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THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN

DON QUIXOTE

OF LA MANCHA

BY

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

A TRANSLATION, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY

JOHN ORMSBY

TRANSLATOR OF THE " POEM OF THE CID "

IN TWO VOLUMES
Vol. I.

NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH Street

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY

BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS,

VOL. I

(From Etcliiugs by Ad. Lalau^e.)

PAGE

Portrait of Cervantes (after Pacheco) . . . Frontispiece

Map xci

Don Quixote Knighted ......... 18

The Windmills 46

Defeat of the Biscayan ........ 59

With the Goatherds ........ .65

Don Quixote Wounded ......... 101

The Flocks of Sheep 11!)

Mambrino's Helmet ......... 148

The Ragged Knight ......... 186

Luscinda Fainting 234

Anselmo and Camilla . . . . . " , . . . 286

Don Quixote attacking the Wine-skins 301

The Reconciliation 314

My Lord Judge and Don Quixote 360

Don Quixote hanging from the Inn ...... 375

Don Quixote in the Cart 400

Vincent de la Rosa ......... 431

CONTENTS

VOL. I.

INTRODUCTION:

Prefatory

Cervantes

'■'■ Don Quixote"
THE AUTHOR'S PU1:FACE
COMMENDATORY VERSES

PAGE

V

XV

1

Ixxv
Ixxxii

CHAPTER

I. Which treats of the character anb pursuits of the

FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DoN QuiXOTE OF La MaNCHA . 1

II. Which treats of the first sally the ingenious Don

Quixote made from home ...... 7

III. Wherein is related the droll way in which Don

Quixote had himself dubbed a knight ... 13

IV. Of what happened to our knight when he left the

inn ........... 19

V. In which the narrative of our knight's mishap is

continued ......... 26

VI. Of the diverting and important scrutiny which the
Curate and the Barber made in the library of
OUR ingenious gentleman ...... 30

VII. Of the second sally of our worthy knight Don

Quixote of La Mancha ...... 40

Vlll. Of the good fortune which the valiant Don
Quixote had in the terrible and undreamt-of
adventure of the windmills, with other occur-
rences worthy to be fitly recorded ... 4(5
IX. In which is concluded and finished the terrific
battle between the gallant Biscayan and the

valiant Manchegan 54

(i)

11

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

x. or the pleasant discourse that passed between

Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza . . 59

XI. Of WHAT BEFELL DoN QuiXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOAT-
HERDS .......... 64

xil or what a goatherd related to those with don

Quixote . . . . . . . . . 71

QI. In which is ended the story of the shepherdess

Marcela, with other incidents .... 77

IV. Wherein are inserted the despairing verses of the

DEAD shepherd, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

NOT LOOKED FOR ........ 86

XV. In which is related the unfortunate adventure
THAT Don Quixote fell in with when he fell

OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YaNGUESANS . . 94

XVI. Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in

THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE . . . 102

XVII. In avhich 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 . . 109

XVIII. In WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SaNCHO PaNZA
HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QuiXOTE, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING . . 117

XIX. Of THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SaNCHO HELD AVITH
HIS MASTER, AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL
HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
NOTABLE OCCURRENCES ...... 127

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 . 134

XXI. Which treats of the exalted adventure and rich

PRIZE OF MaMBRINO'S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT . 14 7

XXII. Of the FREEDOM DoN Quixote conferred on sev-
eral UNFORTUNATES AVHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE
BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO . 158

XXIII. Of what befell Don Quixote in the Sierra

MORENA, which WAS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENT-
URES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY . . 168

XXIV. In which is continued the adventure of the Sierra

MORENA 180

CONTENTS.

• • ■

m

CHAPTER I PAOE

XXV. Which treats of the strange things that hap-
pened TO the stout knight of La Mancha in
the Sierra Morena, and of his imitation of the

PENANCE OF BelTENEBROS . . . . . ] 8S

XXVI. In which are continued the refinements where-
AviTH Don Quixote played the part ok a lover

IN THE Sierra Morena 20:5

XXVIT. Of how the Curate and the Barber proceeded
WITH their scheme ; together avith other mat-
ters worthy of record in this great history, 211
XXVITI. Which treats of the strange and delightful
adventure that befell the curate and the
Barber in the same Sierra .... 22.")

XXIX. Which treats of the droll device and method

ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT
FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAT) IMPOSED UPON
HIMSELF . . . . . . . . . 2i'>(\

XXX. Which treats of the address displayed by the
FAIR Dorothea, with other matters pleasant

AND AMUSING ........ 247

XXXI. Of the delectable discussion between Don Qui-
xote AND SaNCHO PaNZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS ...... 2.")7

XXXII. Which treats of what befell all Don Quixote's

PARTY AT THE INN .......

XXXIII. In which is related the novel of "The Ill-

advised Curiosity "......

XXXIV. In which is continued the novel of "The Ill-

advised Curiosity "......

XXXV. Which treats of the heroic and prodigioits bat-
tle Don Quixote had avith certain skins of

RED WINE, and BRINGS THE N(JVEL OF " TlIE IlL-

advised Curiosity " to a close
XXXVI. Which treats of more curious incidents that
occurred at the inn ......

XXXVII. In which is continued the story of the famous
Princess Micomicona, with other droll advent-
ures ......... 31f!

XXXVIII. Which treats of the curious discourse Don

Quixote delivered on arms and letters . . ;^26

200
278

287

800
807

IV

CONTENTS.

CHAPTEB ' PAGJS

XXXIX. Wherein the captive relates his life and ad-
ventures ........ 330

XL. In which the story of the captive is continued, 336
XLI. In which the captive still continues his advent-
ures ......... 34.^

XLII. Which treats op what further took place in

THE INN, and of .SEVERAL OTHER THINGS AVORTH
KNOWING ........ Soit

XLIII. Wherein is related the pleasant story of the

MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS

that came TO PASS IN THE INN .... 366

XLIV. In which are continued the unheard-of advent-
ures OF THE INN ....... 376

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 ........ 384

XLVI. Of THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE

officers of the holy brotherhood ; and of the
great ferocity of our avorthy knight, don
Quixote . . . . . . . .391

XLVII. Of the strange manner in which Don Quixote of
La Mancha was carried away enchanted, to-
gether WITH other remarkable INCIDENTS . 399

XL VIII. In WHICH the Canon pursues the subject of the

books of chivalry, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY

OF HIS WIT ........ 408

XLIX. Which treats of the shrewd conversation
WHICH Sancho Panza held with his master,
Don Quixote . . . . . . . 41(!

L. Of the shrewd controversy which Don Qui-
xote AND THE Canon held, together with
other incidents ....... 423

LI. Which deals with what the goatherd told

THOSE who were CARRYING OFF DoN QuiXOTE . 429

LII. Of the quarrel that Don Quixote had with the

GOATHERD, TOGETHER AVITH THE RARE ADA'ENTURE
OF THE PENITENTS, AVHICH AVITH AN EXPENDITURE
OF SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION . 433

INTRODUCTION.

PREFATORY.

It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in
favor of the present undertaking what had long been a
favorite project, that of a new edition of Shelton's " Don Qui-
xote," which has now become a somewhat scarce book. There
are some — and I confess myself to be one — for whom Shel-
ton'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 Cer-
vantes 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 version has strong
claims on sentimental grounds, but on sentimental grounds
only. His warmest admirers must admit that he is not a sat-
isfactory representative of Cervantes. His translation of the
First Part was very hastily made — in forty days he says in
his dedication — and, as his marginal notes show, never re-
vised by him. It has all the freshness and vigor, but also a
full measure of the faults, of a hasty production. It is often
very literal — barbarously literal frequently — but just as

(V)

vi INTRODUCTION.

often very loose. He had evidently a good colloquial knowl-
edge 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. With him '' discreto " — a chameleon
of a word in its way of taking various meanings according to
circumstances — is always " discreet," " admirar " is always
" admire," " sucesos " always " successes " (which it seldom
means), '' honesto " always <> honest" (which it never means),
'' suspense " always "■ suspended ; " '• desmayarse," to swoon or
faint, is always '* to dismay " (one lady is a " mutable and dis-
mayed traitress," when "fickle and fainting" is meant, and
another " made shew of dismaying " when she " seemed ready
to faint ") ; " trance," a crisis or emergency, is always simply
" trance ; " " disparates " always " fopperies," which, however,
if not a translation, is an illustration of the meaning, for it is
indeed nonsense. These are merely a few samples taken at
hap-hazard, but they will suffice to show how Shelton trans-
lated, and why his " Don Quixote," veritable treasure as it is
to tlie Cervantist and to the lover of old books and old English,
cannot be accepted as an adequate translation.

It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of
" Don Quixote." To those who are familiar with the original,
it savors 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 humor of
the book oAves its flavor is peculiar to Spanish, and can at best
be only distantly imitated in any other tongue. The dilemma
of the translator frequently is this, that terseness is essential
to the humor of the phrase or passage, but if he translates he
will not be terse, and if he would be terse he must paraphrase.

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,

PREFA TOR Y. vii

and tlie second that of a middle-aged man writing for a book-
seller. On the other hand, it is closer and more literal, the
style is the same, the very same translations, or mistransla-
tions, of " suceso," " trance," '^ desmayarse," etc., 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." The origin of this attempt is plain
enough. In 1656 that indecorous Oxford Don, Edmond Gay-
ton, had produced his " Festivous Notes on Don Quixote," a
string of jests, more or less dirty, on the incidents in the story,
which seems to have been much relished; and in 1667 Sir
Roger I'Estrange had published his version of Quevedo's
" Visions " from the French of La Geneste, a book which the
lively though decidedly coarse humor, cockney jokes and Lon-
don slang, wherewith he liberally seasoned it, made a pro-
digious favorite with the Restoration public. It struck Phillips
that, ^s Sheltori was now rather antiquated, a '' Don Quixote "
treated in the same way might prove equally successful. He
imitated L'Estrange as well as he could, but L'Estrange was a
clever penman and a humorist after his fashion, while Phillips
was only a dull buffoon. 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 flavor has
entirely evaporated under the manipulation of the several
hands. The flavor that it has, on the other hand, is dis-
tinctly Franco-cockney. Any one Avho 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

t)

viii INTRODUCTION.

treats " Don Quixote " in the same fashion as a comic book
that cannot be made too comic.

To attempt to improve the hnmor of " Don Quixote " by an
infusion of cockney flippancy and facetiovisness, 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 tlie uncritical way in which
'■' Don Quixote " is generally read that this worse than worth-
less translation — worthless as failing to represent, worse than
worthless as misrepresenting — should have been favored as
it has been. That it should have been popular in its own day,
or that a critic who understood the original so little as Alex-
ander Eraser Tytler should think it " by far the best," is no
great wonder. But that so admirable a scholar as Ticknor
should have given it even the lukewarm approval he bestows
upon it, and that it should have been selected for reproduction
in luxurious shapes three or four times within these last three
or four years, is somewhat surprising. Ford, whose keen sense
of humor, and intimate knowledge of Spain and the Spanish
character, make him a more trustworthy critic on this* par-
ticular question than even the illustrious American, calls it of
all English translations " the very worst." This is of course
too strong, for it is not and could not be worse than Phillips's,
but the vast majority of those who can relish '' Don Quixote "
in the original will confirm the judgment substantially.

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 maybe 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 Fran-
ciosini, which did not appear until ten years after Shelton' s

PREFA TOR Y. ix

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 tliat 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, any one 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 collo(}uial Spanish. Unlike Shelton, and indeed most
translators, who are generally satisfied with the first dictionary
meaning or have a stereotyped translation for every word
under all circumstances, he was alive to delicate distinctions
of meaning, always an important matter in Spanish, l)iit es-
pecially in the Spanish of Cervantes, and his notes show that
he was a diligent student of the great Spanish Academy Dic-
tionary, at least its earlier volumes ; for he died in 17.' 59, the
year in which the last was printed. His notes show, besides,
that he was a man of very considerable reading, particularly
in the department of chivalry romance, and they in many
instances anticipate Bowie, who generally has the credit of be-
ing the first " Quixote " annotator and commentator. 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 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 predecessor. He was one of the few, very few,
translators that have shown any apprehension of the unsmiling
gravity which is the essence of Quixotic humor ; 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 every thing savoring of
liveliness which is the characteristic of his translation. Could
he have caught but ever so little of Swift's or Arbnthnot's
style, he might have hit upon a via media that would have

X INTRODUCTION.

made his version as readable as it is faithful, or at any rate
saved him from the reproach of having marred some of the
best scenes in " Don Qnixote." 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 accom-
pany 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
tlie present undertaking was proposed to me, and since then I
may say vidl taMum, 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 com-
plement 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 hav.e acquitted himself somewhat awk-
wardly. It is not very likely that readers of the first class are
less numerous now than they used to be, bu.t it is no extrava-
gant optimism to assume that there are many more of the other
way of thinking than there were a century and a half ago.

But after all there is no real antagonism between the two

PREFATORY. xi

classes ; there is no reason why what pleases the one shoi;kl
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 ques-
tion of caviare to the general, or, if it is, the fault rests with
him who makes it 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.

With regard to fidelity to the letter, there is of course no
hard and fast rule to be observed ; a translator is bound to be
literal as long as he can, but persistence in absolute literality,
Avhen it fails to convey the author's idea in the shape the
author intended, is as great an offence against fidelity as
the loosest paraphrase. As to fidelity to the spirit, perhaps
the only rule is for the translator to sink his own individu-
ality altogether, and content himself with reflecting his
author truthfully. It is disregard of this rule that makes
French translations, admirable as they generally are in all
that belongs to literary workmanship, so often unsatisfactory.
French translators, for the most part, seem to consider them-
selves charged with the duty of introducing their author to
polite society, and to feel themselves in a measure responsible
for his behavior. There is always in their versions a certain
air of " Bear your body more seeming, Audrey." Viardot, for
example, has produced a " Don Quixote " that is delightfully
smooth, easy reading ; but the Castilian character has been
smoothed away. He has forced Cervantes into a French
mould, instead of moulding his French to the features of
Cervantes. It is hardly fair, perhaps, to expect a Frenchman
to efface himself and consent to play second fiddle under any
circumstances ; but to look for a translation true to the spirit
from a translator who holds himself free to improve his author
is, as a Spaniard would say, " to ask pears from the elm tree."

xii INTR OD UCTION.

My purpose here, however, is not to dogmatize 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 savors of affectation. The book itself is, indeed, in one
sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more than
Cervantes. " Toda afectacion es mala," is one of his favorite
proverbs. 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 tlian 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. That wonderful supper-table conversation
on books of chivalry in Chap, xxxii. Part I. is just such a one
as might be heard now in any venta in Spain. Except in the
tales and Don Quixote's speeches, the translator who uses the
simplest and plainest every -day language will almost always
be the one who approaches nearest to the original.

Seeing that the story of " Don Quixote " and all its char-
acters and incidents have now been for more than two centu-
ries 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. I am by no means sure
that I have done rightly in dropping Shelton's barbarous title
of " Curious Impertinent " by which the novel in the First
Part has been so long known. It is not a translation, and it is
not English, but it has so long passed current as the title of
the story that its original absurdity has been, so to speak,
effaced by time and use. " Ingenious " is, no doubt, not an
exact translation of " Ingenioso ; " but even if an exact one
could be found, I doubt if any end would be served by sub-
stituting it. No one is likely to attach the idea of ingenuity
to Don Quixote.^ " Dapple " is not the correct translation of

' " Ingenio " was used in Cervantes' time in very nearly the same way
as " wit " with us at about the same period, for the imaginative or inven-
tive faculty. Collections of plays were always described jis being by
" los mejores ingenios"— "the best wits." By " Ingenioso" he means
one in whom the imagination is the dominant faculty, overruling reason.
The opposite is the "discreto," he in whom the dis^cerning f-AcuMy has
the upper hand — he whose reason keeps lao imagination under due

PREFATORY. xiii

<' rucio," as I have pointed out in a note, but it has so hjiig
done duty as the distinctive title of Sancho's ass that nobody,
probably, connects the idea of color with it. " Curate " is not
an accurate translation of " cura," but no one is likely to con-
found Don Quixote's good fussy neighbor with the curate who
figures in modern fiction. For '' Knight of the Rueful Coun-
tenance," no defence is necessary, for, as I have shown (r.
Chap, xix.), it is quite right ; Sancho uses " triste figura " as
synonymous with " mala cara."

The names of things peculiarly Spanish, like " olla," " bota,"
<' alforjas," etc., are, I think, better left in their original
Spanish. Translations like " bottle " and '' saddle-bags " give
an incorrect idea, and books of travel in Spain have made the
words sufficiently familiar to most readers. It is less easy to
deal with the class of Avords that are untranslatable, or at
least translatable only by two or more words ; such words as
" desengaiio," " discreto," " donaire," and the like, which in
cases where conciseness is of at least equal importance with
literality must often be left only partially translated.

Of course a translator who holds that '■'■ Don Quixote " should
receive the treatment a great classic deserves, will feel him-
self bound by the injunction laid upon the Morisco in chapter
ix. not to omit or add anything. Eveiy one who takes up a
sixteenth or seventeenth century author knows very well before-
hand that he need not expect to find strict observance of the
canons of nineteenth century society. Two or three hundred
years ago, words, phrases, and allusions where current in
ordinary conversation which would be as inadmissible now as
the costume of our first parents, and an author who reflects the
life and manners of his time must necessarily reflect its lan-
guage also.

This is the case of Cervantes. There is no more apology
needed on his behalf than on behalf of the age in which he
lived. He was not one of those authors for whom dirt has
the attraction it has for the blue bottle ; he was not even one
of those that with a jolly indifference treat it as capital
matter to make a joke of. Compared with his contempo-
raries and most ol his successors who dealt with life and
manners, he is purity itself ; there are words, phrases, and
allusions that one could wish away, there are things — though

control. The distinction is admirably worked out in chapters xvi., xvii.,
and xviii. of Part II.

xiv INTRODUCTION,

very few after all — tliat offend one, but there is no impurity
to give offence in the writings of Cervantes.

The text I have followed generally is Hartzenbusch's. But
Hartzenbnsch, though the most scholarly of the editors and
commentators of '^ Don Quixote," is not always an absolutely
safe guide. His text is preferable to that of the Academy
in being, as far as the First Part is concerned, based upon
the first of La Cuesta's three editions, instead of the third,
which the Academy took as its basis on the supposition (an
erroneous one, as I have shown elsewhere) that it had been
corrected by Cervantes himself. His emendations are fre-
quently admirable, and remove difficulties and make rough
places smooth in a manner that must commend itself to every
intelligent reader; but his love and veneration for Cervantes
too often get the better of the judicious conservatism that
should be an editor's guiding principle in dealing with the
text of an old author. Notwithstanding the abundant evi-
dence before him that Cervantes was — to use no stronger
Avord — a careless writer, he insists upon attributing every
blunder, inconsistency, or slipshod or awkward phrase to the
printers. Cervantes, he argues, wrote a hasty and somewhat
illegible hand, his failing eyesight made revision or correction
of his manuscript an irksome task to him, and the printers
were consequently often driven to conjecture. He considers
himself, therefore, at libert)^ to reject whatever jars upon his
sense of propriet}^, and substitute what, in his judgment, Cer-
vantes " must have written."

It is needless to point out the destructive results that would
follow the adoption of this principle in settling the text of old
authors. In Hartzenbusch's " Don Quixote " it has led to a
good deal of unnecessary tampering with the text, and, in not
a few instances, to something that is the reverse of emenda-
tion. He is not, therefore, by any means an editor to be
slavishly followed, though all who -know his editions will cor-
dially acknowledge his services, among which may be reck-
oned his judicious arrangement of the text into paragraphs,
and the care he has bestowed upon the punctuation, matters
too much neglected by his predecessors. Nor is the valuable
body of notes he has brought together the least of them. In
this respect he comes next to Clemencin; but the industry
and erudition of that indefatigable commentator have left com-
paratively few gleanings for those who come after him.

CERVANTES. XV

To both, as well as to Pellicer, I have had frequent recourse,
as my own notes will show.

The tales introduced by Cervantes in the First Part have
been printed in a smaller type ; they are, as he himself freely
admits, intrusive matter, and if they cannot be removed, they
should at least be distinguished as wholly subordinate.

It is needless to say that the account given in the appendix
of the editions and translations of '• Don Quixote " does not
pretend to be a full bibliography, which, indeed, would require
a volume to itself. It is, however, though necessarily an im-
perfect sketch, fuller and more accurate, I think, than any
that has appeared, and it will, at any rate, serve to show,
better than could be shown by any other means, how the book
made its way in the world, and at the same time indicate the
relative importance of the various editions.

The account of the chivalry romances will give the reader
some idea of the extent and character of the literature that
supplied Cervantes with the motive for " Don Quixote."

Proverbs form a part of the national literature of Spain, and
the proverbs of " Don Quixote " have always been regarded as
a characteristic feature of the book. They are, moreover,
independently of their wit, humor, and sagacity, choice speci-
mens of pure old Castilian. The reader will probably, there-
fore, be glad to have them in their original form, arranged
alphabetically according to what is of course the only rational
arrangement for proverbs, that of key-words, and numbered for
convenience of reference in the notes.

CERVANTES.

Four generations had laughed over " Don Quixote " before
it occurred to any one to ask, who and what manner of man
was this Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra whose name is on the
titlepage ; 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

xvi INTRODUCTION.

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 Shake-
speare or Cervantes. All that Mayans y Siscar, to whom the
task was intrusted, or any of those who followed him, Kios,
Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was to eke out the few allu-
sions 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, while he has superseded all prede-
cessors, he has left it somewhat more than doubtful whether
any successor will ever supersede him. Thoroughness is the
chief characteristic of ISTavarrete's work. Besides sifting, test-
ing, and methodizing with rare patience and judgment what
had been previously brought to light, he left, as the saying is,
no stone unturned under which an}- thing to illustrate his sub-
ject might possibly be found, and all the research of the sixty-
five years that have elapsed since the publication of his " Life
of Cervantes " has been able to add but little or nothing of
importance to the mass of facts he collected and put in order.
]Sr avarrete 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 di-aft 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 with any fulness by
a contemporary has been produced." By the irony of fate all
or almost all we know of the greatest poet the world has ever
seen is contained in documents the most prosaic the art of man
can produce, and he who of all the men that ever lived soared
highest above this earth is seen to us only as a long-headed
man of business, as shrewd and methodical in money matters
as the veriest Philistine among us. Of Cervantes we certainly
know more than we do of Shakespeare, but of what we know
the greater part is derived from sources of the same sort, from
formal documents of one kind or another. Here, however,
the resemblance ends. In Shakespeare's case the document-
ary evidence points always to prosperity and success ; in the
case of Cervantes it tells of difficulties, embarrassments, or
struggles.

CERVANTES. xvii

It is only natural, tlierefore, that the biographers of Cer-
vantes, forced to make brick without straw, should have re-
course largely to conjecture, and that conjecture should in
some instances come by degrees to take the place of estab-
lished 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, Gon-
gora, were all men of ancient families, and, curiously, all, ex-
cept the last, of families that traced their origin to the same
mountain district in the north of Spain. The family of Cer-
vantes 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 hap-
pens, 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 11.

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 cen-
tury before in that of Alfonso VI., and was rewarded by
divers grants of land in the neighborhood of Toledo. On one
of his acquisitions, about two leagues from the city, he built
himself a castle which he called Cervatos, because — so Salazar
de Mendoza, in his " Dignidades de Castilla " (161S), gives us
to understand — " he was lord of the solar of Servatos in the
Montaiia," as the mountain region extending from the Basque
Provinces to Leon was always called. At his death in battle
in 114.3, 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 addi-
tional name of Cervatos. His eldest sou Pedro succeeded him

Vol, I. - 1,

xviii INTRODUCTION.

in the possession of tlie castle, and followed his example in
adopting the name, an assumption at which the younger son,
Gonzalo, seems to have taken umbrage.

Every one 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 sup-
position that it has anything to do with the author of " Don
Quixote." Ford, as all know who have taken him for a com-
panion 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 him-
self 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 build-
ing of which, according to a family tradition, his great-grand-
father had a share. At the same time, too, in place of the
family arms, two stags (" cervato " means a young stag) on a
field azure, he took two hinds on a field vert. The story de-
serves notice, if for no other reason, because it disposes of
Conde's ingenious theory that by " Ben-engeli " Cervantes in-
tended an Arabic translation of his own name. Cervantes was
as unlikely a man as Scott to be ignorant of his own family
history, or to suppose that the name he bore meant " son of
the stag."

Both brothers founded families. The Cervatos branch
flourished for a considerable time, and held many high offices
in Toledo, but, according to Salazar de Mendoza, it had become

CERVANTES. Xix

extinct and its possessions had passed into other families in
1618. The Cervantes branch had more tenacity; it sent ott-
shoots 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 Chris-
tian 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, Diego de Cervantes,
Commander of the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avella-
neda, 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, the' author of " Don Quixote.'" ' It is true
that documentary evidence is wanting for the absolute identi-
fication of Juan the Corregidor of Osuna, whom we know to
have been the grandfather of Cervantes, with Juan the son of
Diego, but it is not a question that admits of any reasonable
doubt. It is difficult to see who else he could have been
if the date and circumstances of the case are taken into con-
sideration, or how, unless he was the issue of the marriage
with the daughter of Juan de Saavedra, his grandson could
have been Cervantes Saavedra ; while his name Juan points to
his having been the son of Juana and grandson of the two
Juans, Cervantes and Saavedra. 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 ijlace 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, possibly, as his name
seems to suggest, on St. Michael's Day, and baptized in the
' See n?xt p.ii,fe for genealogical table.

XX INTRODUCTION.

church of Santa Maria Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547.
Of his boyhood and youth we knoAV 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

* Tello Mdrielliz (Rico Home of Castile, A.D. 988).

I
Oveco Tellez.

I
Gonzalo Ovequiz.

Aldefonso Gonzalez.

I
Munio Aldefonso.

I
Aldefonso Munio (with Alfonso VI. at Toledo, 1085).

I
Nuno Alfonso (Alcaide of Toledo, d. 1143).

I

Pedro I I

Guttierez=Gimena. Alfonso Munio de Cervatos.

Pedro Alfonso Gonzalo de Cervantes (with Ferdinand III.
de Cervatos. I at Seville in 1248).

Ferdinand of Aragon. Juan Alfonso de Cervantes (Commander of the

I Order of Calatrava).

Alonso Gomez Tequetiques de Cervantes.

Diego Gomez de Cervantes (first to settle in Andalusia).

Rui Gomez de Cervantes Gonzalo Gomez de Cervantes.

(Prior of the Order of San Juan). I

Cardinal Juan de Cervantes Rodrigo Diego Gomez /Prior of the\

(Archbishopof Seville, 1453). de Cervantes, de Cervantes I Order of |

I \ San Juan. /

Juan de Cervantes (Veinticuatro of Seville temp. John II.).

Diego de Cervantes = Juana Avellaneda,
(Commander of the Order of Santiago). I d. of Juan Arias de Saavedra.

Juan de Cervantes (Corregidor of Osuna). Gonzalo Gomez de Cervantes
I (Corregidor of Jerez).

Rodrigo de Cervantes = Leonor de Cortinas.

i i i I

Rodrigo, h. 1543. Andrea, b. 1544. Luisa, h. 1546. Miguel, h. 1547.

CERVANTES. Xxi

as the model of liis interludes. This lirst 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 al-
ways, 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. Its work was done when Granada surren-
dered. 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 Ferdi-
nand 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. But the loss of liberty was
not felt immediately, for Charles V. was like an accomplished
horseman with a firm seat and a light hand, who can manage
the steed without fretting it, and make it do his will while he
leaves its movements to all appearance free.

The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Gar-
cilaso 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, Phillis and Chloe had been fairly naturalized in
Spain, together with all the devices of pastoral poetry for
investing with an air of novelty the idea of a despairing
shepherd and inflexible shepherdess. Sannazaro's " Arcadia "

xxii INTRODUCTION.

had introduced the taste for prose pastorals, which soon bore
fruit in Montemayor's " Diana " and its successors ; and as for
the sonnet, it was spreading like the rabbit in Australia. 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
]DOur from the press ever since Garci Ordoilez 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,
pofulous ixniversity town, something more than the enter-
prising rival of Salamanca, and altogether a very diiferent
place from the melancholy, silent, deserted Alcala the trav-
eller sees now as he goes from Madrid to Saragossa. Theol-
ogy 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
street^ of Alcala at that time ; a bright, eager, tawny -haired
boy peering into a bookshop 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
titlepages of their folios. He had seen the Emperor's German
ritters many a time, but they were slim pages in satin com-
pared with this. What fun it would be to see such a figure
come charging into the plaza ! How he 'd frighten the old
women and scatter the turkeys ! 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 " Den Quixote."

CERVANTES. xxiii

For his more solid education, we are told, he went to Sala-
manca. l>ut why Rodrigo de Cervantes, who was very poor,
should have sent his son to a nniversity 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 corre-
sponded, 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 embarassment to tlie 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 15G9, to which Cervantes con-
tributed four pieces, including an elegy, and an epitaph in the
form of a sonnet. It is only by a rare chance that a " Lyci-
das " 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 11. by the Pope on a mission,
partly of condolence, partly political, and on his return to
Home, which was somewhat brusquely expedited by the King,
he took Cervantes with him as his eamerero (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 C'ervantes retained it, but in the summer of loTO he re-
signed it and enlisted as a private soldier in Captain Diego
de Urbina's company, belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada's

xxiv INTR OD UC TION.

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 com-
bined 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 Mar-
quesa, 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 ISTavarrete, he had an interview with the com-
mander-in-chief, Don John, who was making a personal inspec-
tion of the wounded, one result of which was an addition of
three crowns to his pay, and another, apparently, the friend-
ship of his general. Strada says of Don John that he knew
personally every soldier under his command, but at any rate
it was as much for his friendly bearing and solicitude for their
comfort and well-being as for his abilities and gallantry in the
field that he was beloved by his men, and it is easy to con-
ceive that he should have taken a special interest in the case
of Cervantes, who, it may be observed, was exactly his own
age, and curiously enough — though it is not very likely Don
John was aware of the fact — his kinsman in a remote degree,
inasmuch as the mother of Ferdinand of Aragon was a de-
scendant of Kuiio Alfonso above mentioned.

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 Avas seven
ponths 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 Par-
naso," for the greater glory of the right. This, however, did
not absolutely unfit him for service, and in April 1572 he

CERVANTES. XxV

joined Manuel Ponce de Leon's company of Lope de Figneroa's
regiment, in wliicli, it seems probable, his brother Rodrigo
was serving, and shared in the operations of the next three
years, including the cajtture of the Goletta and Tunis. Tak-
ing 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 Eodrigo, Pedro
Carillo 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 infelire as events proved. On the 2()th
they fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and after a
stout resistance were overpowered and carried into Algiers.

It is not easy to resist the temptation to linger over the
story of Cervantes' captivity in Algiers, for in truth a more
wonderful story has seldom been told. Alexandre Dumas
could hardly have invented so marvellous a series of adven-
tures, and certainly would have hesitated before he asked even
romance readers to accept anything so improbable. Never-
theless, incredible as the tale may seem, there is evidence for
every particular that scepticism itself will not venture to call
in question. At the distribution of the captives, Cervantes
fell to the share of one Ali or Dali Mami, the rais or captain
of one of the galleys, and a renegade, as were almost all em-
barked in the trade ; for a trade the capture of Christians had
now become, as Cervantes implies in the title of the "• Trato
de Argel." The Turks, to supply the demand for rowers,
dockyard laborers, and the like, for their great Mediterranean
fleet, had long been in the habit of kidnapping, either by mak-
ing descents upon the coasts, or seizing the crews of vessels at
sea. Moved by the sufferings of the unhappy victims, noble-
minded men of various religious orders in Spain devoted
themselves to the work of negotiating the release of as many
as it was possible to ransom, acting as intermediaries between
the captors and the friends of the captives, making up the
sums required out of the funds contributed by the charitable,
and even, as Cervantes himself says in the " Trato de Argel "
and the novel of the " Espaiiola Inglesa," surrendering them-
selves as hostages when the money was not immediately forth-
coming. It seems strange that a proud and powerful nation

xxvi INTRODUCTION.

should have submitted to this ; and stranger still that Philip
should have condescended to countenance negotiations of the
sort, and formally recognize the Redemptorist Fathers as his
agents, when probably a tenth of the force he was employing
to stamp out heresy among his Flemish subjects would have
sufficed to destroy the nest of pirates that was the centre of
the trade. To this pass had " one-man power " already brought
Spain in the last quarter of the sixteenth century. As is
unhappily often the case with philanthropic efforts, the exer-
tions of the good Redemptorist Fathers aggravated the evil.
They supplied an additional motive for capturing Christians
by affording facilities for converting captives into cash, and
by making them valuable as property added to their misery.
By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers con-
trived 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
seashore, he constructed, Avith 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

CER VA NTES. XX vii

appearance off the coast, and under cover of night was i)ro-
ceeding to take off the refugees, when the crew were ahirined
by a passing fishing boat, and beat a hasty retreat. On re-
newing the attempt shortly afterwards, they, or a portion of
them at least, were taken prisoners, and just as the poor fel-
lows 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 scene 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 tliat 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 con-
ceived 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 re-
source, enegy, and daring, was too dangerous a piece of prop-
erty 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 con-
trived 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 im-
paled 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.

xxvm INTRODUCTION.

After this he seems to have been kept in still closer
confinement than before, for nearly two years passed be-
fore he made another attempt. This time his plan was to pur-
chase, 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 es-
cape; but just as they were about to })ut it into execution, one
Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, an ecclesiastic and a compatriot,
informed the Dey of the plot. The Dorador, Avho had be-
trayed him on the former occasion, was a poor creature, influ-
enced probably by fear of the consequences, l)ut Blanco de
Paz was a scoundrel of deeper dye. 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 com-
promise anybody, and he went at once and gave himself up to
the Dey.

As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accom-
plices. Everything was made ready for his immediate execu-
tion ; the halter was put round his neck and his hands tied
behind him, but all that could be got from him was that lie
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.

But bold as these projects were, they were surpassed in dar-
ing by a plot to bring about a revolt of all the Christians in
Algiers, twenty or twenty-five thousand in number, overpower
the Turks, and seize the city. Of the details of his plan we
know nothing ; all we know is that at least two of those in
his confidence believed it woidd have been successful had it not
been for the treachery of some persons in the secret ; and cer-
tain it is that the Dey Hassan stood in awe of Cervantes, and

CERVANTES. xxix

used to say that so long as he kept tight hokl of the crippknl
Spaniard, his captives, his ships, and his city were safe. What
Avas it, then, that made him hokl his hand in his paroxysms of
rage ? When it was so easy to relieve himself of all the trouble
and anxiety his prisoner caused him, what was it that restrained
him? It may be said it was the admiration he felt at the noble
bearing, dauntless courage, and self-devotion of the man, that
made him merciful. But is it likely that the fiend Haedo and
Cervantes describe, who hanged, impaled, and cut off ears every
day, for the mere pleasure of doing it — -who most likely had,
like his friend the Arnaut Mami, '< a house filled with noseless
Christians" — would have been influenced by any such feel-
ing ? There are, we know, men who seem to bear a charmed
life among savages, and to exercise some mysterious power
over the savage mind ; but the Dey Hassan was no savage ;
he was worse. With all respect for the Haedos, uncle and
nephew, and their chief informant Doctor de Sosa, it woidd
be hard to avoid a suspicion that they had exaggerated, were
it not that the story they tell is confirmed in every particular
by a formally attested document discovered in 1808 by Cean
Bermudez, acting on a suggestion of Navarrete's, in the
Archivo General de Indias at Seville.

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 intrusted
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

XXX INTRODUCTION.

Algiers deposed to all tlie facts above stated (except of course
the intended seizure of the city, which was too compromising a
matter to be referred to), 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 biogra-
phers 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 liv-
ing 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. This is all we know about her,
unless she is to be identified with the sister Isabel who in 1614
took the veil in the convent in which he himself was after-
wards buried.

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 ; Luis Galvez de Montalvo had
mentioned him as a distinguished one in the " Pastor de
Pilida " in 1582, and we know from Doctor de Sosa, one of
the witnesses examined at Algiers, that he used to beguile his
imprisonment with poetry ; 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 birthplace, in 1585,

CERVANTES. xxxi

not at Madrid in 1584 as liis biographers and bibliographers
all say, 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 Doha Ca-
talina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias
near Madrid, and apparently a friend of the family, wlio
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 with-
out any throwing of cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their
course without any hisses, outcries, or disturbance. In other
words, his plays Avere 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 favorable specimens, and no one who
reads the '■'■ Kumancia " and the " Trato de Argel " will feel
any surprise that they failed as acting dramas. Whatever
merits they may have, whatever occasional power 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 persever-
ance he was unable to maintain the struggle to gain a liveli-
hood as a dramatist for more than three years ; nor was the
rising popularity of Lope the cause, as is often said, notwith-
standing 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.

This, according to Navarrete, was in 1588, but the " Nuevos
Documentos " published by Don Jose Asensio y Toledo in
1864 show that it must have been early in 1587. His first
employment seems to have been under Diego de Valdivia, a
judge of the Audiencia Real, but at the beginning of 1588 he
was appointed one of four deputy purveyors under Antonio de
Guevara, purveyor-general to that " fleet of the Indies " known
to history as the Invincible Armada. It was no doubt an
irksome and ill-paid office, for in 1590 he addressed a memo-
rial to the King, setting forth his services and petitioning for

xxxii INTRODUCTION.

an appointment to one of three or four posts then vacant in
the Spanish possessions across the Atlantic, an application
which, fortunately for the world, was " referred," it would
seem, to some official in the Indies Office at Seville, and being-
shelved, so remained until it was discovered among the docu-
ments brought to light by Cean Bermudez.

Among the " Nuevos Documentos " printed by Seiior Asensio
y Toledo is one dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of
Cervantes. It is an agreement with one Kodrigo Osorio, a
manager, who was to accept six comedies at fifty ducats (about
6/.) 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 Saragos\sa in
1595 in honor of the canonization 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, a better post probably than his first,
but certainly a more responsible one, as he found in the end to
his cost. In order to remit the money he had collected more
conveniently to the treasury, he intrusted 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 26^., 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 aiid wayside life
and character that abound in the pages of " Don Quixote : "
the Benedictine monks wiiii spectacles and simshades, 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 de Hircania " read out
to them ; and those little Hogarthian touches that lie so well

CERVANTES. xxxiii

knew how to bring in, tlie ox-tail hanging np witli the land-
lord's comb stuck in it, the wine-skins at the bed-head, and
those notable examples of hostelry art, Helen going oft" in
high spirits on Paris's arm, and Dido on the tower dro})phig
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
the Triana, that he was hrst tempted to try his hand at draw-
ing from life, and first brought his humor 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 Avhich 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 cata-
fahpie erected to testify the grief of the city at the death of
Philip II., but from this up to 1603 we have no clew to his
movements. The words in the preface to the Pirst Part of
" Don Quixote " are generally held to be conclusive that he con-
ceived 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. At the same time it should be borne in mind that they
contain no assertion to that effect, and may mean nothing
more than that this brain-child of his was begotten under cir-
cumstances as depressing as prison life. If we accept them
literally, the prison may very well have been that in which he
was confined for nearly three months at Seville.

The story of his having been imprisoned afterwards at Ar-
gamasilla de Alba rests entirely on local tradition. That
Argamasilla is Don Quixote's village does not admit of a doubt.
Even if Cervantes himself had not owned it by making the
Academicians of Argamasilla write verses in honor of Don
Quixote, there is no other town or village in La Mancha, ex-
cept perhaps its near neighbor Tomelloso, the relative position
of which to the field of Montiel, the high road to Seville, Puerto
Lapice, and the Sierra Moreua, agrees with the narrative ; and

Vol.' I, - c

xxxiv INTRODUCTION.

we know by Quevedo's burlesque ballad on Don Quixote's Testa-
ment that in 1608 it was already famous as Don Quixote's town.
Also that Cervantes had a grudge of some kind against the
town seems likely from his having " no desire to call its name
to mind," and from the banter about the Academicians. It
would be luicritical to reject the story absolutely because it
depends on local tradition, at the same time it needs very little
insight into mythology to see how easily the legend might have
grown up under the circumstances.

The cause of the imprisonment is variously stated. It is
attributed to a dispute about tithes due to the Priory of St.
John which Cervantes had to collect, to a squabble about
water rights, to " a stinging jest " of his, to a love affair with
the daughter of a hidalgo, whose portrait, Avith that of his
daughter, hangs in the village church, and who is conjectured
from the inscription upon it to have been the original of Don
Quixote. But whatever the cause, the Argamasillans are all
agreed that the prison was the arched cellar under the Casa de
Medrano, and the late J. E. Hartzenbusch was so far im-
pressed by the tradition that he had two editions of " Don
Quixote " printed there, the charming little Elzevir edited by
him in 1863, and the four volumes containing the novel in the
twelve-volume edition of Cervantes' works completed in 1865.

The books mentioned in Chap. vi. (e.g., the "Pastor de
Iberia," printed in 1591) and the adventure of the dead body
in Chap, xx., which is obviously based upon an actual occur-
rence that made some noise in the South of Spain about the
year 1593, limit the time within which the First Part can
have been written, and it was licensed for the press in Sep-
tember 1604. But it is plain the book had circulated in manu-
script to some extent before this, for in the " Picara Justina,"
which was licensed in August 1601, there are some verses in
which Justina speaks of herself as more famous than Don
Quixote, Celestina, Lazarillo, or Guzman de Alfarache, so that
more than four months before it had been })rinted we have
" Don Quixote " ranked with the three most famous fictions of
Spain. Nor is this all. In a letter which is extant, dated
August 1604, Lope de Vega says that of the rising poets
'' there is not one so bad as Cervantes or so silly as to ivrite in
praise of ' Doti Quixote ; ' " and in another passage that satire
is " as odious to him as his comedies are to Cervantes " — evi-
dently alluding to the dramatic criticism in Chap, xlviii.

CER VANTES. xxxv

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 heljoed 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 Kobles of Madrid, to whom at last
he sold it, that he did not care to incur the expense of secur-
ing the copyright for Aragon or Portugal, contenting himself
with that for Castile. The printing Avas 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 protect his property
Robles had to bring out a second edition with the additional
copyrights for Aragon and Portugal, which he secured in
February. But two Lisbon publishers were in the field with
editions almost, if not quite, as soon as he was, and if he lost
the whole or a good part of his royalties on the copies sold in
Portugal, no one, I imagine, will feel much pity for him. He
was in time, however, to secure his rights in Valencia, where
in the course of the summer an authorized edition appeared,
but not two, as Salva y Mallen, Gallardo, and others say,
for the differences they rely on are mere variations of copies
of the same edition. There were, in fact, five editions within
the year, and in less than three years' time these were ex-
hausted.

No doubt it was received with something more than cold-
ness 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 favorite reading into ridicule
and laughed at so many of their favorite ideas, and Lope's
letter above quoted expresses beyond a doubt the feeling of
the literary class with a few exceptions. The dramatists who
gathered round Lope as their leader regarded Cervantes as
their common enemy, and it is plain that he was equally ob-
noxious 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 Avere of a very friendly sort, as indeed

xxxvi INTRODUCTION.

they were until " Don Quixote " was written. The first pub-
lic praise Lope ever got was from Cervantes in the " Galatea ; "
and when he published his "■ Dragontea " in 1598 Cervantes
wrote for it a not ungraceful sonnet upon that " fertile Vega
that every day offers us fresh fruits ; " and Lope on his
part mentioned Cervantes in a complimentary way in the
" Arcadia."

