textfiles/etext/FICTION/quixote

                                      1615
                                  DON QUIXOTE
                             by Miguel de Cervantes
                           Translated by John Ormsby
  TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

  I: ABOUT THIS TRANSLATION

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

                        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."
  THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

  IDLE 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 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 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, &c. If you should have anything to do with
robbers, I will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by heart;
if 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."
  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.
  DEDICATION OF PART I

  TO 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
  CHAPTER I
  WHICH 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 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, 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 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.
  CHAPTER II
  WHICH 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 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 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:

         "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.
  CHAPTER III
  WHEREIN 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
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 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 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.
  CHAPTER IV
  OF 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."
  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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER V
  IN 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, 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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER VI
  OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THE
BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN

  HE WAS still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of
the room where the 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."
  "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.
  "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 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
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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER VII
  OF 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.
  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."
  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.
  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."
  CHAPTER VIII
  OF 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 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."
  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."
  "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
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 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.
  CHAPTER IX
  IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE
GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN

  IN THE First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and
the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords 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 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 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 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."
  CHAPTER X
  OF 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."
  "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."
  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 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.
  CHAPTER XI
  OF 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 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 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.

       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.

  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.
  CHAPTER XII
  OF 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 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.
  "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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XIII
  IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER
INCIDENTS

  BUT 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."
  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. 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 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 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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER XIV
  WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR

             THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM

    Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
  The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
  From tongue to 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 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
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 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 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 expected, according to what is related
in the course of this veracious history, of which the Second Part ends
here.
  CHAPTER XV
  IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE
FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS

  THE sage Cide Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote
took leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial
of 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?"
  "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 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 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."
  "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 halter, he proceeded more or
less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road might
be; and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from good
to better, he had not gone a short league when the road came in sight,
and on it he perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the
delight of Don Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and
the dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they
had time to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his team
without any further controversy.
  CHAPTER XVI
  OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK
TO BE A CASTLE

  THE innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho
what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only
that he had fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised.
The innkeeper had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of
her calling commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt
for the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending
Don Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl, help her
in taking care of her guest. There was besides in the inn, as servant,
an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of
one eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her shape, to
be sure, made up for all her defects; she did not measure seven
palms from head to foot, and her shoulders, which overweighted her
somewhat, made her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This
graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very
bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of
having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which
there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was placed a little
beyond our Don Quixote's, and, though only made of the pack-saddles
and cloths of his mules, had much the advantage of it, as Don
Quixote's consisted simply of four rough boards on two not very even
trestles, a mattress, that for thinness might have passed for a quilt,
full of pellets which, were they not seen through the rents to be
wool, would to the touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets
made of buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which anyone
that chose might have counted without missing one in the reckoning.
  On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the
hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to
toe, while Maritornes- for that was the name of the Asturian- held the
light for them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how
full of wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this
had more the look of blows than of a fall.
  It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and
projections, and that each of them had left its mark. "Pray,
senora," he added, "manage to save some 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."
  "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 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XVII
  IN 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 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 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 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.
  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, 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 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.
  CHAPTER XVIII
  IN 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 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 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 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."
  "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 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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER XIX
  OF 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 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:
  "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."
  "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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XX
  OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE
VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER
ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD

  "IT CANNOT be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that there must
be hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be
well to move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we
may quench this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a
doubt is more distressing than hunger."
  The advice seemed good to Don 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
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."
  "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 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 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 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
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 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, 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 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."
  CHAPTER XXI
  WHICH 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 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:
  "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 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 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 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 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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XXII
  OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO
AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO

  CIDE Hamete 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.
  "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."
  "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, 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.
  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."
  "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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXIII
  OF 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
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.
  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."
  "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 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 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."
  "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.
  "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 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.
  CHAPTER XXIV
  IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA

  THE history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don
Quixote listened to the ragged knight of the 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 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 languishing with longing to see her, I resolved to put into
execution and carry out what seemed to me the best mode of winning
my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my
lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me
for the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard
myself as honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my
father was alive it was his by right to make this demand, for if it
were not in accordance with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda was
not to be taken or given by stealth. I thanked him for his kindness,
reflecting that there was reason in what he said, and that my father
would assent to it as soon as I should tell him, and with that view
I went the very same instant to let him know what my desires were.
When I entered the room where he was I found him with an open letter
in his hand, which, before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying,
'By this letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke
Ricardo has to serve thee.' This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs,
probably know already, is a grandee of Spain who has his seat in the
best part of this Andalusia. I took and read the letter, which was
couched in terms so flattering that even I myself felt it would be
wrong in my father not to comply with the request the duke made in it,
which was that he would send me immediately to him, as he wished me to
become the companion, not servant, of his eldest son, and would take
upon himself the charge of placing me in a position corresponding to
the esteem in which he held me. On reading the letter my voice
failed me, and still more when I heard my father say, 'Two days
hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in accordance with the duke's
wish, and give thanks to God who is opening a road to thee by which
thou mayest attain what I know thou dost deserve; and to these words
he added others of fatherly counsel. The time for my departure
arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all that had
occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him to allow some
delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I should see what
the Duke Ricardo sought of me: he gave me the promise, and she
confirmed it with vows and swoonings unnumbered. Finally, I
presented myself to the duke, and was received and treated by him so
kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old servants
growing envious of me, and regarding the duke's inclination to show me
favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave
the greatest pleasure was the duke's second son, Fernando by name, a
gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very
soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by
everybody; for though the elder was attached to me, and showed me
kindness, he did not carry his affectionate treatment to the same
length as Don Fernando. It so happened, then, that as between
friends no secret remains unshared, and as the favour I enjoyed with
Don Fernando had grown into friendship, he made all his thoughts known
to me, and in particular a love affair which troubled his mind a
little. He was deeply in love with a peasant girl, a vassal of his
father's, the daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so beautiful,
modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her was able to
decide in which of these respects she was most highly gifted or most
excelled. The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of
Don Fernando to such a point that, in order to gain his object and
overcome her virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to
her to become her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to
attempt an impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I
strove by the best arguments and the most forcible examples I could
think of to restrain and dissuade him from such a course; but
perceiving I produced no effect I resolved to make the Duke Ricardo,
his father, acquainted with the matter; but Don Fernando, being
sharp-witted and shrewd, foresaw and apprehended this, perceiving that
by my duty as a good servant I was bound not to keep concealed a thing
so much opposed to the honour of my lord the duke; and so, to
mislead and deceive me, he told me he could find no better way of
effacing from his mind the beauty that so enslaved him than by
absenting himself for some months, and that he wished the absence to
be effected by our going, both of us, to my father's house under the
pretence, which he would make to the duke, of going to see and buy
some fine horses that there were in my city, which produces the best
in the world. When I heard him say so, even if his resolution had
not been so good a one I should have hailed it as one of the
happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my affection, seeing what
a favourable chance and opportunity it offered me of returning to
see my Luscinda. With this thought and wish I commended his idea and
encouraged his design, advising him to put it into execution as
quickly as possible, as, in truth, absence produced its effect in
spite of the most deeply rooted feelings. But, as afterwards appeared,
when he said this to me he had already enjoyed the peasant girl
under the title of husband, and was waiting for an opportunity of
making it known with safety to himself, being in dread of what his
father the duke would do when he came to know of his folly. It
happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most part
nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment,
comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love
takes to flight, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which
fixes no limit to true love- what I mean is that after Don Fernando
had enjoyed this peasant girl his passion subsided and his eagerness
cooled, and if at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in order
to cure his love, he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid keeping
his promise.
  "The duke gave him 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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER XXV
  WHICH 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 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 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, 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."
  "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, 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."
  "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.
  "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, 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."
  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."
  "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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XXVI
  IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE
PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA

  RETURNING to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Countenance when
he found himself alone, the history says that when Don Quixote had
completed the performance of the somersaults or capers, naked from the
waist down and clothed from the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone
off without waiting to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to
the top of a high rock, and there set himself to consider what he
had several times before considered without ever coming to any
conclusion on the point, namely whether it would be better and more to
his purpose to imitate the outrageous madness of Roland, or the
melancholy madness of Amadis; and communing with himself he said:
  "What wonder is it if Roland was so good a knight and so valiant
as everyone says he 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 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.
  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 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."
  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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XXVII
  OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME;
TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY

  THE curate's plan did not seem a bad one to the 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
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 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 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."

  "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 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
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 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXVIII
  WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE
CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA

  HAPPY and fortunate were the times when that most daring knight
Don Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world; for by reason of his
having formed a resolution so honourable as that of seeking to
revive and restore to the world the long-lost and almost defunct order
of knight-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 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."
  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.
  "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 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
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.
  "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 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 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 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."
  CHAPTER XXIX
  WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR
LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON
HIMSELF

  "SUCH, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures; judge for
yourselves now whether the sighs and lamentations you heard, and the
tears that flowed from my eyes, had not sufficient cause even if I had
indulged in them more freely; and if you consider the nature of my
misfortune you will see that consolation is idle, as there is no
possible remedy for it. All I ask of you is, what you may easily and
reasonably do, to show me where I may pass my life unharassed by the
fear and dread of discovery by those who are in search of me; for
though the great love my parents bear me makes me feel sure of being
kindly received by them, so great is my feeling of shame at the mere
thought that I cannot present myself before them as they expect,
that I had rather banish myself from their sight for ever than look
them in the face with the reflection that they beheld mine stripped of
that purity they had a right to expect in me."
  With these words she became 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 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 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."
  "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."
  "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 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 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.
  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 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."
  CHAPTER XXX
  WHICH 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 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 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?"
  "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 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? 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.
  "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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XXXI
  OF 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."
  "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."
  "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 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 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 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. 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.
  CHAPTER XXXII
  WHICH 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 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."
  "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."
  "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 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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XXXIII
  IN 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 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 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 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 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 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 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
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 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.
  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.
  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.

