trust in God, for 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 hand, which Don Quixote
with dignity presented to him, giving him his blessing as soon as he had kissed it; he then
bade him go on ahead a little, as he had questions to ask him and matters of great importance
to discuss with him. Sancho obeyed, and when the two had gone some distance in advance
Don Quixote said to him, «Since 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 Sancho, «for 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.
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«I say it,» he returned, «because 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 Quixote, «for 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 ass, who when he came close seemed to be a gipsy; but Sancho Panza, whose
eyes and heart were there wherever he saw asses, no sooner beheld the man than he knew
him to be Gines de Pasamonte; and by the thread of the gipsy he got at the ball, his ass, for it
was, in fact, Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to escape recognition and to sell the ass
had disguised himself as a gipsy, being able to speak the gipsy language, and many more, as
well as if they were his own. Sancho saw him and recognised him, and the instant he did so
he shouted to him, «Ginesillo, 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 objurgations, for at the first one Gines
jumped down, and at a like racing speed made off and got clear of them all. Sancho hastened
to his Dapple, and embracing him he said, «How 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 peace, and let himself be kissed and caressed by Sancho without
answering a single word. They all came up and congratulated him on having found Dapple,
Don Quixote especially, who told him that notwithstanding this he would not cancel the
order for the three ass−colts, for which Sancho thanked him.
While the two had been going along conversing in this fashion, the curate observed to
Dorothea that she had shown great cleverness, as well in the story itself as in its conciseness,
and 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 seaports, and so she had said at haphazard that she had landed at Osuna.
«So I saw,» said the curate, «and 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 unexampled, that were one to attempt
to invent and concoct it in fiction, I doubt if there be any wit keen enough to imagine it.»
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CHAPTER XXX 239
«But another strange thing about it,» said the curate, «is 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 Sancho,
saying:
«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 Sancho, «if 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 Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «if 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 Sancho, «for 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.»
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CHAPTER XXXI
O
F THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER 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 pearls, or
embroidering some device in gold thread for this her enslaved knight.»
«I did not,» said Sancho, «but I found her winnowing two bushels of wheat in the yard
of her house.»
«Then depend upon it,» said Don Quixote, «the 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 Quixote, «that, 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 Sancho, «she 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; proceed, Sancho; while she was engaged in her occupation what converse did she hold
with thee? What did she ask about me, and what answer didst thou give? Make haste; tell me
all, and 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 service, naked from the waist up, in among these mountains like a savage,
sleeping on the ground, not eating bread off a tablecloth nor combing your beard, weeping
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.»
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CHAPTER XXXI 241
«And so lofty she is,» said Sancho, «that she overtops me by more than a
hand's−breadth.»
«What! Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «didst 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 ass, we came so close together that I could see she stood more than a good palm
over me.»
«Well!» said Don Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «but 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 wonder, for one
devil is like another.»
«Well then,» continued Don Quixote, «now 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 Sancho, «she 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.»
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CHAPTER XXXI 242
«So far all goes well,» said Don Quixote; «but tell me what jewel was it that she gave
thee on taking thy leave, in return for thy tidings of me? For it is a usual and ancient custom
with knights and ladies errant to give the squires, damsels, or dwarfs who bring tidings of
their ladies to the knights, or of their knights to the ladies, some rich jewel as a guerdon for
good news,' and acknowledgment of the message.»
«That is very likely,» said Sancho, «and 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «for indeed Rocinante went like a gipsy's ass
with quicksilver in his ears.»
«Quicksilver!» said Don Quixote, «aye 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXI 243
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 marry, in order that
immediately on slaying the giant I may become king, and be able to confer favours on thee,
and give thee what I have promised, let 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 that, if I
come out of it victorious, even I do not marry, they shall give me a portion portion of the
kingdom, that I may bestow it upon whomsoever I choose, and 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 seacoast, so that if I don't like the life, I 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 now, but 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «how is it that your worship makes all those you
overcome by your arm go to present themselves before my lady Dulcinea, this being the
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXI 244
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 not, Sancho, that this
tends to her greater exaltation? For thou must know that according to our way of thinking in
chivalry, it 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 sake, and 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 Sancho, «I 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 Quixote, «and 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 while, as they wanted to halt and
drink at a little spring there was there. Don Quixote drew up, not a little to the satisfaction of
Sancho, for he was by this time weary of telling so many lies, and in dread of his master
catching him tripping, for though he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El Toboso, he
had never seen her in all his life. Cardenio had now put on the clothes which Dorothea was
wearing when they found her, and though they were not very good, they were far better than
those he put off. They dismounted together by the side of the spring, and with what the
curate had provided himself with at the inn they appeased, though not very well, the keen
appetite they all of them brought with them.
While they were so employed there happened to come by a youth passing on his way,
who stopping to examine the party at the spring, the next moment ran to Don Quixote and
clasping him round the legs, began to weep freely, saying, «O, 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 him, and 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 world, I may tell you that
some days ago passing through a wood, I heard cries and piteous complaints as of a person
in pain and distress; I immediately hastened, impelled by my bounden duty, to the quarter
whence the plaintive accents seemed to me to proceed, and I found tied to an oak this lad
who now stands before you, which in my heart I rejoice at, for his testimony will not permit
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me to depart from the truth in any particular. He was, I say, tied to an oak, naked from the
waist up, and a clown, whom I afterwards found to be his master, was 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, 'Senor, he flogs me only because I ask for my wages.' The master made I know not
what speeches and explanations, which, though I listened to them, I did not accept. In short,
I compelled the clown to unbind him, and to swear he would take him with him, and pay
him real by real, and perfumed into the bargain. Is not all this true, Andres my son? Didst
thou not mark with what authority I commanded him, and with what humility he promised
to do all I enjoined, specified, and required of him? Answer without hesitation; tell these
gentlemen what took place, that 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 lad, «but 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 Quixote, «lay 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 saying, he
got up hastily and bade Sancho bridle Rocinante, who was browsing while they were eating.
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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 conduct, and see Andres paid to the last
maravedi, despite 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 anyone, he should restrain
his ardour until his return from her kingdom.
«That is true,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 me, give it me, and 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 cheese, and giving them
to the lad he said, «Here, 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 cheese, and seeing that nobody gave him anything more,
bent his head, and took hold of the road, as the saying is. However, before leaving he said,
«For 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 him, but he took to his heels at such a pace that
no one attempted to follow him; and mightily chapfallen was Don Quixote at Andres' story,
and the others had to take great care to restrain their laughter so as not to put him entirely
out of countenance.
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CHAPTER XXXII
W
HICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN
Their dainty repast being finished, they saddled at once, and without any adventure
worth mentioning they reached next day the inn, the object of Sancho Panza's fear and
dread; but though he would have rather not entered it, there was no help for it. The landlady,
the landlord, their daughter, and Maritornes, when they saw Don Quixote and Sancho
coming, went out to welcome them with signs of hearty satisfaction, which Don Quixote
received with dignity and gravity, and 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 would, so they made up a tolerable one
for him in the same garret as before; and he lay down at once, being sorely shaken and in
want of sleep.
No sooner was the door shut upon him than the landlady made at the barber, and seizing
him by the beard, said:
«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 it, as there was now no further occasion for that stratagem, because he might
declare himself and appear in his own character, and 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
squire, they could tell him that she had sent him on before her to give notice to the people of
her kingdom that she was coming, and bringing with her the deliverer of them all. On this
the barber cheerfully restored the tail to the landlady, and 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 Dorothea, and 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 landlord, in hope of better payment, served them up a tolerably good dinner. All this
time Don Quixote was asleep, and they thought it best not to waken him, as sleeping would
now do him more good than eating.
While at dinner, the company consisting of the landlord, his wife, their daughter,
Maritornes, and all the travellers, they 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 then, looking round to see if Sancho was there, when she
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saw he was not, she gave them the whole story of his blanketing, which 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 brain, the 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 landlady, «because 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; «and, faith, I relish hearing these things greatly too, for
they are very pretty; especially when they describe some lady or another in the arms of her
knight under the orange trees, and 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 too, and to tell the truth, though I do not
understand it, I like hearing it; but it is not the blows that my father likes that I like, but 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 be, so unfeeling and heartless, that 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 sake, why not marry them? That's all they
want.»
«Hush, child,» said the landlady; «it seems to me thou knowest a great deal about these
things, and it is not fit for girls to know or talk so much.»
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«As the gentleman asked me, I could not help answering him,» said the girl.
«Well then,» said the curate, «bring me these books, senor landlord, for I should like to
see them.»
«With all my heart,» said he, and going into his own room he brought out an old valise
secured with a little chain, on 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 Cordova, with the Life of Diego
Garcia de Paredes.»
When the curate read the two first titles he looked over at the barber and said, «We want
my friend's housekeeper and niece here now.»
«Nay,» said the barber, «I 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 curate, «Don 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 barber, «not phlegmatics.»
«That's it,» said the landlord; «but if you want to burn any, let 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 curate, «those 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.»
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«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
Hircania, how 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 foot, and he routed them all as if they had
been flocks of sheep. And then, what do you say to the good Cirongilio of Thrace, that 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 serpent, and he, as
soon as he saw it, flung himself upon it and got astride of its scaly shoulders, and squeezed
its throat with both hands with such force that the serpent, finding he was throttling it, had
nothing for it but to let itself sink to the bottom of the river, carrying 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 man, who told him such things as were never heard. Hold your peace, senor; 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 Cardenio, «Our landlord is almost fit to play
a second part to Don Quixote.»
«I think so,» said Cardenio, «for, 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 world, nor any Cirongilio of Thrace, or any of the other knights of the same
sort, that the books of chivalry talk of; the whole thing is the fabrication and invention of
idle wits, devised by them for the purpose you describe of beguiling the time, as your
reapers do when they read; for I swear to you in all seriousness there never were any such
knights in the world, and 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 five, and where my shoe pinches me; don't think to feed me with pap, for 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 lies, and they printed by the license of the Lords of the Royal
Council, as if they were people who would allow such a lot of lies to be printed all together,
and so many battles and enchantments that they take away one's senses.»
«I have told you, friend,» said the curate, «that 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
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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 days, when 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 vogue, and 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's, and if it did not turn out as happily as
his master expected, he 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 books, but the curate said to him,
«Wait; 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 read, and he perceived they were a work of
about eight sheets of manuscript, with, in large letters at the beginning, the title of «Novel of
the Ill−advised Curiosity.» The curate read three or four lines to himself, and said, «I 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 replied, «Then 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 that, if 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 it, and
forming the same opinion of it as the curate, he begged him to read it so that they might all
hear it.
«I would read it,» said the curate, «if the time would not be better spent in sleeping.»
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«It will be rest enough for me,» said Dorothea, «to 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 curate, «I will read it, if it were only out of curiosity;
perhaps it may contain something pleasant.»
Master Nicholas added his entreaties to the same effect, and Sancho too; seeing which,
and considering that he would give pleasure to all, and receive it himself, the curate said,
«Well then, attend to me everyone, for the novel begins thus.»
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CHAPTER XXXIII
I
N WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF «THE ILL−ADVISED CURIOSITY»
In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy in the province called Tuscany, there lived
two gentlemen of wealth and quality, Anselmo and Lothario, such great friends that by way
of distinction they were called by all that knew them «The Two Friends.» They were
unmarried, young, of the same age and of the same tastes, which was enough to account for
the reciprocal friendship between them. Anselmo, it is true, was somewhat more inclined to
seek pleasure in love than Lothario, for whom the pleasures of the chase had more
attraction; but on occasion Anselmo would forego his own tastes to yield to those of
Lothario, and Lothario would surrender his to fall in with those of Anselmo, and 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 city, the
daughter of parents so estimable, and so estimable herself, that he resolved, with the
approval of his friend Lothario, without whom he did nothing, to ask her of them in
marriage, and did so, Lothario being the bearer of the demand, and 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 desires, and Camilla so happy in having won Anselmo for her husband,
that she gave thanks unceasingly to heaven and to Lothario, by whose means such good
fortune had fallen to her. The first few days, those of a wedding being usually days of
merry−making, Lothario frequented his friend Anselmo's house as he had been wont,
striving to do honour to him and to the occasion, and to gratify him in every way he could;
but when the wedding days were over and the succession of visits and congratulations had
slackened, he began purposely to leave off going to the house of Anselmo, for it seemed to
him, as it naturally would to all men of sense, that friends' houses ought not to be visited
after marriage with the same frequency as in their masters' bachelor days: because, though
true and genuine friendship cannot and should not be in any way suspicious, still 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 visits, and complained of
it to him, saying that if he had known that marriage was to keep him from enjoying his
society as he used, he would have never married; and that, if 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
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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 suppose, Lothario my friend, that I am unable to give sufficient thanks
for the favours God has rendered me in making me the son of such parents as mine were,
and bestowing upon me with no niggard hand what are called the gifts of nature as well as
those of fortune, and above all for what he has done in giving me thee for a friend and
Camilla for a wife− two treasures that I value, if not as highly as I ought, at least as highly as
I am able. And yet, with all these good things, which are commonly all that men need to
enable them to live happily, I am the most discontented and dissatisfied man in the whole
world; for, I know not how long since, I have been harassed and oppressed by a desire so
strange and so unusual, that I wonder at myself and blame and chide myself when I am
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alone, and 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 as, in short, it
must come out, I would confide it to thy safe keeping, feeling sure that by this means, and
by thy readiness as a true friend to afford me relief, I shall soon find myself freed from the
distress it causes me, and 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 astonishment, unable 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 friend, his conjectures were all far from the truth, and
to relieve the anxiety which this perplexity was causing him, he told him he was doing a
flagrant injustice to their great friendship in seeking circuitous methods of confiding to him
his most hidden thoughts, for be well knew he might reckon upon his counsel in diverting
them, or his help in carrying them into effect.
«That is the truth,» replied Anselmo, «and 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
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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 Lothario, who listened to them with such
attention that, except to say what has been already mentioned, he did not open his lips until
the other had finished. Then perceiving that he had no more to say, after regarding him for
awhile, as one would regard something never before seen that excited wonder and
amazement, he said to him, «I 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 Anselmo, «say what thou wilt.»
Lothario then went on to say, "It 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
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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 world, or 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 water, such a variety of
climates, so many strange countries, to acquire what are called the blessings of fortune; and
those undertaken for the sake of God and the world together are those of brave soldiers, who
no sooner do they see in the enemy's wall a breach as wide as a cannon ball could make,
than, casting aside all fear, without hesitating, or heeding the manifest peril that threatens
them, borne onward by the desire of defending their faith, their country, and their king, they
fling themselves dauntlessly into the midst of the thousand opposing deaths that await them.
Such are the things that men are wont to attempt, and there is honour, glory, gain, in
attempting them, however 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 it, thou wilt be
no happier, richer, or more honoured than thou art this moment; and if it be otherwise thou
wilt be reduced to misery greater than can be imagined, for 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
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and crush thee that thou knowest it thyself. And in confirmation of the truth of what I say,
let 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 him, well he knew, Yet he himself was to himself a shame; Exposed
to all men's gaze, or 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 sorrow, but rather thou wilt shed tears
unceasingly, if not tears of the eyes, tears of blood from the heart, like those shed by that
simple doctor our poet tells us of, that tried the test of the cup, which the wise Rinaldo,
better advised, refused 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
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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 far, Anselmo, has had reference to what concerns thee;
now it is right that I should say something of what regards myself; and if I be prolix, pardon
me, for 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
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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 paradise, the 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 Eve, and when Adam awoke and beheld her he said, 'This is flesh of my
flesh, and bone of my bone.' And God said 'For this shall a man leave his father and his
mother, and they shall be two in one flesh; and then was instituted the divine sacrament of
marriage, with 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 it, or the injuries it incurs fall upon the
husband's flesh, though he, as has been said, may have given no cause for them; for as the
pain of the foot or any member of the body is felt by the whole body, because all is one
flesh, as the head feels the hurt to the ankle without having caused it, so the husband, being
one with her, shares 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 kind, the husband must needs bear his part
of it and be held dishonoured without knowing it. See, then, Anselmo, the 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 little, and what thou
wilt lose so much that I leave it undescribed, not having the words to express it. But if all I
have said be not enough to turn thee from thy vile purpose, thou must seek some other
instrument for thy dishonour and misfortune; for such I will not consent to be, though I lose
thy friendship, the greatest loss that I can conceive.»
Having said this, the wise and virtuous Lothario was silent, and Anselmo, troubled in
mind and deep in thought, was unable for a while to utter a word in reply; but at length he
said, «I 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
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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 Anselmo, and not knowing what further
examples to offer or arguments to urge in order to dissuade him from it, and perceiving that
he threatened to confide his pernicious scheme to some one else, to avoid a greater evil
resolved to gratify him and do what he asked, intending 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 other, for he would undertake the task himself, and 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 day, Anselmo affording opportunity and time to
Lothario to converse alone with Camilla, and furnishing him with money and jewels to offer
and present to her. He suggested, too, that he should treat her to music, and write verses in
her praise, and if he was unwilling to take the trouble of composing them, he offered to do it
himself. Lothario agreed to all with an intention very different from what Anselmo
supposed, and with this understanding they returned to Anselmo's house, where they found
Camilla awaiting her husband anxiously and uneasily, for he was later than usual in
returning that day. Lothario repaired to his own house, and Anselmo remained in his, as well
satisfied as Lothario was troubled in mind; for he could see no satisfactory way out of this
ill−advised business. That night, however, he thought of a plan by which he might deceive
Anselmo without any injury to Camilla. The next day he went to dine with his friend, and
was welcomed by Camilla, who received and treated him with great cordiality, knowing the
affection her husband felt for him. When dinner was over and the cloth removed, Anselmo
told Lothario to stay there with Camilla while he attended to some pressing business, as he
would return in an hour and a half. Camilla begged him not to go, and Lothario offered to
accompany him, but nothing could persuade Anselmo, who 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 reason, or the folly, of his absence that no one could
have suspected it was a pretence.
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Anselmo took his departure, and Camilla and Lothario were left alone at the table, for
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 chair, and his cheek upon his hand, and, asking Camilla's pardon for
his ill manners, he 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 chair, and
begged of him to go in and sleep there; but Lothario declined, and there he remained asleep
until the return of Anselmo, who finding Camilla in her own room, and Lothario asleep,
imagined that he had stayed away so long as to have afforded them time enough for
conversation and even for sleep, and was all impatience until Lothario should wake up, that
he might go out with him and question him as to his success. Everything fell out as he
wished; Lothario awoke, and the two at once left the house, and Anselmo asked what he was
anxious to know, and Lothario in answer told him that he had not thought it advisable to
declare himself entirely the first time, and therefore had only extolled the charms of Camilla,
telling her that all the city spoke of nothing else but her beauty and wit, for 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 time, thus 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, and, under cover of a fair seeming, discloses
himself at length, and effects his purpose if at the beginning his wiles are not discovered. All
this gave great satisfaction to Anselmo, and he said he would afford the same opportunity
every day, but without leaving the house, for he would find things to do at home so that
Camilla should not detect the plot.
Thus, then, several days went by, and Lothario, without uttering a word to Camilla,
reported 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 dishonourable, nor even a sign or
shadow of hope; on the contrary, he 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 present, and as many more to buy jewels to lure her, for women are fond of
being becomingly attired and going gaily dressed, and all the more so if they are beautiful,
however chaste they may be; and if she resists this temptation, I 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 end,
though he perceived he was to come out of it wearied and vanquished. The next day he
received the four thousand crowns, and with them four thousand perplexities, for 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 words, and that there was no
use in taking any further trouble, for the time was all spent to no purpose.
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But chance, directing things in a different manner, so ordered it that Anselmo, having
left Lothario and Camilla alone as on other occasions, shut himself into a chamber and
posted himself to watch and listen through the keyhole to what passed between them, and
perceived that for more than half an hour Lothario did not utter a word to Camilla, nor
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 so, he came out, and 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 business, for she had answered him so angrily and harshly that he had no heart to
say anything more to her.
«Ah, Lothario, Lothario,» said Anselmo, «how 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 more, but he had said enough to cover Lothario with shame and
confusion, and he, feeling as it were his honour touched by having been detected in a lie,
swore to Anselmo that he would from that moment devote himself to satisfying him without
any deception, as he would see if he had the curiosity to watch; though he need not take the
trouble, for 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
surprise, he 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; and, the better to account
for his departure to Camilla, he so arranged it that the friend should send him a very pressing
invitation.
Unhappy, shortsighted Anselmo, what art thou doing, what art thou plotting, what art
thou devising? Bethink thee thou art working against thyself, plotting thine own dishonour,
devising thine own ruin. Thy wife Camilla is virtuous, thou dost possess her in peace and
quietness, no one assails thy happiness, her thoughts wander not beyond the walls of thy
house, thou art her heaven on earth, the object of her wishes, the fulfilment of her desires,
the measure wherewith she measures her will, making it conform in all things to thine and
Heaven's. If, then, the mine of her honour, beauty, virtue, and modesty yields thee without
labour all the wealth it contains and thou canst wish for, why wilt thou dig the earth in
search of fresh veins, of new unknown treasure, risking the collapse of all, since 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 withheld, as was better expressed
by a poet who said: 'Tis mine to seek for life in death, Health in disease seek I,I seek in
prison freedom's breath, In traitors loyalty. So Fate that ever scorns to grant Or grace or
boon to me,Since what can never be I want, Denies me what might be.
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The next day Anselmo took his departure for the village, leaving instructions with
Camilla that during his absence Lothario would come to look after his house and to dine
with her, and that she was to treat him as she would himself. Camilla was distressed, as a
discreet and right−minded woman would be, at the orders her husband left her, and bade him
remember that it was not becoming that anyone should occupy his seat at the table during
his absence, and if he acted thus from not feeling confidence that she would be able to
manage his house, let him try her this time, and he would find by experience that she was
equal to greater responsibilities. Anselmo replied that it was his pleasure to have it so, and
that she had only to submit and obey. Camilla said she would do so, though against her will.
Anselmo went, and the next day Lothario came to his house, where he was received by
Camilla with a friendly and modest welcome; but she never suffered Lothario to see her
alone, for she was always attended by her men and women servants, especially by a
handmaid of hers, Leonela by name, to 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 her, though
he might have done so when they removed the cloth and the servants retired to dine hastily;
for such were Camilla's orders; nay more, Leonela had directions to dine earlier than
Camilla and never to leave her side. She, however, having her thoughts fixed upon other
things more to her taste, and wanting that time and opportunity for her own pleasures, did
not always obey her mistress's commands, but on the contrary left them alone, as if they had
ordered her to do so; but the modest bearing of Camilla, the calmness of her countenance,
the 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 them, for 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 one, charms
enough to warm with love a marble statue, not to say a heart of flesh. Lothario gazed upon
her when he might have been speaking to her, and thought how worthy of being loved she
was; and thus reflection began little by little to assail his allegiance to Anselmo, and 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 weakness, called himself a bad friend, nay 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 faithlessness, and that if he could excuse his
intentions as easily before God as with man, he had no reason to fear any punishment for his
offence.
In short the beauty and goodness of Camilla, joined with the opportunity which the
blind husband had placed in his hands, overthrew the loyalty of Lothario; and giving heed to
nothing save the object towards which his inclinations led him, after Anselmo had been
three days absent, during which he had been carrying on a continual struggle with his
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passion, he began to make love to Camilla with so much vehemence and warmth of
language that she was overwhelmed with amazement, and 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 increased, and she discovering in him what she had never expected,
knew not what to do; and considering it neither safe nor right to give him the chance or
opportunity of speaking to her again, she resolved to send, as she did that very night, one of
her servants with a letter to Anselmo, in which she addressed the following words to him.
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CHAPTER XXXIV
I
N 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 letter, and 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
account, as he would very shortly return. Camilla was astonished at Anselmo's reply, which
placed her in greater perplexity than before, for she neither dared to remain in her own
house, nor yet to go to her parents'; for in remaining her virtue was imperilled, and in going
she was opposing her husband's commands. Finally she decided upon what was the worse
course for her, to remain, resolving not to fly from the presence of Lothario, that she might
not give food for gossip to her servants; and she now began to regret having written as she
had to her husband, fearing 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 intentions, with which she hoped
to resist in silence all the solicitations of Lothario, without 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 resolutions, more honourable than judicious or effectual, she remained
the next day listening to Lothario, who pressed his suit so strenuously that Camilla's
firmness began to waver, and 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 this, and 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 fortress, and so he assailed her self−esteem with
praises of her beauty, for 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 wept, he entreated, he promised, he flattered, he
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importuned, he pretended with so much feeling and apparent sincerity, that he overthrew the
virtuous resolves of Camilla and won the triumph he least expected and most longed for.
Camilla yielded, Camilla 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 weakness, for
the two false friends and new lovers were unable to conceal it. Lothario did not care to tell
Camilla the object Anselmo had in view, nor that he had afforded him the opportunity of
attaining such a result, lest 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 lost,
that which he so lightly treated and so highly prized. He went at once to see Lothario, and
found him at home; they embraced each other, and 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 Lothario, and 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 Chloris, for 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 Lothario, «for 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
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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 friends, the ill−advised one and the
treacherous, and 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 imagination, for Lothario now avoided seeing her, or being
alone with her. Anselmo told her she might be quite easy on the score of that suspicion, for
he knew that Lothario was in love with a damsel of rank in the city whom he celebrated
under the name of Chloris, and that even if he were not, his fidelity and their great friendship
left no room for fear. Had not Camilla, however, been informed beforehand by Lothario that
this love for Chloris was a pretence, and that he himself had told Anselmo of it in order to be
able sometimes to give utterance to the praises of Camilla herself, no 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 her, he might
safely say what he liked.
«Even did she know her,» returned Lothario, "I 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 Camilla, and still more Anselmo, for he praised it and said the lady
was excessively cruel who made no return for sincerity so manifest. On which Camilla said,
«Then 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.»
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«There is no doubt of that,» observed Anselmo, anxious to support and uphold
Lothario's ideas with Camilla, who was as regardless of his design as she was deep in love
with Lothario; and so taking delight in anything that was his, and knowing that his thoughts
and writings had her for their object, and that she herself was the real Chloris, she asked him
to repeat some other sonnet or verses if he recollected any.
«I do,» replied Lothario, "but 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 too, as 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
abasement, she mounted, in his opinion, towards the summit of virtue and fair fame.
It so happened that finding herself on one occasion alone with her maid, Camilla said to
her, «I 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 Leonela, «for 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 Camilla, «that what costs little is valued less.»
«That saying does not hold good in your case,» replied Leonela, «for 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
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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 alphabet, and perceived her to be more experienced in
love affairs than she said, which 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 this,
dreading lest it might prove the means of endangering her honour, and asked whether her
intrigue had gone beyond words, and she with little shame and much effrontery said it had;
for certain it is that ladies' imprudences make servants shameless, who, when they see their
mistresses make a false step, think nothing of going astray themselves, or 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 lover, and to conduct her own affairs secretly lest they should
come to the knowledge of Anselmo or of Lothario. Leonela said she would, but 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 Leonela, as soon as she perceived that her
mistress's demeanour was not what it was wont to be, had the audacity to introduce her lover
into the house, confident 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 servants, and are obliged to hide their laxities and depravities; as was the
case with Camilla, who though she perceived, not once but many times, that Leonela was
with her lover in some room of the house, not only did not dare to chide her, but afforded
her opportunities for concealing him and removed all difficulties, lest he should be seen by
her husband. She was unable, however, to prevent him from being seen on one occasion, as
he sallied forth at daybreak, by Lothario, who, not knowing who he was, at first took him for
a spectre; but, as soon as he saw him hasten away, muffling his face with his cloak and
concealing himself carefully and cautiously, he rejected this foolish idea, and adopted
another, which would have been the ruin of all had not Camilla found a remedy. It did not
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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 account, nor did he even remember there was such
a person as Leonela; all he thought was that as Camilla had been light and yielding with
him, so she had been with another; for this further penalty the erring woman's sin brings
with it, that 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 others, and 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 rationally, and without more ado, in his impatience and in the blindness of
the jealous rage that gnawed his heart, and dying to revenge himself upon Camilla, who had
done him no wrong, before Anselmo had risen he hastened to him and said to him, «Know,
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 amazed, overwhelmed, and astounded at the words of Lothario, which
came upon him at a time when he least expected to hear them, for he now looked upon
Camilla as having triumphed over the pretended attacks of Lothario, and was beginning to
enjoy the glory of her victory. He remained silent for a considerable time, looking on the
ground with fixed gaze, and at length said, «Thou 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 word, but after leaving him he repented altogether of what he had
said to him, perceiving how foolishly he had acted, as he might have revenged himself upon
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Camilla in some less cruel and degrading way. He cursed his want of sense, condemned his
hasty resolution, and 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 Camilla, and, as there was no want of
opportunity for doing so, he found her alone the same day; but she, as soon as she had the
chance of speaking to him, said, «Lothario 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 suffered, and begged him to help her, he became convinced of the
truth, and the conviction completed his confusion and remorse; however, he told Camilla not
to distress herself, as he would take measures to put a stop to the insolence of Leonela. At
the same time he told her what, driven by the fierce rage of jealousy, he had said to
Anselmo, and 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
madness, and her advice as to how to repair it, and escape safely from the intricate labyrinth
in which his imprudence had involved him. Camilla was struck with alarm at hearing what
Lothario said, and with much anger, and great good sense, she 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 evil, though it is apt to fail when she sets
herself deliberately to reason, Camilla on the spur of the moment thought of a way to
remedy what was to all appearance irremediable, and told Lothario to contrive that the next
day Anselmo should conceal himself in the place he mentioned, for 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 concealed, to come to her when Leonela should call him,
and 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 fully, so that he might
with more certainty and precaution take care to do what he saw to be needful.
«I tell you,» said Camilla, «there 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 do,
fearing 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 retired, and the next day Anselmo, under pretence of going to his friend's
country house, took his departure, and then returned to conceal himself, which he was able
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to do easily, as 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 eyes, and 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−place, Camilla and Leonela entered the closet,
and the instant she set foot within it Camilla said, with a deep sigh, «Ah! 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 Leonela, who knew her part, «what 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 Camilla, «we 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 this, and 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 Camilla, throwing herself upon a bed that was close by,
swooned away, and Leonela began to weep bitterly, exclaiming, «Woe 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 effect, so 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.
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Camilla was not long in recovering from her fainting fit and on coming to herself she
said, «Why 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
dagger, lest 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 Camilla, «for 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 Lothario, but at last
she went, and while awaiting her return Camilla continued, as if speaking to herself, «Good
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 dagger,
with such irregular and disordered steps, and such gestures that one would have supposed
her to have lost her senses, and taken her for some violent desperado instead of a delicate
woman.
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Anselmo, hidden behind some tapestries where he had concealed himself, beheld and
was amazed at all, and 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 with, as 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 returning, leading Lothario. Camilla when she saw him, drawing a
long line in front of her on the floor with the dagger, said 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 do, and 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 think, fair Camilla, that 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 so, thou mightst have put it off still longer, for 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 questions, I say that I know thy husband Anselmo, and
that we have known each other from our earliest years; I will not speak of what thou too
knowest, of our friendship, that I may not compel myself to testify against the wrong that
love, the mighty excuse for greater errors, makes me inflict upon him. Thee I know and hold
in the same estimation as he does, for 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 friendship, now broken and
violated by me through that powerful enemy, love.»
«If thou dost confess that,» returned Camilla, «mortal 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
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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 words, with incredible energy and swiftness she flew upon
Lothario with the naked dagger, so manifestly bent on burying it in his breast that he was
almost uncertain whether these demonstrations were real or feigned, for 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 that, to give it a colour of truth, she
determined to stain it with her own blood; for perceiving, or pretending, that she could not
wound Lothario, she said, «Fate, 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 grasp, she
released it, and directing the point to a place where it could not inflict a deep wound, she
plunged it into her left side high up close to the shoulder, and then allowed herself to fall to
the ground as if in a faint.
Leonela and Lothario stood amazed and astounded at the catastrophe, and seeing
Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed in her blood they were still uncertain as to the
true nature of the act. Lothario, terrified and breathless, ran 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 subtlety, coolness, and 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 dead, invoking 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 Camilla,
even though he supposed her dead. Leonela took her up in her arms and laid her on the bed,
entreating Lothario to go in quest of some one to attend to her wound in secret, and 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 liked, for 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 blood, as he was going where he should never more
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be seen; and with every appearance of deep grief and sorrow he left the house; but when he
found himself alone, and where there was nobody to see him, he crossed himself
unceasingly, lost 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 wife, and
he looked forward anxiously to meeting him in order to rejoice together over falsehood and
truth the most craftily veiled that could be imagined.
Leonela, as he told her, stanched her lady's blood, which 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 skill, talking all the time she was tending her in a strain that, even if nothing else had
been said before, would have been enough to assure Anselmo that he had in Camilla a model
of purity. To Leonela's words Camilla added her own, calling herself cowardly and wanting
in spirit, since 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 happened, but the other bade her say nothing
about it, as 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, but, on the contrary, to remove it as far as possible from
him.
Camilla replied that she believed she was right and that she would follow her advice,
but at any rate it would be well to consider how she was to explain the wound to Anselmo,
for 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 Camilla, «for 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 him, and perhaps the wound being where it is it can be hidden from his
sight, and Heaven will be pleased to aid us in a purpose so good and honourable. Compose
yourself, senora, and endeavour to calm your excitement lest my lord find you agitated; and
leave the rest to my care and God's, who always supports good intentions.»
Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played out the tragedy of
the death of his honour, which 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 Lothario,
and 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
away, and taking advantage of it he made his escape, and at once went in quest of Lothario,
and it would be impossible to describe how he embraced him when he found him, and the
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things he said to him in the joy of his heart, and 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 was, and how dishonourably he had wronged him; and though
Anselmo could see that Lothario was not glad, still 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 accident, for, as they had agreed to hide it from
him, the wound was evidently trifling; and that being so, he had no cause for fear, but should
henceforward be of good cheer and rejoice with him, seeing that by his means and
adroitness he found himself raised to the greatest height of happiness that he could have
ventured to hope for, and desired no better pastime than making verses in praise of Camilla
that would preserve her name for all time to come. Lothario commended his purpose, and
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 himself, persuaded he was conducting the instrument of his glory, led home by
the hand him who had been the utter destruction of his good name; whom Camilla received
with averted countenance, though with smiles in her heart. The deception was carried on for
some time, until at the end of a few months Fortune turned her wheel and the guilt which
had been until then so skilfully concealed was published abroad, and Anselmo paid with his
life the penalty of his ill−advised curiosity.
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CHAPTER XXXV
W
HICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON
QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE
NOVEL OF «THE ILL−ADVISED CURIOSITY» TO A CLOSE
There remained but little more of the novel to be read, when Sancho Panza burst forth in
wild excitement from the garret where Don Quixote was lying, shouting, «Run, 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 curate, pausing as he was about to read
the remainder of the novel. «Are you in your senses, Sancho? How the devil can it be as you
say, when the giant is two thousand leagues away?»
Here they heard a loud noise in the chamber, and Don Quixote shouting out, «Stand,
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 Sancho, «but 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 this, «if 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 him, and there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume in the world. He
was in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover his thighs completely and was
six fingers shorter behind; his legs were very long and lean, covered with hair, and anything
but clean; on his head he had a little greasy red cap that belonged to the host, round his left
arm he had rolled the blanket of the bed, to which Sancho, for reasons best known to
himself, owed a grudge, and in his right hand he held his unsheathed sword, with which he
was slashing about on all sides, uttering exclamations as if he were actually fighting some
giant: and the best of it was his eyes were not open, for he was fast asleep, and dreaming that
he was doing battle with the giant. For his imagination was so wrought upon by the
adventure he was going to accomplish, that it made him dream he had already reached the
kingdom of Micomicon, and was engaged in combat with his enemy; and believing he was
laying on the giant, he had given so many sword cuts to the skins that the whole room was
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full of wine. On seeing this the landlord was so enraged that he fell on Don Quixote, and
with his clenched fist began to pummel him in such a way, that if Cardenio and the curate
had not dragged him off, he 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 body, on which Don Quixote woke up, but
not so completely as to understand what was the matter. Dorothea, seeing how short and
slight his attire was, would not go in to witness the battle between her champion and her
opponent. As for Sancho, he went searching all over the floor for the head of the giant, and
not finding it he said, «I 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 see, you thief, that 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 asleep, so 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 master, and 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 paying, even to the cost of the plugs that would have to be put to the
damaged wine−skins. The curate was holding Don Quixote's hands, who, fancying he had
now ended the adventure and was in the presence of the Princess Micomicona, knelt before
the curate and said, «Exalted 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 did, all except the landlord, who cursed himself; but at length the barber,
Cardenio, and the curate contrived with no small trouble to get Don Quixote on the bed, and
he fell asleep with every appearance of excessive weariness. They left him to sleep, and
came out to the gate of the inn to console Sancho Panza on not having found the head of the
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giant; but much more work had they to appease the landlord, who was furious at the sudden
death of his wine−skins; and said the landlady half scolding, half crying, «At 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 irritation, and her good
maid Maritornes backed her up, while 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
power, not only as regarded the wine−skins but also the wine, and above all the depreciation
of the tail which they set such store by. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling him that she
pledged herself, as soon as it should appear certain that his master had decapitated the giant,
and she found herself peacefully established in her kingdom, to 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 giant, and more by token it had a beard
that reached to the girdle, and that if it was not to be seen now it was because everything that
happened in that house went by enchantment, as he himself had proved the last time he had
lodged there. Dorothea said she fully believed it, and that he need not be uneasy, for all
would go well and turn out as he wished. All therefore being appeased, the curate was
anxious to go on with the novel, as he saw there was but little more left to read. Dorothea
and the others begged him to finish it, and he, as he was willing to please them, and enjoyed
reading it himself, continued the tale in these words:
The result was, that from the confidence Anselmo felt in Camilla's virtue, he lived
happy and free from anxiety, and Camilla purposely looked coldly on Lothario, that
Anselmo might suppose her feelings towards him to be the opposite of what they were; and
the better to support the position, Lothario begged to be excused from coming to the house,
as 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 thing, and so in a thousand
ways he became the author of his own dishonour, while 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 that, regardless of everything else, she followed her
inclinations unrestrainedly, feeling confident that her mistress would screen her, and even
show her how to manage it safely. At last one night Anselmo heard footsteps in Leonela's
room, and on trying to enter to see who it was, he found that the door was held against him,
which made him all the more determined to open it; and exerting his strength he forced it
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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
purpose, for Leonela flung her arms round him crying, «Be 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 it, but blind with rage drew a dagger and threatened to stab
Leonela, bidding her tell the truth or he would kill her. She, in her fear, not knowing what
she was saying, exclaimed, «Do 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 Leonela, «I 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 this, and was content to wait the time she asked of him, for
he never expected to hear anything against Camilla, so satisfied and sure of her virtue was
he; and so he quitted the room, and left Leonela locked in, telling 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
Camilla, and tell her, as he did, all that had passed between him and her handmaid, and 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 dismay, that, making sure, as she had good reason to do, that Leonela would tell
Anselmo all she knew of her faithlessness, she had not the courage to wait and see if her
suspicions were confirmed; and that same night, as soon as she thought that Anselmo was
asleep, she packed up the most valuable jewels she had and some money, and without being
observed by anybody escaped from the house and betook herself to Lothario's, to whom she
related what had occurred, imploring 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 reply, still 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 this, and with the speed which the circumstances
demanded, Lothario took her to the convent and left her there, and then himself quitted the
city without letting anyone know of his departure.
As soon as daylight came Anselmo, without missing Camilla from his side, rose cager
to learn what Leonela had to tell him, and hastened to the room where he had locked her in.
He opened the door, entered, but found no Leonela; all he found was some sheets knotted to
the window, a plain proof that she had let herself down from it and escaped. He returned,
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uneasy, to tell Camilla, but not finding her in bed or anywhere in the house he was lost in
amazement. He asked the servants of the house about her, but 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 open, and that the greater part of her jewels were gone; and
now he became fully aware of his disgrace, and that Leonela was not the cause of his
misfortune; and, just as he was, without delaying to dress himself completely, he repaired,
sad at heart and dejected, to 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 had, he felt as though he were losing his
senses; and to make all complete on returning to his own house he found it deserted and
empty, not one of all his servants, male or female, remaining in it. He knew not what to
think, or say, or do, and his reason seemed to be deserting him little by little. He reviewed
his position, and saw himself in a moment left without wife, friend, or servants, abandoned,
he felt, by the heaven above him, and more than all robbed of his honour, for in Camilla's
disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long reflection he resolved at last to go to his
friend's village, where 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 horse, and with a broken spirit set out on his journey; but he had hardly gone half−way
when, harassed by his reflections, he had to dismount and tie his horse to a tree, at the foot
of which he threw himself, giving vent to piteous heartrending sighs; and there he remained
till nearly nightfall, when he observed a man approaching on horseback from the city, of
whom, after saluting him, he asked what was the news in Florence.
The citizen replied, «The 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 Anselmo, «what road Lothario and Camilla took?»
«Not in the least,» said the citizen, «though 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.
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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 friend, who as yet knew
nothing of his misfortune, but seeing him come pale, worn, and haggard, perceived that he
was suffering some heavy affliction. Anselmo at once begged to be allowed to retire to rest,
and to be given writing materials. His wish was complied with and he was left lying down
and alone, for he desired this, and 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 write, but before he
had put down all he meant to say, his breath failed him and he yielded up his life, a 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 call, determined to go in and
ascertain if his indisposition was increasing, and found him lying on his face, his body partly
in the bed, partly on the writing−table, on which he lay with the written paper open and the
pen still in his hand. Having first called to him without receiving any answer, his host
approached him, and taking him by the hand, found that it was cold, and 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 paper, the handwriting of which he
recognised as his, and 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 written, and thus it was plain that at this point, before he could
finish what he had to say, his life came to an end. The next day his friend sent intelligence of
his death to his relatives, who had already ascertained his misfortune, as well as the convent
where Camilla lay almost on the point of accompanying her husband on that inevitable
journey, not on account of the tidings of his death, but because of those she received of her
lover's departure. Although she saw herself a widow, it is said she refused either to quit the
convent or take the veil, until, not long afterwards, intelligence 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 Naples, whither her too late
repentant lover had repaired. On learning this Camilla took the veil, and shortly afterwards
died, worn out by grief and melancholy. This was the end of all three, an 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 invented, the author's invention is faulty, for 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
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story is told, however, I have no fault to find.»
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CHAPTER XXXVI
W
HICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED
AT THE INN
Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the gate of the inn, exclaimed,
«Here comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop here we may say gaudeamus.»
«What are they?» said Cardenio.
«Four men,» said the landlord, «riding 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 landlord, «that here they come.»
Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio retreated into Don Quixote's
room, and they hardly had time to do so before the whole party the host had described
entered the inn, and the four that were on horseback, who were of highbred appearance and
bearing, dismounted, and came forward to take down the woman who rode on the
side−saddle, and 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 word, only 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 curate, curious to know who these
people in such a dress and preserving such silence were, went to where the servants were
standing and put the question to one of them, who 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 servant, «for 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
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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 road,
for not a sound is to be heard among them except the poor lady's sighs and sobs, which make
us pity her; and we feel sure that wherever it is she is going, it is against her will, and as far
as one can judge from her dress she is a nun or, what is more likely, about to become one;
and perhaps it is because taking the vows is not of her own free will, that she is so unhappy
as she seems to be.»
«That may well be,» said the curate, and leaving them he returned to where Dorothea
was, who, hearing the veiled lady sigh, moved by natural compassion drew near to her and
said, «What 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 silence, until the gentleman with the veil, who, the servant said, was
obeyed by the rest, approached and said to Dorothea, «Do 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 contrary, it 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 witness, for it is my unstained
truth that has made you false and a liar.»
Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being quite close to the speaker, for
there was only the door of Don Quixote's room between them, and the instant he did so,
uttering a loud exclamation he cried, «Good 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 back, preventing 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 beauty, but pale and terrified; for she kept turning her eyes, everywhere she
could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made her look as if she had lost her senses, and
so marked that it excited the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though they knew not
what caused it. The gentleman grasped her firmly by the shoulders, and being so fully
occupied with holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to his veil which was falling
off, as it did at length entirely, and Dorothea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising
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her eyes saw that he who likewise held her was her husband, Don Fernando. The instant she
recognised him, with a prolonged plaintive cry drawn from the depths of her heart, she fell
backwards fainting, and but for the barber being close by to catch her in his arms, she would
have fallen completely to the ground. The curate at once hastened to uncover her face and
throw water on it, and as he did so Don Fernando, for he it was who held the other in his
arms, recognised her and stood as if death−stricken by the sight; not, however, relaxing his
grasp of Luscinda, for it was she that was struggling to release herself from his hold, having
recognised Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognised her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea's
cry as she fell fainting, and imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror
from the room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his arms. Don
Fernando, too, knew Cardenio at once; and all three, Luscinda, Cardenio, and Dorothea,
stood in silent amazement scarcely knowing what had happened to them.
They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando, Don Fernando
at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. The first to break silence was
Luscinda, who thus addressed Don Fernando: «Leave me, Senor Don Fernando, for the sake
of what you owe to yourself; if no other reason will induce you, leave me to cling to the wall
of which I am the ivy, to the support from which neither your importunities, nor your
threats, nor your promises, nor your gifts have been able to detach me. See how Heaven, by
ways strange and hidden from our sight, has 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 declaration, then, lead you, as you can do nothing else, to
turn your love into rage, your affection into resentment, and 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 herself, and had heard Luscinda's words, by means of
which she divined who she was; but seeing that Don Fernando did not yet release her or
reply to her, summoning up her resolution as well as she could she rose and knelt at his feet,
and 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
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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 present, even those who came with Don Fernando, were constrained to join her
in them. Don Fernando listened to her without replying, until, ceasing to speak, she 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 beauty, and would have gone to her to
say some words of comfort to her, but was prevented by Don Fernando's grasp which held
her fast. He, overwhelmed with confusion and astonishment, after regarding Dorothea for
some moments with a fixed gaze, opened his arms, and, releasing Luscinda, exclaimed:
«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 her, but Cardenio, who stood near, having retreated behind Don Fernando to escape
recognition, casting fear aside and regardless of what might happen, ran forward to support
her, and said as he clasped her in his arms, «If 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
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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 Cardenio, at first beginning to recognise him by
his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes that it was he, and hardly knowing what she
did, and heedless of all considerations of decorum, she flung her arms around his neck and
pressing her face close to his, said, «Yes, 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 around, filled 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 Cardenio, for she observed him put his
hand to his sword; and the instant the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she clasped
him round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to prevent his moving, she
said, while her tears continued to flow, «What 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 speaking, Cardenio, though he held Luscinda in his arms,
never took his eyes off Don Fernando, determined, if he saw him make any hostile
movement, to try and defend himself and resist as best he could all who might assail him,
though it should cost him his life. But now Don Fernando's friends, as well as the curate and
the barber, who had been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy Sancho Panza, ran
forward and gathered round Don Fernando, entreating him to have regard for the tears of
Dorothea, and not suffer her reasonable hopes to be disappointed, since, as they firmly
believed, what she said was but the truth; and bidding him observe that it was not, as it
might seem, by accident, but 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 was, by conquering and putting a constraint upon himself, to show a
generous mind, and of his own accord suffer these two to enjoy the happiness Heaven had
granted them. He bade him, too, turn 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
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modesty and the surpassing love she bore him. But besides all this, he reminded him that if
he prided himself on being a gentleman and a Christian, he 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 people, who know and recognised it to be the privilege of beauty, even in one of
humble birth, provided virtue accompany it, to be able to raise itself to the level of any rank,
without any slur upon him who places it upon an equality with himself; and furthermore that
when the potent sway of passion asserts itself, so long as there be no mixture of sin in it, he
is not to be blamed who gives way to it.
To be brief, they added to these such other forcible arguments that Don Fernando's
manly heart, being after all nourished by noble blood, was touched, and yielded to the truth
which, even had he wished it, he could not gainsay; and he showed his submission, and
acceptance of the good advice that had been offered to him, by stooping down and
embracing Dorothea, saying to her, «Rise, 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 Cardenio, and
almost all the others, for they shed so many tears, some in their own happiness, some at that
of the others, that 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 Micomicona, of whom he expected such great
favours. Their wonder as well as their weeping lasted some time, and then Cardenio and
Luscinda went and fell on their knees before Don Fernando, returning him thanks for the
favour he had rendered them in language so grateful that he knew not how to answer them,
and 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 home, and she in a few fitting words told all that she had previously related to
Cardenio, with 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 wife,
and never could be his. He said he meant to kill her, and would have done so had he not
been prevented by her parents, and that he quitted the house full of rage and shame, and
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CHAPTER XXXVI 292
resolved to avenge himself when a more convenient opportunity should offer. The next day
he learned that Luscinda had disappeared from her father's house, and that no one could tell
whither she had gone. Finally, at the end of some months he ascertained that she was in a
convent and meant to remain there all the rest of her life, if she were not to share it with
Cardenio; and as soon as he had learned this, taking these three gentlemen as his
companions, he arrived at the place where she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing 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 gate, and he and
the other entered the convent in quest of Luscinda, whom they found in the cloisters in
conversation with one of the nuns, and carrying her off without giving her time to resist,
they 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 safety, as 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 consciousness, and after returning to herself did nothing but weep
and sigh without speaking a word; and thus in silence and tears they reached that inn, which
for him was reaching heaven where all the mischances of earth are over and at an end.
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CHAPTER XXXVII
I
N 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 Dorothea, and the giant into Don Fernando, while 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
mind, and 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 affair, and congratulated each upon his good fortune; but the one
that was in the highest spirits and good humour was the landlady, because 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. Sancho, as has been already said, was the only one who was
distressed, unhappy, and dejected; and so with a long face he went in to his master, who had
just awoke, and 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 Quixote, «for 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−stroke− swish!− 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 Sancho, «and 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
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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 enchantment, and it would be no wonder if it were the same now.»
«I could believe all that,» replied Sancho, «if 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 out, for I want to see these transformations and things thou speakest of.»
Sancho fetched him his clothes; and while he was dressing, the 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 mentioned, at which they marvelled and laughed not a little, thinking it, as all
did, the strangest form of madness a crazy intellect could be capable of. But now, the curate
said, that the lady Dorothea's good fortune prevented her from proceeding with their
purpose, it would be necessary to devise or discover some other way of getting him home.
Cardenio proposed to carry out the scheme they had begun, and suggested that Luscinda
would act and support Dorothea's part sufficiently well.
«No,» said Don Fernando, «that 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 Fernando, "I would gladly travel so far for the sake of
doing so good a work.
"At this moment Don Quixote came out in full panoply, with Mambrino's helmet, all
dinted as it was, on his head, his buckler on his arm, and 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 long, his armour of all sorts, and the
solemnity of his deportment. They stood silent waiting to see what he would say, and he,
fixing his eyes on the air Dorothea, addressed her with great gravity and composure:
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CHAPTER XXXVII 295
«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
Quixote, who continued, «I 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 more, and waited for the reply of the princess, who aware of Don
Fernando's determination to carry on the deception until Don Quixote had been conveyed to
his home, with great ease of manner and gravity made answer, «Whoever 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 Dorothea, and on hearing her Don Quixote turned to Sancho, and
said to him, with an angry air, «I 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)
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«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 Sancho, «for 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−day, so be it, and we will
pass the night in pleasant conversation, and 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 inn, and who seemed from his attire to be a Christian lately come from
the country of the Moors, for he was dressed in a short−skirted coat of blue cloth with
half−sleeves and without a collar; his breeches were also of blue cloth, and his cap of the
same colour, and he wore yellow buskins and had a Moorish cutlass slung from a baldric
across his breast. Behind him, mounted upon an ass, there came a woman dressed in
Moorish fashion, with her face veiled and a scarf on her head, and wearing a little brocaded
cap, and a mantle that covered her from her shoulders to her feet. The man was of a robust
and well−proportioned frame, in age a little over forty, rather swarthy in complexion, with
long moustaches and a full beard, and, in 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 room, and when they told him there was none in the inn he seemed distressed,
and approaching her who by her dress seemed to be a Moor he her down from saddle in his
arms. Luscinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her daughter and Maritornes, attracted by the
strange, and to them entirely new costume, gathered round her; and Dorothea, who was
always kindly, courteous, and quick−witted, perceiving that both she and the man who had
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brought her were annoyed at not finding a room, said to her, «Do 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 seat, crossing her
hands upon her bosom, bowing 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 up, having been until now otherwise engaged, and
seeing that they all stood round his companion and that she made no reply to what they
addressed to her, he said, «Ladies, 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 occupy, where she shall be made as
comfortable as the circumstances allow, with the good−will we are bound to show all
strangers that stand in need of it, especially if it be a woman to whom the service is
rendered.»
«On her part and my own, senora,» replied the captive, «I 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 Dorothea, «is 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 he, «she 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 him, to know who the Moorish lady
and the captive were, but no one liked to ask just then, seeing that it was a fitter moment for
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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 herself, requested 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 veil, and thereupon she
removed it and disclosed a countenance so lovely, that to Dorothea she seemed more
beautiful than Luscinda, and to Luscinda more beautiful than Dorothea, and all the
bystanders felt that if any beauty could compare with theirs it was the Moorish lady's, and
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−will, all forthwith became
eager to show kindness and attention to the lovely Moor.
Don Fernando asked the captive what her name was, and he replied that it was Lela
Zoraida; but the instant she heard him, she guessed what the Christian had asked, and said
hastily, with some displeasure and energy, «No, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria!» giving them to
understand that she was called «Maria» and not «Zoraida.» These words, and the touching
earnestness with which she uttered them, drew more than one tear from some of the
listeners, particularly the women, who are by nature tender−hearted and compassionate.
Luscinda embraced her affectionately, saying, «Yes, yes, Maria, Maria,» to which the Moor
replied, «Yes, yes, Maria; Zoraida macange,» which means «not Zoraida.»
Night was now approaching, and 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 one, for round or square table there was none in the inn, and the seat of honour at
the head of it, though he was for refusing it, they assigned to Don Quixote, who desired the
lady Micomicona to place herself by his side, as he was her protector. Luscinda and Zoraida
took their places next her, opposite to them were Don Fernando and Cardenio, and next the
captive and the other gentlemen, and by the side of the ladies, the curate and the barber. And
so they supped in high enjoyment, which was increased when they observed Don Quixote
leave off eating, and, moved by an impulse like that which made him deliver himself at such
length when he supped with the goatherds, begin 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
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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 language, that
for the time being he made it impossible for any of his hearers to consider him a madman;
on the contrary, as they were mostly gentlemen, to whom arms are an appurtenance by birth,
they listened to him with great pleasure as he continued: «Here, then, I say is what the
student has to undergo; first of all poverty: not that all are poor, but to put the case as
strongly as possible: and when I have said that he endures poverty, I think nothing more
need be said about his hard fortune, for he who is poor has no share of the good things of
life. This poverty he suffers from in various ways, hunger, or cold, or nakedness, or all
together; but for all that it is not so extreme but that he gets something to eat, though 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 them, which, if it does not warm, at least tempers the cold
to them, and lastly, they sleep comfortably at night under a roof. I will not go into other
particulars, as for example want of shirts, and no superabundance of shoes, thin and
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threadbare garments, and 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 described, rough and hard,
stumbling here, falling there, getting up again to fall again, they reach the rank they desire,
and that once attained, we have seen many who have passed these Syrtes and Scyllas and
Charybdises, as if borne flying on the wings of favouring fortune; we have seen them, I say,
ruling and governing the world from a chair, their hunger turned into satiety, their cold into
comfort, their nakedness into fine raiment, their sleep on a mat into repose in holland and
damask, the justly earned reward of their virtue; but, contrasted and compared with what the
warrior undergoes, all they have undergone falls far short of it, as I am now about to show.»
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
W
HICH 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 accompaniments, let us see now if the soldier is richer, and we shall find that
in poverty itself there is no one poorer; for he is dependent on his miserable pay, which
comes late or never, or else on what he can plunder, seriously imperilling his life and
conscience; and sometimes his nakedness will be so great that a slashed doublet serves him
for uniform and shirt, and 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 mouth,
which I need not say, coming from an empty place, must come out cold, contrary 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 him, which, unless by some fault of his, never sins by
being over narrow, for he can easily measure out on the ground as he likes, and roll himself
about in it to his heart's content without any fear of the sheets slipping away from him. Then,
after all this, suppose the day and hour for taking his degree in his calling to have come;
suppose the day of battle to have arrived, when they invest him with the doctor's cap made
of lint, to mend some bullet−hole, perhaps, that has gone through his temples, or left him
with a crippled arm or leg. Or if this does not happen, and merciful Heaven watches over
him and keeps him safe and sound, it may be he will be in the same poverty he was in
before, and he must go through more engagements and more battles, and come victorious
out of all before he betters himself; but miracles of that sort are seldom seen. For tell me,
sirs, if you have ever reflected upon it, by 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 comparison, that the dead cannot be numbered, while 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 skirts, to say nothing of sleeves, they all find means of support; so that
though the soldier has more to endure, his reward is much less. But against all this it may be
urged that it is easier to reward two thousand soldiers, for the former may be remunerated by
giving them places, which must perforce be conferred upon men of their calling, while 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
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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.»
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All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others supped, forgetting to
raise a morsel to his lips, though Sancho more than once told him to eat his supper, as 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 sense, and with rational views on every
subject he discussed, so hopelessly wanting in all, when 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 himself, though a man of letters and a graduate, was of the same opinion.
They finished their supper, the cloth was removed, and while the hostess, her daughter,
and Maritornes were getting Don Quixote of La Mancha's garret ready, in which it was
arranged that the women were to be quartered by themselves for the night, Don Fernando
begged the captive to tell them the story of his life, for it could not fail to be strange and
interesting, to 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 request, only he feared his
tale would not give them as much pleasure as he wished; nevertheless, not to be wanting in
compliance, he would tell it. The curate and the others thanked him and added their
entreaties, and he finding himself so pressed said there was no occasion ask, where a
command had such weight, and added, «If 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 silence, and he seeing them waiting on his words in mute expectation, began
thus in a pleasant quiet voice.
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CHAPTER XXXIX
W
HEREIN 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
youth, for 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 misers, they are monsters
of rare occurrence. My father went beyond liberality and bordered on prodigality, a
disposition by no means advantageous to a married man who has children to succeed to his
name and position. My father had three, all sons, and all of sufficient age to make choice of
a profession. Finding, then, that he was unable to resist his propensity, he resolved to divest
himself of the instrument and cause of his prodigality and lavishness, to divest himself of
wealth, without 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
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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 answer, I, after urging him not to strip himself of
his property but to spend it all as he pleased, for we were young men able to gain our living,
consented to comply with his wishes, and said that mine were to follow the profession of
arms and thereby serve God and my king. My second brother having made the same
proposal, decided upon going to the Indies, embarking the portion that fell to him in trade.