But Cervantes' criticism on the drama of the new school,
though in truth it amounts to no more than Lope himself ad-
mitted in 1G02 in the " ISTew Art of Comedy Writing," seems to
have changed all this. 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 to 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 opeuly sneers at '■' Don Quixote " and Cervantes, and four-
teen 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 noAvhere else.

There was little in the First Part of " Don Quixote " to give
offence to Gongora and his school, but no doubt instinct told
them that the man who wrote it was no friend of theirs (as
was abundantly proved when the Second Part came out), and
they showed their animus almost immediately. There were
great rejoicings at Yalladolid in the spring of 1005, on the
occasion of the baptism of the prince, afterwards Philip IV.,
which coincided with the arrival of Lord Howard of Effingham
and a numerous retinue to ratify the treaty of peace between
England and Spain, and the official " Eelacion " of the fete is
believed by Pellicer, Navarrete, Hartzenbusch and others to
have been written l3y Cervantes. Thereupon there appeared
a sonnet in that bitter trenchant style of which Gongora was
such a master, declaring that the sole object of the expenditure
and dis})lay was to do honor to the heretics and Li\therans, and
taunting the authorities with having employed " Don Quixote,
Sancho, and his ass " to write an account of their doings. In
the opinion of Don Pascual de Gayangos (" Cervantes en Valla-
dolid," Madrid, 1884) the connection of Cervantes with the
" Relaciou " is doubtful, as it is also that Gongora, to whom

CER VA NTES. xxxvii

the sonnet is generally attributed, was really the author. All
that can be said is that it is in his manner, and that the ref-
erence to the heretics and Lutherans is Gongora all over ; if not
his it conies from his school, and shows the feeling existing in
that quarter towards Cervantes and his work.

In another piece, still more characteristic, he makes an
attack on Cervantes which has never been noticed, so far as I
am aware. In the ballad beginning " Castillo de San Cer-
vantes " he taunts the old castle on the Tagus, already referred
to, with being no longer what it was in the days of its youth
when it did such gallant service against the Moors, compares
its crumbling battlements to an old man's teeth, and bids it
look down and see in the stream below how age has changed
it. Depping, who inserts the ballad in his " Romancero,"
admits that the idea is poetical, but confesses he cannot see
the drift of the poet, who seems to him to be here rather a
preacher than a poet, and no doubt others have shared his
perplexity. It was evidently a recognized gibe to compare
Cervantes to the ruined castle that bore his name ; Avellaneda,
in the scurrilous preface to his continuation of " Don (Quixote,"
jeers at him in precisely the same strain as the ballad, for
having grown as old, and being as much the worse for time as
the castle of San Cervantes. Gongora, it may be observed,
had a special gift of writing pretty, innocent-looking verses
charged with venom. Who would take the lines to a mountain
brook, beginning —

Whither away, my little river,

Why leap down so eagerly,
Thou to be lost in the Guadalquivir,

The Guadalquivir in the sea?

as guileless apparently as a lyrical ballad of Wordsworth's,
to be in reality a bitter satire on the unlucky upstart, Rodrigo
Calderon ?

Another reason for the enmity of Gongora and his clique to
Cervantes may well have been that their arch-enemy Quevedo
was a friend of his. Cervantes, indeed, expressly declares his
esteem for Quevedo as " the scourge of silly poets." It is a
pity that we know so little of the relations of these two men
to one another. Quevedo nowhere mentions Cervantes per-
sonally, though he shows himself to have been an appreciative
reader of " Don Quixote," and Cervantes only twice mentions

xxxviii INTRODUCTION.

Queveclo. But each time there is something in his words that
suggests a close personal intimacy. Thus, in the " Viaje del
Parnaso," when Mercury proposes to wait for Quevedo, Cer-
vantes says he " takes such short steps that he will be a whole
age coming," a remark which has puzzled a good many readers.
The fact is that Quevedo had clubbed feet, but, so far from
being sensitive about the deformity, made it a matter of joke.
Cervantes, however, could not feel sure that he would relish a
joke on the subject from another, had he not been intimate
with him, and we know he held with the proverb, '* Jests that
give pain are no jests."

Quevedo seems to have been the only one among the
younger men, except perhaps Juan de Jauregui, with whom
Cervantes had any friendship, and even among the men of his
own generation his personal friendships appear to have been
but few. And yet, so far as the few glimpses we get allow
us to judge, Cervantes must have been one of the most lovable
men this world has ever seen. The depositions of the wit-
nesses at Algiers, given by Navarrete, show his power of
winning the love of his fellow-men. He was a stanch and
loyal friend himself, one that could see no fault in a friend,
and never missed a chance of saying a kindly word when he
thought he could give pleasure to a friend. He bore his hard
lot with sweet serenity and noble patience, facing adversity as
he had faced death with high courage and dauntless spirit ;
and surely those two fancy portraits Hartzenbusch has prefixed
to his editions are libellous representations. ^ The features of
Cervantes never wore that expression of agonized despair.
We may rely upon it that it was with the " smooth untroubled
forehead and bright cheerful eyes " of his own half-playful
description that he met adverse fortune.

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. In what way the matter was
settled we know not, but we hear no more of it. He remained
at Valladolid, apparently supporting himself by agencies and
scrivener's work of some sort; probably draughting petitions
and drawing up statements of claims to be presented to the
Council, and the like. So, at least, we gather from the deposi-
tions taken on the occasion of the death of a gentleman, the
victim of a street brawl, who had been carried into the house

CERVANTES. xxxix

in which he lived. In these he himself is described as a man
who wrote and transacted bnsiness, 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 Costanza, a mysterious Magdalena de
Sotomayor calling herself his sister, for whom his biographers
cannot account, and a servant-maid.

From another document it would seem that the women found
employment in needlework for persons in attendance on the
Court, and the presumption is, therefore, that when the Court
was removed once more to Madrid in 1606, Cervantes and his
household followed it ; but we have no evidence of his beins):
in Madrid before 1609, when he was living in the Calle de la
Magdalena, a street running from the Calle de Atocha to the
Calle de Toledo.

Meanwhile '•'■ Don Quixote " had been growing in favor, 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 seemed as if the hope in the motto of Juan de
la Cuesta's device on his titlepage ' was at last about to be
realized ; and 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 " —
" Rinconete y Cortadillo," above mentioned, the " Amante Li-
beral," a story like that of the " Captive," inspired by his own ex-
periences, and perhaps the " Celoso Estremeno " — 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. Possibly
the " Ilustre Pregona," and the " Puerza de la Sangre," were
not written quite so late, but internal evidence shows beyond
a doubt that the others, the " Gitanilla," the '^ Espanola In-
glesa," the " Licenciado Vidriero,"- the '' Dos Doncellas," the

^ " Post tenebras spero lucem." V. fac-siniilo cm titlepage.

xl INTRODUCTION.

" Senora Cornelia," the " Casamiento Engaiioso," and the
" Coloquio de los Perros " were all written between 1606 and
1612.

Wliether the " Tia Pingida," which is now generally in-
clnded in his novels, is the work of Cervantes or not, mnst be
left an open question. No one who has read it in the origi-
nal Avould willingly accept it, but disrelish is no reason for
summarily rejecting it, and it cannot be denied that the style
closely resembles his. There is nothing in the objection that
" listed " is never used by Cervantes for " ^a^estra merced,"
for its employment in the tale may be due to the transcriber
or printer, and of the two MSS. in existence one at least,
though certainly not in the handwriting, is of the time of
Cervantes, in the opinion of so good a judge as Senor Fer-
nandez-Guerra y Orbe. 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 confi-
dential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In this eight
years and a half after the First Part of " Don Quixote " had
appeared, Ave get the first hint of a forthcoming Second Part.
'' You shall see shortly," he says, '' the further exploits of
Don Quixote and humors 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.

The fact was that, to use a popular phrase, he had " many
irons in the fire." There was the Second Part of his " Gala-
tea " to be written, his " Persiles " to l)e finished, lie had on his
hands his '■'■ Semanas del Jardin " and his " Bernardo," of the
nature of which we know nothing, and there was the " Viaje
del Parnaso " to be got ready for the press. The last, now
made accessible to English readers by the admirable trans-
lation of Mr. James Y. Gibson, had been, in part at least,
written about three years before the novels were printed.
Its motive was the commission given by the Conde de Lemos,
on his appointment as Viceroy of Naples, to the brothers
Argensola to select poets to grace his court, which suggested
to Cervantes the idea of a struggle for Parnassus between the
good and bad poets ; and as he worked it out he passed in
review every poet and poetaster in Spain. But it is what he
says about himself in it, and in the prose appendix to it, " the
Adjunta," that gives it its chief value and interest now, and

CERVANTES. xli

from no other source do we learn so niucli about liiin and his
writings, and his own estimate of them.

But more than poems, or i)astorals, 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 him-
self and his comrades again and again, made him persevere
in spite of faihire 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, chest-
nut hair, smooth untroubled forehead, and bright cheerful
eyes, is the very portrait of a sanguine man. Nothing that
tiie managers might say could persuade him that the merits
of his plays would not be recognized at last if they were only
given a fair chance. In the famous forty -eighth chapter of
'M^on Quixote," in the Adjunta to the "Viaje del Parnaso,"
in the preface to his comedies, and other places, he shows
plainly enough the ambition that lay next his heart. The
old soldier of the Spanish Salamis was bent on being the
iEschylus 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 man-
agers and short-sightedness 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 im-
prove 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
Idundered, Init 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

xlii INTRODUCTION.

to liave 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 mosf humor-
ous creation in all fiction. He was proud, too, of the popu-
larity and success of the book, and beyond measure delightful
is the naivete with which he shows his pride in a dozen pas-
sages in the Second Part. But it was not the sirccess 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 " Per-
siles and Sigismmida " — which, as we know, was to be the
most entertaining book in the language, and the rival of " The-
agenes and Chariclea " — or finishing off one of his darling
comedies ; and if Robles asked when " Don Quixote " would
be ready, the answer no doubt Avas '' con brevedad " — shortly,
there was time eiiough 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 chap-
ter lix., which at his leisurely x)ace he could hardly have
reached before October or November 1614, when there was
put into his hand a small octavo lately printed at Tarragona,
and calling itself " Second Volume of the Ingenious Gentle-
man Don Quixote of La Mancha : by the Licentiate Alpnso
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 Avas 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 altri cantera con miglior plettro," he seems actu-
ally to invite some one else to continue the work, and he made

CERVANTES. xliii

no sign until eight years and a half had gone by ; by wliicli
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 Cer-
vantes 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 querulous-
ness, and so on ; and it was in this that the sting lay. Ave-
llaneda'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 had 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. oSTavarrete and Ticknor both in-
cline 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 mos-
quito in the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of lan-
guage pronounces him to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an
Aragonese himself, supports this view and believes him, more-
over, to have been an ecclesiastic, a Dominican probably. It
has been suggested that he was Luis de Aliaga, the King's
confessor ; Andres Perez, the author of the " Picara Justina ; "
Bartolome de Argensola, the poet ; Cervantes' old enemy,
Blanco de Paz ; Alarcon, the dramatist ; even the great Lope
himself ; but the wildest surmise of all was that of the late
Rawdon Brown, who put in a claim for the German scholar
Gaspar Scoppe, or Scioppius, apparently because he was quar-
relsome and happened to be in tSpain about this time.

Neither the question nor the book would ever have been
heard of outside the circle of bookworms had Cervantes only
behaved as Aleman did when his continuation of '' Guzman de
Alfarache " was forestalled by Juan Marti. But the persist-
ence and the vehemence of his invective sent readers to the
book who would otherwise never have troubled themselves
about it. In its own day it fell dead from the press, for the
second edition in 1615 mentioned by Ebei-t is purely imaginary.
But Bias de Nasarre, an early specimen of a type of littera-
teur now common, saw in Cervantes' vituperation a sufficient

xliv INTRODUCTION.

reason for taking tlie book up and proving it meritorious ;
and this lie did in an edition in 1732, in which he showed that
it was on the whole a superior work to the genuine " Don
Quixote." The originality of this view — not that it was
original, for Le Sage had said much the same — so charmed
M. Germond de Lavigne that he produced in 1853 a French
translation with a preface and notes, Avherein he not only
maintained that in humor, taste, invention, and ti'uth to nature,
Cervantes w^as surpassed by Avellaneda ; but pointed out
several passages to prove that he had borrowed ideas from a
book that most likely did not exist at the time, and that most
certainly he had not seen or heard of. All this of course is
intelligible, but not so that a sound Spanish scholar and critic
like the late Vicente Salva should have said, that if Cervantes'
'' Don Quixote " were not in existence Avellaneda's would be
the best novel in the language ; which (not to speak of the
absurdity of putting it before '' Lazarillo de Tormes," " Guz-
man de Alfarache," Quevedo's " Gran Tacaiio," Isla's <' Fray
Gerundio de Campazas ") is like saying that if there were no
sun, the moon would be the brightest body in the heavens.
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
humor 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 novellicri and without their
sprightliness ; tales that even Le Sage and M. de Lavigne did
not dare to reproduce as they found them.

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 advent-
ui'es of Don Quixote and humors of Sancho Panza as shep-
herds. It is plain that he had at one time an intention of
dealing with the pastoral romances as he had dealt with the

CERVANTES, xlv

books of chivalry, and Ijut for Avellaneda he wouhl liave tried
to cany 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 nuide
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 haimted by the fear that there might l)e more Ave-
llanedas 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 — the
last chapter, indeed, is a curiosity of slovenly writing — and
the frequent repetition of the scoldings administered to Ave-
llaneda 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, Ijut
was not printed till the very end of 1615, and during the inter-
val 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 nranagers, 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. As for the interludes (eiitrenieses)
they are mere farcical scenes without any pretence to a plot,
but not without a certain amount of life and humor. With
regard to the comedies, the unanimity of opinion is renmrkable.
Every one seems to approach them with the hope of finding
them not altogether unworthy of Cervantes, not altogether the
poor productions the critics have pronounced them, and every
reader is compelled in the end reluctantly to give them up, and
own, in the words of jNI. Emile Chasles, that " on se croirait a
mille lieues du bon sens viril qui eclatera dans ' Don Quichotte.' "
Nothing, perhaps, gives a better idea of their character and
(piality than that Bias de Nasarre, who published the second
edition in 1741), should have, in perfect seriousness, advanced
the theory that Cervantes wrote them with an object somewhat
similar to that of " Don Quixote," in fact as burlesques upon
the silly senseless plays of the day ; and indeed had the
" Rufian Dichoso " been written forty years later there would
be nothing prima facie absurd in supposing it a caricature of
Calderon's mystic devotional dramas. It is needless to say

xlvi INTRODUCTION.

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 '' Engaiio a los ojos," about
which, if he mistook not, there would be no question.

Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has had no opportu-
nity of judging ; his health had been failing for some timej
and he died, apparently of dropsy, on the 23d of April, I6I63
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 cheer-
fully. His dedication of the " Persiles and Sigismunda "' to
the Conde de Lemos is notable among recorded death-bed
words for its simple unaffected serenity. He could wish, he
says, that the opening line of the old ballad, " One foot in the
stirrup already," did not serve so aptly to begin his letter
with ; they had given him the extreme miction the day before,
his time was now short, his pains were growing greater, his
hopes growing less ; still he would gladly live a little longer to
welcome his benefactor back to Spain ; but if that might not
be, Heaven's will be done. And then, the ruling passion
asserting itself, he goes on to talk of his unfinished works,
" The Weeks of the Garden," the famous "■ Bernardo," the
conclusion of the " Galatea " that his Excellency liked so
nmch ; all which he would complete should Heaven prolong
his life, which now could only be by a miracle.

Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes ? His biogra-
phers all tell us that it Avas ; 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 him-
self the antidote to all these evils. His was not one of those
light natures that rise above adversity merely by virtixe of
their own buoyancy ; it was in the fortitude of a high spirit
that he was proof against it. It is impossible to conceive Cer-
vantes 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 breap
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 sanguine temperament, and there
will be reason enough to doubt whether his could have been a

CERVANTES. xlvii

very unhappy life. He who covikl take Cervantes' distresses
together with his apparatus for enduring them woukl not make
so bad a bargain, perhaps, as far as happiness in life is con-
cerned.

It is pleasant, however, to think that the sunset was
brighter than the day had been, and that at the close of his
life he was not left dependent on his own high courage for
comfort and support. He had failed in the object of his heart,
but he had the consolation of knowing that if Spain had
refused his dramas the world had welcomed his novel. He
was still a poor man ; <' a soldier, a hidalgo, old and poor,"
was the description given to strangers asking who and what
the author of '' Don Quixote " was. But he was no longer
friendless, and he no longer felt the pressure of poverty as he
had felt it in the days of his obscurity. His good friends, the
Conde de Lemos and the Archbishop of Toledo, as he himself
tells us, had charged themselves with his welfare, and the book-
sellers did not look askance at his books now. If Juan de
Villaroel paid him " reasonably," as he admits, for so unprom-
ising a venture as the volume of comedies, we may presume
that Robles gave him something substantial for the novels and
for the Second Part of " Don Quixote." He was able to live,
too, in what was then a fashionable quarter of Madrid, the
maze of dull streets lying between the Carrera de San Gero-
nimo and the Calle de Atocha. The house in which he died is
in the Calle del Leon, but the doorway, marked by a medallion,
is in the Calle de Francos, now the Calle de Cervantes, in
which, a few doors farther down, the great Lope lived and died,
while Quevedo lived a few paces off in the Calle del Nino.

Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was
buried, in accordance with his will, in the neighboring convent
of Trinitarian nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter,
Isabel de Saavedra, was an inmate, and that a few years after-
wards 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 clew to
their resting-place is jiow 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

xlviii INTRODUCTION.

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 un-
worthy 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 speci-
men of an insipid class of romance, and some plays which
manifestly did not comply with the primary condition of pleas-
ing : were the playgoers to patronize 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. Ko doubt it was received
coldly by some, but if a man writes a book in ridicule of peri-
wigs he must make his account with being coldly received by
the periwig wearers and hated by the whole tribe of wig-makers.
If Cervantes had the chivalry-romance readers, the sentiment-
alists, 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 com-
fortable 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 Avell for others.

Another charge is that his fellow-countrymen have been so
careless of his memory that they have allowed his portraits
to be lost. It is always assumed that there was once a por-
trait of him ])ainted by his friend Juan de Jauregui, but the
words on which the assumption rests prove nothing of the
kind. They imply nothing more than that Jauregui coidd or
would paint a portrait of himself if asked to do so. There is
even less ground for the supposition that Pacheco ever painted
or drew his portrait, unless indeed we accept as satisfactory
the arguments used by Don Jose-Maria Asensio y Toledo in
support of that inserted by him in his " Nuevos Documentos,"
and reproduced in Sir W. Stirling Maxwell's " Don John of
Austria " and Mr. Gibson's " Journey to Parnassus." But in
truth they amount to nothing more than a chain of mere

CERVANTES. xlix

assnmptions. It is an assumption tliat the manuscript on wliich
the whole depends is a tnistwortliy document ; an assumption
that the picture Seiior Asensio has fixed on is the one the
manuscript means ; and an assumption that the boatman lie
has fixed on in the picture is the portrait of Cervantes.

On the other hand, there is, among others, the improl)al)ility
of Pacheco painting a portrait of Cervantes as a boatman,
with the full use of both hands, and about five-and-twenty
years of age, Cervantes being thirty-three at the time of his
release at Algiers (which is supposed to be the occasion repre-
sented) and at least fifty-four at the time the picture was
painted, if I'acheco was the painter. It Avill need a stronger
case than this to establish a vera effigies of Cervantes.' It is
hardly necessary to remind the reader that the Spanish
Academy picture from which the familiar engraved portrait
is taken is now admitted on all hands to be a fabrication,
based in all probability on the fancy portrait by Kent in
Tonson's " Quixote " of 1738.

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, worthy of him ; for the bronze
statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las Cortes, a fair
work <jf 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 to testify to the self-
glorification of those who had put it up ? SI inonumentuiih
qiKt'rls, elrcu))isj)lce. The nearest Ijookseller's shop will show
what bathos there would be in a monument to the author of
" Don Quixote."

' Sffior Asensio's case may be said, imleed, to break down in liis last
assumption. Where Cervantes was from the end of 15'J8 to the beginning
of 1G03 we know not; but all his biographers are agreed that lie did not
remain in Seville. But the commission to i)aint the six pictures, of which
Senor Asensio's is one, was only given to Vazquez and Pacheco in IGOO,
and no doubt they took some considerable time to paint. Cervantes,
therefore, could not have sat for the head of the boatman. In the face
of this difficulty, Senor Asensio assumes that Pacheco painted it from a
portrait previously taken between 1590 and 1.^1)7. But, granted that
Pacheco might have made Cervantes nearly thirty years younger in the
picture, Avhat motive could he have had for representing him as a young
man of five or six and twenty in a sketch made, we are to suppose, as a
memorial of his friend ?
Vol. I,-ol

INTRODUCTION.

"DON QUIXOTE"

Nine editions of the First Part of '^ Don Quixote " had, as
we have seen, already appeared liefore Cervantes died, thirty
thousand copies in all, according to his own estimate, and a
tenth was printed at Barcelona the year after his death. Of
the Second Part, live had been published by the middle of the
same year. So large a number naturally supplied the demand
for some time, but by 16o4 it appears to have been exhausted ;
and from that time down to the present day the stream of edi-
tions has continued to flow rapidly and regularly. The trans-
lations show still more clearly in what request the book has
been from the very outset. Shelton's seems to have been made
as early as 1607 or 1608 ; Oudin's, the first French one, in
1616 ; the first German in 1621, and Franciosini's Italian
version in 1622 ; so that in seven years from the coni})letion
of the work it had been translated into the four leading lan-
guages of Europe. How translations and editions of transla-
tions multi})lied as time went on will be seen by a glance at
the list given in the Appendix, necessarily incomplete as it is.
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 naturalized 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 humor of the bur-
lesque or sympathize with the author's i)ur})0se. Another
ciirious fact is that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the
world, is one of the most intensely national. " Manon Les-
caut '' 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 color, in
everything. What, then, is the secret of this unparalleled
popularity, increasing year by year for well-nigh three cen-
turies ? One explanation, no doubt, is that of all the books in
the world, " Don Quixote " is the most catholic. There is

"DON Quixote:' li

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 humor, 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, Sanclio
tossed in the blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master
and man, that were originally the great attraction, and per-
haps are so still to some extent with the majority of readers.
The bibliography of the book is a proof of this. There were
ten editions of the First Part, but of the Second, where the
humor is throughout much more akin to comedy than to farce,
five only were printed. 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 langhable
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 iTse, with, in most instances, uncouth illustra-
tions and clap-trap additions by the publisher. Those of
Brussels and Antwerp were better in every way, neater and
more careful, but still obviously books intended for a class of
readers not disposed to be critical or fastidious so long as they
were amused.

To England belongs the credit of having been the first
coimtry to recognize the right of "Don Quixote" to better
treatment than this. The London edition of 17oS, commonly
called Lord Carteret's from having been suggested by him, was
not a mere edition de I'uxe. It produced " Don Quixote " in
becoming form as regards paper and type, and emliellished
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

lii INTRODUCTION.

even a passing thought ; and for a first attempt it was fairly
successful, for though some of its emendations are inadmissi-
ble, a good many of them have been adopted by all subsequent
editors.

The example set was soon followed in the elegant duo-
decimo editions with Coypel's plates published at the Hague
and Amsterdam, and later in those of Ibarra and Sancha in
Spain. But the most notable results were the splendid
edition in four volumes by the Spanish Royal Acaclemy in
1780, and the Rev. John Bowie's, printed at London and
Salisbury in 1781. In the former a praiseworthy attempt Avas
made to produce an authoritative text ; but unfortunately the
editors, under the erroneous impression that Cervantes had
either himself corrected La Cuesta's 1608 edition of the First
Part, or at least authorized its corrections, attached an excessive
importance to emendations Avhich in reality are entitled to no
higher respect than those of any other printer. The distin-
guishing feature of Bowie's edition is the mass of notes, filling
two volumes out of the six. Bowie's industry, zeal, and erudi-
tion have made his name deservedly venerated by all students
of " Don Quixote ; " at the same time it must be owned that
the practical value of his notes has been somewhat overrated.
What they ilhistrate is not so much '' Don Quixote " as the anno-
tator's extensive reading. The majority of them are intended
to show the sources among the books of chivalry from which
Cervantes took the incidents and ideas he burlesqued, and the
connection is very often purely fanciful. They rendered an
important service, however, in acting as a stimulus and fur-
nishing a foundation for other commentaries ; as, for example,
Pellicer's, which, though it does not contain a fiftieth of the
number of notes, is fifty times more valuable for any purpose
of genuine elucidation, and Clemeuciu's, that monument of
industry, research, and learning, which has done more than all
others put together to throw light upon the obscurities and
clear away the difficulties of " Don Quixote."

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 humor was not entirely de-
nied, bu.t, according to the new view, it Avas rated as an alto-
gether secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than

"7)07v Quixote: Hii

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 dis(.'redit 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, be-
tween the spirit of poetry and the spirit of prose ; and per-
haps German philosophy never evolved a more ungaiidy 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 commu-
nity 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
any one else.

Another idea, which apparently had a strange fascination for
some minds, was that there are deep political meanings lying
hidden under the drolleries of " Don Quixote." This, indeed,
was not altogether of modern growth. If we believed, what
nobody believes now, the Buscapie to be genuine, some such
notion would seem to have been current soon after the appear-
ance of the book. At any rate Defoe, in the preface to the
" Serious Eeflections of Eobinson Crusoe," tells us that though
thousands read <' Don Quixote " without any suspicion of the
fact, " those who know the meaning of it know it to be an em-
blematic history of, and a just satire upon, the Duke of Medina
Sidonia." That the ''Duke of Lerma"'was the original of
"■ Don Quixote " was a favorite theory with others who, we must

liv INTRODUCTION.

suppose, saw nothing improbable in the Archbishop of Toledo
making a lyroUge of the man that according to them had ridi-
ciiled and satirized his brother. Other suggestions were that
Cervantes meant Charles V., Philip II., Ignatius Loyola;
while those who were not prepared to go so far as to declare
the whole book to be a political satire, applied their ingenuity
to the discovery of allusions to the events and personages of
the day in almost every incident of the story. It became, in
short, a kind of pastime with literary idlers to go a mare's-
nesting in " Don Quixote," and hunt for occult significations
in the bill of ass-colts delivered to Sancho Panza, the decision
on the pack-saddle and basin question, the names and arms of
the chieftains in the encounter with the sheep, or wherever the
ordinary reader in his simplicity flattered himself that the
author's drift was unmistakable. In fact, to believe these
scholiasts, Cervantes was the prince of cryptographers, and
" Don Quixote " a tissue of riddles from beginning to end.

The pursuit has evidently attractions inexplicable to the un-
initiated, but perhaps its facility may have something to do
with its charm, for in truth nothing is easier than to prove
one's self wiser than the rest of the world in this way. All
that is necessary is to assert dogmatically that by A the
author means B, and that when he says " black " he means
" white." If some future commentator chooses to say that
<' Pickwick " is an " emblematic history " of Lord Melbourne ;
that Jingle, with his versatility, audacity, and volubility, is
meant for Lord P>rougham ; Sam Weller for Sydney Smith, the
faithful joker of the Whig party ; and INIr. Pickwick's mishap
on the ice for Lord Melbourne's falling through from insuffi-
cient support in 1834 ; and that he is a l:)lockhead who offers
to believe otherwise ; who shall say him nay ? It will be im-
possible to confute him, save by calling up Charles Dickens
from his grave in Westminster Abbey.

According to others, there are philosophical ideas of a start-
ling kind to be found in abundance in " Don Quixote " by
those Avho choose to look for them, ideas that show Cervantes
to have been far in advance of his time. The precise nature
of these ideas is in general rather vaguely intiinated ; though,
to be sure, in one instance it is claimed for Cervantes that he
anticipated Descartes. " Don Quixote," it will be remembered,
on awaking in the cave of Montesinos was at first doubtful of
his own identity, but on feeling himself all over and observing

''DON Quixote:' Iv

" the collected thouglits that passed through his mind," he was
convinced that he was himself and not a phantom, which, it
has been urged plausibly, was in effect a practical application
of the Cartesian " Cogito, ergo sum." But for the most part
the expositors content themselves with the assertion that run-
ning through " Don Quixote " there is a vein of satire aimed
at the Church, dogma, sacerdotalism, and the Inquisition.
This, of course, wilt at once strike most people as being ex-
tremely unlikely. Cervantes wrote at about the most active
period of the Inquisition, and if he ventured upon satire of
this sort he would have been in the position of the reduced
gentlewoman who was brought down to selling tarts in the
street for a livelihood, and who used to say to herself every
time she cried her wares, " I hope to goodness nobody hears
me."

There is, moreover, something very characteristic of nine-
teenth century self-conceit in the idea that it was reserved for
our superior intelligence to see what those poor, blind, stupid
officers of the Inquisition could not perceive. Any one, how-
ever, who, for instance, compares the original editions of
Quevedo's " Visions " with the authorized Madrid edition will
see that these officials were not so very blind, but that on the
contrary their eyes were marvellously keen to detect anything
that had the slightest tincture of disrespect or irreverence.
Nay, " Don Quixote " itself is a proof of their vigilance, for
three years after the Second Part had appeared they cut out
the Duchess's not very heterodox remark that works of charity
done in a lukev/arm way are of no avail. It may be said that
Sancho's observations upon the sham sambenito and mitre in
chapter Ixix., Part II., and Dapple's return home adorned with
them in chapter Ixxiii., are meant to ridicule the Inquisition ;
but it is plain the Inquisition itself did not think so, and
probably it was as good a judge as any one nowadays.

For one passage capable of being tortured into covert
satire against any of these things, there are ten in " Don
Quixote " and the novels that show — what, indeed, is suffi-
ciently obvious from the little we know of his life and char-
acter — that Cervantes was a faithful son of the Church. As
to his having been in advance of his age, the line he took up
on the expulsion of the Moriscoes disposes of that assertion.
Had he been the far-seeing philosopher and profound thinker
the Cervantists strive to make him out, he would have looked

Ivi tNTR OD UCTION.

with contempt and disgust upon an agitation as stupid and
childish as ever came of priestly bigotry acting on popular
fanaticism and ignorance ; and if not moved by the barbarovis
cruelty of the measure, he would have been impressed by its
mischievous consequences to his country, as all the best states-
men of the day were. No loyal reader of his will believe
for a moment that his vigorous advocacy of it was under-
taken against his convictions and solely in order to please
his patron, the leader of the movement. The truth is, no
doubt, that in the Archbishop's ante-chamber he heard over
and over again all the arguments he has reproduced in
" Don Quixote " and in the novel of the '' Colloquy of the
Dogs," and that his opinions, as • opinions so often do, took
their complexion from his surroundings. There is no reason
to question his sincerity, but the less that is said of his
philosophy and foresight the better. He was a philosopher
in one and perhaps the best sense, for he knew how to
endure the ills of life with philosojihy ; his knowledge of
human nature was profound, his observation was marvellous ;
but life never seems to have presented any mystery to him, or
suggested any problem to his mind.

It does not require much study of the literary history of the
time, or any profound critical examination of the work, to
see that these elaborate theories and ingenious speculations
are not really necessary to explain the meaning of " Don
Quixote " or the purpose of Cervantes. 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 sketch given in the Appendix, 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 infat-
uation of their readers. It would be easy to fill a couple of
pages with the complaints that were made of the mischief
produced by the inordinate appetite for this kind of reading,
especially among the upper classes, who, unhappily for them-

''DON QUIXOTE.'" Ivii

selves and their country, had only too much time for such
pursuits under the rule of Charles V. and his successors. As
Pedro Mexia, the chronicler of Charles V. puts it, there were
many who had ])roi;ght themselves to think in the very style
of the books they read, books of which might often be said,
and with far more truth, what Ascham said of the " Morte
d' Arthur," that " the whole pleasure standeth in two speciall
poyntes, in open manslaughter and bold bawdrye."

Ticknor, in his second volume, cited some of the most nota-
ble of these predecessors of Cervantes ; but one not mentioned
by him, or, so far as I am aware, by any other writer on the
subject, may be quoted here as having been perhaps the im-
mediate predecessor of, and using language curiously like that
in, " Don Quixote." I mean Fray Juan de Tolosa, who says
he wrote his fantastically entitled religious treatise, the
*' Aranjuez del Alma " (Saragossa, 1589), in order to '' drive
out of our Spain that dust-cloud of books of chivalries, as they
call them (of knaveries, as I call them), that blind the eyes of
all wlro, not reflecting upon the harm they are doing their
souls, give themselves up to them, and waste the best part of
the year in striving to learn whether Don Belianis of Greece
took the enchanted castle, or whether Don Florisel de Niquea,
after all his battles, celebrated the marriage he was bent
iipon." Good Fray Juan did not choose the right imple-
ment. Eidicule 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 sufHciently
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 " Cer-
vantes smiled Spain's chivalry away." In the lirst 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 substi-
tuted for the free institutions of mediaeval Spain. What he
did smile away was not chivalry but a degrading mockery of
it; it would be just as reasonable to say that England's chiv-
alry was smiled away by the ridicule showered in " Punch "
upon the men in block-tin who ride in the Lord Mayor's Show.

The true nature of the '' right arm " and the '' bright array,"

Iviii INTRODUCTION.

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 ap-
pearance in the world of that labor of Cervantes," he said,
" it is next to an impossibility for a man to walk the streets
with any delight or Avithout 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 nota-
ble history, the man that was seen in that once celebrated
dmpery 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 OAve 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 ances-
tors."

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 enthu-
siasm 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, and 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 doid)t to
some minds it is very sad that a man who had just uttered so
beautifid a sentiment as that <' it is a hard case to make slaves
of those whom God and Nature made free," should be ungrate-
fully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy philanthropy had let
loose on society ; but to others of a more judicial cast it will
1)6 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.

' This book, it may be as well to remind some readers, is not, as it i?
still often described, one of Defoe's novels, but the genuine experiences
of an English officer in Spain during the Succession War.

''DON QUIXOTE^ lix

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 — " Rinconete
and Cortadillo,'' " The Generous Lover," " The Adventures of
Cardenio and Dorothea," the " Ill-advised Curiosity," " The
Ca})tive's Story " — a tale setting forth the ludicrous results
that might be expected to follow the attempt of a crazy gen-
tleman 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. It is needless to point out the dif-
ference this inii)lies. 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, as may be seen by the beginnings and endings of the
first half-dozen chapters ; and without the intervention of Cid
Haniet Benengeli ; and it seems not unlikely that Cervantes
had some intention of bringing Dulciuea, 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 develop-
ment. What, if instead of a mere string of farcical misad-
ventures, 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 some-
what clumsily divided what he had written into chapters on
the model of " Amadis," invented the fable of a mysterious
Arabic manuscript, and set up Cid Hamet Benengeli in indta-
tion 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 idea, 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

Ix • INTRODUCTION.

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 in-
stance occurred to his memory." We can see the whole scene
at a glance, the stolid unconsciousness of Sancho and the per-
plexity of his master, upon whose perception the incongruity
has just forced itself. This is Sancho's mission throughout
the book : he is an unconscious Mei)histopheles, always un-
wittingly making mockery of his master's aspirations, always
exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some unintentional ad
ahsurduvi, always bringing him back to the .world of fact and
commonplace by force of sheer stolidity.

The burlesque, it Avill be observed, is not steadily kept up
even throughout the First Part. Cervantes seems, as in fact
lie confesses in the person of Cid Hamet in chapter xliv. of
the Second Part, to have grown weary before long of the re-
strictions it imposed upon him, and to have felt it, as he says
himself, " intolerable drudgery to go on writing on one sub-
ject," chronicling the sayings and doings of the same two
characters. It is plain that, as is often the case with persons
of sanguine temperament, sustained effort was irksome to him.
For thirty years he had contemplated the completion of the
" Galatea," unable to bring himself to set about it. He had
the "Persiles," which he looked upon as his best work — in
prose at least — an equal length of time on his hands. The
Second Part of " Don Quixote " he wrote in a very desultoiy
fashion, putting it aside again and again to turn to something
else. And when he made an end, it was always a hasty one.
Each part of " Don Quixote " he finishes off with a wild
flourish, and seems to fling down his pen with a " whoop "
like a schoolboy at the end of a task he has been kept in for.
Even the '' Viaje del Parnaso," a thing entered upon and
written con amove, he ends abruptly as if he had got tired of it.

It was partly for this reason, as he himself admits, that he
inserted the story of '' Cardenio and Dorothea," that with the
luitranslatable title which I have ventured to call the " Ill-
advised Curiosity," and " The Captive's Story," that fill up
the greater part of the last half of the volume, as well as the
'' Chrysostom and Marcela " episode in the earlier chapters.
But of course there were other reasons. He had these stories
ready written, and it seemed a good way of disposing of them.

"DON Quixote:' Ixi

It is by no means unlikely that he mistrusted his own powers
of extracting from Don Quixote and Sancho material enough
to fill a book ; but above all it is likely he felt doubtful of his
venture. It was an experiment in literature far bolder than
'^ Lazarillo de Tornies " or " Guzman de Alfarache ; " he could
not tell how it would be received ; and it was as well, there-
fore, to provide his readers with something of the sort they
were used to, as a kind of insurance against total failure.

The event did not justify his diffidence. The public, he
acknowledges, skimmed the tales hastily and impatiently,
eager to return to the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho ;
and the public has ever since done much the same. He him-
self owns that they are altogether out of place, and nothing
but the natural reluctance of editors and translators to muti-
late a great classic has preserved them, for in truth they are
not only out of place, but positive blemishes. An exception
might be made in favor of the story of the Captive, which
has an interest in itself independent of the autobiographical
touches it contains, and is in the main told in a straightfor-
ward soldierly way.

But the others have nothing to recommend them. Tijey are
commonplace tales of intrigue that might have been written
by any tenth-rate story-teller. With a certain pretence of
moral purpose, the " Ill-advised Curiosity " is a nauseous story,
and the morality of Dorothea's story is a degree worse than
that of Richardson's '' Pamela ; " it is, in fact, a story of '■' easy
virtue rewarded." The characters are utterly uninteresting;
the men, Cardenio and Don Fernando, Anselmo and Lothario,
are a contemptible set ; and the women are remarkable for noth-
ing but a tendency to swoon away on slight provocation, and
to make long speeches the very adjectives of which would be
enough for a strong man. The reader will observe the differ-
ence between the Dorothea of the tale and the graceful,
sprightly, natural Dorothea who acts the part of the Princess
Micomicona with such genuine gayety and fun.

But it is in style that these tales offend most of all. They
are not worth telling, and they are told at three times the
length that would have been allowable if they were. ISTo
device known to prolixity is omitted. Verbs and adjectives
always go in pairs like panniers on a donkey, as if one must
inevitably fall to the ground without the other to balance it.
Nobody ever says or sees anything, he always declares and

Ixii INTRODUCTION.

asserts it, or perceives and discerns it. If a thing is beantifnl
it must likewise be lovely, and nothing can be odious without
being detestable too ; though as a rule adjectives are seldom
used but in the superlative degree. Everything is said with
as much circiimlocution and rodomontade as possible, as if the
lavish expenditure of words were the great object. And yet,
following immediately upon these tawdry artificial productions,
we have the charming little episode of Don Luis and Dona
Clara, as if Cervantes wished to show that when he chose he
could write a love story in a simple, natural style.

The latter portion of the First Part is, in short, almost all
episodes and digressions ; no sooner are the tales disposed of,
than we have the long criticism on the chivalry romances and
the drama, interesting and valuable no doubt, but still just as
much out of place, and that is followed by the goat-herd's
somewhat pointless story.

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 favor, 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 be-
come 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 Qidxote
has no character or individuality whatever. He is nothing
more than a crazy representative of the sentiments of the chiv-
alry romances. In all that he says and does he is simply
repeating the lesson he has learned from his books ; and there-
fore, as Hallani with perfect justice maintains, it is absurd
to speak of him in the gushing strain of the sentimental
critics when they dilate upon his nobleness, disinterestedness,
daimtless courage, and so forth. It was the business of a
knight-errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and succor the

''DON QUIXOTE'' Ixiii

distressed, and this, as a matter of course, he makes his busi-
ness when he takes up the part ; a knight-errant was l>ound to
be intrepid, and so he feels i)ound to cast fear aside. Of all
Byron's melodious nonsense about Don Quixote, the most non-
sensical statement is that '• 't is his virtue makes him nuid ! ''
The exact opposite is the truth; it is his madness nuakes him
virtuous.

In this respect he remains unchanged in the Second Part ;
but at the same time 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 suliject of chivalry, and that on every other
subject he is " discreto," one, in fact, v/hose faculty of discern-
ment is in perfect order. He thus invests Don Quixote with a
dignity which was wholly wanting to him in the First Part,
and at the same time reserves to himself the right of making
him speak and act not only like a man of sense, but like a
man of exceptionally clear and acute mind, whenever it may
become desirable to travel outside the limits of the burlescpie.
The advantage of this is that he is enabled to make \ise of
Don Quixote as a mouthpiece for his own reflections, and so,
without seeming to digress, allow himself the relief of digres-
sion 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, siich as his mixture of irascibility and
placability, and his curios s affection for Sanclio, together with
his impatience of the squire's loquacity and impertinence ;
but in the niain, 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 Sanclio, it is plain, from the concluding w(_irds of the
preface to the First Part, that he was a favorite with his crea-
tor even before he had been taken into favor by the public.
An inferior genius, taking him in hand a second time, woidd
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
re-appears, is the old Sancho with the old familiar features ;
but with a difference ; they have been brought out more dis-
tinctly, but at the same time with a careful avoidance of any-
thing like caricature; the outline has been tilled in Avhere

Ixiv INTRODUCTION.

filling in was necessary, and, vivified by a few tonclies of a
master's hand, Sancho stands before us as he might in a char-
acter 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, as may be seen in his explanation of Don Quixote's
bruises in chapter xvi., and above all in that marvellous series
of lies he strings together in chapter xxxi. in answer to Don
(Jaixote's questions about Dulcinea. 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 ; i)lain working lies, in
short. But in the service of such a anaster as Don Quixote he
develops rapidly, as we see when he comes to palm oft' the
three country wenches as Dulcinea and her ladies in waiting.
It is worth noticing how, flushed by his success in this in-
stance, he is tempted afterwards to try a flight beyond his
})owers in his account of the journey on Clavileiio.

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 Dul-
cinea. In the romances of chivalry love is either a mere ani-
malism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a coarse-minded man
would care to make merry with the former, but to one of Cer-
vantes' humor 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 j^robably due to the influence of those
masters of hyperbole, the I'rovencal poets. When a troul)a-
dour 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 him-
self the slave of her will, which the next was compelled to cap
by some still stronger declaration ; and so expressions of devo-
tion went on rising one above the other like biddings at an
auction, and a conventional language of gallantry and theory

"DON QUIXOTE" Ixv

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 D(;n
Quixote's passion for Dulcinea, and in no instance has he car-
ried 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 Avith an additional
extravagance, and gives still more point to the caricature of
the sentiment and language of the romances.

There will always be a difference of opinion as to the rela-
tive merits of the First and Second Parts of " Don Quixote."
As naturally follows from the difference in aim between the
two Parts, the First is the richer in laughable incidents, the
Second in character ; and the First will always be the favorite
with those whose taste leans to humor of a farcical sort, while
the Second will have the preference vrith those who incline to
the humor of comedy. Another reason why the Second Part
has less of the purely ludicrous element in it is that Cervantes,
having a greater respect for liis hero, is more careful of his
personal dignity. In the interests of the story he has to allow
Don Quixote to be made a butt of to some extent, but he
spares him the cudgellings and cuffings which are the usual
tinale of the poor gentleman's adventures in the First Part.