  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 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.
  CHAPTER XXXIV
  IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"

  "IT is commonly said that an army looks ill without its general
and a castle without its castellan, and I say that a young married
woman looks still worse without her husband unless there are very good
reasons for it. I find myself so ill at ease without you, and so
incapable of enduring this separation, that unless you return
quickly I shall have to go for relief to my parents' house, even if
I leave yours without a protector; for the one you left me, if
indeed he deserved that title, has, I think, more regard to his own
pleasure than to what concerns you: as you are possessed of
discernment I need say no more to you, nor indeed is it fitting I
should say more."
  Anselmo received this 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 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 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."
  "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 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 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 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 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.
  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.
  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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXXV
  WHICH 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 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 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 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, 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.
  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 story is told,
however, I have no fault to find."
  CHAPTER XXXVI
  WHICH 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXXVII
  IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA,
WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES

  TO ALL this Sancho listened with no little sorrow at heart to see
how his hopes of dignity were fading away and vanishing in smoke,
and how the fair Princess Micomicona had turned into 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 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:
  "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) "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 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 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 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 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."
  CHAPTER XXXVIII
  WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON
ARMS AND LETTERS

  CONTINUING his discourse Don Quixote said: "As we began in the
student's case with poverty and its 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 make answer that without them laws cannot be maintained, for by
arms states are defended, kingdoms preserved, cities protected,
roads made safe, seas cleared of pirates; and, in short, if it were
not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, ways by sea and
land would be exposed to the violence and confusion which war brings
with it, so long as it lasts and is free to make use of its privileges
and powers. And then it is plain that whatever costs most is valued
and deserves to be valued most. To attain to eminence in letters costs
a man time, watching, hunger, nakedness, headaches, indigestions,
and other things of the sort, some of which I have already referred
to. But for a man to come in the ordinary course of things to be a
good soldier costs him all the student suffers, and in an incomparably
higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk of losing his
life. For what dread of want or poverty that can reach or harass the
student can compare with what the soldier feels, who finds himself
beleaguered in some stronghold mounting guard in some ravelin or
cavalier, knows that the enemy is pushing a mine towards the post
where he is stationed, and cannot under any circumstances retire or
fly from the imminent danger that threatens him? All he can do is to
inform his captain of what is going on so that he may try to remedy it
by a counter-mine, and then stand his ground in fear and expectation
of the moment when he will fly up to the clouds without wings and
descend into the deep against his will. And if this seems a trifling
risk, let us see whether it is equalled or surpassed by the
encounter of two galleys stem to stem, in the midst of the open sea,
locked and entangled one with the other, when the soldier has no
more standing room than two feet of the plank of the spur; and yet,
though he sees before him threatening him as many ministers of death
as there are cannon of the foe pointed at him, not a lance length from
his body, and sees too that with the first heedless step he will go
down to visit the profundities of Neptune's bosom, still with
dauntless heart, urged on by honour that nerves him, he makes
himself a target for all that musketry, and struggles to cross that
narrow path to the enemy's ship. And what is still more marvellous, no
sooner has one gone down into the depths he will never rise from
till the end of the world, than another takes his place; and if he too
falls into the sea that waits for him like an enemy, another and
another will succeed him without a moment's pause between their
deaths: courage and daring the greatest that all the chances of war
can show. Happy the blest ages that knew not the dread fury of those
devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am persuaded is in
hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention, by which he
made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the life of a gallant
gentleman; and that, when he knows not how or whence, in the height of
the ardour and enthusiasm that fire and animate brave hearts, there
should come some random bullet, discharged perhaps by one who fled
in terror at the flash when he fired off his accursed machine, which
in an instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life of one
who deserved to live for ages to come. And thus when I reflect on
this, I am almost tempted to say that in my heart I repent of having
adopted this profession of knight-errant in so detestable an age as we
live in now; for though no peril can make me fear, still it gives me
some uneasiness to think that powder and lead may rob me of the
opportunity of making myself famous and renowned throughout the
known earth by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword. But
Heaven's will be done; if I succeed in my attempt I shall be all the
more honoured, as I have faced greater dangers than the knights-errant
of yore exposed themselves to."
  All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others
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.
  CHAPTER XXXIX
  WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES

  MY family had its origin in a village in the mountains of Leon,
and nature had been kinder and more generous to it than fortune;
though in the general poverty of those communities my father passed
for being even a rich man; and he would have been so in reality had he
been as clever in preserving his property as he was in spending it.
This tendency of his to be liberal and profuse he had acquired from
having been a soldier in his 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 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 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 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 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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XL
  IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED.

                         SONNET

     "Blest souls, that, from this mortal husk set free,
       In guerdon of brave deeds beatified,
       Above this lowly orb of ours abide
     Made heirs of heaven and immortality,
     With noble rage and ardour glowing ye
       Your strength, while strength was yours, in battle plied,
       And with your own blood and the foeman's dyed
     The sandy soil and the encircling sea.
     It was the ebbing life-blood first that failed
     The weary arms; the stout hearts never quailed.
       Though vanquished, yet ye earned the victor's crown:
     Though mourned, yet still triumphant was your fall
     For there ye won, between the sword and wall,
       In Heaven glory and on earth renown."

  "That is it exactly, according to my recollection," said the
captive.