The youngest, and in my opinion the wisest, said he would rather follow the church, or go to
complete his studies at Salamanca. As soon as we had come to an understanding, and made
choice of our professions, my father embraced us all, and in the short time he mentioned
carried into effect all he had promised; and when he had given to each his share, which as
well as I remember was three thousand ducats apiece in cash (for an uncle of ours bought the
estate and paid for it down, not 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 time, as it seemed to me inhuman to leave my
father with such scanty means in his old age, I induced him to take two of my three thousand
ducats, as the remainder would be enough to provide me with all a soldier needed. My two
brothers, moved by my example, gave him each a thousand ducats, so that there was left for
my father four thousand ducats in money, besides three thousand, the value of the portion
that fell to him which he preferred to retain in land instead of selling it. Finally, as I said, we
took leave of him, and of our uncle whom I have mentioned, not without sorrow and tears on
both sides, they charging us to let them know whenever an opportunity offered how we
fared, whether well or ill. We promised to do so, and when he had embraced us and given us
his blessing, one set out for Salamanca, the other for Seville, and I for Alicante, where 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 time, though
I have written several letters, I 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 Alicante, reached
Genoa after a prosperous voyage, and 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 Piedmont, but as I was already on the road to Alessandria della Paglia, I learned
that the great Duke of Alva was on his way to Flanders. I changed my plans, joined him,
served under him in the campaigns he made, was present at the deaths of the Counts Egmont
and Horn, and was promoted to be ensign under a famous captain of Guadalajara, Diego de
Urbina by name. Some time after my arrival in Flanders news came of the league that his
Holiness Pope Pius V of happy memory, had made with Venice and Spain against the
common enemy, the Turk, who had just then with his fleet taken the famous island of
Cyprus, which belonged to the Venetians, a loss deplorable and disastrous. It was known as
a fact that the Most Serene Don John of Austria, natural brother of our good king Don
Philip, was coming as commander−in−chief of the allied forces, and rumours were abroad of
the vast warlike preparations which were being made, all which stirred my heart and filled
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me with a longing to take part in the campaign which was expected; and though I had reason
to believe, and almost certain promises, that on the first opportunity that presented itself I
should be promoted to be captain, I preferred to leave all and betake myself, as I did, to
Italy; and it was my good fortune that Don John had just arrived at Genoa, and was going on
to Naples to join the Venetian fleet, as he afterwards did at Messina. I may say, in short, that
I took part in that glorious expedition, promoted by this time to be a captain of infantry, to
which honourable charge my good luck rather than my merits raised me; and that day− so
fortunate for Christendom, because 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 day, I say,
on which the Ottoman pride and arrogance were broken, among 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; for, instead of some naval crown that I might have
expected had it been in Roman times, on 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 Uchali, the king of Algiers, a daring and successful corsair,
having attacked and taken the leading Maltese galley (only three knights being left alive in
it, and they badly wounded), the chief galley of John Andrea, on board of which I and my
company were placed, came to its relief, and doing as was bound to do in such a case, I
leaped on board the enemy's galley, which, sheering off from that which had attacked it,
prevented my men from following me, and so I found myself alone in the midst of my
enemies, who were in such numbers that I was unable to resist; in short I was taken, covered
with wounds; El Uchali, as you know, sirs, made his escape with his entire squadron, and I
was left a prisoner in his power, the only sad being among so many filled with joy, and the
only captive among so many free; for there were fifteen thousand Christians, all at the oar in
the Turkish fleet, that regained their longed−for liberty that day.
They carried me to Constantinople, where the Grand Turk, Selim, made 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 year, which was the year
seventy−two, I 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 harbour, and had their kits and pasamaques,
or shoes, ready to flee at once on shore without waiting to be assailed, in so great fear did
they stand of our fleet. But Heaven ordered it otherwise, not for any fault or neglect of the
general who commanded on our side, but for the sins of Christendom, and because it was
God's will and pleasure that we should always have instruments of punishment to chastise
us. As it was, El Uchali took refuge at Modon, which is an island near Navarino, and landing
forces fortified the mouth of the harbour and waited quietly until Don John retired. On this
expedition was taken the galley called the Prize, whose 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 war, that father of his men, that successful and
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unconquered captain Don Alvaro de Bazan, Marquis of Santa Cruz; and I cannot help telling
you what took place at the capture of the Prize.
The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his slaves so badly, that, when those
who were at the oars saw that the She−wolf galley was bearing down upon them and gaining
upon them, they 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 bench, from the poop to the prow, they so bit him that before he had got much past
the mast his soul had already got to hell; so great, as I said, was the cruelty with which he
treated them, and the hatred with which they hated him.
We returned to Constantinople, and the following year, seventy−three, it became known
that Don John had seized Tunis and taken the kingdom from the Turks, and placed Muley
Hamet in possession, putting an end to the hopes which Muley Hamida, the cruelest and
bravest Moor in the world, entertained of returning to reign there. The Grand Turk took the
loss greatly to heart, and with the cunning which all his race possess, he made peace with the
Venetians (who were much more eager for it than he was), and the following year,
seventy−four, he attacked the Goletta and the fort which Don John had left half built near
Tunis. While all these events were occurring, I was labouring at the oar without any hope of
freedom; at least I had no hope of obtaining it by ransom, for I was firmly resolved not to
write to my father telling him of my misfortunes. At length the Goletta fell, and the fort fell,
before which places there were seventy−five thousand regular Turkish soldiers, and more
than four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs from all parts of Africa, and in the train of all
this great host such munitions and engines of war, and 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 Goletta, until then reckoned impregnable, and it fell, not by any fault of its
defenders, who did all that they could and should have done, but because experiment proved
how easily entrenchments could be made in the desert sand there; for water used to be found
at two palms depth, while 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 fort,
sweeping them as if from a cavalier, so 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
Goletta, but 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 soldiers, how could such a small number, however
resolute, sally 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 relieved, above all when surrounded by a
host of determined enemies in their own country? But many thought, and I thought so too,
that it was special favour and mercy which Heaven showed to Spain in permitting the
destruction of that source and hiding place of mischief, that devourer, sponge, and moth of
countless money, fruitlessly wasted there to no other purpose save preserving the memory of
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its capture by the invincible Charles V; as if to make that eternal, as it is and will be, these
stones were needed to support it. The fort also fell; but the Turks had to win it inch by inch,
for 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 unwounded, a clear and manifest proof of their gallantry
and resolution, and 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
Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and a famous soldier, capitulated upon terms. They took
prisoner Don Pedro Puertocarrero, commandant of the Goletta, who had done all in his
power to defend his fortress, and took the loss of it so much to heart that he died of grief on
the way to Constantinople, where they were carrying him a prisoner. They also took the
commandant of the fort, Gabrio Cerbellon by name, a Milanese gentleman, a great engineer
and a very brave soldier. In these two fortresses perished many persons of note, among
whom was Pagano Doria, knight of the Order of St. John, a man of generous disposition, as
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 whom, seeing that the
fort was now lost, he entrusted himself, and who offered to conduct him in the disguise of a
Moor to Tabarca, a 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 proverb, that «though the treason may
please, the 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 Aguilar,
a native of some place, I know not what, in Andalusia, who had been ensign in the fort, a
soldier of great repute and rare intelligence, who 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 bench, and made
him a slave to the same master; and before we left the port this gentleman composed two
sonnets by way of epitaphs, one on the Goletta and the other on the fort; indeed, I may as
well repeat them, for I have them by heart, and I think they will be liked rather than disliked.
The instant the captive mentioned the name of Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don 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 captive, «that 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.»
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«Well then, you are right,» returned the gentleman, «for 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 gentleman, «I know the sonnets my brother made.»
«Then let your worship repeat them,» said the captive, «for you will recite them better
than I can.»
«With all my heart,» said the gentleman; «that on the Goletta runs thus.»
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CHAPTER XXXIX 310
CHAPTER XL
I
N 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 gentleman, "if my memory serves me, goes thus:
SONNET
«Up from this wasted soil, this 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 sent, I ween, From its hard bosom purer souls than these,
Or braver bodies on its surface bore.»
The sonnets were not disliked, and the captive was rejoiced at the tidings they gave him
of his comrade, and continuing his tale, he went on to say:
The Goletta and the fort being thus in their hands, the 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 say, the old walls,
while 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
Constantinople, and a few months later died my master, El Uchali, otherwise Uchali Fartax,
which 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
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there are among them only four surnames belonging to families tracing their descent from
the Ottoman house, and the others, as I have said, take 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 years, and when over thirty−four years of age, in resentment at
having been struck by a Turk while at the oar, turned 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 power, he came to be king of Algiers, and afterwards general−on−sea, which is the third
place of trust in the realm. He was a Calabrian by birth, and a worthy man morally, and he
treated his slaves with great humanity. He had three thousand of them, and after his death
they were divided, as he directed by his will, between 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 who, when a cabin boy on board a ship, had 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 Aga, and he grew very rich and
became king of Algiers. With him I went there from Constantinople, rather glad to be so
near Spain, not that I intended to write to anyone about my unhappy lot, but to try if fortune
would be kinder to me in Algiers than in Constantinople, where 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 me, however 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 captives, as well those that are the king's as those
belonging to private individuals, and also what they call those of the Almacen, which is as
much as to say the slaves of the municipality, who serve the city in the public works and
other employments; but captives of this kind recover their liberty with great difficulty, for,
as they are public property and have no particular master, there is no one with whom to treat
for their ransom, even though they may have the means. To these banos, as I have said,
some private individuals of the town are in the habit of bringing their captives, especially
when they are to be ransomed; because there they can keep them in safety and comfort until
their ransom arrives. The king's captives also, that are on ransom, do not go out to work with
the rest of the crew, unless when their ransom is delayed; for then, to make them write for it
more pressingly, they compel them to work and go for wood, which is no light labour.
I, however, was one of those on ransom, for when it was discovered that I was a captain,
although I declared my scanty means and want of fortune, nothing 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 safe, and 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
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times, or rather almost always, we suffered from hunger and scanty clothing, nothing
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 man, impaled one,
cut off the ears of another; and all with so little provocation, or so entirely without any, that
the Turks acknowledged he did it merely for the sake of doing it, and 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 soldier, something de Saavedra by name, to whom he never
gave a blow himself, or ordered a blow to be given, or addressed a hard word, although he
had done things that will dwell in the memory of the people there for many a year, and all to
recover his liberty; and for the least of the many things he did we all dreaded that he would
be impaled, and he himself was in fear of it more than once; and only that time does not
allow, I could tell you now something of what that soldier did, that 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 these, as is usual in Moorish
houses, were rather loopholes than windows, and besides were covered with thick and close
lattice−work. It so happened, then, that as I was one day on the terrace of our prison with
three other comrades, trying, to pass away the time, how far we could leap with our chains,
we being alone, for all the other Christians had gone out to work, I chanced to raise my eyes,
and from one of these little closed windows I saw a reed appear with a cloth attached to the
end of it, and it kept waving to and fro, and moving as if making signs to us to come and
take it. We watched it, and one of those who were with me went and stood under the reed to
see whether they would let it drop, or what they would do, but as he did so the reed was
raised and moved from side to side, as if they meant to say «no» by a shake of the head. The
Christian came back, and it was again lowered, making the same movements as before.
Another of my comrades went, and with him the same happened as with the first, and 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 luck, and as soon as I came under the reed it was dropped and fell inside
the bano at my feet. I hastened to untie the cloth, in which I perceived a knot, and in this
were ten cianis, which are coins of base gold, current among the Moors, and each worth ten
reals of our money.
It is needless to say I rejoiced over this godsend, and my joy was not less than my
wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fortune could have come to us, but 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 money, broke the reed, and returned to
the terrace, and looking up at the window, I 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 kindness, and to show that we were grateful for it, we made
salaams after the fashion of the Moors, bowing the head, bending the body, and 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
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was a captive in the house, and 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 idea, though we thought
it might be one of the Christian renegades whom their masters very often take as lawful
wives, and gladly, for 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 us, as if it were our
pole−star; but at least fifteen days passed without our seeing either it or the hand, or any
other sign and though meanwhile we endeavoured with the utmost pains to ascertain who it
was that lived in the house, and whether there were any Christian renegade in it, nobody
could ever tell us anything more than that he who lived there was a rich Moor of high
position, Hadji Morato by name, formerly alcaide of La Pata, an office of high dignity
among them. But when we least thought it was going to rain any more cianis from that
quarter, we saw the reed suddenly appear with another cloth tied in a larger knot attached to
it, and this at a time when, as on the former occasion, the bano was deserted and unoccupied.
We made trial as before, each of the same three going forward before I did; but the reed
was delivered to none but me, and on my approach it was let drop. I untied the knot and I
found forty Spanish gold crowns with a paper written in Arabic, and at the end of the writing
there was a large cross drawn. I kissed the cross, took the crowns and returned to the terrace,
and we all made our salaams; again the hand appeared, I made signs that I would read the
paper, and then the window was closed. We were all puzzled, though filled with joy at what
had taken place; and as none of us understood Arabic, great was our curiosity to know what
the paper contained, and still greater the difficulty of finding some one to read it. At last I
resolved to confide in a renegade, a native of Murcia, who professed a very great friendship
for me, and had given pledges that bound him to keep any secret I might entrust to him; for
it is the custom with some renegades, when they intend to return to Christian territory, to
carry about them certificates from captives of mark testifying, in whatever form they can,
that such and such a renegade is a worthy man who has always shown kindness to
Christians, and is anxious to escape on the first opportunity that may present itself. Some
obtain these testimonials with good intentions, others put them to a cunning use; for when
they go to pillage on Christian territory, if they chance to be cast away, or taken prisoners,
they produce their certificates and say that from these papers may be seen the object they
came for, which was to remain on Christian ground, and 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 harm, and then when they have
the chance they return to Barbary to become what they were before. Others, however, there
are who procure these papers and make use of them honestly, and remain on Christian soil.
This friend of mine, then, was one of these renegades that I have described; he had
certificates from all our comrades, in 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 well, and could not only speak but also write it;
but before I disclosed the whole matter to him, I asked him to read for me this paper which I
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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 it, and he told me
he did perfectly well, and that if I wished him to tell me its meaning word for word, I must
give him pen and ink that he might do it more satisfactorily. We at once gave him what he
required, and he set about translating it bit by bit, and 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.»
Judge, sirs, whether we had reason for surprise and joy at the words of this paper; and
both one and the other were so great, that the renegade perceived that the paper had not been
found by chance, but had been in reality addressed to some one of us, and he begged us, if
what he suspected were the truth, to 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 crucifix, and with many tears
swore by the God the image represented, in whom, sinful and wicked as he was, he truly and
faithfully believed, to 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 paper, he and all of
us would obtain our liberty, and he himself obtain the object he so much desired, his
restoration to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church, from 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 repentance, that with one consent we all agreed to tell him the whole truth
of the matter, and so we gave him a full account of all, without hiding anything from him.
We pointed out to him the window at which the reed appeared, and he by that means took
note of the house, and resolved to ascertain with particular care who lived in it. We agreed
also that it would be advisable to answer the Moorish lady's letter, and the renegade without
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a moment's delay took down the words I dictated to him, which were exactly what I shall tell
you, for nothing of importance that took place in this affair has escaped my memory, or ever
will while life lasts. This, then, was 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
before, and immediately repaired to the usual walk on the terrace to see if there were any
sign of the reed, which was not long in making its appearance. As soon as I saw it, although
I could not distinguish who put it out, I showed the paper as a sign to attach the thread, but it
was already fixed to the reed, and to it I tied the paper; and shortly afterwards our star once
more made its appearance with the white flag of peace, the little bundle. It was dropped, and
I picked it up, and found in the cloth, in gold and silver coins of all sorts, more than fifty
crowns, which 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 house, that his name was Hadji Morato, that he was enormously
rich, that he had one only daughter the heiress of all his wealth, and that it was the general
opinion throughout the city that she was the most beautiful woman in Barbary, and that
several of the viceroys who came there had sought her for a wife, but that she had been
always unwilling to marry; and he had learned, moreover, that 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 uneasy, for he would lose his life or restore us to liberty. For four days the
bano was filled with people, for which reason the reed delayed its appearance for four days,
but at the end of that time, when the bano was, as it generally was, empty, it appeared with
the cloth so bulky that it promised a happy birth. Reed and cloth came down to me, and I
found another paper and a hundred crowns in gold, without any other coin. The renegade
was present, and in our cell we gave him the paper to read, which was to this effect:
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«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 paper, and on hearing them, each
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 objected,
saying that he would not on any account consent to one being set free before all went
together, as 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 plan,
paying 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 him, but 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 said, he told us briefly what had
happened to a certain Christian gentleman almost at that very time, the strangest case that
had ever occurred even there, where astonishing and marvellous things are happening every
instant. In short, he 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 him, so 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 vessel, it 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 gave,
as she said, money enough to ransom all, because 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 craft, unless it be a large vessel for going on
roving expeditions, because they are afraid that anyone who buys a small vessel, especially
if he be a Spaniard, only 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 vessel, and in the profit on the cargo; and under cover of this he could
become master of the vessel, in 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 vessel,
as the Moorish lady suggested, we did not dare to oppose him, fearing 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 Zoraida, for 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
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same time an answer was given to Zoraida, telling her that we would do all she
recommended, for she had given as good advice as if Lela Marien had delivered it, and 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 Juma, that is to say Friday, she was going
to her father's garden, but that before she went she would give us more money; and if it were
not enough we were to let her know, as she would give us as much as we asked, for her
father had so much he would not miss it, and besides she kept all the keys.
We at once gave the renegade five hundred crowns to buy the vessel, and with eight
hundred I ransomed myself, giving the money to a Valencian merchant who happened to be
in Algiers at the time, and who had me released on his word, pledging 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
Algiers, and 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 departure, begging me, if I were
ransomed, to find out her father's garden at once, and by all means to seek an opportunity of
going there to see her. I answered in a few words that I would do so, and that she must
remember to commend us to Lela Marien with all the prayers the captive had taught her.
This having been done, steps were taken to ransom our three comrades, so as to enable them
to quit the bano, and lest, seeing me ransomed and themselves not, though the money was
forthcoming, they 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 apprehension, nevertheless I was unwilling to run any risk in the
matter; and so I had them ransomed in the same way as I was, handing over all the money to
the merchant so that he might with safety and confidence give security; without, however,
confiding our arrangement and secret to him, which might have been dangerous.
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CHAPTER XLI
I
N 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
it, he thought it well to make, as he did, a voyage to a place called Shershel, twenty leagues
from Algiers on the Oran side, where 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 Barbary, and those of Granada Mudejars; but in the Kingdom
of Fez they call the Mudejars Elches, and 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 renegade,
together with the two Moorish lads that rowed, used purposely to station himself, either
going through his prayers, or else practising as a part what he meant to perform in earnest.
And thus he would go to Zoraida's garden and ask for fruit, which her father gave him, not
knowing him; but though, as he afterwards told me, he sought to speak to Zoraida, and tell
her who he was, and that by my orders he was to take her to the land of the Christians, so
that she might feel satisfied and easy, he had never been able to do so; for the Moorish
women do not allow themselves to be seen by any Moor or Turk, unless their husband or
father bid them: with Christian captives they permit freedom of intercourse and
communication, even more than might be considered proper. But for my part I should have
been sorry if he had spoken to her, for perhaps it might have alarmed her to find her affairs
talked of by renegades. But God, who ordered it otherwise, afforded no opportunity for our
renegade's well−meant purpose; and he, seeing how safely he could go to Shershel and
return, and anchor when and how and where he liked, and that the Tagarin his partner had no
will but his, and that, now I was ransomed, all we wanted was to find some Christians to
row, told me to look out for any I should he willing to take with me, over and above those
who had been ransomed, and to engage them for the next Friday, which he fixed upon for
our departure. On this I spoke to twelve Spaniards, all stout rowers, and such as could most
easily leave the city; but it was no easy matter to find so many just then, because 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 garden, waiting 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 settled, another still more necessary step had to be taken,
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which was to let Zoraida know how matters stood that she might be prepared and
forewarned, so 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 determined, therefore, 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 father, who addressed me in
the language that all over Barbary and even in Constantinople is the medium between
captives and Moors, and is neither Morisco nor Castilian, nor of any other nation, but a
mixture of all languages, by means of which we can all understand one another. In this sort
of language, I say, he asked me what I wanted in his garden, and 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 not, and what my master demanded for me. While these
questions and answers were proceeding, the fair Zoraida, who had already perceived me
some time before, came out of the house in the garden, and as Moorish women are by no
means particular about letting themselves be seen by Christians, or, as I have said before, at
all coy, she had no hesitation in coming to where her father stood with me; moreover her
father, seeing her approaching slowly, called to her to come. It would be beyond my power
now to describe to you the great beauty, the high−bred air, the 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 ears, and her hair than she had hairs on her head. On her
ankles, which as is customary were bare, she had carcajes (for so bracelets or anklets are
called in Morisco) of the purest gold, set with so many diamonds that she told me afterwards
her father valued them at ten thousand doubloons, and those she had on her wrists were
worth as much more. The pearls were in profusion and very fine, for 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
Algiers, and of possessing also more than two hundred thousand Spanish crowns; and she,
who is now mistress of me only, was mistress of all this. Whether thus adorned she would
have been beautiful or not, and what she must have been in her prosperity, may be imagined
from the beauty remaining to her after so many hardships; for, as everyone knows, the
beauty of some women has its times and its seasons, and is increased or diminished by
chance causes; and naturally the emotions of the mind will heighten or impair it, though
indeed more frequently they totally destroy it. In a word she presented herself before me that
day attired with the utmost splendour, and supremely beautiful; at any rate, she seemed to
me the most beautiful object I had ever seen; and when, besides, 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 Mami, and that I had come for salad.
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CHAPTER XLI 320
She took up the conversation, and in that mixture of tongues I have spoken of she asked
me if I was a gentleman, and why I was not ransomed.
I answered that I was already ransomed, and that by the price it might be seen what
value my master set on me, as I had given one thousand five hundred zoltanis for me; to
which she replied, «Hadst 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 master, as I do and
mean to do with everybody in the world.»
«And when dost thou go?» said Zoraida.
«To−morrow, I think,» said I, «for 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 Zoraida, «to 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 might, perhaps, wait for it; however, it is more likely I shall depart
to−morrow, for 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 opportunity, however more convenient, if it be
delayed.»
«No doubt thou art married in thine own country,» said Zoraida, «and for that reason
thou art anxious to go and see thy wife.»
«I am not married,» I replied, «but 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 I, «that, to describe her worthily and tell thee the truth, she is very
like thee.»
At this her father laughed very heartily and said, «By 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
phrases, for though she spoke the bastard language, that, as I have said, is employed there,
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CHAPTER XLI 321
she expressed her meaning more by signs than by words.
While we were still engaged in this conversation, a Moor came running up, exclaiming
that four Turks had leaped over the fence or wall of the garden, and were gathering the fruit
though it was not yet ripe. The old man was alarmed and Zoraida too, for the Moors
commonly, and, so to speak, instinctively have a dread of the Turks, but particularly of the
soldiers, who 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 Zoraida, «Daughter,
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 bowed, and he went away to look for the Turks, leaving me alone with Zoraida, who
made as if she were about to retire as her father bade her; but the moment he was concealed
by the trees of the garden, turning to me with her eyes full of tears she said, Tameji,
cristiano, tameji?« that is to say, »Art thou going, Christian, art thou going?"
I made answer, «Yes, 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 us, and
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 described, with her
arm round my neck, her father, as he returned after having sent away the Turks, saw how we
were walking and we perceived that he saw us; but Zoraida, ready and quickwitted, took
care not to remove her arm from my neck, but on the contrary drew closer to me and laid her
head on my breast, bending her knees a little and showing all the signs and tokens of ainting,
while 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 were, and seeing his daughter in this state asked what
was the matter with her; she, however, giving no answer, he said, «No doubt she has fainted
in alarm at the entrance of those dogs,» and taking her from mine he drew her to his own
breast, while she sighing, her eyes still wet with tears, said again, «Ameji, cristiano, ameji»−
«Go, Christian, go.» To this her father replied, «There 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 go, I have no wish to displease her: peace be with thee, and with thy leave I
will come back to this garden for herbs if need be, for my master says there are nowhere
better herbs for salad then here.»
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«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 go, not thou; or that it was time for thee to look for thy herbs.»
With this I at once took my leave of both; and she, looking as though her heart were
breaking, retired with her father. While pretending to look for herbs I made the round of the
garden at my ease, and studied carefully all the approaches and outlets, and 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
comrades, and looked forward with impatience to the hour when, all fear at an end, I should
find myself in possession of the prize which fortune held out to me in the fair and lovely
Zoraida. The time passed at length, and the appointed day we so longed for arrived; and, all
following out the arrangement and plan which, after careful consideration and many a long
discussion, we had decided upon, we succeeded as fully as we could have wished; for on the
Friday following the day upon which I spoke to Zoraida in the garden, the 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 about, all waiting for me,
anxious and elated, and eager to attack the vessel they had before their eyes; for they did not
know the renegade's plan, but expected that they were to gain their liberty by force of arms
and by killing the Moors who were on board the vessel. As soon, then, as I and my comrades
made our appearance, all those that were in hiding seeing us came and joined us. It was now
the time when the city gates are shut, and 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 Zoraida, or 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 time,
and all the Moors were off their guard and most of them asleep. We told him why we
hesitated, but he said it was of more importance first to secure the vessel, which could be
done with the greatest ease and without any danger, and then we could go for Zoraida. We
all approved of what he said, and so without further delay, guided by him we made for the
vessel, and he leaping on board first, drew his cutlass and said in Morisco, «Let no one stir
from this if he does not want it to cost him his life.» By this almost all the Christians were
on board, and the Moors, who were fainthearted, hearing their captain speak in this way,
were cowed, and 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 Christians, who
quickly secured them, threatening them that if they raised any kind of outcry they would be
all put to the sword. This having been accomplished, and half of our party being left to keep
guard over them, the rest of us, again taking the renegade as our guide, hastened towards
Hadji Morato's garden, and as good luck would have it, on trying the gate it opened as easily
as if it had not been locked; and so, quite quietly and in silence, we reached the house
without being perceived by anybody. The lovely Zoraida was watching for us at a window,
and as soon as she perceived that there were people there, she 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,
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CHAPTER XLI 323
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 she, «my 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 in, telling us she would return
immediately and bidding us keep quiet making any noise.
I asked the renegade what had passed between them, and when he told me, I declared
that nothing should be done except in accordance with the wishes of Zoraida, who 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 on, and hearing a noise in the garden,
came to the window, and at once perceiving that all those who were there were Christians,
raising a prodigiously loud outcry, he began to call out in Arabic, «Christians, 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 was, and with him went some of our party; I, however, did not dare to
leave Zoraida, who had fallen almost fainting in my arms. To be brief, those who had gone
upstairs acted so promptly that in an instant they came down, carrying Hadji Morato with his
hands bound and a napkin tied over his mouth, which prevented him from uttering a word,
warning 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 him, and her father was
horror−stricken, not knowing how willingly she had placed herself in our hands. But it was
now most essential for us to be on the move, and carefully and quickly we regained the
vessel, where 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 vessel, where the cords were removed from the hands of Zoraida's father, and
the napkin from his mouth; but the renegade once more told him not to utter a word, or they
would take his life. He, when he saw his daughter there, began to sigh piteously, and still
more when he perceived that I held her closely embraced and that she lay quiet without
resisting or complaining, or showing any reluctance; nevertheless he remained silent lest
they should carry into effect the repeated threats the renegade had addressed to him.
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CHAPTER XLI 324
Finding herself now on board, and that we were about to give way with the oars,
Zoraida, seeing her father there, and the other Moors bound, bade the renegade ask me to do
her the favour of releasing the Moors and setting her father at liberty, for 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 me, and 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 city, and lead to the despatch
of swift cruisers in pursuit, and our being taken, by sea or land, without 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 Zoraida, to whom it was explained, together with
the reasons that prevented us from doing at once what she desired, was satisfied likewise;
and then in glad silence and with cheerful alacrity each of our stout rowers took his oar, and
commending ourselves to God with all our hearts, we began to shape our course for the
island of Majorca, the nearest Christian land. Owing, however, to the Tramontana rising a
little, and the sea growing somewhat rough, it was impossible for us to keep a straight
course for Majorca, and we were compelled to coast in the direction of Oran, not without
great uneasiness on our part lest we should be observed from the town of Shershel, which
lies on that coast, not 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 that, if we were to meet a
merchant galliot, so that it were not a cruiser, not only should we not be lost, but 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 father, and 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 land, which seemed to us deserted, and without anyone to see us. For
all that, however, by hard rowing we put out a little to sea, for it was now somewhat calmer,
and having gained about two leagues the word was given to row by batches, while we ate
something, for 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 rowing, but they would not leave their oars
on any account. This was done, but now a stiff breeze began to blow, which obliged us to
leave off rowing and make sail at once and steer for Oran, as it was impossible to make any
other course. All this was done very promptly, and under sail we ran more than eight miles
an hour without any fear, except that of coming across some vessel out on a roving
expedition. We gave the Moorish rowers some food, and the renegade comforted them by
telling them that they were not held as captives, as we should set them free on the first
opportunity.
The same was said to Zoraida's father, who replied, «Anything 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,
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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 him, and when she saw him weeping she was so moved that she
rose from my feet and ran to throw her arms round him, and pressing her face to his, they
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 her, he said to
her in his own language, «What 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; she, however,
returned him no answer. But when he observed in one corner of the vessel the little trunk in
which she used to keep her jewels, which he well knew he had left in Algiers and had not
brought to the garden, he was still more amazed, and asked her how that trunk had come into
our hands, and what there was in it. To which the renegade, without waiting for Zoraida to
reply, made answer, «Do 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 man, «and that thou hast given thy
father into the power of his enemies?»
To which Zoraida made answer, «A 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.»
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«And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?» said he.
«Ask thou that,» said she, «of 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 sea, where 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 him, and we all hastened to help, and seizing him by his robe we drew
him in half drowned and insensible, at 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 water, and at the end of two hours came to himself.
Meanwhile, the wind having changed we were compelled to head for the land, and 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 cape, called 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 Cava, through whom Spain was lost, lies buried at that spot; «cava» in their
language meaning «wicked woman,» and «rumia» «Christian;» moreover, they count it
unlucky to anchor there when necessity compels them, and they never do so otherwise. For
us, however, it was not the resting−place of the wicked woman but a haven of safety for our
relief, so much had the sea now got up. We posted a look−out on shore, and never let the
oars out of our hands, and ate of the stores the renegade had laid in, imploring God and Our
Lady with all our hearts to help and protect us, that 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 bound, for 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 departure, for 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 favour, and made the sea calm, inviting us once more to resume our
voyage with a good heart. Seeing this we unbound the Moors, and one by one put them on
shore, at which they were filled with amazement; but when we came to land Zoraida's father,
who had now completely recovered his senses, he 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 Zoraida, while I and another of the Christians held him fast by both
arms, lest he should do some mad act, he 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
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I reared thee!»
But seeing that he was not likely soon to cease I made haste to put him on shore, and
thence he continued his maledictions and lamentations aloud; calling on Mohammed to pray
to Allah to destroy us, to confound us, to make an end of us; and when, in consequence of
having made sail, we 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 back, dear daughter,
come back to shore; I forgive thee all; let those men have the money, for it is theirs now, and
come back to comfort thy sorrowing father, who will yield up his life on this barren strand if
thou dost leave him.»
All this Zoraida heard, and heard with sorrow and tears, and all she could say in answer
was, «Allah 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 so, while I
consoled Zoraida, we turned our attention to our voyage, in 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. But, as good seldom or never comes pure and unmixed, without being
attended or followed by some disturbing evil that gives a shock to it, our fortune, or 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−sea, and the night about three hours spent, as we were running with all sail set and oars
lashed, for the favouring breeze saved us the trouble of using them, we saw by the light of
the moon, which shone brilliantly, a square−rigged vessel in full sail close to us, luffing up
and standing across our course, and so close that we had to strike sail to avoid running foul
of her, while they too put the helm hard up to let us pass. They came to the side of the ship
to ask who we were, whither we were bound, and whence we came, but as they asked this in
French our renegade said, «Let no one answer, for no doubt these are French corsairs who
plunder all comers.» Acting on this warning no one answered a word, but after we had gone
a little ahead, and the vessel was now lying to leeward, suddenly they fired two guns, and
apparently both loaded with chain−shot, for with one they cut our mast in half and brought
down both it and the sail into the sea, and the other, discharged at the same moment, sent a
ball into our vessel amidships, staving her in completely, but without doing any further
damage. We, however, finding 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 to, and lowering a skiff
or boat, as many as a dozen Frenchmen, well armed with match−locks, and their matches
burning, got into it and came alongside; and seeing how few we were, and that our vessel
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was going down, they took us in, telling 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 Frenchmen, who, after having ascertained all they wanted to know about us, rifled
us of everything we had, as if they had been our bitterest enemies, and 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
desires, however, of those people do not go beyond money, but of that their covetousness is
insatiable, and 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 Spain, giving themselves out as Bretons, and 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 got, and that he would not touch at any Spanish port, but pass the Straits of
Gibraltar by night, or as best he could, and make for La Rochelle, from 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 us, and this they did the next day on coming
in sight of the Spanish coast, with which, and the joy we felt, all our sufferings and miseries
were as completely forgotten as if they had never been endured by us, such 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 captain, moved by I know not what compassion, as the
lovely Zoraida was about to embark, gave her some forty gold crowns, and would not permit
his men to take from her those same garments which she has on now. We got into the boat,
returning them thanks for their kindness to us, and showing ourselves grateful rather than
indignant. They stood out to sea, steering for the straits; we, without looking to any compass
save the land we had before us, set ourselves to row with such energy that by sunset we were
so near that we might easily, we thought, land before the night was far advanced. But as the
moon did not show that night, and the sky was clouded, and as we knew not whereabouts we
were, it did not seem to us a prudent thing to make for the shore, as several of us advised,
saying we ought to run ourselves ashore even if it were on rocks and far from any habitation,
for in this way we should be relieved from the apprehensions we naturally felt of the
prowling vessels of the Tetuan corsairs, who leave Barbary at nightfall and are on the
Spanish coast by daybreak, where they commonly take some prize, and then go home to
sleep in their own houses. But of the conflicting counsels the one which was adopted was
that we should approach gradually, and land where we could if the sea were calm enough to
permit us. This was done, and 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 sand, and all sprang out and kissed the ground, and
with tears of joyful satisfaction returned thanks to God our Lord for all his incomparable
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goodness to us on our voyage. We took out of the boat the provisions it contained, and drew
it up on the shore, and then climbed a long way up the mountain, for even there we could not
feel easy in our hearts, or persuade ourselves that it was Christian soil that was now under
our feet.
The dawn came, more slowly, I think, than we could have wished; we completed the
ascent in order to see if from the summit any habitation or any shepherds' huts could be
discovered, but strain our eyes as we might, neither dwelling, nor human being, nor path nor
road could we perceive. However, we determined to push on farther, as 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 shoulders, she 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
cheerfully, while 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 ears, a clear proof that there were flocks hard by,
and looking about carefully to see if any were within view, we observed a young shepherd
tranquilly and unsuspiciously trimming a stick with his knife at the foot of a cork tree. We
called to him, and he, raising his head, sprang nimbly to his feet, for, as we afterwards
learned, the first who presented themselves to his sight were the renegade and Zoraida, and
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 him, he began to raise a
prodigious outcry, exclaiming, «The Moors− the Moors have landed! To arms, to arms!»
We were all thrown into perplexity by these cries, not 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 matter, we 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 once, though he himself was reduced to his shirt; and so commending ourselves to God,
we followed the same road which we saw the shepherd take, expecting every moment that
the coast−guard would be down upon us. Nor did our expectation deceive us, for two hours
had not passed when, coming out of the brushwood into the open ground, we perceived
some fifty mounted men swiftly approaching us at a hand−gallop. As soon as we saw them
we stood still, waiting for them; but as they came close and, instead of the Moors they were
in quest of, saw a set of poor Christians, they were taken aback, and 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 God, sirs, for bringing us to such good quarters; for, if I do not deceive
myself, the ground we stand on is that of Velez Malaga unless, indeed, all my years of
captivity have made me unable to recollect that you, senor, who ask who we are, are Pedro
de Bustamante, my uncle.»
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The Christian captive had hardly uttered these words, when the horseman threw himself
off his horse, and ran to embrace the young man, crying:
«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 man, «and by−and−by we will tell you all.»
As soon as the horsemen understood that we were Christian captives, they dismounted
from their horses, and each offered his to carry us to the city of Velez Malaga, which was a
league and a half distant. Some of them went to bring the boat to the city, we having told
them where we had left it; others took us up behind them, and Zoraida was placed on the
horse of the young man's uncle. The whole town came out to meet us, for 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 Moors, for people on that coast are well used to see both
one and the other; but they were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, which was just then
heightened, as well by the exertion of travelling as by joy at finding herself on Christian soil,
and relieved of all fear of being lost; for this had brought such a glow upon her face, that
unless my affection for her were deceiving me, I would venture to say that there was not a
more beautiful creature in the world− at least, that I had ever seen. We went straight to the
church to return thanks to God for the mercies we had received, and 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 she, having
great intelligence and a quick and clear instinct, understood 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 renegade, Zoraida, and myself, the Christian who came with us brought us to the
house of his parents, who had a fair share of the gifts of fortune, and treated us with as much
kindness as they did their own son.
We remained six days in Velez, at the end of which the renegade, having informed
himself of all that was requisite for him to do, set 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 departures, each the way that seemed best to him, and
Zoraida and I were left alone, with nothing more than the crowns which the courtesy of the
Frenchman had bestowed upon Zoraida, out of which I bought the beast on which she rides;
and, I for the present attending her as her father and squire and not as her husband, we are
now going to ascertain if my father is living, or if any of my brothers has had better fortune
than mine has been; though, as Heaven has made me the companion of Zoraida, I think no
other lot could be assigned to me, however happy, that I would rather have. The patience
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with which she endures the hardships that poverty brings with it, and the eagerness she
shows to become a Christian, are such that they fill me with admiration, and bind me to
serve her all my life; though the happiness I feel in seeing myself hers, and her mine, is
disturbed and marred by not knowing whether I shall find any corner to shelter her in my
own country, or whether time and death may not have made such changes in the fortunes
and lives of my father and brothers, that I shall hardly find anyone who knows me, if they
are not alive.
I have no more of my story to tell you, gentlemen; 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.
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CHAPTER XLII
W
HICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF
SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING
With these words the captive held his peace, and Don Fernando said to him, «In 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 power, and in words and language so kindly and sincere that the captain
was much gratified by their good−will. In particular Don Fernando offered, if he would go
back with him, to get his brother the marquis to become godfather at the baptism of Zoraida,
and 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 courteously, although he would not accept any of their generous offers.
By this time night closed in, and as it did, there came up to the inn a coach attended by
some men on horseback, who 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 horseback, «room must be
found for his lordship the Judge here.»
At this name the landlady was taken aback, and said, «Senor, 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 held, for the long robe with
ruffled sleeves that he wore showed that he was, as his servant said, a Judge of appeal. He
led by the hand a young girl in a travelling dress, apparently about sixteen years of age, and
of such a high−bred air, so beautiful and so graceful, that all were filled with admiration
when she made her appearance, and but for having seen Dorothea, Luscinda, and Zoraida,
who were there in the inn, they 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 lady, and as soon as he saw him he said, «Your worship may with confidence enter
and take your ease in this castle; for though the accommodation be scanty and poor, there
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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 Quixote, whom he
scrutinized very carefully, no less astonished by his figure than by his talk; and before he
could find words to answer him he had a fresh surprise, when he saw opposite to him
Luscinda, Dorothea, and Zoraida, who, having heard of the new guests and of the beauty of
the young lady, had come to see her and welcome her; Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
curate, however, greeted him in a more intelligible and polished style. In short, the Judge
made his entrance in a state of bewilderment, as 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 figure, countenance,
and bearing of Don Quixote he was at his wits' end; and all civilities having been exchanged,
and the accommodation of the inn inquired into, it was settled, as it had been before settled,
that all the women should retire to the garret that has been already mentioned, and that the
men should remain outside as if to guard them; the Judge, therefore, was very well pleased
to allow his daughter, for such the damsel was, to go with the ladies, which 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 captive, whose heart had leaped within him the instant he saw the Judge, telling
him somehow that this was his brother, asked one of the servants who accompanied him
what his name was, and whether he knew from what part of the country he came. The
servant replied that he was called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and that he had
heard it said he came from a village in the mountains of Leon. From this statement, and what
he himself had seen, he felt convinced that this was his brother who had adopted letters by
his father's advice; and excited and rejoiced, he called Don Fernando and Cardenio and the
curate aside, and told them how the matter stood, assuring 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 learned, likewise, that
the young lady was his daughter, whose mother had died in giving birth to her, and 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 known, or to ascertain beforehand
whether, when he had made himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor, would be
ashamed of him, or would receive him with a warm heart.
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CHAPTER XLII 334
«Leave it to me to find out that,» said the curate; «though there is no reason for
supposing, senor captain, that you will not be kindly received, because the worth and
wisdom that your brother's bearing shows him to possess do not make it likely that he will
prove haughty or insensible, or that he will not know how to estimate the accidents of
fortune at their proper value.»
«Still,» said the captain, «I would not make myself known abruptly, but in some
indirect way.»
«I have told you already,» said the curate, «that I will manage it in a way to satisfy us
all.»
By this time supper was ready, and they all took their seats at the table, except the
captive, and the ladies, who 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 curate, «and 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, however, only went so far as to describe how the Frenchmen plundered
those who were in the boat, and the poverty and distress in which his comrade and the fair
Moor were left, of whom he said he had not been able to learn what became of them, or
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whether they had reached Spain, or been carried to France by the Frenchmen.
The captain, standing a little to one side, was listening to all the curate said, and
watching every movement of his brother, who, as soon as he perceived the curate had made
an end of his story, gave a deep sigh and said with his eyes full of tears, «Oh, 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 it, showing their sympathy with his sorrow.
The curate, seeing, then, how well he had succeeded in carrying out his purpose and the
captain's wishes, had no desire to keep them unhappy any longer, so he rose from the table
and going into the room where Zoraida was he took her by the hand, Luscinda, Dorothea,
and the Judge's daughter following her. The captain was waiting to see what the curate
would do, when the latter, taking him with the other hand, advanced 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
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CHAPTER XLII 336
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 brother, who placed both hands on his breast so as to
have a good look at him, holding him a little way off but as soon as he had fully recognised
him he clasped him in his arms so closely, shedding such tears of heartfelt joy, that most of
those present could not but join in them. The words the brothers exchanged, the emotion
they showed can scarcely be imagined, I fancy, much 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 Zoraida, putting all he possessed at her disposal;
then he made his daughter embrace her, and 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 word, and attributing the whole to chimeras of
knight−errantry. Then they agreed that the captain and Zoraida should return with his
brother to Seville, and send news to his father of his having been delivered and found, so as
to enable him to come and be present at the marriage and baptism of Zoraida, for it was
impossible for the Judge to put off his journey, as he was informed that in a month from that
time the fleet was to sail from Seville for New Spain, and 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 past, they 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 scoundrel, covetous of the great
treasure of beauty the castle contained. Those who understood him returned him thanks for
this service, and they gave the Judge an account of his extraordinary humour, with 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 comfortable, as he
stretched himself on the trappings of his ass, which, as will be told farther on, cost him so
dear.
The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber, and 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 happened, however, that 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 attentively, but especially Dorothea, who had been awake, and by whose
side Dona Clara de Viedma, for so the Judge's daughter was called, lay sleeping. No one
could imagine who it was that sang so sweetly, and the voice was unaccompanied by any
instrument. At one moment it seemed to them as if the singer were in the courtyard, at
another in the stable; and as they were all attention, wondering, Cardenio came to the door
and said, «Listen, 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 Dorothea, giving all her attention to it, made out the words of the song to be these:
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CHAPTER XLII 337
CHAPTER XLIII
W
HEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY
OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT
CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
Ah me, Love'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 it, these,
like clouds, Its longed−for light refuse me.
Bright star, goal 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 voice, so, shaking her from side to side, she woke her, saying:
«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 drowsy, and not understanding at the moment what Dorothea said,
asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said, and Clara became attentive at once;
but she had hardly heard two lines, as the singer continued, when a strange trembling seized
her, as if she were suffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, and 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. «Why, they say this singer is a
muleteer!»
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CHAPTER XLIII 338
«Nay, he is the lord of many places,» replied Clara, «and 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 girl, for it seemed to be far beyond
such experience of life as her tender years gave any promise of, so 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 hands, at which Dorothea was again surprised; but turning her attention to the song
she found that it ran in this fashion:
Sweet Hope, my 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 sell, his 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 afresh, all which excited Dorothea's
curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so sweet and weeping so bitter, so she
again asked her what it was she was going to say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda
might overhear her, winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to her
ear that she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone else, and 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
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CHAPTER XLIII 339
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 this, at the same time kissing her a
thousand times over, «say 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 Clara, «what 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.»
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CHAPTER XLIII 340
Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child Dona Clara spoke. «Let us go
to sleep now, senora,» said she, «for the little of the night that I fancy is left to us: God will
soon send us daylight, and we will set all to rights, or it will go hard with me.»
With this they fell asleep, and deep silence reigned all through the inn. The only persons
not asleep were the landlady's daughter and her servant Maritornes, who, knowing the weak
point of Don Quixote's humour, and that he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour
and on horseback, resolved, the pair of them, to 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
themselves, and observed Don Quixote on his horse, leaning on his pike and from time to
time sending forth such deep and doleful sighs, that he seemed to pluck up his soul by the
roots with each of them; and they could hear him, too, saying in a soft, tender, loving tone,
«Oh 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 him, saying, «Senor, come over here, please.»
At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the light of the
moon, which then was in its full splendour, that some one was calling to him from the hole
in the wall, which seemed to him to be a window, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as
rich castles, such as he believed the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately suggested
itself to his imagination that, as on the former occasion, the fair damsel, the daughter of the
lady of the castle, overcome by love for him, was once more endeavouring to win his
affections; and with this idea, not to show himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he turned
Rocinante's head and approached the hole, and as he perceived the two wenches he said:
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CHAPTER XLIII 341
«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 Maritornes, «to 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 that, if
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 asked, and
making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole and went into the stable, where
she took the halter of Sancho Panza's ass, and in all haste returned to the hole, just 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 hand, he said,
«Lady, 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 Maritornes, and making a running knot on the halter,
she 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 Quixote, feeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist, exclaimed, «Your 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
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CHAPTER XLIII 342
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's, for as soon as
Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready to die with laughing, leaving him
fastened in such a way that it was impossible for him to release himself.
He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passed through the hole
and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and 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 movement, although from the patience and imperturbable disposition of Rocinante, he
had good reason to expect that he would stand without budging for a whole century. Finding
himself fast, then, and that the ladies had retired, he began to fancy that all this was done by
enchantment, as 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 again, after having come off so badly the first time; it being a
settled point with knights−errant that when they have tried an adventure, and have not
succeeded in it, it is a sign that it is not reserved for them but for others, and that therefore
they need not try it again. Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he could release himself,
but it had been made so fast that all his efforts were in vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest
Rocinante should move, but try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had nothing for
it but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it was he wished for the sword of Amadis,
against 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
enchanted, for 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 Panza, who,
buried in sleep and stretched upon the pack−saddle of his ass, was oblivious, at that moment,
of 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 then, at last, morning
found him in such a state of desperation and perplexity that he was bellowing like a bull, for
he had no hope that day would bring any relief to his suffering, which he believed would last
for ever, inasmuch as he was enchanted; and of this he was convinced by seeing that
Rocinante never stirred, much or little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse were to
remain in this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, until the malign influence of the
stars was overpast, or until some other more sage enchanter should disenchant him.
But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had hardly begun to
appear when there came up to the inn four men on horseback, well equipped and accoutred,
with firelocks across their saddle−bows. They called out and knocked loudly at the gate of
the inn, which was still shut; on seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he was, did
not forget to act as sentinel, and said in a loud and imperious tone, «Knights, 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
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CHAPTER XLIII 343
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 one, «to 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 Quixote, «nay, 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 Quixote, «since you are ignorant of
what commonly occurs in knight−errantry.»
But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with Don Quixote,
renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that the host, and not only he but
everybody in the inn, awoke, and 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 Rocinante,
who melancholy, dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless, supporting his sorely
stretched master; and as he was, after all, flesh, though he looked as if he were made of
wood, he 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 saddle, he would have come to the ground, but for being suspended by the
arm, which 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 feet,
which was all the worse for him; for, finding how little was wanted to enable him to plant
his feet firmly, he struggled and stretched himself as much as he could to gain a footing; just
like those undergoing the torture of the strappado, when 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.
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CHAPTER XLIII 344
CHAPTER XLIV
I
N 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 so, I give him the lie, challenge 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 was, and 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 inn, one dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an appearance,
describing 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 come, said, «He 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 in, one remained at the gate and the
other made the circuit of the inn; observing all which, the landlord was unable to conjecture
for what reason they were taking all these precautions, though he understood they were
looking for the youth whose description they had given him.
It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reason, as well as in consequence of the
noise Don Quixote had made, everybody was awake and up, but particularly Dona Clara and
Dorothea; for they had been able to sleep but badly that night, the one from agitation at
having her lover so near her, the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he saw
that not one of the four travellers took any notice of him or replied to his challenge, was
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
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CHAPTER XLIV 345
another enterprise, when 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 pledged, he would have attacked the
whole of them, and would have made them return an answer in spite of themselves. But
considering that it would not become him, nor be right, to begin any new emprise until he
had established Micomicona in her kingdom, he 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 muleteer, without a
thought of anyone coming in search of him, much less finding him.
The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, «It 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 him, but
presently recognised him as one of his father's servants, at which he was so taken aback that
for some time he could not find or utter a word; while the servant went on to say, «There 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 servant, «that
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 other, «except 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 lay, and rising, he went to report what had taken place to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and
the others, who 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
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CHAPTER XLIV 346
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 me, it will be without life.»
By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the dispute, but particularly
Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the Judge, the curate, the barber, and 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 story, asked the men
who wanted to take him away, what object they had in seeking to carry off this youth against
his will.
«Our object,» said one of the four, «is to save the life of his father, who is in danger of
losing it through this gentleman's disappearance.»
Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, «There 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 man, «and 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 man, who
knew him as a neighbour of theirs, replied, «Do 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
said, «What 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 man, and he was unable to utter a word in reply
to the Judge, who told the four servants not to be uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 347
settled; and then taking Don Luis by the hand, he 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 inn, the
cause of which was that two of the guests who had passed the night there, seeing everybody
busy about finding out what it was the four men wanted, had conceived the idea of going off
without paying what they owed; but the landlord, who minded his own affairs more than
other people's, caught them going out of the gate and demanded his reckoning, abusing them
for their dishonesty with such language that he drove them to reply with their fists, and so
they began to lay on him in such a style that the poor man was forced to cry out, and call for
help. The landlady and her daughter could see no one more free to give aid than Don
Quixote, and to him the daughter said, «Sir 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 Maritornes, who 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 it, it 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 Dorothea, requesting her
Highness in knightly and errant phrase to be pleased to grant him permission to aid and
succour the castellan of that castle, who now stood in grievous jeopardy. The princess
granted it graciously, and he at once, bracing his buckler on his arm and drawing his sword,
hastened 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 Quixote, «because 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−gate, where there was a very lively exchange of fisticuffs
and punches, to the sore damage of the landlord and to the wrath of Maritornes, the
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CHAPTER XLIV 348
landlady, and her daughter, who were furious when they saw the pusillanimity of Don
Quixote, and the hard treatment their master, husband and father was undergoing. But let us
leave him there; for he will surely find some one to help him, and if not, let 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 youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed his heart was troubled by
some great sorrow, and shedding a flood of tears, made 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 silent, while the Judge, after hearing him, was
astonished, perplexed, and surprised, as well at the manner and intelligence with which Don
Luis had confessed the secret of his heart, as at the position in which he found himself, not
knowing what course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected. All the answer,
therefore, he gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for the present, and arrange
with his servants not to take him back that day, so that there might be time to consider what
was best for all parties. Don Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them with his tears,
in a way that would have touched a heart of marble, not to say that of the Judge, who, as a
shrewd man, had already perceived how advantageous the marriage would be to his
daughter; though, were it possible, he 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 landlord, for, by persuasion and Don
Quixote's fair words more than by threats, they had paid him what he demanded, and the
servants of Don Luis were waiting for the end of the conversation with the Judge and their
master's decision, when the devil, who never sleeps, contrived that the barber, from whom
Don Quixote had taken Mambrino's helmet, and Sancho Panza the trappings of his ass in
exchange for those of his own, should at this instant enter the inn; which said barber, as he
led his ass to the stable, observed Sancho Panza engaged in repairing something or other
belonging to the pack−saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew it, and made bold to attack
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 349
Sancho, exclaiming, «Ho, sir thief, I have caught you! hand over my basin and my
pack−saddle, and all my trappings that you robbed me of.»
Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hearing the abuse poured upon
him, seized the pack−saddle with one hand, and with the other gave the barber a cuff that
bathed his teeth in blood. The barber, however, was not so ready to relinquish the prize he
had made in the pack−saddle; on the contrary, he raised such an outcry that everyone in the
inn came running to know what the noise and quarrel meant. «Here, in the name of the king
and justice!» he cried, «this thief and highwayman wants to kill me for trying to recover my
property.»
«You lie,» said Sancho, «I am no highwayman; it was in fair war my master Don
Quixote won these spoils.»
Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to see his squire's stoutness,
both offensive and defensive, and from that time forth he reckoned him a man of mettle, and
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 altercation, among other things the barber said, «Gentlemen, 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 two, and separating them, he placed the pack−saddle on the ground, to lie there in sight
until the truth was established, and said, «Your 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 Sancho, «if 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.»
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CHAPTER XLIV 350
«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 was, and brought it back with him, and when Don
Quixote saw it, he 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 Sancho, «for 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 351
CHAPTER XLV
I
N WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET AND
THE PACK−SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES
THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST
What do you think now, gentlemen,« said the barber, »of what these gentles say, when
they want to make out that this is a helmet?"
«And whoever says the contrary,» said Don Quixote, «I 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 barber, who was present at all this, and understood Don Quixote's humour so
thoroughly, took 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 say− saving 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 Quixote, «for half of it is wanting, that is to say the beaver.»
«It is quite true,» said the curate, who saw the object of his friend the barber; and
Cardenio, Don Fernando and his companions agreed with him, and even the Judge, if his
thoughts had not been so full of Don Luis's affair, would 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? Why, this is a thing that
would astonish a whole university, however wise it might be! That will do; if this basin is a
helmet, why, then the pack−saddle must be a horse's caparison, as this gentleman has said.»
«To me it looks like a pack−saddle,» said Don Quixote; «but I have already said that
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CHAPTER XLV 352
with that question I do not concern myself.»
«As to whether it be pack−saddle or caparison,» said the curate, «it 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 Quixote, «so 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 this, «but 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 it, it seemed the greatest nonsense in the
world, in particular to the four servants of Don Luis, as well as to Don Luis himself, and to
three other travellers who had by chance come to the inn, and had the appearance of officers
of the Holy Brotherhood, as indeed they were; but the one who above all was at his wits'
end, was the barber basin, there before his very eyes, had been turned into Mambrino's
helmet, and 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 votes, and 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 Quixote, he said aloud, «The 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 353
«May I never share heaven,» said the poor barber, «if 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
Quixote, who 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 servants, «Unless, 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−saddle, as your worships say.»
On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the Brotherhood, who had been
listening to the dispute and controversy, unable to restrain his anger and impatience,
exclaimed, «It 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 pike, which he
had never let out of his hand, he delivered such a blow at his head that, had not the officer
dodged it, it would have stretched him at full length. The pike was shivered in pieces against
the ground, and the rest of the officers, seeing their comrade assaulted, raised a shout,
calling for help for the Holy Brotherhood. The landlord, who was of the fraternity, ran at
once to fetch his staff of office and his sword, and 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 barber, seeing the house turned upside down, once 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 Quixote,
and Cardenio and Don Fernando, who were supporting him; the curate was shouting at the
top of his voice, the landlady was screaming, her daughter was wailing, Maritornes was
weeping, Dorothea was aghast, Luscinda terror−stricken, and Dona Clara in a faint. The
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 354
barber cudgelled Sancho, and Sancho pommelled the barber; Don Luis gave one of his
servants, who ventured to catch him by the arm to keep him from escaping, a 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 cries, shouts, shrieks,
confusion, terror, dismay, mishaps, sword−cuts, fisticuffs, cudgellings, kicks, and
bloodshed; and in the midst of all this chaos, complication, and general entanglement, Don
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 thunder, he 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 voice, and he went on to say, «Did 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 officers, who did not understand Don Quixote's
mode of speaking, and found themselves roughly handled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and
their companions, were not to be appeased; the barber was, however, for 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 judgment, and 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
curate, the servants of Don Luis began again to urge him to return with them at once; and
while he was discussing the matter with them, the Judge took counsel with Don Fernando,
Cardenio, and the curate as to what he ought to do in the case, telling them how it stood, and
what Don Luis had said to him. It was agreed at length that Don Fernando should tell the
servants of Don Luis who he was, and that it was his desire that Don Luis should accompany
him to Andalusia, where he would receive from the marquis his brother the welcome his
quality entitled him to; for, otherwise, it was easy to see from the determination of Don Luis
that he would not return to his father at present, though 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 stood, and that the
other should remain to wait upon Don Luis, and not leave him until they came back for him,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 355
or 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 of, and seeing how little he had
gained after having involved them all in such an elaborate entanglement, resolved 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 engaged, and withdrew from the contest, considering that whatever the
result might be they were likely to get the worst of the battle; but one of them, the one who
had been thrashed and kicked by Don Fernando, recollected that among some warrants he
carried for the arrest of certain delinquents, he had one against Don Quixote, whom the Holy
Brotherhood had ordered to be arrested for setting the galley slaves free, as Sancho had, with
very good reason, apprehended. Suspecting how it was, then, he 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 of, and setting himself to read it deliberately, for he was
not a quick reader, as he made out each word he fixed his eyes on Don Quixote, and went on
comparing the description in the warrant with his face, and discovered that beyond all doubt
he was the person described in it. As soon as he had satisfied himself, folding up the
parchment, he 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 breathe, and shouted aloud, «Help 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 true, and that it
agreed with Don Quixote's appearance, who, on his part, when he found himself roughly
handled by this rascally clown, worked up to the highest pitch of wrath, and all his joints
cracking with rage, with both hands seized the officer by the throat with all his might, so that
had he not been helped by his comrades he would have yielded up his life ere Don Quixote
released his hold. The landlord, who had perforce to support his brother officers, ran at once
to aid them. The landlady, when she saw her husband engaged in a fresh quarrel, lifted up
her voice afresh, and its note was immediately caught up by Maritornes and her daughter,
calling upon heaven and all present for help; and Sancho, seeing what was going on,
exclaimed, «By 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 Quixote, and to their mutual contentment
made them relax the grip by which they held, the one the coat collar, the other the throat of
his adversary; for all this, however, the officers did not cease to demand their prisoner and
call on them to help, and deliver him over bound into their power, as was required for the
service of the King and of the Holy Brotherhood, on whose behalf they again demanded aid
and assistance to effect the capture of this robber and footpad of the highways.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 356
Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said very calmly, «Come 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?»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 357
CHAPTER XLVI
O
F THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF
THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF
OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE
While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was endeavouring to persuade
the officers that he was out of his senses, as they might perceive by his deeds and his words,
and that they need not press the matter any further, for even if they arrested him and carried
him off, they 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 madness, but
only to execute his superior's orders, and that once taken they might let him go three
hundred times if they liked.
«For all that,» said the curate, «you must not take him away this time, nor will he, it is
my opinion, let himself be taken away.»
In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad things, that the
officers would have been more mad than he was if they had not perceived his want of wits,
and so they thought it best to allow themselves to be pacified, and even to act as
peacemakers between the barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation
with much bitterness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the question by
arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if not perfectly contented, at least to some
extent satisfied; for they changed the pack−saddles, but not the girths or head−stalls; and as
to Mambrino's helmet, the curate, under the rose and without Don Quixote's knowing it, paid
eight reals for the basin, and the barber executed a full receipt and engagement to make no
further demand then or thenceforth for evermore, amen. These two disputes, which were the
most important and gravest, being settled, it 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 fortune, having already begun to
solve difficulties and remove obstructions in favour of the lovers and warriors of the inn,
were 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. Zoraida, though she did not
fully comprehend all she saw, was grave or gay without knowing why, as she watched and
studied the various countenances, but particularly her Spaniard's, whom 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 notice, and he demanded Don Quixote's reckoning,
together with the amount of the damage to his wine−skins, and the loss of his wine,
swearing that neither Rocinante nor Sancho's ass should leave the inn until he had been paid
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to the very last farthing. The curate settled all amicably, and 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 camp, as Don Quixote
said, but 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 curate,
and to the unexampled generosity of Don Fernando.
Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire's as well as his own, Don
Quixote considered that it would be advisable to continue the journey he had begun, and
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 Dorothea, who, however, would not allow him to utter
a word until he had risen; so to obey her he rose, and said, «It 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 more, calmly awaiting the reply of the
beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style adapted to Don Quixote's
own, replied 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; «for, when a lady humbles herself to me,
I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and placing her on the throne of her
ancestors. Let us depart at once, for the common saying that in delay there is danger, lends
spurs to my eagerness to take the road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell seen any
that can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and get ready thy ass and the
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queen's palfrey, and let us take leave of the castellan and these gentlemen, and go hence this
very instant.»
Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking 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 Sancho, «I 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 Quixote, «provided 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 Sancho, «but 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 words, for the truth was that her husband Don
Fernando had now and then, when the others were not looking, gathered from her lips some
of the reward his love had earned, and Sancho seeing this had considered that such freedom
was more like a courtesan than a queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable or
not caring to answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued, «This 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 God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the audacious
words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice inarticulate with rage, with a stammering
tongue, and eyes that flashed living fire, he exclaimed, «Rascally 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 brows, puffed out his cheeks, gazed around him, and stamped on the ground violently
with his right foot, showing in every way the rage that was pent up in his heart; and at his
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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 him, and his only thought was to turn
round and make his escape from the angry presence of his master.
But the ready−witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don Quixote's
humour, said, to mollify his wrath, «Be 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 this, «your 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 Fernando, «for 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 him, and the curate went for Sancho, who
came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for the hand of his master, who
having presented it to him and allowed him to kiss it, gave him his blessing and said, «Now,
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 Sancho, «except the affair of the blanket, which came to pass
in reality by ordinary means.»
«Believe it not,» said Don Quixote, «for 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 flights, at which they laughed not a little, and 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 truth, without any deception whatever
about it, that he had been blanketed by beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and
imaginary phantoms, as his master believed and protested.
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The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it seemed to them
time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without 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 proposed,
and 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 companions, the servants of Don
Luis, and the officers of the Brotherhood, together with the landlord, by the directions and
advice of the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves, some in one way, some
in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite different from the persons he had seen in
the castle. This done, in profound silence they entered the room where he was asleep, taking
his his rest after the past frays, and advancing to where he was sleeping tranquilly, not
dreaming of anything of the kind happening, they seized him firmly and bound him fast
hand and foot, so that, when he awoke startled, he was unable to move, and 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 him, and took it into
his head that all these shapes were phantoms of the enchanted castle, and that he himself was
unquestionably enchanted as he could neither move nor help himself; precisely what the
curate, the concoctor of the scheme, expected would happen. Of all that were there Sancho
was the only one who was at once in his senses and in his own proper character, and he,
though he was within very little of sharing his master's infirmity, did 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 word, waiting to the upshot
of his mishap; which was that bringing in the cage, they 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 shoulders,
and as they passed out of the room an awful voice− as much so as the barber, not he of the
pack−saddle but the other, was able to make it− was heard to say, «O 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;
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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 pitch, and then
lowered it to such a soft tone, that 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 heard, for he at once comprehended its
meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to him that he should see himself united in
holy and lawful matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed
womb should proceed the whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being
thoroughly and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and with a deep sigh
exclaimed, «Oh 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, for, being tied
together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions lifted the cage upon their shoulders
and fixed it upon the ox−cart.
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CHAPTER XLVI 363
CHAPTER XLVII
O
F THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
WAS CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
REMARKABLE INCIDENTS
When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this way, he said,
«Many 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 Sancho, «not 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 this, and bring me to this
condition? And if thou wouldst prove it, touch them, and feel them, and thou wilt find they
have only bodies of air, and no consistency except in appearance.»
«By God, master,» returned Sancho, «I 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
Fernando, who, like 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 them, they themselves have no smell,
because they are spirits; or, if they have any smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but
of something foul and fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell with them wherever they
go, and can get no ease whatever from their torments, and as a sweet smell is a thing that
gives pleasure and enjoyment, it is impossible that they can smell sweet; if, then, this devil
thou speakest of seems to thee to smell of amber, either thou art deceiving thyself, or he
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CHAPTER XLVII 364
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
Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho's making a complete discovery of their scheme, towards
which he had already gone some way, resolved to hasten their departure, and calling the
landlord aside, they directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack−saddle on Sancho's
ass, which 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 village, he 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 other, and by signs commanded Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante's
bridle, and at each side of the cart he placed two officers with their muskets; but before the
cart was put in motion, out came the landlady and her daughter and Maritornes to bid Don
Quixote farewell, pretending 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 Quixote, the curate and
the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and his companions, to the captain, his brother,
and the ladies, now all made happy, and in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all
embraced one another, and promised to let each other know how things went with them, and
Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to him, to tell him what became of Don
Quixote, assuring him that there was nothing that could give him more pleasure than to hear
of it, and that he too, on his part, would send him word of everything he thought he would
like to know, about his marriage, Zoraida's baptism, Don Luis's affair, and Luscinda's return
to her home. The curate promised to comply with his request carefully, and they embraced
once more, and 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 found, and that he might take them all away with him as their owner had not since
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CHAPTER XLVII 365
returned; for, as he could not read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked him,
and opening them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the words, «Novel of Rinconete
and Cortadillo,» by which he perceived that it was a novel, and as that of «The Ill−advised
Curiosity» had been good he concluded this would be so too, as they were both probably by
the same author; so he kept it, intending to read it when he had an opportunity. He then
mounted and his friend the barber did the same, both masked, so as not to be recognised by
Don Quixote, and 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
Brotherhood, as has been said, with 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 mules, with faces covered, as aforesaid, and a grave and serious air, measuring their
pace to suit the slow steps of the oxen. Don Quixote was seated in the cage, with his hands
tied and his feet stretched out, leaning 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 made, it might be, two
leagues, until they reached a valley which the carter thought a convenient place for resting
and feeding his oxen, and he said so to the curate, but the barber was of opinion that they
ought to push on a little farther, as 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 curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them six or seven
mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook them, for they were travelling,
not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of oxen, but like men who rode canons' mules, and 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 slow, and courteous salutations were exchanged;
and one of the new comers, who was, in fact, a canon of Toledo and master of the others
who accompanied him, observing the regular order of the procession, the cart, the officers,
Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and the barber, and above all Don Quixote caged and
confined, could not help asking what was the meaning of carrying the man in that fashion;
though, from the badges of the officers, he 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 question, replied, «Let the
gentleman himself tell you the meaning of his going this way, senor, for we do not know.»
Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, «Haply, 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 barber, seeing that the travellers were engaged in conversation with Don Quixote,
came forward, in order to answer in such a way as to save their stratagem from being
discovered.
The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, «In 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
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CHAPTER XLVII 366
tell me what you please.»
«In God's name, then, senor,» replied Don Quixote; «if that be so, I 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−errant, and
not one of those whose names Fame has never thought of immortalising in her record, but of
those who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and all the magicians that Persia, or
Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists that Ethiopia ever produced, will place their names
in the temple of immortality, to serve as examples and patterns for ages to come, whereby
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 curate, «is 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 astonishment, and could not make out what had
befallen him; and all his attendants were in the same state of amazement.
At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the conversation, said, in order
to make everything plain, «Well, 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 exclaimed, "Ah, 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
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CHAPTER XLVII 367
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 master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see that you will have to keep him
company in the cage, and 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 promises, and
that island you long so much for found its way into your head.»
«I am not with child by anyone,» returned Sancho, «nor 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 advance, so that he might
tell him the mystery of this man in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The
canon agreed, and going on ahead with his servants, listened with attention to the account of
the character, life, madness, and ways of Don Quixote, given him by the curate, who
described to him briefly the beginning and origin of his craze, and told him the whole story
of his adventures up to his being confined in the cage, together 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 story,
and when it was finished he said, «To 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
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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
understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so he told him that, being of
the same opinion himself, and bearing a grudge to books of chivalry, he had burned all Don
Quixote's, which were many; and gave him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them,
and of those he had condemned to the flames and those he had spared, with which the canon
was not a little amused, adding that though he had said so much in condemnation of these
books, still he found one good thing in them, and 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 freely, describing shipwrecks, tempests, combats, battles, portraying a
valiant captain with all the qualifications requisite to make one, showing him sagacious in
foreseeing the wiles of the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or restrain his soldiers,
ripe in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in biding his time as in pressing the attack; now
picturing some sad tragic incident, now some joyful and unexpected event; here a beauteous
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lady, virtuous, wise, and modest; there a Christian knight, brave and gentle; here a lawless,
barbarous braggart; there a courteous prince, gallant and gracious; setting forth the devotion
and loyalty of vassals, the greatness and generosity of nobles. «Or again,» said he, «the
author may show himself to be an astronomer, or a skilled cosmographer, or musician, or
one versed in affairs of state, and sometimes he will have a chance of coming forward as a
magician if he likes. He can set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of AEneas, the
valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of Sinon, the friendship of
Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the boldness of Caesar, the clemency and truth of
Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and in short all the faculties that serve
to make an illustrious man perfect, now uniting them in one individual, again distributing
them among many; and if this be done with charm of style and ingenious invention, aiming
at the truth as much as possible, he will assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads
that, when finished, will display such perfection and beauty that it will attain the worthiest
object any writing can seek, which, as I said before, is to give instruction and pleasure
combined; for the unrestricted range of these books enables the author to show his powers,
epic, lyric, tragic, or comic, and 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.»
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CHAPTER XLVIII
I
N 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 art, by 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 canon, "was 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−days, which was
in this wise: if those that are now in vogue, as well those that are pure invention as those
founded on history, are, all or most of them, downright nonsense and things that have
neither head nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with delight, and regards and cries
them up as perfection when they are so far from it; and if the authors who write them, and
the players who act them, say that this is what they must be, for 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 them, while 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 way,
after 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 adopted, and that they would attract
more people, and get more credit, by producing plays in accordance with the rules of art,
than by absurd ones, they are so thoroughly wedded to their own opinion that no argument
or evidence can wean them from it.
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"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 nonsense, nor
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 here, «that 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
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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
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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 conversation, when the
barber, coming forward, joined them, and said to the curate, «This 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 curate, and he told the canon what he proposed to do,
on 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 curate, to whom
he had begun to take a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the doings of Don
Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the inn, which was not far distant, and
fetch from it what eatables there might be for the whole party, as he meant to rest for the
afternoon where he was; to which one of his servants replied that the sumpter mule, which
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 canon, «take all the beasts there, and bring the sumpter mule
back.»
While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could speak to his master without
having the curate and the barber, of whom he had his suspicions, present all the time,
approached the cage in which Don Quixote was placed, and said, «Senor, 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 Quixote, «for 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
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CHAPTER XLVIII 374
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 Sancho, lifting 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 Quixote, «and 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 know, and have you tell me,
without adding or leaving out anything, but telling the whole truth as one expects it to be
told, and as it is told, by all who profess arms, as your worship professes them, under 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 so, because it
bears upon what we are talking about, I would ask, speaking with all reverence, whether
since your worship has been shut up and, as you think, enchanted in this cage, you have felt
any desire or inclination to go anywhere, as the saying is?»
«I do not understand 'going anywhere,'» said Don Quixote; «explain thyself more
clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have me give an answer to the point.»
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CHAPTER XLVIII 375
«Is it possible,» said Sancho, «that 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, often, and even this
minute; get me out of this strait, or all will not go right.»
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CHAPTER XLVIII 376
CHAPTER XLIX
W
HICH 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 now, senor, can you deny what is commonly said around us, when a person
is out of humour, 'I don't know what ails so−and−so, that he neither eats, nor drinks, nor
sleeps, nor 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 drink, or sleep, or do any of the
natural acts I am speaking of− that such persons are enchanted; but not those that have the
desire your worship has, and drink when drink is given them, and eat when there is anything
to eat, and 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 enchantments, and it may be that in the course of time they have
been changed one for another, and that now it may be the way with enchanted people to do
all that I do, though 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 enchanted, and that is enough to ease
my conscience; for it would weigh heavily on it if I thought that I was not enchanted, and
that in a aint−hearted and cowardly way I allowed myself to lie in this cage, defrauding
multitudes of the succour I might afford to those in need and distress, who at this very
moment may be in sore want of my aid and protection.»
«Still for all that,» replied Sancho, «I 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 Quixote, «and 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 curate, the canon, and the barber, who had already dismounted, were
waiting for them. The carter at once unyoked the oxen and left them to roam at large about
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CHAPTER XLIX 377
the pleasant green spot, the freshness of which seemed to invite, not enchanted people like
Don Quixote, but wide−awake, sensible folk like his squire, who begged the curate to allow
his master to leave the cage for a little; for if they did not let him out, the prison might not be
as clean as the propriety of such a gentleman as his master required. The curate understood
him, and said he would very gladly comply with his request, only that he feared his master,
finding himself at liberty, would 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 canon, «especially if he gives me his word as a knight not to
leave us without our consent.»
Don Quixote, who was listening to all this, said, «I 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 so, they might as well release him, particularly as it
would be to the advantage of all; for, if they did not let him out, he protested he would be
unable to avoid offending their nostrils unless they kept their distance.
The canon took his hand, tied together as they both were, and on his word and promise
they unbound him, and rejoiced beyond measure he was to find himself out of the cage. The
first thing he did was to stretch himself all over, and then he went to where Rocinante was
standing and giving him a couple of slaps on the haunches said, «I 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 saying, accompanied by Sancho,
he withdrew to a retired spot, from which he came back much relieved and more eager than
ever to put his squire's scheme into execution.
The canon gazed at him, wondering at the extraordinary nature of his madness, and that
in all his remarks and replies he should show such excellent sense, and only lose his stirrups,
as has been already said, when the subject of chivalry was broached. And so, moved by
compassion, he said to him, as 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
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CHAPTER XLIX 378
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 words, and when he
found he had finished, after regarding him for some time, he 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 returned, «You
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
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change my studies, and read other truer books which would afford more pleasure and
instruction.»
«Just so,» said the canon.
«Well then,» returned Don Quixote, «to 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
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totally wanting in reason and good sense.»
The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and fiction Don Quixote uttered, and
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; «but, by the orders I have received, I do not
remember seeing it. However, granting it is there, that 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
about, nor is it reasonable that a man like your worship, so worthy, and with so many good
qualities, and endowed with such a good understanding, should allow himself to be
persuaded that such wild crazy things as are written in those absurd books of chivalry are
really true.»
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CHAPTER L
O
F 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 licence, and with the approbation of those to whom they have been submitted, and
read with universal delight, and extolled by great and small, rich and poor, learned and
ignorant, gentle and simple, in a word by people of every sort, of 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 father, mother, country, kindred, age, place, and the
achievements, step by step, and day by day, performed by such a knight or knights! Hush,
sir; 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. For, come,
tell me, can there be anything more delightful than to see, as it were, here now displayed
before us a vast lake of bubbling pitch with a host of snakes and serpents and lizards, and
ferocious and terrible creatures of all sorts swimming about in it, while from the middle of
the lake there comes a plaintive voice saying: 'Knight, whosoever thou art who beholdest
this dread lake, if thou wouldst win the prize that lies hidden beneath these dusky waves,
prove the valour of thy stout heart and cast thyself into the midst of its dark burning waters,
else 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 knight, almost ere the awful
voice has ceased, without stopping to consider, without pausing to reflect upon the danger to
which he is exposing himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of his massive
armour, commending himself to God and to his lady, plunges into the midst of the boiling
lake, and when he little looks for it, or knows what his fate is to be, he finds himself among
flowery meadows, with which the Elysian fields are not to be compared. The sky seems
more transparent there, and the sun shines with a strange brilliancy, and a delightful grove of
green leafy trees presents itself to the eyes and charms the sight with its verdure, while 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 waters, like
liquid crystal, ripple 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 disorder, mingled with
fragments of glittering crystal and mock emeralds, make up a work of varied aspect, where
art, imitating nature, seems to have outdone it. Suddenly there is presented to his sight a
strong castle or gorgeous palace with walls of massy gold, turrets of diamond and gates of
jacinth; in short, so marvellous is its structure that though the materials of which it is built
are nothing less than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold, and emeralds, the
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workmanship is still more rare. And after having seen all this, what can be more charming
than to see how a bevy of damsels comes forth from the gate of the castle in gay and
gorgeous attire, such that, were I to set myself now to depict it as the histories describe it to
us, I 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 hand, and without addressing
a word to him leads him into the rich palace or castle, and strips him as naked as when his
mother bore him, and bathes him in lukewarm water, and anoints him all over with
sweet−smelling unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendal, all scented and
perfumed, while another damsel comes and throws over his shoulders a mantle which is said
to be worth at the very least a city, and even more? How charming it is, then, when they tell
us how, after 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 table, by whom or whence produced he knows
not. And then when the repast is over and the tables removed, for the knight to recline in the
chair, picking his teeth perhaps as usual, and a damsel, much lovelier than any of the others,
to enter unexpectedly by the chamber door, and herself by his side, and begin to tell him
what the castle is, and how she is held enchanted there, and other things that amaze the
knight and astonish the readers who are perusing his history. But I will not expatiate any
further upon this, as it may be gathered from it that whatever part of whatever history of a
knight−errant one reads, it will fill the reader, whoever he be, with delight and wonder; and
take my advice, sir, and, as I said before, read 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 valiant, polite,
generous, well−bred, magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have learned
to bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though it be such a short time
since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope by the might of my arm, if
heaven aid me and fortune thwart me not, to 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 faith, senor,
the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue of generosity to anyone, though he
may possess it in the highest degree; and gratitude that consists of disposition only is a dead
thing, just 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 emperor, so as to show my heart in doing
good to my friends, particularly to this poor Sancho Panza, my squire, who is the best fellow
in the world; and I would gladly give him a county I have promised him this ever so long,
only that I am afraid he has not the capacity to govern his realm.»
Sancho partly heard these last words of his master, and 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
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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 canon, «only 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
another, and as much body as anyone, and I shall be as much king of my realm as any other
of his; and being so I should do as I liked, and doing as I liked I should please myself, and
pleasing myself I should be content, and when one is content he has nothing more to desire,
and when one has nothing more to desire there is an end of it; so let the county come, and
God he with you, and let us see one another, as 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 returned, «I 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 uttered, at the way in which he had described the adventure of the
knight of the lake, at the impression that the deliberate lies of the books he read had made
upon him, and lastly he marvelled at the simplicity of Sancho, who desired so eagerly to
obtain the county his master had promised him.
By this time the canon's servants, who had gone to the inn to fetch the sumpter mule,
had returned, and making a carpet and the green grass of the meadow serve as a table, they
seated themselves in the shade of some trees and made their repast there, that the carter
might not be deprived of the advantage of the spot, as 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 by, and the same instant they
observed a beautiful goat, spotted all over black, white, and brown, spring out of the thicket
with a goatherd after it, calling to it and uttering the usual cries to make it stop or turn back
to the fold. The fugitive goat, scared and frightened, ran towards the company as if seeking
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CHAPTER L 384
their protection and then stood still, and 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 wanderer,
wanderer, Spotty, Spotty; how have you gone limping all this time? What wolves have
frightened you, my daughter? Won't you tell me what is the matter, my beauty? But what
else can it be except that you are a she, and cannot keep quiet? A plague on your humours
and the humours of those you take after! Come back, come back, my darling; and if you will
not be so happy, at any rate you will be safe in the fold or with your companions; for if you
who ought to keep and lead them, go wandering astray, what will become of them?»
The goatherd's talk amused all who heard it, but especially the canon, who said to him,
«As 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 saying, he handed him the loins of a
cold rabbit on a fork.
The goatherd took it with thanks, and drank and calmed himself, and then said, «I
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 curate, «for I know already by experience that the
woods breed men of learning, and shepherds' harbour philosophers.»
«At all events, senor,» returned the goatherd, «they 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 replied, «Seeing 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 Sancho, «and 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 385
«Thou art in the right of it, Sancho,» said Don Quixote; «go where thou wilt and eat all
thou canst, for I have had enough, and only want to give my mind its refreshment, as 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 back,
saying, «Lie down here beside me, Spotty, for we have time enough to return to our fold.»
The goat seemed to understand him, for as her master seated himself, she stretched herself
quietly beside him and looked up in his face to show him she was all attention to what he
was going to say, and then in these words he began his story.
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CHAPTER L 386
CHAPTER LI
W
HICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE
CARRYING OFF DON QUIXOTE
Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, though small, is one of the
richest in all this neighbourhood, and in it there lived a farmer, a very worthy man, and so
much respected that, although to be so is the natural consequence of being rich, he was even
more respected for his virtue than for the wealth he had acquired. But what made him still
more fortunate, as he said himself, was having a daughter of such exceeding beauty, rare
intelligence, gracefulness, and virtue, that 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
beautiful, she continued to grow in beauty, and 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 around, merely, when it spread to distant cities, and even made its way into
the halls of royalty and reached the ears of people of every class, who 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 locks, or
guards, or 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 he, as one might well be who had the disposal of so rich a jewel, was
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 natural, and, as her father knew
who I was, and I was of the same town, of pure blood, in the bloom of life, and very rich in
possessions, I had great hopes of success. There was another of the same place and
qualifications who also sought her, and this made her father's choice hang in the balance, for
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 bad, but 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 tragedy, the end of which is still in suspense, though it is plain
to see it must be disastrous.
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CHAPTER LI 387
About this time there arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca, the son of a poor
peasant of the same town, the 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 uniform, arrayed in a thousand colours,
and 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 gaudy, of little substance and less worth. The
peasant folk, who are naturally malicious, and when they have nothing to do can be malice
itself, remarked all this, and took note of his finery and jewellery, piece by piece, and
discovered that he had three suits of different colours, with garters and stockings to match;
but he made so many arrangements and combinations out of them, that if they had not
counted them, anyone 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 out, for they have a great deal to do with the story. He used to
seat himself on a bench under the great poplar in our plaza, and 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 seen, nor battle he had not been engaged in; he had killed more
Moors than there are in Morocco and Tunis, and fought more single combats, according to
his own account, than Garcilaso, Diego Garcia de Paredes and a thousand others he named,
and out of all he had come victorious without losing a drop of blood. On the other hand he
showed marks of wounds, which, though they could not be made out, he said were gunshot
wounds received in divers encounters and actions. Lastly, with monstrous impudence he
used to say «you» to his equals and even those who knew what he was, and declare that his
arm was his father and his deeds his pedigree, and 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 musician, and 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 too, and on every trifle that happened in the town
he made a ballad a league long.
This soldier, then, that I have described, this Vicente de la Roca, this bravo, gallant,
musician, poet, was 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 fancy, his 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 short, as the devil no doubt had arranged it,
she 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 ally, Leandra and Vicente came to an understanding
without any difficulty; and before any of her numerous suitors had any suspicion of her
design, she 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 soldier, who
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 aghast,
Anselmo thunderstruck, her father full of grief, her relations indignant, the authorities all in
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CHAPTER LI 388
a ferment, the officers of the Brotherhood in arms. They scoured the roads, they searched the
woods and all quarters, and at the end of three days they found the flighty Leandra in a
mountain cave, stript to her shift, and robbed of all the money and precious jewels she had
carried away from home with her. They brought her back to her unhappy father, and
questioned her as to her misfortune, and 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 house, as he meant to take her to the richest and most delightful city in the whole
world, which was Naples; and that she, ill−advised and deluded, had believed him, and
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 said, moreover, that the soldier, without robbing her of her honour, had taken from her
everything she had, and made off, leaving her in the cave, a thing that still further surprised
everybody. It was not easy for us to credit the young man's continence, but she asserted it
with such earnestness that it helped to console her distressed father, who 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 this, in the hope that
time may wear away some of the disgrace she has incurred. Leandra's youth furnished an
excuse for her fault, at 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 women, which
is for the most part flighty and ill−regulated.
Leandra withdrawn from sight, Anselmo's eyes grew blind, or at any rate found nothing
to look at that gave them any pleasure, and mine were in darkness without a ray of light to
direct them to anything enjoyable while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew greater,
our 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;
and, he feeding a great flock of sheep of his own, and I a large herd of goats of mine, we
pass our life among the trees, giving vent to our sorrows, together singing the fair Leandra's
praises, or upbraiding her, or else sighing alone, and to heaven pouring forth our complaints
in solitude. Following our example, many more of Leandra's lovers have come to these rude
mountains and adopted our mode of life, and they are so numerous that one would fancy the
place had been turned into the pastoral Arcadia, so 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 capricious, fickle, and immodest, there another condemns her as frail and
frivolous; this pardons and absolves her, that spurns and reviles her; one extols her beauty,
another assails her character, and in short all abuse her, and all adore her, and 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 her, and even some that bewail and mourn the raging fever of
jealousy, for which she never gave anyone cause, for, as I have already said, her misconduct
was known before her passion. There is no nook among the rocks, no brookside, no shade
beneath the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his woes to the breezes;
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CHAPTER LI 389
wherever there is an echo it repeats the name of Leandra; the mountains ring with
«Leandra,» «Leandra» murmur the brooks, and Leandra keeps us all bewildered and
bewitched, hoping 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 Anselmo, for having so
many other things to complain of, he only complains of separation, and to the
accompaniment of a rebeck, which he plays admirably, he sings his complaints in verses that
show his ingenuity. I follow another, easier, and to my mind wiser course, and that is to rail
at the frivolity of women, at their inconstancy, their double dealing, their broken promises,
their unkept pledges, and in short the want of reflection they show in fixing their affections
and inclinations. This, sirs, was 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 her, though she is
the best in all my fold. This is the story I promised to tell you, and if I have been tedious in
telling it, I will not be slow to serve you; my hut is close by, and I have fresh milk and
dainty cheese there, as well as a variety of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing to the eye than
to the palate.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 390
CHAPTER LII
O
F THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD
WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE
OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH 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 it, for he had remarked with particular attention the manner in which it had been
told, which 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 Quixote, who said to him, «Most 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 him, and noticing Don Quixote's sorry appearance and looks, he was
filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next him, «Senor, who is this man who
makes such a figure and talks in such a strain?»
«Who should it be,» said the barber, «but 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 goatherd, «sounds 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 Quixote, «and 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
deeds, he caught up a loaf that was near him and sent it full in the goatherd's face, with such
force that he flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand jokes, and found
himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying no respect to carpet, tablecloth, or
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 391
diners, sprang upon Don Quixote, and seizing him by the throat with both hands would no
doubt have throttled him, had not Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, and grasping
him by the shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses, and
upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, strove to get on
top of the goatherd, who, with his face covered with blood, and soundly kicked by Sancho,
was on all fours feeling about for one of the table−knives to take a bloody revenge with. The
canon and the curate, however, prevented him, but the barber so contrived it that he got Don
Quixote under him, and 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 laughter, the officers were capering with delight, and both the one and the
other hissed them on as they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight. Sancho alone
was frantic, for he could not free himself from the grasp of one of the canon's servants, who
kept him from going to his master's assistance.
At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers who were mauling
each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they 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 Quixote, who though sorely against his will he was
under the goatherd, and something more than pretty well pummelled, said to him, «Brother
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 goatherd, who was by this time tired of pummelling and being pummelled,
released him at once, and Don Quixote rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the quarter
where the sound had been heard, suddenly 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 earth, and in
all the villages of the district they were organising processions, rogations, and penances,
imploring 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 penitents, without
reflecting how often he had seen it before, took it into his head that this was a case of
adventure, and that it fell to him alone as a knight−errant to engage in it; and he was all the
more confirmed in this notion, by 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
large, and taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle−bow, he had him bridled in an
instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his
arm, and in a loud voice exclaimed to those who stood by, «Now, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 392
brought his legs to bear on Rocinante− for 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
penitents, though the curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. But it was out of
their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts of Sancho calling after him, «Where 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 vain, for 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 heard, he
would not have turned back if the king had ordered him. He came up with the procession
and reined in Rocinante, who was already anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a
hoarse, excited voice he exclaimed, «You 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 image, and one of the four ecclesiastics who were
chanting the Litany, struck by the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rocinante,
and the other ludicrous peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him, «Brother, 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 Quixote, «and 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 heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on Don Quixote's fury, for drawing
his sword without another word he made a rush at the stand. One of those who supported it,
leaving the burden to his comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick that he
had for propping up the stand when resting, and 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 Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing, seeing him fall,
cried out to his assailant not to strike him again, for he was poor enchanted knight, who had
never harmed anyone all the days of his life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho's
shouting, but seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and so, fancying he had
killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under his girdle and took to his heels across the
country like a deer.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 393
By this time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to where he lay; but the
processionists seeing them come running, and with them the officers of the Brotherhood
with their crossbows, apprehended mischief, and clustering round the image, raised their
hoods, and grasped their scourges, as the priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack,
resolved to defend themselves and even to take the offensive against their assailants if they
could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter better than they expected, for all Sancho did
was to fling himself on his master's body, raising over him the most doleful and laughable
lamentation that ever was heard, for he believed he was dead. The curate was known to
another curate who walked in the procession, and 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 was, and he and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the poor gentleman was
dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears in his eyes, «Oh 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 Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the first word he
said was, «He 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 gentlemen, who seek your good, and there we will prepare for making another
sally, which 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 canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely in doing as he
said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza's simplicities, they 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
farther, and the curate paid them what was due to them; the canon begged the curate to let
him know how Don Quixote did, whether he was cured of his madness or still suffered from
it, and then begged leave to continue his journey; in short, they all separated and went their
ways, leaving to themselves the curate and the barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the
good Rocinante, who regarded everything with as great resignation as his master. The carter
yoked his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at his usual
deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the end of six days they reached Don
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 394
Quixote's village, and entered it about the middle of the day, which it so happened was a
Sunday, and the people were all in the plaza, through which Don Quixote's cart passed. They
all flocked to see what was in the cart, and when they recognised their townsman they were
filled with amazement, and 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 raised, how 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 running, for she by this
time knew that her husband had gone away with him as his squire, and on seeing Sancho,
the first thing she asked him was if the ass was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than
his master was.
«Thanks be to God,» said she, «for 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
consequence, my 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 adventures, you will soon
see me a count, or governor of an island, and that not one of those everyday ones, but the
best that is to be had.»
«Heaven grant it, husband,» said she, «for 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
see, wife− nay, thou 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 called, though they were not relations, for
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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 395
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 askance, and 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 again, telling 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 chivalry, and implored heaven to plunge the authors of such lies and nonsense into the
midst of the bottomless pit. They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread lest their uncle
and master should give them the slip the moment he found himself somewhat better, and as
they feared so it fell out.
But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and industry to the
discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in his third sally, has been unable to obtain
any information respecting them, at any rate derived from authentic documents; tradition has
merely preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the third time he
sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Saragossa, where he was present at some
famous jousts which came off in that city, and that he had adventures there worthy of his
valour and high intelligence. Of his end and death he could learn no particulars, nor would
he have ascertained it or known of it, if good fortune had not produced an old physician for
him who had in his possession a leaden box, which, according to his account, had been
discovered among the crumbling foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt;
in which box were found certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic character, but in Castilian
verse, containing many of his achievements, and setting forth the beauty of Dulcinea, the
form of Rocinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself,
together 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 light, save 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 satisfied, and will be encouraged to seek out and
produce other histories, if not as truthful, at least equal in invention and not less entertaining.
The first words written on the parchment found in the leaden box were these:
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 396
THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA, A VILLAGE OF
LA MANCHA, ON THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MANCHA, HOC SCRIPSERUNT MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN 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 wit, and happier far had been If his wit's weathercock a blunter bore; The
arm renowned far as Gaeta's shore, Cathay, and 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;
Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie.
PANIAGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN LAUDEM
DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO
SONNET
She, whose full features may be here descried, High−bosomed, with a bearing of
disdain, Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed. For
her, Toboso's queen, from side to side He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign Of
Aranjuez, and Montiel's famous plain: On Rocinante oft a weary ride. Malignant planets,
cruel destiny, Pursued them both, the 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.
CAPRICHOSO, A MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN
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 Wherewith, achieving deeds till now
unseen, He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; 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 here, for his good steed Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed; As mettled
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 397
steeds compared with Rocinante, The reputation they have won is scanty.
BURLADOR, ACADEMICIAN 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 simple, or 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 age,
mean 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 ease, the heart's desire, In
shadows, dreams, and 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 rest, the writing being
worm−eaten, were 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 succeeded, and that he means to publish them in hopes of Don Quixote's third sally.
«Forse altro cantera con miglior plectro.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 398
DEDICATION OF PART II
T
O THE COUNT OF LEMOS:
These days past, when sending Your Excellency my plays, that had appeared in print
before being shown on the stage, I said, if I remember well, that Don Quixote was putting on
his spurs to go and render homage to Your Excellency. Now I say that «with his spurs, he is
on his way.» Should he reach destination methinks I shall have rendered some service to
Your Excellency, as from many parts I am urged to send him off, so as to dispel the loathing
and disgust caused by another Don Quixote who, under the name of Second Part, has run
masquerading through the whole world. And he who has shown the greatest longing for him
has been the great Emperor of China, who wrote me a letter in Chinese a month ago and sent
it by a special courier. He asked me, or to be truthful, he begged me to send him Don
Quixote, for he intended to found a college where the Spanish tongue would be taught, and
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 answered, «No, not even in thought.»
«Then, brother,» I replied, «you 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 you, offering 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
Don Quixote
DEDICATION OF PART II 400
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
G
of 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.
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PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 401
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 think, now, that it is an easy thing to blow up a dog?»−
Does your worship think now, that it is an easy thing to write a book?
And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell him this one, which is
likewise of a madman and a dog.
In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a piece of marble
slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and 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 howling, would run three streets without stopping. It so happened,
however, that one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was a cap−maker's dog, of which
his master was very fond. The stone came down hitting it on the head, the dog raised a yell
at the blow, the master saw the affair and was wroth, and snatching up a measuring−yard
rushed out at the madman and did not leave a sound bone in his body, and at every stroke he
gave him he said, «You dog, you thief! my lurcher! Don't you see, you brute, that my dog is
a lurcher?» and so, repeating the word «lurcher» again and again, he sent the madman away
beaten to a jelly. The madman took the lesson to heart, and vanished, and 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 dog, and examining it
very carefully without venturing to let the stone fall, he said: «This is a lurcher; ware!» In
short, all the dogs he came across, be they mastiffs or terriers, he 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 books, which, being bad, are
harder than stones. Tell him, too, that 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; for, to borrow from the famous
interlude of «The Perendenga,» I say in answer to him, «Long life to my lord the
Veintiquatro, and Christ be with us all.» Long life to the great Conde de Lemos, whose
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 Toledo, Don Bernardo
de Sandoval y Rojas; and what matter if there be no printing−presses in the world, or if they
print more books against me than there are letters in the verses of Mingo Revulgo! These
two princes, unsought by any adulation or flattery of mine, of their own goodness alone,
have taken it upon them to show me kindness and protect me, and 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 honour, but not the vicious; poverty may cast a cloud over
nobility, but cannot hide it altogether; and as virtue of itself sheds a certain light, even
though it be through the straits and chinks of penury, it wins the esteem of lofty and noble
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PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 402
spirits, and in consequence their protection. Thou needst say no more to him, nor will I say
anything more to thee, save 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
First, and that in it I present thee Don Quixote continued, and at length dead and buried, so
that no one may dare to bring forward any further evidence against him, for that already
produced is sufficient; and suffice it, too, that some reputable person should have given an
account of all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the matter again; for
abundance, even of good things, prevents them from being valued; and scarcity, even in the
case of what is bad, confers 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.»
Don Quixote
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 403
CHAPTER I
O
F THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON
QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY
Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third sally of Don
Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained nearly a month without seeing him,
lest they should recall or bring back to his recollection what had taken place. They did not,
however, omit to visit his niece and housekeeper, and charge them to be careful to treat him
with attention, and give him comforting things to eat, and such as were good for the heart
and the brain, whence, it was plain to see, all his misfortune proceeded. The niece and
housekeeper replied that they did so, and meant to do so with all possible care and assiduity,
for 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 barber, for they
concluded they had taken the right course in carrying him off enchanted on the ox−cart, as
has been described in the First Part of this great as well as accurate history, in the last
chapter thereof. So they resolved to pay him a visit and test the improvement in his
condition, although 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 consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a green baize
waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and 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 health, and 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 that,
reforming one practice and abolishing another, each of the three setting up for a new
legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or a brand−new Solon; and so completely did they remodel
the State, that 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 with, Don 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 curate,
however, changing his original plan, which was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry,
resolved to test Don Quixote's recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine or not;
and so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of the news that had come from
the capital, and, among other things, he said it was considered certain that the Turk was
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CHAPTER I 404
coming down with a powerful fleet, and that no one knew what his purpose was, or when the
great storm would burst; and that all Christendom was in apprehension of this, which almost
every year calls us to arms, and 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 replied, «His 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 himself, «God 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 barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked 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 Quixote, «will not be impertinent, but, on the
contrary, pertinent.»
«I don't mean that,» said the barber, «but 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 Quixote, «is 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 Quixote, «and 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 barber, «I 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 one,
because I know the barber to be an honest fellow.»
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CHAPTER I 405
«Even if he were not,» said the curate, «I 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 curate, «which is to keep secrets.»
«Ods body!» said Don Quixote at this, «what 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 this, «may 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 said, «I 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 leave, and the rest
prepared to listen, and 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
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CHAPTER I 406
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
naked, he asked in a loud voice who it was that was going away cured and in his senses. The
licentiate answered, 'It is I, brother, who am going; I have now no need to remain here any
longer, for 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.'
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CHAPTER I 407
"'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
licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by the hands, said to him, 'Be not uneasy,
senor; attach no importance to what this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will not
send rain, I, who am Neptune, the 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 Quixote, «which 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,
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CHAPTER I 408
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 barber, «I 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 Quixote, «I myself am the
best judge.»
Hereupon the curate observed, «I 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 Quixote, «so 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 curate, «I 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER I 409
awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep.»
«That is another mistake,» replied Don Quixote, «into 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 Quixote, «opinions 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 curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of hearing such nonsense,
he asked him what was his notion of the features of Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don
Roland and the rest of the Twelve Peers of France, for they were all knights−errant.
«As for Reinaldos,» replied Don Quixote, «I 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.»
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«If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has described,» said the
curate, «it 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 Quixote, "was 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 here, «among all those who praised her,
has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady Angelica?»
«I can well believe,» replied Don Quixote, «that 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 niece,
who had previously withdrawn from the conversation, exclaiming aloud in the courtyard,
and at the noise they all ran out.
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CHAPTER I 411
CHAPTER II
W
HICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO
PANZA HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE, AND
HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS
The history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, and the barber heard came
from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to Sancho, who was striving to force his way
in to see Don Quixote while they held the door against him, «What 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 replied, «Devil'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 eat, glutton and gormandiser that thou art?»
«It is not something to eat,» replied Sancho, «but something to govern and rule, and
better than four cities or four judgeships at court.»
«For all that,» said the housekeeper, «you 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 Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho should blab and blurt out a whole heap of mischievous
stupidities, and touch upon points that might not be altogether to his credit, called to him and
made the other two hold their tongues and let him come in. Sancho entered, and the curate
and the barber took their leave of Don Quixote, of whose recovery they despaired when they
saw how wedded he was to his crazy ideas, and how saturated with the nonsense of his
unlucky chivalry; and said the curate to the barber, «You 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 squire, who 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.»
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CHAPTER II 412
«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 mould, and the madness of the master without the simplicity of the man would not be
worth a farthing.»
«That is true,» said the barber, «and I should like very much to know what the pair are
talking about at this moment.»
«I promise you,» said the curate, «the 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 Sancho, and when they were
alone he said to him, «It 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 Sancho, «for, by what your worship says,
misfortunes belong more properly to knights−errant than to their squires.»
«Thou art mistaken, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «according to the maxim quando caput
dolet,
«I don't understand any language but my own,» said Sancho.
«I mean to say,» said Don Quixote, «that 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 member, my head was
on the other side of the wall, looking on while I was flying through the air, and did not feel
any pain whatever; and if the members are obliged to feel the suffering of the head, it should
be obliged to feel their sufferings.»
«Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «that 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
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CHAPTER II 413
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 freely, Sancho,
and without any beating about the bush.»
«Well then,» said he, «first 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 Quixote, «does 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 Quixote, «that 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER II 414
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 you, I 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 Carrasco, who has been studying at Salamanca, came
home after having been made a bachelor, and when I went to welcome him, he told me that
your worship's history is already abroad in books, with 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 Panza, and the lady Dulcinea del Toboso too, and 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 Quixote, «the author of our history will be some
sage enchanter; for to such nothing that they choose to write about is hidden.»
«What!» said Sancho, «a 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 Sancho, «but 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
bachelor, with whom he returned in a short time, and, all three together, they had a very
droll colloquy.
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CHAPTER II 415
CHAPTER III
O
F THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED
BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR
SAMSON CARRASCO
Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for the bachelor Carrasco, from
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 existence, for the blood of the
enemies he had slain was not yet dry on the blade of his sword, and now they wanted to
make out that his mighty achievements were going about in print. For all that, he fancied
some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, by the aid of magic, have given them to the
press; if a friend, in order to magnify and exalt them above the most famous ever achieved
by any knight−errant; if an enemy, to bring them to naught and degrade them below the
meanest ever recorded of any low squire, though as he said to himself, the achievements of
squires never were recorded. If, however, it were the fact that such a history were in
existence, it must necessarily, being the story of a knight−errant, be grandiloquent, lofty,
imposing, grand and true. With this he comforted himself somewhat, though it made him
uncomfortable to think that the author was a Moor, judging by the title of «Cide;» and that
no truth was to be looked for from Moors, as they are all impostors, cheats, and schemers.
He was afraid he might have dealt with his love affairs in some indecorous fashion, that
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 her,
spurning queens, empresses, and damsels of all sorts, and keeping in check the impetuosity
of his natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up in these and divers other cogitations, he
was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom Don Quixote received with great courtesy.
The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great bodily size, but he was a
very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion, but very sharp−witted, somewhere about
four−and−twenty years of age, with a round face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, all
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 Quixote, by falling on his knees before him and saying, «Let
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 rise, and said, «So, then, it is true that there is a history of me,
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CHAPTER III 416
and that it was a Moor and a sage who wrote it?»
«So true is it, senor,» said Samson, «that 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 Quixote, «that 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 bachelor, «your 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 me, senor bachelor, what deeds of mine are
they that are made most of in this history?»
«On that point,» replied the bachelor, «opinions 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 point, «does 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 everything, even to the capers that worthy Sancho cut in the blanket.»
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CHAPTER III 417
«I cut no capers in the blanket,» returned Sancho; «in the air I did, and more of them
than I liked.»
«There is no human history in the world, I suppose,» said Don Quixote, «that 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 bachelor, «there 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 history, if they tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. AEneas was not in truth and
earnest so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise as Homer describes him.»
«That is true,» said Samson; «but it is one thing to write as a poet, another to write as a
historian; the poet may describe or sing things, not as they were, but as they ought to have
been; but the historian has to write them down, not as they ought to have been, but as they
were, without adding anything to the truth or taking anything from it.»
«Well then,» said Sancho, «if 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' faith, you have no want of memory
when you choose to remember.»
«If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me,» said Sancho, «my weals would
not let me, for they are still fresh on my ribs.»
«Hush, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «for they say, too, that I am one of the principal
presonages in it.»
«Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho,» said Samson.
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CHAPTER III 418
«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 bachelor, «if 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 life, with the experience that years bring, he will be fitter and better
qualified for being a governor than he is at present.»
«By God, master,» said Sancho, «the 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 Quixote, «for 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 will, there will not be any want of a
thousand islands, much less one, for Sancho to govern.»
«I have seen governors in these parts,» said Sancho, «that 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 Samson, «but 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 liking, for I don't know what it is; but leaving this matter of the government in
God's hands, to send me wherever it may be most to his service, I may tell you, senor
bachelor Samson Carrasco, it 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; for, on the
faith of a true squire, if he had said anything about me that was at all unbecoming an old
Christian, such as I am, the deaf would have heard of it.»
«That would be working miracles,» said Samson.
«Miracles or no miracles,» said Sancho, «let everyone mind how he speaks or writes
about people, and not set down at random the first thing that comes into his head.»
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CHAPTER III 419
«One of the faults they find with this history,» said the bachelor, «is 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 Quixote, «the 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 Samson, «for 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 Quixote, «would 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, 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 writings, lose it entirely, or
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damage it in some degree, when they give them to the press.»
«The reason of that,» said Samson, «is, 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 pulpit, but 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 exacting, and did not pay so much attention to the spots on the
bright sun of the work they grumble at; for if aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus, they
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 moles, that
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 himself, for 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; «for, as stultorum infinitum est numerus,
innumerable are those who have relished the said history; but some have brought a charge
against the author's memory, inasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief was who stole
Sancho's Dapple; for it is not stated there, but only to be inferred from what is set down, that
he was stolen, and a little farther on we see Sancho mounted on the same ass, without any
reappearance of it. They say, too, that he forgot to state what Sancho did with those hundred
crowns that he found in the valise in the Sierra Morena, as he never alludes to them again,
and there are many who would be glad to know what he did with them, or what he spent
them on, for 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 me, and 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 home,
and my old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I'll come back, and will answer you and
all the world every question you may choose to ask, as 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 remained, a couple of young pigeons were added to the
ordinary fare, at dinner they talked chivalry, Carrasco fell in with his host's humour, the
Don Quixote
CHAPTER III 421
banquet came to an end, they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho returned, and their
conversation was resumed.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER III 422
CHAPTER IV
I
N WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE
DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE
BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING
Sancho came back to Don Quixote's house, and returning to the late subject of
conversation, he said, «As 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «and 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 is, that before the ass has turned
up, the author speaks of Sancho as being mounted on it.»
«I don't know what to say to that,» said Sancho, «unless 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 answered, «I spent them for my own good, and my wife's, and my
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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 Carrasco, «to 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 it, nor does he
know who has got it; and we cannot say whether it will appear or not; and so, on that head,
as some say that no second part has ever been good, and others that enough has been already
written about Don Quixote, it is thought there will be no second part; though some, who are
jovial rather than saturnine, say, 'Let us have more Quixotades, let Don Quixote charge and
Sancho chatter, and no matter what it may turn out, we shall be satisfied with that.'»
«And what does the author mean to do?» said Don Quixote.
«What?» replied Samson; «why, as soon as he has found the history which he is now
searching for with extraordinary diligence, he will at once give it to the press, moved more
by the profit that may accrue to him from doing so than by any thought of praise.»
Whereat Sancho observed, «The 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,
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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
ears, which neighing Don Quixote accepted as a happy omen, and he resolved to make
another sally in three or four days from that time. Announcing his intention to the bachelor,
he 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 Aragon, and the city of
Saragossa, where there were to be certain solemn joustings at the festival of St. George, at
which he might win renown above all the knights of Aragon, which would be winning it
above all the knights of the world. He commended his very praiseworthy and gallant
resolution, but admonished him to proceed with greater caution in encountering dangers,
because his life did not belong to him, but 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
world, senor bachelor! there is a time to attack and a time to retreat, and it is not to be
always 'Santiago, and close Spain!' Moreover, I have heard it said (and I think by my master
himself, if I remember rightly) that the mean of valour lies between the extremes of
cowardice and rashness; and if that be so, I don't want him to fly without having good
reason, or to attack when the odds make it better not. But, above all things, I 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
fighting, and 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 sword, even against rascally churls of the hatchet and hood, is idle. I don't set up to
be a fighting man, Senor Samson, but only the best and most loyal squire that ever served
knight−errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my many faithful services,
is pleased to give me some island of the many his worship says one may stumble on in these
parts, I will take it as a great favour; and if he does not give it to me, I was born like
everyone else, and a man must not live in dependence on anyone except God; and what is
more, my bread will taste as well, and perhaps even better, without 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 me, to 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 that, if heaven were to make me a
fair offer of an island or something else of the kind, without much trouble and without much
risk, I am not such a fool as to refuse it; for they say, too, 'when they offer thee a heifer, run
with a halter; and 'when good luck comes to thee, take it in.'»
«Brother Sancho,» said Carrasco, «you 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.»
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«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 manners, and 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 Sancho, «not 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 bachelor, if he were a poet, to do him the favour of composing some
verses for him conveying the farewell he meant to take of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and
to see that a letter of her name was placed at the beginning of each line, so that, at the end of
the verses, «Dulcinea del Toboso» might be read by putting together the first letters. The
bachelor replied that although he was not one of the famous poets of Spain, who were, they
said, only three and a half, he would not fail to compose the required verses; though he saw
a great difficulty in the task, as the letters which made up the name were seventeen; so, if he
made four ballad stanzas of four lines each, there would be a letter over, and if he made
them of five, what they called decimas or redondillas, there 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 Quixote, «for unless the name stands
there plain and manifest, no woman would believe the verses were made for her.»
They agreed upon this, and that the departure should take place in three days from that
time. Don Quixote charged the bachelor to keep it a secret, especially from the curate and
Master Nicholas, and from his niece and the housekeeper, lest they should prevent the
execution of his praiseworthy and valiant purpose. Carrasco promised all, and then took his
leave, charging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or evil fortunes whenever he had an
opportunity; and thus they bade each other farewell, and Sancho went away to make the
necessary preparations for their expedition.
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CHAPTER V
O
F THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED
BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, AND OTHER
MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED
The translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth chapter, says that he
considers it apocryphal, because in it Sancho Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might
have been expected from his limited intelligence, and 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 him, he was unwilling to leave it untranslated, and therefore he went on to
say:
Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed his happiness a
bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him, «What have you got, Sancho friend, that
you are so glad?»
To which he replied, «Wife, 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 she, «and 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 Sancho, «I 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, sister, you must look to Dapple carefully
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for the next three days, so that he may be fit to take arms; double his feed, and see to the
pack−saddle and other harness, for it is not to a wedding we are bound, but to go round the
world, and play at give and take with giants and dragons and monsters, and hear hissings
and roarings and bellowings and howlings; and even all this would be lavender, if we had
not to reckon with Yanguesans and enchanted Moors.»
«I know well enough, husband,» said Teresa, «that 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 Sancho, «if 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 live, though it be with her pip, live, and
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 government, and when it is God's
will you will go, or be carried, to your grave without a government. How many there are in
the world who live without a government, and continue to live all the same, and are
reckoned in the number of the people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as the poor
are never without that, they always eat with a relish. But mind, Sancho, if by good luck you
should find yourself with some government, don't forget me and your children. Remember
that Sanchico is now full fifteen, and it is right he should go to school, if his uncle the abbot
has a mind to have him trained for the Church. Consider, too, 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; and, after all, a daughter looks better ill
married than well whored.»
«By my faith,» replied Sancho, «if 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 equal, that is the safest plan; for if
you put her out of wooden clogs into high−heeled shoes, out 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 is, and 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 not, what 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 higher,
and bear in mind the proverb that says, 'wipe the nose of your neigbbour's son, and take him
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into your house.' A fine thing it would be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some great count or
grand gentleman, who, when the humour took him, would 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 time, I can tell you, husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho,
and leave marrying her to my care; there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho's son, a stout, sturdy
young fellow that we know, and I can see he does not look sour at the girl; and with him,
one of our own sort, she will be well married, and we shall have her always under our eyes,
and be all one family, parents and children, grandchildren and sons−in−law, and 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 her, or she what to make of herself.»
«Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas,» said Sancho, «what 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 talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the translator of the
history say he considered this chapter apocryphal.
«Don't you see, you animal,» continued Sancho, «that 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. «Well, for all that, I am afraid
this rank of countess for my daughter will be her ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess
or a princess of her, but I can tell you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a
lover of equality, brother, and I can't bear to see people give themselves airs without any
right. They called me Teresa at my baptism, a plain, simple name, without any additions or
tags or fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo was my father's name, and as I am your wife, I am
called Teresa Panza, though 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 flax, and used to go
to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead of a mantle, and there she goes
to−day in a hooped gown with her broaches and airs, as if we didn't know her!' If God keeps
me in my seven senses, or five, or whatever number I have, I am not going to bring myself
to such a pass; go you, brother, and be a government or an island man, and swagger as much
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as you like; for by the soul of my mother, neither 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 Quixote, and leave us to our misadventures, for God will mend them for us according
as we deserve it. I don't know, I'm sure, who fixed the 'Don' to him, what 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 thee, discovers 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 poor, it 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 Sancho, «and 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 apocryphal, inasmuch as they are beyond
Sancho's capacity.
«Whence it arises,» he continued, «that 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
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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 Sancho, «not revolved.»
«Don't set yourself to wrangle with me, husband,» said Teresa; «I speak as God pleases,
and don't deal in out−of−the−way phrases; and I say if you are bent upon having a
government, take your son Sancho with you, and 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 Sancho, «I 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 Teresa, «and 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 Teresa, «it 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
earnest, as if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried.
Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a countess, he would put
it off as long as possible. Here their conversation came to an end, and Sancho went back to
see Don Quixote, and make arrangements for their departure.
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CHAPTER VI
O
F 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 wife, Teresa Cascajo, held the above irrelevant
conversation, Don Quixote's niece and housekeeper were not idle, for by a thousand signs
they began to perceive that their uncle and master meant to give them the slip the third time,
and once more betake himself to his, for them, ill−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. Nevertheless, among many other representations made
to him, the housekeeper said to him, «In 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 replied, «What 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 said, «Tell us, senor, at his Majesty's court are there no
knights?»
«There are,» replied Don Quixote, «and 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 she, «be one of those that, without stirring a step,
serve their king and lord in his court?»
«Recollect, my friend,» said Don Quixote, «all 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
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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 niece, «remember 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 Quixote, «if 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 niece, «that 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
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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 Quixote, "and 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
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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 niece, «my 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 Quixote, «if 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 door, and when they asked who was there,
Sancho Panza made answer that it was he. The instant the housekeeper knew who it was, she
ran to hide herself so as not to see him; in such abhorrence did she hold him. The niece let
him in, and his master Don Quixote came forward to receive him with open arms, and the
pair shut themselves up in his room, where they had another conversation not inferior to the
previous one.
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CHAPTER VII
O
F WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE
AND HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS
The instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself in with her master, she
guessed what they were about; and suspecting that the result of the consultation would be a
resolve to undertake a third sally, she seized her mantle, and in deep anxiety and distress, ran
to find the bachelor Samson Carrasco, as she thought that, being a well−spoken man, and a
new friend of her master's, he might be able to persuade him to give up any such crazy
notion. She found him pacing the patio of his house, and, perspiring and flurried, she fell at
his feet the moment she saw him.
Carrasco, seeing how distressed and overcome she was, said to her, «What is this,
mistress housekeeper? What has happened to you? One would think you heart−broken.»
«Nothing, Senor Samson,» said she, «only 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 bachelor, «for 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 bachelor, «don't be uneasy, but go home in peace; get me
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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 housekeeper, «is 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 retired, and the bachelor went to
look for the curate, and arrange with him what will be told in its proper place.
While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up together, they had a discussion which the
history records with great precision and scrupulous exactness. Sancho said to his master,
«Senor, 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 Sancho, «I 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 Sancho, «I 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 docile,
tractable, and gentle that thou wilt take what I say to thee, and submit to what I teach thee.»
«I would bet,» said Sancho, «that 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 point, what does Teresa say?»
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«Teresa says,» replied Sancho, «that 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; «continue, Sancho my friend; go on; you talk pearls
to−day.»
«The fact is,» continued Sancho, «that, 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 Sancho, «is 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 Quixote, «sometimes proportion may be as good as
promotion.»
«I see,» said Sancho; «I'll bet I ought to have said proportion, and not promotion; but it
is no matter, as your worship has understood me.»
«And so well understood,» returned Don Quixote, «that 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
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CHAPTER VII 438
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 firm, resolute language, a cloud came over the sky with
him and the wings of his heart drooped, for 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 niece, who were anxious to
hear by what arguments he was about to dissuade their master from going to seek
adventures. The arch wag Samson came forward, and embracing him as he had done before,
said with a loud voice, «O 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 then, turning to the
housekeeper, he said, «Mistress 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 this, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said, «Did 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
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CHAPTER VII 439
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 Sancho, deeply moved and with tears in his eyes; «it shall not be said
of me, master mine,» he continued, «'the bread eaten and the company dispersed.' Nay, I
come of no ungrateful stock, for all the world knows, but particularly my own town, who the
Panzas from whom I am descended were; and, what is more, I know and have learned, by
many good words and deeds, your worship's desire to show me favour; and if I have been
bargaining more or less about my wages, it was only to please my wife, who, when she sets
herself to press a point, no hammer drives the hoops of a cask as she drives one to do what
she wants; but, after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman; and as I am a man
anyhow, which I can't deny, I will be one in my own house too, let 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 provoked, and let us set out at once, to save Senor Samson's soul
from suffering, as 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 loyally, as
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 talk, for 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 now, hearing 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
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CHAPTER VII 440
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.
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CHAPTER VIII
W
HEREIN 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 afield, and 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 come, which
now begin on the road to El Toboso, as the others began on the plains of Montiel; nor is it
much that he asks in consideration of all he promises, and so he goes on to say:
Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment Samson took his departure,
Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple to sigh, which, by both knight and squire, was
accepted as a good sign and a very happy omen; though, if the truth is to be told, the sighs
and brays of Dapple were louder than the neighings of the hack, from which Sancho inferred
that his good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his master, building, perhaps, upon
some judicial astrology that he may have known, though the history says nothing about it;
all that can be said is, that when he stumbled or fell, he was heard to say he wished he had
not come out, for by stumbling or falling there was nothing to be got but a damaged shoe or
a broken rib; and, fool as he was, he was not much astray in this.
Said Don Quixote, «Sancho, 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 her, at any rate where you will be able to receive her blessing; unless, indeed,
she throws it over the wall of the yard where I saw her the time before, when 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.»
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«It might have been all that,» returned Sancho, «but to me it looked like a wall, unless I
am short of memory.»
«At all events, let us go there, Sancho,» said Don Quixote; «for, so that I see her, it is
the same to me whether it be over a wall, or at a window, or through the chink of a door, or
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 heart, so that I shall be unmatched and unequalled in
wisdom and valour.»
«Well, to tell the truth, senor,» said Sancho, «when 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 Quixote, «in 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 saw, my honour goes dragged in the dirt, knocked
about, up and down, sweeping the streets, as they say. And yet, on the faith of an honest
man, I never spoke ill of any enchanter, and I am not so well off that I am to be envied; to be
sure, I am rather sly, and I have a certain spice of the rogue in me; but all is covered by the
great cloak of my simplicity, always natural and never acted; and if I had no other merit save
that I believe, as I always do, firmly and truly in God, and all the holy Roman Catholic
Church holds and believes, and that I am a mortal enemy of the Jews, the historians ought to
have mercy on me and treat me well in their writings. But let them say what they like; naked
was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain; nay, while I see myself put into a
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book and passed on from hand to hand over the world, I don't care a fig, let them say what
they like of me.»
«That, Sancho,» returned Don Quixote, «reminds 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
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CHAPTER VIII 444
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 Sancho, «I 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 on, in God's name, and I will
answer as well as I can.»
«Tell me, senor,» Sancho went on to say, «those Julys or Augusts, and all those
venturous knights that you say are now dead− where are they now?»
«The heathens,» replied Don Quixote, «are, 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 are, have they silver lamps before them, or are the walls of their chapels
ornamented with crutches, winding−sheets, tresses of hair, legs 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 size, which they now call in Rome Saint Peter's needle. The emperor
Hadrian had for a tomb a castle as large as a good−sized village, which they called the
Moles Adriani, and 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 tombs, or of the many others of the heathens, were 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
work, to 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.»
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«Now I have got you,» said Sancho; «in that case the fame of them who bring the dead
to life, who give sight to the blind, cure cripples, restore health to the sick, and before whose
tombs there are lamps burning, and 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 Sancho,
«belong 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 Sancho, «let 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 Quixote, «but 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 Sancho, «but I have heard say that there are more friars in heaven than
knights−errant.»
«That,» said Don Quixote, «is because those in religious orders are more numerous than
knights.»
«The errants are many,» said Sancho.
«Many,» replied Don Quixote, «but few they who deserve the name of knights.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER VIII 446
With these, and other discussions of the same sort, they passed that night and the
following day, without anything worth mention happening to them, whereat Don Quixote
was not a little dejected; but at length the next day, at daybreak, they descried the great city
of El Toboso, at the sight of which Don Quixote's spirits rose and Sancho's fell, for he did
not know Dulcinea's house, nor in all his life had he ever seen her, any more than his master;
so that they were both uneasy, the one to see her, the other at not having seen her, and
Sancho was at a loss to know what he was to do when his master sent him to El Toboso. In
the end, Don Quixote made up his mind to enter the city at nightfall, and they waited until
the time came among some oak trees that were near El Toboso; and when the moment they
had agreed upon arrived, they made their entrance into the city, where something happened
them that may fairly be called something.