There can be no question, however, as to the superiority of
the Second Part in style and construction. It is one of the
commonplaces of criticism to speak of " Don Quixote " as if
it were a model of Spanish prose, but in truth there is no
work of note in the language that is less deserving of the title.
There are of course various styles in '' Don Quixote." Dun
Quixote's own language (except when he loses his temper
with Sancho) is most commonly modelled on that of the
romances of chivalry, and many of the descriptive passages,
like those about the sun appearing on the balconies of the
east, and so forth, are parodies of the same. I have already
spoken of the wearisome verbosity of the inserted novels, but
the narrative portions of the book itself, especially in the
First Part, are sometimes just as long-winded and wordy. In
both the style reminds one somewhat of that of the euphuists,
and of their repugnance to saying anything in a natural way,

Vol. l.—e

Ixvi INTRODUCTION.

and their love of cold conceits and verbal quibbles. These
were the besetting sins of the prose of the day, but Cervantes
has besides sins of his own to answer for. He was a careless
writer at all times, but in '< Don Quixote " he is only too
often guilty of downright slovenliness. The word is that of
his compatriot and stanch admirer Clemencin, or I should
not venture to use it, justifiable as it may be in the case of a
writer who deals in long sentences staggering down the page
on a multiplicity of " ands," or working themselves into tan-
gles of parentheses, sometimes parenthesis within parenthe-
sis ; who begins a sentence one way and ends it another ; who
sends relatives adrift without any antecedent to look to; who
mixes up nominatives, verbs, and pronouns in a way that
would have driven a Spanish Cobbett frantic. Here is an
example of a very common construction in " Don Quixote : "
" The host stood staring at him, and entreated with him that
he would rise ; but he never would until he had to tell him
that he granted him the boon he begged of him." Here, as
Cobl)ett would have said, " is perfect confusion and pell-mell,"
though no doubt the meaning is clear.

Nor are his laxaties of this sort only ; his grammar is very
often lax, he repeats words and names out of pure heedless-
ness, and he has a strange propensity to inversion of ideas, and
a curious tendency to say the very opposite of what he meant
to say. His blind worshippers, with whom it is an axiom
that he can do no wrong, make an odd apology for some of
these slips. They are only his fun, they say ; in which case
Cervantes must have written with a prophetic eye to the
friends of Mr. Peter Magnus, for assuredly no others of the
sons of men would be amused by such means.

But liesides these two, there is Avhat we may call Cervantes'
own style, that into which he falls naturally when he is not
imitating the romances of chivalry, or under any unlucky
impulse in the direction of fine-writing. It is almost the
exact opposite of the last. It is a simple, unaffected, collo-
(piial style, not indeed a model of correctness, or distinguished
by any special grace or elegance, for Cervantes always wrote
hastily and carelessly, but a model of clear, terse, vigorous
expression. To an English reader. Swift's style will, per-
haps, convey the best idea of its character ; at the same time,
though equally matter-of-fact, it has more vivacity than
Swift's.

"DON QUIXOTE." Ixvii

This is the prevailing style of the Second Part, which is
cast in the dramatic form to a much greater extent than the
First, consisting, indeed, largely of dialogue between master
and man, or of Don Quixote's discourses and Saneho's inimi-
table comments thereon. Episodes, Cid Hamet tells us, have
been sparingly introduced, and he adds significantly, " with
no more words than suffice to make them intelligible," as if
even then the verbosity of the novels had proved too much
for some of the readers of the First Part. The assertion,
however, is scarcely borne out by the fair Claudia's story
in chapter Ix., or that prodigious speech Avhich Ana Felix
delivers with the rope round her neck in chapter Ixiii.

It may be, as Hallam says, that in the incidents of the
Second Part there is not the same admirable probability
there is in those of the First ; though what could be more
delightfully probable than the sequel of Sancho's unlucky
purchase of the curds in chapter xvii. for example ? But
it must be allowed that the Second Part is constructed
with greater art, if the word can be applied to a story
so artless. The result of Sancho's audacious imposture at
El Toboso, for instance, its consequences to himself in the
matter of the enchantment of Dulcinea and the penance
laid upon him, his shifts and shirkings, and Don Quixote's
insistence in season and out of season, are a masterpiece of
comic intrigue. Not less adroit is the way in which encour-
agement is doled out to master and man from time to time,
to keep them in heart. Even with all due allowance for
the infatuation of Don Quixote and the simplicity and cu-
pidity of Sancho, to represent them as holding out under
an unbroken course of misfortune would have been untrue
to human nature. The victory achieved in such knightly
fashion over the Biscayan, supports Don Quixote under all
the disasters that befall him in the First Part; and in the
Second his success against the Knight of the Mirrors, and
in the adventure with the lion, and his reception as a knight-
errant by the Duke and Duchess, serve to confirm him in
his idea of his powers and vocation. Material support was
still more needful in Sancho's case. It is plain that a pro-
spective island would not have kept his faith in chivalry alive,
had it not been for the treasure-trove of the Sierra Morena
and the flesh-pots of Camacho's wedding.

One of the great merits of " Don Quixote/' and one of the

Ixviii INTR OD UC TION.

qualities that have secured its acceptance by all classes of
readers and made it the most cosmopolitan of laooks, is its sim-
plicity. As Samson Carrasco says, "There's nothing in it to
puzzle over." The bachelor's remark, however, cannot be taken
literally, else there would be an impertinence in notes and
commentaries. There are, of course, points obvious enough
to a Spanish seventeenth-centviry audience which do not im-
mediately strike a reader nowadays, 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 com-
pletely 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 com-
mentator can give. Of all the regions of Spain it is the last
that would suggest the idea of romance. Of all the dull cen-
tral' plateau of the Peninsula it is tlie dullest tract. There is
something impressive about the grim solitudes of Estrema-
dura ; and if the plains of Leon and Old Castile are bald and
dreary, they are studded with old cities renowned in story
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 pict-
uresqueness of poverty; indeed, Don Quixote's own village,
Arganiasilla, 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 wind-
mill kind.

To any one 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-laborer 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

''DON Quixote:' Ixix

whole liunior and purpose of the book, shoiikl 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 major-
ity of the artists who illustrated " Don Quixote " knew noth-
ing 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 humor 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 discre-
])ancy. Take, for instance, Gustave Dore's drawing of Don
Quixote watching his armor in the inn-yard. Whether or not
the Venta de Quesada on the Seville road is, as tradition main-
tains, the inn described in " Don Quixote," beyond all question
it was just such an inn-yard as the one behind it that Cervan-
tes 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 armor. 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 sur-
roundings and circumstances that gives a significance to Don
Quixote's vigil and the ceremony that follows. Gustave Dore
might as well have turned La Tolosa a:id La Molinera into
village maidens of the opera type in ribbons and roses.

No humor suffers more from this kind of treatment than
that of Cervantes. Of that finer and more delicate humor
through which there runs a thread of pathos he had but little,
or, it would be fairer to say, shows but little. There are few
indications in " Don Quixote " or the novelas of the power
that produced that marvellous scene in " Lazarillo de Tormes,"
where the poor hidalgo paces the patio, watching with his
hungry eyes his ragged little retainer munching the crusts and
CO wheel. Cervantes' humor 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 ran ye of fiction.

IxX INTRODUCTION.

That unsmiling gravity of which Cervantes was the first great
master, " Cervantes' serious air," which sits naturally on Swift
alone, perhaps, of later humorists, is essential to this kind of
humor, 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 atteinpt to rep-
resent 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 uncon-
sciousness of the author that he is saying anything ludicrous,
anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar
flavor to the humor of Cervantes. His, iu fact, is the exact
opposite of the humor of Sterne and the self-conscious humorist.
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 humorists always keep themselves out of sight, or, more
properly speaking, never think about themselves at all, unlike
our latter-day school of humorists, 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 humor 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 consci-
entious translator. Sancho's curt comments can never fall flat,
but they lose half their flavor when transferred from their
native Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners
have failed to do justice to the humor of Cervantes, they are
no worse than his own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for
the Spanish peasant's hearty relish of " Don Quixote," one
jnight be tempted to think that the great humorist was not
looked upon as a humorist at all in his own country. Any
one knowing nothing of Cervantes, and dipping into the exten-
sive exegetical literature that has grown up of late years
round him and his works, would infallibly carry away the idea
that he was one of the most obscure writers that ever spoiled
paper, that if he had a meaning his chief endeavor was to

''DON QUIXOTE'' Ixxi

keep it to liiniself, and that Avhatever gifts he may have pos-
sessed, humor was most certainly not one of them.

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 nowadays, 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 man-
ner 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. If they are not actu-
ally insensible to his humor, they probably regard it as a
quality which their own dignity as well as his will not allow
them to recognize, and I am inclined to suspect that this feel-
ing has as much to do with their bitterness against Clemencin,
as his temerity in venturing to point out faults in the god of
their idolatry. Clemencin, if not the only one, is one of the
few Spanish critics or commentators who show a genuine and
hearty enjoyment of the humor of " Don Quixote." Again
and again, as he is growling over Cervantes' laxities of
grammar and construction, he has to lay down his pen, and
wipe his eyes that are brimming over at some drollery or
na'irete of Sancho's, and it may well be that this frivolous
behavior is regarded with the utmost contempt by men so
intensely in earnest as the Cervantistas.

To speak of " Don Quixote " as if it were merely a humor-
ous 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 reflec-
tions 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
individualized character. What Coleridge said of Shake-
speare m 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

Ixxii INTRODUCTION.

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 Cer-
vantes 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
doglike affection for his master, who is there that in his heart
does not love him ?

But it is, after all, the humor of " Don Quixote " that dis-
tinguishes 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 humor, ranging from broad
farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare's or Moliere's, that
has naturalized it in every country where there are readers, and
made it a classic in every language that has a literature.

We are sometimes told that classics have had their day, and
that the literature of the future means to shake itself loose
from the past, and respect no antiquity and recognize no prec-
edent. Will the coming iconoclasts spare " Don Quixote," or
is (^ervantes doomed with Homer and I)ante, Shakespeare and
Moliere ? So far as a forecast is possible, it seems clear that
their hu.mor will not be his humor. Even now, persons who
take their idea of humor from that form of it most commonly
found between yellow and red lioards on a railway book-stall
may be sometimes heard to express a doubt about the humor
of " Don Quixote," and the sincerity of those who profess to
enjoy it, they themselves being, in their own phrase, unable to
see any fun in it. The humor of " Don Quixote " has, how-
ever, the advantage of being based upon human nature, and as
the human nature of the future will probably be, upon the
whole, much the same as the human nature of the past, it is,
perhaps, no unreasonable supposition that what has been
relished for its truth may continue to find some measure of
acceptance.

If it be not presumptuous to express any solicitude about

'I am going through Don Quixote again, and admire it more than
ever. It is certainly the best novel in the world beyond all comparison.
— Macaulay, l^ifc and Letters.

''DON Quixote:' ixxiii

the future, let us hope so ; for, it miist be owned, its prophets
do not encourage the idea that liveliness will be among its
characteristics. The humor of Cervantes may have its uses
too, even in that advanced state of society. The future,
doubtless, will b;' great and good and wise and virtuous, but
being still human, it will have its vanities and self-conceits,
its shams, humbugs, and impostures, even as we have, or
haply greater than ours, for everything, we are told, will be
on a scale of which we have no conception ; and against these
there is no weapon so effective as the old-fashioned one with
which Cervantes smote the great sham of his own day.

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

Idle Readef. : thou mayest believe me without any oalli

that I woukl 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, ill-tilled wit of mine

beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, wliimsical 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 ? Trancpiillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields,

bright skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the

things that go far to make evei>the most barren muses fertile,

and bring into the world births that fill it with wonder and

delight. Sonietimes 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

nund 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 Qidxote " — 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

owu house and master of it as much as the king is 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

' Prov. 201. In its original and correct form it is "give orders to tlie
king " — " al rey mando " — i.e., recognize no superior.

(Ixxv)

Ixxvi DON QUIXOTE.

unadorned, without any embellishment of preface or uncount-
able muster of customary sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, sucli
as are commonly put at the beginning of books. For I can tell
thee, though composing it cost me some labor, 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 pa})er 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 skunbering 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 faljles
and profanity, are so -full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato,
and the whole herd of philosojihers, that they till 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 I — any one 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, K, C, ])eginning 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 son-
nets 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

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. Ixxvii

give lue them, and such as the productiuns of those that have
the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal. '

" In short, my friend," I continued, " I am determined
that Seiior Don Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of
his own La Mancha luitil 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, un-
equal to sup})lying 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 fore-
head and breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, " Before
(rod. 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 shrew^d and sensible in all you
do ; but now I see you are as far from that as the heaven is
from the earth. How ? Is it possible that things of so little
moment and so easy to set right can occujjy and perplex a ripe
wit like yours, fit to lireak through and crush far greater
obstacles ? By my faith, this comes, not of any Avant 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 ami
shutting of an eye, I sweep away all your difficulties, and
supply all those deficiencies which you say check and dis-
courage you from bringing l)efore the world the story of your
famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-
errantry."

' Tlie humor of tliis, and indeed of tlie greater part of the Preface, can
liardly be relislied without a knowledge of the books of the (hiy, liut esjie-
cially Lope de Vega's, whicli in their original editions aitpeareil generally
witli an imposing display of complimentary sonnets and verses, as well as
of other adjuncts of the sort Cervantes laughs at. Lope's Isidro (1599) had
ten pieces of complimentary verse prefixed to it, and the Ilermosura de
Angelica (1G02) liad seven. Hartzenbusch remarks tliat Aristotle and
riato are the first authors quoted by Lope in the Peregrino en su Patrin
(1604).

Who the two or three obliging friends may have been is not easy to say.
Young Quevedo, who had just then taken his place in the front rank of
the poets of the day, was, no doubt, one; Espinel may have been another;
and Jauregui might have ])een the third. Cervantes had not many friends
among the poets of the day. His friendships lay rather among those of
the generation that was dying out when Don Quixote appeared.

Ixxviii DON QUIXOTE.

" Say on," said I, listening to his talk ; '' how do you pro-
pose 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 im-
portance and rank, can be removed if you yourself take a
little trouble to make them ; you can afterwards baptize them,
and put any name you like to them, fathering them on Prestcr
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 aiiro ;

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 jequo 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 vohis : dUigife
inhnicos vestros. If you speak of evil thoughts, turn to the
Gospel : De corde exeunt cogitafioties mala'. If of the fickle-
ness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you his distich :

Donee eris felix nmltos numerabis amicos,
Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.**

' .T.sop, Fable of the Dog and the Wolf.

- The distich is not Cato's, but ( )vi<rs ; but Hartzenbusch points out that
there is a distich of Cato's beginning Cum fueris felix which Cervantes
may have originally inserted, substituting the other afterwards as more
applicable. Lope de Vega's second name was Felix, and Hartzenbusch
thinks the quotation was aimed at him. The Cato is, of course, Dionysius
Cato, author of the DisticJia de Moribus.

THE author's preface. Ixxix

With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for
a grammarian at all events, and that nowadays is no small
honor 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 yon almost nothing, you have
a grand note, for you can put — The giant Gollas or Gollatlt
was a PliUistliie ivliom the shepherd David sleiv by a mightij
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 litera-
ture and cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be
named in yotir 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 pdace and falls into the ocean, kissing the umlls 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 Mondoiledo,
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.

' In the Index of Proper Names to Lope's Arcadia there is a description
of the Tagus in very nearly these words.

^ The Bishop of Mondonedo was Antonio do Guevara, in whose
epistles the story referred to appears. The introduction of the Bishop
and the " creditable reference " is a touch after Swift's heart.

^ Author of the Dialoghi di Aniore, a Portuguese Jew, who settled in
Spain, but was expelled and went to Naples in 1492.

■*. Amor de Bios, by Cristobal de Fonseca, printed in 1594.

Ixxx DON QUIXOTE.

in your own, and leave it to me to insert tlie annotations and
quotations, and I swear by all that 's good ' to till your mar-
gins 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, tliat is no matter ; there will probably
be some simple enough to believe that you have made vise of
them all in this plain, artless story of yours. At any rate, if
it answers no other pur})Ose, 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 whicli 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
})erfect the imitation the better the work will be. And as this
piece of yours aims at nothing more than to destroy the author-
ity and influence which books of chivalry have in the world
and with the pidilic, 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

'" By all that 's good" — " Voto a tal" — one of the milder forms of
asseveration used as a substitute on occasions when the stronger " Voto
a Dios " might seem uncalled for or irreverent ; an expletive of the same
nature as " Egad ! " " Begad ! " or the favorite feminine exclamation,
" Oh my ! " " By all that's good " has, no doubt, the same origin. Of the
same sort are, " Voto a Brios," " Voto a Rus," " Cuerpo de tal," " Vida
de tal," etc. The last two correspond to our " Od's body," " Od's life."

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. Ixxxi

well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of
your power and as well as possible, 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 Avearied, that the judicious shall admii'e the in-
vention, 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 fortiine 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 neighbor-
hood. I have no desire to magnify the service I render thee
in making thee acquainted with so renowned and honored 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.

' The gracioso was the " droll " of the Spanish stage. Cervantes re-
peatedly uses the word to describe Sancho, and, as here, alludes to his
gracias or drolleries.

Vol. I.-/

Ixxxii DON QUIXOTE.

COMMENDATORY VERSES.

URGANDA THE UNKNOWN ^

TO THE BOOK OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.

If to be welcomed by the good,

0 Book ! tliou 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 labor will be thy reward,

Though they '11 pretend appreciation.

They say a goodly shade he hnds

Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree ; ^
And such a one thy kindly star

In Bejar hath 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."

' All translators, I think, except Shelton and Mr. DnfBeld, have entirely
omitted these preliminary pieces of verse, which, however, should he
preserved — not for their poetical merits, which are of the slenderest
sort, but because, being burlesques on tlif pompous, extravagant, lauda-
tory verses usually prefixed to l)ooks in tlie time of Cervantes, they are
in harmony Avith the aim and purpose of the work, and also a fulfilment
of the promise lield out in the Preface.

- Or more strictly "the unrecognized ; " a personage in Amadis of Gaul
somewliat akin to Morgan la Fay and Vivien in tlie Arthur legend, though
the part she ])lays is more like that of Merlin. She derived her title from
the faculty which, like Merlin, she possessed of changing her form and
appearance at will. The verses are assigned to her probably because she
was the adviser of Amadis. They form a kind of appendix to the author's
Preface.

^ Prov. 15.

■•The Duke of Bejar, to wliom the book was dedicated. The Zuniga
family, of which the Duke was the head, claimed descent from the royal
line of Navarre.

COMMENDATORY VERSES. Ixxxiil

Of a Manchegan gentleman

Thy purpose is to tell tlie 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 Dnlcinea del Toboso.

Pnt 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 can not comprehend,
Make a wry face at thee and ask,

" Why offer flowers to me, my friend ? "

'"Le donne, i cavalieri, I'arme, gli amori " — Orlando Furioso., \. i.
This is one of many proofs that the Orlando of Ariosto was one of the
sources from which Cervantes borrowed.

''"Figures," i.e. picture cards. The allusion to vain emblems on the
shield is a sly hit at Lope de Vega, whose portrait in the Arcadia, and
again in the Rimas (1602), has underneath it a shield bearing nine castles
surrounded by an orle with ten more.

3 This refers to the querulous and egotistic tone in which dedications
were often written. Alvaro de Luna was the Constable of Castile and
favorite of John IL, beheaded at Valladolid in 1450. Francis I. of
France was kept a prisoner at Madrid by Charles V. for a year after the
battle of Pavia. The last four lines of the stanza are almost verbatim
from verses by Fray Domingo de Guzman written as a gloss upon some
lines carved by the poet Fray Luis de Leon on the wall of his cell in Va-
lladolid, where he was imprisoned by the Inquisition.

■•Juan Latino, a self-educated negro slave in the household of the
Duke of Sesa, who gave him his freedom. He was for sixty years Pro-
fessor of Rhetoric and Latin at Granada, where he died in 1573.

Ixxxiv DON QUIXOTE.

Be not a meddler ; no affair

Of thine the life thy neighbors lead :
Be prudent ; oft the random jest

Recoils upon the jester's head.
Thy constant labor 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 MA^"CHA.

SONNET.

Thou that didst imitate that life of mine,'

When I in lonely sadness on the great

Rock Peiia 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 endiu'e,

And thy sage author stand without a peer.

' In allusion to Don Quixote's penance in the Sierra Morena.

COMMENDATORY VERSES. Ixxxv

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 wi-ong 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 OEIANA^

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

• V. Note 1, p. 3.

* Oriana, the heroine of Amadis of Gaul. Her castle Miraflores was
within two leagues of London. Slielton in his translation puts it at
Greenwich.

Ixxxvi DON QUIXOTE.

As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss !

Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;
None would I envy, {ill 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 BOCINANTE.

ON SANCHO.

I am the esquire Sancho Pan —

Who served Don Quixote of La Man — ;

' "Rustic kiss and cuff" — huzcorona — a boorish practical joke the
point of which lay in inducing some simpleton to kiss the joker's hand,
which as be stoops gives him a cuff on the cheek. The application here
is not very obvious, for it is the person who does homage who receives
the buzcorona. It is not clear who is meant by the Spanish Ovid ; some
say Cervantes himself ; others, as Hartzenbusch, Lope de Vega.

^ " Motley poet " — Poeta entreverado. Entreverado is properly " mixed
fat and lean," as bacon should be. Commentators have been at some

COMMENDATORY VERSES. Ixxxvii

But from his service I retreat — ,
Resolved to pass my life discreet — ;
For Villadiego, called the Si — ,
Maintained that only in rati —
Was found the secret of well-be — ,
According to the " Celesti — : " ^
A book divine, except for sin —
By speech too plain in my opiu — .

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 — .^

>

pains to extract a meaning from these lines. The truth is they hare
none, and were not meant to have any. If it were not profanity to apply
the word to anything coming from Cervantes, they miglit be called mere
pieces of buffoonery, mere idle freaks of the author's i^cn. The verse in
which they are written is worthy of the matter. It is of tlie sort called in
Spanish de j^ids cortados, its peculiarity being that each line ends with a
word the last syllable of which has been lopped off. The invention has
been attributed to Cervantes, but the honor is one which no admirer of
his will be solicitous to claim for him, and in fact tliere are half a dozen
specimens in the Picara Justinn, a book published if anything earlier
than Do7i Quixote. I have here imitated the toii7- de force as well as I
could, an experiment never before attempted and certainly not worth re-
peating. The " Urganda" verses are written in the same fashion, but I
did not feel bound to try the reader's patience — or my own — by a more
extended reproduction of the puerility.

' Celestina., or Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melibaea (1499), the first
act of which is gencralh^ attributed to Rodrigo Cota, the remaining nine-
teen being by Fernando Kojas. Tnere is no mention in it of " Villadiego
the Silent;" the name only appears in the proverbial saying about "taking
the breeches of Villadiego," i.e. beating a hasty retreat.

' Babieca, the famous charger of the Cid.

^ An allusion to the charming little novel of Lazarillo de Tormes, and
the trick by which the hero secured a share of his master's wine.

Ixxxviii DON QUIXOTE.

ORLANDO FURIOSO

TO DON" QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
SONNET.

If tliou 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,
Unvanquislied 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
Valor respected by oblivion.
I can not be thy rival, for thy fame
And prowess rise above all rivalry.
Albeit l)oth 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 PHCEBUS^

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,

' The play iipon the word " Peer " is justified by Orlando's rank as one
of the Twelve Peers. This sonnet is pronounced "truly unintelligble and
had " by Clemencin, and it is, it must be confessed, very feeble and ob-
scure. I have adopted a suggestion of Hartzenbusch's which makes
somewhat better sense of the concluding lines, but no emendation can do
much. Nor are the remaining sonnets nuich better ; there is some drol-
lery in the dialogue between Babieca and Rocinante, but the sonnets of
the Knight of Phoebus and Solisdan are weak. There was no particular
call for Cervantes to be funny, but if he thought otherwise it would have
been just as well not to leave the fun out.

"The Knights of Phcehits^ or of the Sun — Cahallero del Feho, espejo cle
Principes y Cahalleros — a ponderous romance by Diego Ortuiiez do
Calahorra and Marcos Martinez, in four parts, the first printed at Sara-
gossa in 1562, the others at Alcald de Henares in 1580.

COMMENDATOUY VERSES. Ixxxix

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, honored, wise, she lives in thee.

FROM SOLISDANi

TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANOHA.

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.

' Solisdan is appart>ntly a name invented by Cervantes, for no sucl
personage- figures in any known book of chivalry.

XC DON QUIXOTE.

DIALOGUE

BETWEEN BABTECA AND ROCINANTE.

SONNET.

B. " How comes it, Rocinaute, 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 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."

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DON QUIXOTE

PART 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 gentle-
men 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

' See Introduction, p. xxxiii.

^ The national disli, the o//a, of whicli tlie puchero of Central and
Northern Spain is a poor relation, is a stew with beef, bacon, sausage,
chick-peas, and cabbage for its prime constituents, and for ingredients
any other meat or vegetable that may be available. There is nothing ex-
ceptional in Don Quixote's olla being more a beef than a mutton one, for
mutton is scarce in Spain except in the mountain districts. Salpicon
(salad) is meat minced with red peppers, onions, oil, and vinegar,, and is
in fact a sort of meat salad. Duelos y quebrantos, the title of the Don's
Saturday dish, would be a puzzle even to the majority of SpanisJi
readers were it not for Pellicer's explanation. In the cattle-feeding dis-
tricts of Spain, the carcasses of animals that came to an untimely end
were converted into salt meat, and the parts unfit for that purpose were
sold cheap under the name of duelos y quehranios — " sorrows and losses"
(literally " breakings ") and were held to be sufficiently unlike meat to be
eaten on days when flesh was forbidden, among which in Castile Saturday
was included in commemoration of the battle of Navas de Toiosa. Any
rendering of such a phrase must necessarily be unsatisfactory, and in
adopting " scraps " I have, as in the other cases, merely gone on the prin-
ciple of choosing the least of evils.
Vol. I.-l

2 DON QUIXOTE.

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 border-
ing 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 sub-
ject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that
he was called Quixana. This, however, is of but little im-
portance 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
ardor and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pur-
suit of his field-sports, and even the management of his prop-
erty ; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation
go that he sold many an acre of tillage-land 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 court-
ships and cartels, where he often found passages like " the
rrason of the tmreason with which my reason is afflicted so
iveakens my reason that with 7'easo7i I murmur at your
heauty;" or again, " fAe high heavens, that of your divinity
divinely fortify you loith the stars, render you deserving of the
desert yoxLr greatness deserves.^' ^ Over conceits of this sort
the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striv-
ing to iniderstand 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

' The first passage quoted is from the Chronicle of Don Florisel de
Xiqaea., by Feliciano de Silva, the volumes of which appeared in 1532,
1536, and 1551, and from the tenth and eleventh books of the Amadis
series. The second is from Olirante de Laura, by Torquemada (1564).
Clemencin points out that the first passage had been previously picked
out as a sample of the absurdity of the school, by Diego Hurtado de
Mendoza.

CHAPTER I. 3

not at all easy about the wounds wliicli Don Belianis ^ gave
and took, because it seemed to liini that, great as wen; the sur-
geons who had cured him, he must ha\e had his face and body
covered all over with seams and scars. He commended, how-
ever, the author's way of ending his book with the promise of
that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tem])led
to take up his pen and tinisJi 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 num, 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, how-
ever, used to say that neither of them came up to tlie Knight
of Phcebus, and that if tliere was any that could compare
with liini 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 valor he was not a whit behind him. In
short, he became so absorlied in his books that he s})ent liis
nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark,
poring over them ; and what with little sleep and much read-
ing his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy
grew full of what he used to read about in his liooks, enchant-
ments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves,
agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense ; and it so pos-
sessed 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 Iluy Diaz was a very
good knight, but that he was not to be compared with tlie
Knight of the l>urning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in
half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of
Bernardo del Carpio because at Eoncesvalles he slew Roland
in spite of enchantments,^ availing himself of the artifice of

' The History of Don Belianis de Grecia, by the Licentiate Jeronimo
Fernandez, 1.547. It has been by some inelndcd in the Amadis series,
but it is in reality an independent romiincc.

^ Siguenza was one of tiie Universidddes nienores^ the degrees of which
were often laughed at liy the Spanisii liumorists.

^ The Spanish tradition of the battle of Roncesvalles is, of course, at
variance with the Chanson de Rola)id., l)ut it, is somewhat nearer historical
truth, inasmuch as the slaughter of Roland and the rearguard of C'harlc-
magne.'s army was effected not by Saracens, but by the Basque moun-
taineers.

4 DON qrixoTE.

Hercules when he strangled Antpeus 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 Eeinaldos of Montalban, especially when he
saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing every one
he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that iuuxge of
Mahomet Avhich, as his history says, was entirely of gold.
And 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 sup-
j)ort of his own honor as for the service of his country, that
he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world
over in full armor 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 armor 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 Avas strong and fit to stand a
cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the
first of Avhich undid in an instant what had taken him a week

' Ganc4on, the arch-traitor of the Charlemagne legend. In Spanish lie
appears as Galalon, in Italian as Gano ; but in this as in the cases of Ko-
lanrl, Baldwin, and others, I have thought it best to give the name in the
form in which it is best known, and will be most readily recognized, in-
stead of Koldan, Valdovinos, etc.

* Like Reinaldos or Kinaldo, who came to be Emperor of Trebizond.

^ That is, a simple head-piece without either visor or beaver.

CHAPTER I. 5

to do. The ease with which he liad knocked it to pieces dis-
concerted him somewhat, and to guavd against that danger he
set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he
was satisiied Avith its strength ; and then, not caring to try
any more experiments Avith it, he passed it and adopted it as a
helmet of the most jjerfect 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 pcUls at ossa fult,'^ 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) if Avas not right that a horse
belonging to a knight so famous, and one Avith such inerits
of his OAAai, should be A\^ithout some distinctive name, and
he strove to adapt it so as to indicate Avhat he had been
before belonging to a knight-errant, and Avhat he then Avas ;
for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a ncAV
character, he should take a ncAv name, and that it sliould
be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the ncAV
order and calling he Avas about to folloAV. 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 be-
fore he became what he now Avas, the first and foremost of all
the hacks in the Avorld.-

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he
Avas anxious to get one for himself, and he Avas eight days
more pondering over this point, till at last he made up liis
mind to call himself Don Quixote,^ whence, as has been

' An untranslatable pun on the Avord " quarto," which means a sand-
crack in a horse's hoof, as well as the coin equal to one-eighth of the
real. Gonela, or Gonnella, was a jester in the service of Borso, Duke
of Ferrara (1450-1470). A book of the jests attributed to him was
printed in 1568, the year before Cervantes went to Italy.

^"liocin" is a horse employed in labor, as distinguished from one kept
for ijleasure, the chase, or personal use generally ; the word therefore
may fairly be translated " hack." " Ante " is an old form of " Antes "
= " before," whether in time or in order.

^Quixote — or, as it is now written, Quijote — means the piece of
armor that protects the thigh (cuissan, cirish). Smollett's " Sir Lancelot
Greaves " is a kind of parody on the name. Quixada and Quesada Avere
both distinguished family names. The Governor of the Goletta, who
was one of the passengers on board the unfortunate Sol galley, was a
Quesada; and the faithful major-domo of Charles V. and'guardian of
Don John of Austria was a Qixada.

6 DON QUIXOTE.

already said, the authors of this veracious liistorv have in-
ferred tliat his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada,
and not Quesada as others wouhl have it. Recollecting, how-
ever, 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 honor to it in taking his
siirname from it.

So then, his armor 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
Avithout love was like a tree without leaves or fndt, 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 Avaist, 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
hinnble, submissive voice say, ' I am the giant Caraculiambro,
lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single com-
bat ])y the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of
La ]\[ancha, avIio has commanded me to present myself before
your Grace, that yoiir Highness dispose of me at your j^leas-
ure ? ' " 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, uncom-
mon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed
upon himself and the things belonging to him.

CHAPTER 11.

CHAPTER II.

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

These preliminaries settled, he did not care to pnt oft' any
longer tlie execution of liis 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, with-
out giving notice of his intention to any one, and without any-
body 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 armor, 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 en-
terprise 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 armor,^ 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 armor, 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

' Properly " blank " armor, l)ut Don Quixote takes the word in its com-
mon sense of white.

* Flamante. Shelton translates " burnished," and Jervas " fiaiuing,"
but the secondary meaning of the word is "new," "fresh," "unused."

8 DON QUIXOTE.

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 continired, " in which shall be made known my deeds of
fame, A\^orthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned
in pictures, for a memorial forever. And thou, O sage magi-
cian,^ whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the
chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee,
my good Eocinante, the constant companion of my ways and
wanderings." Presently he broke out again, as if he were
love-stricken in earnest, " 0 Princess Dvdcinea, 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. 0 lady, deign to hold in remem-
brance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for
love of thee."

So he Avent 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 fervor
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 en-
counter some one at once upon whom to try the might of his
strong arm.

^ The Campo de Montiel was " famoiis "' as being the scene of the
battle, in 13G9, in whicli Pedro tlie Cruel was defeated by his brother
Henry of Trastamara supported hy Dii Guesclin. The actual battle-field,
however, lies some considerable distance to the south of Argamasilla, on
the slope of the Sierra Morena, near the castle of Montiel in which Pedro
took refuge.

■■' In the later romances of chivalrj', a sage or a magician or sojne such
personage was frequently introduced as the original source of the history.

CHAPTER IT. 9

Writers there are who say tlie 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 Maneha, 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 aroimd 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 welcome as a star giuding him to the portals, if not
the palaces, of his redemption ; and quickening Ins 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 imagined
seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of what
he had read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to
himself as a castle with its four turrets and pinnacles of shin-
ing silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and all the
belongings iisually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this
iini, 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

' In Spain there are at least half a dozen varieties of inns each Avith its
distinctive name, in Don. Quixote the inn is almost always the venta^ tiie
solitary roadside inn where travellers of all sorts stop to bait; and it lias
remained to this day ninch what Cervantes has described. The particular
venta that he had in his eye in this and the next chapter is said to be the
Venta de Quesada, about 2\ leagues north of Manzanares, on the Madrid
and Seville road. ( V. map.) The house itself was burned down about a
century ago, and lias been rebuilt, but the yard at the back with its draw-
well and stone trough arc said to remain as they were in his day.

10 DON QUIXOTE.

to Don Quixote to be what lie was expecting, tlie signal of
some dwarf announcing liis arrival ; and so with prodigious
satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, see-
ing a man of this sort approaching in full armor and with
lance and bxickler, 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 voi^e 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 any
one, much less to high-born maidens as your appearance pro-
claims you to be." Tlie girls were looking at him and strain-
ing their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor
obscured, ]iut 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 armor 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 compli-
cated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he
said, " Seiior 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 liis eyes), made answer, " Sir Castellan, for me any-
thing will suffice, for

" My armor is my only wear,
My only rest the fra_y."

' The commentators are somewhat exercised by the contradiction here.
If Don Quixote raised Ids visor and disclosed his visage, how was it that
the girls were unable " to make out the features wliich the clumsy visor
obscured"? CerA'antes probably was thinking of the make-shift paste-
board visor {mala visera, as he calls it), which could not be put up
completely, and so kept the face behind it in the shade. Hartzenbusch,
however, believes the words to have been interpolated, and omits tliem.

CHAPTER II. 11

The host fancied he called hiin Castellan because he took him
for a '' worthy of Castile," ^ though he was in fact an Andalu-
sian, and one from the Strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief
as Casus 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 nut 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 land-
lord 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 jnight be wanted by his guest,
whom the damsels, who had by this time made their peace
with him, were now relieving of his armor. 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 armor,

^ Satio de Castilla — -a shmg phrase from tlie Gerraania dialect for a
thief in disguise {ladron disiin iilado — Vocabulario de Gemiania de
Hidalgo). "Castellano" and " alcaide " botli mean governor of a castle
or fortress, but the former means also a Castilian.

* The lines quoted by Don Quixote and tlie host are, in the original :

" Mis arreos son las armas.
Mi descanso el pelear,
Mi cania, las duras peiias,
Mi dormir, siempre velar."

They occur first in the old, probably fourteenth century, ballad of Mori-
ana en un Castillo., and were afterwards adopted as the ])eginning of a
serenade. In England it would be a daring improbability to represent the
landlord of a roadside alehouse capping verses witli his guest out of
Chevy Chase or Sir Andrew Barton, l)ut in Spain familiarity with the
old national ballad-poetry and proverbs is an accomplishment that may,
even to this day, be met with in quarters quite as unpromising.

12 DON QUIXOTE.

taking the baggages who Avere 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, or 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 honor had made me known, the necessity of adapt-
ing 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 some-
thing," said Don Quixote, " for I feel it would come very sea-
sonably." 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 i:in 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 armor; but a laughable sight it Avas to see him

' A parody of the opening lines of the ballad of Lancelot of the Lake.
Their chief attraction for Cervantes was, no doubt, the occurrence of
rocino Qrocin) in the last line.

CHAPTER lit. IB

eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver np,^ 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.

AVhile this was going on there came up to the inn a pig-
gelder, 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 Avas trout, the bread the
whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of
the castle ; and consequently he held that liis 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 Avithout receiv-
ing the order of knighthootl.

CHAPTER III.

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY l^ WHICH DOX QUIXOTE
HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A KXIGHT.

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 Avith 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 luima;i
race." The laiuUord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing
a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment,
not knowing Avhat to do or say, and entreating him to rise,
but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon

' Tlie original has, la visera nlzada, "the vi.soruj)," inwhicli case Don
Quixote would have found no difficulty in feeding himself. Ilartzenbusch
suggests hahera^ heaver, which I have adopted, as it removes the difficulty,
and is consistent with what follows; when the landlord "poured wine
into him "' it must have been over the beaver, not under the visor.

^" Pothouse" — venterili i.e. such as only a venta could produce.

14 DON QT^IXOTE.

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 yoii 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 humor. 80 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 honorable
calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of the
world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles
of Riarau, the Precinct of Seville, the Little INIarket of Sego-
via, 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

' The localities here mentioned were, and some of them still are, haunts
of the rogue and vagabond, or, «hat would be called in Spain, the picaro
class. The Curing-grounds of Malaga was a place outside the town where
fish was dried ; " the Isles of Riaran " was the slang name of a low suburb
of the same city ; the Precinct (compas) of Seville was a district on the
river side, not far from the plaza de toros ; the Little Market of Segovia
was in the hollow spanned by the great aqueduct on the south side of
the town ; the Olivera of Valencia was a small plaza in the middle of the
tuwn; the "Rondilla of Granada" was probably in the Albaycin quarter;
the " Strand of San Lucar " and the " Taverns of Toledo " explain them-
selves sutficiently ; and the " Colt of Cordova " was a district on the south
side of the city, which took its name from a horse in stone standing over
a fountain in its centre. As Fermin Caballero says in a queer little book
called the Geographical Knowledge of Cervantes, it is clear that Cervantes
knew by heart the " Mapa picaresco de Espaiia."

CHAPTER in. 15

living upon his property and ii})()n that of others; and wlicrc
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 armor, as it
had been pulled clown 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 })er-
formed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thor(.)ughly
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 re-
corded 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 thei-efore
that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as certain
and established that all knights-errant (about wdiom there
were so many full and impeachable books) carried well-fur-
nished 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 succor them at once by fetching through the
air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of Avater of
such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they Avere 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 haj)-
pened that knights had no squires (which was rarely and
seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in cun-
ning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse's croup, as
if it were soiuething else of more importance," because, unless

■ In the original, b/anca, a coin wortli about one-seventh of a farthing.

^ The passage as it stands is sheer nonsense. Clemencin tries to make

sense of it by substituting " less " for " more ; " but even with that emen-

16 DON QUIXOTE.

for some sncli reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favor-
ably regarded among kniglits-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 armor 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 ami he grasped his lance
and began with a stately air to march up and down in front of
the trough, and as he l)egan 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 armor, and the did>
bing ceremony he contemi)lated. 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 armor
without taking his eyes oft' 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 armor 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 armor 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 })enalty 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 strajis
flung the armor some distance from him. Seeing this, Don
Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, ap-
parently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, <* Aid me, lady
mine, in this the first encounter that presents itself to this
breast which thou boldest in subjection ; let not thy favor and
protection fail me in this first jeopardy ; and, with these words

dation it remains incoherent. Probably what Cervantes meant to write
and possibly did write was — " for that was another still more important
matter, because," etc.

DON QUIXOTE KNIGHTED. Vol.1. Page 18.

CHAPTER Tir. 17

and otliers to the same purpose, dropping his buckh'r he lifted
his hiuce 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 w itli a second there Avould have been
no need of a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his
armor 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
armor in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without
uttering a word or imploring aid from any one, once more
dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and with-
out 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, " 0 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 ca]>tive knight
on the brink of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt him-
self so ins})irited that he would not have flinched if all the car-
riers in the world had assailed him. The comrades of the
wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a dis-
tance to shower stones on ])on Quixote, who screened himself
as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough
and leave his armor 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 armor.

' Tliat is, inflicting two cuts that formed a cross.
Vol. I.— 2

18 DON QUIXOTE.

But these freaks of his guest Avere not much to the liking of
the hmtUoi-d, so he determined to cut matters short and confer
upon him at once the unlucky order of knighthood before any
further misadventure coukl occur; so, going up to him, lie
apologized 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 armor,
for all requireinents 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 a dubbed
knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the
castle, ex(tept 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 de-
vout 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 mutter-
ing between his teeth as if he were saying his prayers. Hav-
ing 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 favor he had received, as he meant to
confer upon her some portion of the honor he acquired by the

CHAPTER IV. 19

might of his arm. She answered with great luimility that slie
was called La Tolosa, and that she was a 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 favor
if thenceforward she assumed the " Don " and called herself
Doiia 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 like-
wise Don Quixote requested that she would adopt the " Don "
and call herself Dona Molinera, making offers to her of further
services and favors.

Having thus, with hot haste anc^ speed, brought to a conclu-
sion 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 God-
speed.

CHAPTER IV.

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUK KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT

THE INN.

Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so
ha])py, so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself dubbed a
knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. How-
ever, 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-

' An o\A. i^laza in Toledo, so called probably from a family of the name
of Ben Haya ; or, as Pellicer suggests, from a corruption of Minaya.

20 DON QUIXOTE.

laborer/ a neighbor 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, Avhen 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 favor 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 Eocinante
in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had
gone but a few paues into ^he wood, when he saw a mare tied
to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist up-
wards, 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 '11 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 you.r
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 armor 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 care-
less 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

' Labrador^ the word used here to describe the status of Sancho, means,
generally, a tiller of tlie soil, and includes farmers employing laborers,
like Juan Haldudo the Rich, who is so described lower down, as well as those
who tilled their land themselves or worked for others. Sancho was one of
the latter class, as appears from a remark of his own in the Second Part.

CHAPTER IV. 21

the sun that shines on ns I have a mind to run yon tlirongh
with this lance. Pay him at once without another word ; if
not, by tlie God that rules us I Avill make an end of you, and
annihilate you on the spot ; release him instantly."

The farmer hung his head, and without a Avord untied his
servant, of whom Don Quixote asked how. mucli 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 imjuediately, if he did not
want to die for it.

The trendiling 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 Avhen he was sick.

" All that is very well," said Don Quixote ; '' luit let the
shoes and the blood-lettings stand as a set-off against the
blows you have given him without any cause ; for if he spoiled
the leather of the shoes you })aid 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 woidd ; for once alone with me, he would
flay me like a Saint P>artholomew."

" 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, seiior," 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 Eich, of
Quintanar."