  "Well then, that on the fort," said the 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 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 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 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 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 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:
  "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 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.
  CHAPTER XLI
  IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES

  BEFORE fifteen days were over our renegade had already purchased
an excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons; and to
make the transaction safe and lend a colour to 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, 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.
  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, 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."
  "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, 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.
  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, 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."
  "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 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 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 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."
  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 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.
  CHAPTER XLII
  WHICH 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 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.
  "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 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 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:
  CHAPTER XLIII
  WHEREIN 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!"
  "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 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."
  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:
  "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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XLIV
  IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

  SO LOUD, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the
landlord opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay,
and ran to see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside
joined him. Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the
same outcry, suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without
anyone seeing her, untied the halter by which Don Quixote was
suspended, and down he came to the ground in the sight of the landlord
and the travellers, who approaching asked him what was the matter with
him that he shouted so. He without replying a word took the rope off
his wrist, and rising to his feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his
buckler on his arm, put his lance in rest, and making a considerable
circuit of the plain came back at a half-gallop exclaiming:
  "Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause,
provided my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do
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 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
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 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 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 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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XLV
  IN 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 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."
  "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 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, 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 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?"
  CHAPTER XLVI
  OF 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
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 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 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.
  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;
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.
  CHAPTER XLVII
  OF 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 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 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 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 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 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 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."
  CHAPTER XLVIII
  IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY,
WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT

  "IT IS as you say, senor canon," said the curate; "and for that
reason those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all
the more censure for writing without paying any attention to good
taste or the rules of 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.
  "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
perfection, and that anything beyond this is affected refinement.
And then if we turn to sacred dramas- what miracles they invent in
them! What apocryphal, ill-devised incidents, attributing to one saint
the miracles of another! And even in secular plays they venture to
introduce miracles without any reason or object except that they think
some such miracle, or transformation as they call it, will come in
well to astonish stupid people and draw them to the play. All this
tends to the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of history, nay
more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain; for foreigners who
scrupulously observe the laws of the drama look upon us as barbarous
and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and nonsense of the plays we
produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse to say that the chief
object well-ordered governments have in view when they permit plays to
be performed in public is to entertain the people with some harmless
amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil humours which
idleness is apt to engender; and that, as this may be attained by
any sort of play, good or bad, there is no need to lay down laws, or
bind those who write or act them to make them as they ought to be
made, since, as I say, the object sought for may be secured by any
sort. To this I would reply that the same end would be, beyond all
comparison, better attained by means of good plays than by those
that are not so; for after listening to an artistic and properly
constructed play, the hearer will come away enlivened by the jests,
instructed by the serious parts, full of admiration at the
incidents, his wits sharpened by the arguments, warned by the
tricks, all the wiser for the examples, inflamed against vice, and
in love with virtue; for in all these ways a good play will
stimulate the mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish or dull; and of
all impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed with all these
qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much more than one
wanting in them, like the greater number of those which are commonly
acted now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be blamed for
this; for some there are among them who are perfectly well aware of
their faults, and know what they ought to do; but as plays have become
a salable commodity, they say, and with truth, that the actors will
not buy them unless they are after this fashion; and so the poet tries
to adapt himself to the requirements of the actor who is to pay him
for his work. And that this is the truth may be seen by the
countless plays that a most fertile wit of these kingdoms has written,
with so much brilliancy, so much grace and gaiety, such polished
versification, such choice language, such profound reflections, and in
a word, so rich in eloquence and elevation of style, that he has
filled the world with his fame; and yet, in consequence of his
desire to suit the taste of the actors, they have not all, as some
of them have, come as near perfection as they ought. Others write
plays with such heedlessness that, after they have been acted, the
actors have to fly and abscond, afraid of being punished, as they
often have been, for having acted something offensive to some king
or other, or insulting to some noble family. All which evils, and many
more that I say nothing of, would be removed if there were some
intelligent and sensible person at the capital to examine all plays
before they were acted, not only those produced in the capital itself,
but all that were intended to be acted in Spain; without whose
approval, seal, and signature, no local magistracy should allow any
play to be acted. In that case actors would take care to send their
plays to the capital, and could act them in safety, and those who
write them would be more careful and take more pains with their
work, standing in awe of having to submit it to the strict examination
of one who understood the matter; and so good plays would be
produced and the objects they aim at happily attained; as well the
amusement of the people, as the credit of the wits of Spain, the
interest and safety of the actors, and the saving of trouble in
inflicting punishment on them. And if the same or some other person
were authorised to examine the newly written books of chivalry, no
doubt some would appear with all the perfections you have described,
enriching our language with the gracious and precious treasure of
eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the light
of the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment,
not merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot
be always bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful
amusement."
  The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their
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 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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XLIX
  WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH
HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE

  "AHA, I have caught you," said Sancho; "this is what in my heart and
soul I was longing to know. Come 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 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 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
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 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."
  CHAPTER L
  OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

  "A GOOD joke, that!" returned Don Quixote. "Books that have been
printed with the king's 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 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 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
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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER LI
  WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING
OFF DON QUIXOTE

  THREE leagues from this valley there is a village 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.
  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 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; 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.
  CHAPTER LII
  OF 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 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 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.
  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
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 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:

               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 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."
  DEDICATION OF PART II

  TO 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
  THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE

  GOD bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly
must thou be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find
there retaliation, scolding, and abuse against the author of the
second Don Quixote- I mean him who was, they say, begotten at
Tordesillas and born at Tarragona! Well then, the truth is, I am not
going to give thee that satisfaction; for, though injuries stir up
anger in humbler breasts, in mine the rule must admit of an exception.
Thou wouldst have me call him ass, fool, and malapert, but I have no
such intention; let his offence be his punishment, with his bread
let him eat it, and there's an end of it. What I cannot help taking
amiss is that he charges me with being old and one-handed, as if it
had been in my power to keep time from passing over me, or as if the
loss of my hand had been brought about in some tavern, and not on
the grandest occasion the past or present has seen, or the future
can hope to see. If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder's eye,
they are, at least, honourable in the estimation of those who know
where they were received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage
dead in battle than alive in flight; and so strongly is this my
feeling, that if now it were proposed to perform an impossibility
for me, I would rather have had my share in that mighty action, than
be free from my wounds this minute without having been present at
it. Those the soldier shows on his face and breast are stars that
direct others to the heaven of honour and ambition of merited
praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is not with grey
hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that commonly
improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me envious,
and explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for really
and truly, of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is holy,
noble, and high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely
to attack a priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of
familiar of the Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account
of him on whose behalf it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for
I worship the genius of that person, and admire his works and his
unceasing and strenuous industry. After all, I am grateful to this
gentleman, the author, for saying that my novels are more satirical
than exemplary, but that they are good; for they could not be that
unless there was a little of everything in them.
  I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and
keeping myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a
feeling that additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a
sufferer, and that what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be
very great, as he does not dare to come out into the open field and
broad daylight, but hides his name and disguises his country as if
he had been guilty of some lese majesty. If perchance thou shouldst
come to know him, tell him from me that I do not hold myself
aggrieved; for I know well what the temptations of the devil are,
and that one of the greatest is putting it into a man's head that he
can write and print a book by which he will get as much fame as money,
and as much money as fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in
your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story.
  There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest
absurdities and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It
was this: he made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a
dog in the street, or wherever it might be, he with his foot held
one of its legs fast, and with his hand lifted up the other, and as
best he could fixed the tube where, by blowing, he made the dog as
round as a ball; then holding it in this position, he gave it a couple
of slaps on the belly, and let it go, saying to the bystanders (and
there were always plenty of them): "Do your worships 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 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."
  CHAPTER I
  OF 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
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."
  "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 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.'
  "'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, 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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER II
  WHICH 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."
  "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, &c."
  "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 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 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.
  CHAPTER III
  OF 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, 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."
  "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.
  "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."
  "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,
&c.,' for by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears,
my lofty purposes, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as
large, or larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up. In
fact, the conclusion I arrive at, senor bachelor, is, that to write
histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a
ripe understanding. To give expression to humour, and write in a
strain of graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The
cleverest character in comedy is the clown, for he who would make
people take him for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a
sacred thing, for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God
is; but notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books
broadcast on the world as if they were fritters."
  "There is no book so bad but it has something good in it," said
the bachelor.
  "No doubt of that," replied Don Quixote; "but it often happens
that those who have acquired and attained a well-deserved reputation
by their writings, lose it entirely, or 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
banquet came to an end, they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho
returned, and their conversation was resumed.
  CHAPTER IV
  IN 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 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, 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER V
  OF 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 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER VI
  OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY

  WHILE Sancho Panza and his 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER VII
  OF 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 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?"
  "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 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 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 on his old Dapple, his alforjas
furnished with certain matters in the way of victuals, and his purse
with money that Don Quixote gave him to meet emergencies. Samson
embraced him, and entreated him to let him hear of his good or evil
fortunes, so that he might rejoice over the former or condole with him
over the latter, as the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote
promised him he would do so, and Samson returned to the village, and
the other two took the road for the great city of El Toboso.
  CHAPTER VIII
  WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS
LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

  "BLESSED be Allah the all-powerful!" says Hamete Benengeli on
beginning this eighth chapter; "blessed be Allah!" he repeats three
times; and he says he utters these thanksgivings at seeing that he has
now got Don Quixote and Sancho fairly 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."
  "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 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 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."
  "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."
  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.
  CHAPTER IX
  WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE

  'TWAS at the very midnight hour- more or less- when Don Quixote
and Sancho quitted the wood and entered El Toboso. The town was in
deep 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."
  "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."
  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
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.
  CHAPTER X
  WHEREIN 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 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 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."
  "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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XI
  OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH
THE CAR OR CART OF "THE CORTES OF DEATH"

  DEJECTED beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey,
turning over in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him
in changing his lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass,
nor could he think of any way of restoring her to her original form;
and these reflections so absorbed 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 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 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 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, 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.
  CHAPTER XII
  OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH
THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