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CHAPTER VIII 447
CHAPTER IX
W
HEREIN 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 silence, for all the inhabitants were
asleep, and stretched on the broad of their backs, as the saying is. The night was darkish,
though Sancho would have been glad had it been quite dark, so as to find in the darkness an
excuse for his blundering. All over the place nothing was to be heard except the barking of
dogs, which deafened the ears of Don Quixote and troubled the heart of Sancho. Now and
then an ass brayed, pigs grunted, cats mewed, and 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 Sancho, «Sancho, 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 Sancho, «when 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 Quixote, «to amuse herself with damsels, as great ladies and princesses are accustomed
to do.»
«Senor,» said Sancho, «if 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 Quixote, «and 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 Sancho, «perhaps 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 lead, and having gone a matter of two hundred paces he came
upon the mass that produced the shade, and found it was a great tower, and then he
perceived that the building in question was no palace, but the chief church of the town, and
said he, «It's the church we have lit upon, Sancho.»
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CHAPTER IX 448
«So I see,» said Sancho, «and 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 Sancho, «every 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 peace, and not throw the rope after the bucket.»
«I'll hold my tongue,» said Sancho, «but 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 here, heretic,
have 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 palace, and 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 her, no
more have I.»
«That cannot be,» said Don Quixote, «for, 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 Quixote, «there 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER IX 449
While the two were engaged in this conversation, they perceived some one with a pair
of mules approaching the spot where they stood, and from the noise the plough made, as it
dragged along the ground, they guessed him to be some labourer who had got up before
daybreak to go to his work, and so it proved to be. He came along singing the ballad that
says−
Ill did ye fare, ye men of France, In Roncesvalles chase−
«May I die, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, when he heard him, «if any good will come to
us tonight! Dost thou not hear what that clown is singing?»
«I do,» said Sancho, «but 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 up, and 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 lad, «I 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 you, for here comes the daylight;» and
without waiting for any more of his questions, he whipped on his mules.
Sancho, seeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatisfied, said to him, «Senor,
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 Quixote, «thou 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
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CHAPTER IX 450
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 town, lest 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 departure, which they took at once, and two miles out of the village they
found a forest or thicket wherein Don Quixote ensconced himself, while Sancho returned to
the city to speak to Dulcinea, in which embassy things befell him which demand fresh
attention and a new chapter.
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CHAPTER IX 451
CHAPTER X
W
HEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO
ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND 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 silence, fearing it would not he believed,
because here Don Quixote's madness reaches the confines of the greatest that can be
conceived, and even goes a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, though
still under the same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding to the story or
leaving out a particle of the truth, and entirely disregarding the charges of falsehood that
might be brought against him; and he was right, for the truth may run fine but will not break,
and always rises above falsehood as oil above water; and so, going on with his story, he says
that as soon as Don Quixote had ensconced himself in the forest, oak grove, or wood near El
Toboso, he bade Sancho return to the city, and not come into his presence again without
having first spoken on his behalf to his lady, and begged of her that it might be her good
pleasure to permit herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and deign to bestow her
blessing upon him, so 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 instructions, and
to bring back an answer as good as the one he brought back before.
«Go, my son,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 yours, master
Don Quixote
CHAPTER X 452
mine, for 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 luck, and that where there are no
fletches there are no pegs; and moreover they say, the hare jumps up where it's not looked
for. I say this because, if we could not find my lady's palaces or castles to−night, now that it
is daylight I count upon finding them when I least expect it, and once found, leave it to me
to manage her.»
«Verily, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «thou dost always bring in thy proverbs happily,
whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck in what I am anxious about.»
With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don Quixote remained
behind, seated on his horse, resting in his stirrups and leaning on the end of his lance, filled
with sad and troubled forebodings; and there we will leave him, and accompany Sancho,
who went off no less serious and troubled than he left his master; so much so, that as soon as
he had got out of the thicket, and looking round saw that Don Quixote was not within sight,
he dismounted from his ass, and seating himself at the foot of a tree began to commune with
himself, saying, «Now, 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 himself, and all the conclusion he could come
to was to say to himself again, «Well, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER X 453
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 easy, counting the business as good as
settled, and 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 Dapple, he spied, coming from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood,
three peasant girls on three colts, or fillies− for the author does not make the point clear,
though it is more likely they were she−asses, the usual mount with village girls; but as it is
of no great consequence, we need not stop to prove it.
To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned full speed to seek his
master, and found him sighing and uttering a thousand passionate lamentations. When Don
Quixote saw him he exclaimed, «What news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day
with a white stone or a black?»
«Your worship,» replied Sancho, «had 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 Sancho, «that 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 me, or 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER X 454
«Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,» said Don Quixote.
«There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys,» said Sancho; «but no
matter what they come on, there they are, the finest ladies one could wish for, especially my
lady the princess Dulcinea, who staggers one's senses.»
«Let us go, Sancho, my son,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 wood, and saw the three village lasses close at hand.
Don Quixote looked all along the road to El Toboso, and as he could see nobody except the
three peasant girls, he was completely puzzled, and 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
head, that you can't see that they are these who are coming here, shining like the very sun at
noonday?»
«I see nothing, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «but three country girls on three jackasses.»
«Now, may God deliver me from the devil!» said Sancho, «and can it be that your
worship takes three hackneys− or whatever they're called− as 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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «don'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 lasses, and dismounting from Dapple, caught hold
of one of the asses of the three country girls by the halter, and dropping on both knees on the
ground, he said, «Queen 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
CHAPTER X 455
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 way, bad luck to you, and let us pass, for we are in a
hurry.»
To which Sancho returned, «Oh, 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 this, one of the others exclaimed, «Woa 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 thou, highest perfection of excellence that can
be desired, utmost limit of grace in human shape, sole relief of this afflicted heart that adores
thee, though the malign enchanter that persecutes me has brought clouds and cataracts on
my eyes, and to them, and them only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty and changed thy
features into those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he has not at the same time changed mine
into those of some monster to render them loathsome in thy sight, refuse 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 girl, «much 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 go, very 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
free, prodding her «cackney» with a spike she had at the end of a stick, she set off at full
speed across the field. The she−ass, however, feeling the point more acutely than usual,
began cutting such capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to the ground; seeing which, Don
Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho to fix and girth the pack−saddle, which 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 beast, the lady, getting up
from the ground, saved him the trouble, for, going back a little, she took a short run, and
putting both hands on the croup of the ass she dropped into the saddle more lightly than a
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falcon, and sat astride like a man, whereat Sancho said, «Rogue!» but our lady is lighter than
a lanner, and might teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount; she cleared the
back of the saddle in one jump, and 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 truth,
for as soon as they saw Dulcinea mounted, they pushed on after her, and sped away without
looking back, for more than half a league.
Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no longer in sight, he
turned to Sancho and said, «How 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 this, «O 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 Quixote, «Dulcinea 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 so, if she had a hundred moles like the
one thou hast described, in her they would not be moles, but moons and shining stars. But
tell me, Sancho, that which seemed to me to be a pack−saddle as thou wert fixing it, was it a
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flat−saddle or a side−saddle?»
«It was neither,» replied Sancho, «but 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 say, and
will say a thousand times, I am the most unfortunate of men.»
Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing the simplicity of the
master he had so nicely befooled. At length, after a good deal more conversation had passed
between them, they remounted their beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which 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 them, so many, so
important, and so strange, that they deserve to be recorded and read, as will be seen farther
on.
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CHAPTER XI
O
F 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 him, that without being aware of it he let go Rocinante's
bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, stopped at every step to crop the
fresh grass with which the plain abounded.
Sancho recalled him from his reverie. «Melancholy, senor,» said he, «was made, not for
beasts, but for men; but if men give way to it overmuch they turn to beasts; control yourself,
your worship; be yourself again; gather up Rocinante's reins; cheer up, rouse 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 voice, «hush 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 twain, I trow, who saw her once, to see
her now.»
«Thou mayest well say that, Sancho,» replied Don Quixote, «as 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 God, who alone knows what is to happen in this vale
of tears, in this evil world of ours, where there is hardly a thing to be found without some
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mixture of wickedness, roguery, and rascality. But one thing, senor, troubles me more than
all the rest, and that is thinking what is to be done when your worship conquers some giant,
or some other knight, and orders him to go and present himself before the beauty of the lady
Dulcinea. Where is this poor giant, or this poor wretch of a vanquished knight, to find her? I
think I can see them wandering all over El Toboso, looking like noddies, and 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 Quixote, «the 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 happy, we on our part will make the best of it, and get on as well as we
can, seeking our adventures, and 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 Panza, but 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 roof, and 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 wings, and at one side an emperor, with a crown, to all appearance of gold, on his
head. At the feet of Death was the god called Cupid, without his bandage, but with his bow,
quiver, and arrows; there was also a knight in full armour, except that he had no morion or
helmet, but 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 encountered, took Don
Quixote somewhat aback, and struck terror into the heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don
Quixote was glad of it, believing that some new perilous adventure was presenting itself to
him, and under this impression, and with a spirit prepared to face any danger, he planted
himself in front of the cart, and in a loud and menacing tone, exclaimed, «Carter, 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 devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, «Senor, 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
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CHAPTER XI 460
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 Quixote, «when 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 talking, fate so willed it that one of the company in a mummers' dress
with a great number of bells, and armed with three blown ox−bladders at the end of a stick,
joined them, and this merry−andrew approaching Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick
and banging the ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great jingling of the bells,
which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante that, in spite of Don Quixote's efforts to
hold him in, taking 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. Sancho, who thought his master
was in danger of being thrown, jumped off Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him; but by
the time he reached him he was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, who
had come down with his master, the usual end and upshot of Rocinante's vivacity and high
spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast to go and help Don Quixote, the dancing
devil with the bladders jumped up on Dapple, and beating him with them, more by the fright
and the noise than by the pain of the blows, made 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 fall, and did not know which of the two cases of need he should attend to first;
but in the end, like a good squire and good servant, he 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 death, and 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 Rocinante, he said to him, «Senor, 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 Quixote, «even 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
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the mules of it I will make good the loss of Dapple.»
«You need not take the trouble, senor,» said Sancho; «keep cool, for as I now see, the
devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his old quarters;» and so it turned out, for,
having come down with Dapple, in imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made
off on foot to the town, and the ass came back to his master.
«For all that,» said Don Quixote, «it 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 actors, for they are a favoured class; I myself have known an actor taken up for two
murders, and yet come off scot−free; remember that, as they are merry folk who give
pleasure, everyone favours and protects them, and helps and makes much of them, above all
when they are those of the royal companies and under patent, all or most of whom in dress
and appearance look like princes.»
«Still, for all that,» said Don Quixote, «the player devil must not go off boasting, even if
the whole human race favours him.»
So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town, shouting out as he
went, «Stay! 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 Quixote, that those in the cart heard and understood
them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker's intention was, Death in an instant
jumped out of the cart, and the emperor, the devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the
queen or the god Cupid stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and formed in
line, prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their pebbles. Don Quixote, when 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 squadron, said to him, «It 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,
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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 besides, I will arrange it with my ass
to leave his grievance to my good−will and pleasure, and that is to live in peace as long as
heaven grants me life.»
«Well,» said Don Quixote, «if 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 about, Sancho ran to take possession of his Dapple, Death and his
flying squadron returned to their cart and pursued their journey, and thus the dread
adventure of the cart of Death ended happily, thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master;
who had, the following day, a fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than the last, with
an enamoured knight−errant.
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CHAPTER XII
O
F 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 Death, Don Quixote and his squire
passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at Sancho's persuasion ate a little from
the store carried by Dapple, and over their supper Sancho said to his master, «Senor, what a
fool I should have looked if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the first adventure your
worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares. After all, 'a sparrow in the hand is
better than a vulture on the wing.'»
«At the same time, Sancho,» replied Don Quixote, «if thou hadst let me attack them as I
wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold crown and Cupid's painted wings would have
fallen to thee as spoils, for I should have taken them by force and given them into thy
hands.»
«The sceptres and crowns of those play−actor emperors,» said Sancho, «were never yet
pure gold, but only brass foil or tin.»
«That is true,» said Don Quixote, «for it would not be right that the accessories of the
drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions and semblances, like the drama itself;
towards which, Sancho− and, as a necessary consequence, towards those who represent and
produce it− I would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments of great
good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in which we may see vividly
displayed what goes on in human life; nor is there any similitude that shows us more
faithfully what we are and ought to be than the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast
thou not seen a play acted in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers
other personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another the knave, this one the
merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp−witted fool, another the foolish lover; and when the
play is over, and they have put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors become equal.»
«Yes, I have seen that,» said Sancho.
«Well then,» said Don Quixote, «the same thing happens in the comedy and life of this
world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in short, all the characters that can be
brought into a play; but when it is over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of
the garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in the grave.»
«A fine comparison!» said Sancho; «though not so new but that I have heard it many
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and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of chess; how, so long as the game
lasts, each piece has its own particular office, and when the game is finished they are all
mixed, jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much like
ending life in the grave.»
«Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho,» said Don Quixote.
«Ay,» said Sancho; «it must be that some of your worship's shrewdness sticks to me;
land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to yield good fruit if you dung it and till it;
what I mean is that your worship's conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the
barren soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and society has been the
tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in abundance that will not fall away or
slide from those paths of good breeding that your worship has made in my parched
understanding.»
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and perceived that what he said
about his improvement was true, for now and then he spoke in a way that surprised him;
though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to talk fine and attempted polite language, he
wound up by toppling over from the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his
ignorance; and where he showed his culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was
in dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not upon the subject in
hand, as may have been seen already and will be noticed in the course of this history.
In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but Sancho felt a desire
to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to say when he wanted to go to sleep; and
stripping Dapple he left him at liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante's
saddle, as his master's express orders were, that so long as they were in the field or not
sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped− the ancient usage established and
observed by knights−errant being to take off the bridle and hang it on the saddle−bow, but to
remove the saddle from the horse− never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same
liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a friendship so
unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by tradition from father to son, that the
author of this veracious history devoted some special chapters to it, which, in order to
preserve the propriety and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert therein;
although at times he forgets this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two beasts
would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they were tired or full,
Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple's, stretching half a yard or more on the other
side, and the pair would stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, or at
least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did not drive them to go and look for food. I
may add that they say the author left it on record that he likened their friendship to that of
Nisus and Euryalus, and Pylades and Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived, to the
admiration of mankind, how firm the friendship must have been between these two peaceful
animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships with one another so badly. This was why it
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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,
And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared the friendship
of these animals to that of men; for men have received many lessons from beasts, and
learned many important things, as, for example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and
gratitude from the dog, watchfulness from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from
the elephant, and loyalty from the horse.
Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote dozed at that of a
sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke him,
and rising up startled, he listened and looked in the direction the noise came from, and
perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to
the other, «Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the horses, for, so far as I can see,
this place will furnish grass for them, and the solitude and silence my love−sick thoughts
need of.» As he said this he stretched himself upon the ground, and as he flung himself
down, the armour in which he was clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must
be a knight−errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he shook him by the arm and
with no small difficulty brought him back to his senses, and said in a low voice to him,
«Brother Sancho, we have got an adventure.»
«God send us a good one,» said Sancho; «and where may her ladyship the adventure
be?»
«Where, Sancho?» replied Don Quixote; «turn thine eyes and look, and thou wilt see
stretched there a knight−errant, who, it strikes me, is not over and above happy, for I saw
him fling himself off his horse and throw himself on the ground with a certain air of
dejection, and his armour rattled as he fell.»
«Well,» said Sancho, «how does your worship make out that to be an adventure?»
«I do not mean to say,» returned Don Quixote, «that it is a complete adventure, but that
it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is
tuning a lute or guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must be
getting ready to sing something.»
«Faith, you are right,» said Sancho, «and no doubt he is some enamoured knight.»
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«There is no knight−errant that is not,» said Don Quixote; «but let us listen to him, for,
if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the ball of his thoughts; because out of the
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.»
Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove's voice, which was
neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and listening attentively the pair heard him
sing this
SONNET
Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold; Declare the terms that I am to obey; My will
to yours submissively I mould, And from your law my feet shall never stray. Would you I
die, to silent grief a prey? Then count me even now as dead and cold; Would you I tell my
woes in some new way? Then shall my tale by Love itself be told. The unison of opposites
to prove, Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I; But still, obedient to the laws of love,
Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast, Whate'er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest
Indelible for all eternity.
With an «Ah me!» that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of his heart, the
Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and shortly afterwards exclaimed in a
melancholy and piteous voice, «O fairest and most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it
be, most serene Casildea de Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste
away and perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils? It is not enough that I
have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all the Leonese, all the Tartesians, all the
Castilians, and finally all the knights of La Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the
world?»
«Not so,» said Don Quixote at this, «for I am of La Mancha, and I have never confessed
anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess a thing so much to the prejudice of my
lady's beauty; thou seest how this knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will
tell us more about himself.»
«That he will,» returned Sancho, «for he seems in a mood to bewail himself for a month
at a stretch.»
But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices near him, instead
of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed in a distinct but courteous tone,
«Who goes there? What are you? Do you belong to the number of the happy or of the
miserable?»
«Of the miserable,» answered Don Quixote.
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«Then come to me,» said he of the Grove, «and rest assured that it is to woe itself and
affliction itself you come.»
Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous manner, went over
to him, and so did Sancho.
The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, «Sit down here, sir knight; for,
that you are one, and of those that profess knight−errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to
have found you in this place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat
of knights−errant, keep you company.» To which Don made answer, «A knight I am of the
profession you mention, and though sorrows, misfortunes, and calamities have made my
heart their abode, the compassion I feel for the misfortunes of others has not been thereby
banished from it. From what you have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I
mean from the love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament.»
In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground peaceably and
sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not going to break one another's heads.
«Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?» asked he of the Grove of Don Quixote.
«By mischance I am,» replied Don Quixote; «though the ills arising from
well−bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than misfortunes.»
«That is true,» returned he of the Grove, «if scorn did not unsettle our reason and
understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like revenge.»
«I was never scorned by my lady,» said Don Quixote.
«Certainly not,» said Sancho, who stood close by, «for my lady is as a lamb, and softer
than a roll of butter.»
«Is this your squire?» asked he of the Grove.
«He is,» said Don Quixote.
«I never yet saw a squire,» said he of the Grove, «who ventured to speak when his
master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as big as his father, and it cannot be
proved that he has ever opened his lips when I am speaking.»
«By my faith then,» said Sancho, «I have spoken, and am fit to speak, in the presence of
one as much, or even− but never mind− it only makes it worse to stir it.»
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The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, «Let us two go where
we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and leave these gentlemen our masters to
fight it out over the story of their loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it
without having made an end of it.»
«So be it by all means,» said Sancho; «and I will tell your worship who I am, that you
may see whether I am to be reckoned among the number of the most talkative squires.»
With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there passed a
conversation as droll as that which passed between their masters was serious.
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CHAPTER XIII
I
N WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT
OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND
TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES
The knights and the squires made two parties, these telling the story of their lives, the
others the story of their loves; but the history relates first of all the conversation of the
servants, and afterwards takes up that of the masters; and it says that, withdrawing a little
from the others, he of the Grove said to Sancho, «A 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 Sancho, «that 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 Grove, «may 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 Sancho, «have 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 Grove, «shall be satisfied with a canonry for my services, and my
master has already assigned me one.»
«Your master,» said Sancho, «no 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 poor, some are dull, and, in short, the
highest and choicest brings with it a heavy burden of cares and troubles which the unhappy
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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 houses, and there employ
ourselves in pleasanter occupations −in hunting or fishing, for 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 hack, but I
have an ass that is worth my master's horse twice over; God send me a bad Easter, and that
the next one I am to see, if I would swap, even 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
greyhounds, I can't want for them, for there are enough and to spare in my town; and,
moreover, there is more pleasure in sport when it is at other people's expense.»
«In truth and earnest, sir squire,» said he of the Grove, «I 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 Sancho, «that 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
lance, and as fresh as an April morning, and 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 answer, somewhat sulkily, «She'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
plaza, or when anyone does anything very well, the people are wont to say, 'Ha, whoreson
rip! how well he has done it!' and that what seems to be abuse in the expression is high
praise? Disown sons and daughters, senor, who don't do what deserves that compliments of
this sort should be paid to their parents.»
«I do disown them,» replied Sancho, «and 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
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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 sort, there is not a greater one in the world than my master, for he is
one of those of whom they say, 'the cares of others kill the ass;' for, in order that another
knight may recover the senses he has lost, he makes a madman of himself and goes looking
for what, when found, may, for all I know, fly in his own face.» «And is he in love
perchance?» asked Sancho.
«He is,» said of the Grove, «with 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 beans, but 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 saying,
that to have companions in trouble gives some relief, I may take consolation from you,
inasmuch as you serve a master as crazy as my own.»
«Crazy but valiant,» replied he of the Grove, «and more roguish than crazy or valiant.»
«Mine is not that,» said Sancho; «I mean he has nothing of the rogue in him; on the
contrary, he has the soul of a pitcher; he has no thought of doing harm to anyone, only good
to all, nor 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 him, let him do ever such foolish things.»
«For all that, brother and senor,» said he of the Grove, «if 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 time, and his spittle seemed somewhat ropy and dry,
observing which the compassionate squire of the Grove said, «It 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 exaggeration,
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for it was made of a house rabbit so big that Sancho, as he handled it, took it to be made of a
goat, not to say a kid, and looking at it he said, «And 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 pressed, and in the dark bolted mouthfuls like the
knots on a tether, and said he, «You 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 Grove, «my 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 hands, who 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 side, and giving a deep sigh, exclaimed, «Ah, whoreson rogue, how catholic it is!»
«There, you see,» said he of the Grove, hearing Sancho's exclamation, «how you have
called this wine whoreson by way of praise.»
«Well,» said Sancho, «I 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 from,
and 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 say, sir 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
kind, its flavour and soundness, the changes it will undergo, and everything that appertains
to a wine? But it is no wonder, for I have had in my family, on my father's side, the 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
cask, to try, asking their opinion as to the condition, quality, goodness or badness of the
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CHAPTER XIII 473
wine. One of them tried it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more than bring it to
his nose. The first said the wine had a flavour of iron, the second said it had a stronger
flavour of cordovan. The owner said the cask was clean, and that nothing had been added to
the wine from which it could have got a flavour of either iron or leather. Nevertheless, these
two great wine−tasters held to what they had said. Time went by, the wine was sold, and
when they came to clean out the cask, they 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 Grove, «let 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 Sancho, «I'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 present, to relate what passed between the
Knight of the Grove and him of the Rueful Countenance.
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CHAPTER XIV
W
HEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT
OF THE GROVE
Among the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of the Wood, the
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
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CHAPTER XIV 475
account and have become mine."
Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Grove, and was a thousand
times on the point of telling him he lied, and had the lie direct already on the tip of his
tongue; but he restrained himself as well as he could, in order to force him to confess the lie
with his own lips; so he said to him quietly, «As 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 stature, gaunt
features, long, lank limbs, with hair turning grey, an aquiline nose rather hooked, and 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 lastly, he has for the mistress of his will a certain Dulcinea del
Toboso, once upon a time called Aldonza Lorenzo, just 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 say, here is my sword, that will compel incredulity itself to give
credence to it.»
«Calm yourself, sir knight,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 sword, waiting to see what the
Knight of the Grove would do, who in an equally calm voice said in reply, «Pledges 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
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CHAPTER XIV 476
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 saying, they betook themselves to where their squires lay, and found them snoring, and in
the same posture they were in when sleep fell upon them. They roused them up, and bade
them get the horses ready, as at sunrise they were to engage in a bloody and arduous single
combat; at which intelligence Sancho was aghast and thunderstruck, trembling 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 out, and were all together.
On the way, he of the Grove said to Sancho, «You 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 Sancho, «may 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 one, and I the other, and we will fight at bag blows with equal
arms.»
«If that's the way, so be it with all my heart,» said Sancho, «for that sort of battle will
serve to knock the dust out of us instead of hurting us.»
«That will not do,» said the other, «for 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 Sancho, «see 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
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CHAPTER XIV 477
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 Grove, «we 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 quarrel, be it ever so small, with one I have eaten and drunk with; besides, who
the devil could bring himself to fight in cold blood, without anger or provocation?»
«I can remedy that entirely,» said he of the Grove, «and 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 Sancho, «I 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 trees, and 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 east, shaking from
her locks a profusion of liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture bathed, the plants, too,
seemed to shed and shower down a pearly spray, the willows distilled sweet manna, the
fountains laughed, the brooks babbled, the woods rejoiced, and 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 things, when the first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho
Panza was the squire of the Grove's nose, which was so big that it almost overshadowed his
whole body. It is, in fact, stated, that it was of enormous size, hooked in the middle, covered
with warts, and of a mulberry colour like an egg−plant; it hung down two fingers' length
below his mouth, and the size, the colour, the warts, and the bend of it, made his face so
hideous, that Sancho, as he looked at him, began to tremble hand and foot like a child in
convulsions, and he vowed in his heart to let himself be given two hundred buffets, sooner
than be provoked to fight that monster. Don Quixote examined his adversary, and found that
he already had his helmet on and visor lowered, so that he could not see his face; he
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observed, however, that he was a sturdily built man, but not very tall in stature. Over his
armour he wore a surcoat or cassock of what seemed to be the finest cloth of gold, all
bespangled with glittering mirrors like little moons, which gave him an extremely gallant
and splendid appearance; above his helmet fluttered a great quantity of plumes, green,
yellow, and white, and his lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very long and stout,
and had a steel point more than a palm in length.
Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what he saw and observed he
concluded that the said knight must be a man of great strength, but he did not for all that
give way to fear, like Sancho Panza; on the contrary, with a composed and dauntless air, he
said to the Knight of the Mirrors, «If, 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 Mirrors, «you 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 Quixote, «while 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 Mirrors, «that 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 Quixote, «is 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 this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don Quixote wheeled
Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge back upon his adversary, and he
of the Mirrors did the same; but Don Quixote had not moved away twenty paces when he
heard himself called by the other, and, each returning half−way, he of the Mirrors said to
him, «Remember, 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIV 479
«That is understood,» replied he of the Mirrors.
At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself to Don Quixote's
view, and he was no less amazed than Sancho at the sight; insomuch that he set him down as
a monster of some kind, or a human being of some new species or unearthly breed. Sancho,
seeing his master retiring to run his course, did not like to be left alone with the nosy man,
fearing 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 ground, either by the blow or with fright; so he ran after his
master, holding on to Rocinante's stirrup−leather, and when it seemed to him time to turn
about, he said, «I 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 Quixote, «that thou wouldst mount a scaffold
in order to see the bulls without danger.»
«To tell the truth,» returned Sancho, «the monstrous nose of that squire has filled me
with fear and terror, and I dare not stay near him.»
«It is,» said Don Quixote, «such 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 requisite, and, supposing Don Quixote to have done the
same, without waiting for any sound of trumpet or other signal to direct them, he wheeled
his horse, which was not more agile or better−looking than Rocinante, and at his top speed,
which was an easy trot, he proceeded to charge his enemy; seeing him, however, engaged in
putting Sancho up, he drew rein, and halted in mid career, for which his horse was very
grateful, as he was already unable to go. Don Quixote, fancying that his foe was coming
down upon him flying, drove 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 running, for 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 crisis, Don
Quixote came upon his adversary, in trouble with his horse, and embarrassed with his lance,
which he either could not manage, or had no time to lay in rest. Don Quixote, however, paid
no attention to these difficulties, and 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 horse, and with so heavy a fall that he lay to all appearance
dead, not stirring hand or foot. The instant Sancho saw him fall he slid down from the cork
tree, and made all haste to where his master was, who, dismounting from Rocinante, went
and stood over him of the Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if he was dead, and to give
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIV 480
him air if he should happen to be alive, he saw− who can say what he saw, without filling all
who hear it with astonishment, wonder, and awe? He saw, the history says, the very
countenance, the very face, the very look, the very physiognomy, the very effigy, the very
image of the bachelor Samson Carrasco! As soon as he saw it he called out in a loud voice,
«Make 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 up, and when he saw the countenance of the bachelor Carrasco, he fell to
crossing himself a thousand times, and blessing himself as many more. All this time the
prostrate knight showed no signs of life, and Sancho said to Don Quixote, «It 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 Quixote, «for of enemies the fewer the better;» and
he was drawing his sword to carry into effect Sancho's counsel and suggestion, when the
squire of the Mirrors came up, now without the nose which had made him so hideous, and
cried out in a loud voice, «Mind 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 Sancho, seeing him without the hideous feature he had before; to
which he replied, «I have it here in my pocket,» and putting his hand into his right pocket,
he pulled out a masquerade nose of varnished pasteboard of the make already described; and
Sancho, examining him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in a voice of amazement,
«Holy 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 am, gossip
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 meantime, beg and entreat of your master not to
touch, maltreat, wound, or slay the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has at his feet; because,
beyond all dispute, it is the rash and ill−advised bachelor Samson Carrasco, our fellow
townsman.»
At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don Quixote perceiving it, held
the naked point of his sword over his face, and said to him, «You 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
her− conditions which, in accordance with what we stipulated before our combat, do not
transgress the just limits of knight−errantry.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIV 481
«I confess,» said the fallen knight, «that 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 Quixote, «that 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 rise, I entreat you; if, indeed, the shock of my fall will allow me, for
it has left me in a sorry plight enough.»
Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his squire Tom Cecial; from
whom Sancho never took his eyes, and to whom he put questions, the 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 Carrasco, would not
permit him to believe what he saw with his eyes. In fine, both master and man remained
under the delusion; and, down in the mouth, and out of luck, he of the Mirrors and his squire
parted from Don Quixote and Sancho, he meaning to go look for some village where he
could plaster and strap his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho resumed their journey to
Saragossa, and on it the history leaves them in order that it may tell who the Knight of the
Mirrors and his long−nosed squire were.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIV 482
CHAPTER XV
W
HEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE
MIRRORS AND HIS SQUIRE WERE
Don Quixote went off satisfied, elated, and vain−glorious in the highest degree at
having won a victory over such a valiant knight as he fancied him of the Mirrors to be, and
one from whose knightly word he expected to learn whether the enchantment of his lady still
continued; inasmuch as the said vanquished knight was bound, under the penalty of ceasing
to be one, to return and render him an account of what took place between him and her. But
Don Quixote was of one mind, he of the Mirrors of another, for he just then had no thought
of anything but finding some village where he could plaster himself, as has been said
already. The history goes on to say, then, that when the bachelor Samson Carrasco
recommended Don Quixote to resume his knight−errantry which he had laid aside, it 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 all, and on the special advice of Carrasco, that Don Quixote should be
allowed to go, as it seemed impossible to restrain him, and that Samson should sally forth to
meet him as a knight−errant, and do battle with him, for there would be no difficulty about a
cause, and vanquish him, that 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. Then, Don
Quixote being vanquished, the bachelor knight was to command him to return to his village
and his house, and not quit it for two years, or until he received further orders from him; all
which it was clear Don Quixote would unhesitatingly obey, rather than contravene or fail to
observe the laws of chivalry; and during the period of his seclusion he might perhaps forget
his folly, or there might be an opportunity of discovering some ready remedy for his
madness. Carrasco undertook the task, and Tom Cecial, a gossip and neighbour of Sancho
Panza's, a lively, feather−headed fellow, offered himself as his squire. Carrasco armed
himself in the fashion described, and Tom Cecial, that he might not be known by his gossip
when they met, fitted on over his own natural nose the false masquerade one that has been
mentioned; and so they followed the same route Don Quixote took, and almost came up with
him in time to be present at the adventure of the cart of Death and finally encountered them
in the grove, where all that the sagacious reader has been reading about took place; and had
it not been for the extraordinary fancies of Don Quixote, and his conviction that the bachelor
was not the bachelor, senor bachelor would have been incapacitated for ever from taking his
degree of licentiate, all through not finding nests where he thought to find birds.
Tom Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a sorry end their expedition
had come to, said to the bachelor, «Sure enough, Senor Samson Carrasco, we are served
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XV 483
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 replied, «The 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 Cecial, «I 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 Samson, «but 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 discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a town where it was their good
luck to find a bone−setter, with whose help the unfortunate Samson was cured. Tom Cecial
left him and went home, while he stayed behind meditating vengeance; and the history will
return to him again at the proper time, so as not to omit making merry with Don Quixote
now.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XV 484
CHAPTER XVI
O
F WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN
OF LA MANCHA
Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and self−complacency
already described, fancying 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−errantry, nor of the volley of stones that had levelled half his
teeth, nor of the ingratitude of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and
the shower of stakes that fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that could he discover
any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he 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 fancies, when Sancho said to him, «Isn'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 Quixote, «that 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 house, wife and children, nobody else but himself could have given
me; and the face, once the nose was off, was the very face of Tom Cecial, as 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−errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to 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 arms, that he should envy the fame I have acquired in them?»
«Well, but what are we to say, senor,» returned Sancho, «about 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?»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVI 485
«It is all,» said Don Quixote, «a 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 own, his 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 them, mounted on a very handsome flea−bitten mare, and
dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny velvet facings, and a montera of the same
velvet. The trappings of the mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and 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 gilt, but lacquered
green, and so brightly polished that, matching as they did the rest of his apparel, they 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 stopping, but Don Quixote called out to him, «Gallant 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 mare, «I 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 this, «for 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVI 486
The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote, who rode
without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front of Dapple's pack−saddle; and
if the man in green examined Don Quixote closely, still more closely did Don Quixote
examine the man in green, who struck him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he
was about fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of features, and 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 hair, his lofty
stature, the lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his 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 him,
and 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 saying, «The
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 peace, and, from the time he took to answer, the
man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a long pause, however, he said to him,
«You 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVI 487
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 Quixote, «but 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's, the traveller began to have a suspicion that
he was some crazy being, and 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 this, he in the green gaban
replied «I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a gentleman by birth, native of the
village where, please God, we are going to dine today; I am more than fairly well off, and
my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life with my wife, children, and friends; my
pursuits are hunting and fishing, but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing but a
tame partridge or a bold ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of books, some in our mother
tongue, some Latin, some of them history, others 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
devotional, so long as they are books of honest entertainment that charm by their style and
attract and interest by the invention they display, though of these there are very few in
Spain. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and friends, and often invite them; my
entertainments are neat and well served without stint of anything. I have no taste for tattle,
nor 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 poor,
making no display of good works, lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that
subtly take possession of the most watchful heart, find 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
Lady, and 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 life, and that he who led it ought to work
miracles, he threw himself off Dapple, and 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 him, «What are you about, brother? What are these
kisses for?»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVI 488
«Let me kiss,» said Sancho, «for 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 gentleman, «but 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−saddle, having extracted a laugh from his
master's profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement in Don Diego. Don Quixote
then asked him how many children he had, and observed that one of the things wherein the
ancient philosophers, who were without the true knowledge of God, placed the summum
bonum was in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, and many and
good children.
«I, Senor Don Quixote,» answered the gentleman, «have 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 reply, «Children, 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
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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,' 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
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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 argument, so
much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up about his being crazy. But in
the middle of the discourse, it being not very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out
of the road to beg a little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by;
and just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the conversation, Don
Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered with royal flags coming along the road
they were travelling; and persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to
Sancho to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted the
shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to whom there fell a
terrific and desperate adventure.
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CHAPTER XVII
W
HEREIN 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 helmet,
Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to sell him, and flurried by the great
haste his master was in did not know what to do with them or what to carry them in; so, not
to lose them, for he had already paid for them, he thought it best to throw them into his
master's helmet, and acting on this bright idea he went to see what his master wanted with
him. He, as he approached, exclaimed 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 gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but could perceive
nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or three small flags, which led him to
conclude it must be carrying treasure of the King's, and he said so to Don Quixote. He,
however, would not believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all that
happened to him must be adventures and still more adventures; so he replied to the
gentleman, «He 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 Sancho, as he had no time to take out the curds, had to
give it just as it was. Don Quixote took it, and 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 beard, whereat 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 tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at the same time
that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don Quixote then wiped himself, and
took off his helmet to see what it was that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that
white mash inside his helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it he
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVII 492
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 which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied, «If 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
astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself clean, his head, face, beard,
and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and settling himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his
sword in the scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, «Now, 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 up, unattended by anyone except the carter
on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote planted himself before it and said,
«Whither are you going, brothers? What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are
those?»
To this the carter replied, «The 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 cart, «that 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.»
Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, «Lion−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
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CHAPTER XVII 493
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 curds, no doubt, have softened his skull and brought his brains to a head.»
At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, «Senor, 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 gentleman, «that you believe and are afraid he
will engage such fierce animals?»
«He is not mad,» said Sancho, «but he is venturesome.»
«I will prevent it,» said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote, who was
insisting upon the keeper's opening the cages, he said to him, «Sir 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 Quixote, «you 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 exclaimed,
«By 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 carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour, said to him, «Please
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 Quixote, «get 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 mules, and the keeper called out at
the top of his voice, «I 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVII 494
Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a mad thing,
as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To this, Don Quixote replied that
he knew what he was about. The gentleman in return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he
was under a delusion.
«Well, senor,» answered Don Quixote, «if 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 this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an enterprise
compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful one of the fulling mills, and,
in fact, all the feats he had attempted in the whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy
bread. «Look ye, senor,» said Sancho, «there'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 Quixote, «will 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 resistance, but he found himself ill−matched as to arms, and did not think it prudent
to come to blows with a madman, for such Don Quixote now showed himself to be in every
respect; and the latter, renewing his commands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave
warning to the gentleman to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, all
striving to get away from the cart as far as they could before the lions broke loose. Sancho
was weeping over his master's death, for 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 keeper,
seeing that the fugitives were now some distance off, once more entreated and warned him
as before; but he replied that he heard him, and that he need not trouble himself with any
further warnings or entreaties, as they would be fruitless, and bade him make haste.
During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first cage, Don
Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do battle on foot, instead of on
horseback, and finally resolved to fight on foot, fearing that Rocinante might take fright at
the sight of the lions; he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced his
buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with marvellous intrepidity and
resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart, commending himself with all his heart
to God and to his lady Dulcinea.
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CHAPTER XVII 495
It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of this veracious history
breaks out into exclamations. «O doughty Don Quixote! high−mettled past extolling!
Mirror, wherein 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 exploit, by what language shall I make it credible to ages to come, what
eulogies are there unmeet for thee, though they be hyperboles piled on hyperboles! On foot,
alone, undaunted, high−souled, with but a simple sword, and that no trenchant blade of the
Perrillo brand, a shield, but no bright polished steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and
awaiting the two fiercest lions that Africa's forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy praise,
valiant Manchegan, and here I leave them as they stand, wanting the words wherewith to
glorify them!»
Here the author's outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take up the thread of his
story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don Quixote had taken up his position, and that it
was impossible for him to avoid letting out the male without incurring the enmity of the
fiery and daring knight, flung open the doors of the first cage, containing, as has been said,
the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim and hideous mien. The first
thing he did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws, and
stretch himself thoroughly; he next opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and with
near two palms' length of tongue that he had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes
and washed his face; having done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round
with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanour to strike terror into temerity itself.
Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come
to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.
So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more courteous than
arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, after having looked all round, as has
been said, turned about and presented his hind−quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and
tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don 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 him, the first he'll tear in pieces will be
myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be
said on the score of courage, and 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 far,
he will not come out to−day. Your worship's great courage has been fully manifested
already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is 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 disgrace, and
he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.»
«That is true,» said Don Quixote; «close the door, my friend, and let me have, in the
best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do, by way of certificate; to wit, that thou didst
open for the lion, that I waited for him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for him,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVII 496
and that still he did not come out, and lay down again. I am not bound to do more;
enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the truth, and true chivalry! Close the door
as I bade thee, while I make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this
exploit from thy lips.»
The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the cloth he had
wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to recall the others, who still
continued to fly, looking back at every step, all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the
rear. Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed, «May
I die, if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us.»
They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making signals, and
shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached slowly until they were near enough
to hear distinctly Don Quixote's voice calling to them. They returned at length to the cart,
and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, «Put 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 keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of the contest, exalting
to the best of his power and ability the valour of Don Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion
quailed, and would not and dared not come out of the cage, although he had held the door
open ever so long; and showing how, in consequence of his having represented to the knight
that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to force him out, which he wished to
have done, he very reluctantly, and altogether against his will, had 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 fortune, but of fortitude and courage they cannot.»
Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don Quixote's hands for the
bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give an account of the valiant exploit to the
King himself, as soon as he saw him at court.
«Then,» said Don Quixote, «if 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XVII 497
The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green gaban went theirs.
All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a word, being entirely taken up with
observing and noting all that Don Quixote did and said, and the opinion he formed was that
he was a man of brains gone mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first part of
his history had not yet reached him, for, had he read it, the amazement with which his words
and deeds filled him would have vanished, as he would then have understood the nature of
his madness; but knowing nothing of it, he took him to be rational one moment, and crazy
the next, for what he said was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd,
rash, and foolish; and said he to himself, «What 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 saying, «No 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;
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CHAPTER XVII 498
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 Diego, «everything 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 before, at about two in the afternoon
they reached the village and house of Don Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, «The
Knight of the Green Gaban.»
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CHAPTER XVIII
O
F WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF
THE KNIGHT OF THE GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
OUT OF THE COMMON
Don Quixote found Don Diego de Miranda's house built in village style, with his arms
in rough stone over the street door; in the patio was the store−room, and at the entrance the
cellar, with plenty of wine−jars standing round, which, coming from El Toboso, brought
back to his memory his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea; and with a sigh, and not
thinking of what he was saying, or 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 poet, Don Diego's son, who had come out with his mother to receive him,
heard this exclamation, and both mother and son were filled with amazement at the
extraordinary figure he presented; he, however, dismounting from Rocinante, advanced with
great politeness to ask permission to kiss the lady's hand, while Don Diego said, «Senora,
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 lady, whose name was Dona Christina, received him with every sign of good−will
and great courtesy, and 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 student, who listening to Don Quixote, took him to be a sensible, clear−headed
person.
Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to Don Diego's mansion,
putting 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 silence, as they are not in harmony with the main purpose of the story, the strong
point of which is truth rather than dull digressions.
They led Don Quixote into a room, and Sancho removed his armour, leaving him in
loose Walloon breeches and chamois−leather doublet, all stained with the rust of his armour;
his collar was a falling one of scholastic cut, without starch or lace, his buskins
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buff−coloured, and his shoes polished. He wore his good sword, which hung in a baldric of
sea−wolf's skin, for he had suffered for many years, they say, from an ailment of the
kidneys; and over all he threw a long cloak of good grey cloth. But first of all, with five or
six buckets of water (for as regard the number of buckets there is some dispute), he washed
his head and face, and still the water remained whey−coloured, thanks to Sancho's
greediness and purchase of those unlucky curds that turned his master so white. Thus
arrayed, and with an easy, sprightly, and gallant air, Don Quixote passed out into another
room, where the student was waiting to entertain him while the table was being laid; for on
the arrival of so distinguished a guest, Dona 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 armour, Don 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 world, and 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 wits, and as thou art shrewd, form the most reasonable conclusion thou canst
as to his wisdom or folly; though, to tell the truth, I am more inclined to take him to be mad
than sane.»
With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote as has been said, and in the
course of the conversation that passed between them Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo,
«Your 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 Lorenzo, «but 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 me, what verses are those which you have now
in hand, and which your father tells me keep you somewhat restless and absorbed? If it be
some gloss, I know something about glosses, and I should like to hear them; and if they are
for a poetical tournament, contrive to carry off the second prize; for the first always goes by
favour or personal standing, the second by simple justice; and so the third comes to be the
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second, and the first, reckoning in this way, will be third, in the same way as licentiate
degrees are conferred at the universities; but, for all that, the title of first is a great
distinction.»
«So far,» said Don Lorenzo to himself, «I should not take you to be a madman; but let
us go on.» So he said to him, «Your worship has apparently attended the schools; what
sciences have you studied?»
«That of knight−errantry,» said Don Quixote, «which 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 Lorenzo, «and until now I have never
heard of it.»
«It is a science,» said Don Quixote, «that 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 Lorenzo, «this science, I protest, surpasses all.»
«How, if that be so?» said Don Quixote.
«What I mean to say,» said Don Lorenzo, «is, that I doubt whether there are now, or
ever were, any knights−errant, and adorned with such virtues.»
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«Many a time,» replied Don Quixote, «have 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;
«but, for all that, he is a glorious madman, and I should be a dull blockhead to doubt it.»
Here, being summoned to dinner, they 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
replied, «All 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 dinner, and the repast was such as Don Diego said on the road he was
in the habit of giving to his guests, neat, plentiful, and tasty; but what pleased Don Quixote
most was the marvellous silence that reigned throughout the house, for it was like a
Carthusian monastery.
When the cloth had been removed, grace said and their hands washed, Don Quixote
earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to repeat to him his verses for the poetical tournament, to
which he replied, «Not 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 Quixote, «was 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 Lorenzo, «I 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.
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CHAPTER XVIII 503
«I will explain myself another time,» said Don Lorenzo; "for the present pray attend to
the glossed verses and the gloss, which run thus:
Could 'was' become an 'is' for me, Then would I ask no more than this; Or could, for
me, the 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 Fortune, long I've sued to thee;
The gifts thou gavest me restore, For, trust me, I would ask no more, Could 'was' become an
'is' for me.
No other prize I seek to gain, No triumph, glory, or success, Only the long−lost
happiness, The memory whereof is pain. One taste, methinks, of bygone bliss The
heart−consuming fire might stay; And, so it come without delay, Then would I ask no more
than this.
I ask what cannot be, alas! That time should ever be, and then Come back to us, and be
again, No power on earth can bring to pass; For fleet of foot is he, I wis, And idly, therefore,
do we pray That what for aye hath left us may Become for us the time that is.
Perplexed, uncertain, to remain 'Twixt hope and fear, is death, not life; 'Twere better,
sure, to end the strife, And dying, seek release from pain. And yet, thought 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 gloss, Don Quixote stood up, and in a loud
voice, almost a shout, exclaimed as he grasped Don Lorenzo's right hand in his, «By 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
Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as a madman? power of flattery, how far−reaching art
thou, and how wide are the bounds of thy pleasant jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of
it, for he complied with Don Quixote's request and entreaty, and repeated to him this sonnet
on the fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.
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CHAPTER XVIII 504
SONNET
The lovely maid, she 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 speaketh, for 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 delay, with 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 tale, how the lovers twain One
sword, one sepulchre, one memory, Slays, and entombs, and brings to life again.
«Blessed be God,» said Don Quixote when he had heard Don Lorenzo's sonnet, «that
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 house, at
the end of which time he asked his permission to depart, telling him he thanked him for the
kindness and hospitality he had received in his house, but that, as it did not become
knights−errant to give themselves up for long to idleness and luxury, he was anxious to
fulfill the duties of his calling in seeking adventures, of which he was informed there was an
abundance in that neighbourhood, where he hoped to employ his time until the day came
round for the jousts at Saragossa, for that was his proper destination; and that, first of all, he
meant to enter the cave of Montesinos, of which so many marvellous things were reported
all through the country, and 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 resolution, and bade him furnish
himself with all he wanted from their house and belongings, as they would most gladly be of
service to him; which, indeed, his personal worth and his honourable profession made
incumbent upon them.
The day of his departure came at length, as welcome to Don Quixote as it was sad and
sorrowful to Sancho Panza, who was very well satisfied with the abundance of Don Diego's
house, and objected to return to the starvation of the woods and wilds and the
short−commons of his ill−stocked alforjas; these, however, he filled and packed with what
he considered needful. On taking leave, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, «I 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 madness, but still better in
what he added when he said, «God knows, I would gladly take Don Lorenzo with me to
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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 talked, at
one moment sense, at another nonsense, and at the pertinacity and persistence he displayed
in going through thick and thin in quest of his unlucky adventures, which he made the end
and aim of his desires. There was a renewal of offers of service and civilities, and then, with
the gracious permission of the lady of the castle, they took their departure, Don Quixote on
Rocinante, and Sancho on Dapple.
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CHAPTER XIX
I
N 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 village, when he fell in
with a couple of either priests or students, and a couple of peasants, mounted on four beasts
of the ass kind. One of the students carried, wrapped up in a piece of green buckram by way
of a portmanteau, what 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 them, and 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
time, and were dying to know who this man, so different from ordinary men, could be. Don
Quixote saluted them, and after ascertaining that their road was the same as his, made them
an offer of his company, and begged them to slacken their pace, as their young asses
travelled faster than his horse; and then, to gratify them, he told them in a few words who he
was and the calling and profession he followed, which 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 Mancha, and that he was called, by way of surname, the Knight of the Lions.
All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasants, but not so to the students, who very
soon perceived the crack in Don Quixote's pate; for all that, however, they regarded him
with admiration and respect, and one of them said to him, «If 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's, that he spoke of it in this way. «Not at
all,» said the student; «it is the wedding of a farmer and a farmer's daughter, he 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 common, for it will be celebrated in a
meadow adjoining the town of the bride, who is called, par excellence, Quiteria the fair, as
the bridegroom is called Camacho the rich. She is eighteen, and he twenty−two, and they are
fairly matched, though some knowing ones, who have all the pedigrees in the world by
heart, will 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 rate, Camacho is
free−handed, and it is his fancy to screen the whole meadow with boughs and cover it in
overhead, so that the sun will have hard work if he tries to get in to reach the grass that
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CHAPTER XIX 507
covers the soil. He has provided dancers too, not only sword but also bell−dancers, for in his
own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle the bells to perfection; of
shoe−dancers I say nothing, for of them he has engaged a host. But none of these things, nor
of the many others I have omitted to mention, will 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 Quiteria, and he lived in the house next door to that of her
parents, of 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
years, and she responded to his passion with countless modest proofs of affection, so that the
loves of the two children, Basilio and Quiteria, were the talk and the amusement of the town.
As they grew up, the father of Quiteria made up his mind to refuse Basilio his wonted
freedom of access to the house, and to relieve himself of constant doubts and suspicions, he
arranged a match for his daughter with the rich Camacho, as he did not approve of marrying
her to Basilio, who had not so large a share of the gifts of fortune as of nature; for if the truth
be told ungrudgingly, he is the most agile youth we know, a mighty thrower of the bar, a
first−rate wrestler, and a great ball−player; he runs like a deer, and leaps better than a goat,
bowls over the nine−pins as if by magic, sings like a lark, plays the guitar so as to make it
speak, and, above all, handles a sword as well as the best.»
«For that excellence alone,» said Don Quixote at this, «the 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 Sancho, who had until now listened in silence, «for 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,
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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 student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote called him, licentiate, replied, «I 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 Sancho, «for 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 together, no one can understand thee but Judas
himself, and I wish he had thee. Tell me, thou animal, what dost thou know about nails or
wheels, or anything else?»
«Oh, if you don't understand me,» replied Sancho, «it 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 Quixote, «thou prevaricator of honest language,
God confound thee!»
«Don't find fault with me, your worship,» returned Sancho, «for 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XIX 509
like a Toledan; maybe there are Toledans who do not hit it off when it comes to polished
talk.»
«That is true,» said the licentiate, «for 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 student, «you would have been head of the degrees,
where you are now tail.»
«Look here, bachelor Corchuelo,» returned the licentiate, «you 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 experiment, you have swords there, and it is a good opportunity; I
have a steady hand and a strong arm, and these joined with my resolution, which is not
small, will 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 swordsmanship, in which, next to God, I place my trust that the man is yet
to be born who will make me turn my back, and 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 Corchuelo, and getting off his ass briskly, he 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 match, and judge of this often disputed question;» and dismounting from Rocinante
and grasping his lance, he planted himself in the middle of the road, just as the licentiate,
with an easy, graceful bearing and step, advanced towards Corchuelo, who came on against
him, darting fire from his eyes, as the saying is. The other two of the company, the peasants,
without dismounting from their asses, served as spectators of the mortal tragedy. The cuts,
thrusts, down strokes, back strokes and doubles, that Corchuelo delivered were past
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counting, and came thicker than hops or hail. He attacked like an angry lion, but 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 onset, and made him kiss it as if it were a relic, though 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 wore, tore the skirts into strips, like
the tails of a cuttlefish, knocked off his hat twice, and so completely tired him out, that in
vexation, anger, and rage, he took the sword by the hilt and flung it away with such force,
that one of the peasants that were there, who was a notary, and who went for it, made an
affidavit afterwards that he sent it nearly three−quarters of a league, which testimony will
serve, and has served, to show and establish with all certainty that strength is overcome by
skill.
Corchuelo sat down wearied, and Sancho approaching him said, «By 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 Corchuelo, «and with having
had the truth I was so ignorant of proved to me by experience;» and getting up he embraced
the licentiate, and they were better friends than ever; and not caring to wait for the notary
who had gone for the sword, as they saw he would be a long time about it, they resolved to
push on so as to reach the village of Quiteria, to which they all belonged, in good time.
During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held forth to them on the excellences
of the sword, with such conclusive arguments, and such figures and mathematical proofs,
that all were convinced of the value of the science, and 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 heard, too, the pleasant mingled
notes of a variety of instruments, flutes, drums, psalteries, pipes, tabors, and 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 wind, for 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 wedding, wandering through the pleasant grounds in separate bands, some dancing,
others singing, others playing the various instruments already mentioned. In short, it 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 village, although the peasant as well as the bachelor pressed him; he
excused himself, however, on the grounds, amply sufficient in his opinion, that it was the
custom of knights−errant to sleep in the fields and woods in preference to towns, even were
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it under gilded ceilings; and so turned aside a little out of the road, very much against
Sancho's will, as the good quarters he had enjoyed in the castle or house of Don Diego came
back to his mind.
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CHAPTER XX
W
HEREIN 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 Quixote, shaking off sloth from his
limbs, sprang to his feet and called to his squire Sancho, who was still snoring; seeing which
Don Quixote ere he roused him thus addressed him: «Happy thou, above all the dwellers on
the face of the earth, that, without envying or being envied, sleepest with tranquil mind, and
that neither enchanters persecute nor enchantments affright. Sleep, I say, and will say a
hundred times, without any jealous thoughts of thy mistress to make thee keep ceaseless
vigils, or any cares as to how thou art to pay the debts thou owest, or find to−morrow's food
for thyself and thy needy little family, to interfere with thy repose. Ambition breaks not thy
rest, nor doth this world's empty pomp disturb thee, for the utmost reach of thy anxiety is to
provide for thy ass, since upon my shoulders thou hast laid the support of thyself, the
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 him, advance him, and reward
him. The distress of seeing the sky turn brazen, and withhold its needful moisture from the
earth, is not felt by the servant but by the master, who 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 asleep, nor 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 last, drowsy and lazy, and casting his eyes about in every direction, observed,
«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; «come, let us go and witness this bridal,
and see what the rejected Basilio does.»
«Let him do what he likes,» returned Sancho; «be he not poor, he would marry Quiteria.
To make a grand match for himself, and he without a farthing; is there nothing else? Faith,
senor, it's my opinion the poor man should be content with what he can get, and 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 so, as no doubt it is, what 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
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CHAPTER XX 513
good cast of the bar or a neat thrust of the sword. Talents and accomplishments that can't be
turned into money, let Count Dirlos have them; but when such gifts fall to one that has hard
cash, I wish my condition of life was as becoming as they are. On a good foundation you
can raise a good building, and the best foundation in the world is money.»
«For God's sake, Sancho,» said Don Quixote here, «stop 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 Sancho, «you 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 so, I
desire you to hold your tongue and come along; for the instruments we heard last night are
already beginning to enliven the valleys again, and no doubt the marriage will take place in
the cool of the morning, and not in the heat of the afternoon.»
Sancho did as his master bade him, and putting the saddle on Rocinante and the
pack−saddle on Dapple, they 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
faggots, and six stewpots that stood round the blaze had not been made in the ordinary
mould of common pots, for they were six half wine−jars, each 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 each, and all
filled, as it proved afterwards, with generous wines. There were, besides, piles of the whitest
bread, like the heaps of corn one sees on the threshing−floors. There was a wall made of
cheeses arranged like open brick−work, and two cauldrons full of oil, bigger than those of a
dyer's shop, served for cooking fritters, which when fried were taken out with two mighty
shovels, and plunged into another cauldron of prepared honey that stood close by. Of cooks
and cook−maids there were over fifty, all clean, brisk, and blithe. In the capacious belly of
the ox were a dozen soft little sucking−pigs, which, sewn up there, served to give it
tenderness and flavour. The spices of different kinds did not seem to have been bought by
the pound but by the quarter, and all lay open to view in a great chest. In short, all the
preparations made for the wedding were in rustic style, but abundant enough to feed an
army.
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CHAPTER XX 514
Sancho observed all, contemplated all, and everything won his heart. The first to
captivate and take his fancy were the pots, out of which he would have very gladly helped
himself to a moderate pipkinful; then the wine skins secured his affections; and lastly, the
produce of the frying−pans, if, indeed, such imposing cauldrons may be called frying−pans;
and unable to control himself or bear it any longer, he 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 answer, «Brother, 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 saying, he seized a bucket and plunging it into one of the half jars took up three hens and
a couple of geese, and said to Sancho, «Fall 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 cook, «take spoon and all; for Camacho's wealth and happiness
furnish everything.»
While Sancho fared thus, Don Quixote was watching the entrance, at one end of the
arcade, of some twelve peasants, all in holiday and gala dress, mounted on twelve beautiful
mares with rich handsome field trappings and a number of little bells attached to their
petrals, who, marshalled in regular order, ran not one but several courses over the meadow,
with jubilant shouts and cries of «Long live Camacho and Quiteria! he as rich as she is fair;
and she the fairest on earth!»
Hearing this, Don Quixote said to himself, «It 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 this, several bands of dancers of various sorts began to enter the arcade at
different points, and among them one of sword−dancers composed of some
four−and−twenty lads of gallant and high−spirited mien, clad in the finest and whitest of
linen, and 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 yet, thank God, no 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 dexterity, that although Don Quixote was well used to see dances of the
same kind, he thought he had never seen any so good as this. He also admired another that
came in composed of fair young maidens, none of whom seemed to be under fourteen or
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CHAPTER XX 515
over eighteen years of age, all clad in green stuff, with their locks partly braided, partly
flowing loose, but all of such bright gold as to vie with the sunbeams, and over them they
wore garlands of jessamine, roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. At their head were a
venerable old man and an ancient dame, more brisk and active, however, than might have
been expected from their years. The notes of a Zamora bagpipe accompanied them, and with
modesty in their countenances and in their eyes, and lightness in their feet, they 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
other, the former furnished with wings, bow, quiver and arrows, the 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 first, «Wit» of
the second, «Birth» of the third, and «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 men, all clad in ivy and hemp stained
green, and 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 them, and the dance having been opened,
Cupid, after executing two figures, raised his eyes and bent his bow against a damsel who
stood between the turrets of the castle, and 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 fear, I have my will, Whate'er
my whim or fancy be; For me there's no impossible, I order, bind, forbid, set free.
Having concluded the stanza he discharged an arrow at the top of the castle, and went
back to his place. Interest then came forward and went through two more figures, and as
soon as the tabors ceased, he said:
But mightier than Love am I, Though Love it be that leads me on, Than mine no lineage
is more high, Or older, underneath the sun. To use me rightly few know how, To act without
me fewer still, For I am Interest, and I vow For evermore to do thy will.
Interest retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she had gone through her figures
like the others, fixing her eyes on the damsel of the castle, she said:
With many a fanciful conceit, Fair Lady, winsome Poesy Her soul, an offering at thy
feet, Presents in sonnets unto thee. If thou my homage wilt not scorn, Thy fortune, watched
by envious eyes, On wings of poesy upborne Shall be exalted to the skies.
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Poetry withdrew, and on the side of Interest Liberality advanced, and after having gone
through her figures, said:
To give, while shunning each extreme, The sparing hand, the over−free, Therein
consists, so wise men deem, The virtue Liberality. But thee, fair lady, to enrich, Myself a
prodigal I'll prove, A vice not wholly shameful, which May find its fair excuse in love.
In the same manner all the characters of the two bands advanced and retired, and each
executed its figures, and delivered its verses, some of them graceful, some burlesque, but
Don Quixote's memory (though he had an excellent one) only carried away those that have
been just quoted. All then mingled together, forming chains and breaking off again with
graceful, unconstrained 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 length, after they had danced
a good while, Interest drew out a great purse, made of the skin of a large brindled cat and to
all appearance full of money, and flung it at the castle, and with the force of the blow the
boards fell asunder and tumbled down, leaving the damsel exposed and unprotected. Interest
and the characters of his band advanced, and throwing a great chain of gold over her neck
pretended to take her and lead her away captive, on seeing which, Love and his supporters
made as though they would release her, the whole action being to the accompaniment of the
tabors and in the form of a regular dance. The wild men made peace between them, and with
great dexterity readjusted and fixed the boards of the castle, and the damsel once more
ensconced herself within; and with this the dance wound up, to 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's, and 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 Panza, who was listening to all this, exclaimed, «The king is my cock; I
stick to Camacho.» «It is easy to see thou art a clown, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «and one
of that sort that cry 'Long life to the conqueror.'»