" That matters little," replied Don Quixote ; " there may be
Haldudos knights ; '^ moreover, every one is the son of his
works." ^

' Cervantes now and then in dialogue does not specify the speaker, hut
the omissions are so rare tliat they are probably oversights, and I liavi'
genornlly sni^plied them.

* J/aldudos — wearers of long skirts. ^ Prov. 112.

22 DON QUIXOTE.

'' That is true," said Andres ; " but this master of mine —
of what Avorks is he the son, Avhen he refuses me the wages of
my sweat and labor ? "

" 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 m the world to pay you as I
have agreed, real by real, and perfiimed." ^

" 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 may be more firndy boiind to obey it, knoAv 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 penal-
ties 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 imdoer of Avrongs
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 to the oak again, where he gave him such a flogging
that he left him for dead.

" iSTow, Master Andres," said the farmer, " call on the un-
doer of wrongs ; you will find he Avon't undo that, though I
am not sure that I have (piite done with you, for I liave a
good mind to flay you alive as you feared." But at last he

'" Perfumed '" — a yny of expresshig completeness or perfection of
condition.

'^An obscure outli, of whicli there is no satisfactory explanation as to
Avho or what Hoquo was, whetlier the San Roque who gave the name to
the town near Gibraltar, or some Manchegan celeljrity.

CHAPTER TV. 23

untied liini, and gave him leave to go look for liis judge in
order to })ut the sentence pronoiuiced into execution.

Andres went oft' rather down in the mouth, swearing he
would go to look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha
and tell him exactly Avhat 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 satisiied with what had taken place, as he consid-
ered 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, " AVell mayest thou this
day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, 0 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 Man-
clia, 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 perpe-
trated : 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 Eocinante his
head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who fol-
lowed 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, Avho, 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 bear-
ing and determination he fixed hini.^elf finnly in his stirrups,

' Not passages of the book, but passages of arms like tliat of Suero
de Quinones on the bridge of ()rl)ig() in tlie reign of John II.

24 DON QUIXOTE.

got his lance ready, brouglit his buckler before his breast, and
planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting the
approach of these knights-errant, for siich 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 ])oth 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, ai'rogant 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

' It is strange that this passage shoiihl have escaped the notice of those
ingenious critics wliose mania it is to Imnt for hidden meanings in Don
Quixote. Witli a moderate amount of acumen it ought to be easy to ex-
tract from these words a manifest " covert attack " on Church, Faith, and
Dogma.

-The Ah'arria is a hare, thinly popuhited 'district, in the upper valley
of the Tagus, stretching from Guadalajara to the confines of Aragon.
Estremadura is tlie most backward of all the provinces of Spain. In
elevating these two regions into the rank of empires, the waggish trader
falls in with the craze of Don Quixote.

CHAPTER IV. 25

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 favor 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 hump
backed, 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 encuml)ered was he with lance, buckler, spurs,
helmet, and the weight of his old armor ; 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 be-
gan so to belabor our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and
in spite of his armor, 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 muleteer's blood was up, and he did not care to
drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and,

' Prov. 114. The ball, i.e., that on which it is wovmd.

^ Civet was the perfume most in request at the time, and was imported
packed in cotton.

3 Mas derecho que vn huso — " straighter than a spindle " — is a popuhir
phrase in use to this day. The addition of "Guadarrama" Clemencin
explains by saying that spindles were made in great quantities of the
beech wood that grew on the Guadarrama Sierra. Fermin Caballero
(Pericia Geografica de Cervantes) holds that the reference is to the pine
trees on the Guadarrama Pass.

26 DON QUIXOTE.

gathering up the re^naining fragments of the lance, he finished
witli a discharge upon tlie 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 him-
self 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.

IlSr WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT's MISHAP IS

CONTINUED.

Finding, then, that in fact he could not move, he bethought
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
( 'arloto left hiiu wounded on the mountain side,^ a story known
by heart by the children, not forgotten by the yoruig 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 foiind himself, so, making
a show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and
with feeble breath repeat the very Avords which the wounded
knight of the wood is said to have uttered :

^&^

" Where art thou, hidy mine ; that thou
My sorrow dost not rue ?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine,
Or else thou art untrue."

'The subject of the old hallad — De Mantua salid el 3Iarques (Buran's
Romancero General, No. 355) ; a chanson de geste, indeed, rather than a
1)allad, as it runs to sometliing over 800 lines. Pellicer wrongly assigns
it to Geroninu) Trevifio, a sixteenth century author. It is in the Antwerp
Cancionero of 1550 and the Saragossa Silva of the same date.

CHAPTER V. 27

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

" O noble Marquis of Mantua,
My Unck' and liegf 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 neigh-
bor 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 Mautiia, 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 recognized him and said, " Seiior Don
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 yoiir wor-
ship 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 Ante-
quera, Eodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him
away to his castle ; so that when the peasant again asked him

28 DON QUIXOTE.

how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same
words and phrases that the captive Abencerrage gave to Eodrigo
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 jaeasant went along cursing his fate that
he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense ; from which, how-
ever, he came to the conclusion that his neighbor was mad,
and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the weari-
someness 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 ! — can not your worship see that I am not Don Eodrigo
de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso
your neighbor, 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 belabored 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 con-
fusion, 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, " Seiior licentiate Pero Perez,"
for so the curate was called, " what does your worship
think can have befallen my master ? it is six days now
since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the
buckler, lance, or armor. Miserable me ! I am certain of it,
and it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed

'From the words used by Cervantes he seems to have known or sus-
pected that Montemayor was not the author of the romantic story of
Abindarraez and Xarifa. It was inserted in the second edition of the
Diana., the year of the aiitlior's death, and it had previously appeared as
a, separate novel at Toledo.

CHAPTER V. ^9

books of oliivahy he has, and has got into the way of reading-
so constantly, have npset his reason ; for now I remember
having often heard him saying to himself that he Avould tnru
knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of adventures.
To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that have broiight
to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in all
La Mancha ! "

The niece said the same, and, indeed, more : " You must
know. Master Nicholas " — for that was the name of the
barber — " it was often my uncle's way to stay tAvo days and
nights together poring over these unholy books of misventures,
after which he would fling the V>(>ok away and snatch u}) 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 l)y my faith to-mor-
row shall not pass without public judgment u})()n them, and
may they be condemned to the flames lest they lead those
that read them 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 neighbor, so he began
calling aloud, " Open, your worships, to Sefior Baldwin and
to Sefior the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded,'
and to Sefior Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Kod-
rigo de ISTarvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive."

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recog-
nized their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dis-
mounted 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."

30 DON QUIXOTE.

" 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 Eocinante 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 bvirn 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 all,
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 YI.

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 mis-
chief, 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

' In the original the passage runs : " Who was even still sleeping. He
asked the niece for the keys," etc. It is a minor instance of Cervantes'
disregard of the ordinary laws of comi)()sition, and also a proof that at
this stage of the work he had not originally contemplated a division into
chapters.

CHAPTER YT. 81

ones.^ The iiiomeut the housekeeper saw them she turned
about and ran out of the room, and eame back immediately
with a saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying, "Here,
your Avorship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room ; don't leave
any magician of the nuuiy there are in these books to bewit(di
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
})ile of them and set fire to them ; or else carry them into the
yard, and there a bonfire can be made without the smoke giv-
ing any annoyance." '^ The housekeeper said the same, so
eager were they 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 said, this was
the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and fronr 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."

' The romances of chivalry were, with not more than two or three ex-
ceptions, produced in the folio form, while the hooks of poetry, the pas-
torals, the caiicioneros, and romanceros^ were either in small quarto or
much more commonly in small octavo corresponding in size with our
duodecimo.

^ The court the niece speaks of, was the patio or open space in the mid-
dle ot the house ; the corral or yard was on the outside.

'The curate was quite correct in his idea that Ainadis of Gaul was the
parent of the chivalry literature, but not in his statement that it was the
first book of the kind printed in Spain, for it is not likely it was printed
before Tirant lo Blanch, Olireros de Castilla, or the Carcel cle Amor.
The earliest known edition was printed in Rome in 1519, but there can be
no doubt that this is a reprint of a Spanish edition, of perhaps even an
earlier date than 1510, which has been given as that of the first edition.

32 DON QUIXOTE.

'' 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 " Avent 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 in-
volved discoiirses 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 tuli there ? " said the curate.

" This," said the barber, " is ' Don Olivante de Laura.' " ^

' Las Sergas (i.e. las Ipya — the achievements) de Esplandian (1521)
forms the fifth hook of the Amadis Series, and is the composition of Mon-
talvo himself, as is also, apparently, the fourth book of Amadis of Gaul.
He only claims to have edited the first three.

'^Amadis of Greece^ by Feliciano de Silva (1535), forms the ninth book
of the Amadis Series. Pintiquiniestra was Queen of Sobradisa, and Dari-
nel was a shepherd and wrestler of Alexandria. The Spanish romances
of " the lineage of Amadis " are twelve in number, and there are besides
doubtful members of the family in Italian and French.

^ Olivante de Laxra^ by Antonio de Torquemada, appeared first at Bar-
celona in 1564:. Gayangos suggests that Cervantes must have been think-
ing of a later quarto or octavo edition, for the original folio is not so

CHAPTER VI. 33

" The author of that book," said the curate, " was the same
that wrote ' The Gardeu 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 s})ite 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.' " *

exceptionally stout as the description in the text implies. The Garden of
Flowers (1575), a treatise of wonders natural and sujiernatural, was
translated into English in 1(500, as The Spanish Mandeville, a title which
may seem to justify the curate's criticism ; but it does not come witJi a
good grace from Cervantes, who made free use of the book in the First
Part of Persiles and Sigismunda, and in the Second Fart of Don Quixote.
The book is really an entertaining one.

' The correct title is IHstoria del miiy Animoso y Esforzado Principe
Felixmarte de Hircania.: but the hero is also called Florismarte. It was
by Melchor Ortega de Ubeda, and appeared in 1556.

^Platir is the fourth book of the Palmerin Series. The hero is tlie son
of Primaleon, and grandson of Palmerin de Oliva. Its author is unknown.
It appeared first in 1533.

^ The Knight of the Cross appeared in two parts : the first, under the
title of Lepolemo., by an unknown author, in 1543; the second, with the
achievements of Leandro el BeU the son of Lepolemo, by Pedro de Luxan,
in 15G3. "Behind the Cross," etc., Prov. 75, was evidently a favorite
proverb with Cervantes.

* The Mirror of Chivalry — Espejo de Caballerias — was published at
Seville in four parts, 1533-50. Next to the history of Charlemagne and

Vol. I. — 3

34 DON QUIXOTE.

'' I know his worship," said the curate ; " that is where
Seilor Reinalclos of Montalvan figures with his friends and com-
rades, greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of
France with the veracious historian Turpin ; however, I am not
for condemning them to more tlian per})etiial banishment, be-
cause, at any rate, they have some share in the invention of
the famous Matteo Boiardo, Avhence 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 he 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 < Eoncesvalles ; ' for
these, if they come into my hands, shall pass into those of

tlie Twelve Peers, it was the most popular of the Carlovingian series of
romances. It is creditable to Cervantes as a critic that he should liavc
mentioned Boiardo as he does, at a time wlu^i it was the fasliion to regard
tlie Orlando Innainoraio as a rude and semi-l)arbarous production, only
endurable in the rifacimento of Ludovico Domenichi.

' An Oriental mode of showing resj)ect for a document.

^ Geronimo Jimenez de Urrea, whose translation of Ariosto into Spanisli
was first printed at Antwerp in 1549. This is not the only passage in
which Cervantes declares against translation. In cluipter 'ixii. of the
Second Part he puts his objection still more strongly, and there extends it
to translation of prose. And yet of all great writer's there is not one who
is under such obligations to translation as Cervantes. The influence of
Homer and Virgil would be scarcely less than it is if they had never been
translated ; Shakespeare and Milton wrote in a language destined to be-
come the most widely read on tlie face of the globe, and no reader of any
culture needs an interpreter for Moliere or Le Sage. But how would
Cervantes have fared in the world if, according to his own principles, he
had been confined to his native Castilian?

CHAPTER VI. 35

tlie housekeeper, aiul fvoiu hers into the lire without any rr-
prieve." ^

To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it
as right and proper, being persuaded that the curate was so
stanch to the Faith antl 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 ke])t 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 words of the poet
Homer. This book, gossip, is of avithority 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 jiulgment. 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 1 have hei'e
is the famous ' Don Belianis.' " *

' The condemnt'd books are the History of the deeds of Bernardo del
Carpio, by Augustin Alonso of Sahimanca (Toledo, 1585) : and the Fa-
mous Battle of Roncesvalles^ by Francisco Garrido de Villena (Valencia,
1555).

* Palmerin de Oliva, the founder of the Palmerin Series of Romances,
was first printed at Salamanca in 1511. It is said to have been written
by a lady of Augustobriga (i.e. Burgos, according to some, but more
probably Ciudad Kodrigo), but nothing certain is known of the author.
Palmerin de Inglaterra, like Amadis, was until lately supposed to be,
as Cervantes supposed it, of Portuguese origin ; but the question was
settled a few years ago by Vincente Salva, who discovered a Toledo edi-
tion of 1547, twenty year.s earlier than the Portuguese edition on which
the claims of Francisco de Moraes, or of John II , rested. An acrostic
gives the name of the author, Luis Hurtado.

^ Miraguarda is not the name of the Castle, but of the lady who lived in
it, and whose charms were the cause of the adventures.

^ Belianis de Grecia, already mentioned in the first chapter as one of
Don Quixote's special studies.

36 DON QUIXOTE.

"Well," said the curate, "that aud 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
stiiff alwut 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 meantime, 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 house-
keeper to take all the big ones and throw them into the yard.
It was not said to one dull or deaf, but to one Avho 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."

" Cxod 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." ^

' Tlie " over-seas term " was tlie allowance of time granted in the case
of i)ersons beyond the seas, wlien sued or indicted, to enable them to
appear and show cause why judgment sliould not lie given against them.

2 Tirante el Blanco is the title of tlie translation into Castilian of the
romance of Tirant lo Blanch, first published in Valencian at Valencia in
1490. Joanot Martorell, who is said to have translated it from English
into Portuguese and thence into Valencian, was no doubt the author.
Only three copies are known to exist, one in the University at Valencia,
anotluT in the College of the Sapienza in Rome, and the third in the
British Museum. The Castilian version appeared at Valladolid in 1511.

CHAPTER VL 87

" As you will," said the barber ; " but what arc 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 Mon-
temayor, 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 l)e
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, wduch 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 temi)tation out of our friend's
Avay. 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 honor 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 grooving late."

"This book," said the barber, opening another, "is the ten

Dull r;i.scual de Gayangos is in doubt whether the cm-ate's eulugy is to
be taken as ironical or serious, but rather inclines to the belief that C'er-
A'antes meant to praise the book. It would be rash to differ witli such an
authority, otherwise I should say that the laudation is rather too boister-
ously expressed and too like the extravagant eulogy of Lo Frasso farther
on, to ])e sincerely meant.

^ Los Siete Libros de la Diana de Jorge de Montemayor. Lnpreso en
Valencia, 4to. The first edition is undated, and from tlie dedication
appears to have been printed in the author's lifetime. He died in 1561,
in which year the second edition, with additions, appeared. ( V. note 1,
page 2S.) The Diana was the first and best of the Sjjanish pastoral
romances, the taste for which was created l)y Sannazaro's Arcadia. The
Salamancan was Alonso Perez, who published a continuation of the
Diana at Alcala de Henares in 150-1, but Gil Polo's, printed the same year

38 DON QUIXOTE.

bucks of the ' Fortune of Love,' written by Antonio de Lo-
fraso, 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 Flor-
ence stuff." ^

He put it aside with extreme satisfacti(jn, and the barber
went on, " These that come next are ' The Shepherd of Iberia,'
' The Nymphs of Henares,' and ' The Enlightenment of Jeal-
ousy.' " ■'

'' 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
Avhy, or we shall never have done."

" This next is the ' Pastor de Filida.' "

" ISTo I'astor 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 varioiis 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 excel-

iit Valencia, has been generally preferred. Tlie pun on Polo and Apolo
is not so obvious in English. An excellent English translation of all
three by Bartholomew Yong was published in lo!)8.

'The Fort lain iVAmor, ijor Antonio de lo Frasso^ Militar, Sardo, ap-
peared at Barcelona in 1573. In the Viage del Parnaso Cervantes treats
the book in the same bantering strain, which misled Pedro de Pineda, one
of the editors of Lord Carteret's (-Quixote, and induced him to bring out a
new edition in 1740. The book is an utterly worthless one, and highly
prized by collectors.

^ The bool^s here referred to are the Pastor de Iberia, by Bernardo de la
Vega (Seville, 1591) ; the Nimphas y Pastores de Henares, by Bernardo
Gonzalez de Bovadilla (Alcala de Henares, 1587) ; and the Desengano de
Zelos, by Bartolme Lopes de Enciso (Madrid, 158(5).

='The Pastor de Filida (Madrid, 1582), one of the best of the pastorals,
-was by Luis Galvez de Montalvo of Guadalajara, a retainer of the great
Mendoza family, and apparently an intimate personal friend of Cervantes,
Avho, under the name of Tirsi, is referred to in the pastoral as a clai-is-
simo ingenio worthy of being mentioned with Ercilla. Montalvo, in
return, is introduced under the name of Siralvo into the Galatea of
Cervantes, to which he contributed a complimentary sonnet.

CHAPTER VT. 39

lences ; 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 tlie
admiration t)f 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 ' (xalatea ' 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 con-
clusion : we must wait for the Second Part it promises : per-
haps with amendment it may succeed in winning the fidl
measure of grace that is now denied it ; and in the meantime
do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your oavu quarters."'*

" Very good," said the barber ; " and here come three to-
gether, the ' Araucana ' of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the ' Aus-
triada ' of Juan llufo, Justice of Cordova, and the ' Montserrate '
of Christobal de A^irues, the Valencian poet." ^

' Tesoro de varias Poesias^ compuesto por Pedro de Pndilla (Madrid,
1580). The autliur is one of those j)raised by Cervantes in the " Canto
de Caliope " in the Galaiea.

2 Lopez de Maldonado, whose Cancionero appeared at Madrid in 158fi,
is another of the poets praised in the Galatea.

3 Prov. 2C.

* Tlie phiy upon words in the original is " more versed in misfortunes
than in verses." This introduction of himself and his forgotten jjastoral
is Cervantes all over in its tone of playful stoieism with a certain quiet
self-assertion. It shows, moreover, pretty clearly, that until Don Quixote
had made the author's name known, the Galatea had remained unnoticed.

* These three are examples of Spanish epic poetry. The Araucana oi
Ercilla (Madrid, inr)!*, l.")78, lo'.IO) is, next to the Poera of the Cid, the
})est effort in that direction in the language. The Aiistriada, which
appeared first at Madrid in 158-1:, deals with the life and achievements of
Don John of Austria, hut it M'as probably the memory of Lepanto rather
than the merits of the poem that made Cervantes give it a place here.
The Montserrate of the dramatist Virues (Madrid, 1588) had for its sub-
ject the repulsive (Oriental legend which l)ecame popular in Spain with
Garin the liermit of Monserrat for its hero, and which M. G. Lewis made
the foundation of his famous romance, The Monk.

40 DON QUIXOTE.

" Tliese three books," said the curate, " are the best that have
been written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may com-
pare with the most famous in 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 biirned ; l)ut 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
S])ain, and was very happy in the translation of some of Ovid's
fables." 1

CHAPTER VII.

OF THE SECONI? SALLY OF OUK 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 mas-
tery 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
S})ain," 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 sen-
tence." -

^ The anti-climax liere almost equals that famous one of Waller's •

" Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath received our yoke."

The book referred to was entitled simply the Angelica by Luis Barahona
de Soto (Madrid, 1.58G). In his praise of tliis poem we have one more
instance of Cervantes' loyalty to a friend getting the l)etter of his critical
judgment.

'^ The books referred to are the Carolea of Geronimo Sempere (15G0),
which deals with the victories of Charles V.; the Leon de Espana, by
Pedro de la Vezilla, a poem on the history of the city of Leon ; and,
probably, the Carlo Famoso of Louis Zapata, for there is no book known
witli the title of The Deeds of the Emperor^ and the work of Avila is
simply a prose commentary on tlu' wars against the Protestants of Ger-
man v.

CHAPTER VII. 41

When they reached Don Quixote he was ah-eady 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, Seiior Archbishop Turpin,^ it is a
great disgrace for us who call ourselves the Twelve Peers, so
carelessly to allow the knights of the (A)urt to gain the victory
in this tourney, we the adventurers having carried off the
honor 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 woimded."

'' Wounded no," said Don Quixote, " but bruised and bat-
tered no doubt, for that bastard Don Eoland 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
sometimes the innocent suffer for the guilty.'^

One of the remedies which the curate and the barber im-
mediately applied to their friend's disorder was to wall up
and plaster the room where the books were, so that when he
got lip he should not find them (possibly the cause being re-

' Turpin (or Tilpin), Charlemagne's chiiplain, and Archbishop of
Rheims : according to the Chanson de Roland, one of those shiin at
lloncesvalles ; but also claimed as anther of tlie Chronicle of Charleniagne.,
which, however, was probal)ly not composed before the end of the elev-
enth or beginning of the twelfth century. He died in the year of the
Roncesvalles rout, 778.

2 Prov. ISS. ■■' Frov. 16.5.

42 DON QUIXOTE.

moved, 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 liooks.

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 Avhen we went to see what he had done
we saw neither book nor room : but M^e 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 en-
gage 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 endeavors to do me all the ill turns
that he can ; but I promise him it will be hard for him to
oppose or avoul 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

'Friston, a magician, the reputed author of Belianis de Grecia.

CHAPTER VII. 43

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
would dare to touch only the tip of a hair of mine."

The two were luiwilling 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 discus-
sions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the
point he maintained, that knights-errant were Avhat the world
stood most in need of, and that in him was to be accomplished
the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes con-
tradicted 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 laborer, a
neighbor 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 })er.
suasions 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, l)ecause any moment an ad-
venture might occur that might win an island in the twink-
ling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On these and
the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the laborer Avas called)
left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his
neighbor. 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

' Prov. 171. Biiscar pan de trastrigo : there is some difference of
opinion as to the meaning of trastrigo.^ but it seems on the wliole more
probable that it means wheat of such superhitive quality as to bo unattain-
able ; pt any rate, the proverb is used in reference to seeking things tliat
are out of reach.

^ Prov. 124. A very old proverb, as old at least as the poem of Fernan
Gonzalez.

44 DON QUIXOTE.

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 esqiiire
mounted on ass-back, but no instance occurred to his mem-
ory. For all that, however, he determined to take him,
intending to furnish him with a more honorable mount
when a chance of it presented itself, by ap])ropriating the
horse of the first discourteous knight he encountered. Him-
self he provided with shirts and such other things as he
could, according to the advice the host had given him ; all
.which being settled and done, without taking leave, Sancho
Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his house-
keeper 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 dis-
covery, 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 M^orshi])
will take care, Seiior Knight-errant, not to forget about the
island you have promised me, for be it ever so big I '11 be
equ^al 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

^Alforjas — n sort of double wallet serving for saddle-bags, but more
frequently carried slung across the shoulder.

^ The hota is the leathern wine-bag which is as much a part of the
Spanish wayfarer's paraphernalia as the alforjas. It cannot, of course,
be properly translated " bottle."

CHAPTER VI i. 45

the islands or kingdoms tiiey 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 be-
fore six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has
others de})endent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable
thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count
this wonderfrd, for things and chances fall to the lot of such
knights in ways so unexamjded 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 shoidd shower down kingdoms
upon earth, not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gu-
tierrez. Let me tell you, seiior, 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 thy-
self so much as to come to be content with anything less than
being governor of a province."

" I will not, senor," answered Sancho, " especially as I have
a ma,n of such quality for a master in your worship, who will
be able to give me all that will be suitable for me and that I
can bear."

' Amadis, for instance, made his .squire Gandalin governor of the In-
sula Firme.

^mioislo, a sort of pet-name for a wife in old Spanish among the
lower orders :

" Aciierda de sn oislo
Mirando en pobre casa."

46 DON QUIXOTE.

CHAPTER VIII.

or 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 or forty wind-
mills that there are on that plain, ^ and as soon as DonQnixote
saw them he said to his squire, " Fortnne is arranging niatters
for us better than we could have shajjed 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 l)attle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall be-
gin 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 tLe wind make the millstone tjo."

" It IS easy to see," replied Don Quixote, " that thou art not
used to this business of adventures ; those are giants ; and if
tliou art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself
to prayer while I engage them in tierce 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 Avindmills 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 it is a single knight
that attacks you."

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails

' These famous windmills had not been very long set up, and owed their
existence to tlie failure of water-power in the'Zancara, an affluent of the
(iuadiana, about thirty years before Don Quixote was written. Tliey are
scattered over the plain between Alcazar de S. Juan and Villaharta. ( V.
map.)

y

' s>

s.

.-•■/■:

\ f

A

.'Vv

WJ'\

THE WINDMILLS. VoL I. Page 46.

CHAPTER VIIL 47

began to move, seeing wliicli Don Quixote exclaimed, " Tliougli
ye flouvisli 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 su])i)ort 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, avIio 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 Koci-
nante fallen with him.

"'God bless me!" said Sancho, ''did I not tell your wor-
ship to mind what you were al)Out, for they were only wind-
mills ? and no one could have made any ndstake 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 lial)le to frecpient 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 vanquish-
ing 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 hel]»ing
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 ])ounde(l so many
Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca,"^ and he and his
descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca.

' Being a stage on the great high road from Madrid to SeviUe.

^ From machucar or machacar, " to pound." The feat referred to by
Don Quixote was performed at the siege of Jerez under Alfonso X. in
1264, and is tlie subject of a spirited haUad which Lockhart has treated
with even more than his usual freedom.

48 DON QUIXOTE.

I mention this because from the first oak ^ I see I mean to
rend such another branch, hirge and stout like that, with
which I am determined and resolved to do such deeds that
thou niayest deem thyself very fortunate in being found
worthy to come and see them, and be an eye-witness 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, maybe 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 per-
ndtted 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 yoiir Avorship complained when anything
•ailed you. For my part, T confess I must com})lain however
small the ache may be ; unless indeed this rule about not com-
plaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also."

Don Quixote coidd not help laughing at his squire's simijlic-
ity, and he assured him he might complain whenever and how-
ever 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 Avas dinner-time, to which his
master answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but
that lie 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 l^ehind his nuister munching deliber-
ately, 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 Avent on in this Avay, gulping doAvn draught after
draught, he ncA-er 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, hoAVCA'er 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 l)roken one. All that night Don
Quixote lay aAvake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to

' In the balli^d it is an olive tree, but the olive does not flourish in La
Mancha, so Don Quixote substitutes oak, enema, or roble, the former, the
evergreen, being rather the more common in Spain.

CHAPTKll VIII. 49

coiit'onu to what lie had read in his books, how uiany anight in
the forests and deserts knights vised to lie sleepless snpjjorted
by the memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza
spend it, for having his stomach full of something stronger
than chiccory 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 Avould have had power to waken him. On
getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat less full
than the niglit before, which grieved his heart because they
did not seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency read-
ily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as has
been already said, he confined himself to savory recollections
for nou^rishment.

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 per-
ceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in
that case thou mayest very projjcrly aid me ; but if they be
knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by tlie
laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a
knight."

''Most certainly, senor," replied 8ancho, "your worshi])
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 hiiman and divine allow
each one to defend himself against any assailant whatever."

"■ That I grant," said Don Quixote, '' l)ut in this matter of
aiding ine against knights thou must put a restraint u})()ii thy
natural impetuosity."

" I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, " and I will
kee}) this precept as carefully as Sunday."

While they were thus talking there a})peared on the road
two friars of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two drome-
daries, 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

Vol. I. — 4

50 DON QUIXOTE.

liorsebaek and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was,
as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lad}^ on her way to Seville,
where her husband was about to take passage for the Indies
with an appointment of high honor. 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 mis-
taken, 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, sefior ; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach
plainly belongs to some travellf'rs : ndnd, 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. AVhat
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 imnatural beings, release instantly
the high-born 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,
" Seilor 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 Avind.

Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dis-
mounting briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and began

rilAI'TER vriT 51

to strip off liis j^own. At tliat instant the friars' muleteers came
up and asked Avliat he was striijping him for. Saneho 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 luiderstand all this about battles and
spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some distance off talking
to the travellers in the coach, fell ui^on Sancho, knocked him
down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard,' belabored 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, si)urred after his companion, who was
standing at a distance looking on, watching the result of the
onslaught; then, not caring t( 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 dis-
pose 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 adven-
turer, 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 this fashion, " Begone, caballero, and ill go with thee ; i)y
the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee
as art here a Biscayan."

Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered liiiu
very quietly, " If thou Avert a knight, as thou art none, I should

' In the humurous tract The Book of all Things^ and many more^ Que-
vedo mentions as the chief characteristic of the Biscayan dialect that it
changes the iirst person of the verb into the second. This may be ob-
serveil in tlie specimen given liere : anotlier example of Biscayan will be
found in Cervantes' interlude of the Viscaino Fingido.

52 DON QUIXOTE.

have already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable crea-
ture." To which the Biscayan returned, " I no gentleman ! -^ —
I swear to God thou liest as I am Christian : if thou di'oppest
lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art car-
rying water to the cat : ^ Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea,
hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou
liest."

Hi u 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 then 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 every
one 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 armor, would have cleft him to the waist. Don
Quixote, feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud,
saying, " 0 lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come
to the aid of this your knight, who, in fidfilling 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,

' Cahallero nieans " gentleman " as well as knight, and the peppery Bis-
cayan assumes that Don Quixote has used the word in the former sense.

'■' Quien ha de llevar el gato al agua f (Prov. 102.) " Who will carry
tlie cat to the water? " is a proverbial way of indicating an apparently in-
superable difficulty. Between rage and ignorance the Biscayan, it Avill be
seen, inverts the phrase.

^ Agrajes was the cousin and companion of Amadis of Gaul. The phrase
quoted above (Prov. 4) became a popular one, and is introduced as such
among others of the same sort by Quevedo in the vision of the Visita de
los Chistes. It is hard to say why it should have been fixed on Agrajes,
who does not seem to use it as often as others, Amadis himself for
instance.

CHAPTER VIII. 53

and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an instant, deter-
mined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The Bis-
cayan, seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his
courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his ex-
ample, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of his
cushion, being unable to execute any sort of mancBuvre 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 (iod might
deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which
they found themselves. Uut it spoils all, that at this jmint and
crisis the author of the history leaves this battle impending,'
giving as excuse that he could find nothing more written abo\it
these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been already
set forth. It is true the second author of this work was un-
willing to believe that a history so curious could liave been
allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or that the wits
of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to pre-
serve 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 favoring him, he did find in a way that shall be
related in the Second Part.'^

' Tho abrupt suspension of the narrative and the reason assigned are in
imitation of devices of the cliivalry-romanee writers. Montalvo, for in-
stance, breaks off in the ninety-eighth chapter of Esplandiaii , and in the
next gives an aeeount of the discovery of the sequel, very much as Cer-
vantes has d:)nt' liere and in the next chajiter.

* Cervantes divided liis lirst volume of JJon Quixote into four parts,
possibly in imitation of the four books of the Amadis of Montalvo ; but
the chapters were numbered without regard to this division, which he also
ignored in 1615, when he called his new volume "Second" instead of
"Fifth " Part.

54 DON QUIXOTE.

CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH IS COXCLUBED AXD FINISHED THE TEKKIFIO
BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAY AN AND THE
VALIANT MANCHEGAN.

In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Bis-
cayan and the renowned Don Quixote with draAvn swords up-
lifted, 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 intima-
tion 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 find-
ing 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 adven-
tures ; 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 un-
fortunate 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 En-
lightenment 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 neighborhood. This re-
flection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly
the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard,
Don Quixote of La Mauclia, light and uurror of Manchegau

CHAPTER IX. 55

chivalry, and the first tliat in our age and in these so evil
days devoted himself to the labor and exercise of the arms of
knight-errantry, righting wrongs, succoring widows, and pro-
tecting damsels of that sort tluit used to ride about, whi]) 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 Avith 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, Avent to their graves
as much maids as the mothers that bore them. 1 say, then,
that in these and other res])ects our noble Don Quixote is
worthy of everlasting and notable jn-aise, nor should it be with-
held even from me for the labor and pains spent in searching
for the conchision of this delightful history ; thougl" I know
well that if Heaven, chance, and good fortune had not helped
me, the world would have remained deprived of an entertain-
ment 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 scra})S of paper in the streets,
led l)y this natural bent of mine, 1 took up one of the pamph-
lets the boy had for sale, and saw that it was in characters
which I recognized as Arabic, and, as I was unable to read
them, though I could recognize 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, Avho 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 laugh-
ing 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

'Instead of azotes (whips) Clemencin suggests azores (liawks), and
refers to eliai>ter xxx. Part II., where a liawk in hand is especially men-
tioned as the usual aceonipaninient of a nol)le lady on horseback.

* Alcana^ a market-place in Toledo in the neighborhood of the cathedral.

^ i.e. Hebrew.

66 DON QUIXOTE.

you, this is written : ' Tltis Dulcinea del Tohoso so often men-
tioned in this histort/ had, they satj, the best hand of any woman
in all La Mancha for salting pigs y

When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck
with surprise and amazement, tor 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 C'astilian, he told me it
meant, '■'History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, a-ritten by
Cid Hamet Beaengeli^ 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 i)amphlets from the boy for half a
real ; and if lie had liad 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 (Jastilian tongue, without omitting or adding
anything to them, offering him whatever payment he pleased.
He was satished with two arrobas of raisins and two bushels
of wheat, and promised to translate thein faithfully and with
all despatch ; but to nuike the matter more easy, 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 trans-
lated 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 mi;le so true to nature that it could be seen
to be a hired one a bowshot off. The Biscayan had an in-
scrijjtion under his feet which said, " Don Saneho de Azpeitia/'
which no doubt must have been his name ; and at the feet of
Rocinante was another that said, " Don Quixote.'^ Eocinante
was marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean,
with so much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that

' J. A. Conde suggested that Ben Engeli^ — " son of the stag" — is the
Arabic equivalent of the name '"Cervantes," the root of which lie as-
sumed to ))e cierro. Cervantes may., of course, have intended what Conde
attributes to him, but the name in reality has nothing to do with ciervo,
and comes from Servando. ( T'. Introduction, p. xviii.)

CHAPTER IX. 57

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 particu-
lars 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 na-
tion ; though, as they are such enemies of ours, it is conceiv-
able 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 })assion, and neither interest nor fear,
hatred nor love, should make them swerve froju 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, Ijegan 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 resolu-
tion and determination did they bear themselves. The liery
Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which was delivered

' Panza = " paunch : " Zancas = " shanks ; " but in spite of what Cer-
vantes says, we hear no more of Sanclio's long shanks, for Avhich the
reader will he grateful. It would have been difficult to realize a long-
legged Sancho.

- A curious instance of the carelessness with which Cervantes wrote and
corrected, if, indeed, he corrected at all : of course he meant the opposite
of what he said — that truth was the mother of history.

58 DON QUIXOTE.

with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in its
course, tha,t single stroke woukl have sufficed to put an end to
the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight ;
but that good fortune Avhieh 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 armor, carrying away a great
])art of his helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful
ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry plight.

Good (xod ! Who is there that could properly describe the
rage that hlled the heart of our Mauchegan when he saw him-
self 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, siniting 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 \\\\-
clasped las arms, and the mule, taking fright at the terrible
blow, made oft" across the plain, and with a few plunges flung
its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very
calmly, and, when he saAv him fall, leaped from his horse and
with great briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of
liis 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 Avould have gone hard with him, so
l)lind Avas 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 favor 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 Avhat 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 part present himself be-
fore 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,

DEFEAT OF THE BISCAYAN. Vol. I. Page 59.

CHAPTER X. 59

promised that their squire should do all that had been com-
manded on his part.

"Then, on the faith of that promise," said Pon Quixote, "I
shall do him no further harm, though he well deserves it of
me."

CHAPTER X.

OF THK PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN" DON
QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIKE 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, be-
fore he could mount, he went on his knees before him, and
taking his hand, kissed it saying, " May it please your wor-
ship, Seiior Don Quixote, to give me the government of that
island whit'h has l)een won in tins 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 any one in the world who has ever gov-
erned 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 Avhicli 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, hel})ed him to mount Kocinante,
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

60 DON QUIXOTE.

squire came up, who on reaching him said, " It seems to me,
seiior, it woukl be i^rudent 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 Avonder 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 Qiiixote ; '' Avhere hast thou ever seen or
heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court
of justice, however many hondcides 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 s})irit in
maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in over-
throwing ? "

" 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 Fiera-
bras,^ for time and medicine are saved by one single drop."

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

' The Santa Hermandad, a tribunal established in the thirteenth century,
but revived in the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, with summary juris-
diction over offenders against life and property on the highways and out-
side of the municipal boundaries.

* Omecillo or hornecillo was an old form of the word homecidio, but in
popular parlance it meant the fine imposed in default of appearance to
answer a charge of assault and battery.

^Fierabras, i.e. Fier a Ziras = " Arm-strong," a giant in Nicolas de
Piamonte's history of Charlemagne and the Peers.

CHAPTER X. 61

"It is a balsam," answered Don Qnixote, " 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 tliou seest they have cut me in half through the middle
of the body — as is wont to lia[)pen frequently — but neatly
and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that por-
tion of the l)ody which shall have fallen to the ground upon
the other half which remains in the saddle, taking care to tit
it on evenly and exactly. Then thou «halt give me to drink
but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned, and tlioii slialt
see me become sounder than an apple."

" If that be so," said I'anza, " 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 recei})t of this supreme liquor, for I am
persuaded it will be worth more than two reals an ounce any-
where, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in ease
and honor; 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 T
mean to teach thee and greater favors to bestow u})oii thee ;
and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains
me nu)re 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, he said, " I swear by the
Creator of all things and the four Gospels in their fullest ex-
tent, to do as the great Marquis of Mantua did wdien he swore
to avenge the death of his ne]>hew lialdwin (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, 1 here
grant as expressed), until I take complete vengeance ui)on 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

'In tlio original, ires aziimhres.

62 DON QUIXOTE.

wliat was commanded liim in going to present himself before
my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, lie will have done all that he
was bound to do, and does not deserve further punishment
imless he commits some new offence."

" Thou hast said well and hit the point/' answered Don Qui-
xote ; " 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 Saeripante so dear." '

" Se.lor," replied Sancho, " let your worship send all such
oaths to tlie devil, for they are very })ernicious 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 Mar-
quis of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to revive ?
Let your worship observe that there are no men in armor trav-
elliug 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 two hours among these cross-roads before Ave
see more men in armor 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 Jirma thou wilt all the better enjoy thy-

' Manibrino, a Moorish king in the Orlando of Boiardo, whose en-
chanted lielmet was won by llinaldo. It w:is Dardinel, lioweA-er, not
Saeripante, to whom it cost so dear. (V. Ariosio, c. xviii., st. 151.)

^ Alhraea, a stronghold of Galafron, King of Cathay and father of
Angelica. The siege is one of the incidents in the Orlando of Boiardo.

CHAPTER X. 63

self. T->ut let us leave that to its own time ; see if thou hast any-
thing 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 1 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 Hancho, " 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, 8ancho, 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 liadst 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 sump-
tuous 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 nsual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou dost
now offer me; so that, friend .Saucho, let not that distress thee
which ])leases me, and do not seek to make a new world or
pervert knight-errantry." ^

" Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, " for, as I can not
read or write, as I said just now, I neither know nor compre-
hend the rules of the profession of chivalry : henceforward I
will stock the alfoi'jas with every kind of dry fruit for your
worship, as you are a knight ; and for myself, as I am not one,
T will furnish them Avith i>oultry and other things more sub-
stantial."

" I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, ''that it is im-
])erative 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 whic-li
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."

' Literally, take knight-errantry off its hinges.

64 DON QUIXOTE.

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, moimted 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 hap-
pened to him he performed an act of ownership that helped to
prove his chivalry.

CHAPTER XI.

OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS.

He Avas cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho,
having as best he coidd put up Kocinante 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 goat-
herds 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 sliare what they had.
Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated
themselves, having first with rough jjoliteness pressed Don
Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for
him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho
renuiiued standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn.
Seeing him standing, his master said to him, " That thou
niayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains in
itself, and how those who fill any ofiice in it are on the high
road to be speedily honored and esteemed by the world, I de-
sire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the com-
pany of these worthy people, and that thou T)e 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

WITH THE GOAT HERDS. Vol. I Page 65.

CHAPTER XL 65

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 can not sneeze or cough if I want, or
do other things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude.
So, sefior, as for these honors which your worship would put
upon me as a servant and follower of knight-errantry (which I
am, being your worship's squire), 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 seiz-
ing 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 list. The course of
meat finished, they spread upon the sheepskins a great heap
of parched acorns, and with them they put doAvn 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-wlieel,^ that it soon
drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. AVlien
Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite, he took iqi a
handful of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively de-
livered himself somewhat in this fashion : '^

" Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave
the name of golden, not because in that fortu.nate 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 ' inine '
and ' tliine ' ! In that blessed age all things were in common ;
to win the daily food, no labor was required of any save to

'" Water-wheel" — noria — a machine used for irrigation in Spain, by
whieh the water is raised in pots or bucliets attached to the circumference
of a large wheel.

^ The eulogy of the golden age is one of the loci classici of Don Quixote
quoted in every Spanish anthology; the reader, however, must not judge
of it by translation, which can not give the stately roll and flow of the
original Castilian.
Vol. I. — 5

66 . Dox QrrxoTE.

stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks that
stood generously inviting him Avith their sweet ripe fruit. The
clear streams and running lirooks yielded their savory^ 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, unen-
forced 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 Avas it that the innocent and fair young shepherd-
esses roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing
locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to
cover what modestv seeks and ever soua^ht 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 Avith 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 Avith truth
and sincerity. Justice held her ground, undisturbed and un-
assailed by the efforts of favor and of interest, that now so
much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary laAV had not
yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there
Avas no cause to judge, and no one to be judged. jVIaidens and
modesty, as I haA^e said, Awandered at Avill alone and unattended,
without fear of insult from laAvlessness or libertine assault, and

' Water is almost worshipped in thirsty Spain, and many a complimen-
tary epithet bestowed upon it that sounds odd under moister skies : agua
muif rica — " A'ery rich water" — is a eomnion eneomium from a Spaniard
after a hearty pull at the alcarrazn.

'"' Clemenein and Hartzenbusch, why I know not, object to se decoraban^
the reading of the original editions, and the latter substitutes se declarahan.
I venture to think the original reading admits of the interpretation I have
given.

CHAPTER XL 67

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 sur-
round 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 succor 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 favor to knights-errant, yet, seeing that without
knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and feasted me, it
is right that with all the good-Avill in my power I should thaidc
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 in finishing his sup-
per, 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 yoiuig 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
here, may see that even in the mountains and woods there are
musicians : we have told him of thy accomplishments, and we

' In the Spanish, rabel^ a small three-stringed lute of Moorish origin.

68 DON QUIXOTE.

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 any more pressing he seated himself on the trunk
of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began with
right good grace 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.