  THE night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don
Quixote and his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don
Quixote at Sancho's persuasion ate a little from the store carried
by Dapple, and over their supper Sancho said to his master, "Senor,
what a fool I should have looked if I had chosen for my reward the
spoils of the first adventure your worship achieved, instead of the
foals of the three mares. After all, 'a sparrow in the hand is
better than a vulture on the wing.'"
  "At the same time, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if thou hadst
let me attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold
crown and Cupid's painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils,
for I should have taken them by force and given them into thy hands."
  "The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors," said Sancho,
"were never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin."
  "That is true," said Don Quixote, "for it would not be right that
the accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere
fictions and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho-
and, as a necessary consequence, towards those who represent and
produce it- I would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are
all instruments of great good to the State, placing before us at every
step a mirror in which we may see vividly displayed what goes on in
human life; nor is there any similitude that shows us more
faithfully what we are and ought to be than the play and the
players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted in which
kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers other
personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another the
knave, this one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted
fool, another the foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they
have put off the dresses they wore in it, all the actors become
equal."
  "Yes, I have seen that," said Sancho.
  "Well then," said Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy
and life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and,
in short, all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when
it is over, that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of
the garments that distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in
the grave."
  "A fine comparison!" said Sancho; "though not so new but that I have
heard it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game
of chess; how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own
particular office, and when the game is finished they are all mixed,
jumbled up and shaken together, and stowed away in the bag, which is
much like ending life in the grave."
  "Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho,"
said Don Quixote.
  "Ay," said Sancho; "it must be that some of your worship's
shrewdness sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will
come to yield good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is
that your worship's conversation has been the dung that has fallen
on the barren soil of my dry wit, and the time I have been in your
service and society has been the tillage; and with the help of this
I hope to yield fruit in abundance that will not fall away or slide
from those paths of good breeding that your worship has made in my
parched understanding."
  Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and
perceived that what he said about his improvement was true, for now
and then he spoke in a way that surprised him; though always, or
mostly, when Sancho tried to talk fine and attempted polite
language, he wound up by toppling over from the summit of his
simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and where he showed his
culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was in dragging in
proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not upon the
subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be noticed
in the course of this history.
  In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night,
but Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he
used to say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he
left him at liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante's
saddle, as his master's express orders were, that so long as they were
in the field or not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be
stripped- the ancient usage established and observed by knights-errant
being to take off the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to
remove the saddle from the horse- never! Sancho acted accordingly, and
gave him the same liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and
Rocinante there was a friendship so unequalled and so strong, that
it is handed down by tradition from father to son, that the author
of this veracious history devoted some special chapters to it,
which, in order to preserve the propriety and decorum due to a history
so heroic, he did not insert therein; although at times he forgets
this resolution of his and describes how eagerly the two beasts
would scratch one another when they were together and how, when they
were tired or full, Rocinante would lay his neck across Dapple's,
stretching half a yard or more on the other side, and the pair would
stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for three days, or at
least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did not drive them to
go and look for food. I may add that they say the author left it on
record that he likened their friendship to that of Nisus and Euryalus,
and Pylades and Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived, to
the admiration of mankind, how firm the friendship must have been
between these two peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve
friendships with one another so badly. This was why it was said-

       For friend no longer is there friend;
       The reeds turn lances now.

And some one else has sung-

       Friend to friend the bug, &c.

And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he
compared the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men
have received many lessons from beasts, and learned many important
things, as, for example, the clyster from the stork, vomit and
gratitude from the dog, watchfulness from the crane, foresight from
the ant, modesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the horse.
  Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don
Quixote dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had
elapsed when a noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up
startled, he listened and looked in the direction the noise came from,
and perceived two men on horseback, one of whom, letting himself
drop from the saddle, said to the other, "Dismount, my friend, and
take the bridles off the horses, for, so far as I can see, this
place will furnish grass for them, and the solitude and silence my
love-sick thoughts need of." As he said this he stretched himself upon
the ground, and as he flung himself down, the armour in which he was
clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a
knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he shook
him by the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his
senses, and said in a low voice to him, "Brother Sancho, we have got
an adventure."
  "God send us a good one," said Sancho; "and where may her ladyship
the adventure be?"
  "Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote; "turn thine eyes and look, and
thou wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me,
is not over and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse
and throw himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and
his armour rattled as he fell."
  "Well," said Sancho, "how does your worship make out that to be an
adventure?"
  "I do not mean to say," returned Don Quixote, "that it is a complete
adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this
way adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute
or guitar, and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he
must be getting ready to sing something."
  "Faith, you are right," said Sancho, "and no doubt he is some
enamoured knight."
  "There is no knight-errant that is not," said Don Quixote; "but
let us listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall
extract the ball of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of
the heart the mouth speaketh."
  Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the
Grove's voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped
him, and listening attentively the pair heard him sing this

                        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.
  "Then come to me," said he of the Grove, "and rest assured that it
is to woe itself and affliction itself you come."
  Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous
manner, went over to him, and so did Sancho.
  The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down
here, sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess
knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in
this place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper
retreat of knights-errant, keep you company." To which Don made
answer, "A knight I am of the profession you mention, and though
sorrows, misfortunes, and calamities have made my heart their abode,
the compassion I feel for the misfortunes of others has not been
thereby banished from it. From what you have just now sung I gather
that yours spring from love, I mean from the love you bear that fair
ingrate you named in your lament."
  In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard
ground peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke,
they were not going to break one another's heads.
  "Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?" asked he of the Grove of
Don Quixote.
  "By mischance I am," replied Don Quixote; "though the ills arising
from well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than
misfortunes."
  "That is true," returned he of the Grove, "if scorn did not unsettle
our reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like
revenge."
  "I was never scorned by my lady," said Don Quixote.
  "Certainly not," said Sancho, who stood close by, "for my lady is as
a lamb, and softer than a roll of butter."
  "Is this your squire?" asked he of the Grove.
  "He is," said Don Quixote.
  "I never yet saw a squire," said he of the Grove, "who ventured to
speak when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as
big as his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his
lips when I am speaking."
  "By my faith then," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and am fit to
speak, in the presence of one as much, or even- but never mind- it
only makes it worse to stir it."
  The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him,
"Let us two go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please,
and leave these gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story
of their loves; and, depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it
without having made an end of it."
  "So be it by all means," said Sancho; "and I will tell your
worship who I am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among
the number of the most talkative squires."
  With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them
there passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between
their masters was serious.
  CHAPTER XIII
  IN 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 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
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, 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 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.
  CHAPTER XIV
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE

  AMONG the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of
the 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 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 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 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 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."
  "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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XV
  WHEREIN 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 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.
  CHAPTER XVI
  OF 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?"
  "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."
  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 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?"
  "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
bear to be handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed
either at the corners of the market-places, or in the closets of
palaces. She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who
is able to practise it, will turn her into pure gold of inestimable
worth. He that possesses her must keep her within bounds, not
permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She
must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in
heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies.
She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar,
incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden treasures. And
do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term vulgar here merely to
plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he
lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He, then,
who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have
named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the
civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say,
senor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am
inclined to think that he is not quite right there, and for this
reason: the great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was
a Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in
short, all the ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with
their mother's milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to
express their sublime conceptions; and that being so, the usage should
in justice extend to all nations, and the German poet should not be
undervalued because he writes in his own language, nor the
Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his. But your son,
senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry, but
against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any
knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and
vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be
wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to
say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother's womb; and
following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the
aid of study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke
who said, 'Est Deus in nobis,' &c. At the same time, I say that the
poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far better
poet, and will surpass him who tries to be one relying upon his
knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does not surpass
nature, but only brings it to perfection; and thus, nature combined
with art, and art with nature, will produce a perfect poet. To bring
my argument to a close, I would say then, gentle sir, let your son
go on as his star leads him, for being so studious as he seems to
be, and having already successfully surmounted the first step of the
sciences, which is that of the languages, with their help he will by
his own exertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well
becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns, honours, and
distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown
the learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the
honour of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he
compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style
of Horace, and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is
legitimate for a poet to write against envy and lash the envious in
his verse, and the other vices too, provided he does not single out
individuals; there are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying
something spiteful, would run the risk of being banished to the
coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in
his verses too; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and as the thought
engendered there, so will be the things that it writes down. And when
kings and princes observe this marvellous science of poetry in wise,
virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honour, value, exalt them, and
even crown them with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt
strikes not, as if to show that they whose brows are honoured and
adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone."
  He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's
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.
  CHAPTER XVII
  WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED
COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE
HAPPILY ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS

  THE history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to
bring him his 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 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 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."
  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.
  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, 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."
  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; 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."
  CHAPTER XVIII
  OF 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 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 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."
  "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.
  "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.

                       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 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.
  CHAPTER XIX
  IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS

  DON QUIXOTE had gone but a short distance beyond Don Diego's
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 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, 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XX
  WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH,
TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR

  SCARCE had the fair Aurora given bright Phoebus time to dry the
liquid pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his fervent rays,
when Don 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 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.
  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 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.

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 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 would have helped him
had he not been prevented by what must be told farther on.
  CHAPTER XXI
  IN 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 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 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 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.
  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.
  CHAPTER XXII
  WHERIN 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 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, 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, 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 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 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."
  CHAPTER XXIII
  OF 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, 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:

       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.
  "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."
  "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.
  "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 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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XXIV
  WHEREIN 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 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXV
  WHEREIN 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 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 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."
  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 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 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
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.
  CHAPTER XXVI
  WHEREIN 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, 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!"
  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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXVII
  WHEREIN 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 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.
  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 (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
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.
  CHAPTER XXVIII
  OF 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXIX
  OF 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 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 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
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 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.
  CHAPTER XXX
  OF 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 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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER XXXI
  WHICH 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 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."
  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 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."
  "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-"
  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 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.
  CHAPTER XXXII
  OF 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 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 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 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."
  "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."
  "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 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, 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."
  "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 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.
  CHAPTER XXXIII
  OF 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 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.

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
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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XXXIV
  WHICH 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. 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 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,
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."
  "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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XXXV
  WHEREIN 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
  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 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.' 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XXXVI
  WHEREIN 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 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 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, 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 village
sacristans, or to the knight who has never attempted to pass the
bounds of his own town, or to the indolent courtier who only seeks for
news to repeat and talk of, instead of striving to do deeds and
exploits for others to relate and record. Relief in distress, help
in need, protection for damsels, consolation for widows, are to be
found in no sort of persons better than in knights-errant; and I
give unceasing thanks to heaven that I am one, and regard any
misfortune or suffering that may befall me in the pursuit of so
honourable a calling as endured to good purpose. Let this duenna
come and ask what she will, for I will effect her relief by the
might of my arm and the dauntless resolution of my bold heart."
  CHAPTER XXXVII
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA

  THE duke and duchess were extremely glad to see how readily Don
Quixote fell in with their scheme; but at this moment Sancho observed,
"I hope this senora duenna won't be putting any difficulties in the
way of the promise of my government; for I have heard a Toledo
apothecary, who talked like a goldfinch, say that where duennas were
mixed up nothing good could happen. God bless me, how he hated them,
that same apothecary! And so what I'm thinking is, if all duennas,
of whatever sort or condition they may be, are plagues and busybodies,
what must they be that are distressed, like this Countess Three-skirts
or Three-tails!- for in my country skirts or tails, tails or skirts,
it's all one."
  "Hush, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote; "since this lady duenna
comes in quest of me from such a distant land she cannot be one of
those the apothecary meant; moreover this is a 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 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.
  CHAPTER XXXVIII
  WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

  FOLLOWING the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as
many as twelve 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 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
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 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; for it is late, and
I am dying to know the end of this long story."
  "I will," replied the countess.
  CHAPTER XXXIX
  IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY

  BY EVERY word that Sancho 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 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.
  CHAPTER XL
  OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS
MEMORABLE HISTORY

  VERILY and truly all those who find pleasure in histories like
this ought show their gratitude to Cide 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."
  "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 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, 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 uttermost ends of the
earth, if so be the removal of the wool from those venerable
countenances depended upon it.
  CHAPTER XLI
  OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE

  AND now night 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 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."
  "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 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."
  "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 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."
  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."
  "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."
  CHAPTER XLII
  OF 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 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 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.
  "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.
  "If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy days will
be long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abundant, thy felicity
unutterable; thou wilt marry thy children as thou wouldst; they and
thy grandchildren will bear titles; thou wilt live in peace and
concord with all men; and, when life draws to a close, death will come
to thee in calm and ripe old age, and the light and loving hands of
thy great-grandchildren will close thine eyes.
  "What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions for the
adornment of thy mind; listen now to those which tend to that of the
body."
  CHAPTER XLIII
  OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA

  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.
  "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 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 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 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."
  CHAPTER XLIV
  HOW 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. 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.
  "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."
  "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 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.

       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.

       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.
  CHAPTER XLV
  OF 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 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, 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.
  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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER XLVI
  OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE
COURSE OF THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA'S WOOING

  WE left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of
the enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed
with 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER XLVII
  WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED
HIMSELF IN HIS GOVERNMENT

  THE history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho
to a sumptuous 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."
  "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 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 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?"
  "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."
  "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 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.
  CHAPTER XLVIII
  OF 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.
  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 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 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, 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 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.
  CHAPTER XLIX
  OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND

  WE left the great governor angered and irritated by that
portrait-painting rogue of a farmer 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 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."
  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 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?"
  "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 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 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, 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 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.
  CHAPTER L
  WHEREIN 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, 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."
  "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."
  "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. 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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER LI
  OF 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 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."
  "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 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.
  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.
  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.
  CHAPTER LII
  WHEREIN 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 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER LIII
  OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT
CAME TO

  TO FANCY that in this life anything belonging to it will remain
for ever in the same state is an idle fancy; on the 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; 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, 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER XLIV
  WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER

  THE duke and duchess resolved that the challenge Don Quixote had,
for the reason already 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 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.
  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.
  "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.
  "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. 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.
  CHAPTER LV
  OF 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 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 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."
  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 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.
  CHAPTER LVI
  OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN
DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE
DAUGHTER OF DONA RODRIGUEZ

  THE duke and duchess had no reason to regret the joke that had
been played upon Sancho Panza in giving him the government; especially
as their majordomo returned the same 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 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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER LVII
  WHICH 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.
  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 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.
  CHAPTER LVIII
  WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH
NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME

  WHEN Don Quixote saw himself in open 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 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 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."
  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, 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."
  "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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER LIX
  WHEREIN 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 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."
  "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 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."
  "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."
  "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 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.
  CHAPTER LX
  OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA

  IT WAS a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as Don Quixote
quitted the 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; 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.
  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 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 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!"
  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 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."
  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 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.
  CHAPTER LXI
  OF 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 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.
  CHAPTER LXII
  WHICH 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?"
  "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 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 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.
  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 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 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.
  "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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER LXIII
  OF 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 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 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.
  "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 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 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."
  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.
  CHAPTER LXIV
  TREATING 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 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. 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 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.
  CHAPTER LXV
  WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE
DON GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS

  DON ANTONIO 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, 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, 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 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.
  CHAPTER LXVI
  WHICH 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, 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."
  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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER LXVII
  OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO
A LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD
WAS RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY

  IF A multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he
had been 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 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."
  "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.'"
  "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.
  CHAPTER LXVIII
  OF 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER LXIX
  OF 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 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 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, 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.
  CHAPTER LXX
  WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR
THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

  SANCHO slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don
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, 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER LXXI
  OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE
WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE

  THE vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in
one respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his
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."
  "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 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 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."
  "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.
  CHAPTER LXXII
  OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE

  ALL that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and
inn waiting for 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 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
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, 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.
  CHAPTER LXXIII
  OF 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 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 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 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.
  CHAPTER LXXIV
  OF 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 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 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.
  "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.

  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."


                            -THE END-