«I don't know of what sort I am,» returned Sancho, «but 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 hens, and seizing one began to eat with great gaiety
and appetite, saying, «A 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
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CHAPTER XX 517
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 that, there 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 Sancho, «I'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 Quixote, «thy 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 Sancho, «there'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 it, and 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 thee, Sancho, if thou hadst discretion equal to thy mother wit, thou
mightst take a pulpit in hand, and 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 Quixote, «but 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 Sancho, «and 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 bucket, with such a hearty appetite that he aroused Don Quixote's, who no doubt
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would have helped him had he not been prevented by what must be told farther on.
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CHAPTER XX 519
CHAPTER XXI
I
N WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER
DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS
While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set forth the last
chapter, they heard loud shouts and a great noise, which were uttered and made by the men
on the mares as they went at full gallop, shouting, to receive the bride and bridegroom, who
were approaching with musical instruments and pageantry of all sorts around them, and
accompanied by the priest and the relatives of both, and all the most distinguished people of
the surrounding villages. When Sancho saw the bride, he exclaimed, «By 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 Toboso, he had never seen a more beautiful woman. The fair Quiteria appeared
somewhat pale, which was, no doubt, because 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 boughs, where they were to plight their
troth, and 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 them, and a voice exclaiming, «Wait a
little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are hasty!» At these words all turned round, and 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 cypress, and in his hand he held a long staff. As he approached he was recognised
by everyone as the gay Basilio, and all waited anxiously to see what would come of his
words, in dread of some catastrophe in consequence of his appearance at such a moment. He
came up at last weary and breathless, and planting himself in front of the bridal pair, drove
his staff, which had a steel spike at the end, into the ground, and, with a pale face and eyes
fixed on Quiteria, he thus addressed her in a hoarse, trembling voice:
«Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the holy law we
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CHAPTER XXI 520
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 saying, he seized the staff he had driven into the ground, and leaving one half of
it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath that concealed a tolerably long rapier; and, what may
he called its hilt being planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately threw
himself upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half the steel blade appeared at his
back, the unhappy man falling to the earth bathed in his blood, and transfixed by his own
weapon.
His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his misery and sad fate, and Don
Quixote, dismounting from Rocinante, hastened to support him, and took him in his arms,
and found he had not yet ceased to breathe. They were about to draw out the rapier, but the
priest who was standing by objected to its being withdrawn before he had confessed him, as
the instant of its withdrawal would be that of this death. Basilio, however, reviving slightly,
said in a weak voice, as though in pain, «If 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 body, and 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 marriage, for that happiness would compose his mind and give
him courage to make his confession.
Don Quixote hearing the wounded man's entreaty, exclaimed aloud that what Basilio
asked was just and reasonable, and 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 he, «it 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 this, perplexed and bewildered and not knowing what to
say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of Basilio's friends, imploring him to allow
Don Quixote
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Quiteria to give him her hand, so that his soul, quitting this life in despair, should not be lost,
that they moved, nay, forced him, to say that if Quiteria were willing to give it he was
satisfied, as it was only putting off the fulfillment of his wishes for a moment. At once all
assailed Quiteria and pressed her, some with prayers, and others with tears, and others with
persuasive arguments, to give her hand to poor Basilio; but she, harder than marble and
more unmoved than any statue, seemed unable or unwilling to utter a word, nor would she
have given any reply had not the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant to do, as
Basilio now had his soul at his teeth, and there was no time for hesitation.
On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grieved, and repentant, advanced
without a word to where Basilio lay, his eyes already turned in his head, his breathing short
and painful, murmuring the name of Quiteria between his teeth, and apparently about to die
like a heathen and not like a Christian. Quiteria approached him, and kneeling, demanded
his hand by signs without speaking. Basilio opened his eyes and gazing fixedly at her, said,
«O 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 Quiteria, overcome with modesty and
shame, holding in her right hand the hand of Basilio, said, «No 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 Basilio, «not 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 Quiteria, «whether thou livest many years, or
they carry thee from my arms to the grave.»
«For one so badly wounded,» observed Sancho at this point, «this 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 hands, the priest, deeply moved and with tears
in his eyes, pronounced the blessing upon them, and implored heaven to grant an easy
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXI 522
passage to the soul of the newly wedded man, who, the instant he received the blessing,
started nimbly to his feet and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the rapier that had been
sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were astounded, and some, more simple than
inquiring, began shouting, «A miracle, a miracle!» But Basilio replied, «No miracle, no
miracle; only a trick, a trick!» The priest, perplexed and amazed, made haste to examine the
wound with both hands, and found that the blade had passed, not through Basilio's flesh and
ribs, but through a hollow iron tube full of blood, which he had adroitly fixed at the place,
the blood, as was afterwards ascertained, having been so prepared as not to congeal. In short,
the 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 contrary, hearing them say
that the marriage, being fraudulent, would not be valid, she said that she confirmed it afresh,
whence 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 violence, and a great number of them drawing their
swords attacked Basilio, in whose protection as many more swords were in an instant
unsheathed, while Don Quixote taking the lead on horseback, with his lance over his arm
and well covered with his shield, made all give way before him. Sancho, who never found
any pleasure or enjoyment in such doings, retreated to the wine−jars from which he had
taken his delectable skimmings, considering that, as a holy place, that 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 thing,
and as in war it is allowable and common to make use of wiles and stratagems to overcome
the enemy, so in the contests and rivalries of love the tricks and devices employed to attain
the desired end are justifiable, provided 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 rich, and can purchase his pleasure when, where, and as it
pleases him. Basilio has but this ewe−lamb, and no one, however powerful he may be, shall
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 priest, who was a wise
and kindly disposed man, prevailed with him, and by their means he and his partisans were
pacified and tranquillised, and to prove it put up their swords again, inveighing against the
pliancy of Quiteria rather than the craftiness of Basilio; Camacho maintaining that, if
Quiteria as a maiden had such a love for Basilio, she would have loved him too as a married
woman, and that he ought to thank heaven more for having taken her than for having given
her.
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Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled and pacified, those on
Basilio's side were appeased; and the rich Camacho, to show that he felt no resentment for
the trick, and did not care about it, desired the festival to go on just as if he were married in
reality. Neither Basilio, however, nor his bride, nor their followers would take any part in it,
and they withdrew to Basilio's village; for the poor, if they are persons of virtue and good
sense, have those who follow, honour, and uphold them, just as the rich have those who
flatter and dance attendance on them. With them they carried Don Quixote, regarding him as
a man of worth and a stout one. Sancho alone had a cloud on his soul, for he found himself
debarred from waiting for Camacho's splendid feast and festival, which lasted until night;
and thus dragged away, he moodily followed his master, who accompanied Basilio's party,
and left behind him the flesh−pots of Egypt; though in his heart he took them with him, and
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 so, vexed and
dejected though not hungry, without dismounting from Dapple he followed in the footsteps
of Rocinante.
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CHAPTER XXII
W
HERIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF
MONTESINOS IN THE HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON
QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY TERMINATION
Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly married couple,
who 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 courage, rating him as a Cid in
arms, and a Cicero in eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for three days at the
expense of the pair, from whom they learned that the sham wound was not a scheme
arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a device of Basilio's, who counted on exactly the result
they had seen; he confessed, it is true, that he had confided his idea to some of his friends, so
that at the proper time they might aid him in his purpose and insure the success of the
deception.
«That,» said Don Quixote, «is 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 end,
reminding them, however, that love has no greater enemy than hunger and constant want;
for love is all gaiety, enjoyment, and happiness, especially when the lover is in the
possession of the object of his love, and 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 in, for though they brought him fame, they brought him no money, and apply
himself to the acquisition of wealth by legitimate industry, which 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 wife, and if she is taken from him,
his honour is taken from him and slain. The fair woman who is a woman of honour, and
whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned with the laurels and crowns of victory and
triumph. Beauty by itself attracts the desires of all who behold it, and the royal eagles and
birds of towering flight stoop on it as on a dainty lure; but if beauty be accompanied by want
and penury, then the ravens and the kites and other birds of prey assail it, and she who
stands firm against such attacks well deserves to be called the crown of her husband.
«Remember, O prudent Basilio,» added Don Quixote, «it was the opinion of a certain sage, I
know not whom, that 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
wife, and in this way he would live happy. I myself am not married, nor, so far, has it ever
entered my thoughts to be so; nevertheless I would venture to give advice to anyone who
might ask it, as to the mode in which he should seek a wife such as he would be content to
marry. The first thing I would recommend him, would be to look to good name rather than
to wealth, for a good woman does not win a good name merely by being good, but by letting
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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 good, and even to make her still better; but if you take a bad one
you will find it hard work to mend her, for it is no very easy matter to pass from one extreme
to another. I do not say it is impossible, but I look upon it as difficult.»
Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, «This 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 aloud, and his master overheard him, and asked, «What
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 Quixote, «to 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 head, especially when she is jealous; and Satan himself
could not put up with her then.»
In fine, they 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 Montesinos, as 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 own, a famous scholar, and one
very much given to reading books of chivalry, who would have great pleasure in conducting
him to the mouth of the very cave, and would show him the lakes of Ruidera, which were
likewise famous all over La Mancha, and even all over Spain; and he assured him he would
find him entertaining, for 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 foal, with a
pack−saddle covered with a parti−coloured carpet or sackcloth; Sancho saddled Rocinante,
got Dapple ready, and stocked his alforjas, along with which went those of the cousin,
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CHAPTER XXII 526
likewise well filled; and so, commending themselves to God and bidding farewell to all,
they set out, taking the road for the famous cave of Montesinos.
On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character his pursuits,
avocations, and studies were, to which he replied that he was by profession a humanist, and
that his pursuits and studies were making books for the press, all 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
jealous, the rejected, the forgotten, the absent, what will suit them, and fit them without fail.
I have another book, too, which I shall call 'Metamorphoses, or the Spanish Ovid,' one of
rare and original invention, for imitating Ovid in burlesque style, I show in it who the
Giralda of Seville and the Angel of the Magdalena were, what the sewer of Vecinguerra at
Cordova was, what the bulls of Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the Leganitos and Lavapies
fountains at Madrid, not forgetting those of the Piojo, of the Cano Dorado, and of the Priora;
and all with their allegories, metaphors, and changes, so that they are amusing, interesting,
and instructive, all at once. Another book I have which I call 'The Supplement to Polydore
Vergil,' which treats of the invention of things, and 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 head, and who was the first to try salivation for the French disease, but I give it
accurately set forth, and quote more than five−and−twenty authors in proof of it, so you may
perceive I have laboured to good purpose and that the book will be of service to the whole
world.»
Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin's words, said to him, «Tell me,
senor− and God give you luck in printing your books− can 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 me, who was the first tumbler in the world?»
«Really, brother,» answered the cousin, «I 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 Sancho, «don'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,
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CHAPTER XXII 527
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; «faith, if I take to asking questions and
answering, I'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 that, after they are known
and proved, are not worth a farthing to the understanding or memory.»
In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and that night they put up at a
small hamlet whence it was not more than two leagues to the cave of Montesinos, so the
cousin told Don Quixote, adding, that if he was bent upon entering it, it would be requisite
for him to provide himself with ropes, so 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 rope, and next day at two in the afternoon
they arrived at the cave, the mouth of which is spacious and wide, but 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 cousin, Sancho, and Don Quixote dismounted, and the
first two immediately tied the latter very firmly with the ropes, and as they were girding and
swathing him Sancho said to him, «Mind 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 Quixote, «for an emprise like this, friend
Sancho, was reserved for me;» and said the guide, «I 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 observed, «It 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
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CHAPTER XXII 528
up a prayer to heaven, imploring God to aid him and grant him success in this to all
appearance perilous and untried adventure, and then exclaimed aloud, «O 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 cavern, and 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 cave, at 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 up, however, and as there came no more crows, or night−birds like the bats that flew
out at the same time with the crows, the cousin and Sancho giving him rope, he lowered
himself into the depths of the dread cavern; and as he entered it Sancho sent his blessing
after him, making a thousand crosses over him and saying, «God, 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 rope, and they gave it out
little by little, and by the time the calls, which came out of the cave as out of a pipe, ceased
to be heard they had let down the hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don
Quixote up again, as they could give him no more rope; however, they waited about half an
hour, at the end of which time they began to gather in the rope again with great ease and
without feeling any weight, which made them fancy Don Quixote was remaining below; and
persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept bitterly, and hauled away in great haste in order to
settle the question. When, however, they had come to, as it seemed, rather more than eighty
fathoms they felt a weight, at which they were greatly delighted; and at last, at ten fathoms
more, they saw Don Quixote distinctly, and Sancho called out to him, saying, «Welcome
back, senor, for we had begun to think you were going to stop there to found a family.» But
Don Quixote answered not a word, and 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 him, but still he did not awake; however,
they rolled him back and forwards and shook and pulled him about, so that after some time
he came to himself, stretching himself just as if he were waking up from a deep and sound
sleep, and looking about him he said, «God forgive you, friends; ye have taken me away
from the sweetest and most delightful existence and spectacle that ever human being
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CHAPTER XXII 529
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 Quixote,
who uttered them as though with immense pain he drew them up from his very bowels. They
begged of him to explain himself, and 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 it, as ye shall soon see.»
He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he was very hungry. They spread
the cousin's sackcloth on the grass, and put the stores of the alforjas into requisition, and all
three sitting down lovingly and sociably, they made a luncheon and a supper of it all in one;
and when the sackcloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha said, «Let no one rise,
and attend to me, my sons, both of you.»
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CHAPTER XXIII
O
F THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE
SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE
IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO
BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL
It was about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in clouds, with subdued light and
tempered beams, enabled Don Quixote to relate, without heat or inconvenience, what he had
seen in the cave of Montesinos to his two illustrious hearers, and 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,
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CHAPTER XXIII 531
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 Montesinos, I asked him if the story they told in the
world above here was true, that he had taken out the heart of his great friend Durandarte
from his breast with a little dagger, and carried it to the lady Belerma, as 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 dagger, for it was not a dagger, nor little, but 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 maker,
however, because Ramon de Hoces was a man of yesterday, and the affair of Roncesvalles,
where this mishap occurred, was long ago; but the question is of no great importance, nor
does it affect or make any alteration in the truth or substance of the story.»
«That is true,» said the cousin; «continue, Senor Don Quixote, for 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 so, to proceed− the
venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal, where, in a lower chamber, strangely
cool and entirely of alabaster, was an elaborately wrought marble tomb, upon which I
beheld, stretched at full length, a knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as are seen on
other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right hand (which seemed to me somewhat
hairy and sinewy, a sign of great strength in its owner) lay on the side of his heart; but
before I could put any question to Montesinos, he, seeing me gazing at the tomb in
amazement, said to me, 'This is my friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the true lovers
and valiant knights of his time. He is held enchanted here, as I myself and many others are,
by that French enchanter Merlin, who, they say, was the devil's son; but my belief is, not that
he was the devil's son, but that he knew, as the saying is, a point more than the devil. How or
why he enchanted us, no one knows, but time will tell, and I suspect that time is not far off.
What I marvel at is, that I know it to be as sure as that it is now day, that Durandarte ended
his life in my arms, and that, after his death, I took out his heart with my own hands; and
indeed it must have weighed more than two pounds, for, according to naturalists, he who has
a large heart is more largely endowed with valour than he who has a small one. Then, as this
is the case, and as the knight did really die, how comes it that he now moans and sighs from
time to time, as if he were still alive?'
"As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice:
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CHAPTER XXIII 532
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 be, then, my cousin, I say »patience and shuffle;"' and turning over on his side,
he relapsed into his former silence without uttering another word.
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"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 ought, Senor Don Montesinos, for you
know very well that all comparisons are odious, and there is no occasion to compare one
person with another; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the lady Dona
Belerma is what she is and has been, and that's enough.' To which he made answer, 'Forgive
me, Senor 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 not, that youare her knight, to make me bite my tongue out
before I compared her to anything save heaven itself.' After this apology which the great
Montesinos made me, my heart recovered itself from the shock I had received in hearing my
lady compared with Belerma.»
«Still I wonder,» said Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «it 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.»
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«I cannot understand, Senor Don Quixote,» remarked the cousin here, «how 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 Quixote, «because 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 enchantment, maybe 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 Quixote, «nor 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 excrements,
though it is thought that their nails, beards, and hair grow.»
«And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor?» asked Sancho.
«Certainly not,» replied Don Quixote; «at least, during those three days I was with them
not one of them closed an eye, nor 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 it, then, that you neither eat nor sleep while
you are with them? But forgive me, senor, if I say that of all this you have told us now, may
God take me− I was just going to say the devil− if I believe a single particle.»
«What!» said the cousin, «has 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.
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«If not, what dost thou believe?» asked Don Quixote.
«I believe,» replied Sancho, «that 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 eyes, and touched with my own hands. But what will you
say when I tell you now how, among 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 journey, for 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 there, and the
instant I beheld them I knew one to be the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and 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 them, and he told me he did not, but he thought they
must be some enchanted ladies of distinction, for it was only a few days before that they had
made their appearance in those meadows; but I was not to be surprised at that, because there
were a great many other ladies there of times past and present, enchanted in various strange
shapes, and among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere and her dame Quintanona, she
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 senses,
or die with laughter; for, as he knew the real truth about the pretended enchantment of
Dulcinea, in which he himself had been the enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he
made up his mind at last that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of his wits and stark mad,
so he said to him, «It 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 Quixote, «I heed not thy words.»
«Nor I your worship's,» said Sancho, «whether 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 Quixote, «by 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
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CHAPTER XXIII 536
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 this, «is 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.»
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CHAPTER XXIII 537
«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 pass, as I said before, and I will tell thee some of the
things I saw down there which will make thee believe what I have related now, the truth of
which admits of neither reply nor question.»
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CHAPTER XXIV
W
HEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS
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 author, Cide
Hamete Benengeli, says that on coming to the chapter giving the adventures of the cave of
Montesinos he found written on the margin of it, in Hamete's own hand, these 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 master,
and concluded that the good temper the latter displayed arose from the happiness he felt at
having seen his lady Dulcinea, even 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 master, to whom he now observed, «I, 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
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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 know, if by God's favour they
grant you a licence to print those books of yours− which 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 it, but 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 rest, and more−
how much more, if I ventured to say, perhaps I should stir up envy in many a noble breast;
but let this stand over for some more convenient time, and let us go and look for some place
to shelter ourselves in to−night.»
«Not far from this,» said the cousin, «there 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−leaves, and 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 foot, proceeding
at a rapid pace, and beating a mule loaded with lances and halberds. When he came up to
them, he saluted them and passed on without stopping. Don Quixote called to him, «Stay,
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 tomorrow, so I must not delay; God be with you. But if you want to know what I am
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carrying them for, I mean to lodge to−night at the inn that is beyond the hermitage, and if
you be going the same road you will find me there, and 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 inquisitive, and always tortured by his anxiety to learn something new, he decided
to set out at once, and go and pass the night at the inn instead of stopping at the hermitage,
where the cousin would have had them halt. Accordingly they mounted and all three took
the direct road for the inn, which 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 it, and 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 none, but that if they liked cheap water she would give it with great pleasure.
«If I found any in water,» said Sancho, «there 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 hermitage, they pushed on towards the inn, and a little farther they came
upon a youth who was pacing along in front of them at no great speed, so that they overtook
him. He carried a sword over his shoulder, and slung on it a budget or bundle of his clothes
apparently, probably his breeches or pantaloons, and his cloak and a shirt or two; for he had
on a short jacket of velvet with a gloss like satin on it in places, and had his shirt out; his
stockings were of silk, and his shoes square−toed as they wear them at court. His age might
have been eighteen or nineteen; he was of a merry countenance, and to all appearance of an
active habit, and he went along singing seguidillas to beguile the wearisomeness of the road.
As they came up with him he was just finishing one, which the cousin got by heart and they
say ran thus−
I'm off to the wars For the want of pence, Oh, had I but money I'd show more sense.
The first to address him was Don Quixote, who said, «You travel very airily, sir gallant;
whither bound, may we ask, if it is your pleasure to tell us?»
To which the youth replied, «The 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 youth, «in 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
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CHAPTER XXIV 541
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 youth, «I 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 Quixote, «is 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 profession, they strip him of the dress of the order and give him
back his own clothes, so did my masters return me mine; for as soon as the business on
which they came to court was finished, they 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 that,
consider yourself happy in having left court with as worthy an object as you have, for there
is nothing on earth more honourable or profitable than serving, first of all God, and then
one's king and natural lord, particularly in the profession of arms, by which, if not more
wealth, at least more honour is to be won than by letters, as I have said many a time; for
though letters may have founded more great houses than arms, still those founded by arms
have I know not what superiority over those founded by letters, and a certain splendour
belonging to them that distinguishes them above all. And bear in mind what I am now about
to say to you, for it will be of great use and comfort to you in time of trouble; it is, not to let
your mind dwell on the adverse chances that may befall you; for the worst of all is death,
and if it be a good death, the best of all is to die. They asked Julius Caesar, the valiant
Roman emperor, what was the best death. He answered, that which is unexpected, which
comes suddenly and unforeseen; and though he answered like a pagan, and one without the
knowledge of the true God, yet, as far as sparing our feelings is concerned, he was right; for
suppose you are killed in the first engagement or skirmish, whether by a cannon ball or
blown up by mine, what matters it? It is only dying, and all is over; and according to
Terence, a 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 remember, my son, that it is better for the soldier to smell of gunpowder than of
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CHAPTER XXIV 542
civet, and that if old age should come upon you in this honourable calling, though you may
be covered with wounds and crippled and lame, it will not come upon you without honour,
and 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
useless, and, turning them out of their houses under the pretence of making them free, make
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 inn, and
sup with me there, and to−morrow you shall pursue your journey, and God give you as good
speed as your intentions deserve.»
The page did not accept the invitation to mount, though 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 now, just as night was falling, they reached the inn, and it was not without
satisfaction that Sancho perceived his master took it for a real inn, and not for a castle as
usual. The instant they entered Don Quixote asked the landlord after the man with the lances
and halberds, and was told that he was in the stable seeing to his mule; which was what
Sancho and the cousin proceeded to do for their beasts, giving the best manger and the best
place in the stable to Rocinante.
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CHAPTER XXIV 543
CHAPTER XXV
W
HEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL
ONE OF THE PUPPET−SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE
DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING APE
Don Quixote's bread would not bake, as the common saying is, until 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 him, bade 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 beast, good 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 inn, it so happened
that one of the regidors, by 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 it, it was all to no
purpose. A fortnight might have gone by, so the story goes, since the ass had been missing,
when, as the regidor who had lost it was standing in the plaza, another regidor of the same
town said to him, 'Pay me for good news, gossip; your ass has turned up.' 'That I will, and
well, gossip,' said the other; 'but tell us, where has he turned up?' 'In the forest,' said the
finder; 'I saw him this morning without pack−saddle or harness of any sort, and so lean that
it went to one's heart to see him. I tried to drive him before me and bring him to you, but 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 him, let 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
circumstances, and in the very same way I am telling it now, that those who know all about
the matter tell the story. Well then, the two regidors set off on foot, arm in arm, for the
forest, and coming to the place where they hoped to find the ass they could not find him, nor
was he to be seen anywhere about, search as they might. Seeing, then, that there was no sign
of him, the regidor who had seen him said to the other, 'Look here, gossip; a plan has
occurred to me, by which, beyond a doubt, we shall manage to discover the animal, even if
he is stowed away in the bowels of the earth, not to say the forest. Here it is. I can bray to
perfection, and if you can ever so little, the thing's as good as done.' 'Ever so little did you
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CHAPTER XXV 544
say, gossip?' said the other; 'by God, I'll not give in to anybody, not 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 forest, and I the other, so 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 us, and answer us if he is
in the forest.' To which the owner of the ass replied, 'It's an excellent plan, I declare, gossip,
and worthy of your great genius;' and the two separating as agreed, it so fell out that they
brayed almost at the same moment, and each, deceived by the braying of the other, ran to
look, fancying the ass had turned up at last. When they came in sight of one another, said the
loser, 'Is it possible, gossip, that it was not my ass that brayed?' 'No, it was I,' said the other.
'Well then, I can tell you, gossip,' said the ass's owner, 'that between you and an ass there is
not an atom of difference as far as braying goes, for I never in all my life saw or heard
anything more natural.' 'Those praises and compliments belong to you more justly than to
me, gossip,' said the inventor of the plan; 'for, by the God that made me, you might give a
couple of brays odds to the best and most finished brayer in the world; the tone you have got
is deep, your voice is well kept up as to time and pitch, and your finishing notes come thick
and fast; in fact, I own myself beaten, and yield the palm to you, and give in to you in this
rare accomplishment.' 'Well then,' said the owner, 'I'll set a higher value on myself for the
future, and consider that I know something, as I have an excellence of some sort; for though
I always thought I brayed well, I 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 world, and
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 hand, cannot be of any
service to us, and even in this God grant they may be of some use.' So saying they separated,
and took to their braying once more, but every instant they were deceiving one another, and
coming to meet one another again, until they arranged by way of countersign, so as to know
that it was they and not the ass, to give two brays, one after the other. In this way, doubling
the brays at every step, they made the complete circuit of the forest, but the lost ass never
gave them an answer or even the sign of one. How could the poor ill−starred brute have
answered, when, in the thickest part of the forest, they 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 us, or he'd have been no ass; but for the sake of having
heard you bray to such perfection, gossip, I count the trouble I have taken to look for him
well bestowed, even though I have found him dead.' 'It's in a good hand, gossip,' said the
other; 'if the abbot sings well, the acolyte is not much behind him.' So they returned
disconsolate and hoarse to their village, where they told their friends, neighbours, and
acquaintances what had befallen them in their search for the ass, each 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 devil, who never sleeps, with his love for sowing
dissensions and scattering discord everywhere, blowing mischief about and making quarrels
out of nothing, contrived to make the people of the other towns fall to braying whenever
they saw anyone from our village, as if to throw the braying of our regidors in our teeth.
Then the boys took to it, which 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
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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 rook, fear nor shame,
can mend matters. To−morrow or the day after, I believe, the men of my town, that is, of the
braying town, are going to take the field against another village two leagues away from ours,
one 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 tell,
and if you don't think them so, I 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
leather, hose, breeches, and doublet, who said in a loud voice, «Senor host, have you room?
Here's the divining ape and the show of the Release of Melisendra just coming.»
«Ods body!» said the landlord, «why, 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 taffety, showing that something ailed all that side. «Your
worship is welcome, Master Pedro,» continued the landlord; «but where are the ape and the
show, for 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 price, and 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 replied, «This 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.»
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Master Pedro now came back, and in a cart followed the show and the ape− a big one,
without a tail and with buttocks as bare as felt, but not vicious−looking. As soon as Don
Quixote saw him, he asked him, «Can 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 said, «Senor, 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 Sancho, «I 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 money, saying, «I 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 shoulder, and with one spring the ape perched himself upon it, and 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 credo, with another spring he brought himself to the ground,
and the same instant Master Pedro ran in great haste and fell upon his knees before Don
Quixote, and embracing his legs exclaimed, «These 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 thunderstruck, Sancho astounded, the cousin staggered, the page
astonished, the man from the braying town agape, the landlord in perplexity, and, in short,
everyone amazed at the words of the puppet−showman, who went on to say, «And 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 one, and if it was not for her
jealousy I would not change her for the giantess Andandona, who 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 anything, though their heirs may have to pay for it.»
«Now I declare,» said Don Quixote, «he 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
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CHAPTER XXV 547
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 page, «I would ask senor ape what will happen me in the
peregrination I am making.»
To this Master Pedro, who had by this time risen from Don Quixote's feet, replied, «I
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 this, the landlord, delighted beyond
measure, pointed out a place where the show might be fixed, which was done at once.
Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape, as he did not
think it proper that an ape should divine anything, either past or future; so while Master
Pedro was arranging the show, he retired with Sancho into a corner of the stable, where,
without being overheard by anyone, he said to him, «Look 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 Sancho, «it 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 ape, that he may get his
living, and after he has grown rich he will give him his soul, which is what the enemy of
mankind wants; this I am led to believe by observing that the ape only answers about things
past or present, and the devil's knowledge extends no further; for the future he knows only
by guesswork, and that not always; for it is reserved for God alone to know the times and the
seasons, and for him there is neither past nor future; all is present. This being as it is, it is
clear that this ape speaks by the spirit of the devil; and I am astonished they have not
denounced him to the Holy Office, and put him to the question, and 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 up, or knows how to set up, those figures they call judiciary, which are
now so common in Spain that there is not a jade, or page, or old cobbler, that will not
undertake to set up a figure as readily as pick up a knave of cards from the ground, bringing
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 breed, and how many and of what colour the little pups would be. To which senor
astrologer, after having set up his figure, made answer that the bitch would be in pup, and
would drop three pups, one green, another bright red, and the third parti−coloured, provided
she conceived between eleven and twelve either of the day or night, and on a Monday or
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CHAPTER XXV 548
Saturday; but as things turned out, two days after this the bitch died of a surfeit, and senor
planet−ruler had the credit all over the place of being a most profound astrologer, as most of
these planet−rulers have.»
«Still,» said Sancho, «I 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; «however, I will do what you suggest; though I
have my own scruples about it.»
At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixote, to tell him the show was
now ready and to come and see it, for it was worth seeing. Don Quixote explained his wish,
and 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 answering, went back to fetch the ape, and,
having placed it in front of Don Quixote and Sancho, said: «See here, senor ape, this
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 ear, and 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 Sancho, «that 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 you, Senor Don Quixote, it is one of the best−worth−seeing things in the world
this day; but operibus credite et non verbis, and now let's get to work, for it is growing late,
and 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 uncovered, set all around with lighted wax tapers which made it look splendid and
bright. When they came to it Master Pedro ensconced himself inside it, for it was he who
had to work the puppets, and a boy, a servant of his, posted himself outside to act as
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CHAPTER XXV 549
showman and explain the mysteries of the exhibition, having a wand in his hand to point to
the figures as they came out. And so, all who were in the inn being arranged in front of the
show, some of them standing, and Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and cousin,
accommodated with the best places, the interpreter began to say what he will hear or see
who reads or hears the next chapter.
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CHAPTER XXV 550
CHAPTER XXVI
W
HEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL
ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET−SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD
All were silent, Tyrians 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 over, and then the boy lifted up his
voice and said, "This 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,
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CHAPTER XXVI 551
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 out, «Child, 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 within, «Boy, 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 boy, and he went on to say, "This 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!"
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CHAPTER XXVI 552
Here Master Pedro called out again and said, «Simplicity, boy! None of your high
flights; all affectation is bad.»
The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, «There 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
inaccurate, for bells are not in use among the Moors; only kettledrums, and a kind of small
trumpet somewhat like our clarion; to ring bells this way in Sansuena is unquestionably a
great absurdity.»
On hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, «Don'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 lovers, what a
blowing of trumpets there is, what sounding of horns, what beating of drums and tabors; I
fear me they will overtake them and bring them back tied to the tail of their own horse,
which would be a dreadful sight.»
Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing such a din, thought
it would be right to aid the fugitives, and standing up he exclaimed in a loud voice, «Never,
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 word, he drew his
sword, and with one bound placed himself close to the show, and with unexampled rapidity
and fury began to shower down blows on the puppet troop of Moors, knocking over some,
decapitating others, maiming this one and demolishing that; and among many more he
delivered one down stroke which, if Master Pedro had not ducked, made himself small, and
got out of the way, would have sliced off his head as easily as if it had been made of
almond−paste. Master Pedro kept shouting, «Hold 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 this, Don Quixote did not leave off discharging a continuous rain of
cuts, slashes, downstrokes, and backstrokes, and at length, in less than the space of two
credos, he brought the whole show to the ground, with all its fittings and figures shivered
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CHAPTER XXVI 553
and knocked to pieces, King Marsilio badly wounded, and the Emperor Charlemagne with
his crown and head split in two. The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the ape fled
to the roof of the inn, the cousin was frightened, and even Sancho Panza himself was in
mighty fear, for, as he swore after the storm was over, he had never seen his master in such a
furious passion.
The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplished, Don Quixote became a
little calmer, said, «I 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 voice, "and 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 words, and 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 Pedro, «and 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 yours, Master 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXVI 554
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 Quixote, «of 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 bow, saying, «I 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 consented, and then Master Pedro picked up from the ground
King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head off, and said, «Here 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 Pedro, taking up
the split Emperor Charlemagne, «it 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 even, and 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 Pedro, «that 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
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CHAPTER XXVI 555
maravedis.»
«The very devil must be in it,» said Don Quixote, «if 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 Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander, and return to his
original fancy, was not disposed to let him escape, so he said to him, «This 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 on, putting values on ever so many more smashed figures, which, after
the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the satisfaction of both parties, came to forty reals
and three−quarters; and over and above this sum, which Sancho at once disbursed, Master
Pedro asked for two reals for his trouble in catching the ape.
«Let him have them, Sancho,» said Don Quixote; «not to catch the ape, but to get
drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute for the good news, to anyone who could
tell me positively, that 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 short, the puppet−show storm passed off, and all supped in peace and good
fellowship at Don Quixote's expense, for he was the height of generosity. Before it was
daylight the man with the lances and halberds took his departure, and soon after daybreak
the cousin and the page came to bid Don Quixote farewell, the former returning home, the
latter resuming his journey, towards which, to help him, Don Quixote gave him twelve reals.
Master Pedro did not care to engage in any more palaver with Don Quixote, whom he knew
right well; so he rose before the sun, and having got together the remains of his show and
caught his ape, he too went off to seek his adventures. The landlord, who did not know Don
Quixote, was as much astonished at his mad freaks as at his generosity. To conclude,
Sancho, by his master's orders, paid him very liberally, and 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 journey, for this is necessary in order to allow certain other matters to be set
forth, which are required to clear up this famous history.
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CHAPTER XXVII
W
HEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND
HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN
THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE AS HE
WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED
Cide Hamete, the chronicler of this great history, begins this chapter with these words,
«I swear as a Catholic Christian;» with regard to which his translator says that Cide
Hamete's swearing as a Catholic Christian, he being− as no doubt he was− a Moor, only
meant that, just as a Catholic Christian taking an oath swears, or ought to swear, what is
true, and tell the truth in what he avers, so he was telling the truth, as much as if he swore as
a Catholic Christian, in all he chose to write about Quixote, especially in declaring who
Master Pedro was and what was the divining ape that astonished all the villages with his
divinations. He says, then, that he who has read the First Part of this history will remember
well enough the Gines de Pasamonte whom, with other galley slaves, Don Quixote set free
in the Sierra Morena: a kindness for which he afterwards got poor thanks and worse
payment from that evil−minded, ill−conditioned set. This Gines de Pasamonte− Don
Ginesillo de Parapilla, Don Quixote called him− it was that stole Dapple from Sancho
Panza; which, because by the fault of the printers neither the how nor the when was stated in
the First Part, has been a puzzle to a good many people, who attribute to the bad memory of
the author what was the error of the press. In fact, however, Gines stole him while Sancho
Panza was asleep on his back, adopting the plan and device that Brunello had recourse to
when he stole Sacripante's horse from between his legs at the siege of Albracca; and, as has
been told, Sancho afterwards recovered him. This Gines, then, afraid 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 Aragon, and cover up his
left eye, and take up the trade of a puppet−showman; for this, as well as juggling, he knew
how to practise to perfection. From some released Christians returning from Barbary, it so
happened, he bought the ape, which he taught to mount upon his shoulder on his making a
certain sign, and to whisper, or seem to do so, in his ear. Thus prepared, before entering any
village whither he was bound with his show and his ape, he used to inform himself at the
nearest village, or from the most likely person he could find, as to what particular things had
happened there, and to whom; and bearing them well in mind, the first thing be did was to
exhibit his show, sometimes one story, sometimes another, but all lively, amusing, and
familiar. As soon as the exhibition was over he brought forward the accomplishments of his
ape, assuring the public that he divined all the past and the present, but as to the future he
had no skill. For each question answered he asked two reals, and for some he made a
reduction, just as he happened to feel the pulse of the questioners; and when now and then
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CHAPTER XXVII 557
he came to houses where things that he knew of had happened to the people living there,
even if they did not ask him a question, not caring to pay for it, he would make the sign to
the ape and then declare that it had said so and so, which fitted the case exactly. In this way
he acquired a prodigious name and all ran after him; on other occasions, being very crafty,
he 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 divined, he made fools of them all
and filled his pouch. The instant he entered the inn he knew Don Quixote and Sancho, and
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 horsemen, as 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 visit, first of all, the banks of the Ebro
and that neighbourhood, before entering the city of Saragossa, for 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 days, without meeting any adventure worth
committing to writing until on the third day, as he was ascending a hill, he heard a great
noise of drums, trumpets, and musket−shots. At first he imagined some regiment of soldiers
was passing that way, and to see them he spurred Rocinante and mounted the hill. On
reaching the top he saw at the foot of it over two hundred men, as it seemed to him, armed
with weapons of various sorts, lances, crossbows, partisans, halberds, and pikes, and a few
muskets and a great many bucklers. He descended the slope and approached the band near
enough to see distinctly the flags, make out the colours and distinguish the devices they
bore, especially one on a standard or ensign of white satin, on which there was painted in a
very life−like style an ass like a little sard, with its head up, its mouth open and its tongue
out, as 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
town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining 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 regidors, for according to the lines of the standard they
were alcaldes. To which Sancho replied, «Senor, 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 perceived, in short, clearly 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.
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CHAPTER XXVII 558
Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho's uneasiness, for he never
relished mixing himself up in expeditions of that sort. The members of the troop received
him into the midst of them, taking him to he some one who was on their side. Don Quixote,
putting up his visor, advanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to the standard with the
ass, and all the chief men of the army gathered round him to look at him, staring at him with
the usual amazement that everybody felt on seeing him for the first time. Don Quixote,
seeing them examining him so attentively, and that none of them spoke to him or put any
question to him, determined to take advantage of their silence; so, breaking his own, he
lifted up his voice and said, «Worthy 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 liked, for they would listen to him willingly.
With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, «I, 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
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CHAPTER XXVII 559
(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 this, «but 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 breath, and, observing that silence was still preserved, had
a mind to continue his discourse, and would have done so had not Sancho interposed with
his smartness; for he, seeing his master pause, took the lead, saying, «My 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 then, taking hold of his nose, he began to bray so vigorously that all the
valleys around rang again.
One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was mocking them, lifted 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 Quixote, seeing him so roughly handled, attacked the man who
had struck him lance in hand, but so many thrust themselves between them that he could not
avenge him. Far from it, finding a shower of stones rained upon him, and crossbows and
muskets unnumbered levelled at him, he wheeled Rocinante round and, as fast as his best
gallop could take him, fled from the midst of them, commending himself to God with all his
heart to deliver him out of this peril, in dread every step of some ball coming in at his back
and coming out at his breast, and every minute drawing his breath to see whether it had gone
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXVII 560
from him. The members of the band, however, were satisfied with seeing him take to flight,
and did not fire on him. They put up Sancho, scarcely restored to his senses, on his ass, and
let him go after his master; not that he was sufficiently in his wits to guide the beast, but
Dapple followed the footsteps of Rocinante, from whom he could not remain a moment
separated. Don Quixote having got some way off looked back, and seeing Sancho coming,
waited for him, as he perceived that no one followed him. The men of the troop stood their
ground till night, and as the enemy did not come out to battle, they returned to their town
exulting; and had they been aware of the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have
erected a trophy on the spot.
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CHAPTER XXVIII
O
F MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS
THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION
When the brave man flees, treachery is manifest and it is for wise men to reserve
themselves for better occasions. This proved to be the case with Don Quixote, who, giving
way before the fury of the townsfolk and the hostile intentions of the angry troop, took to
flight and, without a thought of Sancho or the danger in which he was leaving him, retreated
to such a distance as he thought made him safe. Sancho, lying across his ass, followed him,
as has been said, and at length came up, having by this time recovered his senses, and on
joining him let himself drop off Dapple at Rocinante's feet, sore, bruised, and belaboured.
Don Quixote dismounted to examine his wounds, but finding him whole from head to foot,
he said to him, angrily enough, «In 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 Sancho, «for 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 know,
Sancho, that the valour which is not based upon a foundation of prudence is called rashness,
and the exploits of the rash man are to be attributed rather to good fortune than to courage;
and so I own that I retired, but 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 this, but as it would not be any good to thee or pleasure to me, I will not recount
them to thee now.»
Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don Quixote, who then himself
mounted Rocinante, and 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 groans, and on Don Quixote asking him what caused such acute suffering,
he replied that, from the end of his back−bone up to the nape of his neck, he was so sore that
it nearly drove him out of his senses.
«The cause of that soreness,» said Don Quixote, «will be, no doubt, that the staff
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CHAPTER XXVIII 562
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 Sancho, «your 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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «I 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
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CHAPTER XXVIII 563
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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «that 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 village, so
reckon up, Sancho, according to the wages you have made out for yourself, and see how
much I owe you in proportion, and pay yourself, as I said before, out of your own hand.»
«O body o' me!» said Sancho, «but 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 Sancho, «it must be over twenty years, three days more or
less.»
Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to laugh heartily, and
said he, «Why, 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
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CHAPTER XXVIII 564
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 rating, and was so
touched by remorse that the tears came to his eyes, and in a piteous and broken voice he said
to him, «Master 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 Quixote, «if 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 so, and keep up his heart as best he could. They then entered
the grove, and Don Quixote settled himself at the foot of an elm, and Sancho at that of a
beech, for trees of this kind and others like them always have feet but no hands. Sancho
passed the night in pain, for with the evening dews the blow of the staff made itself felt all
the more. Don Quixote passed it in his never−failing meditations; but, for all that, they had
some winks of sleep, and with the appearance of daylight they pursued their journey in quest
of the banks of the famous Ebro, where that befell them which will be told in the following
chapter.
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CHAPTER XXIX
O
F THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK
By stages as already described or left undescribed, two 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 banks, the clearness of its
stream, the gentleness of its current and the abundance of its crystal waters; and the pleasant
view revived a thousand tender thoughts in his mind. Above all, he 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 true, part false, he clung more to their truth than to their falsehood, the very
reverse of Sancho, who held them all to be downright lies.
As they were thus proceeding, then, they discovered a small boat, without oars or any
other gear, that lay at the water's edge tied to the stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don
Quixote looked all round, and seeing nobody, at once, without more ado, dismounted 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 answer, «Thou 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 Sancho, «and 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 this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the care and protection of the
enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart. Don Quixote bade him not be uneasy about
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CHAPTER XXIX 566
deserting the animals, «for he who would carry themselves over such longinquous roads and
regions would take care to feed them.»
«I don't understand that logiquous,» said Sancho, «nor have I ever heard the word all
the days of my life.»
«Longinquous,» replied Don Quixote, «means 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 Quixote, «cross 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 river, he began
to tremble and give himself up for lost; but nothing distressed him more than hearing Dapple
bray and seeing Rocinante struggling to get loose, and said he to his master, «Dapple 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 bitterly, that
Don Quixote said to him, sharply and angrily, «What 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 Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «your 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 Ptolemy, and said he, «Thou must know, Sancho, that with the
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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; «still, I'll do as your worship bids me; though I
don't know what need there is for trying these experiments, for I can see with my own eyes
that we have not moved five yards away from the bank, or shifted two yards from where the
animals stand, for there are Rocinante and Dapple in the very same place where we left
them; and watching a point, as I do now, I swear by all that's good, we are not stirring or
moving at the pace of an ant.»
«Try the test I told thee of, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 felt, and passing his hand gently and carefully down to the hollow of his left
knee, he 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 midstream, not moved by any occult
intelligence or invisible enchanter, but simply by the current, just there smooth and gentle.
They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the middle of the river,
and the instant Don Quixote saw them he cried out, «Seest 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 another, but that it
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CHAPTER XXIX 568
seems as though they did, as experience proved in the transformation of Dulcinea, sole
refuge of my hopes.»
By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the stream, began to move less
slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to the mills, when they saw the boat coming
down the river, and on the point of being sucked in by the draught of the wheels, ran out in
haste, several of them, with long poles to stop it, and being all mealy, with faces and
garments covered with flour, they presented a sinister appearance. They raised loud shouts,
crying, «Devils 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 this, «that 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 millers, exclaiming, «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 millers, who, hearing but not understanding
all this nonsense, strove to stop the boat, which 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 millers, who, pushing
against the boat with their poles, stopped it, not, however, without upsetting and throwing
Don Quixote and Sancho into the water; and lucky it was for Don Quixote that he could
swim like a goose, though the weight of his armour carried him twice to the bottom; and had
it not been for the millers, who plunged in and hoisted them both out, it would have been
Troy town with the pair of them. As soon as, more drenched than thirsty, they were landed,
Sancho went down on his knees and with clasped hands and eyes raised to heaven, prayed a
long and fervent prayer to God to deliver him evermore from the rash projects and attempts
of his master. The fishermen, the owners of the boat, which the mill−wheels had knocked to
pieces, now came up, and seeing it smashed they proceeded to strip Sancho and to demand
payment for it from Don Quixote; but he with great calmness, just as if nothing had
happened him, told the millers and fishermen that he would pay for the bark most cheerfully,
on condition that they delivered up to him, free and unhurt, the 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 himself, «it would be preaching in the desert to
attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to do any virtuous action. In this adventure two
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CHAPTER XXIX 569
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 aloud, «Friends, 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 fishermen, and paid fifty reals for the boat, which Sancho
handed to them very much against the grain, saying, «With 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 figures, so 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 madmen, they left them and betook themselves, the millers to
their mills, and the fishermen to their huts. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to their beasts,
and to their life of beasts, and so ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.
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CHAPTER XXIX 570
CHAPTER XXX
O
F DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS
They reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humour enough, knight and squire,
Sancho particularly, for with him what touched the stock of money touched his heart, and
when any was taken from him he felt as if he was robbed of the apples of his eyes. In fine,
without exchanging a word, they mounted and quitted the famous river, Don Quixote
absorbed in thoughts of his love, Sancho in thinking of his advancement, which just then, it
seemed to him, he was very far from securing; for, fool as he was, he 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 day, without entering
into any explanations or taking any farewell of him. Fortune, however, ordered matters after
a fashion very much the opposite of what he contemplated.
It so happened that the next day towards sunset, on coming out of a wood, Don Quixote
cast his eyes over a green meadow, and at the far end of it observed some people, and as he
drew nearer saw that it was a hawking party. Coming closer, he distinguished among them a
lady of graceful mien, on a pure white palfrey or hackney caparisoned with green trappings
and a silver−mounted side−saddle. The lady was also in green, and so richly and splendidly
dressed that splendour itself seemed personified in her. On her left hand she bore a hawk, a
proof to Don Quixote's mind that she must be some great lady and the mistress of the whole
hunting party, which was the fact; so he said to Sancho, «Run 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!
Why, this 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 Quixote, «I 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 payer, and 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 thee, and God speed
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CHAPTER XXX 571
thee.»
Sancho went off at top speed, forcing Dapple out of his regular pace, and came to where
the fair huntress was standing, and dismounting knelt before her and said, «Fair 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 lady, «delivered 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 up, charmed as much by the beauty of the good lady as by her high−bred air
and her courtesy, but, above all, by what she had said about having heard of his master, the
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 me, brother squire,» asked the duchess
(whose title, however, is not known), «this master of yours, is he not one of whom there is a
history extant in print, called 'The Ingenious Gentleman, Don 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 figures, or ought
to figure, in the said history under the name of Sancho Panza, is myself, unless they have
changed me in the cradle, I mean in the press.»
«I am rejoiced at all this,» said the duchess; «go, brother Panza, and tell your master
that he is welcome to my estate, and that nothing could happen me that could give me
greater pleasure.»
Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this gratifying answer, and told him
all the great lady had said to him, lauding to the skies, in his rustic phrase, her rare beauty,
her graceful gaiety, and her courtesy. Don Quixote drew himself up briskly in his saddle,
fixed himself in his stirrups, settled his visor, gave Rocinante the spur, and with an easy
bearing advanced to kiss the hands of the duchess, who, having 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 history, and from it were aware of Don Quixote's crazy
turn, they awaited him with the greatest delight and anxiety to make his acquaintance,
meaning to fall in with his humour and agree with everything he said, and, so long as he
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CHAPTER XXX 572
stayed with them, to treat him as a knight−errant, with all the ceremonies usual in the books
of chivalry they had read, for they themselves were very fond of them.
Don Quixote now came up with his visor raised, and 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 it, and was left hanging by it with his face and breast on the ground. Don
Quixote, who was not used to dismount without having the stirrup held, fancying that
Sancho had by this time come to hold it for him, threw himself off with a lurch and brought
Rocinante's saddle after him, which was no doubt badly girthed, and saddle and he both
came to the ground; not without discomfiture to him and abundant curses muttered between
his teeth against the unlucky Sancho, who had his foot still in the shackles. The duke
ordered his huntsmen to go to the help of knight and squire, and they raised Don Quixote,
sorely shaken by his fall; and he, limping, advanced as best he could to kneel before the
noble pair. This, however, the duke would by no means permit; on the contrary, dismounting
from his horse, he went and embraced Don Quixote, saying, «I 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 Quixote,
«cannot 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 is, it is not right that other beauties should he praised.»
Sancho, by this time released from his entanglement, was standing by, and before his
master could answer he said, «There 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 said, «Your 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.»
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CHAPTER XXX 573
To which the duchess made answer, «that 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 duke, «for 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 Sancho, «for there is no Rueful
Countenance nor any such character now.»
«He of the Lions be it,» continued the duke; «I say, let Sir Knight of the Lions come to
a castle of mine close by, where he shall be given that reception which is due to so exalted a
personage, and 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 saddle, and Don Quixote having
got on his back and the duke mounted a fine horse, they placed the duchess in the middle
and set out for the castle. The duchess desired Sancho to come to her side, for she found
infinite enjoyment in listening to his shrewd remarks. Sancho required no pressing, but
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.
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CHAPTER XXXI
W
HICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS
Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself, as it seemed, an
established favourite with the duchess, for 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 living, and
always seized by the forelock any opportunity of feasting himself whenever it presented
itself. The history informs us, then, that before they reached the country house or castle, the
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 duchess, two lackeys or equerries,
clad in what they call morning gowns of fine crimson satin reaching to their feet, hastened
out, and catching Don Quixote in their arms before he saw or heard them, said to him,
«Your highness should go and take my lady the duchess off her horse.» Don Quixote
obeyed, and great bandying of compliments followed between the two over the matter; but
in the end the duchess's determination carried the day, and she refused to get down or
dismount from her palfrey except in the arms of the duke, saying 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 down, and 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 cloth, and at the same
instant all the galleries of the court were lined with the men−servants and women−servants
of the household, crying, «Welcome, 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 astonished, and this was the first time that he
thoroughly felt and believed himself to be a knight−errant in reality and not merely in fancy,
now that he saw himself treated in the same way as he had read of such knights being treated
in days of yore.
Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and entered the castle, but feeling
some twinges of conscience at having left the ass alone, he approached a respectable duenna
who had come out with the rest to receive the duchess, and 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 answer, «I 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 duenna, «we have got a fine bargain. Be
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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 Sancho, «I 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 duenna, «keep 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 Sancho, «for you won't lose the trick in
years by a point too little.»
«Son of a bitch,» said the duenna, all aglow with anger, «whether 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
loud, that the duchess heard it, and turning round and seeing the duenna in such a state of
excitement, and her eyes flaming so, asked whom she was wrangling with.
«With this good fellow here,» said the duenna, «who 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 duchess, «I should have considered the greatest affront that could be
offered me;» and addressing Sancho, she said to him, «You 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 Sancho, «if 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 Quixote, who was listening, said to him, «Is this proper conversation for the place,
Sancho?»
«Senor,» replied Sancho, «every 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 observed, «Sancho 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.»
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CHAPTER XXXI 576
While this conversation, amusing to all except Don Quixote, was proceeding, they
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 pages, all of
them prepared and instructed by the duke and duchess as to what they were to do, and how
they were to treat Don Quixote, so that he might see and believe they were treating him like
a knight−errant. When his armour was removed, there stood Don Quixote in his tight−fitting
breeches and chamois doublet, lean, lanky, and long, with cheeks that seemed to be kissing
each other inside; such a figure, that 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 him, but he would not on any account, saying that
modesty became knights−errant just as much as valour. However, he said they might give
the shirt to Sancho; and shutting himself in with him in a room where there was a sumptuous
bed, he undressed and put on the shirt; and then, finding himself alone with Sancho, he said
to him, «Tell 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 considered,
and told him he might make his mind easy on that point, for it should never be discovered
through him what they were.
Don Quixote dressed himself, put on his baldric with his sword, threw the scarlet mantle
over his shoulders, placed on his head a montera of green satin that the damsels had given
him, and thus arrayed passed out into the large room, where he found the damsels drawn up
in double file, the same number on each side, all with the appliances for washing the hands,
which they presented to him with profuse obeisances and ceremonies. Then came twelve
pages, together with the seneschal, to lead him to dinner, as his hosts were already waiting
for him. They placed him in the midst of them, and with much pomp and stateliness they
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CHAPTER XXXI 577
conducted him into another room, where 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 him, and with
them a grave ecclesiastic, one of those who rule noblemen's houses; one of those who, not
being born magnates themselves, never 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 who, when they try to introduce economy into the
household they rule, lead it into meanness. One of this sort, I 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 exchanged, and at length, taking Don Quixote
between them, they proceeded to sit down to table. The duke pressed Don Quixote to take
the head of the table, and, though he refused, the entreaties of the duke were so urgent that
he had to accept it.
The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to him, and the duke and duchess those at the
sides. All this time Sancho stood by, gaping 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
table, he said, «If 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 trembled, making sure that he was about to
say something foolish. Sancho glanced at him, and guessing his thoughts, said, «Don'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 wilt,
only say it quickly.»
«Well then,» said Sancho, «what 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 Sancho, «that the bell−ringer's in a safe
berth; as will be seen by what follows.»
«It would be well,» said Don Quixote, «if your highnesses would order them to turn out
this idiot, for he will talk a heap of nonsense.»
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«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 him, for I know he is very discreet.»
«Discreet be the days of your holiness,» said Sancho, «for 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 ecclesiastic, «I 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 Quixote, «that 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 contrary, for my gratification, he is
to tell it as he knows it, though 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 Sancho, «that 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 labourer,
coming to the house of the gentleman I spoke of that invited him− rest his soul, he is now
dead; and more by token he died the death of an angel, so they say; for I was not there, for
just at that time I had gone to reap at Tembleque−»
«As you live, my son,» said the churchman, «make 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 Sancho, «that as the pair of them were going to sit
down to table −and I think I can see them now plainer than ever−»
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Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from the irritation the worthy
churchman showed at the long−winded, halting way Sancho had of telling his story, while
Don Quixote was chafing with rage and vexation.
«So, as I was saying,» continued Sancho, «as 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 colours, which, on his sunburnt face, mottled it till it looked like
jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their laughter so as not altogether to mortify Don
Quixote, for they saw through Sancho's impertinence; and to change the conversation, and
keep Sancho from uttering more absurdities, the duchess asked Don Quixote what news he
had of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent her any presents of giants or miscreants lately,
for he could not but have vanquished a good many.
To which Don Quixote replied, «Senora, 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 rate, in nimbleness and jumping she won't give in to a tumbler; by my faith, senora
duchess, she 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; «why, who the devil was it but myself that first thought
of the enchantment business? She is as much enchanted as my father.»
The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and caitiffs and enchantments,
began to suspect that this must be Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose story the duke was
always reading; and he had himself often reproved him for it, telling him it was foolish to
read such fooleries; and becoming convinced that his suspicion was correct, addressing the
duke, he said very angrily to him, «Senor, 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 said, «And you, num−skull, who put it into your head that you are a
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CHAPTER XXXI 580
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 words, and as soon as he
perceived he had done speaking, regardless of the presence of the duke and duchess, he
sprang to his feet with angry looks and an agitated countenance, and said −But the reply
deserves a chapter to itself.
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CHAPTER XXXI 581
CHAPTER XXXII
O
F THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER
INCIDENTS, GRAVE AND DROLL
Don Quixote, then, having risen to his feet, trembling from head to foot like a man
dosed with mercury, said in a hurried, agitated voice, «The 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 mine, for
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CHAPTER XXXII 582
there's nothing more in the world to be said, thought, or insisted on; and besides, when this
gentleman denies, as he has, that there are or ever have been any knights−errant in the
world, is it any wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been talking about?»
«Perhaps, brother,» said the ecclesiastic, «you are that Sancho Panza that is mentioned,
to whom your master has promised an island?»
«Yes, I am,» said Sancho, «and 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 duke, «for 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 Quixote, «and kiss the feet of his
excellence for the favour he has bestowed upon thee.»
Sancho obeyed, and on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up from table completely out
of temper, exclaiming, «By 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 word, or eating another morsel, he went off,
the entreaties of the duke and duchess being entirely unavailing to stop him; not that the
duke said much to him, for he could not, because of the laughter his uncalled−for anger
provoked.
When he had done laughing, he said to Don Quixote, «You 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 Quixote, «and 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
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CHAPTER XXXII 583
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 faith, I'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; ay, let him tackle them, and
he'll see how he'll get out of their hands!»
The duchess, as she listened to Sancho, was ready to die with laughter, and 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 calm, and dinner came to an end, and as the cloth was
removed four damsels came in, one of them with a silver basin, another with a jug also of
silver, a third with two fine white towels on her shoulder, and the fourth with her arms bared
to the elbows, and in her white hands (for white they certainly were) a round ball of Naples
soap. The one with the basin approached, and with arch composure and impudence, thrust it
under Don Quixote's chin, who, wondering at such a ceremony, said never a word,
supposing it to be the custom of that country to wash beards instead of hands; he therefore
stretched his out as far as he could, and at the same instant the jug began to pour and the
damsel with the soap rubbed his beard briskly, raising snow−flakes, for the soap lather was
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CHAPTER XXXII 584
no less white, not only over the beard, but all over the face, and over the eyes of the
submissive knight, so that they were perforce obliged to keep shut. The duke and duchess,
who had not known anything about this, waited to see what came of this strange washing.
The barber damsel, when she had him a hand's breadth deep in lather, pretended that there
was no more water, and bade the one with the jug go and fetch some, while Senor Don
Quixote waited. She did so, and Don Quixote was left the strangest and most ludicrous
figure that could be imagined. All those present, and there were a good many, were
watching him, and as they saw him there with half a yard of neck, and that uncommonly
brown, his eyes shut, and his beard full of soap, it was a great wonder, and only by great
discretion, that they were able to restrain their laughter. The damsels, the concocters of the
joke, kept their eyes down, not daring to look at their master and mistress; and as for them,
laughter and anger struggled within them, and they knew not what to do, whether to punish
the audacity of the girls, or 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
Quixote, and the one who carried the towels very deliberately wiped him and dried him; and
all four together making him a profound obeisance and curtsey, they were about to go, when
the duke, lest Don Quixote should see through the joke, called out to the one with the basin
saying, «Come and wash me, and take care that there is water enough.» The girl,
sharp−witted and prompt, came and placed the basin for the duke as she had done for Don
Quixote, and they soon had him well soaped and washed, and 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
impudence, which they adroitly atoned for by soaping him as well.
Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very attentively, and said to himself,
«God 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 replied, «that 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 you, and even put you in the tub if necessary.»
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CHAPTER XXXII 585
«I'll be content with the beard,» said Sancho, «at 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 him, while the duke and duchess and
Don Quixote remained at table discussing a great variety of things, but all bearing on the
calling of arms and knight−errantry.
The duchess begged Don Quixote, as he seemed to have a retentive memory, to describe
and portray to her the beauty and features of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for, judging by
what fame trumpeted abroad of her beauty, she felt sure she must be the fairest creature in
the world, nay, in all La Mancha.
Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess's request, and said, «If 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 Quixote, «means 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.
Nevertheless, Senor Don Quixote would greatly gratify us if he would depict her to us; for
never fear, even in an outline or sketch she will be something to make the fairest envious.»