' Antonio's ballad is in imitation of a species of popnlar poetry that
occupies nearly as large a space as the romantic and historical ballads in
the old romanceros. These gay, naive, simple lays of peasant life and
love are as thoroughly national and peculiar to Spain as the historical
ballads tliemselves, and in every way present a striking contrast to the
artificial pastoral sonnets and canciones of Italian importation. The im-
itation of this kind of poetry was a favorite pastime with the poets of the
Spanish Augustan age, and strange to say the poet who showed the light-
est touch and brightest fancy in these compositions, and caught most hap-
pily the simplicity and freshness of the originals, was Gongora, whose
name is generally associated with poetry the exact opposite of this in
every particular. Cervantes apparently valued himself more upon his
sonnets and artificial verses ; a prcfer(?nce regretted, I imagine, by most
of his readers. This ballad has been hardly treated by the translators.
The language and measures used by Shelton and Jervas are about as well
adapted to represent a Spanish popular lyric as a dray-horse to draw a pony-
chaise. The measure of the original is the ordinary ballad measure, an
eight-syllable trochaic, with the assonant rhyme in the second and fourth
lines. The latter peculiarity I have made no attempt to imitate here, but
examples of it will be found farther on.

CHAPTER XI. 69

Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
And thy fickle tits between,

Hope is there — at least the border
Of her garment may be seen.

Lnres to faith are they, those glimpses,
And to faith in thee I hold ;

Kindness can not make it stronger,
Coldness can not 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 }irove.

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 gayly 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,

Kee})ing thee av^^ake 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 ;

DON QUIXOTE.

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 Avas 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 y/«r auionrs —
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 Avilt follow, thou Avilt see.

Else — and once for all I swear it

By the saint of most renown —
If I ever (^uit the mountains,

'T will be in a friar's gown.

Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and thougli
r>on Quixote entreated hini 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 Avill do well
to settle at once where you mean to pass the night, for the
labor 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 per-
ceive clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand com-
pensation 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 thy-

' Coyundas, the cords or thongs by which the horns of the draught oxeu
are bound to the yoke.

CHAPTER XH. 71

self where thoii wilt ; those of luy 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 i)ain than it need."

Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds seeing
the wound told him not to be luieasy, as he would apply a
remedy Avith which it woxild 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 band-
age, assuring him that no other treatment would be required,
and so it ])roved.

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 iip 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 Chrysos-
tom died, and it is rumored that he died of love for that devil
of a village girl the daughter of Guillernu) the Eich, she that
wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess."

" You inean 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
lias also left other directions which the clergy of the village
say should not and must not be obeyed because they savor 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 Ijy Chrysostom, and about this the village is all
in commotion ; however, report says tliat, after all, what Am-
brosio and all the shepherds his friends desire Avill be done, and

72 DON QUIXOTE.

to-morrow they are coming to bury liim with great ceremony
where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing ; at
least I Avill 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 Avealthy gentleman belong-
ing to a village in those moiuitains, 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 the 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, friend," 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 barle}^ ; 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

'"Pulsie" — yarbanzos, or chick-peas, one of the invariable constitu-
ent's of the o//(( OT piichero, and therefore an important crop in Spain.

CHAPTER XI I. 73

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 Christl which the young men of our village acted,
and all said they were excellent. AVhen 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 de-
ceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell you
now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is ; per-
haps, 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 Sara," said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goat-
herd'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 Sara, I told you of it ;
however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer
than Sara: so continue your story, and I will not object any
more to anything."

^" Plays " — autos^ religious allegorical dramas.

^ Mas viejo que sarna — (Prov. 250) " older than itch " — is a very old
popular phrase. Don Quixote, either not knowing it or else not recogniz-
ing it in the form in which Pedro puts it, supposes him to mean Sarah the
wife of Abraham. Though Cervantes tries to observe dramatic propriety
by making Pedro Idunder, in tlie end he puts into his mouth language as
fine and words as long as Don Quixote's.

74 DON QUIXOTE.

'' I say tlien, 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 Avhose
birth her mother died, the most respected woman there was in
this neighborhood ; I fancy I can see her now with that coun-
tenance 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 jjresent 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 without blessing God that had made her so
beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her beyond
redemption. Her uncle kept her in great sechision and retire-
ment, 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 by those not
only of our town but of towns 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
Avithout 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

a-race."

&

li

" 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
(pialities of each one in particular of the many who had asked

CHAPTER XI L 75

her in marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice ac-
cording to her own taste, she never gave any other answer
than that she had no desire to marry jnst yet, and that being
so young she did not tliink herself fit to bear the burden of
matrimony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses
that she niade, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited till
she was somewhat more advanced in age and could mate her-
self to her own liking. For, said he — and he said rpiite right
— parents are not to settle children in life against their will.
r>ut when one least looked for it, lo and behold! one day the
demure Marcela makes her appearance turned she})herdess ;
and, in spite of her uncle and all those of the tOAvn 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 api)eared in })ublic, 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 retire-
ment, 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 Avhich she
watches over her honor, that of all those that coiirt and woo
her not one has boasted, or can with truth boast, that she has
given him any hope however snmll of obtaining his desire.
For although she does not avoid or shun the society and con-
versation of the shepherds, and treats them courteously and
kindly, should any one of themcome to declare his intention
to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of matri-
mony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And Avith 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

' " Frankness " — - desengano — more jiroperly " undeceiving," but there
is no eqiiivali'nt word in English.

76 DON QUIXOTE.

of Ler character ; and if yoii should remain here any time,
senor, you wouhl 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 despair-
ing 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 i-elief 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 wdiat her pride
will come to, and Avdio is to be the happy man that Avill 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
ca\ise of Chrysostom's death, as our lad told us, is the same.
And so I advise you, seilor, 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 w^here he directed he shoidd 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 interest-
ing 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 roacl 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
untoAvard result."

Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd's loqiiacity at
the devil/ on his part begged his master to go into Pedro's hut

' Perhaps the reader will think Sancho had some justification ; an epi-
demic of verbosity, indeed, rages round the corpse of the unhappy

CHAPTER XTTT. 77

to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest of the night in
thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of
Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself between Rocinante
and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded,
but like a man who had been soundly kicked.

CHAPTER XIII.

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

But hardly had day begun to show itself through the bal-
conies of the east, when five of the six goatherds come 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 forth-
with. They had not gone a quarter of a leagne 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 Avith
them there came two men of quality on horseback in hand-
some travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompany-
ing 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, Seiior 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 ns, of both the dead shepherd
and homicide shepherdess."

Chrysostom; but it must be remembered verbosity was then ramj^ant in
literature and especially in Spanish literature, as all who know Guzman
de Alfarache, The Ficara Justina, Marcos de Obregon^ and books of the
same sort, will own ; and if Cervantes did not wholly escape it, his fits of
it were onlv occasional.

78 DON QUIXOTE.

" So I think too," replied Yivaldo, " 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 Chrysostoni. 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 behavior and beauty of a shep-
herdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her,
together with the death of that Chrysostom to Avhose 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 Avas 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 do-svn as mad, and
the better to settle the point and discover what kind of mad-
ness 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 fa-
mous 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 Avas changed by
magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to re-
turn 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 Lance-
lot of the Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely
as is there related, the go-between and confidante therein being
the highly honorable dame Quintanona, whence came that
ballad so well known and widely spread in our Spain —

CHAPTER XI 11. 79

O never surely was there knight

So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lanceh)t liight

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 re-
nowned for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of Gaul with
air his sons and descendants to the fifth generation, and the
valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never sufficiently
praised Ti^-ante 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
joitrney 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 worshi}) has made choice of
one of the most austere professions in the world, and 1 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

'The ballad (Cancionero de Romances^ Antwerp, s.a., and Duran, No.
352) is that parodied by Don Quixote in Chap. ii. " Britain " is, of course,
Brittany; Lancelot's father, King Ban, was a Breton. The idea of the
"go-between" is derived from an Italian source, but the name Quintaiiona
is Spanish ; it means simply an old woman, one who has a quintal, or
hundred-weight of years on her back. The transformation of Arthur
into a raven is also a Southern addition to the Arthurian legend. Cer-
vantes ridicules the story in Persiles ami Sigismunda.

80 DON QUIXOTE.

doubt. For, if the truth is to be tokl, the soklier who exe-
cutes what his captain orders does no less than the captain
himself who gives the order. My meaning is, that church-
men 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 min-
isters on earth and the arms in which his justice is d6ne
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 labor than
those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in pray-
ing 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 belabored 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 balked
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 hnd 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 heartiness and devotion as if these were their
gods, a thing which seems to me to savor somewhat of hea-
thenism."

" Sir," answered Don Quixote, " that can not be on any
account omitted, and the knight-errant would be disgraced
who acted otherwise : for it is usual and customary in knight-

CHAPTER Mil. 81

errantry that tlie knight-errant Avho on engaging in any great
feat of arms has his lady l)efore him, shoiikl turn liis eyes
towards her softly and lovingly, as though Avith them en-
treating her to favor and protect him in the hazardous ven-
ture 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
abo;it that their anger kindles and they wheel their horses
round and take a good stretch of held, and then without any
more ado at the top of their speed they come to the charge,
and in mid-career they commend themselves to their ladies ;*
and what commonly conies of the encounter is that one falls
over tlie haunches of his horse pierced through and through by
his antagonist's lance, and as for the other, it is only by hold-
ing on to the mane of his horse that he can help falling to the
ground ; but I know not how the dead num had time to com-
mend himself to God in the course of such ra})id 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. More-
over, 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 impos-
sible that there could be a knight-errant witlumt a lady, be-
cause 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 Avithout 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 knight-
hood, not by the door, but over the Avail 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 val-
iant Amadis of Gaul, never had any special lady to Avhom he

Vol. I.— 6

82 DON QUIXOTE.

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 that
knight Avas in secret very deeply in love ; besides which, that
way of falling in love with all that took his fancy was a nat-
ural propensity which he could not control. But, in short, it
is ver}^ manifest that he had one alone whom he made mis-
tress of his will, to whom he commended himself 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 can
not 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,
Xuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or

Trov. lUG.

CHAPTER XIII. 83

Gurreas of Aragon ; Cerdas, Maniiqties, Mendozas, or Guzraans
of Castile ; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of Portugal ; but
she is of those of El Toboso of La Maueha, 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,

Tliese let none move
Who dareth not his might witli Roland ])rove." '

" 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 atten-
tion to the conversation of the pair, and even the very goat-
herds 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, be-
cause 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

' " Nessun la mova
Che star non possa con Orlando prova."

Orlando Furioso, xxiv. 57.

But Zerbino's inscription was simply " Armatura d'Orlando Paladino," and
the quotation is merely the poet's gloss upon it.

^ Cac'h()i)in, or Gachupin, a word of Indian origin, and applied to Span-
iards living in or returned from the Indies. Laredo is a seaport close to
Santander, where also the Cachopins were numerous, as appears from a
quaint inscription on one of the houses quoted by Bowie.

^ Ilartzenbusch in his anxiety for precision alters this, as he considers
that El Toboso, being about seven leagues from Argamasilla, cannot be
properly described as " near " it.

* It is hardly necessary to observe that these high mountains in the
neighborhood of Argamasilla are purely imaginary. The nearest that
could by any stretch of courtesy be called high would be those of the
Toledo Sierra some sixty or seventy miles distant.

84 DON QUIXOTE.

with garlands whicli, as afterwards appeared, were, some of
them of yew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carry-
ing a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and branches,
on seeing Avhich one of the goatherds said, '' Those who come
there are the bearers of Chrysostom's body, and the foot of
that moimtain 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 accom-
panied 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 gal-
lant 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, Ambrosio, 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 Ambrosio, " 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 honorable as it was de-
voted, 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 compassion-
ate 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, unap-
l^roached in gentle bearing, a phcenix in friendship, generous
without limit, grave without arrogance, gay without vulgarity,
and, in short, first in all that constitutes goodness and- second

' This is one of the passages selected by Biedermann as specimens of
blunders made by Cervantes, but by en memoria Cervantes does not
mean to " commemorate," but rather to "mark" or" signalize."

CHAPTER Xni. 85

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 immortalize in the mem-
ory of mankind, as these papers which you see could fully
prove, had he not commanded me to consign them to the tire
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
pro})er to do the will of one who enjoins what is Avholly ini-
reasonable ; it would not have been reasonable in Augustus
Ceesar had he permitted the directions left by the divine Man-
tuan in his Avill to be carried into effect. So that, Seiior Am-
brosio, 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 ir-
rationally obey it. On the contrary, by granting life to those
papers, let the cruelty of Marcela live forever, to serve as a
warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling
into like danger : for 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 Ave 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, aiul
in consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if
we might by condolence, Ave beg of you, excellent Ambrosio, or at
least I on my own account entreat you, that instead of burning
those papers you alloAv me to carry away some of them."

And Avithout Avaiting for the shepherd's ansAver, he stretched
out his hand and took up some of those that Avere 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,"

86 DON QUIXOTE.

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 nn-
happy man wrote ; and that you may see, senor, to what an
end his misfortunes broiight him, read it so that you may be
heard, for you will have time enough for that while ^YQ 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.

DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT
1

CHAPTER XIV.

WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE
DEAD SHEPHE
LOOKED FOR.^

THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM.^

Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigor 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

^ There is here a play upon the words desesperados, " despairing," and
no esperados, "not lookecl for:" many of tlie headings to the chapters
contain some verbal conceit of this kind.

^Tiie "Lay of Chrysostom " must not be judged of by a translation.
The original is not so much a piece of jjoetry, as a fantasia in rhyme and
an experiment in versification. Whether Italian or Spanish, the canzone
or cancion is from its style hard to translate into our matter-of-fact Eng-
lish, but the difficulty here is increased by the peculiarly complex stanza
and intricate system of interlaced rhymes which Cervantes adopted, as
well as l)y the inimitable rhythm and harmony of the lines. One pecu-
liarity, borrowed, it may be, from Garcilaso, is that of a line with a
medial rhyme to the termination of the preceding line, which produces a
cadence that falls upon the ear like tliat of waves upon a distant shore.
It might be possible to imitate the arrangement of rhymes, but to imitate
the effect or reproduce the melody in our consonantal language would be
an utter impossibility.

CHAPTER XIV. ' 87

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 nuid 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 3^et 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 powder to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true ;

' " And the hoarse sobbing of the widowed dove."

Drummond of JTawthornden.

^ The owl was the only bird that witnessed the Crucifixion, and it be-
came for tluit reason an object of envy to the other birds, so much so that
it can not appear in the daytime without being persecuted.

^ Betis — i.e. the Guadalquivir.

88 DO^ QUIXOTE.

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 all.
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 siiffer 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 lieart-wounds it appears ?
AVho 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 '11 fondly cling.
I '11 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

CHAPTER XIV. 89

To wliich I am reduced by her disdain,
I '11 give this soul and botly to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.

Thou Avhose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me (|uit 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 tliat 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 gayly 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 noAV 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 sorrowhig heart : my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth ;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.

The " Lay of Chrysostoni " met with the approbation of the
listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree
with what he liad 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

90 DON QUIXOTE.

Ms 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 Avhom he had voluntarily sepa-
rated himself, to try if absence would act Avith 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 un-
shaken, and with her envy itself should not and can not find
any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat liaughty, and very
scornful."

" That is true," said Yivaldo ; and as he was about to read
another paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he Avas
stopped by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unex-
pectedly 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 beaut}" 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, cruel basilisk
of these mountains, to see if haply 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
humors that thou art come ; or like another pitless Kero to look
down from that height upon the ruin of thy Rome in ashes ; or
in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the un-
grateful 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, Ambrosio, for any of the purposes thou hast
named," replied IVIarcela, " 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 it will not take much
time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense.

' It was the corpse of Serviiis Tullius that was so treated by liis daughter
Tullia, tlie wife of Tarqiiin, but Cervantes followed an old ballad in the
Flor de EnamoradoSy which has, Tullia hija de Tarquino. .

CHAPTER XIV. 91

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. I>y that natural understanding which God has
given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I
can not 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 ngiy.' l>ut 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 eveay 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 in-
finity of beautiful objects there must be an iniinity of inclina-
tions, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and
must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I be-
lieve 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 ? More-
over, you must remember that the beauty I possess Avas 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,
thoiigh 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.
Honor and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without whicli
the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful ; l)ut
if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and
charm to mind and body, Avhy 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 Avith

92 DON QUIXOTE.

love by letting tliem see me, I have by words undeceived, and
if their longings live on hope — and I have given none to Chry-
sostom 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 crnelty that killed him ; and if it be made a charge against
me that his wishes were honorable, 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 pnrity of
purpose, I told him that mine Avas to live in perpetual solitude,
and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my retire-
ment 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 have been
false ; if I had gratified him, I should have acted against my
own better resolution and purj^ose. 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
whose encouraged hopes have proved vain give way to despair,
let him whom I shall entice flatter himself, let him whom I
shall receive boast; but let not him to whom I make no
promise, x;pon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither
entice nor receive call me cruel or homicide. It has not been
so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to ex-
pect 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 any one 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 candor is not to be con-
founded Avith scorn. Let him who calls me Avild 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,
])ursue me not ; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrate-
ful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve,
know, or follow them. If Chrysostom's impatience and vio-
lent passion killed him, why should my modest behavior and
circumspection be blamed ? If I preserve my purity in the
society of the trees, why should he who would have me pre-
serve 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

CIt AFTER XTV. 9^

taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint ; I
neither love nor hate any one ; I do not deceive this one or
court that, or trifle with one or play with another. The mod-
est 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 contem-
plate the beauty of the heavens, steps l)y which the soul travels
to its primeval abode."

With these words, and not waiting to hear a rei)ly, she
turned and passed into the thickest part of a Avood 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 luud and distinct voice :

" Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to folloAV
the beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce in-
dignation. She has shown by clear and satisfactory argu-
ments that little or no fault is to be found with her for
the death of (Jlirysostom, and also how far she is from yield-
ing to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which reason,
instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in justice
be honored and esteemed by all the good people of the world,
for she shows that she is the only Avoman 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 Chrysostonfs
papers, they laid his body in it, not Avithout many tears from
those Avho stood by. They closed the grave Avith a heavy
stone until a slab Avas ready Avhich Antonio said he meant to
have prepared, Avith an epitaph Avhich Avas 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 droA^e him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.

94 DON QUIXOTE.

They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and
V)ranches, and all expressing their condolence with his friend
Ambrosio, took their leave. Vivaldo and his companion did
the same ; and Don Quixote Ijade 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 cor-
ner oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them
for their advice and for the disposition they showed to do him
a favor, and said that for the present he woidd 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 disciiss 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.

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

The sage Cid Hamet 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 haci seen the shepherdess Marcela enter,
and after having wandered for more than two hours in all direc-
tions in search of her without finding her, they came to a halt
in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which ran a pleas-
ant cool stream that invited and even compelled them to pass
there the hours of the noontide heat, Avhich by this time was
beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho
dismounted, and turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed on

CHAPTER XV. 95

the pfrass that was there in abvinclance, they ransacked the
alforjas, and without any ceremony very peacefully and soci-
ably master and man made their repast on what they found in
them. Sancho had not thought it worth while to liol)l)le Roci-
nante, 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 abandon-
ing his usual gait and demeanor as he scented them, he, with-
out 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 run-
ning up armed with stakes,- and so belabored him that they
brought him sorely battered to the ground.

By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed
the drubbing of Eocinante, came up panti^ig, 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 be-
cause 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, perha])S, not more than one and a half ? "

" I coiurt for a hundred," re})lied Don Quixote, and with-
out more words he drew his sword and attacked the Yangue-
sans, and incited and impelled by the example of his master,
Sancho did the same ; and to begin with, Don Quixote deliv-
ered a slash at one of them that laid open the leather jerkin

' i.e. of Yanguas, a district in the north of Uld Castile, near Logroiio.
* Used by the carriers in loading their beasts to prop up the pack on
one side while they are adjusting the balance on the other.

96 DON QUIXOTE.

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 Avith
great zeal and energy ; in fact, at the second blow they brought
Sancho to the ground, and Don Quixote fared the same way, all
liis 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 seem 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 adven-
turers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.

Sancho was the first to come to, and finding liimself close
to his master he called to him in a weak and doleful voice,
" Senor Don Quixote, ah, Senur Don Quixote ! "

" What wouldst thou, brother Sancho ? " answered Don Qui-
xote 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 Bias," if it be that you have any to hand there ; per-
haps 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 posses-
sion, or my hand will have lost its cunning."

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

" Por myself I must say I can not guess how many," said the
l)attered knight Don Quixote ; " but I take all the blame upon
myself, for I had no business to put hand to sword against
men who were not dubbed knights like myself, and so I be-
lieve that in punishment for having transgressed the laws of
chivalry the God of battles has permitted this cliastisenient
to be administered to me ; for which reason, brother Sancho,
it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the nuitter which
I am now about to mention to thee, for it is of much impor-
tance to the welfare of both of us. It is that Avhen thou shalt

' An allusion probably to the story of Diego Perez de Vargas, "the
pounder." ( T^ chapter viii.)

^ Sancho's blunder in the name of Fierabras is droller in the original, as
he says, del feo Blas^ " of the ugly Bias."

CHAPTER XV. 97

see rabble of this sort ottering us insult thou art not to wait
till I draw sworcl 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 admoni-
tion as to let it pass withoiit saying in reply, " Sefior, I am a
man of peace, meek and quiet, and I can })ut up with any
affront because I have a wife and children to su})port and
bring up ; so let it be likewise a hint to your worship, as it
can not be a mandate, that on no account will T draw sword
either against clown or against knight, and that here before
God I forgive all the insults that have been offered me or may
be offered me, whether they have been, are, or shall be offered
me by high or low, rich or poor, noble or commoner, not ex-
cepting any rank or condition whatsoever."

To all which his master said in reply, " I wish I had breath
enough to s})eak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on
this side woidd abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza,
the mistake thou niakest. Come now, sinner, suppose the
wind of fortime, hitherto so adverse, should turn in our favor,
filling the sails of our desires so that safely and without im-
pediment 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
iidiabitants are never so qiiiet 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 valor 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
valor your worship speaks of, but swear on the faith of a poor

Vol, I. - 7

98 DON QUIXOTE.

man I am more fit for plasters than for arguments. See if
your worship can get up, and let us help Eocinante, though he
does not deserve it, for he was the main cause of all this
thrashing. I never thought it of Eocinante, 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 line
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 im-
agine ? — 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 sqiure re})lied, " Sefior, 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 hel])S us."

" Know, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " that the
life of knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and
reverses, and neither luore nor less is it within immediate
possibility for knights-errant to become kings and emperors,
as experience luis shown in the case of many different knights
with whose histories I am thoroughly acquainted ; and I could
tell thee now, if the pain woidd let me, of some who simply
l)y might of arm have risen to the high stations I have men-
tioned ; and those same, both before and after, experienced
divers misfortunes and miseries ; for the valiant Amadis of
Gaul foimd himself in the power of his mortal enemy Ar-
calans the magician, who, it is positively asserted, holding
liim captiA'e, 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

' There is no account of any such flogging in the Amadis.

CHAPTER XV. 99

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 succored 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 cobliler strikes another with the last which
he has in his hand, though it be in fact a piece of wood, it
can not be said for that reason that he whom he struck with
it has been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst imag-
ine 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, Avere 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 niy 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 Avere an indignity or not givef^
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 wdiat 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 woidd 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

' Tizon was the name of one of tlie Cid's two famous swords ; the word
was altered into Tizona to suit the trochaic rhythm of the balhids. It
means simply "brand."

100 DON QUIXOTE.

Rociiiante 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 shonld 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 Avant of Rocinante, carrying
me hence to some castle where I may be cured of my wounds.
And moreover I shall not hold it any dishonor 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 woi-ship says,"
answered Sancho, " but there is a great difference between
going mounted and going slung like a sack of manure." ^

To Avhich Don Quixote replied, " Wounds received in battle
confer honor instead of taking it away ; and so, friend Panza,
say no more, Imt, 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 the best part of the year, and that they esteem it very
good fortune."

" That is," said Don Quixote, <' when they can not help it,
or when they are in love ; and so triie is this that there have
been knights avIio have remained two years on rocks, in sun-

' In this characteristic comment of Sancho's. Ilartzcnbuscli corrects
caballero andante — " knight-errant " — into cabaUeria andante — " horse-
errant " (entirely overlooking the tambien — "too"), and with profound
gravity reminds ns that Rocinante is a horse. Mr. J. P. Collier's "old
corrector" in the 1()32 folio Shakesjieare could hardly do worse tlian this.
The l>lay upon the words siji castas and sin costillas cannot be rendered
literally ; sin costillas — " without ribs " — means also in popular parlance
bankrupt, " cleaned out."

* Thebes ; but that of the hundred gates was the Egyptian, not the
Boeotian Thebes, which is the one here referred to.

^ The grave drollery of Sancho's matter-of-fact reply is lost in transla-
tion, inasmuch as in Spanish "to go mounted" — ir caballero — implies
also " to go like a gentleman."

<^%..^

rk ^::i

DON QUIXOTE WOUNDED. Vol. I. Page 101.

CHAPTER XV. 101

shine and shade and all the inclemencies of heaven, without
their ladies knowing anything of it ; and one of these avus
Aniadis when, under the name of Beltenebros, he took up his
abode on the Pefla Pobre for — I know not if it was eiuht
years or eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckon-
ing ; at any rate he stayed there doing penance for I know not
what pique the Princess Oriana had against him ; Init no more
of this now, Sancho, and make haste before some other 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 him-
self upright, but with all his pains he saddled his ass, who too
had gone astray somewhat, yielding to the excessive license of
the day ; he next raised up Rocinante, and as for him, had he
possessed a tongue to complain Avith, most assuredly neither
Sancho nor his master would have been behind him.^ To be
brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Poci-
nante with a leading rein, and taking tlie 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 per-
ceived 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 Avas settletl
they had time to reach it, and into it Sancho entered Avith all
his team,'^ Avithout any further controversy.

' This is another example of tlie loose construction and confusion into
which Cervantes fell at times. Of course he meant to say that Rocinante
wonlil not have been behind them in complaining.

^ The entrance of a Spanish venia ov posada is almost always a wide
gateway through which both man and beast enter to their respective
quarters. The high road — camino real — was the Madrid and Seville
road, and on it, or some little distance one side or the other of it, all the
adventures of the First Part are supposed to take place. From its dis-
tance from tlie Sierra Morcna this venta would be somewhere near Val-
depeiias, in the great wine-growing district. The scene of the release of
the galley slaves in chapter xxii. would be near Almuradiel. ( V. map.)

102 DON QUIXOTE.

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 Sanclio wliat was amiss with hiiu. Sancho answered
that it was nothing, only that he had fallen down from a rock
and had his ribs a little bruised. The iunkeeper had a wife
whose disposition was not such as those of her calling com-
monly have, for she was by nature kiud-hearted and felt for
the sufferings of her neighbors, so she at once set about tend-
ing 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 over-weighted her somewhat,
made her conteuiplate the ground more than she liked. This
graceful lass, then, heljjed 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 any one
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 Avheals Don Quixote was in
some places, remarked that this had more the look of blows
than of a fall.

CHAPTER XVI. 103

It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock liad many
points and projections, and that each of them had left its
mark. '' Pray, senora," he added, " manage to save soine 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 1 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, seiiora," 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 Ave 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 nxy hopes for the best title in Spain."

To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very

104 DON QUIXOTE.

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 it I do
not myself praise it, it is because of what is commonly said,
that self-praise debaseth ; ^ but my squire Avill inform you
who I am. I only tell you that I shall preserve for ever in-
scribed 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 nuu'h 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 pot-house 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 uight, and she had given him her word that when the
giiests 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 em-
ployment as servant in an inn, because, she said, misfortunes
and ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard, nar-
row, wretched, rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the
middle of this star-lit stable,'^ and close beside it Sancho made
his, Avhich merely consisted of a rush inat and a blanket that
looked as if it was of threadbare canvas, rather than of wool.
iSText to these two beds Avas that of the carrier, made up, as

• Prov. 6.

^ Estrellado seems to have puzzled most of the translators. Shelton
omits it, and Jervas renders it "illustrious."

CHAPTER XVI. 105

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 Cid Hamet 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 ink-bottle from carelessness, perverseness, or igno-
rance. A thoiisand 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 Mari-
tornes. 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 imagina-
tion 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 prom-

' The carrier business, Pellicer points out, was extensively followed by
the Moriscoes, as it afforded them an excuse for absenting themselves
from Mass.

^ Cronica de Tablante de Ricamonte^ a romance of uncertain date and
origin, based upon the Arthurian legend. The Conde Tomillas was a
personage at the Court of Charlemagne mentioned in the Montesinos
ballads, but no book of his deeds is known.

106 DON QUIXOTE.

isecl to come to his bed for awhile that night without the
knowledge of her parents ; and holding as solid fact all this
fantasy that he had constructed, he began to feel uneasy and to
consider the perilous risk which his virtue was about to en-
counter, and he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to
his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though the queen Guine-
vere herself and the dame Quintaiiona should present them-
selves 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 sack-
cloth it appeared to him to be of the finest and softest silk : on
lier wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they had the
sheen of precious Orient pearls : her hair, which in some meas-
ure 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 imagina-
tion with the same features and in the same style as that which
he had seen in his books of the other princess 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 any-
thing 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 beaiity in his arms,
and holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say in a low,
tender voice, " Would that I found myself, lovely and exalted
lady, in a position to repay such a favor as that which you, by
the sight of your great beauty, have granted me ; but fortune,

CHAPTER XVL 107

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 im-
possible ; besides, to this impossibility another yet greater is to
be added, which is the faith that I have pledged to the peer-
less Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of my most secret thoughts ;
and M^ere 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 furding 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, Avhich was somewhat crazy and not very
firm on its feet, unable to bear 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 light-
ing 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, strum-
pet ? 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

' We were told just before that Sancho was unable to sleep.

108 DON QUIXOTE.

return to Sanelio 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 Mari-
tornes, and he and she between them began the bitterest and
drollest scrimmage in the world. The carrier, however, per-
ceiving by the light of the innkeeper's candle how it fared
with his lady-love, 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 kSancho, 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
an officer of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of
Toledo, who, also hearing the extraordinary noise of the con-
flict, 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 this Jurisdiction ! Hold ! in the name of the Holy
Brotherhood ! " The first that he came upon was the pum-
melled Don Quixote, who lay stretched senseless on his back
upon his broken-down bed, and, his hand falling on the l:)eard
as he felt about, he continued to cry, " Help for the Juris-
diction ! " 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 sus-
picion 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 con-
test at the point at which the voice reached him. The inn-
keeper 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 officer
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 find-
ing one, as the innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lan-
tern on retreating to his room, he was compelled to have

CHAPTER XVTI. 109

recourse to the hearth, where after much time and trouble he
lit another lamp.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH ABE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES
WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE
SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MIS-
FORTUNE 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 daj^ before when he lay stretched " in the vale of
the stakes," ^ he began calling to him now, " Sanclio, my
friend, art thou asleep ? sleepest thou, friend Sancho ? "

" How can I sleep, curses on it ! " returned Sancho discon-
tentedly and bitterly, " when it is plain that all the devils
have been at me this night ? "

" Thou niayest 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 any one's good name."

" I say," repeated Sancho, " that I swear to hold my tongue
about it till the end of your worship's days, and God grant 1
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 ad-
ventures 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 ele-

iThe words quoted are the beginning of one of the Cid ballads, "For el
val lie las estacas."

110 DON QUIXOTE.

gant 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 aniorous
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 Kocinante's misbehavior, inflicted on us the in-
jury thou knowest of ; whence I conjecture that there must be
some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of this damsel's
beauty, and that it is not for me."

" Nor for me either," said Sancho, '' for more than four hun-
dred Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the
stakes was cakes and fancy-bread to it. But tell me, senor,
what did 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.

'' Did n'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 our-
selves in the twinkling of an eye."

By this time the oflficer 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 coimtenance, he said to his
master, " Senor, can it be that this is the enchanted Moor com-
ing back to give us more castigation if there be anything still
left in the ink-bottle ? "

CHAPTER XVI I. Ill

" It can not ]jp the Moor," answered. Don Quixote, "■ for those
under enchantment do not let themselves be seen by any one."

" 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 en-
chanted 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 pum-
melling 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 officer finding himself so disresj)ectfully 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 cuft's and lamp-whacks."

" That is the truth," answered Don Quixote, " and there is
no use in troubling one's self about these matters of enchant-
ment or being angry or vexed at them, for, as they are in-
visible and visionary we shall find no one on whom to avenge
iDurselves, 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, lie-
cause I am losing much blood, from the wound, that phantom
gave me."

Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and Avent
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 favor and. kind-
ness 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 sorely wounded by the hands of the en-
chanted Moor that is in this inn."

When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him

112 DON QUIXOTE.

for a man out of his senses, and as clay was now beginning
to break, he opened the inn gate, and calling the host, he
told him wliat this good man wanted. The host furnished
him with what he required, and Sancho brought it to Don
Quixote, who, with his hands to his head, was bewailing the
})ain 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 Avas no tone 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 pater-
nosters and as many nu)re ave-marias, salves, and credos, ac-
companying each word with a cross by way of benediction,
at all which there were present Sancho, the innkeeper, and
the ofiicer; for the carrier was now peacefully engaged in
attending to the comfort of his mules.

This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial him-
self, 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 pipkin in which
it had been boiled ; but scarcely had he done driidcin^g Avhen
he began to vomit in such a way that nothing was left in his
stomach, and with the })angs 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 sleep-
ing 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 Avhat was left in
the pipkin, which was no small quantity. Don Quixote con-
sented, and he, taking it with two 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

CHAPTER XVII. 113

Sanelio was of necessity not so delicate as that of his master,
and so, before vomiting, he Avas seized with such gripings, and
retchings, and such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly
he believed his last liour 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 Ijeing 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 sqiiire
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 hinaself 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 con-
fidence 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 kirning 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
Avere more than twenty persons, stood watching him ; the inn-
keeper'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

Vol. I. — 8

114 DON QUIXOTE.

voice, " Many and great are the favors, Sefior 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 arro-
gant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is
no other than to aid the weak, and 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 Avhich I have
received to jDrocure you satisfaction and reparation to the ut-
most 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 Avant is that you i)ay me the
score that you have run up in the inn last night, as well for the
straw and l)arley for your two beasts, as for supj^er 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
(Juixote, " for in truth I Hiought 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 can not 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 lor the
insufferable toil they endure in seeking adventures by night
and by day, summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback,
in hunger and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the inclem-
encies 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 or chivalry,
for all I care about is to get to 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 any one could stop him, and
pushed on some distance without looking to see if his squire
was followinsj him.

'^O

' Nevertheless Orlando in the Morgante Maggiore is called upon to leave
his horse in pledge for his reckoning. Morg. Magg. c. xxi. st. 129.

CHAPTER XVI I. 115

The innkeeper when he saw hiiu go without payini,^ hi]n I'an
to get payment of Sancho, who said that as his master woukl
not pay neither woukl 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
Avould 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 law.

The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that
among the company in the inn there were four wool-carders
from Segovia, three needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova,
and two lodgers from the Fair of Seville," lively fellows, ten-
der-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 tliat the ceiling was some-
what 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 make sport with him as they Avould
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 wdio uttered them. Wheeling about he came
up to the inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went
roiuid it to see if he could find some way of getthig in ; Imt 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

' Cornado, a coin of infinitesimal value, about one-sixth of a maravecH.

^ The " Fair" was a low quarter in Seville.

^ " The roome was high-roofed and fitted for their purpose. . . . They
began to blanket me and to toss me up in the air as they used to doe to
dogges at Shrovetide." — Aleman's Guzm,an de Alfayache,Vt. I. Bk. III.
c. i. (James Mabbe's translation). As the First Part of Guzman was
published in 1599, it may have suggested the scene to Cervantes.

116 DON QUIXOTE.

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, see-
ing 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 drink-
ing ; 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. AYhen Sancho had done
drinking he dug his heels into his ass, and the gate of the inn
Ijeing 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

CHAPTER XVIII. 117

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 SAXCHO PANZA HELD
WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER WITH 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 an-
other 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 llocinante, 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 forever, 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 Avho 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 Saiicho,
'' whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not ;
though for my part I am persuaded those who amused them-
selves 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 Avail of the yard or dismount
from your horse came of something else besides enchantments |

118 DON QUIXOTE.

and what I make out clearly from all this is, that these advent-
ures we go seeking will in the end lead us into such misad-
ventures 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
honorable thing it is to wander in the pursuit of this calling ;
nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there be in the Avorld,
or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, and tri-
umphing 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 my-
self one of so honorable 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
niore cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanket-
ing over and above, and falling in with enchanted persons on
whom I can not 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 en-
deavor 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 fortiuie may procure for me
that which l)elonged 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 armor, how-
ever strong and enchanted it might be, that coidd resist it."

" Such is my luck," said Sancho, " that even if that hap-
})ened and your Avorship found some such sword, it would, like

' Proverbial expression (-i?) — " Amlar de Ceca en Meca y de zoca en
c'olodra " — somewhat like our ])lirase, " from post to pillar." The Ceca
(properly a mint or a shrine) was the name given to i)art of the Great
Mosque of Cordova, once second to Mecca only as a resort of pilgrims.
Zoca properly means a wooden shoe, hut here a vessel hollowed out of
wood. ^ Amadis of Greece, not Amadis of Gaul.

/

r;s

'Sb. ■'- »>* f

'■^^

■■'a --m

7

THE FLOCKS OF SHEEP. Vol, I. Page 119.

CHAPTER XVIII. 119

the balsam, turn out serviceable aiul good for dubbed knights
only, and as for the squires, they might sup sorrow."

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

Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire Avere going along,
when, on the road they Avere 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, 0
Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is reserving
for ]ne ; 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 Avritten 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 np ^ by a vast army
composed of various and countless nations that conies 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. iSTow the cloud
of dust he had seen was raised by two great droves of sheep
coming along the same road in opposite directions, Avhich, be-
cause of the dust, did not become visible until they drcAV near,
but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies
that Sancho was led to believe it and say, " A^'ell, and Avhat
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 iis 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 Avith his right arm bare." ^

' The word in the original is citajdda — •" curdled" — which Clemencin
objects to as obscure, and would rephice by causada — " caused."

^ Suero de Quiiiones, the hero of tlie Paso honroso at the bridge of
Orbigo in 14;^>4, used to fight against the Moors with his right arm bare.

120 DON QUIXOTE.

" But "wliy are these two lords sucli enemies ? " asked Sancho.

" They are at enmity," replied Don Quixote, " because this
Alif anfaron 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 unAvilling to bestow
her upon the pagan king unless he first abandons the religion
of his false prophet jNIahomet, and adopts his own."

" By my beard," said Sancho, " but Pentapolin does qxiite
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 req-
uisite 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 tlie fray is over ? for I believe it has not been the cus-
tom so far to go into battle on a beast of this kind."

" That is triie," 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 nin 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 ac-
company 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 gromid 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 Avhom thou seest
yonder in yellow armor, who bears upon his shield a lion
crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laur-
calco, lord of the Silver Bridge ; that one in armor with flowers
of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an
azure held, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quiro-
cia ; that other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever
dauntless Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Ara-
bias, who for armor 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

CHAPTER XVIII. 121

eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and in the
van of this other army the ever victorious and never van-
quished Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who
comes in armor witli arms quartered azure, vert, argent, and
or, and bears on his shiehl a cat or on a fiehl tawny with a
motto which says Mlau, 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 witli
iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble party-colored
zebra, and for arms bears azure cups, is the mighty duke of
Nervia, Espartafilardo del P>os(pie, who bears for device on his
shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that says,
'Bastrea ml siierte.' " ^ And so he went on naming a numlDer
of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination,
and to all he assigned off-hand their arms, colors, 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 ISTumidiaus, faitli-
less 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 ])ierced lips, and an infinity of
other nations whose features I recognize and descry, though
I can not recall their names. In this other squadron there
come those that drink of the crystal streams of the olive-bear-
iuff Betis, those that make smooth their countenances with the
water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in
the fertilizing flow of the divine Genii, those that roam the

• Rastrear means properly to track by following the footprints, and
hence to keep close to the ground ; the motto, therefore, is j)robal)ly
meant to have a double signification, either " in Fortune's footsteps "' or
" my fortune creeps on the ground," in allusion to the asparagus, which is
a low-growing plant.

122 DON QUIXOTE.

Tartesian plains ^ abounding in pasture, tliose that take their
pleasure in the elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich jVIanchegans
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 pine-
clad 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 Avhat he had read in his
lying books ! Sancho Panza hung upon his words without speak-
ing, 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, withdraAV 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 Eocinante 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 cups azure or bedevilled. 'Wliat are you about ?
Sinner that I am before God ! " But not for all these entrea-

^ From Tartessus, a city of Bctica, supposed to have been situated
soraewliere in the neighborhood of Tarifa.

* In part of its course through La Mancha the Guadiana flows under-
ground.

CHAPTER XVI IT. 123

ties did Don Quixote turn back ; on tlie contrary lie went on
shouting out, " Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the
banners of the valiant emperor Fentapolin of the Bare Ann,
follow nie all ; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his re-
venge over his enemy Alifanfaron of 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 Avere transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shep-
herds and drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to
desist ; but 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 pen-
alty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Gara-
manta." Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that struck
him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feel-
ing 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 con-
tents into his stomach ; but ere he had succeeded in swallow-
ing 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 oft' without waiting to ascer-
tain anything further.

All this time Sancho stood on the hill Avatching 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 came down
the hill and 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 ? "

124 DON QUIXOTE.

" 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 take what form 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 assist-
ance ; come hither and see how many of my teeth and grind-
ers 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 com-
passionate squire.

" Holy Mary ! " cried Sancho, " what is this that has hap-
pened me ? Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded, as lie
vomits blood from the mouth ; " but considering the matter a
little more closely he perceived by the color, 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 him-
self 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 government 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

' See chapter vii.

CHAPTER XVIII. 1^5

his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one in deep dejection.
Seeing liim in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote said to
him, " Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than
anotlier, 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 forever ; and hence it follows that the evil
having lasted long, the good must be now ingh 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," answei-ed Don Quixote, " I would rather
have just now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of
pilchards' heads, then all the herbs described by Dioscorides,
even with Dr. 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 Avhen
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 tad-
poles of the water, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun
to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the
just and on the unjust."

" Your worsliip 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 a highway, as if they had graduated in the

' Dr. Andreas Laguna, who translated Dioscorides into Spanish witli
copious notes in 1570.

126 DON QUIXOTE.

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," said Sancho.

" 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 I " said Don Quixote, hearing the sad
news his squire gave him ; " I had rather they had 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 mill-
stone, 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
ill wliich 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.

'Prov. 125.

CHAPTER XIX. 127

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 KOTABLE OCCURRENCES.

" It seems to me, seuor, 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 table-cloth 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 hap})ened
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 are not quite clear
of complicity ; and whether or no, it will not be ill done to pro-
vide 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 ^

' Camino real — one of the main roads connecting the provinces or chief
cities with the capital.

128 DON QUIXOTE.

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
Avhich 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 Avhat 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 advent-
ure, in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my
valor and resolution."

^' Unlucky me ! " answered Sancho ; " if this adventure hap-
pens to be one of phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is,
where shall I find the ribs to bear it ? "

" Be they phantonis 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

' Maskers wearing shirts (camisas) over tlieir clothes, who marched in
procession carrying torches on festival nights. As there is no English
translation of the word, it is better to give the Spanish instead of some
roundabout descriptive phrase.

CHAPTER XIX. 129

cold fit of an ague ; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered'
still more when they perceived distinctly that l)ehind thenx
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 en-
camisados 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 imag-
ination 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 nnist of necessity pass ; and as soon as
he saw them near at hand he raised his voice and said, " Halt,
knights, whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who
ye are, whence ye come, 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 neces-
sary 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 can not 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 en-
camisado 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

Vol. I. — 9

130 DON QUIXOTE.

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 mourn-
ers, too, enveloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were
unable to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself
Don Quixote belabored 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 groimd near the first man whom
the mule had thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote per-
ceived 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 can not stir, for one of my
legs is broken : I entreat you, if you be a Christian gentle-
man, 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 church-
man ? " asked Don Quixote.

