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Title: Don Quixote

Author: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Release Date: July 27, 2004 [EBook #996]
Last Updated: March 4,2015

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON QUIXOTE ***




Produced by David Widger





DON QUIXOTE

Complete

by Miguel de Cervantes [Saavedra]

Translated by John Ormsby




CONTENTS

Volume I.

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS

CHAPTER XII
OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER,
DON QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF
THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY

CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA

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

CHAPTER XXVI
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE
PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA

CHAPTER XXVII
OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME;
TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY

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

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

CHAPTER XXX
WHICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER
MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING

CHAPTER XXXI
OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA,
HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

CHAPTER XXXII
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN

CHAPTER XXXIII
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"

CHAPTER XXXIV
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF "THE 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

CHAPTER XXXVI
WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

CHAPTER XXXVII
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA,
WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES

CHAPTER XXXVIII
WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON
ARMS AND LETTERS

CHAPTER XXXIX
WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES

CHAPTER XL
IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED.

CHAPTER XLI
IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES

CHAPTER XLII
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF
SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING

CHAPTER XLIII
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN

CHAPTER XLIV
IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN

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

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

CHAPTER XLVII
OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS
CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS

CHAPTER XLVIII
IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY,
WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT

CHAPTER XLIX
WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD
WITH HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE

CHAPTER L
OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

CHAPTER LI
WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING
OFF DON QUIXOTE

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


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 be 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, etc. 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 VOLUME 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




VOLUME I.


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
to-morrow, 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 is 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.

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 to-morrow."

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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 he 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 he 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 he 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
to-morrow."

"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 he 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 than 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 came 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 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 hundred 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, "he 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 misfortune 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 he 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 he 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, he 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 be 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
ill-favoured 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 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 he
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 he 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 be 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 of 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 eager 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 fair 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 be 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 fainting, 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 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 fair
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 whose 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 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
be 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
faint-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 be 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 cave 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 order 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
a 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."



END OF PART I.




    ===




DON QUIXOTE

Volume II.

Complete

by Miguel de Cervantes


Translated by John Ormsby




CONTENTS

Part II.


CHAPTER I
OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE
ABOUT HIS MALADY

CHAPTER II
WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD
WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL
MATTERS

CHAPTER III
OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,
SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO

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

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

CHAPTER VI
OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY

CHAPTER VII
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS

CHAPTER VIII
WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS
LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

CHAPTER IX
WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE

CHAPTER X
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE
LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE

CHAPTER XI
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH
THE CAR OR CART OF "THE CORTES OF DEATH"

CHAPTER XII
OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH
THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS

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

CHAPTER XIV
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE

CHAPTER XV
WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS
SQUIRE WERE

CHAPTER XVI
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA

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

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

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

CHAPTER XX
WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH,
TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR

CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS

CHAPTER XXII
WHEREIN 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

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

CHAPTER XXIV
WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS
THEY ARE NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

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

CHAPTER XXVI
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN,
TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD

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

CHAPTER XXVIII
OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE
READS THEM WITH ATTENTION

CHAPTER XXIX
OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK

CHAPTER XXX
OF DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS

CHAPTER XXXI
WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS

CHAPTER XXXII
OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS,
GRAVE AND DROLL

CHAPTER XXXIII
OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD
WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND NOTING

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

CHAPTER XXXV
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING
THE DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS

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

CHAPTER XXXVII
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA

CHAPTER XXXVIII
WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES

CHAPTER XXXIX
IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY

CHAPTER XL
OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS
MEMORABLE HISTORY

CHAPTER XLI
OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE

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

CHAPTER XLIII
OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA

CHAPTER XLIV
HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE
ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE

CHAPTER XLV
OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND
OF HOW HE MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING

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

CHAPTER XLVII
WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED
HIMSELF IN HIS GOVERNMENT

CHAPTER XLVIII
OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS'S
DUENNA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL
REMEMBRANCE

CHAPTER XLIX
OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND

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

CHAPTER LI
OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER SUCH
ENTERTAINING MATTERS

CHAPTER LII
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR
AFFLICTED DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DONA RODRIGUEZ

CHAPTER LIII
OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT CAME TO

CHAPTER LIV
WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER

CHAPTER LV
OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS THAT CANNOT BE
SURPASSED

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

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

CHAPTER LVIII
WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH
NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME

CHAPTER LIX
WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN
ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE

CHAPTER LX
OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA

CHAPTER LXI
OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH
OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS

CHAPTER LXII
WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD

CHAPTER LXIII
OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE
GALLEYS, AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO

CHAPTER LXIV
TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS
THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM

CHAPTER LXV
WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE
DON GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS

CHAPTER LXVI
WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT
READ TO HIM WILL HEAR

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

CHAPTER LXVIII
OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE

CHAPTER LXIX
OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON
QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

CHAPTER LXX
WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR
THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

CHAPTER LXXI
OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE
WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE

CHAPTER LXXII
OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED 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

CHAPTER LXXIV
OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED




DON QUIXOTE


PART II.


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






VOLUME II.



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 to-day, 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, etc."

"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, etc,' 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 be 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 be '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 be 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 be 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 be 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 apply 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 be 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 be 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 to-night! 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 be 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 has 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 face; 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, etc.

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. 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 for 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
to-day; 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,' etc. 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 be 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 bleary
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 be 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 in 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 be 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.

WHEREIN 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 be 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 be 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 you
are 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 to 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 to-morrow, 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 he 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 be 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
to 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 he 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 he 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 be 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
be 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 be 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 theologian; 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 be 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 to 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, fallen 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
be 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's 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 be 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 be 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 be 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 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 to-day 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 be longer in obeying than your grace in
commanding."

"It is easy to see, Sancho," replied the duchess, "that you have learned
to be 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 be 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 be 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 be 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 be 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 be 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 duchess 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 at 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 I 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 be 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; "to-morrow 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 be 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 be 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 go 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 countenance 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 be
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 be 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 be
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 be
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 be 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 to 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 be 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 be 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 be 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, it is nearly supper-time,
and the duke 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 on 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 be 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 be 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 be
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 eat
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; where'er thou art, thou art mine, and where'er I
am, must be 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; 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, he 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 be 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 be 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 on 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 it 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 be 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 the 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 be 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
kills 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 LIV.

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 understand, 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 alforjas 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 has
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 be 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 be 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 be 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 be 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
game 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 be 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 be 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, he 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's 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
be 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 be 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 another 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, eager 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 Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number of
boys followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him fairly housed
in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make his
acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet him and remove his
armour, and he shut himself into a lower room, still attended by Don
Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found out who he was. He
of the White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman would not leave him,
said, "I know very well, senor, what you have come for; it is to find out
who I am; and as there is no reason why I should conceal it from you,
while my servant here is taking off my armour I will tell you the true
state of the case, without leaving out anything. You must know, senor,
that I am called the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village
as Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who
know him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most;
and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping at
home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him there.
Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a knight-errant,
under the assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors, intending to engage
him in combat and overcome him without hurting him, making it the
condition of our combat that the vanquished should be at the disposal of
the victor. What I meant to demand of him (for I regarded him as
vanquished already) was that he should return to his own village, and not
leave it for a whole year, by which time he might be 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;' 'to-day 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 be 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 be 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 i 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 be
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 it 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 be 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 to-night'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 be
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 to-morrow."

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," 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 is 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 be 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 to 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 vanquished 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 will 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
to-morrow."

"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."





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