«I would do so certainly,» said Don Quixote, «had 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.»
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CHAPTER XXXII 586
«God bless me!» said the duke aloud at this, «who 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 good, and glorify and exalt the deeds of the wicked?
Enchanters have persecuted me, enchanters persecute me still, and 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 with, of the sun that gives him light, of the
food whereby he lives. Many a time before have I said it, and I say it now once more, a
knight−errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building without a foundation, or
a shadow without the body that causes it.»
«There is no denying it,» said the duchess; «but still, if we are to believe the history of
Don Quixote that has come out here lately with general applause, it is to be inferred from it,
if I mistake not, that you never saw the lady Dulcinea, and that the said lady is nothing in the
world but an imaginary lady, one that you yourself begot and gave birth to in your brain, and
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 read, from which it is to be
inferred that, granting there is a Dulcinea in El Toboso, or out of it, and that she is in the
highest degree beautiful as you have described her to us, as regards the loftiness of her
lineage she is not on a par with the Orianas, Alastrajareas, Madasimas, or others of that sort,
with whom, as you well know, the histories abound.»
«To that I may reply,» said Don Quixote, «that 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
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CHAPTER XXXII 587
fortunes.»
«I protest, Senor Don Quixote,» said the duchess, «that 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 answer, «Senora, 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,
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CHAPTER XXXII 588
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 duke, duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their conversation, when
they heard voices and a great hubbub in the palace, and Sancho burst abruptly into the room
all glowing with anger, with a straining−cloth by way of a bib, and followed by several
servants, or, more properly speaking, kitchen−boys and other underlings, one of whom
carried a small trough full of water, that from its colour and impurity was plainly dishwater.
The one with the trough pursued him and followed him everywhere he went, endeavouring
with the utmost persistence to thrust it under his chin, while 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 replied, «The gentleman will not let himself be
washed as is customary, and as my lord the and the senor his master have been.»
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CHAPTER XXXII 589
«Yes, I will,» said Sancho, in a great rage; «but I'd like it to be with cleaner towels,
clearer lye, and 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 beard, and I don't
require to be refreshed in that fashion, and whoever comes to wash me or touch a hair of my
head, I mean to say my beard, with all due respect be it said, I'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 trim, with the dingy
towel about him, and the hangers−on of the kitchen all round him; so making a low bow to
the duke and duchess, as if to ask their permission to speak, he addressed the rout in a
dignified tone: «Holloa, gentlemen! you let that youth alone, and go back to where you came
from, or anywhere else if you like; my squire is as clean as any other person, and those
troughs are as bad as narrow thin−necked jars to him; take my advice and leave him alone,
for neither he nor I understand joking.»
Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went on, «Nay, 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 this, the duchess, laughing all the while, said, «Sancho 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 servitors, and even the seneschal who came with them, took the duchess
to be speaking in earnest, so they removed the straining−cloth from Sancho's neck, and 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 danger, as it seemed to him, ran and fell on his
knees before the duchess, saying, «From 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
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CHAPTER XXXII 590
longer in obeying than your grace in commanding.»
«It is easy to see, Sancho,» replied the duchess, «that 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 this, the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote retired to take his midday
sleep; but the duchess begged Sancho, unless he had a very great desire to go to sleep, to
come and spend the afternoon with her and her damsels in a very cool chamber. Sancho
replied that, though he certainly had the habit of sleeping four or five hours in the heat of the
day in summer, to serve her excellence he would try with all his might not to sleep even one
that day, and that he would come in obedience to her command, and with that he went off.
The duke gave fresh orders with respect to treating Don Quixote as a knight−errant, without
departing even in smallest particular from the style in which, as the stories tell us, they used
to treat the knights of old.
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CHAPTER XXXIII
O
F THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER
DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING
AND NOTING
The history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon, but in order to keep his
word came, before he had well done dinner, to visit the duchess, who, finding enjoyment in
listening to him, made him sit down beside her on a low seat, though Sancho, out of pure
good breeding, wanted not to sit down; the duchess, however, told him he was to sit down as
governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he was worthy of even the chair of the Cid
Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho shrugged his shoulders, obeyed, and sat down, and all the
duchess's damsels and duennas gathered round him, waiting in profound silence to hear what
he would say. It was the duchess, however, who spoke first, saying:
«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 words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got up from his chair, and with
noiseless steps, with his body bent and his finger on his lips, went all round the room lifting
up the hangings; and this done, he came back to his seat and said, "Now, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXIII 592
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 me, a
doubt starts up in my mind, and there comes a kind of whisper to my ear that says, 'If Don
Quixote be mad, crazy, and cracked, and Sancho Panza his squire knows it, and,
notwithstanding, serves and follows him, and goes trusting to his empty promises, there can
be no doubt he must be still madder and sillier than his master; and that being so, it will be
cast in your teeth, senora duchess, if 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 Sancho, «but 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 Rodriguez, the duenna, who was one of the
listeners. "Why, there's a ballad that says they put King Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of
toads, and adders, and lizards, and that two days afterwards the king, in a plaintive, feeble
voice, cried out from within the tomb−
They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now, There where I most did sin.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXIII 593
And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say he would rather be a
labouring man than a king, if 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 Sancho, to 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 Sancho, «there'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 duchess, «for 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 Montesinos, where 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
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CHAPTER XXXIII 594
enchanted her all to please myself. It must be all exactly the other way, as your ladyship
says; because it is impossible to suppose that out of my poor wit such a cunning trick could
be concocted in a moment, nor 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. But, senora, your
excellence must not therefore think me ill−disposed, for 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
scolding, and not with any intention of hurting him; and if it has turned out differently, there
is a God in heaven who judges our hearts.»
«That is true,» said the duchess; «but tell me, Sancho, what is this you say about the
cave of Montesinos, for I should like to know.»
Sancho upon this related to her, word for word, what has been said already touching that
adventure, and 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 Sancho, «and 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 duchess, «are 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 Sancho, «I 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXIII 595
«So I believe,» said the duchess; «and now let Sancho go and take his sleep, and we
will talk by−and−by at greater length, and settle how he may soon go and stick himself into
the government, as he says.»
Sancho once more kissed the duchess's hand, and entreated her to let good care be taken
of his Dapple, for he was the light of his eyes.
«What is Dapple?» said the duchess.
«My ass,» said Sancho, «which, 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; hush, Dona Rodriguez, and let Senor
Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of Dapple in my charge, for as he is a treasure of
Sancho's, I'll put him on the apple of my eye.»
«It will be enough for him to he in the stable,» said Sancho, «for 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 duchess, «and 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 governments, and for me to take mine with me would he
nothing new.»
Sancho's words made the duchess laugh again and gave her fresh amusement, and
dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the duke the conversation she had had with
him, and 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 style, and in that same style they practised
several upon him, so much in keeping and so clever that they form the best adventures this
great history contains.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXIII 596
CHAPTER XXXIV
W
HICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY
WERE TO DISENCHANT THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH 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; and, more bent than ever upon the plan they had of practising some jokes
upon them that should have the look and appearance of adventures, they took as their basis
of action what Don Quixote had already told them about the cave of Montesinos, in 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
enchanted, when it was he himself who had been the enchanter and trickster in the business.
Having, therefore, instructed their servants in everything they were to do, six days
afterwards they took him out to hunt, with as great a retinue of huntsmen and beaters as a
crowned king.
They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and Sancho with another of the finest
green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his on, saying that he must soon return to the
hard pursuit of arms, and could not carry wardrobes or stores with him. Sancho, however,
took what they gave him, meaning to sell it the first opportunity.
The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed himself, and Sancho arrayed
himself, and 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 attired, and Don Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the rein of her
palfrey, though the duke wanted not to allow him; and at last they reached a wood that lay
between two high mountains, where, after occupying various posts, ambushes, and paths,
and distributing the party in different positions, the hunt began with great noise, shouting,
and hallooing, so that, between the baying of the hounds and the blowing of the horns, they
could not hear one another. The duchess dismounted, and 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 Dapple, whom he
dared not desert lest some mischief should befall him. Scarcely had they taken their stand in
a line with several of their servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely pressed by the
hounds and followed by the huntsmen, making towards them, grinding his teeth and tusks,
and scattering foam from his mouth. As soon as he saw him Don Quixote, bracing his shield
on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced 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.
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CHAPTER XXXIV 597
Sancho alone, deserting Dapple at the sight of the mighty beast, took to his heels as hard as
he could and strove in vain to mount a tall oak. As he was clinging to a branch, however,
half−way up in his struggle to reach the top, the bough, such was his ill−luck and hard fate,
gave way, and caught in his fall by a broken limb of the oak, he hung suspended in the air
unable to reach the ground. Finding himself in this position, and that the green coat was
beginning to tear, and reflecting that if the fierce animal came that way he might be able to
get at him, he began to utter such cries, and call for help so earnestly, that 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
Quixote, turning round at the cries of Sancho, for he knew by them that it was he, saw him
hanging from the oak head downwards, with Dapple, who did not forsake him in his
distress, close beside him; and Cide Hamete observes that he seldom saw Sancho Panza
without seeing Dapple, or Dapple without seeing Sancho Panza; such was their attachment
and loyalty one to the other. Don Quixote went over and unhooked Sancho, who, as soon as
he found himself on the ground, looked at the rent in his huntingcoat and was grieved to the
heart, for he thought he had got a patrimonial estate in that suit.
Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a mule, and having
covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of myrtle, they bore it away as the spoils of
victory to some large field−tents which had been pitched in the middle of the wood, where
they found the tables laid and dinner served, in such grand and sumptuous style that it was
easy to see the rank and magnificence of those who had provided it. Sancho, as he showed
the rents in his torn suit to the duchess, observed, "If 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 Quixote, «was 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 which, to my mind, ought not to be one, as 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
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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 Sancho, «the good governor should have a broken leg and keep at home;» it
would be a nice thing if, after people had been at the trouble of coming to look for him on
business, the governor were to be away in the forest enjoying himself; the government
would go on badly in that fashion. By my faith, senor, 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? Pray, your highnesses, leave
this fool alone, for he will grind your souls between, not to say two, but two thousand
proverbs, dragged in as much in season, and as much to the purpose as− may God grant as
much health to him, or to me if I want to listen to them!»
«Sancho Panza's proverbs,» said the duchess, «though 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 wood, and the
day was spent in visiting some of the posts and hiding−places, and then night closed in, not,
however, as 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 thus, as night began to fall, and a little after twilight set in, suddenly
the whole wood on all four sides seemed to be on fire, and shortly after, here, there, on all
sides, a vast number of trumpets and other military instruments were heard, as 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 by,
and 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 brayed, drums beat,
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CHAPTER XXXIV 599
fifes played, so 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 astounded, the
duchess amazed, Don Quixote wondering, Sancho Panza trembling, and indeed, even they
who were aware of the cause were frightened. In their fear, silence fell upon them, and a
postillion, in the guise of a demon, passed in front of them, blowing, in lieu of a bugle, a
huge hollow horn that gave out a horrible hoarse note.
«Ho there! brother courier,» cried the duke, «who 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 harsh, discordant voice, «I 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 duke,
«you 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 devil, «I 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 dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote and said, «The
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 horn, turned about and went off without waiting for a reply from anyone.
They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don Quixote; Sancho to see
how, in defiance of the truth, they 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 him, «Do you mean
to wait, Senor Don Quixote?»
«Why not?» replied he; «here will I wait, fearless and firm, though all hell should come
to attack me.»
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CHAPTER XXXIV 600
«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 completely, and many lights began to flit through the wood,
just as those fiery exhalations from the earth, that look like shooting−stars to our eyes, flit
through the heavens; a frightful noise, too, was heard, like that made by the solid wheels the
ox−carts usually have, by the harsh, ceaseless creaking of which, they say, the bears and
wolves are put to flight, if there happen to be any where they are passing. In addition to all
this commotion, there came a further disturbance to increase the tumult, for now it seemed
as if in truth, on 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 cannonade, in another
numberless muskets were being discharged, the shouts of the combatants sounded almost
close at hand, and farther away the Moorish lelilies were raised again and again. In a word,
the bugles, the horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the cannon, the musketry, and
above all the tremendous noise of the carts, all 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 way, and he fell fainting on the skirt of the duchess's robe, who let him lie there and
promptly bade them throw water in his face. This was done, and 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 taper, and on the top of the cart was constructed a raised seat, on which sat a venerable
old man with a beard whiter than the very snow, and 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
demons, also clad in buckram, with countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen
them, shut 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 seat, and standing up said in a loud voice, «I am the sage
Lirgandeo,» and without another word the cart then passed on. Behind it came another of the
same form, with another aged man enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no less
solemn than that of the first, «I am the sage Alquife, the great friend of Urganda the
Unknown,» and passed on. Then another cart came by at the same pace, but the occupant of
the throne was not old like the others, but a man stalwart and robust, and of a forbidding
countenance, who as he came up said in a voice far hoarser and more devilish, «I 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 ceased, and soon after they heard another, not noise, but sound of sweet,
harmonious music, of which Sancho was very glad, taking it to be a good sign; and said he
to the duchess, from whom he did not stir a step, or for a single instant, «Senora, where
there's music there can't be mischief.»
«Nor where there are lights and it is bright,» said the duchess; to which Sancho replied,
«Fire 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.»
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CHAPTER XXXIV 601
«That remains to be seen,» said Don Quixote, who was listening to all that passed; and
he was right, as is shown in the following chapter.
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CHAPTER XXXIV 602
CHAPTER XXXV
W
HEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE
TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS
They saw advancing towards them, to the sound of this pleasing music, what they call a
triumphal car, drawn by six grey mules with white linen housings, on each of which was
mounted a penitent, robed also in white, with a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car
was twice or, perhaps, three times as large as the former ones, and in front and on the sides
stood twelve more penitents, all as white as snow and all with lighted tapers, a 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 them, that made her appear, if not richly, at least brilliantly, apparelled. She had her
face covered with thin transparent sendal, the texture of which did not prevent the fair
features of a maiden from being distinguished, while the numerous lights made it possible to
judge of her beauty and of her years, which seemed to be not less than seventeen but not to
have yet reached twenty. Beside her was a figure in a robe of state, as they call it, reaching
to the feet, while 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 ceased, and then that of the
lutes and harps on the car, and the figure in the robe rose up, and flinging it apart and
removing the veil from its face, disclosed to their eyes the shape of Death itself, fleshless
and hideous, at which sight Don Quixote felt uneasy, Sancho frightened, and the duke and
duchess displayed a certain trepidation. Having risen to its feet, this living death, in 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 father, and the lie Hath gathered
credence with the lapse of time. Of magic prince, of Zoroastric lore Monarch and treasurer,
with jealous eye I view the efforts of the age to hide The gallant deeds of doughty errant
knights, Who are, and ever have been, dear to me. Enchanters and magicians and their kind
Are mostly hard of heart; not so am I; For mine is tender, soft, compassionate, And its
delight is doing good to all. In the dim caverns of the gloomy Dis, Where, tracing mystic
lines and characters, My soul abideth now, there came to me The sorrow−laden plaint of her,
the 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 pity, first I turned the
leaves Of countless volumes of my devilish craft, And then, in this grim grisly skeleton
Myself encasing, hither have I come To show where lies the fitting remedy To give relief in
such a piteous case. O thou, the pride and pink of all that wear
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CHAPTER XXXV 603
The adamantine steel! O shining light, O beacon, polestar, path and guide of all Who,
scorning slumber and the lazy down, Adopt the toilsome life of bloodstained arms! To thee,
great hero who all praise transcends, La Mancha's lustre and Iberia's star, Don Quixote, wise
as brave, to 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 is, gentles, wherefore I have
come.
«By all that's good,» exclaimed Sancho at this, «I'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 Quixote, «and 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 said, «That 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 Toboso, that my backside is to pay
for the sins of her eyes? My master, indeed, that's a part of her− for,he'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 up, and 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's, addressing Sancho directly, said, «Thou
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
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CHAPTER XXXV 604
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 throat, and turning to the duke he said, «By 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 Sancho, «what 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 less, for these lashes that are to be given me, or I'm to give
myself, have so upset me, that I don't know what I'm saying or doing. But I'd like to know of
this lady, my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, where she learned this way she has of asking
favours. She comes to ask me to score my flesh with lashes, and she calls me soul of a
pitcher, and 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 linen, shirts, kerchiefs, socks− not that wear any− to coax me? No,
nothing but one piece of abuse after another, though 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 master, who 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
squire, but a governor they are asking to whip himself; just as if it was 'drink with cherries.'
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXV 605
Let them learn, plague take them, the right way to ask, and beg, and behave themselves; for
all times are not alike, nor are people always in good humour. I'm now ready to burst with
grief at seeing my green coat torn, and they come to ask me to whip myself of my own free
will, I having as little fancy for it as for turning cacique.»
«Well then, the fact is, friend Sancho,» said the duke, «that 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 Sancho, «won't two days' grace be given me in which to consider what is
best for me?»
«No, certainly not,» said Merlin; «here, this minute, and on the spot, the matter must be
settled; either Dulcinea will return to the cave of Montesinos and to her former condition of
peasant wench, or else in her present form shall be carried to the Elysian fields, where she
will remain waiting until the number of stripes is completed.»
«Now then, Sancho!» said the duchess, «show 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 remark, which, addressing Merlin, he made to
him, «Will 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 answer, «The 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXV 606
«There are a great many doctors in the world; even the enchanters are doctors,» said
Sancho; «however, as 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 lashes, provided I am to lay
them on whenever I like, without any fixing of days or times; and I'll try and get out of debt
as quickly as I can, that the world may enjoy the beauty of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; as
it seems, contrary to what I thought, that she is beautiful after all. It must be a condition, too,
that I am not to be bound to draw blood with the scourge, and that if any of the lashes
happen to he fly−flappers they are to count. Item, that, in case I should make any mistake in
the reckoning, Senor Merlin, as he knows everything, is 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
more, and again a host of muskets were discharged, and 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 satisfaction, the car began to move on, and 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, revived, raised up
their heads, and the crystal waters of the brooks, murmuring over the grey and white
pebbles, hastened to pay their tribute to the expectant rivers; the glad earth, the unclouded
sky, the fresh breeze, the clear light, each and all showed that the day that came treading on
the skirts of morning would be calm and bright. The duke and duchess, pleased with their
hunt and at having carried out their plans so cleverly and successfully, returned to their
castle resolved to follow up their joke; for to them there was no reality that could afford
them more amusement.
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CHAPTER XXXVI
W
HEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT−OF
ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA, ALIAS THE
COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO
PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA
The duke had a majordomo of a very facetious and sportive turn, and he it was that
played the part of Merlin, made all the arrangements for the late adventure, composed the
verses, and got a page to represent Dulcinea; and now, with the assistance of his master and
mistress, he 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 had, and had
given himself five lashes overnight.
The duchess asked him what he had given them with.
He said with his hand.
«That,» said the duchess, «is 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 replied, «If 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 you, and will accommodate itself to the tenderness of your flesh, as if it
was its own sister.»
Then said Sancho, «Your 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
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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 duchess, «for never fear but you display in it the quality and
quantity of your wit.»
Sancho drew out an open letter from his bosom, and the duchess, taking it, found it ran
in this fashion:
SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE, TERESA 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 now, my
Teresa; by−and−by thou wilt know what it means. I may tell thee, Teresa, I mean thee to go
in a coach, for that is a matter of importance, because 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 Quixote, my master, if I am to believe
what I hear in these parts, is a madman of some sense, and a droll blockhead, and I am no
way behind him. We have been in the cave of Montesinos, and the sage Merlin has laid hold
of me for the disenchantment of Dulcinea del Toboso, her that is called Aldonza Lorenzo
over there. With three thousand three hundred lashes, less five, that I'm to give myself, she
will be left as entirely disenchanted as the mother that bore her. Say nothing of this to
anyone; for, make thy affairs public, and some will say they are white and others will say
they are black. I shall leave this in a few days for my government, to which I am going with
a mighty great desire to make money, for 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 thousand, for as my master says,
nothing costs less or is cheaper than civility. God has not been pleased to provide another
valise for me with another hundred crowns, like the one the other day; but never mind, my
Teresa, the bell−ringer is in safe quarters, and 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
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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 can, and keep me to serve
thee. From this castle, the 20th of July, 1614.
Thy husband, the governor.
SANCHO PANZA
When she had done reading the letter the duchess said to Sancho, «On 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 do, it'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 duchess, «this one will do, and I wish the duke to see it.»
With this they betook themselves to a garden where they were to dine, and the duchess
showed Sancho's letter to the duke, who was highly delighted with it. They dined, and after
the cloth had been removed and they had amused themselves for a while with Sancho's rich
conversation, the melancholy sound of a fife and harsh discordant drum made itself heard.
All seemed somewhat put out by this dull, confused, martial harmony, especially Don
Quixote, who could not keep his seat from pure disquietude; as to Sancho, it is needless to
say that fear drove him to his usual refuge, the 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 black, and 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 black, the skirt of which was of
prodigious dimensions. Over the gown, girdling or crossing his figure, he had a broad
baldric which was also black, and from which hung a huge scimitar with a black scabbard
and furniture. He had his face covered with a transparent black veil, through 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; and, in short, his stature, his gait, the sombreness of
his appearance and his following might well have struck with astonishment, as they did, all
who beheld him without knowing who he was. With this measured pace and in this guise he
advanced to kneel before the duke, who, with the others, awaited him standing. The duke,
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however, would not on any account allow him to speak until he had risen. The prodigious
scarecrow obeyed, and standing up, removed the veil from his face and disclosed the most
enormous, the longest, the whitest and the thickest beard that human eyes had ever beheld
until that moment, and then fetching up a grave, sonorous voice from the depths of his
broad, capacious chest, and fixing his eyes on the duke, he 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
coughed, and stroked down his beard with both his hands, and stood very tranquilly waiting
for the response of the duke, which was to this effect: «Many days ago, worthy squire
Trifaldin of the White Beard, we heard of the misfortune of my lady the Countess Trifaldi,
whom the enchanters have caused to be called the Distressed Duenna. Bid her enter, O
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 her, too, that if my aid be necessary it will not be withheld, for I
am bound to give it to her by my quality of knight, which involves the protection of women
of all sorts, especially widowed, wronged, and distressed dames, such as her ladyship seems
to be.»
On hearing this Trifaldin bent the knee to the ground, and making a sign to the fifer and
drummers to strike up, he turned and marched out of the garden to the same notes and at the
same pace as when he entered, leaving them all amazed at his bearing and solemnity.
Turning to Don Quixote, the duke said, «After 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 Quixote, «that 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
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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.»
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CHAPTER XXXVII
W
HEREIN 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
countess, and when countesses serve as duennas it is in the service of queens and empresses,
for in their own houses they are mistresses paramount and have other duennas to wait on
them.»
To this Dona Rodriguez, who was present, made answer, «My 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 Sancho, «there'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 Rodriguez, «are 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 duchess, «that my good Dona Rodriguez is right, and very
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CHAPTER XXXVII 613
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 replied, «Ever 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 more, from 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 Sancho, before the duke could reply, «I 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 worship, the most courteous and
best−bred knight in the whole world of courtliness; and in these things, as I have heard your
worship say, as much is lost by a card too many as by a card too few, and to one who has his
ears open, few words.»
«Sancho is right,» said the duke; «we'll see what the countess is like, and 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 adventure, which is
one of the most notable in the history.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII
W
HEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S TALE OF
HER MISFORTUNES
Following the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as many as twelve
duennas, in two lines, all dressed in ample mourning robes apparently of milled serge, with
hoods of fine white gauze so long that they allowed only the border of the robe to be seen.
Behind them came the Countess Trifaldi, the squire Trifaldin of the White Beard leading her
by the hand, clad in the finest unnapped black baize, such that, had it a nap, every tuft would
have shown as big as a Martos chickpea; the tail, or skirt, or whatever it might be called,
ended in three points which were borne up by the hands of three pages, likewise dressed in
mourning, forming an elegant geometrical figure with the three acute angles made by the
three points, from which all who saw the peaked skirt concluded that it must be because of it
the countess was called Trifaldi, as though it were Countess of the Three Skirts; and
Benengeli says it was so, and that by her right name she was called the Countess Lobuna,
because wolves bred in great numbers in her country; and if, instead of wolves, they had
been foxes, she would have been called the Countess Zorruna, as it was the custom in those
parts for lords to take distinctive titles from the thing or things most abundant in their
dominions; this countess, however, in honour of the new fashion of her skirt, dropped
Lobuna and took up Trifaldi.
The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession pace, their faces being covered
with black veils, not transparent ones like Trifaldin's, but so close that they allowed nothing
to be seen through them. As soon as the band of duennas was fully in sight, the duke, the
duchess, and Don Quixote stood up, as well as all who were watching the slow−moving
procession. The twelve duennas halted and formed a lane, along which the Distressed One
advanced, Trifaldin still holding her hand. On seeing this the duke, the duchess, and Don
Quixote went some twelve paces forward to meet her. She then, kneeling on the ground, said
in a voice hoarse and rough, rather than fine and delicate, «May 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 duchess, who likewise received her with great urbanity. Don Quixote remained
silent, while Sancho was dying to see the features of Trifaldi and one or two of her many
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duennas; but there was no possibility of it until they themselves displayed them of their own
accord and free will.
All kept still, waiting to see who would break silence, which the Distressed Duenna did
in these words: «I am confident, most mighty lord, most fair lady, and most discreet
company, that my most miserable misery will be accorded a reception no less dispassionate
than generous and condolent in your most valiant bosoms, for it is one that is enough to melt
marble, soften diamonds, and mollify the steel of the most hardened hearts in the world; but
ere it is proclaimed to your hearing, not to say your ears, I would fain be enlightened
whether there be present in this society, circle, or company, that knight immaculatissimus,
Don Quixote de la Manchissima, and his squirissimus Panza.»
«The Panza is here,» said Sancho, before anyone could reply, «and 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 rose, and addressing the Distressed Duenna, said, «If 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 this, the Distressed Duenna made as though she would throw herself at Don
Quixote's feet, and actually did fall before them and said, as she strove to embrace them,
«Before 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 Panza, and grasping his hands, she
said, «O 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 answer, «As 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
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CHAPTER XXXVIII 616
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 duchess, as it was they who had made the experiment of this adventure,
were ready to burst with laughter at all this, and between themselves they commended the
clever acting of the Trifaldi, who, returning to her seat, said, "Queen 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
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CHAPTER XXXVIII 617
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 this, «and poets, and
seguidillas? I swear I think the world is the same all over! But make haste, Senora Trifaldi;
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXVIII 618
for it is late, and I am dying to know the end of this long story.»
«I will,» replied the countess.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXVIII 619
CHAPTER XXXIX
I
N WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS
AND MEMORABLE STORY
By every word that Sancho uttered, the 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 length, after much questioning and answering, as the princess held to her story,
without changing or varying her previous declaration, the Vicar gave his decision in favour
of Don Clavijo, and she was delivered over to him as his lawful wife; which the Queen
Dona Maguncia, the Princess Antonomasia's mother, so took to heart, that 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 Kandy, only the dead.»
«Senor Squire,» said Sancho, «a 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 Quixote, «for 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 queen, then, being dead, and not in a
swoon, we buried her; and hardly had we covered her with earth, hardly had we said our last
farewells, when, quis talia fando temperet a lachrymis? over the queen's grave there
appeared, mounted upon a wooden horse, the giant Malambruno, Maguncia's first cousin,
who besides being cruel is an enchanter; and he, to revenge the death of his cousin, punish
the audacity of Don Clavijo, and in wrath at the contumacy of Antonomasia, left them both
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXIX 620
enchanted by his art on the grave itself; she being changed into an ape of brass, and he into a
horrible crocodile of some unknown metal; while between the two there stands a pillar, also
of metal, with certain characters in the Syriac language inscribed upon it, which, being
translated into Kandian, and 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 done, he drew from its sheath a huge broad scimitar, and seizing
me by the hair he made as though he meant to cut my throat and shear my head clean off. I
was terror−stricken, my voice stuck in my throat, and 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 palace, those that are here present, to be
brought before him; and after having dwelt upon the enormity of our offence, and
denounced duennas, their characters, their evil ways and worse intrigues, laying to the
charge of all what I alone was guilty of, he said he would not visit us with capital
punishment, but 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 opening, and
pricking us, as 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
covered, and disclosed countenances all bristling with beards, some red, some black, some
white, and some grizzled, at 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 astonishment, while 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 matter, sirs (and what I am now going to say I would say with eyes
flowing like fountains, only that the thought of our misfortune and the oceans they have
already wept, keep them as dry as barley spears, and so I say it without tears), where, I ask,
can a duenna with a beard to to? What father or mother will feel pity for her? Who will help
her? For, if even when she has a smooth skin, and a face tortured by a thousand kinds of
washes and cosmetics, she can hardly get anybody to love her, what will she do when she
shows a countenace turned into a thicket? Oh duennas, companions 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XXXIX 621
CHAPTER XL
O
F 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 Hamete, its original author, for the scrupulous care he has taken to set
before us all its minute particulars, not leaving anything, however trifling it may be, that he
does not make clear and plain. He portrays the thoughts, he reveals the fancies, he answers
implied questions, clears up doubts, sets objections at rest, and, in a word, makes 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 each, may 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 Panzas, that
never I did see or hear of, nor has my master related or conceived in his mind, such an
adventure as this. A thousand devils− not to curse thee− take thee, Malambruno, for 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 upwards, even though they'd have snuffled when
they spoke, than 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 shaved, and so we have, some of us, taken to using sticking−plasters by way of an
economical remedy, for 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 are, to be sure, women in
Kandy that go about from house to house to remove down, and trim eyebrows, and make
cosmetics for the use of the women, but we, the duennas of my lady, would never let them
in, for 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 Quixote, «if I don't cure
yours.»
At this instant the Trifaldi recovered from her swoon and said, «The 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XL 622
«There shall be no delay on my part,» said Don Quixote. «Bethink you, senora, of what
I must do, for my heart is most eager to serve you.»
«The fact is,» replied the Distressed One, «it 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 this, «give 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 laughed, and the Distressed One continued: «And this same horse, if so be that
Malambruno is disposed to put an end to our sufferings, will 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 be, speedily and promptly.»
«And how many is there room for on this horse?» asked Sancho.
«Two,» said the Distressed One, «one 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 Sancho, «what is the name of this
horse?»
«His name,» said the Distressed One, «is not the same as Bellerophon's horse that was
called Pegasus, or Alexander the Great's, called Bucephalus, or Orlando Furioso's, the name
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XL 623
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 Sancho, «that 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 countess, «still 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 Trifaldi, «that 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 him, either in the
saddle or on the croup, is 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 itself, and here they'd have me
hold on upon haunches of plank without pad or cushion of any sort! Gad, I 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; besides, I 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 you, so I
understand, we shall be able to do nothing.»
«In the king's name!» exclaimed Sancho, «what 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 squire, who was there all the time, just as if there was no
such being. Once more, sirs, I say my master may go alone, and much good may it do him;
and I'll stay here in the company of my lady the duchess; and maybe when he comes back,
he will find the lady Dulcinea's affair ever so much advanced; for I mean in leisure hours,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XL 624
and at idle moments, to 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 duchess, «for
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−girls, a 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 bearded, from the highest to the lowest, and 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 Rodriguez, who
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 bad, bearded or smooth, we are our
mothers' daughters like other women; and as God sent us into the world, he knows why he
did, and on his mercy I rely, and not on anybody's beard.»
«Well, Senora Rodriguez, Senora Trifaldi, and present company,» said Don Quixote, «I
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 this, «may 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XL 625
uttermost ends of the earth, if so be the removal of the wool from those venerable
countenances depended upon it.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XL 626
CHAPTER XLI
O
F THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF
THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE
And now night came, and with it the appointed time for the arrival of the famous horse
Clavileno, the non−appearance of which was already beginning to make Don Quixote
uneasy, for it struck him that, as Malambruno was so long about sending it, either he himself
was not the knight for whom the adventure was reserved, or 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 ground, and one of the wild−men said, «Let the knight who has heart for it mount this
machine.»
Here Sancho exclaimed, «I 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−man, «take 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 words, leaving Clavileno behind them, they retired with easy dignity the
way they came. As soon as the Distressed One saw the horse, almost in tears she exclaimed
to Don Quixote, «Valiant 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 Quixote, «most 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 Sancho, «with 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 627
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 this, «the 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 care, and
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 answer, «Sancho, 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 Sancho, «God and the most holy Trinity of Gaeta give me help!»
«Since the memorable adventure of the fulling mills,» said Don Quixote, «I 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 said, «Thou 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 628
«By God,» said Sancho, «but 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
Quixote, «and I believe thou wilt keep it; for indeed though stupid thou art veracious.»
«I'm not voracious,» said Sancho, «only peckish; but even if I was a little, still I'd keep
my word.»
With this they went back to mount Clavileno, and as they were about to do so Don
Quixote said, «Cover 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 Sancho, «for 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 Quixote, and, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he
begged the Distressed One to bandage his eyes very carefully; but after having them
bandaged he uncovered them again, saying, «If 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 him, and I know that
Malambruno has nothing tricky or treacherous about him; you may mount without any fear,
Senor 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 so, without more words, he mounted
Clavileno, and 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 grain, and very slowly, Sancho proceeded to mount, and, after settling
himself as well as he could on the croup, found it rather hard, and not at all soft, and asked
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 629
the duke if it would be possible to oblige him with a pad of some kind, or a cushion; even if
it were off the couch of his lady the duchess, or 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 trappings, and that his best plan would be to sit
sideways like a woman, as in that way he would not feel the hardness so much.
Sancho did so, and, bidding them farewell, allowed his eyes to he bandaged, but
immediately afterwards uncovered them again, and looking tenderly and tearfully on those
in the garden, bade them help him in his present strait with plenty of Paternosters and Ave
Marias, that God might provide some one to say as many for them, whenever they found
themselves in a similar emergency.
At this Don Quixote exclaimed, «Art 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 God, is 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 blindfolded, and Don Quixote, finding himself settled to his
satisfaction, felt for the peg, and the instant he placed his fingers on it, all the duennas and
all who stood by lifted up their voices exclaiming, «God 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 voices, clinging tightly to his master and winding his arms round
him, he said, «Senor, 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 sort, and 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 at, for 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 fear, my friend, for indeed everything is going as it ought, and we have the
wind astern.»
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CHAPTER XLI 630
«That's true,» said Sancho, «for 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 duke, the duchess, and their majordomo, that nothing was omitted to
make it perfectly successful.
Don Quixote now, feeling the blast, said, «Beyond 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 faces, from a distance, with tow that could be easily
set on fire and extinguished again, fixed on the end of a cane. On feeling the heat Sancho
said, «May 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 Nona, which is a street of the
city, and saw the whole sack and storming and the death of Bourbon, and was back in
Madrid the next morning, where he gave an account of all he had seen; and he said
moreover that as he was going through the air, the devil bade him open his eyes, and he did
so, and saw himself so near the body of the moon, so it seemed to him, that he could have
laid hold of it with his hand, and that he did not dare to look at the earth lest he should be
seized with giddiness. So that, Sancho, it will not do for us to uncover ourselves, for 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 Kandy, as the saker or
falcon does on the heron, so as to seize it however high it may soar; and though it seems to
us not half an hour since we left the garden, believe 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 duke, the duchess, and all in the garden were listening to the conversation of the
two heroes, and were beyond measure amused by it; and now, desirous of putting a finishing
touch to this rare and well−contrived adventure, they applied a light to Clavileno's tail with
some tow, and the horse, being full of squibs and crackers, immediately blew up with a
prodigious noise, and brought Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to the ground half singed. By
this time the bearded band of duennas, the Trifaldi and all, had vanished from the garden,
and those that remained lay stretched on the ground as if in a swoon. Don Quixote and
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 631
Sancho got up rather shaken, and, looking about them, were filled with amazement at
finding themselves in the same garden from which they had started, and 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 ground, and 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 has, by
merely attempting it, finished and concluded the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi,
otherwise called the Distressed Duenna; Malambruno is now satisfied on every point, the
chins of the duennas are now smooth and clean, and King Don Clavijo and Queen
Antonomasia in their original form; and when the squirely flagellation shall have been
completed, the white dove shall find herself delivered from the pestiferous gerfalcons that
persecute her, and 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 Dulcinea, and 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 duennas, he advanced towards the duke and
duchess, who had not yet come to themselves, and taking the duke by the hand he said, «Be
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
sleep, and the duchess and all who had fallen prostrate about the garden did the same, with
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 eyes, and 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 One, to see what her face was like without the beard, and if she was
as fair as her elegant person promised; but they told him that, the instant Clavileno
descended flaming through the air and came to the ground, the whole band of duennas with
the Trifaldi vanished, and that they were already shaved and without a stump left.
The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long journey, to which Sancho
replied, «I 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 632
To this the duchess said, «Sancho, 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 Sancho, «but for all that I got a glimpse of a bit of one side of it, and
saw it all.»
«Take care, Sancho,» said the duchess, «with 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 duke, «how
did Senor Don Quixote amuse himself?»
To which Don Quixote replied, «As 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
goats, and 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 Sancho, «are green, two blood−red, two blue, and one a mixture of
all colours.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 633
«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 duke, «did 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 journey, for they saw he was in
the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving an account of everything that went on
there, without having ever stirred from the garden. Such, in short, was the end of the
adventure of the Distressed Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess laughing matter not
only for the time being, but for all their lives, and Sancho something to talk about for ages, if
he lived so long; but Don Quixote, coming close to his ear, said 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLI 634
CHAPTER XLII
O
F THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA
BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER 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 One, that they resolved to carry on the joke, seeing 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 island, the next day, that following Clavileno's flight, the duke told Sancho
to prepare and get ready to go and be governor, for his islanders were already looking out
for him as for the showers of May.
Sancho made him an obeisance, and said, «Ever 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 duke, «I 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 Sancho, «let 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 duke, «you'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 Sancho, «it is my belief it's a good thing to be in command, if it's only
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLII 635
over a drove of cattle.»
«May I be buried with you, Sancho,» said the duke, «but 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 soldier, or a soldier like a priest. You,
Sancho, shall go partly as a lawyer, partly as a captain, for, in the island I am giving you,
arms are needed as much as letters, and letters as much as arms.»
«Of letters I know but little,» said Sancho, «for 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 duke, «Sancho cannot go wrong in anything.»
Here Don Quixote joined them; and learning what passed, and how soon Sancho was to
go to his government, he with the duke's permission took him by the hand, and 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 him, and almost
by force made Sancho sit down beside him, and in a quiet tone thus addressed him: "I give
infinite thanks to heaven, friend Sancho, that, before I have met with any good luck, fortune
has come forward to meet thee. I who counted upon my good fortune to discharge the
recompense of thy services, find myself still waiting for advancement, while thou, before the
time, and contrary to all reasonable expectation, seest thyself blessed in the fulfillment of
thy desires. Some will bribe, beg, solicit, rise early, entreat, persist, without attaining the
object of their suit; while another comes, and without knowing why or wherefore, finds
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. Thou, who, to my
thinking, art beyond all doubt a dullard, without 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 island, as though it were a mere matter of course. This I
say, Sancho, that thou attribute not the favour thou hast received to thine own merits, but
give thanks to heaven that disposes matters beneficently, and secondly thanks to the great
power the profession of knight−errantry contains in itself. With a heart, then, inclined to
believe what I have said to thee, attend, my son, to 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLII 636
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.
«Secondly, thou must keep in view what thou art, striving to know thyself, the most
difficult thing to know that the mind can imagine. If thou knowest thyself, it will follow thou
wilt not puff thyself up like the frog that strove to make himself as large as the ox; if thou
dost, the 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 kept, not 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 Quixote, "and 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 birth, Sancho, and 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 who, born of mean parentage, have risen to the highest dignities,
pontifical and imperial, and 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 so, if perchance anyone of thy kinsfolk should come to see thee when thou
art in thine island, thou art not to repel or slight him, but on the contrary to welcome him,
entertain him, and 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLII 637
"If perchance thou art left a widower− a thing which may happen− and in virtue of thy
office seekest a consort of higher degree, choose not one to serve thee for a hook, or for a
fishing−rod, or for the hood of thy 'won't have it;' for verily, I tell thee, for all the judge's
wife receives, the 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 compassion, but not more justice,
than 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 play, press 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 enemy, turn
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 thee, turn away thine eyes from her
tears and thine ears from her lamentations, and consider deliberately the merits of her
demand, if thou wouldst not have thy reason swept away by her weeping, and 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 nature, and so far as may be in thy power
show thyself lenient and forbearing; for though the attributes of God are all equal, to our
eyes that of mercy is brighter and loftier than that of justice.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLII 638
"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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLII 639
CHAPTER XLIII
O
F THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE
GAVE SANCHO PANZA
Who, hearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixote, would not have set him down for
a person of great good sense and greater rectitude of purpose? But, as has been frequently
observed in the course of this great history, he only talked nonsense when he touched on
chivalry, and 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 intellect, and 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 humour, and displayed conspicuously his wisdom, and also his folly.
Sancho listened to him with the deepest attention, and endeavoured to fix his counsels
in his memory, like one who meant to follow them and by their means bring the full promise
of his government to a happy issue. Don Quixote, then, went 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 loose, Sancho; for disordered attire is a sign of an unstable mind,
unless indeed the slovenliness and slackness is to he set down to craft, as 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 onions, lest they find out thy boorish origin by the smell; walk
slowly and speak deliberately, but not in such a way as to make it seem thou art listening to
thyself, for 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIII 640
"Be temperate in drinking, bearing 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 Quixote, «means 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 Sancho, «one 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 Quixote, «thou 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 book,
and 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 come, though 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 plenty, supper 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; "pack, tack, string proverbs together; nobody is
hindering thee! 'My mother beats me, and I go on with my tricks.' I am bidding thee avoid
proverbs, and here in a second thou hast shot out a whole litany of them, which have as
much to do with what we are talking about as 'over the hills of Ubeda.' Mind, Sancho, I 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIII 641
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 remember, Sancho, diligence is the mother of good fortune, and indolence, its
opposite, never 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 length, a long jerkin, and a cloak a trifle longer; loose
breeches by no means, for 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 Sancho, «I 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 Quixote, «how 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 Sancho, «for 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIII 642
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 Sancho, «your 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 silence,
but thou art pestilent prate and perversity; still I would like to know what three proverbs
have just now come into thy memory, for I have been turning over mine own− and it is a
good one− and none occurs to me.»
«What can be better,» said Sancho, «than '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 stove, or the stove the pitcher, it's a bad business
for the pitcher;' all which fit to a hair? For no one should quarrel with his governor, or him
in authority over him, because he will come off the worst, as he does who puts his finger
between two back and if they are not back teeth it makes no difference, so long as they are
teeth; and to whatever the governor may say there's no answer, any more than to 'get out of
my house' and 'what do you want with my wife?' and then, as for that about the stone and the
pitcher, a 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 Quixote, «the 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIII 643
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 Sancho, «if 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 Quixote, «for 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIII 644
CHAPTER XLIV
H
OW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
IN THE CASTLE
It is stated, they say, in the true original of this history, that when Cide Hamete came to
write this chapter, his interpreter did not translate it as he wrote it− that is, as 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 Quixote, for he found himself forced to speak perpetually of him
and Sancho, without venturing to indulge in digressions and episodes more serious and more
interesting. He said, too, that to go on, mind, hand, pen always restricted to writing upon one
single subject, and speaking through the mouths of a few characters, was intolerable
drudgery, the result of which was never equal to the author's labour, and 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 645
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, «Senor, either the
devil will carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and believing, or 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 attentively, and having done so, said to Sancho,
«There 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 Sancho, «for 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 Quixote, «and 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 lawyer, with a gaban of tawny watered camlet over all and a montera cap of the same
material, and mounted a la gineta upon a mule. Behind him, in accordance with the duke's
orders, followed Dapple with brand new ass−trappings and ornaments of silk, and 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 blessing, which Don Quixote gave him
with tears, and he received blubbering.
Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to him, Gentle Reader; and look out for
two bushels of laughter, which 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 night, and if
thou dost not laugh thereat, at 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 recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don Quixote felt his loneliness,
and 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; because, she said, if it was for the loss of Sancho, there were squires, duennas,
and damsels in her house who would wait upon him to his full satisfaction.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 646
«The truth is, senora,» replied Don Quixote, «that 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 duchess, «that must not be; four of my damsels,
as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you.»
«To me,» said Don Quixote, «they 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 replied, «Your 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 duchess, is nearly supper−time, and the duke
is is probably waiting; come let us go to supper, and retire to rest early, for 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 Quixote, «for 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 647
«Probably,» said the duchess, «repenting 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 alone, refusing to allow anyone to enter with him to wait on him, such 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 Amadis, that flower and
mirror of knights−errant. He locked the door behind him, and by the light of two wax
candles undressed himself, but as he was taking off his stockings− O disaster unworthy of
such a personage!− there came a burst, not of sighs, or anything belying his delicacy or good
breeding, but of some two dozen stitches in one of his stockings, that made it look like a
window−lattice. The worthy gentleman was beyond measure distressed, and at that moment
he would have given an ounce of silver to have had half a drachm of green silk there; I say
green silk, because the stockings were green.
Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writing, «O 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
honour, dining miserably and in secret, and making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which
he sallies out into the street after eating nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellow, I say,
with his nervous honour, fancying they perceive a league off the patch on his shoe, the
sweat−stains on his hat, the shabbiness of his cloak, and the hunger of his stomach!»
All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his stitches; however, he
comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho had left behind a pair of travelling boots,
which he resolved to wear the next day. At last he went to bed, out of spirits and heavy at
heart, as much because he missed Sancho as because of the irreparable disaster to his
stockings, the stitches of which he would have even taken up with silk of another colour,
which is one of the greatest signs of poverty a gentleman can show in the course of his
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 648
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 garden, and as he did so he perceived and heard people walking and talking in the
garden. He set himself to listen attentively, and 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 asleep, and
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 chamber, so he must be awake; sing, my poor
sufferer, in 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 Altisidora, «it 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 amazement, for immediately the
countless adventures like this, with windows, gratings, gardens, serenades, lovemakings, and
languishings, that he had read of in his trashy books of chivalry, came to his mind. He at
once concluded that some damsel of the duchess's was in love with him, and that her
modesty forced her to keep her passion secret. He trembled lest he should fall, and 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 sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little delighted, for all they
wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So having tuned the harp, Altisidora,
running her hand across the strings, began 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 thou, most 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 649
Adventures seeking thou dost rove, To others bringing woe; Thou scatterest wounds,
but, ah, the balm To heal them dost withhold!
Say, valiant youth, and 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 her, and 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 caps, what 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 Nero, look not down From thy Tarpeian Rock Upon this burning heart, nor
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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 650
These charms, and many more, are 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 himself, «O 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 bang, and, as much out of temper and out of
sorts as if some great misfortune had befallen him, stretched himself on his bed, where we
will leave him for the present, as the great Sancho Panza, who is about to set up his famous
government, now demands our attention.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 651
CHAPTER XLV
O
F HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION
OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING
O perpetual discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of heaven, sweet
stimulator of the water−coolers! Thimbraeus here, Phoebus there, now archer, now
physician, father of poetry, inventor of music; thou that always risest and, notwithstanding
appearances, never settest! To thee, O Sun, by whose aid man begetteth man, to 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 weak, feeble, and uncertain.
To come to the point, then− Sancho with all his attendants arrived at a village of some
thousand inhabitants, and one of the largest the duke possessed. They informed him that it
was called the island of Barataria, either because the name of the village was Baratario, or
because of the joke by way of which the government had been conferred upon him. On
reaching the gates of the town, which was a walled one, the municipality came forth to meet
him, the bells rang out a peal, and the inhabitants showed every sign of general satisfaction;
and with great pomp they conducted him to the principal church to give thanks to God, and
then with burlesque ceremonies they presented him with the keys of the town, and
acknowledged him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. The costume, the beard,
and the fat squat figure of the new governor astonished all those who were not in the secret,
and even all who were, and they were not a few. Finally, leading him out of the church they
carried him to the judgment seat and seated him on it, and the duke's majordomo said to him,
«It 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 seat, and as he could not read he asked what that was that
was painted on the wall. The answer was, «Senor, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 652
seated in that chair has ever entered this island.»
«Well then, let me tell you, brother,» said Sancho, «I 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 men, one carrying a cane by way of a
walking−stick, and 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 replied, «I 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 staff, and as he did so the old man who had the stick handed
it to the other old man to hold for him while he swore, as if he found it in his way; and then
laid his hand on the cross of the staff, saying 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 other, and that he, not recollecting it, was 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 truth, for he believed him to
be an honest man and a good Christian, and 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 again, and bowing his head left the court. Observing this, and
how, without another word, he made off, and observing too the resignation of the plaintiff,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 653
Sancho buried his head in his bosom and remained for a short space in deep thought, with
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 back, and as soon as Sancho saw him he said, «Honest 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, «Go, and God be with
you; for now you are paid.»
«I, senor!» returned the old man; «why, is this cane worth ten gold−crowns?»
«Yes,» said the governor, «or 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 two, there, in the presence of all. It was done, and in the middle of it they found
ten gold−crowns. All were filled with amazement, and 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 replied, that observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to his
opponent while he was taking the oath, and swore that he had really and truly given him the
crowns, and how as soon as he had done swearing he asked for the stick again, it 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 judgments, even though they may be fools;
besides he had himself heard the curate of his village mention just such another case, and he
had so good a memory, that if it was not that he forgot everything he wished to remember,
there would not be such a memory in all the island. To conclude, the old men went off, one
crestfallen, and the other in high contentment, all who were present were astonished, and he
who was recording the words, deeds, and 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 of, there came into court a woman holding on with a
tight grip to a man dressed like a well−to−do cattle dealer, and she came forward making a
great outcry and exclaiming, «Justice, 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.
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CHAPTER XLV 654
He all in confusion made answer, «Sirs, 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 it, and 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 virgins, she hurried out of court with the purse
grasped in both her hands, first looking, however, to see if the money it contained was
silver.
As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealer, whose tears were already
starting and whose eyes and heart were following his purse, «Good 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 deaf, for the man was off like a flash of lightning, and 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 before, she with her petticoat up and the
purse in the lap of it, and he struggling hard to take it from her, but all to no purpose, so
stout was the woman's defence, she 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 face, and not that poor
scurvy knave. Pincers and hammers, mallets and chisels would not get it out of my grip; no,
nor 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 woman, «Let me see that purse, my worthy and
sturdy friend.» She handed it to him at once, and the governor returned it to the man, and
said to the unforced mistress of force, «Sister, if you had shown as much, or only half as
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CHAPTER XLV 655
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 disconsolately, hanging her head; and the governor
said to the man, «Honest 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 way, and the
bystanders were again filled with admiration at their new governor's judgments and
sentences.
Next, two men, one apparently a farm labourer, and the other a tailor, for he had a pair
of shears in his hand, presented themselves before him, and the tailor said, «Senor 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 said, «there 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 moment, and then said, «It 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLV 656
If the previous decision about the cattle dealer's purse excited the admiration of the
bystanders, this provoked their laughter; however, the governor's orders were after all
executed. All this, having been taken down by his chronicler, was 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 master, sorely troubled in mind by Altisidora's music, has pressing claims
upon us now.
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CHAPTER XLV 657
CHAPTER XLVI
O
F 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 them, and just like fleas they would
not let him sleep or get a moment's rest, and the broken stitches of his stockings helped
them. But as Time is fleet and no obstacle can stay his course, he came riding on the hours,
and morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don Quixote quitted the soft down, and,
nowise slothful, dressed himself in his chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide
the disaster to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantle, put 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 him, and 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 gallery, Altisidora and
the other damsel, her friend, were lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora saw him
she pretended to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap, and began hastily unlacing the
bosom of her dress.
Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, «I know very well what this
seizure arises from.»
«I know not from what,» replied the friend, «for 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 returned, «Do 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 Altisidora, recovering from her swoon, said to her
companion, «The 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 on, and of the lute Don
Quixote asked for, and she, delighted 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
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CHAPTER XLVI 658
waited for night, which came quickly as the day had come; and as for the day, the duke and
duchess spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.
When eleven o'clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in his chamber; he tried it,
opened the window, and 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 could, he spat
and cleared his chest, and then with a voice a little hoarse but full−toned, he sang the
following ballad, which 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.
Sewing, stitching, any 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 passions, transient, fleeting, Loves in
hostelries declar'd, Sunrise loves, with sunset ended, When the guest hath gone his way.
Love that springs up swift and sudden, Here to−day, to−morrow flown, Passes, leaves
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 tablets, never, 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 song, to which the duke, the duchess, Altisidora,
and nearly the whole household of the castle were listening, when 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 it, and immediately after that discharged a great sack full of cats,
which also had bells of smaller size tied to their tails. Such was the din of the bells and the
squalling of the cats, that though the duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke they
were startled by it, while Don Quixote stood paralysed with fear; and as luck would have it,
two or three of the cats made their way in through the grating of his chamber, and flying
from one side to the other, made it seem as if there was a legion of devils at large in it. They
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVI 659
extinguished the candles that were burning in the room, and 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 matter, were at their wits' end with
astonishment. Don Quixote sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, began making passes
at the grating, shouting out, «Avaunt, 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 room, he made
several cuts at them. They dashed at the grating and escaped by it, save one that, finding
itself hard pressed by the slashes of Don Quixote's sword, flew at his face and held on to his
nose tooth and nail, with the pain of which he began to shout his loudest. The duke and
duchess hearing this, and guessing what it was, ran with all haste to his room, and as the
poor gentleman was striving with all his might to detach the cat from his face, they opened
the door with a master−key and went in with lights and witnessed the unequal combat. The
duke ran forward to part the combatants, but Don Quixote cried out aloud, «Let 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 cat, however, never minding
these threats, snarled 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 condition, and 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 wort, and
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 thee, hardhearted knight,
for the sin of thy insensibility and obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may forget to
whip himself, so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of thine may never be released from her
enchantment, that thou mayest never come to her bed, at 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 bed, thanking the duke and duchess for their kindness, not because he stood
in any fear of that bell−ringing rabble of enchanters in cat shape, but 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 dear, for it cost him
five days of confinement to his bed, during which he had another adventure, pleasanter than
the late one, which his chronicler will not relate just now in order that he may turn his
attention to Sancho Panza, who was proceeding with great diligence and drollery in his
government.
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CHAPTER XLVI 660
CHAPTER XLVII
W
HEREIN 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 palace,
where in a spacious chamber there was a table laid out with royal magnificence. The
clarions sounded as Sancho entered the room, and four pages came forward to present him
with water for his hands, which Sancho received with great dignity. The music ceased, and
Sancho seated himself at the head of the table, for there was only that seat placed, and no
more than one cover laid. A personage, who 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 grace, and a page put a laced bib on Sancho, while 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 it, and they took it away from before
him with the utmost celerity. The carver, however, brought him another dish, and Sancho
proceeded to try it; but before he could get at it, not to say taste it, already the wand had
touched it and a page had carried it off with the same promptitude as the fruit. Sancho seeing
this was puzzled, and 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 replied, «It 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 Sancho, «that dish of roast partridges there that seems so savoury will
not do me any harm.»
To this the physician replied, «Of those my lord the governor shall not eat so long as I
live.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVII 661
«Why so?» said Sancho.
«Because,» replied the doctor, «our 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 Sancho, «let 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
worship, I consider, should not eat of those stewed rabbits there, because it is a furry kind of
food; if that veal were not roasted and served with pickles, you might try it; but it is out of
the question.»
«That big dish that is smoking farther off,» said Sancho, «seems 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 canons, or rectors of colleges, or peasants'
weddings with your ollas podridas, but let us have none of them on the tables of governors,
where everything that is present should be delicate and refined; and the reason is, that
always, everywhere and by everybody, simple medicines are more esteemed than compound
ones, for we cannot go wrong in those that are simple, while in the compound we may, by
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 quinces, which will settle his stomach and
help his digestion.»
Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and surveyed the doctor steadily,
and in a solemn tone asked him what his name was and where he had studied.
He replied, «My 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 Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned, «Then 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVII 662
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 passion, and 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 said, «It's a
courier from my lord the duke, no doubt with some despatch of importance.»
The courier came in all sweating and flurried, and taking a paper from his bosom,
placed it in the governor's hands. Sancho handed it to the majordomo and bade him read the
superscription, which ran thus: To Don Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria,
into 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 present, «for I can read and write, and am
a Biscayan.» «With that addition,» said Sancho, «you might be secretary to the emperor
himself; open this paper and see what it says.» The new−born secretary obeyed, and having
read the contents said the matter was one to be discussed in private. Sancho ordered the
chamber to be cleared, the majordomo and the carver only remaining; so the doctor and the
others withdrew, and then the secretary read the letter, which was as follows:
It has come to my knowledge, Senor Don Sancho Panza, that certain enemies of mine
and of the island are about to make a furious attack upon it some night, I know not when. It
behoves you to be on the alert and keep watch, that they surprise you not. I also know by
trustworthy spies that four persons have entered the town in disguise in order to take your
life, because 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 difficulty, but in all things you will act as may be
expected of your judgment. From this place, the Sixteenth of August, at four in the morning.
Your friend,
THE DUKE
Sancho was astonished, and those who stood by made believe to be so too, and turning
to the majordomo he said to him, «What 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 carver, «it 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
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CHAPTER XLVII 663
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 you,
secretary, answer my lord the duke and tell him that all his commands shall be obeyed to the
letter, as he directs; and say from me to my lady the duchess that I kiss her hands, and 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 eat, and 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 saying, «Here 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 Sancho, «the 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 page, «for 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 majordomo, «for we are all here.»
«Would it be possible, carver,» said Sancho, «now 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 carver, «the shortcomings of the dinner shall be made
good, and your lordship shall be fully contented.»
«God grant it,» said Sancho.
The farmer now came in, a well−favoured man that one might see a thousand leagues
off was an honest fellow and a good soul. The first thing he said was, «Which is the lord
governor here?»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVII 664
«Which should it be,» said the secretary, «but 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 hand, to kiss it. Sancho refused it, and bade him stand up and say what he wanted.
The farmer obeyed, and then said, «I am a farmer, senor, a native of Miguelturra, a village
two leagues from Ciudad Real.»
«Another Tirteafuera!» said Sancho; «say on, brother; I know Miguelturra very well I
can tell you, for it's not very far from my own town.»
«The case is this, senor,» continued the farmer, «that 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 on, brother, for it's more bed−time
than business−time.»
«Well then,» said the farmer, «this 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.»
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CHAPTER XLVII 665
«Paint what you will,» said Sancho; «I enjoy your painting, and 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 you, senor, if I could paint her gracefulness and her tall
figure, it 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 this,
only that she can't stretch it out, for 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 bush, and all
these scraps and additions.»
«I want your worship, senor,» said the farmer, «to 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 farmer, «but 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 Sancho, «and 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 feet, and seizing the chair he had
been sitting on exclaimed, «By 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
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CHAPTER XLVII 666
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 room, which he did with his head
down, and to all appearance in terror lest the governor should carry his threats into effect,
for the rogue knew very well how to play his part.
But let us leave Sancho in his wrath, and peace be with them all; and let us return to
Don Quixote, whom we left with his face bandaged and doctored after the cat wounds, of
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.
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CHAPTER XLVII 667
CHAPTER XLVIII
O
F WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE
DUCHESS'S DUENNA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY
OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE
Exceedingly moody and dejected was the sorely wounded Don Quixote, with his face
bandaged and marked, not by the hand of God, but by the claws of a cat, mishaps incidental
to knight−errantry. Six days he remained without appearing in public, and one night as he
lay awake thinking of his misfortunes and of Altisidora's pursuit of him, he 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
thou, lady mine, transformed into a clumsy country wench, or into a nymph of golden Tagus
weaving a web of silk and gold, let Merlin or Montesinos hold thee captive where they will;
whereer thou art, thou art mine, and where'er I am, must he thine.» The very instant he had
uttered these words, the door opened. He stood up on the bed wrapped from head to foot in a
yellow satin coverlet, with a cap on his head, and his face and his moustaches tied up, his
face because of the scratches, and his moustaches to keep them from drooping and falling
down, in which trim he looked the most extraordinary scarecrow that could be conceived.
He kept his eyes fixed on the door, and just as he was expecting to see the love−smitten and
unhappy Altisidora make her appearance, he saw coming in a most venerable duenna, in 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 candle, while with her right she shaded it to
keep the light from her eyes, which were covered by spectacles of great size, and she
advanced with noiseless steps, treading very softly.