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

'' Then still worse awaits you," said Don Quixote, " if you
don't 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 witli
eleven others, priests, the same who fled with the torches, and
we are going to the city of Segovia accom})anying 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 tak-
ing 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.

CHAPTER XIX. 131

" 111 that case/' said Don (^)uixote, " the Lord has relieved
me of the task of avenging his death had any other shiin him ;
but, he who sleAv 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 rever-
ence 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 forever ; and the height of
misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in search of
adventures."

" Things do not always 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 natu-
rally 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, get-

' A quibble on the words derecho and iuerto^ which mean" straight " and
" crooked," as well as " right " and " wrong."

^ The original has " for svich I always believed," etc., which is an ob-
vious slip, either of the pen or of the jiress. It can not be that Cervantes
intended a side blow at ecclesiastics, for he exjiressly disclaims any such
intention, and the " you " clearly refers to these particular processionists
alone.

132 DON QUIXOTE.

ting together as much as lie could, and as the mule's sack 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 Avrong 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, jiixta ilhul, si qitis, suadente diaholoP

"I do not understand that Latin," answered Don Quixote,
" but I know well I did not lay hands, only on 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 Chris-
tian as I am, I respect and revere, but upon phantoms and
spectres of the other Avorld ; but even so, I remember how it
fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke the chair of the ambas-
sador of that king before his Holiness the Pope who excommu-
nicated him for the same ; and yet the good Roderick of ]*>ivar
bore himself that dav like a very noble and valiant knioht." -

On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has
been said, without making an}^ repl}' ; and Don Quixote asked
Sancho what had induced him to call him the " Knight of the
Rueful Countenance " more 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

' It has I)eon frequently objected X\vAi jigura does not mean the face or
countenance, but the whole figure ; but no matter what dictionaries may
say, it is plain from what follows that Sancho applies the word here to his
master's /ace, made haggard by short commons and loss of teeth, and uses
it as synonymous witli cara ; and that Don Quixote himself never could
have contemplated painting a full-length on hi*; shield, but merely a face.
As a matter of fact, however, the dictionaries do not support the objec-
tion. The two best, that of the Academy and of Vicente Salva, explain
figura as the " external form of a body," and add that it is commonly used
for the face alone, por solo el rosiro.

^ Referring to tlie apochryphal legend which forms the subject of the
l)allad, "A concilio dentro en Roma.'' Among Lockhart's ballads there is
a lively version of it.

CHAPTER MX. 138

held by that unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of
late the most ill-favored fouutenanee I ever saAv : it must Ixi
either owing to the fatigue of this combat, or else to the want
of teeth and grinders."

" It is not that," replied Don (^Hiixote, '•' but because the sage
whose duty it will })e to write the history of my achievenu^nts
must have thought it })roper that I shoidd take some distiuc-
tive name as all knights of yore did; one behig-'He of the
Burning Sword,' another ' Pie of the Unicorn,' this one ' He of
the Damsels/ that ' He of the Poenix,' 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 lliis
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, sefior, for wasting time or money on
making that countenance," said Hancho ; " for all that need be
done is for your Avorship 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 Counte-
nance ; ' and believe me I am telling you the truth, for I assure
you, seiior (and in good part be it said), hunger and the loss of
your grinders have given you such an ill-favored 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, say-
ing, '' 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 them-
selves that it is a single man that has beaten them, and feelinu'
sore and ashamed of it nmy 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,
let the dead go to the grave and the living to the loaf ; '' ' and

' Truv. 147.

134 DON QUIXOTE.

driving liis ass before Idni he begged his master to follow, who,
fee] ing that Saiicho Avas 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
gentleman (who seldom put themselves on short allowance)
had brought Avith 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
Avater to moisten their li})s ; and as thirst tormented them,
Sancho, observing that the meadow Avhei-e they Avere was
full of green and tender grass, said what Avill be told in the
following chapter.

CHAPTER XX.

OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENT UKE WHICH
AVAS ACHIEA'ED BY THE A^ALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA
MANCHA AVITH LESS TEKIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY
ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD.

" It can not be, senor, l)ut that this grass is a proof that
there must be hard by some sj)ring or brook to give it moist-
Tire, so it Avould be Avell to move a little farther on, that
Ave }nay find some place Avhere Ave may quench this terrible
thirst that plagues us, Avhich beyond a doubt is more distress-
ing than hunger.''

The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading
Kocinante by the bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter,
after he had packed away upon him the remains of the supper,
they advanced up the meadoAv feeling their Avay, for the dark-
ness of the night inade it impossible to see anything ; but they
had not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water,
as if falling from great high rocks, struck their ears. The
sound cheered them greatly ; but halting to make out by
listening from Avhat quarter it came they heard unseasonably
another noise which spoiled ^ the satisfaction the sound of the

'Literally, " Avatered the satisfaction."

CHAPTER XX. 135

water gave tlieni, especially for Sancho, who was by nature
timid and faint-hearted ; they heard, I say, strokes falling
with a measured beat, and a certain i-attling of iron and chains
that, together Avith 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, knoAv 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 ; 1 am he for
whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds are re-
served ; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights of
the Hound Table, the Twelve of France and the Xine \A'orthies ;
and he who is to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes,
the Olivantes and Tirantes, the Phoibuses and Belianises, with
the whole herd of famous knights-errant of days gone by, per-
forming 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 these
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 hazai-ds and adventures of the kind.
AVell, 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 favor and a service, thou

136 DON QUIXOTE.

wilt go to El Toboso, where tlioii shalt say to my incomparable
lady Dulciuea that lier 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, " Seiior, 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 Ave don't drink for three
days to come ; and as there is no one to see us, all the lesj.
will there be any one to set us down as cowards ; besides, 1
have many a time heard the curate of our village, whom your
worship knows well, preach that he wlio seeks danger perishes
in it ; ^ so it is not right to tempt God by trying so tremen-
dous 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 Avith the dead man ; and if all
this does not move or soften that hard heart, let this thought
and reflection move it, that you Avill haA'e hardly quitted this
spot Avhen from pure fear I shall yield my soul up to any one
that Avill take it. I left home and Avife and children to come
and serve your Avorship, trusting to do better and not Avorse ;
but, as covetousness bursts the bag,^ it has rent my hopes
asunder, for just as I had them highest about getting that
Avretched unlucky island your Avorship has so often promised
me, I see that instead and in lieu of it you mean to desert me
noAV in a place so far from hiiman reach ; for God's sake,
master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship
Avill not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least piit it
off till morning, for by Avhat the lore I learned Avhen I Avas a
shepherd tells me it can not Avant three hours of daAvn uoav,
because the mouth of the Horn is overhead and makes mid-
night in the line of the -left arm." ^

'■ HoAV canst thou see, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " Avhere
it makes that line, or Avhere the mouth or head is that thou
talkest of, AAdren the night is so dark that there is not a star
to be seen in the Avhole heaven ? "

1 Prov. 170. 2 Prov. oO.

^ The Horn Sancho refers to is the consteUation of Ursa Minor, which
has somewhat tlie shape of a curved hunting horn, and the hour was calcu-
lated hy extending the arms horizontally so as to represent a cross, the
time being indicated by the relative position of tlie Horn to the arms.

CHAPTER XX. 137

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

" Let it want what it may," replied Don Quixote, " it shall
not be said of nie 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 i)ut 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 llocinante'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 fe]t, tied
both liocinante's fore-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 liocinante can not 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 grcAV desperate, but the more he drove
his heels into the horse, the less he stirred him ; and not hav-
ing 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
Eocinante can not 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 freslier when day comes and the moment arrives for
attempting this extraordinary adventure you are looking
forward to."

'' What art thou talking aboiit dismounting or sleeping for '■' "
said Don Quixote. ^' Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights

138 DON QUIXOTE.

that take their rest in the presence of danger ? Sleep thou
who art born to sleep, or do as thou wilt, for I Avill 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 thigli in his embrace, not daring
to separate a finger's length 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
l)roposed, 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
it escapes me not, 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 Es-
tremadura there was a goat-shepherd — that is to say, one who
tended goats — which shepherd or goat-herd, 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

' Prov. 96.

^ i.e. Caton Censorino — Cato the Censor ; but Sancho's impression
was that the name was derived from zonzo, " stupid," or zonzorrion., " a
blockhead."

CTIAPTFJi XX. 139

telling this," answered Sancho, " and I can not 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 can not 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 mustaches ; 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 my-
self. 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 had caused him that crossed the line and tres-
passed 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 her-
self 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 barefooted 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, whicli
was at that time swollen and almost overflowing its banks,
and at the spot he came to there was neither ferry nor boat nor

» Prov, 198.

140 DON QUIXOTE.

any one to carry him or his flock to the other side, at which
he was much vexed, for he perceived that Torralva was ap-
proaching and woukl give him great annoyance Avith her tears
and entreaties ; however, he went kioking abont 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 fisher-
man 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 Ava}-, or
thou wilt not make an end of bringing them over this twelve-
month."

'■'■ 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 yoii, that you miist
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 any one 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

CHAPTER XX. 141

nothing else from thy excellent nnderstanding. 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 Rocinaute can go ; " and again he spurred
him, and again Eocinante made jumps and remained where he
was, so well tied was he.

Just then, Avhether 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 ; l)ut so great
was the fear that had penetrated his heart, he dared not sep-
arate himself from his master by so much as the black of his
nail ; to escape doing what he wanted was, however, also im-
possible ; so what he did for peace' 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 (piarters, 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
imlucky 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 with-
out 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,

• The story of the passage of the goats is a very ohl one. It is the 30tli
of tlie Cento Norelle Antiche, into which it was imported, no doubt, from
the Latin of the Aragonese Jew, Pedro Alfonso. There is a Proven9al
tale to the same effect : but the original was probably Oriental.

142 DON QUIXOTE.

and as Saucho 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
snuffling tone, '' Sanclio, 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 sniellest 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 '11 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 liocinante 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 shoidd end his
days in that perilous adventure. He again repeated the mes-
sage and commission with which he was to go on his behalf to
his lad}- Dulcinea. and said he was not to be uneasy as to the

CHAPTER XX. 143

payment of his services, for before leaving home he liad made
liis 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 weeping afresh on
again hearing the affecting words of his good master, and re-
solved to stay with him luitil the final issue and end of the
business. From these tears and this honorable 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 master somewliat, 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 it-
self. 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, commend-
ing himself with all his heart to his lady, imploring her sup-
port 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-in-
spiring 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.

' An " old Christian " -was one who had no trace of Moorish blood in his
veins. The remark is somewhat inconsistent in the mouth of Cid Hamet
Benengeli.

144 DON QUIXOTE.

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 mani-
fest mortification; and Don Quixote glanced at Sancho and
saw him Avith 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 liold 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 all or most of 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 yoii, shown the courage required for the at-
tempt and achievement ? Am I, perchance, bemg, 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

CHAPTER XX. 145

a little too far Avitli 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 laiigli 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 every one 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 Avith his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and
his body bent double, more turqucsco. 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 taci-
turnity his name is only once mentioned in the whole of that
history, as long as it is truthful ? * From all I have said thou

1 Prov. ,58. 2 Prov. 130.

^ The " Insula Firme " was apparently part of Brittan}-.

'' The Rev. John Bowie, the learned editor and annotator of Don Qui-
xote, was painstaking enough to verify this statement. It shows how
closely Cervantes must have at one time read the Amadis-
Vol. I. — 10

146 DON QUIXOTE.

wilt gather, Sanclio, 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 what-
ever way I may be provoked with you it will be bad for the
pitcher.^ The favors 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 favors shoiild
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 favor ; 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 adventures."

" 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 yoii may
be sure I will not open my lips henceforward to make light of
anything of your worship's, but only to honor 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."

' Prov. 34. In full it is. " Whether the pitcher liits the stone, or the
stone the pitcher, it 's bad for the pitcher."

CHAPTER XXI. 147

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 8ancho was for going
into the fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such a
disgust to them on account of the late joke that he would
not enter them on any account ; so turning aside to the 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 conies toward us one who wears on his head the helmet
of Mambrino, concerning which I took the oath thou remem-
berest."

'•' Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what yo\i
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 gray steed, who has upon his
head a helmet of gold ? "

"What I see and make out," answered Sancho, " is only a

' Trov. 194.

148 DON QUIXOTE.

man on a gray 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 full-
ing mills." •*

" I have told thee, brother, on no accoimt to mention those
fulling mills to me again," said Don Quixote, " or I vow — and
I say no more — I '11 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 neighborhood
there were two villages, one of them so small that it had neither
apothecary's shop, nor barber, Avhich 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 gray ass, as Sancho said, and this was what
made it seem to Don Qiiixote to be a dapple-gray 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
I'uii him through and through, and as he reached him, without
checking the fury of his charge, he cried to him, " Defend thy-
self, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that
which is so reasonably my due."

' Prov. 160. lu full, '' Plegue a Dios que oregano sea, y no se nos
vuelva alcaravea." — "Pray God it may prove wild marjoram, and not
turn out caraway on us." Shelton and Jervas not knowing the proverb
have mistranslated the passage ; tlie latter shirks the difficulty, and the
former translates oregano "a purchase of gold."

^ Mal-andante-i meaning also " unlucky."

MAMBRINO'S HELMET. Vol. I. Page 148.

CHAPTER XXL 149

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 discre-
tion 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 maravedi," and handed it to his
master, who immediately put it on his head, turning it round,
now this way, now that, in search of the visor, 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 Avorst of it is half of it is wanting."

When Sancho heard him call the basin a head-piece 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 Qui-
xote ; '' that this wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must
by some strange accident have come into the hands of some one
Avho was unable to recognize or realize 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 Avhich is like a barber's
basin as thou sayest ; but be it as it may, to me who recognize
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 some-
thing is better than nothing ; "^ all the more as it will be quite
enough to protect me from any chance blow of a stone."

' The eight-real piece = about Is. M. ' ' Prov. 10.

160 DON QUIXOTE.

" 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 ; more-
over, 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 any one : as to being
blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to prevent mis-
haps 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 niy Dulcinea had lived then, might depend
upon it she Avould 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 can not be revenged in earnest, but
I know what sort of jest and earnest it was, and I know it will
never be rubbed oixt 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 dapjde-gray steed that looks like
a gray ass, Avhich 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 gray 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 aAvay their horses and leave them to go on

' A blunder of Sancho's for Mambrino.

CHAPTER XXL 151

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 van-
quished 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
can not 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 infor-
mation, 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
ray own person I could not want them more ; " and forthwith,
fortified by this license, he effected the mutatio eapptinim,^
and rigged out his beast to tlie ninety-nines, making quite
another thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on the re-
mains of the spoils of Avar plundered from the sumpter mule,
and drank of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, witli-
out 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, gviided by Rocinante's will, which
carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the
ass, which always followed him Avherever he led, lovingly and
sociably ; nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pur-
sued 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."

' The mutatio capparum was the change of hoods authorized l)y the
Roman ceremonial, when the cardinals exchanged the fur-lined hoods worn
in winter for lighter ones of silk. There is a certain audacity of humor
in the application of the phrase here.

162 DON QUIXOTE.

" 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 forever, 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 forever. Of my own I say noth-
ing, 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 mon-
arch 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 Bro-
cabruno of mighty strength ; he who delivered the great Mame-
luke 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, recognizing 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

' Cervantes gives here an admirable epitome, and without any extrava-
gant caricature, of a tN'pical romance of chivalry. For every incident
there is ample authority in the romances.

CHAPTER XXI. 153

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 any-
where in the known world. Straightway it will come to pass
that she will fix her eyes ui)on 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 Avill be taken
and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and sorely dis-
tressed 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 armor, they will bring him a rich
mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself, and if he looked
noble in his armor he will look still more so in a doublet.
When night conies he will sup with the king, queen, and
princess ; and all the time he Avill 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 hide-
ous 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 enhance-
ment of his fame, whereat the })rincess 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 favor done to him ; and that night he will

' Hartzenbusch, considering " adventure " unintelligible, would substi-
tute " enigma" or " prophecy " for it ; and " explain " for " achieve ; " but
absolute consistency in a burlesque passage like this is scarcely worth
insisting upon.

154 DON QUIXOTE.

take leave of liis lady the princess at the grating of the cham-
ber 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, he will be distressed because morning approaches,
and for the honor of his lady he would not that they were dis-
covered ; 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 possi-
ble, 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, tlings himself on his bed, can not 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 can not
receive a visit ; the knight thinks it is from grief at his de-
parture, 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 knoAv not what, for I

CHAPTER XXI. 155

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 conies 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, 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
Kueful Countenance."

" Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho," replied Don Quixote,
" for in the same manner, and by the same steps as I have de-
scribed here, knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and
emperors ; all we want now is to find oiit Avhat 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 de-
ficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm has fairly earned.
True it is I am a gentleman of a 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 liistor}' 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

'An "hidalgo de devengar quinientos sueldos," was one who hv the
ancient fueros of Castile had a right to recover .500 sueldos for an injury
to person or property. This is the common explanation ; Huarte, in the
Examen de Ingenios^ says it means the descendant of one who enjoj^ed a
grant of 500 sueldos for distinguished services in the field. The sueldo
was an old coin varying in value from a halfpenny to three-halfpence.

156 DON QUIXOTE.

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 T may be of snch that after in-
vestigation my origin may prove great and famous, with which
the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satistied ;
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 Avrath of
her parents."

" It comes to this, too," said Sancho, " Avhat some naughty
people say, ' Never ask as a favor Avhat 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, Avill 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 mis-
chief is that until peace is made and you come into the peace-
ful enjoyment of yoiir kingdom, the poor squire is famishing
as far as rewards go, imless it be that the confidante damsel
that is to be his wife comes with the princess, ami that with
her he tides over his bad luck until Heaven otherAvise orders
things ; for his master, I suppose, may as Avell giA'e her to him
at once for a laAvful Avife."

'' Nobody can object to that," said Don Quixote.

'' Then since that may be," said Sancho, '' there is nothing
for it but to commend ourseh^es to God, and let fortune take
what course it will."

" God guide it according to my Avishes and thy wants," said
Don Quixote, " and mean be he Avho makes 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 Avert thou not, it Avould make no difference, because I
being the king can easily give thee nobility Avithout purchase
or service rendered by thee, for Avhen I make thee a covuit,

1 Prov. 107.

^ Prov. 212. " Mas A'ale salto de mata que ruego de hombres buenos."
Mata is here an old equivalent of matanza = " slaughter ; " in modern
Spanish the word means a bush or hedge, in consequence of which the
proverb is generally misunderstood and mistranslated.

^ Prov. 210. ■• Prov. 61. V. note, p. 143.

CHAPTER XXL 157

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."

" Xot a doubt of it ; and I '11 knoAV 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
a beadle's gown sat so well on me that all said I looked as if I
was fit to be steward of the same brotherhood. Wliat will it
be, then, when I put a duke's robe on my back, or dress myself
in gold and pearls like a foreign count ';' I believe they Avill
come a himdred leagues to see me."

" Thou wilt look well," said Don Quixote, " but thou must
shave thy l:)eard 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 bar-
ber, 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 n()l)lemen 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 Avas 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 Avas his equerry, and that it Avas 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."

' Literally " at the Court " — la Corte.

* No doubt Pedro Telloz Giron, third Duke of Osuna, afterwards Vice-
roy in Sicily and Naples ; " a little man, but of great fame and fortunes,"
as Howell, writing twenty years later, calls him.

158 DON QUIXOTE.

" Let the barber business be my look-out," said Sancbo ;
" 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 FKEEDOM DOX QUIXOTE CONFERRED OX SEVERAL
UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING
CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO.

CiD Hamet 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 horse-
back 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 gallej's by force of the king's orders."

" How by force ? " asked Don Quixote ; " is it possible that
the king uses force against any one ? "

'' I do not say that," answered Sancho, " but that these are
people condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the
king's galley's."

" 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 succor 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."

CHAPTER XXII. 159

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 tJiis
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.

" ISTevertheless," replied Don Quixote, " I should like to
know from each of them separately the reason of his misfort-
une ; " 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 ras-
calities."

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 row-
ing 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 em-
brace, 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, Avho was
a young man of about four-and-twenty, and said he was a
native of Piedrahita.

' Gurapas^ a word from the "CTorniania " or rogue's rlialect, of which
there are many specimens in this chapter and scattered through Don
Quixote. Indeed, Juan Hidalgo's Vocabnlario of the Germania tongue
is absolutely necessary to any one reading the book in the original.

160 DON QUIXOTE.

Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who
made no reply, so downcast and melancholy was he ; but the
lirst 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 sing-
ers do people go 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 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 ciiatrero, that is a cattle-stealer, and on his confes-
sion 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 cidprit 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 go-
ing 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 nuddle of the
plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this road coupled
like a greyhound. But God is great ; patienf e — there, that 's
enough of it."

• Trov. 32. >> Prov. 126.

CHAPTER XXII. 161

Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable
aspect with a white beard falling below his breast, who on hear-
ing himself asked the reason of his being there began to weep
withouf 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 the robe of 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 ; 1 mean, in short, that this gentle- ■
man 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 gal-
leys, 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 a
fixed and recognized 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 would go further, 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 oiir will is free, nor is there herb or charm that can force

' Malefactors were eommonly whipped in this way, and the ceremony is
frequently alluded to in the Picaresque novels.
2 Prov. 18B.

Vol. I. — 11

162 DON QUIXOTE.

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, Avith 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 coixsins 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 accoimtant could make
it clear : it was all proved against me, I got no favor, 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 Avas a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.

Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very person-
able 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

CHAPTER XXI L 163

were secured by a big padlock, so that lie could neither raise
his hand 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 giuird, " 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, seilor 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 meas-
ure, 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,^ l)ut some one shall know some day
whether T 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 with a vengeance ; where, I won't say. 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

' Prov. 7'J.

164 DON QUIXOTE.

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 ]:)ef ore ? " 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 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 every one hold his tongue and behave
Avell 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 re-
turn for his threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and

'At the time Cervantes was writinjj the only hook of the kind (i.e.
picaresque fiction) that had appeared hesides Lazarillo de Tonnes was
Aleman's Guzman de A/farache, at which, it has been suggested, this
passage is aimed.

2 Prov. 53. Clemencin thinks that there is an allusion here to Aleman's
Guzman de Alfarache, the hero of which is sent to the galleys like Gines
de Pasamonte, and at an inn on the road ingratiates himself with the
commissary by presenting him with a pig heliad stolen. But Clemencin
forgot that this incident occurs in the Second Part of Guzman, which
was not published till after Don Quixote.

CHAPTER WII. 165

be^'L^'cd liiiu not to ill-use liiiu, as it was not too luiu-h to allow
one wlio 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 l)rethren, I 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 ycmr
will, and that perhaps this one's want of courage under tortiire,
that one's want of money, the other's Avant 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 Avhich presents itself now to my mind,
urging, persuading, and even com}ielling me to demonstrate in
your case the purpose for which Heaven sent me into the Avorld
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 b}' 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 favorable circumstances ; for it seems to me a hard
case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have niade
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 punish-
ment to others, they being therein no way concerned. This
request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you com})ly
with it, I may have reason for thanking you ; and, if you will
not voluntarily, this lance and sword together v/ith the might
of my arm shall compel you to comply with it by force."

" ivTice 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 yoiir way, sir, aiul 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." ^

" 'T is you that are the cat, the rat, and the rascal," replied

' ProT. 103. Of course it should be " five ; " and the proverl) is so given
by Blasco de Garay.

lfi(i DON QUIXOTE.

Don Quixote, and acting on the word lie fell upon him so sud-
denly that without giving him time to defend himself he brought
hinr to the ground sorely wounded with a lance-thrust, and lucky
ti was for him that it was the one that had the musket. The
other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this unex-
pected evsnt, but recovering presence of mind, those on horse-
back -^ seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and
attacked Don Quixote, who Avas 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 l)y 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 Avould report the matter to the Holy Brother-
hood, 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 com-
missary to the skin, he collected them round him to hear what
he had to say, and addressed them as follows : " To lie 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 bene-
fit ye have received from 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

' At the beginning of the chapter we were told there were only two on
horseback, and that both of them had muskets.

CHAPTER XXII. 167

the city of El Toboso, and there present yourselves before the
lady liulcinea del Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he
of the Kueful 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, '^ Thnt
which you, sir, our deliverer, demand of us, is of all impos-
sibilities the most impossible to comply with, because we can
not go together along the roads, but only singly and separate,
and each one his own way, endeavoring 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 well as by day, running or rest-
ing, 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 Qviixote was not quite right in
his head as he had committed such a vagary as trying 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 liin\self 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 him-
self from the hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don
Quixote was unable to shield himself so well but that more

' To priiy for " tlie intention " of another is a proof of devotional sym-
pathy. '^ Prov. 180.

168 DON QUIXOTE.

pebbles than I could count struck him full on the body with
such force that they brought him to the ground ; and the in-
stant he fell the student pounced upon him, snatched the
basin from his head, and Avith it struck three or four blows on
his shoulders, and as many more on the ground knocking it al-
most to pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket that he
wore over his armor, and they would have stripped off his
stockings if his greaves had not prevented them. From 8ancho
they took his coat, leaving him in his shirt-sleeves ; and divid-
ing 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 bur-
dening 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 groiuid by a stone ;
Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of the Holy Brother-
hood ; 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 HISTOKY.

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 from this
for the future."

" Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk,"
returned Sancho ; " but, as you say tliis 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

» Prov. 240.

CHAPTER XXIII. 169

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 yoir^ fancy I hear their arrows whistling past my ears this
minute."

" Thou art a coward by nature, Sanclio," 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 any one that I retired or withdrew from this danger
out of fear, but only in compliance with thy entreaties f for if
thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and from this time
to that, and from that to this, I give thee the 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 with-
drawing 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 wait 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 8ancho, " 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 repeut not of having taken my advice,
but mount Eocinante 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 en-
tirely and come out again at El Viso or Almoddvar del Campo,^
and hide for some days among its crags so as to escape the

' These are towns of La Manclia, though from the wording of the passage
it might be supposed that they lay on the other, the Andalusian, side of the
Sierra Morena. It is significant that Cervantes always speaks of " enter-
ing " and " coming out of" the Sierra Morena, never of ascending or de-
scending it: and, in fact, on the north side the Sierra rises but little above
the level of the great Castilian plateau and the road enters the gorge of
Despenaperros, and reaches the Andalusian slope with comparatively little
ascent.

170 DON QUIXOTE.

search of the Brotherhood should they come to look for them.
He was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock of pro-
visions 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 an(l 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 m 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 recognize them and leave them to fall asleep : and as the
Avicked are always ungrateful, and necessity leads to wrong-
doing, 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 Eocinante, as being a prize that was
no good either to pledge or sell. While Sancho slept he stole
his assj 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 ^

' " Dapple," as I have said elsewhere, is not a correct translation of
rucio, but it has by long usage acquired a prescriptive right to remain the
name of Sancho's ass. Rucio is properly a light or silvery gray, as pardo
is a dark or iron gray.

The passage — beginning at " That night they reached the very heart,"
etc., and ending with " returned thanks for the kindness shown him by Don
Quixote " — does not appear in the first edition, in which there is no allu-
sion to the loss of the ass until the middle of chapter xxv., where, without
any explanation of how it happened, Cervantes speaks of Dapple as
having been lost. When the second edition was in the press, an attempt
was made to remedy the oversight, and the printer, apparently ^ro^jrt'o
motu, supplied this passage. Cliapter xxx., where Don Quixote laments
the loss of his " good sword," suggested Gines de Pasamonte as the thief,
and chapter xxv. the promise of the ass-colts; but in such a bungling
manner was the correction made that the references to the ass as if still
in Sancho's possession (nine or ten in number) were left unaltered,
though the first of them occurs only four or five lines after the inserted

CHAPTER XXI I I. 171

was missing, and seeing himself bereft of liim lie began the
saddest and most dolefnl lament in the world, so loud that Don
Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard him saying, " 0
son of my bowels, born in my very house, my children's play-
thing, my wife's joy, the envy of my neighbors, 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, en-
treating him to be patient, and promising to give hiin 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 shoAvn him by Don (^)\iixote. 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 ad-
ventures that had befallen knights-errant in like solitudes and
wilds, and he went along reflecting on these things, so ab-
sorbed 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 x^aunch, 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

passage. In the third edition of 1608 some of these inconsistencies were
removed, and in the Second Part Cervantes refers to the matter, and
charges the printer with the hlunder. What he originally intended, no
donht, was to supplement the bxirlesque of the penance of Amadis by a
Imrlesque of Brunello's theft of Sacripante's horse and Marfisa's sword
at the siege of Albracca, as described by Boiardo and Ariosto ; and it was
very possibly an after-thought written on a loose leaf and so mislaid or
lost in transitu,. The inserted passage is clearly not his, as it is com-
pletely ignored by him in chapters iii., iv., and xxvii. of Part II., and is
inconsistent with the account of the affair wliich he gives there. Ilartzen-
busch removes the passage to what he conceives to be its proper place in
chapter xxv., but it is hardly worth while, perhaps, to alter the familiar
arrangement of the next. See notes on chapter xxx. ; and iii., iv., and
xxvii.. Part II.

' Poltinos, " ass-colts," has evidently been oniitteil here in the original,
and [ have therefore supplied it.

17^ DON QUIXOTE.

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 Avith 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 ad-
venture 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 favor, 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 can not be," answered Sancho, " because if they had
been robbers they would not have left this money."

" Thou art right," said Don Quixote, " and I can not 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

CHAPTER XXIII. 178

No God loves cruelty ; then who ordains
'■^This penance that inthrals while it torments ?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name ;

Such evil with such goodness can not live ;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,

I only know it is my fate to die.

To him Avho knows not whence his malady

A miracle alone a cure can give.'^

"There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme," said
Sanclio, " unless by that clew there 's in it, oue may draw out
the ball of the whole matter." "^

" What clew is there ? " said Don Quixote.

" I thought your worship spoke of a clew 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 ? " said
Sancho.

" 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 Avorship," 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."

1 This sonnet Cervantes afterwards inserted in his comedy of the Casa
de los Zelos, a proof that he himself had as good an opinion of it as Don
Quixote ; though Clemencin says, and not without some reason, that " it
is no great things" — " no vale gran cosa."

^ A reference to tlie proverhs, 7'or el kilo se saca el ovillo — "by the
tliread (or clew) the ball is drawn out." In the sonnet the lady's name
is Fili, which Sancho mistakes for hilo or filo. The substitution of
" Chloe " by which the play on the words may be imitated is a happy idea
of Jervas's which has been generally adopted by subsequent translators
without any acknowledgment.

174 DON QUIXOTE.

" A correspondence letter, senor ? " asked Sancho.

" 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 these love matters."

" With all my heart," said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud
as Sancho had requested him, he found it ran thus :

Till/ false promise and iny sure misfortune carry me to a
place whence the news of my death will reach thy ears before
the tvords of my complaint. Ungrateful one, thou hast re-
jected me for one more wealthy, hut not more worthy ; biit if
virtue toere esteemed xvealth I should neither envy the fortunes
of others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy
hcaiity raised xq) thy deeds liave laid low ; by it I believed thee
to he ail. angel, by them I hnotv 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 let-
ters, some of which he could read, while others he could not :
but they were all made up of com^jlaints, laments, misgivings,
desires and aversions, favors 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 shoidd escape for want of care and
pains ; so keen was the covetousness excited in him by the dis-
covery 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
lie 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 anx-
ious to find out who the owner of the valise could be, conjectur-
ing from the sonnet and letter, from the money in gold, and

CHAPTER XX ITT. 175

from the iiueuess of the shirts, that he must be some hjvev 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 in-
quire, he saw nothing else for it but to push on taking what-
ever 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 Avho 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 length 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 cir-
cuit 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."

176 DON QUIXOTE.

To which Sancho made answer, " Far better -vvoukl it be not
to look for him, for if we find him, and lie happens to be the
owner of the money, it is plain I mu.st restore it ; it would be
better, therefore, that without taking this needless trouble, I
should keep possession of it until in some other less meddle-
some 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 restitu-
tion ; and if we do not seek 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 Ave find him it will relieve mine."

And so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and Sancho
followed him on foot and loaded, thanks to Ginesillo de Pasa-
monte, and after having partly made the circuit of the moun-
tain they found lying in a ravine, dead and half devoured by
dogs and pecked by crows, a mule saddled and bridled, all
which still further strengthened their sus})icion that he who
had fled was the owner of the nude 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
aiul other Avild 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

CHAPTER XX in. 177

theft, for the devil is crafty, and things rise up under one's
feet to make one stumble and 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." 1

'< Tell me, good man," said Don Quixote, " do you know who
is the oAvner of this property ? "

" All I can tell you," said the goatherd, " is that about six
months ago, niQi'e 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 oiit to him, leaving
us all charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his ques-
tion and the haste Avith Avhich we saw him depart in the direc-
tion of the sierra ; and after that we saw him no more, until
some days afterwards he crossed the path of one of our shep-
herds, 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 Avith
extraordinary SAviftness. When some of us goatherds learned
this Ave Avent in search of him for about tAVO days through the
most remote portion of this sierra, at the end of Avhich Ave
found him lodged in the holloAV of a large thick cork tree. He
came out to meet us Avith great gentleness, wdth his dress noAV
torn and his face so disfigured and burned by the sun, that Ave
hardly recognized him but that his clothes, though torn, con-
vinced us, from the recollection Ave had of them, that he Avas
the person Ave were looking for. He saluted us courteously,
and in a fcAv Avell-spoken words he told us not to Avonder at

' Prov. 182 — meaning, I don't want a thing that has any inconvenience
attached tu it.

Vol. 1. — 12.

178 DON QUIXOTE.

seeing liini 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 hnd
him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and readi-
ness ; 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 futiire to ask it in Clodjs 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 coiu'teous
and polished language showed himself to be of good birth and
courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that listened to him,
even to om- 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 grouncl 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 behavior, now staring at the ground with fixed gaze
and eyes wide open Avithout 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 Avith 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 Eernando, 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 Avord he left us, and rushing off plunged in among

CHAPTER XXI 1 1. 179

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 Almoddvar, 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 mad-
man 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 ar-
ranged 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-scented,^ from which he concluded that one avIio

' This is the exphmation commonly given of the phrase de dmhar^ and
it is true that scented doublets were in fashion in the sixteenth century ;

180 DON QUIXOTE.

wore sucli garments could not be of very low rank. Approach-
ing 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 Eocinante ad-
vanced with Avell-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 aniazed, perhaps, at the sight of the face, figure, and
armor 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 ill-starred 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 labor ; and to search
for you with all possible diligence, if search had been necessary.

but it seems somewhat improbable that a tattered doublet which had been
for six months exposed to all weathers would have retained sufficient per-
fume to be detected.

CHAPTER XXIV. 181

And if your luisfortune should prove to be one of those tliat
refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my i)urpose
to join you in Uimenting 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 acknowl-
edged with any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, seiior, 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, though unworthy and a
sinner, have received, and by my vocation of knight-errant, if
you gratify me in this, to serve yoii Avith all the zeal my calling-
demands of me, either in I'elieving your misfortune if it admits
of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it as T 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 fi'om 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 good-will you have displayed towards
me."

Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch,
furnished the Ragged One Avith 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 l)etween monthfuls, 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 plat which lay a little farther off around the
corner of a rock. On reaching it he stretched himself iipon
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 shoidd disclose in a few words the sur-
]>assing 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

182 DON QUIXOTE.

tale his squire had tokl him, when he failed to keep count of
the goats that had crossed the river and the story remained un-
finished ; but to return to the Eagged One, he went on to say,
" I give you this Avarning 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 foUoAvs : -

My name is C'ardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this
Andakisia,' my family noljle, my parents rich, my misfortune so
great that my ])arents must have Avept and my family grieved over
5. Avithout 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 Avas a heaven in which love had placed all the
glory I could desire ; such Avas the beauty of Luscinda. a damsel as
noble and as rich as I, but of happier fortunes, and of less firmness
than Avas due to so worthy a passion as mine. This kuscinda I loved,
Avorshipped, and adored from my earliest and tenderest years, and
she loved me in all the innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our
parents were aAvare of our feelings, and Avere not sorry to perceive
them, for they saw clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last
to a marriage betAveen us, a thing that seemed almost pre-arranged
by the equality of our families and Avealth. We grcAV up, and Avith
our growth greAV 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, Avhich can make known the heart's secrets
to a loved one more freely than tongues ; for many a time the pres-
ence of the object of love shakes the firmest Avill and strikes dumb
the boldest tongue. Ah heavens ! hoAV many letters did I Avrite her,
and hoAv many daintj' modest replies did I receive ! hoAv many ditties
and love-songs did I compose in Avhic-h my heart declared and made
knoAvn its feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in its rec-

' Tliis indicates tliat the spot Cervantes had in liis eye vas somewhere
above tlie head of the Despenaperros gorge and commanding a view of
the valley of the Guadalquivir ; and the scenery there agrees with his de-
scription. He Avas, no doulit, familiar with it from having passed through
it on his journeys between Madrid and Seville in the years between 1587
and 1598. The broom, mentioned farther on, is very abundant in this
part of tlie Sierra Morena. The name of Cardenio, too, was probably
suggested by Vcnta de Gardenas, a halting place at the mouth of the
gorge. ( V. map.)

CHAPTER XXIV. 183

oUectioBS 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 wliat seemed to me the best mode
of winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father
for my lawful wife, which 1 did. To this his answer was that he
thanked me for the disposition 1 showed to do honor to hiiu and to
reo-ard myself as honored hy 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 kind-
ness, reflecting that there was reason in what he said, and that my
father would assent to it as soon as I sliould 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 Avith an
open letter in his hand, wliieh, 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 witii the request the duke made
in it, which was that he would send me immediately to him, as he
wished me to become the conii^anion, 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 oi^ening a road to thee
b}' 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, T 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 Ricai'do sought of me : he gave me the promise, and
she confirmed it with vows and swoonings imnumbered. 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 favor as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my ar-
rival gave the greatest pleasure was the duke's second son, Fernando
by name, a gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous dispo-
sition, 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 aftectionate treatment
to the same length as Don Fernando. It so happened, then, that as
between friends no secret remains imshared, and as the intimacy I
enjoyed with Don Fernando had grown into friendship, he made all

' Grande de Espana — one enjoying the privilege of remaining covered
ill tlu' presence of the sovereign.

184 DON QUIXOTE.

his thoughts known to me, and in i)ai-ticular 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 daugliter of wealthy parents, and
herself so beautiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous, tliat no one who
knew her was able to decide in wliicli of these respects she was most
highly gifted or most excelled. The attractions of the fair peasant
raised the j^assion 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 lier husband, for to attempt it
ia any other way was to attempt an impossibility. Bound to him as
1 was by friendship, I strove by the best arguments and the most
fonnble examples J 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 appre-
hended this, perceiving that by my duty as a good servant 1 was
bound not to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to the honor
of my lord the duke ; and so, to mislead and deceive me, he told me
he could find no better way of ettacing from his mind the beauty
that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for some months,
and tluit 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 i)roduces the best in the world.' When I heard
liim 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 favorable chance and op-
jjortunity it offered me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this
thought :wid 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 ap^jearcd, when he said this to me lie
liad 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 Avhen
he came to know of his folly. It happened, then, that as Avith 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 can not 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, as 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

' Cordova was fan;cd for its horses.

^ This is an example of the clumsy manner in which Cervantes often
constructed his sentences, beginning them in one way and ending them in
another.

CHAPTER XXIV. 185

his rank ; I saw Luscinda without dehiy, and, though it had not been
dead or deadened, my love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow 1 told
the stoi-y of it to Don Fernando, for 1 thought that in virtue of the
great friendship he bore me I was bound to conceal nothing from
him. I extolled her beauty, her gayety, her wit, so warml}', that
my praises excited in him a desire to see a damsel adorned by such
attractions. To my misfortune J 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 ajipeafed 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 haj^pened 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 ]>uscinda alone were combined all the charms of
beauty and understanding that wei*e distributed among all the other
women in the world. It is true, and 1 own it now, that though I
knew what good cause Don P"ernando had to jjraise 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 I'eady'to talk of I^uscinda, and he would start the
subject himself even though he dragged it in unseasonably, a cir-
cumstance 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 tokl me at the beginning of
your story that the Lady Luscinda was fond of books of chiv-
alry, 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 beaixty,
worth, and intelligence : for, on merely hearing what her taste
was, I declare her to be the most beautiful and the most intel-
ligent 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

186 DON QUIXOTE.

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 Avith me to my village, for there I can give
you more than three hundred books which are ' the delight of
my sold 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 Ave 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 can not get
rid of the idea, nor will any one 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 Avay was ; ■' and
it is a very great slander, or rather villany. 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 hav-
ing 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.

THE RAGGED KNIGHT. Vol. I. Page 186.

CHAPTER XXIV. "^ 187

Sancho Panza, seeing liis master treated in this fasliion,
attacked the madman with his closed fist ; but the Eagged
One received him in such a way that with a blow of his fist he
stretched him at his feet, and tlien mounting upon liim
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 belabored without deserving
it, ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not
sfivinsr 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 it was
no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goatherd rejoiiied,
and the altercation ended in 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 Rue-
ful 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, fiarhting 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 neighborhood he could not fail to fall in with him
either in or out of his senses.

188 DON QUIXOTE.

CHAPTER XXV.

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANCxE 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, mak-
ing their way into the most rugged part of the mountain, San-
cho 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, iniable to keep silence so
long, he said to him, " Senor Don Quixote, give me your wor-
ship'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 througli 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 Gi;isopete,^ 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 ad-
ventures all one's life, and get nothing but kicks and blanket-
ings, brickbats and punches, and with all this, to have to sew
up one's mouth without daring to say Avhat 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 re-
moved ; consider it removed, and say what thou wilt, on condi-
tion that the removal is not to last longer than 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

' i.e. ^sop.

* Sancho in his aptitude for blunders takes " Elisahad" to be the name
of some abad or abl)ot. There are tliree Madasimas mentioned in the
Amadisi but not one of them is a tiueen, nor has Master Elisabad any-

C it AFTER XXV. l89

your worship had let that pass — and you were not a judge in
the matter — it is my belief the niaduian 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 knew-
est as I do what an honorable and illustrious lady Queen Ma-
dasima was, I know thou wouldst say I had great patience that
I did not break in pieces the mouth that uttered such blas-
phemies, 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 jiulgment, and served as
governor and physician to the queen, but to suppose that she
was his mistress is nonsense deserving very severe punish-
ment ; and as a proof that Cardenio did not know Avhat 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 yondfer, 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
honor 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 aftlictions with
wisdom and resignation ; hence the ignorant and ill-disposed
vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his mis-
tress ; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hun-
dred 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

thing to do with any of them. He was in the service of the lady Gra-
sinda, and hy lior orders attended Amadis when wounded. Scott, in the
article on the Amadis in thg Edinburgh Review, suggests that Cervantes
must have meant Queen Briolania, apparently confounding her also with
Grasinda.

' Prov. 170. This is the first of Sancho's frequent volleys of random
proverbs.

190 DON QUIXOTE.

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 absurdi-
ties 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 knights in
the world that profess them."

" Sefior," replied Saucho, " 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 per-
haps 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 mad-
man 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 ? " asked Sancho.

" No," replied he of the Kuef ul C.ountenance ; " though it
]nay 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

' Prov. 247. ' Prov. 55. ^Prov. 73.

* Prov. 22G : estacas — -literally, stakes or pegs on which to hang them;
expressive of unreasonable expectations.

* Prov. 195.

CHAPTER XXV. 191

right to keep thee any hniger in suspense, waiting to see what
comes of my words, I woukl have thee know, Sancho, that the
famous Amadis of Claul 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 hn-d 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 de-
ceiving themselves ! I say, too, that when a painter desires
to become famous in his art he endeavors 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 will he who would be esteemed prudent
and patient imitate Ulysses, in whose person and labors Homer
presents to us a lively picture of prudence and patience ; as
Virgil, too, shows us in the person of ^'Eneas 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 pos-
terity. In the same way Amadis was the pole-star, 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, valor, patience, fortitude, and love, was when he Avith-
drew, rejected by the Lady Oriana, to do penance upon the
Peila Pobre, changing his name into that of Beltenebros,^ a
name assuredly significant and appropriate to the life which
he had voluntarily adopted. 80, as it is easier for me to ind-
tate 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 yoiir worship
means to do in such an out-of-the-way place as this ? "

" Have I not told thee," answered Don Quixote, " that I

' Beltenehros, i.e. " fair-obscure." Clemencin suggests that the Peiia
Pobre (so called because those who sojourned tliere had to live in extreme
poverty) was Mont St. Micliel, but Jersey would suit the description bet-
ter, as it is said to be seven leagues from the coast of the Insula Firme,
which was clearly the mainland of Brittany or Normandy.

192 DON QUIXOTE.

mean to imitate Amadis here, playing the victim of despair,
tlie madman, the maniac, so as at the same time to imitate
the valiant 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 shepherds, 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 inten-
tion 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 be-
haved in this way had provocation and cause for those follies
and penances ; but what cause has your worship for going mad ?
AVhat 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 a cause ; the thing is to turn crazy
without any provocation, and to let my lady know, if I do this
in the dry, what I woidd 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 tlie boon thou bearest
me, or as a madman not feeling the evil thou briugest me.

• Probably an allusion to the " green tree " and the " dry."

L

CHAPTER XXV. 193

But tell me, Sancho, hast thou got Mambriuo's helmet safe ;
•for I saw thee take it up from the ground when that Avretch
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 be-
stowing 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
any one think that heard your Avorship 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 ? T 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 under-
standing 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 be-
cause 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 de-
stroy 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 Mambrino'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

' In tlie original it is " for more than four days," to which some com-
mentators, Hartzenbusch among tlicm, object, as not more than one day
had passed since tlie encounter with the barber. But " more than four "
is a very common phrase to express indefinitely a considerable number,
and it is more probably used here vaguely by Sancho in the sense in which
I have rendered it.

Vol. I.— 13

194 DON QJUXOTE.

it on the ground without taking it, for, by my faith, had he
known it he woukl 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 oft' all this armor 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 abixndance, 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 ungratefid 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 re}»ose, help me to lament my hard fate or at least
weary not at listening to it ! Oh, Dulciuea 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 tliee of the place and condition to which absence
from thee has l)rought 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 \\ot distasteful to you ! Oh, thou, my squire,
pleasant companion in my prosperous and adverse fortunes,

' For the character of Orlando's insanity, see the Orlando Furioso,
canto sxiii. st. 130 et seq.

CHAPTER XXV. 195

fix well in thy memoiy 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 Kocinante, and in an instant
relieved him of saddle and bridle, and giving him a slap on
the croui?, 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 any one strip him, for there would be no occa-
sion, as he had nothing of the lover or victim of desjjair about
him, inasmuch as his master, which I was while it was God's
pleasure, was nothing of the soi*t ; and indeed, »Sir Knight of
the Rueful Countenance, if my departure and yoiu- worrdiip'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 mean time 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 armor,
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 wor-
ship, 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;

' The hippogriff was the \\inged horse on which Astolf o went in quest
of information al)out Orlando. Frontino was the name of the destroyer
of Kuggiero, Bradamante's lover.

196 DON QUIXOTE.

and I should think, if indeed knocks on the head seem necessary
to you, and this business can not be done without them, you
might be content — as the whole thing is feigned, and counter-
feit, 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 '11 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 ear-
nest, for anything else would be a transgression of the ordi-
nances 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 iny knocks on the head
must l)e 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 clays you alloAved me for seeing
the mad things you do, for I take them as seen already and pro-
nounced upon, and I will tell wonderful stories to my lady ; so
Avrite 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 Qui-
xote.

" Retentio ^^ answered Sancho, " means that whoever is in hell
never comes nor can come out of it, Avhicli will be the opposite
case with your worship or my legs will be idle, that is if I have
spurs to enliven Eocinante : 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

CHAPTER XXV. ' 197

hei- softer than a glove thongli I find her hariler than a coi'k
tree ; and with her sweet and honeyed answer I will ccnne back
through the air like a witch, and take your worship out of this
l)urgatory 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 v.e 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 tlian
conveniently written, and that is in the note-book that l)elonged
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 aliout 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 love-letter thou canst put by way of
signatvire, ^ Yours till death, tlie Knujlit nf the Rueful C<mn-
tenance.'' 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 per-
haps 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

198 DON QUIXOTE.

tlie lady Diilcinea del Toboso, otlierAvise calletl Aldonza
Lorenzo ? "

" She it is," said Don Quixote, " and she it is that is worthy
to be lady of the universe."

" I know her well," said Sancho, '• and let me tell yon 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
pith 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 laborers 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 Ifueful
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
des})air and hang j^ourself ; and no one wlio knows of it but
will say you did well, though the devil should take you ; and I
wish I Avere 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
you.r 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
(T 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 maybe 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
})resent."

' Corn in Spain is not threshed, as we understand tlie word, bnt sep-
arated from the ear by means of the trilla^ a sort of toothless harrow, which
is dragged over it as it lies on the era or threshing floor.

CHAPTER XXV. 199

" I have before now told thee many times, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, " that thou art a mighty great cliatterer, and tliat with
a bhrnt 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, seiiora, 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 Avith 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 '11 take, that I
won't take ; ' but she replied to him with great sprightliness
and candor, ' i\[y 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 Avant Avith him he knoAvs as niuch and more philosophy
than Aristotle.' In the same way, Sancho, for all I Avant Avith
Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as good as the inost exalted
princess on earth. It is not to be su])posedthat all those poets
Avho sang the praises of ladies under the fancy names they give
them, had any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the
Amaryllises, the Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Gala-
teas,^ the Filidas, and all the rest of them, that the books, the
ballads, the barbers' shops, the theatres are full of, Avere 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 Avho
have some pretensions to be so; and so it is enough for 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 Avill examine into it for the purpose of conferring any order

' The introduction here of the name of his own heroine, Gahitea, may
be taken for Avhat it is worth as a contradiction of the story that by
Galatea he meant tlie mother of his daughter Isabel. An ingenious specu-
lator might suggest tliat his object was to soothe the susceptil)ilities of liis
wife Dofia Catalina, but it is clear tliat there were no heartburnings on
that score in the household of CerA^antes.

200 DON QUIXOTE.

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 in-
centives to love, and these are great beauty and a good name,
and these two things are to be fomid 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 per-
suade 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 igno-
rant, 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 tnere 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 owii 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 axd Exalted Lady, — The pierced by the point of
absence, the wounded to the heart's core, sends thee, sweetest Dul-
cinea 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 en-
dure this anxiety, which, besides being oppressive, is protracted.
My good Squire Sancho will relate to thee in full, fair ingrate, dear

' Proof of hidalgiiia -was necessary heiore some orck-r.s, that of Santiago
for instance, could be conferred.
2Prov. 219.

CHAPTER XXV. 201

enemj', tlie condition to whicli I am reduced on tliy account; if it be
tiiy pleasui'e to give me relief, I am thine; if not, do as maybe
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."

" Everytlung 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 recognize it at first sight."

'' With all my heart," said Don Quixote, and as soon 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 re-
ceived 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."

"lean 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 '11 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 in-
sanities, which I can get done in less than half an hour ; for

' The rubrica, or fiourisli, which is always a part of a Spanish signa-
ture.

202 DON QUIXOTE.

having seen tliem with thine own eyes, thoii canst then safely
swear to the rest that thou wouklst 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 Saucho, " 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 1
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 have done with it, though it
stop the sale : I am pretty good at that ! she little knows me ;
faith, if she knew me she 'd be afraid of me."

" In faith, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " to all appearance
thou art not sounder in thy wits than I am."

" 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 Car-
denio 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 siich an out-of-the-way place."

" Observe the landmarks well," said Don Quixote, " for I will
try not to go far from this neighborhood, and I will even take
care to mount the highest of these rocks to see if I can dis-
cover 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 ^vill

CHAPTER XXVI. 203

serve thee, after the fashion of the clew 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
liim 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, seiior, 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 w^ell 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 gam-
bados ^ 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 XXYI.

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE KEFINEMENTS WHEREWITH
DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE
SIERRA MORENA.

Returning to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Coun-
tenance when he found himself alone, the history says that
when Don Quixote had completed the performance of the som-
ersaults or capers, naked from the waist down and clothed from
the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone off without wait-
ing to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to the top of a

' Zapatetas, capers in which the sole of the shoe is struck with the
hand.

204 DON QUIXOTE.

high rock, and there set himself to consider what he had sev-
eral times before considered without ever coming to any con-
clusion 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 Eoland was so good a
knight and so valiant as every one 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 valor 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 foiuitain, and the intelligence the
shepherd gave him of Angelica having slept more than two
afternoons with ^ledoro, 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,
iniless I can imitate him in the cause of it ? For my Dulcinea,
I will venture to swear, never saw a Moor, as he is in his proper
costume, in her life, and is this day as the mother that bore her,
and I should plainly be doing her a wrong if, fancying any-
thing else, I were to go mad with the same kind of madness
as ' Roland the Furious.' On the other hand, I see that Ama-
dis of Gaul, without losing his senses and without doing any-
thing mad, acquired as a lover as much fame as the most fa-
mous ; 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

'Properly a " blanca pin," i.e., of the size sold for a blanca, or half a
inaravedi, as we say a " tenpenny nail." Viardot, strangely misinterpret-
ing the very common idiom de a, indicating the price of an article, and
fancying the 6, to have a negative power as in Greek, explains it as " a pin
made of some substance not white."

^ " Occhi avea neri, e chioma crespa d'oro :
Angel parea di quel del sommo coro."

Orlando Furioso^ c. xviii. st. 16G.

But Medoro was not in the service of Agramante, but in that of Dardi-
nel;and a little higher iip Cervantes has made another slip of memory,
for it was not Orlando, but Ferrau who wore the

" sette piastre fatte a buone tempre."

Orlando Furioso, c. xii, st. 48.

CHAPTER XXVI. 205

to the Pena Pobre in company with a hermit, and there he took
his till 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 mis-
chief 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 at-
tempting them ; and if I am not repulsed or rejected by my Dul-
cinea, 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 Ama-
dis, and show me how I am to begin to imitate you. I knoAV
already that what he chiefly did was to pray and commend him-
self 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 lie 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 jjoor 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.

' It is tlius the passage stands in the first edition. In the second Don
Quixote makes his rosary with oak galls off a cork tree. The alteration
was made, no doubt, at the suggestion of some critics who thought the
passage indecorous, but Cervantes had nothing to do with it.~

206 DON QUIXOTE.

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.
AYhy 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 ragged 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.i

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 Avell as in looking for
herbs to sustain him, he passed his time until Sancho's return ;
and had that been delayed three Aveeks, 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

' In its ingenuity of rhyme and versification and its transcendent ab-
surdity this is the best piece of humorous verse in Don Quixote. Even
C'lemencin, who generally grumbles at the verses of Cervantes, can not
help giving it a word of praise. It is, of course, impossible in English
translation to do more than suggest the character of the original, for any-
thing like close imitation is unattainable.

CHAPTER XXVI. 207

not have known him : and here it will be well to leave him,
wrapped np in sighs and verses, to relate how 8ancho Pan/a
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 recognized it he
felt as if he were once more flying 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 imdecided whether to go in or not, and as
he was hesitating there came out two persons who at once
recognized him, and said one to the other, " Seiior licentiate,
is not he on the horse there Sancho Panza who, our advent-
urer's housekeeper told us, Avent 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 be-
cause 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 recognized Sancho Panza and
Rocinante, being anxious to hear of Don Quixote, they ap-
proached, and calling him by his name the curate said,
'* Friend Sancho Panza, where is your nuister ? "

Sancho recognized them at once, and determined to kee})
secret the place and circumstances Avhere 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 moun-
tains ; " 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,

208 DON QUIXOTE.

the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with whom he was over
head and ears in love.^ They were both amazed at Avhat
Sancho Panza tokl them ; for though they were aware of Don
Quixote's madness and the nature of it, each time they heard
of it they Avere 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 Avritten 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, " biit 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 note-books were never accepted or honored.

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.

' The Spanish phrase is stronger — hasta los higados — "down to the
liver."

CHAPTER XXVI. 209

" Repeat it then, Saiicho," said tlio l);irl)er, ^' and we will
write it down afterwards."

Sanclio 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 gronnd, the next at
the sky, and after having half gnawed off tlie 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 scrid)bing 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 unrecognized
fair one ; ' and it said something or other about health and
sickness that he was sending her ; and from that it went tail-
ing 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 l)egged him to repeat the letter a couple of times
more, so that they too might get it by heart to Avrite 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 blanket-
ing that had befallen lumself in that inn, into which he refused
to enter. He told them^ moreover, how his lord, if he brought
him a favorable answer from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
was to put himself in the way of endeavoring to become an
emperor, or at least a monarch ; for it had been so settled be-
tween 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
Avould 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, hav-
ing nothing to do with islands of any sort, for he did not care
for them now. All this Sancho delivered with so much com-
posure — wiping his nose from time to time — and Avith so
little common-sense that his two hearers were again filled with
wonder at the force of Don Quixote's madness that could run

Vol. I. — U

210 DON QUIXOTE.

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 ABC. 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
archbisho}), because it will be easier for him as he is more val-
iant 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 Avhere it may be best for him,
and where he may be able to bestow most favors upon me."

" You speak like a man of sense," said the curate, " and you
Avill 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, that he would tell them afterwards the reason why he
was unwilling, and why it did not suit him to enter it ; but he

CHAPTER XXVII. 211

begged them to bring him out something to eat, and to let it be
hot, and also to bring barley for Roeinante. 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 humor Don Qidxote, and
effect their purpose ; and his notion, Avhich he explained to the
barber, was that he himself should assume the disguise of a wan-
dering 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 dis-
tressed damsel, should ask a favor of him, which as a valiant
knight-errant he could not refuse to grant ; and the favor 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 ques-
tion touching her circuaustances 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 endeavor to find out if his extraor-
dinary 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 put-
ting it in execution. They begged a petticoat and hood of the
landlady, leaving her in })ledge a new cassock of the curate's ;
and the barber made a beard out of a gray 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

212 DON QUIXOTE.

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 woidd not let them cover him with the
hood, 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 Avith 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 en-
veloping 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 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 re-
strain 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 Qui-
xote 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

■ Wamba, a king of the Gothic line who reigned from 672 to 680.

CHAPTER XXVII. 213

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 recognizing 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 al-
ready 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 he had, and that, as
she did not know hoAV 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 Avith
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 imme-
diate 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 in-
stead 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 liini his
lady's answer ; for that perhai)S might be enough to bring
him away from the place without putting them to all this
trouble. They approved of what Sancho proposed, and re-
solved to wait for him until he brought back word of having
found his master.

Sancho pushed 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

' A curious reason for giving a verbal answer ; but if slie did not know-
how to read, a fortiori she could not write.

214 DON QUIXOTE.

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, Avhich they did. They were re-
posing, 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 sur-
prised 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.
AVhat 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.

' Cortesanos^ not courtiers, but persons w lio luive caught the tone, tastes,
and culture of La Corte, " the Court," as the capital was always called.

^ These are intended to be echo verses ; but, as Clemencin has pointed
out, the echoes are nothing but rhymes. In the novel of tiie Ihistre Fre-
gona. Cervantes introduced similar verses, which Lope de Vega turned
into ridicule in a parody.

CHAPTER XXVII. 215

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 lieart of sadness ?
Madness.
If that be so, it is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy :
Ask Avhere 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 some-
thing 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 thv seat among the saints on hia'h.

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 sha})e, 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 primeval discord held its reign.

' Notwithstanding Clemencin's dit^paraging remark that this is " of the
same stuflf" as Cervantes' sonnets are commonly composed of, it will be
seen, even in translation, that there is at least a backbone here, while the
serious sonnets of Cervantes are only too often little better tiian inverte-
brate twaddle. Translation, however, can not reproduce the exquisite
melody of the original, and, had it no other merit, this alone would, juice
Clemencin, entitle the sonnet to a place among the best in the Spanish
language.

216 DON QUIXOTE.

The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners
remained waiting attentively for the singer to resume ; but per-
ceiving that the music had now turned to sobs and heart-rend-
ing 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 Sanclio had described to them when he told them the story
of Cardenio. He, showing no astonishment Avhen 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 recognized him
by the description, being a man of good address, approached
him and in a few sensible words eu treated and i;rged him to
(piit 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 helj) 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 succor the good, and even the
wicked very often, here, in this remote spot, cut ofi' 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 not Avhat I 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
nusfortunes is so great and Avorks so powerfully to my ruin,
that in spite of myself I become at times like a stone, Avithout
feeling or consciousness ; and I come to feel the truth of it
Avhen they tell me and shoAv me proofs of the things I have
done Avhen the terrible fit overmasters me ; and all I can do is
bcAvail my lot in vain, and idly curse my destiny, and plead for
my madness by telling hoAv it was caused, to any that care to
hear it : for no reasonable beings on learning the cause Avill

CHAPTER XXV 11. 217

wonder at tlie effects ; and if they can not help me at least
they will not blame nie, 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 with,
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 goat-
herd a few days before, when, through Master Elisabad, and
Don Quixote's scrupulous observance of what was due to chiv-
alry, the tale was left unfinished, as this history has already
recorded ; but now fortunately the mad fit kept off, and 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 obliga-
tion without cost to my honor, you may easily do so. I have a father
who knows you and loves me dearly, wlio without putting imy 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 I'egarded
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 Uoii Fernando that
all Luscinda's father was waiting for was that mine sliould 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 Avould do honor 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

218 DON QUIXOTE.

account of that difficulty, as of many others that discom-aged me,
though I knew not well what they were, only tliat 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, am-
bitious Marius ! O, cruel Catiline ! O, wicked Sylla ! O, perfidious
Ganelon ! O, treacherous Veliido ! 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 1 com-
mit? What words did 1 utter, or what counsels did I give that had
not the furtherance of thy honor and welfare for their aim ? But,
woe is me, wherefore do 1 complain ? for sure it is that when mis-
fortunes 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 high-born 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 morbid, as they say, as to rob me of my one ewe lamb
that was not even yet in my possession? Bnt laying aside these use-
less 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 ti'eacherous and wicked design, resolved to
send me to his elder brother under the pretext of asking money
from him to pay for six horses Avhich, purposely, and with the sole
object of sending me away that he might the better cany out his in-
fernal scheme, he had purchasetl the very day he oftered to speak
to my father, and tlie 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 liad
strong hopes of our fair and reasonable wishes being i-ealized. She,
as unsuspicious as I was of the treachery of Don Fernando, bade me
try to return speedily, as slie believed the fulfilment of our desires
would be delayed only so long as my father put off speaking to hers.
I know not wh}- 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

' Ganelon or Galalon, who betrayed Roland and the Peers at Ronces-
valles ; Veliido Dolf os, who treacherously slew Sancho II. at the siege of
Zamora in 1072 ; and Count Julian, who admitted the Arabs into Spain
to revenge himself upon Roderic.

CHAPTER XXV 11. 219

gayety and cheerfulness, without mingling tears, sighs, jealousies,
doubts, or fears witli our words ; it was all on my part a eulogy of
my good fortune that Heaven should have given lier to me for my
mistress ; I gloritied her beauty, I extolled her worth and her under-
standing; anil she paid me back by praising in me what in lier love
for me sh« thought W(uthy of praise ; and besides we had a hundred
thousand trilles and doings of our neighbors and acquaintances to
talk about, aijd 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 tilled with per-
plexity 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 dcptli 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 tilled \vith fancies and
suspicions, but not knowing well what it was I susi^ected or fancied ;
plain omens pointing to the sad event and mistbrtune 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 j^romptly dis-
missed, 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
know^ledge ; all of which was a scheme of the treacherous Don
Fernando, for his brother had no want of money to enable iiim to
despatch me at once.

The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of dis-
obeying 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 w^hich 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 veiy l^eautiful 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 person named in the address, all Avhich 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 handker-
chief;" 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

220 DON QUIXOTE.

which I bring here together with the letter I have given you. And
then without waiting for any answer she left the window, thougli
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, T 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 1 have made the journey, which, as you know, is
eighteen leas^ues."

All the while the good-natured innDrovised 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 deuiiinded me for a
wife, and my father, led away by what he considers Don Fernando's
superiority over you, has favored liis suit so cordially, that in two days
hence the betrothal is to take place with such secrecy and so privately
the only witnesses are to be the heavens above and a few of the house-
hold. Picture to j'Ourself 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 tliis may come to your hand before mine shall be forced to Hnk
itself with liis 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 whicli 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 tlie letter, and fortune was
pleased to be for once so kind tliat I found Luscinda at the grating
that was the witness of our loves. She recognized me at once, and
I her, but not as she ouglit to have recognized me, or I her. But who
is there in the world that can boast of liaving 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 wit-
nesses, 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 can not be prevented by my
words, I have a dagger concealed which will prevent more deliberate

CHAPTER XXVII. 221

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
vsrords be verified by thy deeds, lady ; and if thou hast a dagger to
save thy honor, I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself if
fortune be against us."

I thinlv 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 oh' any movement; but re-
flecting how important it was that I should be ])resent 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 perceived
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 j^assed
through my mind? They were such as can not be, nor were it well
they should be, told. Suflice 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 ante-chamber, 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 par-
ticularly what she wore ; I could only perceive the colors, 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 jjcace ! 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 tliey 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.

222 DON QUIXOTE.

To proceed, then (continued Cardenio) : all being assembled in
the hall, the priest of the parisli came in, and as he took the pair by
the hand to perform the requisite ceremony, at the words, " Will
you, Senora Luseinda, take Seiior Don Fernando, here present, for
your lawful husband, as the holy Mother Church ordains ? " I
thrust my head and neck out fi'om 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 cry-
ing aloud, "Luseinda, Luseinda! have a cai-e what thou dost;
remember Avhat 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 ! robljer of my glory, death of my life ! what wouldst
thou? What seekest thou? Remember that thou canst not as a
Christian attain the object of thy wishes, for Luseinda 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 1 did not do : now
that I have allowed m}- precious treasure to be robbed from me, I
curse the robber, on wh(nri I mijrht have taken venijeance 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 i)riest stood waiting for the answer of Luseinda. who for a
long time withheld it; and just as I thouglit she was taking out the
dagger to save her honor, 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 hv\Ae ; and she, i^ress-
ing her hand ui)on her heart, fell fainting in her mother's arms. It
only remains now for me to tell you the state 1 was in when in that
consent that I heard I saw all my hopes mocked, the words and prom-
ises of Luseinda proved falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I
had that instant lost rendered impossible forever. 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 jjaper was dis-
covered in her bosom, which Don Fernando seized at once and be-
gan to read by the light of one of the torches. As soon as he had
n-ad it he seated himself in a chair leaning his cheek on his hand in
the attitude of one in deep thought, without taking any part in the
cfibrts that were being made to recover his bride from her fainting

Seeing all the household in confusion, I ventured to come out re-
gai'dless 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

CHAPTER XXVIT. 223

indio^nation of my breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don
Fernando, and even in that of the tickle 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 tiiat reason
which has since been warning to me ; and so, without seeking to take
vengeance on my greatest enemies (wliich 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 intiict the pain they de-
served, piu-haps 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. Tn a word, I quitted the house and reached that of the man
with whom I had left n\y mule; 1 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 tiiouglit
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 tliat in choosing
me she had not chosen so ill l)ut that they might excuse her, for be-
fore Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves could not
have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more eligi-
ble 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 hei's to that effect. In short, I came to tlie
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
honorable passion.

Thus soliloquizing and agitated, I journeyed onward for tlu; re-
mainder of the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the [lasses
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 in-
quired of some herdsmen in what direction the most rugged part

224 DON QUIXOTE.

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, famished, without any one 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
T had lost my reason ; and since then 1 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 lamen-
tation ; and when I recover my senses I find myself so exhausted and
weary that 1 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 fi'equent these mountains, moved
by compassion, furnisli me with food, leaving it by tiie 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 I 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 or treacheiy
of Luscinda, or the wrong done me by Don Fernando ; for if it will
do this without depriving me of life, I will turn m}^ 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 youi'selves 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 jjleasure 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 en-
joyed happiness. She by her fickleness strove to make my ruin irre-
trievable ; 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 misfoi'tune have a suijerabundance, for to
them the impossibility of being consoled is itself a consolation, while
to me it is the cause of greater sorrows and sufierings, for I think that
even in death there will not be an end of them,

CHAPTER XXVIII. 225

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 melan-
choly tones what will be told in the Fourth Part of this narra-
tive : for at this point the sage and sagacious historian, Cid
Hamet Benengeli, brought the third to a conclusion.^

CHAPTEK XXVIII.

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENT-
URE 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 honorable 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 epi-
sodes contained in it, which are, in a measure, no less pleasing,
ingenious, and truthful, than the history itself ; ^ which, re-
suming 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 vipon his ear saying in plaintive
tones :

" 0 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 })romise de-
ceive me not, it is so ; ah ! woe is me ! how much more gratefid
to my nund 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

^ See the note to chapter viii. page 53, on the original division into
parts.

' This looks as if some doubt had crossed the mind of Cervantes as to
the propriety of introducing tliese tales ;.nil episodes.
Vol. I.— 15

226 DON QUIXOTE.

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. Ixithiug his feet in the brook that flowed past. They
approached so silently that he did not perceive them, being fully
occupied in l)athing his feet, which were so fair that they looked
like two })ieces of shining crystal embedded among the 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 gray jacket bound
tight to his body with a white cloth ; he wore besides breeches
and gaiters of gray cloth, and on his head a gray 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 l;e raised his face, and those who were watching him
had an o})portunity of seeing a beauty so exquisite that Car-
denio said to the curate in a whisper, '' As this is not Luscincla,
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 coidd 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

' A cloth cap, something like a travelling cap in make, worn by the
peasants of Central Spain.

CHAPTER XXVIII. 227

driven snow among her locks ; all wliicli increased not only the
admiration of the three beholders, but their anxiety to learn
who she was. With this object they resolved to show them-
selves, 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 hei-
hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of clothes that
she had beside her, and, scared and alarmed, endeavored 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, seiiora, who-
ever you may be, for those wlunn 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, hoAvever, came towards her, and the
curate taking her hand went on to say, "What your dress
would hide, seilora, 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, as long as life lasts, can be so oppressive or reach
such a height as to make the sufferer refuse to listen to com-
fort offered with good intention. And so, senora, or senor, or
whatever you prefer to be, dismiss the fears that our appear-
ance 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 inountains 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

228 DON QUIXOTE.

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 made me, which places me under the obliga-
tion 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 consola-
tion to alleviate them. However, that my honor may not be
left a mattter of doubt in your minds, now that you have dis-
covered 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 l)y her intelligence than
by her beauty, and as they again repeated their offers and en-
treaties to her to fulfil her jjromise, she without further press-
ing, 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 Andahisia 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 ap-
parently to his good qualities ; the younger heir to I know not what,
unless it be the treachery of Vellido and the falsehood of (ianelon.'
M}' pai-ents 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 notliing 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 Ibrtune 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 I'emove from my mind
the impression that my mishap comes of their huml)le 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 ihat by their wealth and free-handed way of life they are
coming b}' degrees to be considered gentlefolk by birth, and even
by position; 3 though the wealth and nobility they thought most of

• See Note 1, p. 2LS.

^ Cristianos viejos rancios : rancio is applied to anytliing, like bacon or
wine, that has acquired a peculiar flavor from long keeping.

* Literally, " hidalgos and even caballeros : " " hidalgo " being a gen-
tleman by birth, " caballero " one by social position or standing.

CHAPTER XXVIII. 229

was haviiijj: 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.

1 was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the statf 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 tlieir possessions. Through me they engaged or dis-
niisscul their servants ; through my hands passed the accounts and re-
turns of what was sown and reaped ; the oil-mills, the wine-presses,
the count of tlie flocks and herds, the beehives, all in short tliat 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 can not well describe to you. The leisure
hours left to me alter I had given the requisite orders to the shep-
herds, head men, and laborers, 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 atibrd, 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 weari-
ness 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 tliat I am rich, but that you may see how, without any
fault of mine, I have fallen from the happy condition I have de-
scribed, to the misery I am in at present. The truth is, that while I
was leading tliis busy life, in a retirement that might compare with
that of a monastery, and unseen as T thought by any except the
servants of the house (for wiien 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 sjjite of all this, the
eyes of love, or idleness, more properly speaking, that the lynx's
can not 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 you of.

The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fer-
nando, Cardenio changed color 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 wdiich 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 after-
wards, he was smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in

230 DON QUIXOTE.

which it disphiyed itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long
recital of my woes, I will pass over in silence all the artifices em-
ployed by Don Fernando for declaring his passion for me. He
bribed all the household, he gave and offered gifts and presents to
ni}' parents ; every day was liJie a holiday or a merrymaking 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 liim, 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 higli-bred Ijearing of
Don Fernando was disagreeable to me, or that I found his importu-
nities wearisome ; for it gave me a certain sort of satisfaction to find
myself so sought and prized b}' 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 tiiat my own sense of right was
opposed to all this, as well as the repeated advice of my parents,
who now very plainl}' perceivcid Don Fernando's piu-jjose, for he
cared very little if all the world knew it. They told me they trusted
and confided their honor 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, what-
ever he might say to the contrary, had for their aim his own pleas-
ure rather than ni}' 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 any one I preferred, either among the
leading people of our own town, or of any of those in the neighbor-
hood ; for with their wealth and my good name, a match might be
looked for in any quarter. This otter, 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 iiuist have taken for coyness,
had apjiarently the eftect of increasing his wanton appetite — for that
is the name 1 give to his passion for me ; had it been what he de-
clared 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 j^ut an
end to liis hopes of obtaining possession of me, or at least to secure
additional protectors to watch over me, and this intelligence or sus-
picion 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 honor should be imperilled
through any carelessness, I know not nor can I conceive how it hap-
pened, 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. 1 had no power to utter a cry, nor, I

CHAPTER XXVIII. 231

think, did he give me time to utter one, as he immediately ap-
proached me, and taking me in his arms (for, overwhehiied as I was,
I was jDowerless, I say, to help myself), he began to make such pro-
fessions to me, that 1 know not how falsehood could have had the
jjower of dressing them up to seem so like truth ; antl the traitor
contrived that his tears should vouch for his words, and his sighs for
his sincerity.

I, a poor young creature, the only daughter of the house, ill versed
in such things, began, I know not how, to think all these lying pro-
testations 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 re-
cover myself, I said to him with more courage than 1 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 honor, it would
no more Ije 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 foi-ce. I am your vassal, l^ut I am not your
slave ; your nobility neither has nor should have any right to dis-
honor 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 sj^eak
of in him whom my parents gave me as a husljand, his will should
be mine, and mine should be bounded by his ; and my honor being
preserved even though mj^ inclinations were not gratified, I 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 hus-
band 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 vSay 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 perha})S
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."

232 DON QUIXOTE.

Dorothea was struck by Cardenio's words as well as by bis
strange and miserable attire, and begged him if he knew any-
thing 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 in her own mind
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 o})portunity, nor is it of any im-
portance to you to know it."

^' Be it as it may ! " replied Dorothea. " To go on with my
story : "

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 l)efore he had made an end of pledging iiimself I bade him
consider well what he was doino", and think of the ang-er 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
Avould be to leave my lot to follow its course at the level my condi-
tion required; for marriages so unequal never brought happiness,
nor did they continue long to atlbrd the enjoyment they began with.

All this that I have now repeated \ said to him, and nmch more
which I cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to
forego his pui'pose ; he who has no intention of jiaying does not
trouble himself about difficulties when he is sti'iking the bargain.
At the same time I argued the matter briefly in my own mind, say-
ing to myself, "I shall not be the first wiio has risen thi-ough
marriage from a lowly to a lofty station, nor will Don Fernando be
the first vvliom beaut}' 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 honor
that chance ofters 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
ilishonored and without any means of proving my innocence to those
who can not know how innocently I have come to be in this position ;
for what arguments would jjersuade my parents and others 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

CHAPTER XXV III. 238

high-bred grace, which, accompanied by such signs oi" genuine love,
might well have conquered a heart even more free and coy than
mine — tliese were the things tliat more than all began to iuHuence
me and lead me unawares to ray 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 doAvn
upon himself a thousand curses hereafter should he fail to keep his
promise, shed more tears, redoubled his sigiis ant! pressed me closer
in his arms, from wliicli he liad 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 j^erjured man.

The day which followed the night of ray misfortune did not coine
so quickly, T imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for \vhcn desire
had 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 fervor as when he came, that I might rest assured
of his faith and of the sanctity and sincerity of his oatlis ; and
to confirm his words he drew a rich ring oft' Iris finger and placed it
upon mine. He then took his departure and I was left, I know not
whether sorrowful or happy ; all 1 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 ray
maid for the treachery she had been guilty of in concealing Don
Fernando in ray chamber; for as yet I was unable to make up my
mind wdiether what had befallen rae 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 raore, nor tor more than a month could 1 catch a glimpse of him
in the sti'eet 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. 1 remember well
how sad and dreary those days and hours were to rae ; 1 rememljer
well how I began to doubt as they went by, and even to lose confi-
dence 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 ray parents
cause to ask me why 1 was so melancholy, and drive me to invent
falsehoods in reply. But all tliis was suddenly brought to an end,
for the time came' when all such considerations were disregarded,
and there was no further question of honor, 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 \)o\\
Fernando had been married in a neighboring city to a maiden of rare
beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position, though

234 DON QUIXOTE.

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 lie 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 ray ears, and, insteadof being struck
with a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that 1
scarcely retained 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 con-
fided the whole of my misfortune, and whom I entreated to accom-
pany me to the city where I heard my enemy was. He, though he
remonstrated with me for my boldness, and condemned my resolu-
tion, when he saw me bent upon my purpose, offered to bear my
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,
accontpanied 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.
lie 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 ap-
proaching 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, accordino; to the man's account, was a o^entleman
of distinction in the same city ; and tliat if she had accepted Don Fer-
nando, 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 tlie
completion of the betrothal, and gave her reasons for putting an
end to herselt; all which was confirmed, it was said, by a dagger
they found somewhere in her clothes. On seeing this, Don Fer-
nando, persuaded that Luscinda had befooled, slighted, and trifled

LUSCINDA FAINTING. Vol.1. Page 234.

CHAPTER XXV II I. 235

with him, assailed her before she liad recovered from her swoon,
and tried to stab her with the dagger tliat 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 contrai-y to his expec-
tation, he had quitted the city in despair, leaving behind him a let-
ter 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 eveiy one spoke of it ; especially wlien 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 dis-
traction of her parents, who knew not what steps to take to recover
her. What I learned revived my Iiopes, and I was better pleased not
to have found Don Fernando than to find him man'ied, 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 recognize 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 luyself without comfort, in(hilging
in feint and distant hopes of cherishing that life that I now aljhor.

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 ottering
a great reward to any one who should find me, and giving the par-
ticulars 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 ser-
vant, until then so faithful and trusty, when he found me in this
lonely spot, moved more by his own villany than by my lieauty,
sought to take advantage of the opportunity which these solitudes
seemed (o present hiiu, 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 lan-
guage, 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 ni}'

» Prov. 133.

236 DON Quixorn.

slight strength and with little exertion 1 pushed him over a preci-
pice, where I left him, whether dead or alive 1 know not; and then,
witli greater speed than seemed possible in my terror and fatigue, I
made my way into the mountains, without any other thouglit or pur-
pose 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,
wdiere 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 hertl, 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 liarbored 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 downi which to fling the master and cure
his passion, as I had in the servant's case, I tliought 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 Iiave pity on my misery, and
grant me help and sti-ength to escape from it, or let me die among
the solitudes, leaving no trace of an unhappy being Avho, by no fault
of hers, has furnished matter for talk and scandal at home and
abroad .

CHAPTER XXTX.

WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AXD METHOD ADOPTED
TO EXTRICATE OUR LO^^-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 w^liether the sighs and hanientations you
heard, and the tears that flowed from my eyes, had not suffi-
cient 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 can not present myself before
them as they expect, that I had rather banish myself from

CHAPTER XXIX. 237

their sight forever than look them in the face with the reflec-
tion that they behehl mine stripped of that pnrity that they
had a right to expect in me."

With these words she became silent, and the color that
overspread her face showed plainly the pain and shame she
was snffering 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 ? " Doro-
thea was astonished at hearing her father's name, and at the
miserable appearance of him Avho mentioned it, for it lias 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 hnsband ; I am
the unfortunate Cardenio, whom the wrong-doing of him Avho
has brought you to your present condition has reduced to the
state you see me in, bare, ragged, bereft of all human c;omfort,
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 forti-
tude 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 can not marry Don
Fernando, being mine, as she has herself so openly declared,
and that Don Fernando can not marry her as he is yours, we
may reasonably lio})e that Heaven will restore to us what is

238 DON QUIXOTE.

ours, as it is still in existence and not yet alienated or de-
stroyed. 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 can not by words induce him to recognize 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
Avrongs, Avhich 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 reas-
oning of Cardenio, and lastly, begged, advised, and urged them
to come with him to his village, where they might furnish them-
selves with what they needed, and take measures to discover
Don Fernando, or restore Dorothea to her parents, or do what
seemed to theni most advisable. Cardenio and Dorothea
thanked him, and accepted the kind offer he made them ; and
the Ijarber, Avho had been listening to all attentively and in
silence, on his part said 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 exidained to them in a
few Avords the object that had brought them there, and the
strange nature of Don Quixote's madness, and hoAv 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 A\as
about.

At this moment they heard a shout, and recognized 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 Dul-
cinea ; and although he had told him that she commanded
him to (put that place and come to El Toboso, where she was

CHAPTER XXIX. 239

expecting liim, 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 favor ; 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 kncAv exactly the style in which afflicted
damsels begged boons of knights-errant.

" In that case," said the curate, " there is nothing more re-
cpired than to set about it at once, for beyond a doubt, fortune
is declaring itself in our favor, 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 petti-
coat 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 re-
jected 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

240 BON QUIXOTE.

as a good knight which your master has ac(i[iiired far and wide,
this princess has come from Guinea to seek him."

" A lucky seeking and a kicky finding ! " said Sancho Panza
at this ; " especially if my master has the good fortune to re-
dress 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, seiior licentiate, which
is, that, to prevent my master taking a fancy to be an arch-
bishop, for that is what I h\\ 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 dis})ensations 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 can not call
her by her name."

"• Slie 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 tJbeda, 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

CHAPTER XXIX. 241

licentiate or the barber, as his master's bccoiuiug an emperor
entirely depended on his not recognizing them; neither the
curate nor Cardenio, however, thought tit 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 Ids
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 exac-tly as the books of chivalry required and de-
scribed.

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 armor ; 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, 0 valiant and doughty knight, until your
goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to
the honor and renown of your person and render a service to
the most disconsolate and afflicted damsel the sim 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 be-
ing who, led by the savor 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, sefior," answered the afflicted damsel, " un-
less of your courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me."

'' I grant and accord it," said Don Quixote, " })rovided with-
out 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

Vol. I. — 16

242 DON QUIXOTE.

nothing at all ; only to kill a big giant ; and she who asks it
is the exalted princess Micomicona, queeu of the great kingdom
of Mieomicon 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
dainsel 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 magnani-
mous 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, as they say, 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 Eocinante's girths, and to arm
him without a moment's delay. Sancho took doAvn the armor,
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 armor 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 Avould ha\'e 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 bar-
ber settled himself on his beast, Sancho being left to go on foot,
which made him feel anew the loss of his Dapple, finding the

* Prov. 222.

CHAPTER XXIX. 243

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 Micomi-
con at least. The only thing tliat troubled him was the reflec-
tion that this kingdom was in the land of the blacks, and that
the people they would give him for vassals would all be black ;
but for this he soon found a remedy in his fancy, and said he
to himself, ''■ AVhat 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 have n't
the wit or skill to turn things to account and sell three, six,
or ten thousand vassals while you would l^e 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 '11 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 that
he had in a case he quickly cut off Cardenio's beard, and put-
ting on him a gray 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. Hav-
ing 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 alloAV 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 recognize
him, and after having stared at him for some time he hastened
towards him Avith open arms exclaiming, ^^ A happy meeting
with the mirror of chivalry, my worthy compatriot Don Quixote

' Literally, " I am sucking my fingers." Shelton and Jervas translate
literally, and so miss the meaning.

244 DON QUIXOTE.

of La Mancha, the flower and cream of high breeding, the pro-
tection and relief of the distressed, the quintessence of knights-
errant ! " And so saying lie clasped in his arms the knee of
Don Quixote's left leg. He, astonished at the stranger's words
and behavior, looked at him attentively, and at length recog-
nized 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, seiior licentiate,
for it is not fitting that I should be on horseback and so rever-
end 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 accompau}' your worship, if they have
no objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed Pe-
gasus, 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 vip 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
too good a Christian 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 sur^trise that he came to the ground, giving
so little heed to his beard that it fell off, and all he coidd do

^ In the immediate neighborhood of Alcala de Henares.
' I have followed here the suggestion of Fernandez Cuesta, for the
reading in the original edition is obviously corrupt.

CHAPTER XXIX. 245

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 wlien he saw all that bundle of beai-d de
tached, without jaws or blood, from the face of the fallen
squire, exclaimed, "■ By the living God, but this is a great mir-
acle ! it has knocked off and plucked 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 IS'icholas lay, still uttering moans, and draw-
ing his head to his l)reast 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 as-
tonished, and begged the curate to teach him that charm when
he had an oijportunity, 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
l)rincess. and the curate, and three on foot, Cardenio, the bar-
ber, and Sancho Panza, Don Quixote said to the damsel, *' Let
your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is luost pleasing to
you ; " but before she could answer the licentiate said, '■'■ To-
wards 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 Cai"-
tagena, where you will be able to embark, fortune favoring ; and

' The original says " two leagues," but the context shows it must have
been at least thrice as far.

246 DON QUIXOTE.

if tlie wind be fair and the sea smooth and tranquil, in some-
what less than nine years yon may come in sight of the great
lake Meona, I mean Meotides, which is little more than a hun-
dred days' journey this side of your highness's kingdom."

" Your worsliip is mistaken, seflor," 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 intrust the justice of my cause to the might of his invin-
cible 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
Avith 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 foot-
pads, 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. Biit the best of it is, the story goes
in the neighborhood 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 valor 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

' Clemencin and Hartzonbusch point out that to let the fly loose " among
the honey " would be worse for him than for it, and the latter, giving a
quotation in point from Francisco de Rojas, substitutes " the bear."

CHAPTER XXX. 24T

justice, and up[)osed 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 Avhich 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
color at every word, not daring to say that it was he Avho 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 THE ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR
DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS PLEASANT AND AMUSING.

The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said,
" In faith, then, sefior 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 tliat 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 liecause 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 }uiserable and inifortunate 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 seiior licentiate and his honored person, I
say he knows little about chivalry and lies like a whoreson
villain, and this I will give Mm to know to the fullest extent
with my sword ; " and so saying he settled himself in his stir-
rups and pressed down his morion; for the barber's basin,

248 DON QUIXOTE.

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 uncon-
quered 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 mustache."

" 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 iu:)t be wearisome to you to hear of miseries and mis-
fortunes."