Don Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watchtower, and observing her costume and
noting her silence, he concluded that it must be some witch or sorceress that was coming in
such a guise to work him some mischief, and he began crossing himself at a great rate. The
spectre still advanced, and 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 hers, she 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 scream, and
exclaiming, «Jesus! what's this I see?» let fall the candle in her fright, and then finding
herself in the dark, turned about to make off, but stumbling on her skirts in her
consternation, she measured her length with a mighty fall.
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CHAPTER XLVIII 668
Don Quixote in his trepidation began saying, «I 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 conjured, by 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 Quixote, «do 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. Nay, I'm not
far enough advanced in years to take to any such childish tricks. God be praised I have a
soul in my body still, and all my teeth and grinders in my mouth, except one or two that the
colds, so common in this Aragon country, have robbed me of. But wait a little, while I go
and light my candle, and 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 adventure, and 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 himself, «Who 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVIII 669
had been real duennas.»
So saying he leaped off the bed, intending 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
lighted, and having a closer view of Don Quixote, with the coverlet round him, and his
bandages and night−cap, she was alarmed afresh, and retreating a couple of paces,
exclaimed, «Am 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 marble, nor are you
brass, nor is it now ten o'clock in the morning, but midnight, or a trifle past it I fancy, and
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 hand,
senora; I require no better protection than my own continence, and 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 own, she 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 bed, linked hand in hand in this way, he would
have given the best of the two tunics he had.
Don Quixote finally got into bed, and Dona Rodriguez took her seat on a chair at some
little distance from his couch, without taking off her spectacles or putting aside the candle.
Don Quixote wrapped the bedclothes round him and covered himself up completely, leaving
nothing but his face visible, and as soon as they had both regained their composure he broke
silence, saying, «Now, 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 is, then, Senor Don Quixote, that
though you see me seated in this chair, here in the middle of the kingdom of Aragon, and in
the attire of a despised outcast duenna, I 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 parents, who, I know not how, were unseasonably reduced to
poverty, brought me to the court of Madrid, where as a provision and to avoid greater
misfortunes, my parents placed me as seamstress in the service of a lady of quality, and 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 country, and a few years
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVIII 670
later went, no doubt, to heaven, for 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 time, without any encouragement on my part,
one of the esquires of the household fell in love with me, a man somewhat advanced in
years, full−bearded and personable, and above all as good a gentleman as the king himself,
for 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 lady, and she, not to have any fuss about it, had us
married with the full sanction of the holy mother Roman Catholic Church, of which
marriage a daughter was born to put an end to my good fortune, if I had any; not that I died
in childbirth, for I passed through it safely and in due season, but because shortly afterwards
my husband died of a certain shock he received, and had I time to tell you of it I know your
worship would be surprised;» and here she began to weep bitterly and said, «Pardon 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,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVIII 671
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 duenna, «I 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 so, it must be so. But surely such issues, and in such
places, do not discharge humours, but liquid amber. Verily, I do believe now that this
practice of opening issues is a very important matter for the health.»
Don Quixote had hardly said this, when the chamber door flew open with a loud bang,
and with the start the noise gave her Dona Rodriguez let the candle fall from her hand, and
the room was left as dark as a wolf's mouth, as the saying is. Suddenly the poor duenna felt
two hands seize her by the throat, so tightly that she could not croak, while some one else,
without uttering a word, very briskly hoisted up her petticoats, and with what seemed to be a
slipper began to lay on so heartily that anyone would have felt pity for her; but although Don
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVIII 672
Quixote felt it he never stirred from his bed, but lay quiet and silent, nay 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 basted, the silent executioners fell
upon Don Quixote, and stripping him of the sheet and the coverlet, they pinched him so fast
and so hard that he was driven to defend himself with his fists, and all this in marvellous
silence. The battle lasted nearly half an hour, and then the phantoms fled; Dona Rodriguez
gathered up her skirts, and bemoaning her fate went out without saying a word to Don
Quixote, and he, sorely pinched, puzzled, and dejected, remained alone, and there we will
leave him, wondering who could have been the perverse enchanter who had reduced him to
such a state; but that shall be told in due season, for Sancho claims our attention, and the
methodical arrangement of the story demands it.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLVIII 673
CHAPTER XLIX
O
F 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 who, instructed the majordomo, as the majordomo was by the duke, tried to practise
upon him; he however, fool, boor, and clown as he was, held his own against them all,
saying to those round him and to Doctor Pedro Recio, who as soon as the private business of
the duke's letter was disposed of had returned to the room, «Now 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 them− forthwith 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 elegantly, and 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 time, to his mind, stood still and made
no progress, nevertheless the hour he so longed for came, and 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 Milan, pheasants from Rome, veal from Sorrento,
partridges from Moron, or geese from Lavajos, and turning to the doctor at supper he said to
him, «Look 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIX 674
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 carver, «your 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 say, see 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 rounds, for 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 hive, that eat up the honey the industrious bees make. I mean to protect the
husbandman, to preserve to the gentleman his privileges, to reward the virtuous, and above
all to respect religion and honour its ministers. What say you to that, my friends? Is there
anything in what I say, or am I talking to no purpose?»
«There is so much in what your worship says, senor governor,» said the majordomo,
«that 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 came, and with the permission of Doctor Pedro Recio, the governor had supper.
They then got ready to go the rounds, and he started with the majordomo, the secretary, the
head−carver, the chronicler charged with recording his deeds, and alguacils and notaries
enough to form a fair−sized squadron. In the midst marched Sancho with his staff, as fine a
sight as one could wish to see, and 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 spot, and found that the
combatants were but two, who seeing the authorities approaching stood still, and one of
them exclaimed, «Help, 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 Sancho, «and tell me what the cause of this quarrel is;
for I am the governor.»
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CHAPTER XLIX 675
Said the other combatant, «Senor 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
true, and 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 countenance, and 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 Sancho, «is 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 it, and the latter quitted the island,
while the other went home; and then the governor said, «Either 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 notaries, «your 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIX 676
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 grasp, and said, «Senor 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 replied, «Senor, 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 man, «your 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?»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIX 677
«All the power your worship has,» said the young man, «won'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 eyes, even 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 is, all the men on earth will not make
me sleep in prison.»
«Tell me, you devil,» said Sancho, «have 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 secretary, «and the fellow has made his point.»
«So then,» said Sancho, «it would be entirely of your own choice you would keep from
sleeping; not in opposition to my will?»
«No, senor,» said the youth, «certainly not.»
«Well then, go, and God be with you,» said Sancho; «be off home to sleep, and God
give you sound sleep, for I don't want to rob you of it; but for the future, let me advise you
don't joke with the authorities, because you may come across some one who will bring down
the joke on your own skull.»
The young man went his way, and the governor continued his round, and shortly
afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a man in custody, and said, «Senor 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 face, and by their light they
distinguished the features of a woman to all appearance of the age of sixteen or a little more,
with her hair gathered into a gold and green silk net, and fair as a thousand pearls. They
scanned her from head to foot, and 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 stuff, and
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 belt, but only
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CHAPTER XLIX 678
a richly ornamented dagger, and on her fingers she had several handsome rings. In short, the
girl seemed fair to look at in the eyes of all, and none of those who beheld her knew her, the
people of the town said they could not imagine who she was, and those who were in the
secret of the jokes that were to be practised upon Sancho were the ones who were most
surprised, for 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 beauty, and he asked her who she was, where she
was going, and what had induced her to dress herself in that garb. She with her eyes fixed on
the ground answered in modest confusion, «I 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 Sancho, «Make the people stand back, senor
governor, that this lady may say what she wishes with less embarrassment.»
Sancho gave the order, and all except the majordomo, the head−carver, and the
secretary fell back. Finding herself then in the presence of no more, the damsel went on to
say, «I 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 well, and I
know he has no child at all, either son or daughter; and besides, though you say he is your
father, you 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 damsel, «and 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 Llana, and know that
he is a gentleman of position and a rich man, and that he has a son and a daughter, and 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 damsel, «and 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
voice, «Something serious has no doubt happened this poor maiden, that she goes wandering
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CHAPTER XLIX 679
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 carver, «and 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 she, «that 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 majordomo, «and 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 heart, and he
again raised his lantern for another look at her, and thought they were not tears she was
shedding, but seed−pearl or dew of the meadow, nay, he exalted them still higher, and made
Oriental pearls of them, and 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 story, and told her not to keep them waiting any longer; for it
was late, and there still remained a good deal of the town to be gone over.
She, with broken sobs and half−suppressed sighs, went on to say, «My 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,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIX 680
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 Sancho, «no 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 she, «nor 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 custody, whom one of them had
overtaken as he ran away from his sister, now 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 hair, which looked like
rings of gold, so bright and curly was it. The governor, the majordomo, and the carver went
aside with him, and, unheard by his sister, asked him how he came to be in that dress, and he
with no less shame and embarrassment told exactly the same story as his sister, to the great
delight of the enamoured carver; the governor, however, said to them, «In 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 damsel, «but 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; «come, we 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 house, which was not far off. On reaching it the youth threw a pebble
up at a grating, and immediately a woman−servant who was waiting for them came down
and opened the door to them, and they went in, leaving 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIX 681
the village; which, however, they 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 morrow, making
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 themselves,
and he resolved to open the negotiation at the proper season, persuading himself that no
husband could be refused to a governor's daughter. And so the night's round came to an end,
and a couple of days later the government, whereby all his plans were overthrown and swept
away, as will be seen farther on.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIX 682
CHAPTER L
W
HEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS
WERE WHO FLOGGED THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND
ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO CARRIED THE LETTER
TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA'S WIFE
Cide Hamete, the painstaking investigator of the minute points of this veracious history,
says that when Dona Rodriguez left her own room to go to Don Quixote's, another duenna
who slept with her observed her, and as all duennas are fond of prying, listening, and
sniffing, she followed her so silently that the good Rodriguez never perceived it; and as soon
as the duenna saw her enter Don Quixote's room, not to fail in a duenna's invariable practice
of tattling, she hurried off that instant to report to the duchess how Dona Rodriguez was
closeted with Don Quixote. The duchess told the duke, and asked him to let her and
Altisidora go and see what the said duenna wanted with Don Quixote. The duke gave them
leave, and 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
herself, nor Altisidora either; and so, filled with rage and thirsting for vengeance, they 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 she, in pursuance of her design of making
merry and diverting herself with Don Quixote, despatched 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 herself, and 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 brook, and asked them if they could tell him whether there
lived there a woman of the name of Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, squire to a
knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha. At the question a young girl who was washing
stood up and said, «Teresa Panza is my mother, and that Sancho is my father, and that
knight is our master.»
«Well then, miss,» said the page, «come 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 girl, who seemed to be about fourteen,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 683
more or less; and leaving the clothes she was washing to one of her companions, and
without putting anything on her head or feet, for she was bare−legged and had her hair
hanging about her, away she skipped in front of the page's horse, saying, «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 page, «I am bringing her such good news that she will have reason to
thank God.»
And then, skipping, running, and capering, the girl reached the town, but 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 flax, in 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
stuff, and a smock. She was not very old, though plainly past forty, strong, healthy,
vigorous, and sun−dried; and seeing her daughter and the page on horseback, she exclaimed,
«What'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 horse, and with great humility advanced to kneel before the
lady Teresa, saying, «Let 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 lady, but only a
poor country woman, the daughter of a clodcrusher, and the wife of a squire−errant and not
of any governor at all.»
«You are,» said the page, «the 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 clasps, and placed it on her neck, and said,
«This 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 astonishment, and her daughter just as much, and the girl said,
«May 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 Barataria, as 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
read, not a scrap.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 684
«Nor I either,» said Sanchica; «but wait a bit, and I'll go and fetch some one who can
read it, either the curate himself or the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and 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 read,
and 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 duchess, which ran as follows:
Friend Teresa,− Your husband Sancho's good qualities, of heart as well as of head,
induced 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 gerfalcon, of which I am very glad, and
my lord the duke, of course, also; 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 you, my dear, a 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 another, but God
knows the future. Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and tell her from me to hold
herself in readiness, for 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 so, and 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 of, it is but to open your
mouth, and 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 sort, and not the gentlewomen we have in this town, that fancy
because they are gentlewomen the wind must not touch them, and go to church with as much
airs as if they were queens, no less, and seem to think they are disgraced if they look at a
farmer's wife! And see here how this good lady, for all she's a duchess, calls 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 acorns, senor, I'll send her ladyship a peck and such big ones that
one might come to see them as a show and a wonder. And now, Sanchica, see that the
gentleman is comfortable; put up his horse, and get some eggs out of the stable, and cut
plenty of bacon, and let's give him his dinner like a prince; for the good news he has
brought, and his own bonny face deserve it all; and meanwhile I'll run out and give the
neighbours the news of our good luck, and father curate, and Master Nicholas the barber,
who are and always have been such friends of thy father's.»
«That I will, mother,» said Sanchica; «but mind, you 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 685
«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 page, «when 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 Sanchica, «and the bearer as many, nay two
thousand, if needful.»
With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the letters, and with the string of beads
round her neck, and went along thrumming the letters as if they were a tambourine, and by
chance coming across the curate and Samson Carrasco she began capering and saying,
«None 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 she, «that 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 curate, «we don't understand you, Teresa, or know what you are
talking about.»
«There, you may see it yourselves,» said Teresa, and she handed them the letters.
The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hear, and Samson and he regarded one
another with looks of astonishment at what they had read, and the bachelor asked who had
brought the letters. Teresa in reply bade them come with her to her house and they would
see the messenger, a most elegant youth, who had brought another present which was worth
as much more. The curate took the coral beads from her neck and examined them again and
again, and having satisfied himself as to their fineness he fell to wondering afresh, and said,
«By 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; «well, let's go and see the messenger, and from
him we'll learn something about this mystery that has turned up.»
They did so, and Teresa returned with them. They found the page sifting a little barley
for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher of bacon to be paved with eggs for his dinner.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 686
His looks and his handsome apparel pleased them both greatly; and after they had saluted
him courteously, and he them, Samson begged him to give them his news, as well of Don
Quixote as of Sancho Panza, for, he said, though they had read the letters from Sancho and
her ladyship the duchess, they were still puzzled and could not make out what was meant by
Sancho's government, and above all of an island, when all or most of those in the
Mediterranean belonged to his Majesty.
To this the page replied, «As 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 eggs, and said
she to the page, «Tell 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 Sanchica, «what 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 beads, and 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 wish, and still more when Teresa said, «Senor 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−morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me seated in the coach with my
mother, 'See that rubbish, that garlic−stuffed fellow's daughter, how she goes stretched at her
ease in a coach as if she was a she−pope!' But let them tramp through the mud, and let me go
in my coach with my feet off the ground. Bad luck to backbiters all over the world; 'let me
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 687
go warm and the people may laugh.' Do I say right, mother?»
«To be sure you do, my child,» said Teresa; «and all this good luck, and even more, my
good Sancho foretold me; and thou wilt see, my daughter, he 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 heifer, run with a halter; when they offer thee a government, take it; when
they would give thee a county, seize it; when they say, »Here, here!« to thee with something
good, swallow it.' Oh no! go to sleep, and 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 Sanchica, «whether 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 said, «I 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 page, «for 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
bachelor, «and 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 page, «is 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 credite, et non verbis. Let one of you
come with me, and he will see with his eyes what he does not believe with his ears.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 688
«It's for me to make that trip,» said Sanchica; «take me with you, senor, behind you on
your horse; for I'll go with all my heart to see my father.»
«Governors' daughters,» said the page, «must not travel along the roads alone, but
accompanied by coaches and litters and a great number of attendants.»
«By God,» said Sanchica, «I 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 right, for '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 refused, but had to consent at last for his own sake; and the curate took him
home with him very gladly, in 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 affairs, for 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 penman, and he wrote for her two letters, one for her husband and the other for
the duchess, dictated out of her own head, which are not the worst inserted in this great
history, as will be seen farther on.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER L 689
CHAPTER LI
O
F THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER SUCH
ENTERTAINING MATTERS
Day came after the night of the governor's round; a night which the head−carver passed
without sleeping, so were his thoughts of the face and air and beauty of the disguised
damsel, while the majordomo spent what was left of it in writing an account to his lord and
lady of all Sancho said and did, being as much amazed at his sayings as at his doings, for
there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in all his words and deeds. The senor
governor got up, and by Doctor Pedro Recio's directions they made him break his fast on a
little conserve and four sups of cold water, which Sancho would have readily exchanged for
a piece of bread and a bunch of grapes; but seeing there was no help for it, he submitted with
no little sorrow of heart and discomfort of stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded him that
light and delicate diet enlivened the wits, and 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 hunger, and hunger so keen that
in his heart he cursed the government, and even him who had given it to him; however, with
his hunger and his conserve he undertook to deliver judgments that day, and the first thing
that came before him was a question that was submitted to him by a stranger, in the presence
of the majordomo and the other attendants, and it was in these words: «Senor, a large river
separated two districts of one and the same lordship− will your worship please to pay
attention, for the case is an important and a rather knotty one? Well then, on this river there
was a bridge, and at one end of it a gallows, and a sort of tribunal, where four judges
commonly sat to administer the law which the lord of river, bridge and the lordship had
enacted, and 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 pass, but if falsely, he shall be put to death for it by hanging on
the gallows erected there, without any remission.' Though the law and its severe penalty
were known, many persons crossed, but in their declarations it was easy to see at once they
were telling the truth, and the judges let them pass free. It happened, however, that one man,
when they came to take his declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took he was going
to die upon that gallows that stood there, and nothing else. The judges held a consultation
over the oath, and they said, 'If we let this man pass free he has sworn falsely, and by the law
he ought to die; but if we hang him, as he swore he was going to die on that gallows, and
therefore swore the truth, by the same law he ought to go free.' It is asked of your worship,
senor governor, what 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 intellect, they have sent me
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 690
to entreat your worship on their behalf to give your opinion on this very intricate and
puzzling case.»
To this Sancho made answer, «Indeed 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 before, and then Sancho said, «It
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 case, there is nothing left to desire or hesitate about.»
«Well then I say,» said Sancho, «that 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 querist, «the 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 balanced, they should let him pass freely, as 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 head, but one of
the many precepts my master Don Quixote gave me the night before I left to become
governor of this island, that came into my mind, and it was this, that 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 now, for it fits this case as if it was made for it.»
«That is true,» said the majordomo; «and I maintain that Lycurgus himself, who gave
laws to the Lacedemonians, could not have pronounced a better decision than the great
Panza has given; let the morning's audience close with this, and I will see that the senor
governor has dinner entirely to his liking.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 691
«That's all I ask for− fair play,» said Sancho; «give me my dinner, and then let it rain
cases and questions on me, and I'll despatch them in a twinkling.»
The majordomo kept his word, for 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 night,
playing off the last joke he was commissioned to practise upon him.
It came to pass, then, that after he had dined that day, in opposition to the rules and
aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, as 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
himself, and if there was nothing in it that demanded secrecy to read it aloud. The secretary
did so, and after he had skimmed the contents he said, «It 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 blunders, friend Sancho, I 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 man, and 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 mind, Sancho,
that 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 raiment, or that being a judge thou shouldst dress like a soldier, but that thou shouldst
array thyself in the apparel thy office requires, and 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
others, that thou must do; one is to be civil to all (this, however, I told thee before), and the
other to take care that food be abundant, for 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 ones, and above all that they be observed and carried out; for
proclamations that are not observed are the same as if they did not exist; nay, they 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 log, the king
of the frogs, that frightened them at first, but that in time they despised and mounted upon.
Be a father to virtue and a stepfather to vice. Be not always strict, nor yet always lenient, but
observe a mean between these two extremes, for in that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the
gaols, the slaughter−houses, and 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
release, it is the bugbear of the butchers who have then to give just weight, and it is the
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 692
terror of the market−women for the same reason. Let it not be seen that thou art (even if
perchance thou art, which I do not believe) covetous, a follower of women, or 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 quarter, till they have
brought thee down to the depths of perdition. Consider and reconsider, con and con over
again the advices and the instructions I gave thee before thy departure hence to thy
government, and thou wilt see that in them, if thou dost follow them, thou 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 them, for ingratitude is the daughter
of pride, and 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 for, not very much to the benefit of my nose; but it was nothing;
for if there are enchanters who maltreat me, there are also some who defend me. Let me
know if the majordomo who is with thee had any share in the Trifaldi performance, as thou
didst suspect; and keep me informed of everything that happens thee, as the distance is so
short; all the more as I am thinking of giving over very shortly this idle life I am now
leading, for 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 pleasure, in accordance with the
common saying, amicus Plato, sed 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 attention, and it was praised and considered wise
by all who heard it; he then rose up from table, and calling his secretary shut himself in with
him in his own room, and 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 did, and 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 this, master
of my soul, that you may not be surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I
fare, well or ill, in this government, in which I am suffering more hunger than when we two
were wandering through the woods and wastes.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 693
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 Recio, and 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 any, but prevents them coming, and 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 hunger, and I am dying myself of vexation; for when I
thought I was coming to this government to get my meat hot and my drink cool, and take my
ease between holland sheets on feather beds, I 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 bribes, and I don't know what to think
of it; for here they tell me that the governors that come to this island, before entering it have
plenty of money either given to them or lent to them by the people of the town, and 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 clothes, and a brother of
hers dressed as a woman; my head−carver has fallen in love with the girl, and has in his own
mind chosen her for a wife, so he says, and I have chosen youth for a son−in−law; to−day
we are going to explain our intentions to the father of the pair, who is one Diego de la Llana,
a gentleman and an old Christian as much as you please.
I have visited the market−places, as your worship advises me, and 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 enough, and 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−women, for they are all barefaced, unconscionable, and impudent, and 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 me, and tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a hole
in it, as 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 kindness, and by whom you have been treated so hospitably in
their castle.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 694
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 send,
unless it be some very curious clyster pipes, to work with bladders, that they make in this
island; but if the office remains with me I'll find out something to send, one way or another.
If my wife Teresa Panza writes to me, pay the postage and send me the letter, for I have a
very great desire to hear how my house and wife and children are going on. And so, may
God deliver your worship from evil−minded enchanters, and bring me well and peacefully
out of this government, which I doubt, for I expect to take leave of it and my life together,
from the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats me.
Your worship's servant SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR.
The secretary sealed the letter, and 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 State, and that men might import wine
into it from any place they pleased, provided they declared the quarter it came from, so that
a price might be put upon it according to its quality, reputation, and the estimation it was
held in; and he that watered his wine, or changed the name, was to forfeit his life for it. He
reduced the prices of all manner of shoes, boots, and stockings, but of shoes in particular, as
they seemed to him to run extravagantly high. He established a fixed rate for servants'
wages, which 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
true, for it was his opinion that most of those the blind men sing are trumped up, to the
detriment of the true ones. He established and created an alguacil of the poor, not to harass
them, but 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 word,
he made so many good rules that to this day they are preserved there, and are called The
constitutions of the great governor Sancho Panza.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LI 695
CHAPTER LII
W
HEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED
OR AFFLICTED DUENNA, OTHERWISE 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 professed,
so he determined to ask the duke and duchess to permit him to take his departure for
Saragossa, as the time of the festival was now drawing near, and 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
permission, lo and behold suddenly there came in through the door of the great hall two
women, as they afterwards proved to be, draped in mourning from head to foot, one of
whom approaching Don Quixote flung herself at full length at his feet, pressing her lips to
them, and uttering moans so sad, so deep, and 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 Quixote, still the earnest way the woman
sighed and moaned and wept puzzled them and made them feel uncertain, until Don
Quixote, touched with compassion, raised 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
anticipated, for she disclosed the countenance of Dona Rodriguez, the duenna of the house;
the other female in mourning being her daughter, who had been made a fool of by the rich
farmer's son. All who knew her were filled with astonishment, and the duke and duchess
more than any; for though they thought her a simpleton and a weak creature, they did not
think her capable of crazy pranks. Dona Rodriguez, at length, turning to her master and
mistress said to them, «Will 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 leave, and that she might speak with Senor
Don Quixote as much as she liked.
She then, turning 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 696
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 duke, «for 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 Quixote, «I
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 hall, and the duke
picked it up, saying, as he had said before, that he accepted the challenge in the name of his
vassal, and fixed six days thence as the time, the courtyard of the castle as the place, and for
arms the customary ones of knights, lance and shield and full armour, with all the other
accessories, without trickery, guile, or charms of any sort, and 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 done, nor can the said challenge be brought to a lawful issue.»
«I do so place it,» replied the duenna.
«And I too,» added her daughter, all in tears and covered with shame and confusion.
This declaration having been made, and the duke having settled in his own mind what
he would do in the matter, the ladies in black withdrew, and the duchess gave orders that for
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 697
the future they were not to be treated as servants of hers, but 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 strangers, to the consternation of the other women−servants, who did not
know where the folly and imprudence of Dona Rodriguez and her unlucky daughter would
stop.
And now, to complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring the dinner to a satisfactory
end, lo and behold the page who had carried the letters and presents to Teresa Panza, the
wife of the governor Sancho, entered the hall; and the duke and duchess were very well
pleased to see him, being 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 words,
and begged their excellences to be pleased to let it wait for a private opportunity, and 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 address, Letter for my lady the Duchess So−and−so,
of I don't know where; and the other To my husband Sancho Panza, governor of the island
of Barataria, whom God prosper longer than me. The duchess's bread would not bake, as the
saying is, until 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 hear, she read out as follows.
TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS.
The letter your highness wrote me, my lady, gave me great pleasure, for indeed I found
it very welcome. The string of coral beads is very fine, and 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 it, particularly the curate, and
Master Nicholas the barber, and the bachelor Samson Carrasco; but I don't care for that, for
so long as it is true, as it is, they may all say what they like; though, to tell the truth, if 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 numskull, and except for governing a flock of goats, they
cannot fancy what sort of government he can be fit for. God grant it, and direct him
according as he sees his children stand in need of it. I am resolved with your worship's leave,
lady of my soul, to make the most of this fair day, and go to Court to stretch myself at ease
in a coach, and 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 money, and to let it be
something to speak of, because one's expenses are heavy at the Court; for a loaf costs a real,
and meat thirty maravedis a pound, which is beyond everything; and if he does not want me
to go let him tell me in time, for 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 Court, my
husband will come to be known far more by me than I by him, for of course plenty of people
will ask, «Who are those ladies in that coach?» and some servant of mine will answer, «The
wife and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria;» and in this way
Sancho will become known, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 698
that I send your highness about half a peck that I went to the wood to gather and pick out
one by one myself, and 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 answer, and
let you know how I am, and whatever news there may be in this place, where I remain,
praying our Lord to have your highness in his keeping and not to forget me.
Sancha my daughter, and my son, kiss 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 letter, but 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 it, and did so, and found that it ran as follows.
TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA.
I got thy letter, Sancho of my soul, and 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 thee, brother,
when 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 daughter, she leaked from sheer happiness. I had before me the suit thou didst
send me, and the coral beads my lady the duchess sent me round my neck, and the letters in
my hands, and there was the bearer of them standing by, and 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 knowest, my friend,
what my mother used to say, that 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 revenue, which are offices where, though the devil carries off those who make a
bad use of them, still 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 curate, nor the barber, nor the bachelor, nor even the sacristan, can believe
that thou art a governor, and they say the whole thing is a delusion or an enchantment affair,
like 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 laugh, and look at my string of beads, and 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
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CHAPTER LII 699
news of the village; La Berrueca has married her daughter to a good−for−nothing painter,
who 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 ducats, which they paid him
in advance; he worked for eight days, and at the end of them had nothing painted, and then
said he had no turn for painting such trifling things; he returned the money, and 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 hand, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro Lobo's
son has received the first orders and tonsure, with the intention of becoming a priest.
Minguilla, Mingo Silvato's granddaughter, found it out, and has gone to law with him on the
score of having given her promise of marriage. Evil tongues say she is with child by him,
but he denies it stoutly. There are no olives this year, and 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 back, and they will be sure to find those who will take them for
wives with all their blemishes, good or bad. Sanchica is making bonelace; she earns eight
maravedis a day clear, which 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 gibbet, and 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 so, God keep thee longer than me, or as long, for I would not leave thee in this
world without me.
Thy wife, TERESA PANZA.
The letters were applauded, laughed over, relished, and admired; and then, as if to put
the seal to the business, the courier arrived, bringing the one Sancho sent to Don Quixote,
and this, too, was read out, and it raised some doubts as to the governor's simplicity. The
duchess withdrew to hear from the page about his adventures in Sancho's village, which he
narrated at full length without leaving a single circumstance unmentioned. He gave her the
acorns, and also a cheese which Teresa had given him as being particularly good and
superior to those of Tronchon. The duchess received it with greatest delight, in which we
will leave her, to describe the end of the government of the great Sancho Panza, flower and
mirror of all governors of islands.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LII 700
CHAPTER LIII
O
F 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 contrary, in it everything seems to go in a circle, I mean round and
round. The spring succeeds the summer, the summer the fall, the fall the autumn, the autumn
the winter, and the winter the spring, and so time rolls with never−ceasing wheel. Man's life
alone, swifter than time, speeds onward to its end without any hope of renewal, save 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 alone, without the light of faith,
have 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 end, melted away, disappeared,
vanished as it were in smoke and shadow. For as he lay in bed on the night of the seventh
day of his government, sated, not with bread and wine, but with delivering judgments and
giving opinions and making laws and proclamations, just as sleep, in spite of hunger, was
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 only, however, was he unable to discover what it was, but as countless drums
and trumpets now helped to swell the din of the bells and shouts, he was more puzzled than
ever, and filled with fear and terror; and getting up he put on a pair of slippers because of the
dampness of the floor, and without throwing a dressing gown or anything of the kind over
him he rushed out of the door of his room, just in time to see approaching along a corridor a
band of more than twenty persons with lighted torches and naked swords in their hands, all
shouting out, «To 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 noise, tumult, and uproar, they came to where Sancho stood dazed and
bewildered by what he saw and heard, and as they approached one of them called out to him,
«Arm 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 Quixote, who will settle it and make all
safe in a trice; for I, sinner that I am, God help me, don't understand these scuffles.»
«Ah, senor governor,» said another, «what slackness of mettle this is! Arm yourself;
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CHAPTER LIII 701
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 Sancho, and they at once produced two large
shields they had come provided with, and placed them upon him over his shirt, without
letting him put on anything else, one shield in front and the other behind, and passing his
arms through openings they had made, they bound him tight with ropes, so 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 falling, and 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 star, they were sure to
bring their business to a successful issue.
«How am I to march, unlucky being that I am?» said Sancho, «when 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 another, «it 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
advance, but 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 shell, or a side of bacon between two
kneading−troughs, or 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 that, extinguishing their torches
they began to shout afresh and to renew the calls to arms with such energy, trampling on
poor Sancho, and slashing at him over the shield with their swords in such a way that, if he
had not gathered himself together and made himself small and drawn in his head between
the shields, it would have fared badly with the poor governor, as, squeezed into that narrow
compass, he lay, sweating and sweating again, and commending himself with all his heart to
God to deliver him from his present peril. Some stumbled over him, others fell upon him,
and one there was who took up a position on top of him for some time, and from thence as if
from a watchtower issued orders to the troops, shouting out, «Here, 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 short, in his ardour he mentioned every little thing, and every implement and
engine of war by means of which an assault upon a city is warded off, while the bruised and
battered Sancho, who heard and suffered all, was saying to himself, «O 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 prayer, and when he least expected it he heard voices
exclaiming, «Victory, victory! The enemy retreats beaten! Come, senor governor, get up,
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CHAPTER LIII 702
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 rise,
and as soon as he was on his feet said, «The 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 down, fetched him wine and unbound the shields, and he seated
himself upon his bed, and with fear, agitation, and fatigue he fainted away. Those who had
been concerned in the joke were now sorry they had pushed it so far; however, the 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 more, and in silence began to
dress himself, while all watched him, waiting to see what the haste with which he was
putting on his clothes meant.
He got himself dressed at last, and then, slowly, for he was sorely bruised and could not
go fast, he proceeded to the stable, followed by all who were present, and going up to
Dapple embraced him and gave him a loving kiss on the forehead, and said to him, not
without tears in his eyes, «Come 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 ass, without a word from
anyone. Then having Dapple saddled, he, with great pain and difficulty, got up on him, and
addressing himself to the majordomo, the secretary, the head−carver, and Pedro Recio the
doctor and several others who stood by, he said, «Make 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIII 703
«That is unnecessary, senor governor,» said Doctor Recio, «for 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 government, or take another,
even if it was offered me between two plates, as fly to heaven without wings. I am of the
breed of the Panzas, and they are every one of them obstinate, and if they once say 'odds,'
odds it must be, no matter if it is evens, in 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 me, and let's
take to level ground and our feet once more; and if they're not shod in pinked shoes of
cordovan, they 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 pass, for it's growing late with
me.»
To this the majordomo said, «Senor 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 Sancho, «but 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 Recio, «and we should let him go, for
the duke will be beyond measure glad to see him.»
They all agreed to this, and allowed him to go, first 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 Dapple, and 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 him, and he with tears embraced all of them, and left them filled
with admiration not only at his remarks but at his firm and sensible resolution.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIII 704
CHAPTER XLIV
W
HICH 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 mentioned, given their vassal, should be proceeded with; and as the young man was
in Flanders, whither he had fled to escape having Dona Rodriguez for a mother−in−law,
they arranged to substitute for him a Gascon lacquey, named 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
knight, and would maintain that the damsel lied by half a beard, nay a whole beard, if she
affirmed that he had given her a promise of marriage. Don Quixote was greatly pleased at
the news, and promised himself to do wonders in the lists, and 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 days, which measured by his impatience seemed spinning themselves out into
four hundred ages. Let us leave them to pass as we do other things, and go and bear Sancho
company, as mounted on Dapple, half glad, half sad, he paced along on his road to join his
master, in whose society he was happier than in being governor of all the islands in the
world. Well then, it so happened that before he had gone a great way from the island of his
government (and whether it was island, city, town, or village that he governed he never
troubled himself to inquire) he saw coming along the road he was travelling six pilgrims
with staves, foreigners 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 Sancho, by which
he comprehended they were asking for money, and 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 him, and urging Dapple forward he broke through them. But as he was passing, one of
them who had been examining him very closely rushed towards him, and flinging his arms
round him exclaimed in a loud voice and good Spanish, «God bless me! What's this I see? Is
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CHAPTER XLIV 705
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 pilgrim, and after regarding him steadily without speaking he was still unable to
recognise him; but the pilgrim perceiving his perplexity cried, «What! 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 features, and at last
recognised him perfectly, and without getting off the ass threw his arms round his neck
saying, «Who 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 pilgrim, «I 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 complied, and Ricote having spoken to the other pilgrims they withdrew to the
grove they saw, turning a considerable distance out of the road. They threw down their
staves, took off their pilgrim's cloaks and remained in their under−clothing; they were all
good−looking young fellows, except Ricote, who was a man somewhat advanced in years.
They carried alforjas all of them, and all apparently well filled, at least with things
provocative of thirst, such as would summon it from two leagues off. They stretched
themselves on the ground, and making a tablecloth of the grass they spread upon it bread,
salt, knives, walnut, scraps of cheese, and well−picked ham−bones which if they were past
gnawing were not past sucking. They also put down a black dainty called, they say, caviar,
and made of the eggs of fish, a great thirst−wakener. Nor was there any lack of olives, dry, it
is true, and without any seasoning, but for all that toothsome and pleasant. But what made
the best show in the field of the banquet was half a dozen botas of wine, for each of them
produced his own from his alforjas; even the good Ricote, who from a Morisco had
transformed himself into a German or Dutchman, took out his, which in size might have
vied with the five others. They then began to eat with very great relish and very leisurely,
making 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 aloft, the mouths
placed in their mouths, and all eyes fixed on heaven just as if they were taking aim at it; and
in this attitude they remained ever so long, wagging 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 706
Sancho beheld all, «and nothing gave him pain;» so far from that, acting on the proverb
he knew so well, «when thou art at Rome do as thou seest,» he asked Ricote for his bota and
took aim like the rest of them, and with not less enjoyment. Four times did the botas bear
being uplifted, but the fifth it was all in vain, for they were drier and more sapless than a
rush by that time, which 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
saying, «Espanoli y Tudesqui tuto uno: bon compano;» and Sancho would answer, «Bon
compano, jur a Di!» and then go off into a fit of laughter that lasted an hour, without 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 length, the wine having come
to an end with them, drowsiness began to come over them, and they dropped asleep on their
very table and tablecloth. Ricote and Sancho alone remained awake, for they had eaten more
and drunk less, and Ricote drawing Sancho aside, they seated themselves at the foot of a
beech, leaving 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 707
«I left our village, as I said, and went to France, but though they gave us a kind
reception there I was anxious to see all I could. I crossed into Italy, and reached Germany,
and there it seemed to me we might live with more freedom, as the inhabitants do not pay
any attention to trifling points; everyone lives as he likes, for in most parts they enjoy liberty
of conscience. I took a house in a town near Augsburg, and then joined these pilgrims, who
are in the habit of coming to Spain in great numbers every year to visit the shrines there,
which they look upon as their Indies and a sure and certain source of gain. They travel
nearly all over it, and there is no town out of which they do not go full up of meat and drink,
as the saying is, and with a real, at least, in money, and they come off at the end of their
travels with more than a hundred crowns saved, which, changed into gold, they 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 own, and carry to their own country in spite of the guards at the
posts and passes where they are searched. Now my purpose is, Sancho, to carry away the
treasure that I left buried, which, as it is outside the town, I shall be able to do without risk,
and to write, or cross over from Valencia, to my daughter and wife, who I know are at
Algiers, and find some means of bringing them to some French port and thence to Germany,
there to await what it may be God's will to do with us; for, after all, Sancho, I know well that
Ricota my daughter and Francisca Ricota my wife are Catholic Christians, and though I am
not so much so, still I am more of a Christian than a Moor, and 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 replied, «Remember, 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 was, for fear of accidents; and so, if thou wilt come with me, Sancho, and help
me to take it away and conceal it, I will give thee two hundred crowns wherewith thou
mayest relieve thy necessities, and, as thou knowest, I know they are many.»
«I would do it,» said Sancho; «but I am not at all covetous, for I gave up an office this
morning in which, if I was, I might have made the walls of my house of gold and dined off
silver plates before six months were over; and so for this reason, and because I feel I would
be guilty of treason to my king if I helped his enemies, I 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 708
«I have given up being governor of an island,» said Sancho, «and 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 here, and 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 thee, friend Ricote, I left it this morning, and
yesterday I was governing there as I pleased like a sagittarius; but for all that I gave it up, for
it seemed to me a dangerous office, a governor's.»
«And what hast thou gained by the government?» asked Ricote.
«I have gained,» said Sancho, «the 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 peace, Sancho, and come back to thy
senses, and 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 treasure, it is so large), and I will give
thee wherewithal to keep thee, as 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 lost, but ill−gotten gain is lost, itself and its owner
likewise.»
«I will not press thee, Sancho,» said Ricote; «but tell me, wert 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 her, and everybody said she was the fairest creature in the
world. She wept as she went, and embraced all her friends and acquaintances and those who
came out to see her, and she begged them all to commend her to God and Our Lady his
mother, and this in such a touching way that it made me weep myself, though I'm not much
given to tears commonly; and, faith, many a one would have liked to hide her, or go out and
carry her off on the road; but the fear of going against the king's command kept them back.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 709
The one who showed himself most moved was Don Pedro Gregorio, the rich young heir
thou knowest of, and they say he was deep in love with her; and since she left he has not
been seen in our village again, and we all suspect he has gone after her to steal her away, but
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 said, Sancho, that the Morisco women seldom or never engage in
amours with the old Christians; and my daughter, who I fancy thought more of being a
Christian than of lovemaking, would not trouble herself about the attentions of this heir.»
«God grant it,» said Sancho, «for 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 stir,
and it is time, too, for us to continue our journey;» and then they both embraced, and Sancho
mounted Dapple, and Ricote leant upon his staff, and so they parted.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER XLIV 710
CHAPTER LV
O
F WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS THAT
CANNOT BE SURPASSED
The length of time he delayed with Ricote prevented Sancho from reaching the duke's
castle that day, though he was within half a league of it when night, somewhat dark and
cloudy, overtook him. This, however, as it was summer time, did 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 possible, he 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 God, fancying he was
not going to stop until he reached the depths of the bottomless pit; but it did not turn out so,
for at little more than thrice a man's height Dapple touched bottom, and 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 anywhere,
and 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 him, for 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 help, but he found they were quite smooth and afforded no
hold anywhere, at which he was greatly distressed, especially when he heard how
pathetically and dolefully Dapple was bemoaning himself, and no wonder he complained,
nor was it from ill−temper, for in truth he was not in a very good case. «Alas,» said Sancho,
«what 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LV 711
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 himself, and his ass listened to him, but answered him
never a word, such was the distress and anguish the poor beast found himself in. At length,
after a night spent in bitter moanings and lamentations, day came, and by its light Sancho
perceived that it was wholly impossible to escape out of that pit without help, and 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 wilderness, for there was not a soul anywhere in
the neighbourhood to hear him, and then at last he gave himself up for dead. Dapple was
lying on his back, and Sancho helped him to his feet, which he was scarcely able to keep;
and then taking a piece of bread out of his alforjas which had shared their fortunes in the
fall, he gave it to the ass, to whom it was not unwelcome, saying to him as if he understood
him, «With 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 it, and entered it by
creeping, and found it wide and spacious on the inside, which 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 was, and 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 easily, and this accomplished, taking
him by the halter, he proceeded to traverse the cavern to see if there was any outlet at the
other end. He advanced, sometimes in the dark, sometimes without light, but 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 Galiana, and would have counted
upon issuing out of this darkness and imprisonment into some blooming meadow; but I,
unlucky that I am, hopeless and spiritless, expect at every step another pit deeper than the
first to open under my feet and swallow me up for good; 'welcome evil, if thou comest
alone.'»
In this way and with these reflections he seemed to himself to have travelled rather
more than half a league, when at last he perceived a dim light that looked like daylight and
found its way in on one side, showing that this road, which appeared to him the road to the
other world, led to some opening.
Here Cide Hamete leaves him, and returns to Don Quixote, who 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 honour, for whom he hoped to obtain
satisfaction for the wrong and injury shamefully done to her. It came to pass, then, that
having sallied forth one morning to practise and exercise himself in what he would have to
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LV 712
do in the encounter he expected to find himself engaged in the next day, as he was putting
Rocinante through his paces or pressing him to the charge, he 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, however, without a fall, and coming a little closer examined the
hole without dismounting; but as he was looking at it he heard loud cries proceeding from it,
and by listening attentively was able to make out that he who uttered them was saying, «Ho,
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 heard, whereat he was
taken aback and amazed, and raising his own voice as much as he could, he cried out, «Who
is below there? Who is that complaining?»
«Who should be here, or who should complain,» was the answer, «but 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 ever, for it suggested itself to his mind that Sancho must be dead, and that his
soul was in torment down there; and carried away by this idea he exclaimed, «I 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 voice, «your 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 Quixote, «he 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 answer, «and 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LV 713
Nor was this all; one would have fancied the ass understood what Sancho said, because
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
mother, and thy voice too, my Sancho. Wait while I go to the duke's castle, which is close
by, and 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 Sancho, «and 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 him, and hastened to the castle to tell the duke and duchess what had
happened Sancho, and they were not a little astonished at it; they could easily understand his
having fallen, from 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 brief, they fetched ropes and
tackle, as the saying is, and 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
remarked, «That'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 said, «It 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 flitches, there
are no pegs;' God knows my meaning and that's enough; I say no more, though I could.»
«Be not angry or annoyed at what thou hearest, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «or 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 Sancho, «to set me down for a fool rather than a
thief.»
Thus talking, and surrounded by boys and a crowd of people, they reached the castle,
where 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 stable, for he said he
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LV 714
had passed a very bad night in his last quarters; then he went upstairs to see his lord and
lady, and kneeling before them he said, «Because 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 end, Don Quixote having been the whole
time in dread of his uttering a host of absurdities; and when he found him leave off with so
few, he thanked heaven in his heart. The duke embraced Sancho and told him he was
heartily sorry he had given up the government so soon, but that he would see that he was
provided with some other post on his estate less onerous and more profitable. The duchess
also embraced him, and gave orders that he should be taken good care of, as it was plain to
see he had been badly treated and worse bruised.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LV 715
CHAPTER LVI
O
F 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 day, and gave them a minute account of almost every word and deed that Sancho
uttered or did during the time; and to wind up with, eloquently described to them the attack
upon the island and Sancho's fright and departure, with which they were not a little amused.
After this the history goes on to say that the day fixed for the battle arrived, and that the
duke, after 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 lances, telling Don Quixote that Christian charity, on which he plumed
himself, could 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 pleased, as on his part he would obey him in
everything. The dread day, then, having arrived, and 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
duennas, mother and daughter, vast crowds flocked from all the villages and hamlets of the
neighbourhood to see the novel spectacle of the battle; nobody, dead or alive, in 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 ceremonies, who
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
themselves, enveloped in mantles covering their eyes, nay even their bosoms, and displaying
no slight emotion as Don Quixote appeared in the lists. Shortly afterwards, accompanied by
several trumpets and mounted on a powerful steed that threatened to crush the whole place,
the 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
Frieslander, broad−backed and flea−bitten, and 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 him, but strive to shirk the first encounter so as to avoid the risk of
killing him, as he was sure to do if he met him full tilt. He crossed the courtyard at a walk,
and coming to where the duennas were placed stopped to look at her who demanded him for
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVI 716
a husband; the marshal of the field summoned Don Quixote, who had already presented
himself in the courtyard, and standing by the side of Tosilos he addressed the duennas, and
asked them if they consented that Don Quixote of La Mancha should do battle for their right.
They said they did, and that whatever he should do in that behalf they declared rightly done,
final and valid. By this time the duke and duchess had taken their places in a gallery
commanding the enclosure, which 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 them, and stationed them, each on the spot where he was
to stand. The drums beat, the sound of the trumpets filled the air, the earth trembled under
foot, the hearts of the gazing crowd were full of anxiety, some hoping for a happy issue,
some apprehensive of an untoward ending to the affair, and lastly, Don Quixote,
commending himself with all his heart to God our Lord and to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
stood waiting for them to give the necessary signal for the onset. Our lacquey, however, was
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 heart,
and adding it to the list of his trophies; and so, stealing gently upon him unseen, he 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 ease, for Love is invisible, and comes in and
goes out as he likes, without anyone calling him to account for what he does. Well then,
when they gave the signal for the onset our lacquey was in an ecstasy, musing upon the
beauty of her whom he had already made mistress of his liberty, and so he paid no attention
to the sound of the trumpet, unlike Don Quixote, who was off the instant he heard it, and, at
the highest speed Rocinante was capable of, set out to meet his enemy, his good squire
Sancho shouting lustily as he saw him start, «God 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 field, to whom when he
came up to see what he wanted he said, «Senor, 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 conscience, and 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 vanquished, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVI 717
marshal of the field hastened to him to let him know what Tosilos said, and he was amazed
and extremely angry at it. In the meantime Tosilos advanced to where Dona Rodriguez sat
and said in a loud voice, «Senora, 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 him, and said, «As 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 castle, and going up to Tosilos he
said to him, «Is 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 Sancho, «for 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 helmet, and he begged them to come to his
help at once, as his power of breathing was failing him, and he could not remain so long shut
up in that confined space. They removed it in all haste, and his lacquey features were
revealed to public gaze. At this sight Dona Rodriguez and her daughter raised a mighty
outcry, exclaiming, «This 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 is, it is not the duke who is at the bottom of it, but those wicked enchanters
who persecute me, and who, jealous of my reaping the glory of this victory, have turned
your husband's features into those of this person, who you say is a lacquey of the duke's;
take my advice, and notwithstanding the malice of my enemies marry him, for 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 laughter, and he
said, «The 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVI 718
«Oh, senor,» said Sancho, «those 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 exclaimed, «Let 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 brief, all 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 victor, but 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 pieces, just as the boys are
disappointed when the man they are waiting to see hanged does not come out, because the
prosecution or the court has pardoned him. The people dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote
returned to the castle, they locked up Tosilos, Dona Rodriguez and her daughter remained
perfectly contented when they saw that any way the affair must end in marriage, and Tosilos
wanted nothing else.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVI 719
CHAPTER LVII
W
HICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE
OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY
AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE 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 it, showing at the same time that they were very
sorry he was leaving them. The duchess gave his wife's letters to Sancho Panza, who shed
tears over them, saying, «Who 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 departure, as Don Quixote, who 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 corridors, and the duke and duchess, too, came out to see him.
Sancho was mounted on his Dapple, with his alforjas, valise, and proven. supremely happy
because the duke's majordomo, the same that had acted the part of the Trifaldi, had given
him a little purse with two hundred gold crowns to meet the necessary expenses of the road,
but of this Don Quixote knew nothing as yet. While all were, as has been said, observing
him, suddenly from among the duennas and handmaidens the impudent and witty Altisidora
lifted up her voice and said in pathetic tones:
Give ear, cruel 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVII 720
Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!
In thy claws, ruthless 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.
Bireno, AEneas, what 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.
Bireno, AEneas, what 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 King, seven, or 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.
Bireno, AEneas, what 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 said, «Sancho 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 answer, «The 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 bold, lively,
and impudent, but not so much so as to venture to make free in this fashion; and not being
prepared for the joke, her astonishment was all the greater. The duke had a mind to keep up
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVII 721
the sport, so he said, «It 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 Quixote, «that 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 Altisidora,
«and 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 them, opportunities came ready enough to me in my government.»
Don Quixote bowed his head, and saluted the duke and duchess and all the bystanders,
and wheeling Rocinante round, Sancho following him on Dapple, he rode out of the castle,
shaping his course for Saragossa.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVII 722
CHAPTER LVIII
W
HICH 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 country, free, and relieved from the attentions
of Altisidora, he felt at his ease, and in fresh spirits to take up the pursuit of chivalry once
more; and turning to Sancho he said, «Freedom, 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 Sancho, «it 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 journey,
when, after they had gone a little more than half a league, they 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 them, standing upright or lying flat, and arranged at intervals. Don Quixote
approached the diners, and, saluting them courteously first, he 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 soiled, and on our shoulders that they may not be broken.»
«With your good leave,» said Don Quixote, «I 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 723
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 moment, and you shall see with your own eyes;»
and getting up from his dinner he went and uncovered the first image, which 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 gold, as the saying is. On seeing it Don Quixote said, «That 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 it, and it was seen to be that of Saint Martin on his horse, dividing
his cloak with the beggar. The instant Don Quixote saw it he said, «This 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 Sancho, «but that he held with the proverb that says,
'For giving and keeping there's need of brains.'»
Don Quixote laughed, and asked them to take off the next cloth, underneath which was
seen the image of the patron saint of the Spains seated on horseback, his sword stained with
blood, trampling on Moors and treading heads underfoot; and on seeing it Don Quixote
exclaimed, «Ay, 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
horse, with 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 answering, «This,» he said, «was 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 images, so Don Quixote bade them cover them up again, and said
to those who had brought them, «I 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 724
am following at present.»
«May God hear and sin be deaf,» said Sancho to this.
The men were filled with wonder, as well at the figure as at the words of Don Quixote,
though they did not understand one half of what he meant by them. They finished their
dinner, took their images on their backs, and bidding farewell to Don Quixote resumed their
journey.
Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master's knowledge, as much as if he had
never known him, for 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 memory, and he said to him, «In 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 Quixote, «but 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 Spaniards, when they are about to give battle, in calling on that Saint James
the Moorslayer, say 'Santiago and close Spain!' Is Spain, then, open, so that it is needful to
close it; or what is the meaning of this form?»
«Thou art very simple, Sancho,» said Don Quixote; «God, look you, gave that great
knight of the Red Cross to Spain as her patron saint and protector, especially 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 down,
trampling under foot, destroying and slaughtering the Hagarene squadrons in the sight of all;
of which fact I could give thee many examples recorded in truthful Spanish histories.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 725
Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master, «I 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 Quixote, «that 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 marble, what bowels of brass, what 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 it, what bold bearing, what sprightly grace, what
comeliness of feature, which of these things by itself, or 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 head, and 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 love, and as your worship has none at all, I don't know what the poor
creature fell in love with.»
«Recollect, Sancho,» replied Don Quixote, «there 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 road, when suddenly, without expecting anything of the kind, Don Quixote
found himself caught in some nets of green cord stretched from one tree to another; and
unable to conceive what it could be, he said to Sancho, «Sancho, 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,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 726
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 all, suddenly from among some trees two shepherdesses of
surpassing beauty presented themselves to his sight− or at least damsels dressed like
shepherdesses, save that their jerkins and sayas were of fine brocade; that is to say, the 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
amazement, fascinated Don Quixote, made the sun halt in his course to behold them, and
held all four in a strange silence. One of the shepherdesses, at length, was the first to speak
and said to Don Quixote, «Hold, 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 more, and 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 727
«Ah! friend of my soul,» instantly exclaimed the other shepherdess, «what 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 of, and 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 other, «let 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 Quixote, «unless, 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
shepherdesses, like them in shepherd costume, and as richly and gaily dressed as they were.
They told him that their companion was the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, and the
other Sancho his squire, of 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 tents,
and Don Quixote had to give way and comply. And now the gave was started, and 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 persons, all gaily attired as shepherds and shepherdesses,
assembled on the spot, and were at once informed who Don Quixote and his squire were,
whereat they were not a little delighted, as they knew of him already through his history.
They repaired to the tents, where they found tables laid out, and choicely, plentifully, and
neatly furnished. They treated Don Quixote as a person of distinction, giving him the place
of honour, and all observed him, and were full of astonishment at the spectacle. At last the
cloth being removed, Don 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 728
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 Sancho, who had been listening with great attention, cried out in a loud
voice, «Is 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 Sancho, and with a countenance glowing with anger said to
him, «Is 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 rage, and showing
his anger plainly, he rose from his seat, leaving the company lost in wonder, and making
them feel doubtful whether they ought to regard him as a madman or a rational being. In the
end, though they sought to dissuade him from involving himself in such a challenge,
assuring him they admitted his gratitude as fully established, and needed no fresh proofs to
be convinced of his valiant spirit, as those related in the history of his exploits were
sufficient, still Don Quixote persisted in his resolve; and mounted on Rocinante, bracing his
buckler on his arm and grasping his lance, he posted himself in the middle of a high road
that was not far from the green meadow. Sancho followed on Dapple, together with all the
members of the pastoral gathering, eager to see what would be the upshot of his vainglorious
and extraordinary proposal.
Don Quixote, then, having, as has been said, planted himself in the middle of the road,
made the welkin ring with words to this effect: «Ho ye travellers and wayfarers, knights,
squires, folk on foot or on horseback, who pass this way or shall pass in the course of the
next two days! Know that Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight−errant, is 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 earth, putting aside the lady of my heart, Dulcinea del
Toboso. Wherefore, let him who is of the opposite opinion come on, for here I await him.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 729
Twice he repeated the same words, and twice they fell unheard by any adventurer; but
fate, that was guiding affairs for him from better to better, so ordered it that shortly
afterwards there appeared on the road a crowd of men on horseback, many of them with
lances in their hands, all 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 road, for they knew that if they stayed some harm might come to them; but
Don Quixote with intrepid heart stood his ground, and Sancho Panza shielded himself with
Rocinante's hind−quarters. The troop of lancers came up, and one of them who was in
advance began shouting to Don Quixote, «Get out of the way, you son of the devil, or these
bulls will knock you to pieces!»
«Rabble!» returned Don Quixote, «I 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 reply, nor Don Quixote to get out of the way even if he
wished; and so the drove of fierce bulls and tame bullocks, together 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 day, passed over Don Quixote and over Sancho, Rocinante and Dapple,
hurling them all to the earth and rolling them over on the ground. Sancho was left crushed,
Don Quixote scared, Dapple belaboured and Rocinante in no very sound condition. They all
got up, however, at length, and Don Quixote in great haste, stumbling here and falling there,
started off running after the drove, shouting out, «Hold! 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 haste, however, did not stop
for that, or heed his menaces any more than last year's clouds. Weariness brought Don
Quixote to a halt, and more enraged than avenged he sat down on the road to wait until
Sancho, Rocinante and Dapple came up. When they reached him master and man mounted
once more, and without going back to bid farewell to the mock or imitation Arcadia, and
more in humiliation than contentment, they continued their journey.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LVIII 730
CHAPTER LIX
W
HEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE
REGARDED AS AN ADVENTURE, THAT 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 bulls, and by the side of
this, having turned Dapple and Rocinante loose without headstall or bridle, the forlorn pair,
master and man, seated 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 face,
by which cooling process his flagging energies were revived. Out of pure vexation he
remained without eating, and out of pure politeness Sancho did not venture to touch a
morsel of what was before him, but waited for his master to act as taster. Seeing, however,
that, absorbed in thought, he was forgetting to carry the bread to his mouth, he said never a
word, and trampling every sort of good breeding under foot, began to stow away in his
paunch the bread and cheese that came to his hand.
«Eat, Sancho my friend,» said Don Quixote; «support life, which is of more
consequence to thee than to me, and leave me to die under the pain of my thoughts and
pressure of my misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to live dying, and thou to die eating; and to
prove the truth of what I say, look at me, printed in histories, famed in arms, courteous in
behaviour, honoured by princes, courted by maidens; and after all, when I looked forward to
palms, triumphs, and crowns, won and earned by my valiant deeds, I have this morning seen
myself trampled on, kicked, and crushed by the feet of unclean and filthy animals. This
thought blunts my teeth, paralyses my jaws, cramps my hands, and robs me of all appetite
for food; so much so that I have a mind to let myself die of hunger, the cruelest death of all
deaths.»
«So then,» said Sancho, munching hard all the time, «your 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 recommended, for it struck him that Sancho's reasoning was
more like a philosopher's than a blockhead's, and said he, «Sancho, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 731
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
now, and after that, God has decreed what will happen. Let me tell your worship that for a
man to whip himself in cold blood is a hard thing, especially if the stripes fall upon an
ill−nourished and worse−fed body. Let my lady Dulcinea have patience, and when she is
least expecting it, she will see me made a riddle of with whipping, and 'until death it's all
life;' I mean that I have still life in me, and the desire to make good what I have promised.»
Don Quixote thanked him, and ate a little, and Sancho a good deal, and then they both
lay down to sleep, leaving those two inseparable friends and comrades, Rocinante and
Dapple, to their own devices and to feed unrestrained upon the abundant grass with which
the meadow was furnished. They woke up rather late, mounted once more and resumed their
journey, pushing on to reach an inn which was in sight, apparently a league off. I say an inn,
because Don Quixote called it so, contrary to his usual practice of calling all inns castles.
They reached it, and asked the landlord if they could put up there. He said yes, with as much
comfort and as good fare as they could find in Saragossa. They dismounted, and Sancho
stowed away his larder in a room of which the landlord gave him the key. He took the beasts
to the stable, fed them, and came back to see what orders Don Quixote, who was seated on a
bench at the door, had for him, giving special thanks to heaven that this inn had not been
taken for a castle by his master. Supper−time came, and they repaired to their room, and
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 satisfied, for my master is delicate and eats little, and I'm not over and above gluttonous.»
The landlord replied he had no chickens, for the kites had stolen them.
«Well then,» said Sancho, «let 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 Sancho, «you will not be without veal or kid.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 732
«Just now,» said the landlord, «there'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 landlord, «my 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 Sancho, «let'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 landlord, «all 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 else, for 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 have, being
persons of high quality, bring their own cook and caterer and larder with them.»
«If you come to people of quality,» said Sancho, «there'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 landlord, Sancho 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 come, then, Don Quixote betook himself to his room, the landlord
brought in the stew−pan just as it was, and he sat himself down to sup very resolutely. It
seems that in another room, which was next to Don Quixote's, with nothing but a thin
partition to separate it, he overheard these words, «As 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 him, and heard the Don Jeronimo who had been
addressed say in reply, «Why would you have us read that absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 733
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 Juan, «we 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 Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, lifted up his voice and said,
«Whoever 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 Sancho, «but 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 gentlemen, for such they seemed to
be, entered the room, and one of them, throwing his arms round Don Quixote's neck, said to
him, «Your 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 Quixote, who took it, and without replying began
to run his eye over it; but he presently returned it saying, «In 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 again,
senor, and see if I am in it and if he has changed my name.»
«From your talk, friend,» said Don Jeronimo, «no doubt you are Sancho Panza, Senor
Don Quixote's squire.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 734
«Yes, I am,» said Sancho; «and I'm proud of it.»
«Faith, then,» said the gentleman, «this 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
them, as they knew very well there was nothing in that inn fit for one of his sort. Don
Quixote, who was always polite, yielded 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 table, and the landlord sat down with him, for 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 Toboso, was she married, had she been brought to bed, or was she with child, or did she
in maidenhood, still preserving her modesty and delicacy, cherish the remembrance of the
tender passion of Senor Don Quixote?
To this he replied, «Dulcinea 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 Dulcinea, and of what had happened him in the cave of Montesinos,
together with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for her disenchantment, namely 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 sense, and on the other he seemed to
them a maundering blockhead, and they could not make up their minds whereabouts
between wisdom and folly they ought to place him.
Sancho having finished his supper, and left the landlord in the X condition, repaired to
the room where his master was, and as he came in said, «May 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 735
«But he does,» said Don Jeronimo; «I cannot remember, however, in what way, though
I know his words are offensive, and what is more, lying, as I can see plainly by the
physiognomy of the worthy Sancho before me.»
«Believe me,» said Sancho, «the 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 possible, an order should be issued that no
one should have the presumption to deal with anything relating to Don Quixote, save 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 Juan, «that 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 sort, and though Don
Juan wished Don Quixote to read more of the book to see what it was all about, he was not
to be prevailed upon, saying that he treated it as read and pronounced it utterly silly; and, if
by any chance it should come to its author's ears that he had it in his hand, he did not want
him to flatter himself with the idea that he had read it; for our thoughts, and 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 Saragossa, to 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 Quixote, let him be who he might, took part there in a tilting
at the ring, utterly devoid of invention, poor in mottoes, very poor in costume, though rich in
sillinesses.
«For that very reason,» said Don Quixote, «I 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 time, I pray your
worships to give me leave to retire to bed, and to place and retain me among the number of
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 736
your greatest friends and servants.»
«And me too,» said Sancho; «maybe I'll be good for something.»
With this they exchanged farewells, and Don Quixote and Sancho retired to their room,
leaving 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 these, and not those their
Aragonese author described, were the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote rose
betimes, and bade adieu to his hosts by knocking at the partition of the other room. Sancho
paid the landlord magnificently, and recommended him either to say less about the
providing of his inn or to keep it better provided.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LIX 737
CHAPTER LX
O
F 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 inn, first
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 historian, who they said abused him so,
to be a liar. Well, as it fell out, nothing worthy of being recorded happened him for six days,
at the end of which, having turned aside out of the road, he 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 beasts, and as soon as they had settled
themselves at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had had a good noontide meal that day, let
himself, without more ado, pass the gates of sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his thoughts, far
more than hunger, kept awake, could not close an eye, and 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 Dulcinea, transformed into a country wench, skipping and mounting
upon her she−ass; again that the words of the sage Merlin were sounding in his ears, setting
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 lashes, a 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 knot,
saying, 'To cut comes to the same thing as to untie,' and yet did not fail to become lord
paramount of all Asia, neither more nor less could happen now in Dulcinea's disenchantment
if I scourge Sancho against his will; for, if it is the condition of the remedy that Sancho shall
receive three thousand and odd lashes, what does it matter to me whether he inflicts them
himself, or some one else inflicts them, when the essential point is that he receives them, let
them come from whatever quarter they may?»
With this idea he went over to Sancho, having first taken Rocinante's reins and arranged
them so as to be able to flog him with them, and 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 out, «What is this? Who is
touching me and untrussing me?»
«It is I,» said Don Quixote, «and 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;
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 738
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 quiet, or else by the living God
the deaf shall hear us; the lashes I pledged myself to must be voluntary and not forced upon
me, and 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 Quixote, «for 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 up, and grappling with his master he gripped him with all his
might in his arms, giving him a trip with the heel stretched him on the ground on his back,
and 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 quiet, and not to offer to whip me
now, I'll let you go free and unhindered; if not−
Traitor and Dona Sancha's foe, Thou diest on the spot."
Don Quixote gave his promise, and swore by the life of his thoughts not to touch so
much as a hair of his garments, and to leave him entirely free and to his own discretion to
whip himself whenever he pleased.
Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spot, but as he was about to place
himself leaning against another tree he felt something touch his head, and putting up his
hands encountered somebody's two feet with shoes and stockings on them. He trembled with
fear and made for another tree, where the very same thing happened to him, and he fell
a−shouting, calling upon Don Quixote to come and protect him. Don Quixote did so, and
asked him what had happened to him, and what he was afraid of. Sancho replied that all the
trees were full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt them, and guessed at once what it
was, and said to Sancho, «Thou 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 was, in fact, as he supposed; with the first light they looked up and saw that the fruit
hanging on those trees were freebooters' bodies.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 739
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 them, and 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
Dapple, and 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 him,
and even looked to see what he had hidden between the skin and flesh, but for the arrival at
that moment of their captain, who was about thirty−four years of age apparently, strongly
built, above the middle height, of stern aspect and swarthy complexion. He was mounted
upon a powerful horse, and had on a coat of mail, with 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 Panza, but he ordered them to desist and was at once
obeyed, so the girdle escaped. He wondered to see the lance leaning against the tree, the
shield on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour and dejected, with the saddest and most
melancholy face that sadness itself could produce; and going up to him he said, «Be 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 Quixote, «is 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 of, he never
regarded the things attributed to him as true, nor could he persuade himself that such a
humour could become dominant in the heart of man; he was extremely glad, therefore, to
meet him and test at close quarters what he had heard of him at a distance; so he said to him,
«Despair 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 him, when they heard behind them a noise as of a troop
of horses; there was, however, but one, riding on which at a furious pace came a youth,
apparently about twenty years of age, clad in green damask edged with gold and breeches
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 740
and a loose frock, with a hat looped up in the Walloon fashion, tight−fitting polished boots,
gilt spurs, dagger and sword, and in his hand a musketoon, and a pair of pistols at his waist.
Roque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely figure, which drawing near
thus addressed him, «I 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.»
Roque, filled with admiration at the gallant bearing, high spirit, comely figure, and
adventure of the fair Claudia, said 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 Quixote, who had been
listening to what Claudia said and Roque Guinart said in reply to her, exclaimed, «Nobody
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 Sancho, «for 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.»
Roque, who was paying more attention to the fair Claudia's adventure than to the words
of master or man, did not hear them; and ordering his squires to restore to Sancho everything
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 741
they had stripped Dapple of, he directed them to return to the place where they had been
quartered during the night, and then set off with Claudia at full speed in search of the
wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached the spot where Claudia met him, but found
nothing there save freshly spilt blood; looking all round, however, they descried some
people on the slope of a hill above them, and concluded, as indeed it proved to be, that it
was Don Vicente, whom either dead or alive his servants were removing to attend to his
wounds or to bury him. They made haste to overtake them, which, as the party moved
slowly, they were able to do with ease. They found Don Vicente in the arms of his servants,
whom he was entreating in a broken feeble voice to leave him there to die, as 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
Roque, and Claudia was moved by the sight of Don Vicente, and going up to him half
tenderly half sternly, she seized his hand and said to him, «Hadst thou given me this
according to our compact thou hadst never come to this pass.»
The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyes, and recognising Claudia said,
«I 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 Claudia, «that 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 this, press
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 hands, and her own heart was so wrung that she lay fainting on the
bleeding breast of Don Vicente, whom 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 faces,
and brought some and bathed them with it. Claudia recovered from her fainting fit, but not
so Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had overtaken him, for his life had come to an end.
On perceiving this, Claudia, when she had convinced herself that her beloved husband was
no more, rent the air with her sighs and made the heavens ring with her lamentations; she
tore her hair and scattered it to the winds, she 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 cried, «how 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!»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 742
So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of Claudia that they drew tears from
Roque's eyes, unused as they were to shed them on any occasion. The servants wept,
Claudia 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 village, which was close by, for burial. Claudia told him she meant to
go to a monastery of which an aunt of hers was abbess, where she intended to pass her life
with a better and everlasting spouse. He applauded her pious resolution, and offered to
accompany her whithersoever she wished, and to protect her father against the kinsmen of
Don Vicente and all the world, should 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 could,
took leave of him in tears. The servants of Don Vicente carried away his body, and Roque
returned to his comrades, and so ended the love of Claudia Jeronima; but what wonder,
when 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 them, and 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 peril, as well to the soul as to the body; but as most
of them were Gascons, rough lawless fellows, his 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 had, but that three
kerchiefs that were worth three cities were missing.
«What are you talking about, man?» said one of the bystanders; «I have got them, and
they are not worth three reals.»
«That is true,» said Don Quixote; «but my squire values them at the rate he says, as
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 clothing, jewellery, and money that they had taken since the last
distribution to be produced; and making a hasty valuation, and reducing what could not be
divided into money, he made shares for the whole band so equitably and carefully, that in no
case did he exceed or fall short of strict distributive justice.
When this had been done, and all left satisfied, Roque observed to Don Quixote, «If this
scrupulous exactness were not observed with these fellows there would be no living with
them.»
Upon this Sancho remarked, «From 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 this, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 743
hand. Sancho was frightened out of his wits, and 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 roads, to
watch who came along them and report what passed to their chief, came up and said,
«Senor, there is a great troop of people not far off coming along the road to Barcelona.»
To which Roque replied, «Hast 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 Roque, «and bring them here to me at once
without letting one of them escape.»
They obeyed, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque, left by themselves, waited to see
what the squires brought, and while they were waiting Roque said to Don Quixote, «It 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 sentiments, for he
did not think that among those who followed such trades as robbing, murdering, and
waylaying, there could be anyone capable of a virtuous thought, and he said in reply, «Senor
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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 744
Roque laughed at Don Quixote's exhortation, and changing the conversation he related
the tragic affair of Claudia Jeronima, at which Sancho was extremely grieved; for he had not
found the young woman's beauty, boldness, and spirit at all amiss.
And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, bringing with them two
gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women with some six
servants on foot and on horseback in attendance on them, and a couple of muleteers whom
the gentlemen had with them. The squires made a ring round them, both victors and
vanquished maintaining profound silence, waiting for the great Roque Guinart to speak. He
asked the gentlemen who they were, whither they were going, and what money they carried
with them; «Senor,» replied one of them, «we are two captains of Spanish infantry; our
companies are at Naples, and 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 crowns,
with which we are, according to our notions, rich and contented, for a soldier's poverty does
not allow a more extensive hoard.»
Roque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to the captains, and 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 coach, whither they were bound and
what money they had, and one of the men on horseback replied, «The 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 Guinart, «we 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 felt, the regent's lady was downcast, and
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 distress, which might
be seen a bowshot off, and turning to the captains he said, «Sirs, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 745
the feet and hands of the great Roque, but he would not suffer it on any account; so far from
that, he 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 once, for the captains had already
paid down their sixty. The pilgrims were about to give up the whole of their little hoard, but
Roque bade them keep quiet, and turning to his men he said, «Of 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 materials, with which he always went provided, brought to him, he 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 magnanimity, his generous disposition, and his unusual
conduct, and 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 two, saying, «That is the way I punish impudent saucy
fellows.» They were all taken aback, and not one of them dared to utter a word, such
deference did they pay him. Roque then withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend
of his at Barcelona, telling him that the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the
knight−errant of whom there was so much talk, was with him, and was, he assured him, the
drollest and wisest man in the world; and that in four days from that date, that is to say, on
Saint John the Baptist's Day, he was going to deposit him in full armour mounted on his
horse Rocinante, together with his squire Sancho on an ass, in the middle of the strand of the
city; and bidding him give notice of this to his friends the Niarros, that they might divert
themselves with him. He wished, he said, his enemies the Cadells could be deprived of this
pleasure; but that was impossible, because 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 squires, who, exchanging the costume of a
highwayman for that of a peasant, made his way into Barcelona and gave it to the person to
whom it was directed.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LX 746
CHAPTER LXI
O
F WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE
ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS THAT
PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS
Don Quixote passed three days and three nights with Roque, and 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 spot, at dinner−time in another; sometimes they fled without
knowing from whom, at other times they lay in wait, not knowing for what. They slept
standing, breaking their slumbers to shift from place to place. There was nothing but sending
out spies and scouts, posting sentinels and blowing the matches of harquebusses, though
they carried but few, for almost all used flintlocks. Roque passed his nights in some place or
other apart from his men, that they might not know where he was, for the many
proclamations the viceroy of Barcelona had issued against his life kept him in fear and
uneasiness, and he did not venture to trust anyone, afraid that even his own men would kill
him or deliver him up to the authorities; of a truth, a weary miserable life! At length, by
unfrequented roads, short cuts, and secret paths, Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, together
with six squires, set out for Barcelona. They reached the strand on Saint John's Eve during
the night; and Roque, after 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 back, while Don Quixote remained on horseback, just as he was, waiting
for day, and 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 flowers, if not the ear, though to gladden
that too there came at the same moment a sound of clarions and drums, and a din of bells,
and a tramp, tramp, and cries of «Clear the way there!» of some runners, that 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 sea, a 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 beach, which, lowering their awnings,
displayed themselves decked with streamers and pennons that trembled in the breeze and
kissed and swept the water, while on board the bugles, trumpets, and 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 water, while a vast number of horsemen on fine
horses and in showy liveries, issuing from the city, engaged on their side in a somewhat
similar movement. The soldiers on board the galleys kept up a ceaseless fire, which they on
the walls and forts of the city returned, and the heavy cannon rent the air with the
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXI 747
tremendous noise they made, to which the gangway guns of the galleys replied. The bright
sea, the smiling earth, the 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 them, he to whom
Roque had sent word, addressing him exclaimed, «Welcome 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 answer, nor did the horsemen wait for one, but wheeling again
with all their followers, they began curvetting round Don Quixote, who, turning to Sancho,
said, «These 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 said, «Come
with us, Senor Don Quixote, for we are all of us your servants and great friends of Roque
Guinart's;» to which Don Quixote returned, «If 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 polite, and then, all closing in around him, they
set out with him for the city, to the music of the clarions and the drums. As they were
entering it, the wicked one, who is the author of all mischief, and the boys who are wickeder
than the wicked one, contrived that a couple of these audacious irrepressible urchins should
force their way through the crowd, and lifting up, one of them Dapple's tail and the other
Rocinante's, insert a bunch of furze under each. The poor beasts felt the strange spurs and
added to their anguish by pressing their tails tight, so much so that, cutting a multitude of
capers, they flung their masters to the ground. Don Quixote, covered with shame and out of
countenance, ran to pluck the plume from his poor jade's tail, while Sancho did the same for
Dapple. His conductors tried to punish the audacity of the boys, but there was no possibility
of doing so, for they hid themselves among the hundreds of others that were following them.
Don Quixote and Sancho mounted once more, and with the same music and acclamations
reached their conductor's house, which was large and stately, that of a rich gentleman, in
short; and there for the present we will leave them, for such is Cide Hamete's pleasure.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXI 748
CHAPTER LXII
W
HICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF
THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS
WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD
Don Quixote's host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, a gentleman of wealth and
intelligence, and 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 jests, and no sport is
worth anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did was to make Don Quixote take off
his armour, and lead him, in that tight chamois suit we have already described and depicted
more than once, out on a balcony overhanging one of the chief streets of the city, in full
view of the crowd and of the boys, who gazed at him as they would at a monkey. The
cavaliers in livery careered before him again as though it were for him alone, and not to
enliven the festival of the day, that they wore it, and Sancho was in high delight, for it
seemed to him that, how he knew not, he had fallen upon another Camacho's wedding,
another house like Don Diego de Miranda's, another castle like the duke's. Some of Don
Antonio's friends dined with him that day, and all showed honour to Don Quixote and
treated him as a knight−errant, and 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 house, and all who heard him, were kept hanging upon his lips. While at table Don
Antonio said to him, «We 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 Sancho, «for 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 Quixote, «Sancho'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 Antonio, «has Sancho been a governor?»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 749
«Ay,» said Sancho, «and 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
government, with which he greatly amused his hearers.
On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Quixote by the hand, passed with
him into a distant room in which there was nothing in the way of furniture except a table,
apparently of jasper, resting on a pedestal of the same, upon which was set up, after the
fashion of the busts of the Roman emperors, a head which seemed to be of bronze. Don
Antonio traversed the whole apartment with Don Quixote and walked round the table
several times, and then said, «Now, 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 Quixote, «and 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 Antonio, «I 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 puzzled, wondering 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 stood, and then said, «This 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 head, and was inclined to
disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time he had to wait to test the matter, he did
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 750
not choose to say anything except that he thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty
a secret. They then quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and 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 stroll, not in his armour but in street
costume, with a surcoat of tawny cloth upon him, that 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 mounted, not on Rocinante, but upon a tall mule of easy pace
and handsomely caparisoned. They put the surcoat on him, and on the back, without his
perceiving it, they stitched a parchment on which they wrote in large letters, «This is Don
Quixote of La Mancha.» As they set out upon their excursion the placard attracted the eyes
of all who chanced to see him, and as they read out, «This is Don Quixote of La Mancha,»
Don Quixote was amazed to see how many people gazed at him, called him by his name,
and recognised him, and turning to Don Antonio, who rode at his side, he observed to him,
«Great 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 secret, virtue cannot escape being recognised; and that which is attained by the
profession of arms shines distinguished above all others.»
It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was proceeding amid the acclamations
that have been described, a Castilian, reading the inscription on his back, cried out in a loud
voice, «The 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 Antonio, «and 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 descendants, if, from this day
forth, though I should live longer than Methuselah, I ever give advice to anybody even if he
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 751
asks me for it.»
The advice−giver took himself off, and they continued their stroll; but so great was the
press of the boys and people to read the placard, that Don Antonio was forced to remove it
as if he were taking off something else.
Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies' dancing party, for Don
Antonio's wife, a lady of rank and gaiety, beauty and wit, had invited some friends of hers to
come and do honour to her guest and amuse themselves with his strange delusions. Several
of them came, they supped sumptuously, the dance began at about ten o'clock. Among the
ladies were two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and, though perfectly modest,
somewhat free in playing tricks for harmless diversion sake. These two were so
indefatigable in taking Don Quixote out to dance that they tired him down, not only in body
but in spirit. It was a sight to see the figure Don Quixote made, long, lank, lean, and yellow,
his garments clinging tight to him, ungainly, and above all anything but agile. The gay ladies
made secret love to him, and he on his part secretly repelled them, but finding himself hard
pressed by their blandishments he lifted up his voice and exclaimed, «Fugite, 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
room, tired 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 Sancho, saying 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 laughing, and then
put his master to bed, covering 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 head,
and with Don Quixote, Sancho, and two others, friends of his, besides the two ladies that
had tired out Don Quixote at the ball, who had remained for the night with Don Antonio's
wife, he locked himself up in the chamber where the head was. He explained to them the
property it possessed and entrusted the secret to them, telling 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 enchantment, and if Don Antonio had not first
revealed it to them they would have been inevitably reduced to the same state of amazement
as the rest, so artfully and skilfully was it contrived.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 752
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 all, he said to it, «Head, tell me by the virtue that lies
in thee what am I at this moment thinking of?»
The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a clear and distinct voice, so
as to be heard by all, «I cannot judge of thoughts.»
All were thunderstruck at this, and 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 softly,
«Thou 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 inquisitive, the first to come forward was
one of the two friends of Don Antonio's wife, and her question was, «Tell me, Head, what
shall I do to be very beautiful?» and the answer she got was, «Be very modest.»
«I question thee no further,» said the fair querist.
Her companion then came up and said, «I 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 saying, «That 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 it, «Who 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.» «Yes, I know thee, thou art Don Pedro Noriz,» was the reply.
«I do not seek to know more,» said the gentleman, «for this is enough to convince me,
O Head, that thou knowest everything;» and as he retired the other friend came forward and
asked it, «Tell me, Head, what are the wishes of my eldest son?»
«I have said already,» was the answer, «that 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 gentleman, «so I
ask no more.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 753
Don Antonio's wife came up and said, «I 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 said, «Tell 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 reply, «there 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 disenchanted,
and I will consider that all the good fortune I could wish for has come upon me all at once.»
The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, «Head, 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 came, «Thou 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 here, but not the wonder with which all were
filled, except Don Antonio's two friends who were in the secret. This Cide Hamete
Benengeli thought fit to reveal at once, not to keep the world in suspense, fancying that the
head had some strange magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the model of
another head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen at Madrid, Don 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 jasper, and the
pedestal on which it stood was of the same material, with four eagles' claws projecting from
it to support the weight more steadily. The head, which resembled a bust or figure of a
Roman emperor, and was coloured like bronze, was hollow throughout, as was the table,
into which it was fitted so exactly that no trace of the joining was visible. The pedestal of the
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 754
table was also hollow and communicated with the throat and neck of the head, and the whole
was in communication with another room underneath the chamber in which the head stood.
Through the entire cavity in the pedestal, table, throat and neck of the bust or figure, there
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 answer, with his mouth to
the tube, and the voice, as in an ear−trumpet, passed from above downwards, and from
below upwards, the words coming clearly and distinctly; it was impossible, thus, to detect
the trick. A nephew of Don Antonio's, a smart sharp−witted student, was 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−work, and, being
clever, cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous contrivance stood for some ten or
twelve days; but that, as it became noised abroad through the city that he had in his house an
enchanted head that answered all who asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing it might
come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith, explained the matter to the
inquisitors, who commanded him to break it up and have done with it, lest the ignorant
vulgar should be scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by Sancho the head was still
held to be an enchanted one, and capable of answering questions, though more to Don
Quixote's satisfaction than Sancho's.
The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the honours to Don
Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying his folly, made arrangements for a tilting
at the ring in six days from that time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned
hereafter, did not take place.
Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on foot, for 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 door,
«Books printed here,» at which he was vastly pleased, for until then he had never seen a
printing office, and he was curious to know what it was like. He entered with all his
following, and saw them drawing sheets in one place, correcting in another, setting up type
here, revising 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 him, he watched
them with wonder, and passed on. He approached one man, among others, and 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 tongue, and I am setting it up in type for the press.»
«What is the title of the book?» asked Don Quixote; to which the author replied,
«Senor, in Italian the book is called Le Bagatelle.»
«And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish?» asked Don Quixote.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 755
«Le Bagatelle,» said the author, «is 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 Quixote, «have 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 author, «but by olla?»
«Body o' me,» exclaimed Don Quixote, «what 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 author, «for those are their proper equivalents.»
«I would venture to swear,» said Don Quixote, «that 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 author, «and 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 printers, and 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
you, particularly if the book is a little out of the common and not in any way highly spiced.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 756
«What!» said the author, «would 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
case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with the title of «Light of the Soul;»
noticing it he observed, «Books 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 on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and when he asked its
title they told him it was called, «The Second Part of the Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote
of La Mancha,» by one of Tordesillas.
«I have heard of this book already,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 beach, whereat Sancho was in high
delight, as he had never seen any all his life. Don Antonio sent word to the commandant of
the galleys that he intended to bring his guest, the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, of
whom the commandant and all the citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see them;
and what happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXII 757
CHAPTER LXIII
O
F THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT
TO THE GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO
Profound were Don Quixote's reflections on the reply of the enchanted head, not one of
them, however, hitting on the secret of the trick, but all concentrated on the promise, which
he regarded as a certainty, of Dulcinea's disenchantment. This he turned over in his mind
again and again with great satisfaction, fully persuaded that he would shortly see its
fulfillment; and as for Sancho, though, as has been said, he hated being a governor, still he
had a longing to be giving orders and finding himself obeyed once more; this is the
misfortune that being in authority, even in jest, brings with it.
To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his two friends, with
Don Quixote and Sancho, went to the galleys. The commandant had been already made
aware of his good fortune in seeing two such famous persons as Don Quixote and Sancho,
and 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 water, and as Don Quixote stepped on board of it, the leading galley fired
her gangway gun, and 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, hu, hu,» 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 lifetime,
since I have seen Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, pattern 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 poop, which was very handsomely
decorated, and seated themselves on the bulwark benches; the boatswain passed along the
gangway and piped all hands to strip, which they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing such a
number of men stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and 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 stage, close to the aftermost rower on the right−hand side. He, previously
instructed in what he was to do, laid hold of Sancho, hoisting him up in his arms, and the
whole crew, who were standing ready, beginning on the right, proceeded to pass him on,
whirling him along from hand to hand and from bench to bench with such rapidity that it
took the sight out of poor Sancho's eyes, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 758
along the left side and deposited him on the poop; and the poor fellow was left bruised and
breathless and all in a sweat, and 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; for, if so, as he
had no intention of adopting them as a profession, he had no mind to perform such feats of
agility, and if anyone offered to lay hold of him to whirl him about, he 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 head, and full of
terror he ducked it and buried it between his knees; nor were Don Quixote's knees altogether
under control, for he too shook a little, squeezed his shoulders together and lost colour. The
crew then hoisted the yard with the same rapidity and clatter as when they lowered it, all the
while keeping silence as though they had neither voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the
signal to weigh anchor, and leaping upon the middle of the gangway began to lay on to the
shoulders of the crew with his courbash or whip, and to haul out gradually to sea.
When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be) moving all
together, he said to himself, «It'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 Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded what was going on, said to
him, «Ah, 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 were, and what was Dulcinea's
disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, «Monjui signals that there is an oared vessel off
the coast to the west.»
On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway crying, «Now 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 shore, so
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 sea, after a couple of
miles sighted a vessel which, so far as they could make out, they judged to be one of
fourteen or fifteen banks, and so she proved. As soon as the vessel discovered the galleys
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 759
she went about with the object and in the hope of making her escape by her speed; but the
attempt failed, for the chief galley was one of the fastest vessels afloat, and overhauled her
so rapidly that they on board the brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility of escaping,
and 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 chance, directing things
otherwise, so 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 surrender, two Toraquis, that is to
say two Turks, both drunken, that with a dozen more were on board the brigantine,
discharged their muskets, killing 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 alive,
but 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 desperate, and
while the galley was coming about they made sail, and 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
harm, for 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 beach, where a vast multitude stood waiting for them,
eager to see what they brought back. The general anchored close in, and perceived that the
viceroy of the city was on the shore. He ordered the skiff to push off to fetch him, and the
yard to be lowered for the purpose of hanging forthwith the rais and the rest of the men
taken on board the vessel, about six−and−thirty in number, all smart fellows and most of
them Turkish musketeers. He asked which was the rais of the brigantine, and 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 general, «what 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 reply, but the general could not at that moment listen to him, as he
had to hasten to receive the viceroy, who was now coming on board the galley, and 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 760
«Because,» said the general, «against 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 neck, ready
for death.
The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well−favoured, so graceful, and so
submissive, he felt a desire to spare his life, the comeliness of the youth furnishing him at
once with a letter of recommendation. He therefore questioned him, saying, «Tell me, rais,
art thou Turk, Moor, or renegade?»
To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, «I 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 words, at any rate so far as to
listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The general bade him say what he pleased, but
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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 761
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 Christian, and 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 Turks, who
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 762
merely serve as rowers. The two Turks, greedy and insolent, instead 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 to, chose to run along the coast and make some prize if
they could, fearing that if they put us ashore first, we might, in case of some accident
befalling us, make it known that the brigantine was at sea, and thus, if there happened to be
any galleys on the coast, they might be taken. We sighted this shore last night, and knowing
nothing of these galleys, we were discovered, and the result was what you have seen. To
sum up, there is Don Gregorio in woman's dress, among women, in imminent danger of his
life; and here am I, with hands bound, in expectation, or rather in dread, of losing my life, of
which I am already weary. Here, sirs, ends my sad story, as true as it is unhappy; all I ask of
you is to allow me to die like a Christian, for, as I have already said, I am not to be charged
with the offence of which those of my nation are guilty;» and she stood silent, her eyes filled
with moving tears, accompanied by plenty from the bystanders. The viceroy, touched with
compassion, went 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 story, an elderly pilgrim,
who had come on board of the galley at the same time as the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed
upon her; and the instant she ceased speaking he threw himself at her feet, and embracing
them said in a voice broken by sobs and sighs, «O 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 his, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head, which he had been
holding down, brooding over his unlucky excursion; and looking at the pilgrim he
recognised in him that same Ricote he met the day he quitted his government, and felt
satisfied that this was his daughter. She being now unbound embraced her father, mingling
her tears with his, while he addressing the general and the viceroy said, «This, 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 this, «and 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 763
While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the general said, «At 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 viceroy, however, begged him earnestly not to
hang them, as their behaviour savoured rather of madness than of bravado. The general
yielded to the viceroy's request, for 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 plans, but 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 rowers, as he knew where, how, and when he could and should land,
nor 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 row, but Ana Felix said she could answer for him, and her
father offered to go and pay the ransom of the Christians if by any chance they should not be
forthcoming. This, then, being agreed upon, the viceroy landed, and Don Antonio Moreno
took the fair Morisco and her father home with him, the viceroy charging him to give them
the best reception and welcome in his power, while 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIII 764
CHAPTER LXIV
T
REATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE
UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM
The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely happy to see Ana
Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great kindness, charmed as well by her beauty as
by her intelligence; for in both respects the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and 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 one, for its risks were greater than its advantages, and 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 host, as 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 crew, and two days
later the galleys made sail eastward, the general having begged the viceroy to let him know
all about the release of Don Gregorio and about Ana Felix, and 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 (for, as he often said, that was «his only gear, his 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIV 765
in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote, «Illustrious knight, and never
sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose
unheard−of achievements will perhaps have recalled him to thy memory. I come to do battle
with thee and prove the might of thy arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and
confess that my lady, let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del
Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt escape death and save
me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if thou fightest and I vanquish thee, I demand no
other satisfaction than that, laying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of
adventures, thou withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village for the space of a year,
and live there without putting hand to sword, in peace and quiet and beneficial repose, the
same being needful for the increase of thy substance and the salvation of thy soul; and if
thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at thy disposal, my arms and horse thy spoils, and
the renown of my deeds transferred and added to thine. Consider which will be thy best
course, and give me thy answer speedily, for this day is all the time I have for the despatch
of this business.»
Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of the White Moon's
arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the defiance, and with calm dignity he answered
him, «Knight 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 city, and it was told the viceroy
how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The viceroy, fancying it must be some fresh
adventure got up by Don Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of the city, hurried out
at once to the beach accompanied by Don Antonio and several other gentlemen, just as Don
Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order to take up the necessary distance. The
viceroy upon this, seeing that the pair of them were evidently preparing to come to the
charge, put himself between them, asking 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 Quixote, and
how the conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides had been accepted. The
viceroy went over to Don Antonio, and asked in a low voice did he know who the Knight of
the White Moon was, or 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIV 766
This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not 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
back, saying, «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 them, and so did Don Quixote, who then, commending himself with all
his heart to heaven and to his Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve of any combat that
awaited him, proceeded to take a little more distance, as he saw his antagonist was doing the
same; then, without blast of trumpet or other warlike instrument to give them the signal to
charge, both at the same instant wheeled their horses; and he of the White Moon, being the
swifter, met Don Quixote after having traversed two−thirds of the course, and there
encountered him with such violence that, without touching him with his lance (for he held it
high, to all appearance purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the earth, a
perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance over his visor said to him,
«You are vanquished, sir knight, nay dead unless you admit the conditions of our defiance.»
Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said in a weak feeble
voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, «Dulcinea 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 year, or for so long a time as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we
agreed before engaging in this combat.»
The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present heard all this, and heard
too how Don Quixote replied that so long as nothing in prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded
of him, he would observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. The engagement given, he
of the White Moon wheeled about, and making obeisance to the viceroy with a movement of
the head, rode away into the city at a half gallop. The viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after
him, and by some means or other find out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and
uncovered his face, and found him pale and bathed with sweat. Rocinante from the mere
hard measure he had received lay unable to stir for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and
woebegone, knew not what to say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole
business was a piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and 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; Rocinante, he feared,
was crippled for life, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIV 767
hand−chair which the viceroy sent for, and thither the viceroy himself returned, cager to
ascertain who this Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such a sad
plight.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIV 768
CHAPTER LXV
W
HEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE
WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER
EVENTS
Don Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number of boys
followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him fairly housed in a hostel in the heart
of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make his acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to
meet him and remove his armour, and he shut himself into a lower room, still attended by
Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found out who he was. He of the
White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman would not leave him, said, «I 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 Antonio, «may 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,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXV 769
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 mule, he rode away from the city
the same day on the horse he rode to battle, and 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 him, and the viceroy was not
very well pleased to hear it, for 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 bed, dejected, melancholy, moody and out of sorts,
brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat. Sancho strove to comfort him, and 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 calling, and 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 exclaiming,
«Reward 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 said, «Of 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,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXV 770
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 live, even 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 them, for he that falls to−day may get up to−morrow; unless indeed he chooses to
lie in bed, I 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
bustle, and no doubt he has come by this time;» and so it proved, for as soon as Don
Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy an account of the voyage out and home,
Don Gregorio, eager to see Ana Felix, came with the renegade to Don Antonio's house.
When they carried him away from Algiers he was in woman's dress; on board the vessel,
however, he 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 esteemed, for he was surpassingly
well−favoured, and to judge by appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote
and his daughter came out to welcome him, the father with tears, the daughter with
bashfulness. They did not embrace each other, for where there is deep love there will never
be overmuch boldness. Seen side by side, the 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 moment, and 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
Gregorio, and Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a few words, in which he showed that
his intelligence was in advance of his years, described the peril and embarrassment he found
himself in among the women with whom he had sojourned. To conclude, Ricote 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 it,
and 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 Spain, for 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 capital, whither
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 Ricote, who was present during the conversation, «it 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXV 771
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 Antonio, «when 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; however, as it
was his purpose to go and see his parents and devise some way of returning for her, he fell
in with the proposed arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's wife, and 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's, for Don Quixote's fall did not suffer him to take the road sooner. There were
tears and sighs, swoonings and sobs, at 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 departure, and Don Quixote and Sancho afterwards, as has been
already said, Don Quixote without his armour and in travelling gear, and Sancho on foot,
Dapple being loaded with the armour.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXV 772
CHAPTER LXVI
W
HICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE
WHO HAS IT READ TO HIM WILL HEAR
As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he had fallen.
«Here Troy was,» said he; «here my ill−luck, not my cowardice, robbed 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; here, in a word, fell my happiness never to rise again.»
«Senor,» said Sancho on hearing this, «it 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 world, nor does anything which takes place there, be it good or bad, come 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 prudence, and 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 word, I ventured it, I did my best, I was overthrown,
but though I lost my honour I did not lose nor can I lose the virtue of keeping my word.
When I was a knight−errant, daring and valiant, I supported my achievements by hand and
deed, and now that I am a humble squire I will support my words by keeping the promise I
have given. Forward then, Sancho my friend, let us go to keep the year of the novitiate in
our own country, and in that seclusion we shall pick up fresh strength to return to the by me
never−forgotten calling of arms.»
«Senor,» returned Sancho, «travelling 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 trophy,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVI 773
and 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 road, it 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 Quixote,
«that it may not be said, 'for good service a bad return.'»
«Your worship is right,» said Sancho; «for, as sensible people hold, 'the fault of the ass
must not be laid on the pack−saddle;' and, as in this affair the fault is your worship's, punish
yourself and don't let your anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour,
or the meekness of Rocinante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying to make them travel more
than is reasonable.»
In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as did the four succeeding ones,
without anything occurring to interrupt their journey, but on the fifth as they entered a
village they found a great number of people at the door of an inn enjoying themselves, as 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 Quixote, «and 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 another, a neighbour of his, who does not weigh more
than nine, to 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 other, as he weighed nine stone, should put eleven in iron on his
back, and 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 once, before Don Quixote could answer; «it's for me,
that only a few days ago left off being a governor and a judge, as all the world knows, to
settle these doubtful questions and give an opinion in disputes of all sorts.»
«Answer in God's name, Sancho my friend,» said Don Quixote, «for I am not fit to give
crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and upset.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVI 774
With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered round him,
waiting 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 decision, «but 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 another, «so 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 instant, for sad thoughts
and unhappy circumstances force me to seem discourteous and to travel apace;» and
spurring Rocinante he pushed on, leaving them wondering at what they had seen and heard,
at his own strange figure and at the shrewdness of his servant, for such they took Sancho to
be; and another of them observed, «If 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 air, and 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 hand, the very cut of a foot courier; who, as
soon as he came close to Don Quixote, increased his pace and half running came up to him,
and embracing his right thigh, for he could reach no higher, exclaimed with evident
pleasure, «O 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 Quixote, «nor 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVI 775
«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 fighting, for the girl had taken my fancy; but my
scheme had a very different result, for 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 nun, and 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 drop, sound though warm, I have a gourd here full of the best, and
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 out, good Tosilos,
in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies.»
«Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho,» said Don Quixote, «and 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 laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his scraps, and taking out a
small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves on the green grass, and in peace and
good fellowship finished off the contents of the alforjas down to the bottom, so resolutely
that they licked the wrapper of the letters, merely because it smelt of cheese.
Said Tosilos to Sancho, «Beyond 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 everything, particularly
when the coin is madness. I see it plain enough, and I tell him so plain enough; but what's
the use? especially now that it is all over with him, for here he is beaten by the Knight of the
White Moon.»
Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened him, but 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 up, after shaking his doublet and
brushing the crumbs out of his beard, he drove Dapple on before him, and bidding adieu to
Tosilos left him and rejoined his master, who was waiting for him under the shade of a tree.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVI 776
CHAPTER LXVII
O
F 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 overthrown,
a great many more harassed him since his fall. He was under the shade of a tree, as has been
said, and there, like flies on honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him.
Some of them turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others 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 Quixote, «that 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 Sancho, «were 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 Quixote, «there 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 Sancho, «if the truth is to be told, I cannot persuade myself that the
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CHAPTER LXVII 777
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 lady, who is thine also, inasmuch 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 it, and said he to Sancho,
«This 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 Sancho, «but 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
Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as no doubt he will, may call himself the
shepherd Samsonino, or perhaps the shepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call
himself Niculoso, as 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 title, and we call
him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherdesses whose lovers we shall be, we 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's, I need not trouble myself to look for one that will suit her better; to thine,
Sancho, thou canst give what name thou wilt.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVII 778
«I don't mean to give her any but Teresona,» said Sancho, «which 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 Quixote, «what 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 Sancho, «for I never in my life heard tell of them or saw
them.»
«Albogues,» said Don Quixote, «are 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 answer, «I 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 stay− she'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.'»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVII 779
«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 Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «I 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 aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against Sancho's will, who
turned over in his mind the hardships attendant upon knight−errantry in woods and forests,
even though at times plenty presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de
Miranda's, at the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno's; he reflected,
however, that it could not be always day, nor always night; and so that night he passed in
sleeping, and his master in waking.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVII 780
CHAPTER LXVIII
O
F THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
The night was somewhat dark, for 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
antipodes, and leaves the mountains all black and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote
obeyed nature so far as to sleep his first sleep, but did not give way to the second, very
different from Sancho, who never had any second, because with him sleep lasted from night
till morning, wherein he showed what a sound constitution and few cares he had. Don
Quixote's cares kept him restless, so much so that he awoke Sancho and said to him, «I 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 Sancho, «I'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 Quixote, «O 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 I− post 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 hope, trouble nor glory; and good luck betide him that invented sleep,
the cloak that covers over all a man's thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink that
drives away thirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that tempers the heat, and, to wind
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVIII 781
up with, the universal coin wherewith everything is bought, the weight and balance that
makes the shepherd equal with the king and the fool with the wise man. Sleep, I have heard
say, has only one fault, that 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 bred, but with whom thou art fed.'»
«Ha, by my life, master mine,» said Sancho, «it'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 sword, and
Sancho ensconced himself under Dapple and put the bundle of armour on one side of him
and the ass's pack−saddle on the other, in fear and trembling as great as Don Quixote's
perturbation. Each instant the noise increased and came nearer to the two terrified men, or at
least to one, for as to the other, his 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 hour, and so great was the noise they made and their grunting and blowing, that
they deafened the ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and 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 them,
demolishing Sancho's entrenchments, and not only upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping
Rocinante off his feet into the bargain; and what with the trampling and the grunting, and the
pace at which the unclean beasts went, pack−saddle, armour, Dapple 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 sword, saying
he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty unmannerly pigs, for 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 knight, and
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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVIII 782
the night there's left, and God will send us dawn and we shall be all right.»
«Sleep thou, Sancho,» returned Don Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «that 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 forthwith, taking the space of ground he required, he muffled himself
up and fell into a sound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt, or trouble of any sort. Don
Quixote, propped 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 muse, O Love, upon 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
revives, and 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 came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his beams. He
awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his lazy limbs, and seeing the havoc
the pigs had made with his stores he cursed the drove, and more besides. Then the pair
resumed their journey, and 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 fear, for the persons approaching them carried lances and bucklers, and were in
very warlike guise. Don Quixote turned to Sancho and said, «If 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 up, and raising their lances surrounded Don
Quixote in silence, and pointed them at his back and breast, menacing him with death. One
of those on foot, putting his finger to his lips as a sign to him to be silent, seized Rocinante's
bridle and drew him out of the road, and the others driving Sancho and Dapple before them,
and all maintaining a strange silence, followed 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
wanted, but the instant he began to open his lips they threatened to close them with the
points of their lances; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he seemed about to
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVIII 783
speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad, and Dapple likewise, as if he too
wanted to talk. Night set in, they quickened their pace, and the fears of the two prisoners
grew greater, especially as they heard themselves assailed with− «Get on, ye Troglodytes;»
«Silence, ye barbarians;» «March, ye cannibals;» «No murmuring, ye Scythians;» «Don't
open your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemes, ye 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, «We, tortolites, barbers, animals! 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 dazed, unable with the aid of all his wits to make out
what could be the meaning of these abusive names they called them, and the only conclusion
he could arrive at was that there was no good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared.
And now, about an hour after midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at
once was the duke's, where they had been but a short time before. «God bless me!» said he,
as he recognised the mansion, «what 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 fears, as will be seen in the following
chapter.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXVIII 784
CHAPTER LXIX
O
F THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT
BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY
The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without a moment's
delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried them into the court, all round
which near a hundred torches fixed in sockets were burning, besides above five hundred
lamps in the corridors, so that in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the want of
daylight could not be perceived. In the middle of the court was a catafalque, raised about
two yards above the ground and covered completely by an immense canopy of black velvet,
and 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 bosom, and between them a branch of yellow palm of victory. On one side
of the court was erected a stage, where 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 sort,
whether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage, which was reached by steps, were two
other chairs on which the men carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in
silence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too were to he silent; which,
however, they would have been without any signs, for their amazement at all they saw held
them tongue−tied. And now two persons of distinction, who were at once recognised by Don
Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchess, ascended the stage attended by a numerous suite,
and seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs close to the two kings, as they seemed to be.
Who would not have been amazed at this? Nor was this all, for 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 obeisance,
which they returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official crossed over,
and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black buckram painted all over with
flames of fire, and 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 lips, or
they would put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho surveyed himself from head to foot
and saw himself all ablaze with flames; but as they did not burn him, he did not care two
farthings for them. He took off the mitre and seeing painted with devils he put it on again,
saying to himself, «Well, so far those don't burn me nor do these carry me off.» Don
Quixote surveyed him too, and though fear had got the better of his faculties, he could not
help smiling to see the figure Sancho presented. And now from underneath the catafalque,
so it seemed, there rose a low sweet sound of flutes, which, coming unbroken by human
voice (for there silence itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. Then, beside
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIX 785
the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, suddenly appeared a fair youth in a Roman
habit, who, to the accompaniment of a harp which he himself played, sang in a sweet and
clear voice these two stanzas:
While fair Altisidora, who the sport Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been, Returns to
life, and 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 alone, methinks, to me Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue Is cold
in death, believe me, unto thee My voice shall raise its tributary song. My soul, from 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 this, than 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 out, «By 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 »tus, tus« is no use with me.'»
«Thou shalt die,» said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; «relent, thou tiger; humble
thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and he silent, for no impossibilities are asked of thee; it is not
for thee to inquire into the difficulties in this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked thou
shalt see thyself, and with pinches thou must be made to howl. Ho, I say, officials, obey my
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIX 786
orders; or by the word of an honest man, ye shall see what ye were born for.»
At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made their appearance in
procession, one after the other, four of them with spectacles, and all with their right hands
uplifted, showing four fingers of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion
now−a−days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than, bellowing like a bull, he
exclaimed, «I 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 Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, «Have 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 Sancho, and he, having become more tractable and
reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presented his face and beard to the first, who
delivered him a smack very stoutly laid on, and then made him a low curtsey.
«Less politeness and less paint, senora duenna,» said Sancho; «by God your hands
smell of vinegar−wash.»
In fine, all 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 so, apparently out of
patience, he started up out of his chair, and seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell
upon the duennas and the whole set of his tormentors, exclaiming, «Begone, ye ministers of
hell; I'm not made of brass not to feel such out−of−the−way tortures.»
At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so long lying on her
back, turned on her side; seeing which the bystanders cried out almost with one voice,
«Altisidora is alive! Altisidora lives!»
Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they had in view was now
attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he went on his knees to Sancho saying to
him, «Now 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 answer, «That'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,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIX 787
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 catafalque, and as she did so the clarions
sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices of all present exclaiming, «Long life to
Altisidora! long life to Altisidora!» The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and
Rhadamanthus stood up, and all, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to
receive her and take her down from the catafalque; and she, making as though she were
recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke and duchess and to the kings, and
looking sideways at Don Quixote, said to him, «God 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 gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre in his hand. The duke
bade them take it from him, and 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 cleared, and that all should retire to their chambers,
and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their old quarters.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXIX 788
CHAPTER LXX
W
HICH 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 Quixote, a 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 sleep, and he was in no humour for talking much, as
he still felt the pain of his late martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom of speech; and
it would have been more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in that luxurious chamber
in company. And so well founded did his apprehension prove, and so correct was his
anticipation, that scarcely had his master got into bed when he said, «What 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 Sancho, «when 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 Quixote, «if 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 Sancho, «for 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 asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of this great history, took
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 Carrasco, he says, not
forgetting how he as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown by Don
Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, resolved to try his hand again,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXX 789
hoping for better luck than he had before; and so, having learned where Don Quixote was
from the page who brought the letter and present to Sancho's wife, Teresa Panza, he got
himself new armour and another horse, and put a white moon upon his shield, and to carry
his arms he had a mule led by a peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he
should be recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the duke's castle, and 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 him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him,
and 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 master, making
him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted and turned into a country wench; and of how the
duchess, his wife, had persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived, inasmuch
as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed not a little, and 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 Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa, he went on, and how he fared has been
already told. He returned to the duke's castle and told him all, what the conditions of the
combat were, and how Don Quixote was now, like a loyal knight−errant, returning to keep
his promise of retiring to his village for a year, by which time, said the bachelor, he might
perhaps be cured of his madness; for that was the object that had led him to adopt these
disguises, as 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 Quixote, who 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 near, everywhere he
thought Don Quixote was likely to pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his
servants on foot and on horseback, who were to bring him to the castle, by fair means or
foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and sent word to the duke, who, having already
settled what was to be done, as soon as he heard of his arrival, ordered 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 described, the whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it
differed but little from reality. And Cide Hamete says, moreover, that 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 latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying awake occupied with his
desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them bringing with it the desire to rise; for the
lazy down was never a delight to Don Quixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back
from death to life as Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of her lord and lady,
entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she had worn on the catafalque and in a robe
of white taffeta embroidered with gold flowers, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders,
and leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXX 790
her appearance, huddled himself up and well−nigh covered himself altogether with the
sheets and counterpane of the bed, tongue−tied, and unable to offer her any civility.
Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head of the bed, and, after a deep sigh, said to him
in a feeble, soft voice, "When 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 me, senora− and may heaven send you a
tenderer lover than my master− what 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 Altisidora, «I 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 devils, whether playing or not, can never be
content, win or lose.»
«Very likely,» said Altisidora; «but there is another thing that surprises me too, I mean
surprised me then, and 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 books, new and old.
To one of them, a brand−new, well−bound one, they 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
another, and 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXX 791
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 Quixote, «for 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 Quixote, when he said
to her, «I 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 this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation, exclaimed, «God'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 it, but as for doing it− Judas may believe that!»
While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung the two stanzas
given above came in, and making a profound obeisance to Don Quixote said, «Will 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 Quixote, «so 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 chooses, whether it
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXX 792
be germane to the matter or not, and 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 reply, but was prevented by the duke and duchess, who came
in to see him, and with them there followed a long and delightful conversation, in 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
readily, and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good graces.
He replied, «Senora, 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 Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids.»
«You say well, Sancho,» 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 remedy, senora,» 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 eyes, I won't say his rueful countenance, but his abominable, ugly looks.»
«That reminds me of the common saying, that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'» said the
duke.
Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief, made an
obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room.
«Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel,» said Sancho, «ill 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 end, and Don Quixote dressed himself and dined with
the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXX 793
CHAPTER LXXI
O
F 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 defeat, and his satisfaction from the
thought of the virtue that lay in Sancho, as 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 cheerful, for 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 master, «Surely, 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 Quixote, «and 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 wide, and in his
heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, and said he to his master, «Very 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 Quixote, «I 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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXI 794
«Of them,» said Sancho, «there 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 thee, Dulcinea and I, all 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 here, Sancho; when wilt thou begin
the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I 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 air, and I'll scarify myself.»
Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the world, came at last,
though it seemed to him that the wheels of Apollo's car had broken down, and that the day
was drawing itself out longer than usual, just as is the case with lovers, who 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 road, and there vacating Rocinante's saddle
and Dapple's pack−saddle, they stretched themselves on the green grass and made their
supper off Sancho's stores, and 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 spirit, said 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 myself, for in that, no doubt, lies the essence of this miracle.»
He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and 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 trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a
moment, he told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for each of those
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXI 795
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 Sancho, «in God's hand be it, and let it rain lashes.» But the rogue
no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid on to the trees, with such groans every now
and then, that one would have thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the
roots. Don Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an end of himself, and
that through Sancho's imprudence he might miss his own object, said to him, «As 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 paid, the
arms broken;' go back a little further, your worship, and 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 Quixote, «may 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 trees, such was the severity with which he whipped himself; and one time, raising
his voice, and giving a beech a tremendous lash, he cried out, «Here 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 once, and seizing the twisted halter that served him for a courbash, said to him,
«Heaven 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 Sancho, «so 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 obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept until the sun
woke him; they then resumed their journey, which 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 moat, turrets, portcullis, and
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXI 796
drawbridge; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked more rationally about
everything, as 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
Helen, when the bold guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the other was the story of
Dido and AEneas, she on a high tower, as 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 reluctantly, for 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 Sancho, «that 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 Quixote, «for 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 Sancho, «for 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 appetite, because «in
delay there is apt to be danger» very often, and «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.»
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXI 797
«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; however, I mean to
mend said Sancho, «but 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXI 798
CHAPTER LXXII
O
F HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE
All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and inn waiting for night,
the one to finish off his task of scourging in the open country, the other to see it
accomplished, for therein lay the accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at
the hostelry a traveller on horseback with three or four servants, one of whom said to him
who appeared to be the master, «Here, 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 Sancho, «Look 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 dismount, and by−and−by we can
ask about it.»
The gentleman dismounted, and 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 coat, and coming out to the gateway of the
hostelry, which was wide and cool, addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down
there, he asked, «In what direction your worship bound, gentle sir?»
«To a village near this which is my own village,» replied Don Quixote; «and your
worship, where are you bound for?»
«I am going to Granada, senor,» said the gentleman, «to my own country.»
«And a goodly country,» said Don Quixote; «but will your worship do me the favour of
telling me your name, for 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 returned, «I 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 Quixote, the principal
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXII 799
personage in the said history, was a very great friend of mine, and it was I who took him
away from home, or at least induced him to come to some jousts that were to be held at
Saragossa, whither I was going myself; indeed, I showed him many kindnesses, and saved
him from having his shoulders touched up by the executioner because of his extreme
rashness.»
Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro,« said Don Quixote, »am I at all like that Don Quixote you
talk of?"
«No indeed,» replied the traveller, «not a bit.»
«And that Don Quixote−» said our one, «had he with him a squire called Sancho
Panza?»
«He had,» said Don Alvaro; «but though he had the name of being very droll, I never
heard him say anything that had any drollery in it.»
«That I can well believe,» said Sancho at this, «for 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 drolleries, my
friend, in the few words you have spoken than the other Sancho Panza in all I ever heard
from him, and they were not a few. He was more greedy than well−spoken, and 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 say,
for I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the Casa del Nuncio at Toledo, and here another
Don Quixote turns up, though a very different one from mine.»
«I don't know whether I am good,» said Don Quixote, «but 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXII 800
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 once, as much alike in name as they differ in
demeanour; and again I say and declare that what I saw I cannot have seen, and 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 her, for 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 tell, but he would tell him if they happened to he going the same road.
By this dinner−time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined together. The
alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn together with a notary, and Don Quixote
laid a petition before him, showing that it was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe,
the gentleman there present, should make a declaration before him that he did not know Don
Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that he was not the one that was in print in a
history entitled «Second Part of Don Quixote of La Mancha, by one Avellaneda of
Tordesillas.» The alcalde finally put it in legal form, and the declaration was made with all
the formalities required in such cases, at which Don Quixote and Sancho were in high
delight, as if a declaration of the sort was of any great importance to them, and 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
Quixote, in the course of which the great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he
disabused Don Alvaro of the error he was under; and he, on his part, felt convinced he must
have been enchanted, now that he had been brought in contact with two such opposite Don
Quixotes.
Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half a league two roads
branched off, one 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 defeat, and of
Dulcinea's enchantment and the remedy, all which threw Don Alvaro into fresh amazement,
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXII 801
and embracing Don Quixote and Sancho he went his way, and 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 before, at the expense of the bark of
the beech trees much more than of his back, of 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 count, and 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 sacrifice, and with his light they resumed their journey, discussing the deception
practised on Don Alvaro, and 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 on,
nor did anything worth mention happen them, unless it was that in the course of the night
Sancho finished off his task, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He watched
for daylight, to 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
to, to see if she was Dulcinea del Toboso, as he held it absolutely certain that Merlin's
promises could not lie. Full of these thoughts and anxieties, they ascended a rising ground
wherefrom they descried their own village, at the sight of which Sancho fell on his knees
exclaiming, «Open 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 place, where we will give free range to our fancies, and settle our plans for our
future pastoral life.»
With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their village.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXII 802
CHAPTER LXXIII
O
F THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED
HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A
COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY
At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw two boys
quarrelling on the village threshing−floor one of whom said to the other, «Take it easy,
Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again as long as thou livest.»
Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, «Dost thou not mark, friend, what that
boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as long as thou livest'?»
«Well,» said Sancho, «what does it matter if the boy said so?»
«What!» said Don Quixote, «dost 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 answer, when 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
Quixote, who was saying, «Malum 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
Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it the malignant enchanters who turned her into a
country wench; she flies, and I catch her and put her into your worship's hands, and you hold
her in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or 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 said, «Thou
shalt never see it again as long as thou livest,» that he had taken a cage full of crickets from
the other boy, and 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 cage, which he placed in Don
Quixote's hands, saying, «There, 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIII 803
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 hare, which Don Quixote gave them. They
then went on, and 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 thrown, by way of a sumpter−cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armour,
the 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 head, the 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 boys, who are
lynxes that nothing escapes, spied out the ass's mitre and came running to see it, calling out
to one another, «Come here, boys, and see Sancho Panza's ass figged out finer than Mingo,
and Don Quixote's beast leaner than ever.»
So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by the curate and the
bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, and proceeded to Don Quixote's house, at
the door of which they found his housekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had
already reached. It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, as well, and she with
her hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her daughter by the hand, ran out to
meet her husband; but seeing him coming in by no means as good case as she thought a
governor ought to be, she said to him, «How 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 money, and that's
the main thing, got by my own industry without wronging anybody.»
«You bring the money, my good husband,» said Teresa, «and 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 anything, for she had
been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and she taking hold of him by the girdle
on one side, and his wife by the hand, while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their
house, leaving Don Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and housekeeper, and in the
company of the curate and the bachelor.
Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew in private with the
bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them of his defeat, and of the engagement
he was under not to quit his village for a year, which he meant to keep to the letter without
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIII 804
departing a hair's breadth from it, as 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 year,
and taking his diversion in the solitude of the fields, where he could with perfect freedom
give range to his thoughts of love while he followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he
besought them, if they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more important
business, to consent to be his companions, for he would buy sheep enough to qualify them
for shepherds; and the most important point of the whole affair, he could tell them, was
settled, for 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 Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza
the shepherd Pancino.
Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he should once more
make off out of the village from them in pursuit of his chivalry, they trusting that in the
course of the year he might be cured, fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea
as a bright one, and offered to share the life with him. «And what's more,» said Samson
Carrasco, «I am, as all the world knows, a very famous poet, and I'll be always making
verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come into my head, to pass away our time in those
secluded regions where we shall be roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each of
us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to glorify in his verses, and that we
should not leave a tree, be it ever so hard, without writing up and carving her name on it, as
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 shepherdess, for there's the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of
these brooksides, the ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all
the graces, and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is appropriate, be 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 Carrasco, «if 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 name, and the curate bestowed vast praise
upon the worthy and honourable resolution he had made, and again offered to bear him
company all the time that he could spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIII 805
leave of him, recommending 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 Quixote, and said the niece,
«What'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 housekeeper, «will 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 bed, for I don't feel very well; and rest assured that, knight−errant now or
wandering shepherd to be, I shall never fail to have a care for your interests, as you will see
in the end.» And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the housekeeper and
niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him something to eat and made him as
comfortable as possible.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIII 806
CHAPTER LXXIV
O
F HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND
HOW HE DIED
As nothing that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever downwards from its
beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and as Don Quixote's enjoyed no special
dispensation from heaven to stay its course, its end and close came when he least looked for
it. For− whether it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or of heaven's
will that so ordered it− a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed for six days, during
which he was often visited by his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while his
good squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it was grief at
finding himself vanquished, and the object of his heart, the liberation and disenchantment of
Dulcinea, unattained, that kept him in this state, strove by all the means in their power to
cheer him up; the bachelor bidding him take heart and get up to begin his pastoral life, for
which he himself, he said, had already composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of
all Sannazaro had ever written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to
guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar
had sold him.
But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His friends called in the
doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well satisfied with it, and said that in any case it
would be well for him to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad
way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire,
who 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 himself, as he had a wish to sleep a little. They obeyed, and he slept at
one stretch, as the saying is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought
he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke up, and in a loud voice
exclaimed, «Blessed 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 words, and they struck her as more
coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during his illness, so she asked, «What are
you saying, senor? Has anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are
you talking of?»
«The mercies, niece,» said Don Quixote, «are 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
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIV 807
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 exclaimed,
«Good 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 way, they had no doubt whatever that some new
craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson, «What? 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 Quixote, «that 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 another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but, though uncertain,
they were inclined to believe him, and 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 more, so well expressed, so
devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound of mind.
The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessed him. The bachelor went
for the notary and returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having
already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and finding the
housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.
The confession over, the curate came out saying, «Alonso 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 housekeeper, niece,
and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears burst from their eyes and a host of sighs
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIV 808
from their hearts; for of a truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso
Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a gentle
disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved, not only by those of his
own house, but by all who knew him.
The notary came in with the rest, and 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
usual, coming to the bequests, he said, «Item, 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 then, turning to Sancho, he said, «Forgive 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 weeping, «don'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 Samson, «and 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.
"Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece, here present,
after 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 me, with twenty ducats,
over and above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I
appoint my executors.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIV 809
"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.
«Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if 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
it, the 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 will, and 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 him, and 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 came, after he had received all the sacraments, and 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 Quixote, who amid the tears and
lamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that 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 Mancha, had passed away from this present life, and 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 Mancha, whose village Cide
Hamete would not indicate precisely, in 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 son, as
the seven cities of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece
and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson
Carrasco, however, put 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 hour, to 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.
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIV 810
And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest 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."
Don Quixote
CHAPTER LXXIV 811
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Don Quixote
Table Of Content 813
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
PART II
DEDICATION OF PART II
PREFACE − THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
Don Quixote
Table Of Content 814
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
Don Quixote
Table Of Content 816
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