" 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, (-ardenio and the barber
drew close to her side, eager to hear Avhat sort of story the
quick-witted Dorothea woidd 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, see-
ing what her difficulty was, and said, "It is no wonder, senora,
that your highness should be confused and embarrassed in

CHAPTER XXX. 249

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 Avith 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 i)romi)ting, and I shall
bring my true story safe into port, and here it is. The king
my father, who was called Tinacrio the Sajjient, was very
learned in what they call magic arts, and became aAvare by
his craft that my mother, who was called Queen Jaranrilla,
was to die before he did, and that soon after he too Avas 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, Panda-
filando of the Scowl by name — for it is averred that, though
his eyes are properly placed and straight, he ahvays looks
askew as if he squinted, and this he does out o£ 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 condi-
tion would overrun my kingdom with a uughty 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
Avilling to marry him ; however, as far as he could see, he
never expected that I Avould 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 king-
dom, I Avas not to wait and attempt to defend myself, for that
would be destructiA^e to me, but that I should leave the king-
dom entirely open to him if I Avished to avoid the death and
total destruction of my good and loyal vassals, for there Avould
be no possibility of defending myself against the giant's devil-
ish power ; and that I should at once with some of my followers
set out for Spain, Avhere I should obtain relief in my distress
on finding a certain knight-errant Avhose fame by that time
Avould extend over the whole kingdom, and who would be
called, if I remember rightly, Don Azote or Don Gigote."

250 DON QUIXOTE.

" ' Don Quixote/ he must have said, senora," observed Sancho
at this, " otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Counte-
nance."

''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 gray 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 back-
bone, 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 g()od 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 Sj)ain but in all La
Mancha ; for I had scarcely landed at Osuna Avhen 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, seiiora," 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

■ This was the mark from which the ancestor of the Dukes of Medina-
celi, Fernanrlo de la Cerda, took his name.

* This is a sly hit of Cervantes at Mariana the historian, who makes the
troops despatched against Viriatus land at Orsuna, now Osuna.

CHAPTER XXX. 251

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 acconqtanying me whithersoever 1 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 fathei' Tinacrio
the Sai)ient foretold it, who likewise left it declared in writing
in Chaldee or Greek characters (for I can not read them), that
if this predicted knight, after having cut the giant's throat,
should be disposed to marry me, I Avas 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 wind-
pipe ! And then, how ill-favored the queen is ! I wish the
fleas in my bed were that sort ! " and so saying he cut a
couj)le of capers in the air with every sign of extreme satis-
faction, 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 king-
dom, 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 re-
mains to tell you that of all the attendants I took with me
from my kingdom I have none left except this well-beaixled
squire, for all were drowned in a great tempest we encoun-
tered 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 lay what the

252 DON QUIXOTE.

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 God and of my arm to cut off with the edge of this
— I will not say good sword, thanks to the Gines de Pasa-
monte 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 inthralled
by her — I say no more — it is impossible for me for a mo-
ment to contem})late 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 ex-
claimed with great irritation, '' By my oath, Senor Don Qui-
xote, 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 Avaiting 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,

' Cervantes seems to have intended that Gines de Pasamonte should
carry off Don Quixote's sword, as Brunello did Mariisa's at the siege of
Albraeca.

^Prov. 60. Pedir cotufas en el golfo — a proverbial expression for
seeking impossibilities. Cotufa, according to Salvd, is equivalent to
golosina — a dainty: Clemencin says it is the same as Chufa^ the tuber
of the Cyparus esciilentus, used as an ingredient in hoixhata, and in other
ways.

CHAPTER XXX. 253

without saying anything to Saneho 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
wouhl have no doubt taken his life on the spot. " Do yo\i
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
which she infuses into my arm I should not have strength
enough to kill a flea ? Say, O scoffer with a viper's tongue,
\\liat think you has won this kingdom and cut oft' this giant's
head and made you a marquis (for all this I count as already
accomplished and decided), but the might of Dulcinea, employ-
ing my arm as the instrument of her achievements ? She
tights in nie and conquers in me, and I live and breathe in
her, and owe my life and being to her. 0 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 ! "

SancJio 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 posi-
tion he said to his master, '' Tell me, sefior ; 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 bestoAv favors
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 nothin
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 Saneho, " 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

t>

254 DON QUIXOTE.

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."

" AVell, 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 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 noth-
ing in disparagement of that lady Tobosa, 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 mat-
ters of great importance to discuss with him. Sancho obeyed,
and when the two had gone some distance 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 happi-
ness 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 easily as I found a way in ;
but I implore you, senor, 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 some-
thing belonging to your worship."

" Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho," said Don

' I'rov. 3;5. Ill full it is, " the pitcher that goes often to the well leaves
behind either the handle or the spout."

CHAPTER XXX. 255

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 gypsy ; but Sancho Panza, whose
eyes and heart were there wherever he saw asses, no sooner be-
held the man than he knew him to be Gines de Pasamonte ;
and by the thread of the gypsy he got at the ball, his ass,'^
for it was, in fact, Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to es-
cape recognition and to sell the ass had disguised himself as a
gypsy, being able to speak the gypsy language, and many more,
as well as if they were his own. Sancho saw him and recog-
nized 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 trot 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 Qui-
xote 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 concise-
ness, 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

' Prov. 177.

^ A reference to the proverb For el hi/o se saca el ovillo (H-t)- This
passage down to " Sancho thanked him," like that describing tlie tlieft of
the ass, was first inserted in Juan de hi Cuseta's second edition. This,
liowever, seems to be Cervantes' own work, as it agrees with c. iv. Pt. II.
The printer, no doubt, did not see its relevancy, and therefore omitted it
in the first edition.

256 DON QUIXOTE.

provinces or seaports, and so she had said at hap-hazard 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 Avas all set right. But is
it not a strange thing to see how readily this unhappy gentle-
man 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 unex-
ampled, 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 Avith his craze, when other subjects are
dealt Avith, 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 Avould take
him to be anything but a man of thoroughly sound under-
standing."

While they Avere holding this conversation Don Quixote
continued his Avith Sancho, saying, '< Friend Panza, let us for-
give and forget as to our quarrels, and tell me noAV, dismissing
auger and irritation, Avhere, how, and Avhen didst thou find
Dulcinea ? What was she doing ? AVliat didst thou say to
her ? What did she ansAver ? How did she look Avhen she
Avas reading my letter ? Who copied it out for thee ? and
everything in the matter that seems to thee Avorth knowing,
asking, and learning ; neither adding nor falsifying to give me
pleasure, nor yet curtailing lest you should de])rive 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 Avhich I Avrote it I found in my oavu possession two days
after thy departure, Avhich gave me very great vexation, as I
knew not what thou wouldst do on finding thyself without any
letter ; and I made sure thou Avouldst 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 Avhen 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,"

CHAPTER XXXI. 257

" And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Saiicho ? " 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 Eueful 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, TOGETHEK 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 hnd 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 doulpt 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 such a letter, 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 Avith 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 can not read it until I have done
sifting all this.' "

' Tl\c division here is very awkwardly managed : cliapter xxxi. ought to
have commenced at " While they were holding this conversation," in the
preceding chapter.
Vol. I. — 17

258 DON QUIXOTE.

" Discreet lady ! " said Don Quixote ; " that was in order to
read it at lier 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 earnest close to her didst thou not perceive a Sal sean
odor, an aromatic fragrance, a, I know not Avhat, delicious,
that I can not find a name for ; I mean a redolence, an exliala-
tion, as if thou wert in the shop of some dainty glover ? "

" All I can say is," said Sancho, " that I did perceive a little
odor, 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 nnist 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 my-
self that same odor which then seemed to me to come from her
grace the lady Dulcinea ; but that 's no wonder, for one devil
is like another." ^

> Prov. 176.

CHAPTER XXXI. 259

" Well then," continued Don Quixote, " now she has done
sifting the corn and sent it to the mill ; ^ Avhat 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 any one read it lest her secrets should become known in
the village, and that what I had told her by word of moutli
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 nie 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 T told her
how your worship was called the Knight of the Rueful Coun-
tenance ; I asked her if that Biscayan the other day had been
there ; and she told nre he had, and that he was a very honest
fellow ; I asked her too about the galley slaves, but she said
she had not seen any 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 '! Yov it is a iisual 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 mes-
sage."

" That is likely," said Sanclio, " and a good custom it was,
to my mind ; but that must have Ijeen in days gone by, for uoav
it Avould seem to be the custom only to give a piece of bread
and cheese ; because that was what my lady Dulcinea gave me
oxQY 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

' A popular phrase like '^ Well, that's settled."

* Alhricias., from the Arabic al bashara-, a reward given to the bearer
of arood news.

260 DON QUIXOTE.

been because she had not one ijoiiunti inhere 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 throiigh 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
satire mao-ician who is mv friend, and watches over mv 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, may-
be, is fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some dragon,
or herce 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, Avho 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 sup-
ping 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 San-
cho, 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 Vv'ithout thee perceiving it."

" That must have been it," said Sancho, " for indeed Roci-
nante went like a g3'psy''s ass with quicksilver in his ears."-

'• Quicksilver ! " said Don Quixote, •' ay, 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 put-

^ Prov. 135, i.e. a good thing nia_y be accepta})le even out of its proper
season, as after Easter the weather may be still cold enough to make
sleeves comfortable. Cf . the Scotch proverb, " A Yule feast may be done
at Pasch."

^ Alluding to a common device of the gypsy dealers to improve the pace
of a beast for sale.

CHAPTER XXXI. 261

ting this aside, what thinkest thou I ought to do about uiy
lady's command to go and see her ? For tliough I feel that I
am bound to obey her mandate, I feel too tliat I am debarred
by the boon I have accorded to the princess tluit 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 de-
sire 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 prin-
cess peacefully in her realm, and forthwith I shall return, to be-
hold the light that lightens my senses, to whom I shall nuike
such excuses that she will be led to a}>})rove 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 favor she extends to me,
and because I am hers."

" Ah ! what a sad state your worship's brains are in ! " said
Sancho. " Tell me, seiior, do you mean to travel all that way
for nothing, and to let slip and lose so rich and great a match
as this Avhere 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 to-
gether ? Peace, for the love of God ! Blush for Avhat 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 ; rememlier,
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 favors on
thee, and give thee what I have promised, let me tell thee I
shall be able very easily to satisfy thy desires Avithout marrying ;

' Prov. 167.

* Prov. 21. Sancho, as he almost always doos when it is long, makes
a muddle of tlie proverb : the correct form is, " Wlio lias good and chooses
evil, let him not complain of the evil that comes to him."

262 DON QUIXOTE.

for before going into battle I will make it a stipulation that,
if I come outofit victorious, even if I do not many, 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 l)ut upon thee ? "

" That is i)lain speaking," said Sancho ; '' but let your wor-
ship take care to choose it on the sea-coast, 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
oft' this l)usiness; for by God it strikes me it will be one of
great honor and great profit."

" I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Qui-
xote, " and I will take thy advice as to accompanying the prin-
cess before going to see Dulcinea ; but I counsel thee not to
say anything to any one, or to those who are with us, al)out
what we have considered and discussed, for as Dulcinea is so
decor(_)us that she does not wish her thoughts to be known it is
not right that I or any one for me should disclose them."

" Well then, if that be so," said Sancho, " how is it that your
worship makes aJl those you overcome by your arm go to ])re-
sent 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 ? "

" 0, how silly and simple thou art ! " said Don Quixote ;
" seest thou not, Sancho, that this tends to her greater exalta-
tion ? Por thou must know that according to our way of think-
ing in cliivalry, it is a high honor 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 will-
ing 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 punish-
ment ; 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 liadst studied."

CHAPTER XXXI . 263

" In faith, then, I can not even read," answered Sancho.

Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a Avhile, 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
Avhich Dorothea Avas 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
Avith what the curate had provided himself with at the inn they
appeased, though not very Avell, 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 clasp-
ing him round the legs, began to weep freely, saying, '' 0, seilor,
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 recognized him, and taking his hand he turned
to those present and said : " That your worships nuay 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 Avas, I say, tied to an oak, naked from the waist up, anr' a
clown, Avhom I afterwards found to be his master, was scarify-
ing 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 ser-
vant and because of carelessness that proceeded rather from dis-
honesty than stupidity ; on which this boy said, ' Seiior, he
flogs me only because I ask for my wages.' The master made
I know not what speeches and explanations, Avhich, though I
listened to them, I did not acce})t. In short, I compelled the
clown to unbind him, and to swear he would take him with him.

264 DON QUIXOTE.

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 confusion or hesitation ; tell these gentlemen
what took place, that they may see and observe that it is as
great an advantage as I say to have kniglits-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 ? "

'' Xot only did he not pay me," replied the lad, " but as soon
as your worship had passed ox;t of the wood and we were alone,
he tied me up again to the same oak and gave me a fresh flog-
ging, that left me like a flayed Saint Bartholomew ; and every
stroke he gave me he followed up Avith 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 Avhich that ras-
cally clown inflicted on me then ; for all which your Avorship
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 Avay, that I feel as if I should never be a man
again as long as I live."

a '

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 Avill keep his word if he finds it will not suit him
to keep it ; but thou rememberest, Andres, tliat 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 Avhether it is of use or not," said

' See chapter iv. note 1, p. 22.

CHAPTER XXX L 265

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 Avorld. To
which she replied that he must remember that in accordance
with his promise he coiild not engage in any enterprise until he
had brouglit hers to a conclusion ; and that as he knew this
better than any one, he should restrain his ardor until his return
■from her kingdom.

" That is true," said Don Quixote, " and Andres must have
patience until my return as you say, seiiora ; but I once niore
swear and promise afresh 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 Avith 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 mis-
fortune."

" Why, what share have you got ? " asked Andres.

" 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 hmiger
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 to
Don Quixote, " 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 succor, but leave me to my mis-
fortune, which will not be so great but that a greater Avill 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

266 DON QUIXOTE.

his heels at such a pace that no one attempted to follow him ;
and mightily chapfallen was Don Quixote at the story of
Andres, and the others had to take great care to restrain their
laughter so as not to put him entirely out of countenance.

CHAPTEE XXXII.

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL ALL DOX 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 Avould have rather not entered it there Avas 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 my 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 licen-
tiate 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 cheer-
fully restored the tail to the landlady, and at the same time

CHAPTER XXXIT. 267

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 aslee]:),
and they thought it best not to awaken 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, look-
iuii- 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 can
not 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 Avith a delight that makes our gray 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 listen-
ing 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 hear-
ing these things greatly too, for they are very pretty ; espe-
cially 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."

' Literally, " Rids us of a thousand gray hairs."

268 DON QUIXOTE.

" And yon, 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 compassion 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
knoAV 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 honor'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 " His-
tory 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

' Don Cirongilio de Tracia was by Bernado de Vargas and appeared at
Seville in 1545: for Felixmarte de Hircania see Chap, vi., Note 1,
p. 33. The title of the third is Crenica del Gran Capitan Gonzalo Her-
nandez de Cordoba y Aguilar, to which is added tlie life of Diego Garcia
de Paredes, written by himself. It appeared at Saragossa in 1559. Gon-
zalo, the reader need "hardly be reminded, was the brilliant general whose
services against the Moors at Granada and the Frencli in Naples were so
ungratefully repaid by Ferdinand. Garcia de Paredes was Gonzalo's com-
panion-in-arms in both campaigns. His battered corselet in the Armeria
at Madrid is as good as a ballad.

CHAPTER XXXII. 269

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 phlegmatics that you want
to burn them ? " said the landlord.

" Schismatics you mean, friend," said the barlier, " 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 })assing 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 unbiased 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-

' i.e. tlie montante^ marvellous specimens of which may be seen in the
Armeria at Madrid.

'^ Neither of these feats is mentioned in the memoir of (rarciade Paredes
appended to the life of the Great Captain.

270 DON QUIXOTE.

pods like tlae 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
liim 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, find-
ing 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 I "

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 them-
selves would not persuade him to the contrary."

'' But consider, brother," said the curate once more, " there
never was any Felixmarte of Hii'cania in the world, nor any
('irongilio 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 Avits, devised by them
for the piirpose you describe of beguiling the time, as your
reapers do when they read : for I swear to you in all serious-
ness 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,

' Made by cutting away part of the pod so as to expose the upper bean
which looks something like a friar's head in the recess of his cowl.
2 Prov. 181. 3 prov. 2r>2.

en AFTER XXXII. 271

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 battle and enchant-
ments 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 diver-
sion of those who do not care, or are not obliged, or are unalde
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 sIkjuUI
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, sefior 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 h;dts 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 noAV 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 (con-
versation, and he was very much troul)led 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 labor.

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 land-
lord taking them out handed them to him to read, and he per-
ceived 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

^Curious Impertinent^ Shelton's barbarous translation of Cnrioso
Impertinente, is something worse tluui nonsense, for Cnrioso is here a

272 DON QUIXOTE.

to himself, and said, " I must say tlie 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 mi;ch pleased with it, and' have
begged it of me very earnestly ; but I would not give it, mean-
ing 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 ; " biit 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
evirate, 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 than in reading."

" 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 season-
able."

" Well then, in that case," said the curate, " I will read it,
if it were only out of curiosity ; perhaps it may contain some-
thing 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 every one, for the novel begins thus."

substantive. There is, of course, no concise Englisli translation for the
title; the nearest approacli to one would be, perhaps. The inquisitive man
who had no business to be so.

CHAPTER xxxni. 273

CHAPTER XXXIII.

IN- WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF " ILL-ADVISED

CURIOSITY."

In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy in tlie 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 loiew them "The two Friends/' They were un-
married, young, of the same age and of the same tastes, which was
enough to account for the reciprocal friendship between them. An-
selmo, it is true, was somewliat more inclined to seek pleasure in
love than Lothario, tor 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 regu-
lated 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 es-
timable 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, Lothai'io 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 jiossession of the object of his desires,
and Camilla so ha[>py 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 lew days, those
of a wedding being usually days of merry-making, Lothario fre-
quented his friend Anselmo's house as he had been wont, striving to
do honor to him and to the occasion, and to gratify him in every way
he could; but w^lien the wedding days were over and the succession
of visits and congratulations had slackened, he began purposely to
leave otf going to the house of Anselmo, for it seemed to him, as it
naturally would to all men of sense, that friends' houses ou^ht not
to be visited after marriage with the same frequency as in their
masters' bachelor days : because, though true and genuine friendship
can not and should not be in any way suspicious, still a married
man's honor 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
Vol. I. — 18

274 DON QUIXOTE.

be once more master of his house and to come in and go out as for-
merly, assuring him that his wife Camilhi had no other desire or
inclination than that Avhich 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 per-
suade 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 Lothai'io resolved to observe it no further than
he considered to be in accordance with the honor of his friend, whose
good name was more to him than his own. He said, and justly, that
a married man ujion 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 wiiat can not 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. Lothai'io 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 aifection the hus-
l^and bears his wife either he does not caution her, or, not to vex
her, refrains fi'om tellin'g her to do or not to do certain things, doing
or avoiding which may be a matter of honor 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 witli the
utmost care and vigilance he watched over the honor of his friend,
and strove to diminish, cut down, and reduce the number of (hiys for
ofoino' to his house according: to their ao;reement, lest the visits of a
young man, wealthy, high-born, and with the attractions he was con-
scious of possessing, at the house of a woman as beautiful as Camilla,
should be regarded with suspicion by the inquisitive and malicious
eyes of the idle public. For though his integrity and reputation
mio-ht bridle slanderous tong^ues, still he was unwillino; to hazard
cither 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, how^ever, that on one occasion when the two
were strolling together through a meadow outside the city, Anselmo
addressed the following words to Lothario.

" Thou mayest suppose, Lothario my friend, that I am unable to

' Estaciones — attendances at church for iirivate devotion at other hours
than those of the celebration of the Mass. Among tlie scenes of the Ital-
ian and Spanish tales of intrigue the church plays a leading part.

CHAPTER XXX I IT. 275

give .sulHuient thanks for the favors God has rendered me in making
me the son of snch parents as mine were, and bestowing upon me
with no niggard hand what are called the gifts of natiiit* as wcUl 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 1 value,
if not as highly as I ought, at least as highly as I am able. And 3'et,
kvith all these good things, which are commonly all that men need
to enable them to live happily, I am the most discontented and dis-
satisfied man in the whole world ; for, 1 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
1 am alone, and strive to stifle it and hide it from my own thoughts,
and with no better success than if I were endeavoring deliberately to
publish it to all the world; and as, in shoi't, it must come out, I
would confide it to thy safe keeping, feeling sui'e that by this means,
and by thy readiness as a true friend to atford 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 i^relude and
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 fiagraiit 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 eflect.

" That is the truth," replied Anselmo, " and relying upon that
I will tell thee, friend Lothario, that tiie desire which harasses me is
that of knowing whether my wife Camilla is as good and as i^erfect
as I think her to be ; and I can not satisfy myself of the truth on this
point except by testing her in such a way that the trial may prove
the pui'ity of her virtue as the fire proves that of gold ; because I am
persuaded, my friend, that a woman is virtuous only in 2>roportion
as she is or is not tempted ; and that she alone is strong who does
not yield to the promises, gifts, teai's, 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 wlio 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 Avife Camilla should pass this crisis, and be refined
and tested by the fire of finding herself wooed and solicited, and by
one worthy to set his affections upon her ; and if she comes out, as 1
know she will, victorious from this struggle, I shall look upon my

276 DON QUIXOTE.

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 carrj'ing it into eft'ect, 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 Avill afford thee
opportunities to that end, and nothing shall be wanting that I may
think necessary for the jjursuit of a virtuous, honorable, modest, and
hio:h-minded woman. And among other reasons, I am induced to
intrust 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 Avhich from a
sense of honor 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 tleath 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, excejat 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 a while, as one would regard something never before seen that
excited wonder and amazement, he said to him, " I can not persuade
myself, Anselmo my friend, that what thou hast said to me is not in
jest; if 1 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 mis-
fortune 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
Avho 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

' "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies."
Proverbs xxxi. 10.
- i.e. Pericles, in Plutarch on " False Shame."

CIIAPTER XXXIII. 277

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 mo-
ment, but in such as affect the friend's life and honor. 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 labor to rob
thee of honor and life, and to rob myself of them at the same time ;
for if T take away thy honor it is plain I take away thy life, as a man
without honor 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
vs^ithout honor, 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
tjuotations from the Holy Scriptures, or by reasons which depend
upon the examination of the imderstanding 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 mathe-
matical demonstrations that can not be denied, like, ' If equals be
taken from equals, the reinainders 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 liiy sim-
plicity, for at ^^resent 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 mn to
desert tliee 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 tluit 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 bestow 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
sayest, 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

278 DON QUIXOTE.

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 tliat to attempt things from
which harm rather than advantage may come to us is the part of
unreasoning and recisless minds, more especially when they are
things which we ai'e not forced or compelled to attempt, and Avhich
show from afar that it is plainly madness to attempt them.

" Difficulties arc attcmjjted 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 under-
taken 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, with-
out hesitating, or heeding the manifest peril that threatens them,
borne onward by the desire of defending their faith, their counti-y.
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 honor, 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 honored than thou art this
moment; and if it be otherwise thou Avilt 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 lie 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 jirey to shame the sinning soul will be,
Though none but heaven ami earth its shame can see.

Thus by keeping it secret thou wilt not escape thy sorrow, but rather
thou Avilt shed tears unceasingly, if not tears of the eyes, tears of
blood from the heart, like those shed b}- 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

' " Our poet " was, of course, Ariosto ; but Cervantes has confounded
two different stories in Canto 43. It was not the doctor but a cavalier,

CHAPTER XXXIII. 279

fiction it contains a moral lesson worthy of attention and study and
imitation. JNIoreover by what I am about to say to thee thou wilt be
led to see the great error thou vvouldst 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 tiiat 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 possil)ly be, thou thj'self 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 remain intact she can not 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 I'uin and thine own. Remember there
is no jewel in the world so precious as a chaste and virtuous woman,
and that the whole honor of women consists in reputation ; and since
thy wife's is of that high excellence that thou knowest, where-
fore shouldst thou seek to call that truth in question ? Remember,
my friend, that woman is an imperfect animal, and that impedi-
ments 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 hinderance 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 j^urest
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
ei'mine, 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 diff'erent from that employed with the ermine ;
he niust not put before her the mire of the gifts and attentions of
persevering lovers, because perhaps — and even without a perhaps

Rinalilo's liost, who tried the test of the cup. The ruagic cup, of which
no husliand of a faithless wife could drink without spilling, figures fre-
(juently in old romance. It appears in the ballad of The Boy and the
Mantle," and also in another of the King Arthur ballads.

280 DON QUIXOTE.

— 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. 8lie must be treated as relics are ;
adored, not touched. She must be protected and prized as one pro-
tects and prizes a fair garden full of roses and flowers, the owner of
Avhich 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 okl 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 aro^uments he used these :

Woman is a thing of glass ;

But her brittlene.s.s 't is 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 can not 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 I'eference
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
honor, 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
T pay court to her as thou requirest, she will certainly regard me as
a man without honor or right feeling, since I attempt and do a thing
so much opjjosed to what 1 owe to my own jjosition and thy friend-
ship. 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 dis-
honored, her dishonor touches thee as belonging to her; and hence
arises what so commonly takes place, that the husband of the adul-
terous woman, though he may not be aware of or have given any

CHAPTER XXXITI. 281

cause for his \vife"'s failure In her duty, or (being careless or negli-
gent) have had it in his power to prevent his dishonor, nevertheless
is stigmatized 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 tiiey see tliat he is unfortunate not by his
own fault, but by the lust of a vicious consort. But I will tell thee
w^hy with good reason dishonor attaches to the husband of the
unchaste wife, thouofh 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 all 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 moi'e than this when the virtuous arc mar-
ried ; 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 f(jr 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 dishonor of the
wife ; and as all woi'ldly honor or dishonor 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 dishonored without knowing it. See, then,
Anselmo, the peril thou art encountering in geoking 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 qniet 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 unde-
scribed, not having the words to express it. But if all I have said be
not enough to turn thee from tliy vile purpose, thou must seek some
other instrument for thy dishonor and misfortune ; for such I will not
consent to be, though by this 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 i"eply; 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

282 I>ON QUIXOTE.

my own, I am flying from the good and pursuing the evil. This lieing
so, thou must remember that I am now hiboring under that infirmity
which women sometime suifer from, wlien the craving seizes them to
eat chiy, plaster, chai'coal, 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 eftected 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 at-
terai)t I shall rest satisfied, and thou wilt have done what our friend-
shi]) binds thee to do, not only in giving me life, but in persuading
me not to discard my honor. And tliis 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 honor 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 ventui'ing so little,
and bj' the venture canst afford me so much satisfaction, refuse not
to undertake it, even if further difliculties present themselves to
thee; for, as I have said, if thou wilt only make a beginning I Avill
acknowledge the issue decided."

Lothario seeing the fixed determination of Anselmo, and not know-
ing what further examples to ofter 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 gi-eater evil re-
solved 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 lie 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 affec-
tionately, and thanked him for his offer as if he had bestowed some
great favor upon him ; and it was agreed between them to set about
it the next day, Anselmo aftV)rding opportunity and time to Lothario
to converse alone witli Camilla, and furnishing him with money and
jewels to offer and present to her. He suggested, too, that lie should
treat her to music, and write verses in her praise, and if he was un-
willino; to take the ti'ouble of composing them, he offered to do it
himself. Lothario agreed to all with an intention very diftei-ent 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 tlian 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

CHAPTER XXXIII. 283

him with great cordiality, linowing the aft'ection 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 press-
ing business, as he would return in an hour and a half. Camilla
beo-o"ed him not to go, and Lothario otiered 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 im-
portance to discuss with him. At the same time he i)ade Camilla not
to leave Lotliario 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 dei)arture, and Camilla and Lothario were left
alone at the table, for the rest of the Jiousehold had gone to dinner.
Lothario saw himself in the lists according to his friend's wish, and
facing an enemy that could by hei- beauty alone vanquish a squadron
of armed knights; judge Avhether he had good reason to fear; but
what he did \\"as to lean his elljow on the arm of the chair, and his
cheek upon his hand, and, asking Camilla's pardon for his ill man-
ners, 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 recep-
tion-room than" in his chair, and begged of him to go in and sleep
there; but Lolhario declined, and there he remained asleep until the
return of Anselmo, who finding Camilla in her own room, and Lo-
thario 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 him-
self 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 wa}^ 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 discov-
ei"ed. All this gave great satisfaction to Anselmo, and he said he
would aiford the same opportunity evei'y 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 tlie slightest indi-
cation of consent to anything dishonorable, nor even a sign or shadow
of hope ; on the contrary, he said she threatened that if he did not
abandon such a wicked idea she would inform her husband of it.
"So far well," said Anselmo; "Camilla has thus far resisted

284 DON QUIXOTE.

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 pre-
sent, and as many more to buy jewels to lure her, for women are
fond of being bec-omingly attired and going gayly dressed, and all the
moye so if they are beautiful, however chaste they may be ; and if she
resists tliis temptation, I will rest satisfied and will give you no more
trouble."

Lothario replied that now he had begun he would cany 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
tliousand crowns, and with them four thousand perplexities, for he
knew not what to say by way of a new f:ilseho(xl ; but in tlie 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 us° in takino-
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 per-
ceived 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 liis 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 humor Camilla was. Lotha-
rio replied tliat 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 hast not said a word to Camilla, whence I conclude that on
the former occasions thou hast not spoken ro 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 at-
taining my desire ?"

Anselmo said no more, but he had said enough to cover Lothario
with shame and confusion, and he, feeling as it were iiis honor
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 ho 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 aiibrd him an opportunitv 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 de-
l^arture to Camilla, he so arranged it that the friend should send him
a very pressing invitation.
Unhappy, short-sighted Anselmo, what art thou doing, what art

CHAPTER XXXI IL 285

thou plotting, what art tliou devisino;? Bethink thee thou art work-
ing against thyself, plotting thine own dishonor, 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 ob-
ject of her wishes, the fuKilment of her desires, tlie measure where-
with she measures her will, making it conform in all things to thine
and Heaven's. If, then, the mine of her honor, beauty, virtue, and
modest}' yields thee without labor 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 i)ut
rests on the feeble props of her weak natui'e? 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 :

' T is 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 miglit 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 hus-
band left her, and bade him remember that it was not becoming that
any one should occupy his seat at the table dui'ing 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 wel-
come ; 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
retii'ed 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

286 DON QUIXOTE.

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 oi'dered her to
do so ; but the modest bearing of Camilla, the calmness of her
covmtenance, 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 l)oth 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 enougli to
warm with love a marble statue, not to say a heart of flesh. Lothario
ga7;ed ui^on her when he might have been speaking to her, and
thought how worthy of being loved she was; and thus reflection
l)egan little by little to assail his allegiance to Anselmo. and a thou-
sand times he thought of withdrawing from the city and going where
Anselmo should never see him nor he see Carailhx. But already the
delight he found in gazing on her interposed and held him fast. He
2>iit 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 rash-
ness of Anselmo had been worse than his faithlessness, and that if
he could excuse his intentions as easily before God as with man,
he need fear no punishment for his ottence.

In siiort the beauty and goodness of Camilla, joined with the oppor-
tunity which the blind husband had placed in his hands, overthrew
tlie 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 strug-
gle with his ])assii)n, 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 de-
meanor; on the contrary his passion for Camilla increased, and she
discovering in him what sJie liad 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 tliat very night, one of her servants with a letter to Anselmo, in
wliich she addressed the following words to him.

ANSELMO AND CAMILLA. Vol.1. Page 286.

CHAPTER XXX IV. 287

CHAPTER XXXIV.

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEIj 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 inca-
pable 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 is it fitting I should say more."

Ansel mo 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 snch in-
telligence he sent word to her not to leave his house on any account,
as he would very shoi'tly return. Camilla was astonished at Ansel-
mo'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
I^arents' ; for in remaining her virtue was imperilled, and ingoing
she was opposing her husband's commands. Finally she decided
upon what Avas the worse course for her, to remain, resolving not to
fly from the presence of Lothario, that sh(! 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 (iod and in her own virtuous intentions, with which she
hoped to resist in silence all the solicitations of Lothario, without say-
ing 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 lier to write
that letter. With these resolutions, more honorable than judicious
or effectual, she remained the next day listening to Lothario, who
pressed his suit so strenuously that Camilla's firmness began to Avaver,
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 Ijosom. Lo-
thario observed all this, and it inflamed him all the more. In short
he felt that while Anselmo's absence aftbrded time and opportunity
he must press the siege of the fortress, and so he assaiU^d 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 witii the utmost
assiduity he undermined the rock of her purity with such engines that

288 DON QUIXOTE.

had Camilla been of brass she must have fallen. He wept, he en-
treated, he ]jromised, he flattered, he importuned, he pretended with
so much feeling and apparent sincerity, that he overthrew the virtu-
ous 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 conquei'ed 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 Avas by chance and without intending it and
not of his own accord that he had made love to her.

A few days later Anselmo retui'ned to his house and did not per-
ceive what it had lost, that which he so lightly treated anil so highly
prized. lie went at once to see Lothario, and found him at liome ;
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 tliat 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 modestj' abide with all the virtues that
can confer praise, honor, 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 drysiiod 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 strengtli 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 thence-
forward he need not make use of the same (>arnest endeavors as
before : all he wished him to do was to write some vei'ses 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 ena,ble him to sing her praises with the decoruoi

CHAPTER XXXIV. 289

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 pretendetl amour of mine; as for the verses I will make
them, and if not as good as the subject deserves, they shall be at
least the l)est T can produce." An agreement to this effect was made
between the friends, the ill-advised one and the treaciierous, and An-
selmo 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 lier somewhat more freely than
when he had been at liome ; 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 slie
might be quite easy on the score of that suspicion, for he knew that
J.,othario 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 tldelity 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
Anselm i 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 wliat 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 JjOthario, "I would hide
nothing, for when a lover praises his lady's beauty, and charges her
with cruelty, he casts no imputation upon iierfair name ; at any rate,
all I can say is that yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of
this Cliloris, which goes thus :

SONNET.'

At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes
Of happier mortals Ijalmy 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,

'This sonnet, like that in chapter xxiii., was repeated by Cervantes in
the play of tlu' Casa de los Zelos — Jornada 2.
Vol. I, — 19

290 DON QUIXOTE.

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 neitlier 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 re-
turn 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 aiu
truthful."

"There is no doubt of that," observed Anselmo, anxious to sup-
port 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, favor, even there

It would be found that I thy image bear
Deep graven in ni}- 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 lieart its vigor owes.
Alas for him that under lowering skies.

In peril o'er a trackless ocean sails,

Where neither friendly jjort nor pole-star shows."

Anselmo praised this second sonnet too, as he had j^raised the firs! ;
and so he went on adding link after link to the chain with which he
was binding himself and making his dishonor secure ; for when
]>othario was doing most to dishonor him he told him he was most
iionored ; and thus each step that Camilla descended towards the
depths of her abasement, she mounted, in the opinion of her husband,
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

CHAPTER XXX TV. 291

me that I so quickly yielded him of my own fi'ee will. I fciir that
he will tliink ill of my pliancy or lightness, not considerino; tlie irre-
sistible inHuence 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 pre-
cious to give it quicldy 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." 2

" That saying does not hold good in your case," replied Leonela,
" for love, as 1 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 morn-
ino" 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 alisolutely necessary to complete then what love had re-
solved 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 sulyect, for I am
of young flesh and blood too. Moreover, Lady Camilla, you did not
surrender yourself or yield so quickly but that first you saw Lotha-
rio's whole soul in his eyes, in his sighs, in his words, his promises
and his gifts, and by it and his good ((ualities perci;ived how worthy
he was of your love. This, then, being the case, let not these scru-
pulous 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 r-epeat it by rote. He is, to my eyes
and thinking. Amiable, Brave, Courteous. Distinguished, P^legant,
Fond, Gay, Honorable, 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 honor."

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

' Prov. 67. 2 Prov. f DO.

^ The four S's that should qualify a h)vor were sahio^ solo, so/idfn,
secrete. It is needless to say that Leonela's alphabet cannot be literally
translated.

292 DON QUIXOTE.

lest it might prove the means of endangering her honor, and asked
whether her intrigue had gone beyond Avords, 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 mis-
tresses 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 appre-
hension of losing her reputation through her means ; for this aban-
doned and bold Leonela, as soon as she perceived that her mistress's
demeanor was not what it was wont to be, had the audacity to inti'o-
duce her lover into the house, confident that even if her mistress saw
him she would not dare to expose him; for tlie 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 de-
pravities; 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 onl}- did not dare to chide her, but afforded
her opportunities for concealing him and removed all difficulties, lest
he should be seen hy her husband. She w^as unable, however, to
prevent him fi-om 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 cau-
tiously, he rejected this foolish idea, and adopteil another, which
Avould 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 per-
son as Leonela ; all he thought was that as Camilla had Ijcen 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 honor is dis-
trusted even b}^ 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 escai)ed his memoiy ; for with-
out once reflecting rationally, and without more ado, in his impatience
and in the blindness of the iealous rao^e that s^nawed his heart, and
dying to revenge himself ujion 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 my-
self, 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 ti\y me and ascertain if the
love 1 began to make to her with thy permission was made with a

CHAPTER XXXIV. 293

serious intention. I thought, too, that she, if she were what she
ought to he, and what we botli believed her, woukl 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 j)rec'ipitately
to take vengeance, for the sin is as yet only committed in intention,
and Camilla's may change perhaps between this and tlie appointed
time, and repentance spring \\\) in its place. As hitherto thou hast
always followed my advice whollj- 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 afl'ord great
facilities for thy concealment, and then tliou wilt see with tliine own
eyes and I with mine what Camilla's purpose may ))e. And if it be
a guilty one, which may be feared rather than expected, with silence,
l)rudence, and discretion thou canst thyself become the insti-ument 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 C'amilla as having triumphed
over the pretended attacks of Lothario, and was beginning to cnj(jy
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 thou 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 deciiled upon
revealing all to Camilla, and, as there was no want of opp(n-tvmity
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
miTst tell thee I have a scutow 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 siich 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
any one to question it who may see him quitting my hovise at such
unseasonable hours; but what distresses me is that I can not 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 catas-
trophe will come of it."

As Camilla said this Lothario at first imagined it was some device

294 DON QUIXOTE.

to delude liim into the idea that the man he had seen going out was
Leonela's lover and not hers ; but when he saw liow she wept and
suffered, and begged him to help her, he became convinced of the
truth, and the conviction completed his contusion and remorse; how-
ever, he told Camilla not to distress herself, as he would lake meas-
ures 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 mucli anger, and ^reat
good sense, she reproved him '.md rebuked his Ijase design and the
foolish and mischievous resolution he had made; Init 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
ajjpearance irremedial)le, and told Lothario U) 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 enjoy-
ing themselves for the future without any appreliension ; 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
answei-ed 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 nectlful.

" Iteil 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 praetical)le plan.

Lothario tliem 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 Ca-
milla 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 im-
agined he would feel Avho expected to see the vitals of his honor laid
bare before his eyes, and found himself on the point of losing tlic
supi-eme 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 T should suffer the punishment of
another's fault. 1 will first knoV what it is tiiat the bold licentious
eyes of Lothario have seen in me that could have encouraged him to

CHAPTER XXXIV. 295

reveal to me a design so base as that vvliich he has disclosed regard-
less of his friend and of my honor. 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 honorable, shall be carried out
first."

"Ah, seiiora," said the crafty Leonela, who knew lier part, " what
is it you want to do with this dagger? Can it be tliat 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 wi'ong and not give tills wicked man the chance of
entering the house now and tinding us alone ; consider, senora, we
are weak women and he is a man, and determineil, and as he ccnnes
with such a base j^urpose, blind and ui'ged by pas.sion, perhaps be-
fore you can put 3'ours into execution he may do wliat 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 sup-
posing 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 An-
selmo to bury him; for in reason it will be to him a light labor to
hide his OAvn infamy under ground. Summon hira, make haste, for
all the time T delay in taking vengeance for my wrong seems to me
an ottence 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 vvas
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 resti'ained himself, inteniiing
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 ci'own of true wives, the pattern of chastity!" with
more to the same eftect, so that any one who heard her would have
taken her for the most tender-hearted and faithful handmaid in the
world, and her mistress for another persecuted l^enelope.

Camilla was not long in I'ecovering 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, sjiced ! lest the fire of my
wrath burn itself out with delay, and the righteous vengeance that
I hope for melt awa}' 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 honor,
T 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 ou whom the guilt of her misfortune lay. I shall

296 DON QUIXOTE.

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 recjuired 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 un-
chaste 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 honor of my husband vindicated, should he tind 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,
let the world know (if haply it shall ever come to know) that Ca-
milla not only preserved lier allegiance to her husband, but avenged
him of the man who dared to wrong him. Still, I think it miirht be
better to disclose this to Ansel rao. But then I have called his atten-
tion to it in the letter 1 wrote to him in the country, and, if he did
nothing to prevent the mischief I there pointed out to him, I sup-
pose it was that from pure goodness of heart and trustfulness he
would not and could not believe that any thought against his honor
could harbor 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
)n-esents, lavish promises, and ceaseless tears. But why do I argue
thus? Does a bold determination stand in need of arguments ? Surely
not. Then fears avaunt ! Vengeance to my aid ! Let the false one
come, approach, advance, die, yield up his life, and then befall what
may. Pure 1 came to him whom Heaven bestowed upon me, ])ure
1 shall leave him ; and at the worst bathed in my own chaste blood
and in the foul blood of the falsest filentl that friendship ever saw ; "
and as she uttered these woi'ds she paced the room holding the im-
sheathed 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, concealed behind some tapesti'ies where he had hidden
himself, beheld and was amazed at all, and already felt that what
he had seen and heard was a sufficient answer to even greater sus-
picions ; 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 dao^ofer,
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 Avord I desire thee to listen to a few fi-om me, and

CHAPTER XXXI V. 297

afterwards thou shalt reply as may i)lease thee. First, I desire thee
to tell me, Lothario, if thou knowest my husband Anselmo, and in
what lijjht thou regardest him ; and secondly I desire to know if thou
knowes't me too. Answer me this, without embarrassment or reflect-
ing deeply what thou wilt answer, for they are no riddles I put to
thee."

Lothario w^as not so dull but that from the first moment when
Camilla directed him to make Anselmo hide himself lie understood
what she intended to do, and therefore lie 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 (juestioiis so
remote from the object with which I come ; but if it is to defer the
promised reward thou art doing so, thou mightest 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.
I'hee 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 tho\i dost confess that," returned Camilla, " mortal enemy of
all that rightly deserves to be loved, ^vith what face dost thou dare
to come before one whom thou knowest to be the miri-or wherein
he is reflected on whom thou shouldst look to see how unworthy
thou wrongest him? But, woe is me, 1 now comprehend what has
made thee give so little heed to what thou owest to thyself; it must
have been some freedom of mine, I'or 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, wlien 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 re-
jected 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 loveunsustained
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 in-
flict 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 honor of my honored Inisband,
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

298 DON QUIXOTE.

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 slie uttered these words, with incredible enei'gy and swiftness
slie flew upon Lothario witl) 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 re-
course 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 color 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 satisfy-
ing 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 catas-
trophe, and seeing Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed in
her blood they were uncertain as to the true nature of the act.
Lothario, terrifled and breathless, ran in haste to pluck out the
dae:s:er ; but when he saw how slio:ht the wound was he was relieved
of his fears and once more admired the subtlety, coolness, and ready
wit ol' the fair Camilla ; and the better to suppox't the part he had to
play he l)egan 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
l)osition : 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 sa}'^ to
Anselmo about his lady's wound if he should chance to retui-n 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 a]>pearance 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 unceas-
ingly, lost in wonder at the adroitness of Camilla and the consistent

CHAPTER XXXIV. 299

acting of Leonela. He reHected how convinced Anselmo would be
tliat 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 possibly 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
(he time she was tending her in a strain that, even if nothing else had
be(!n said before, would have been enough to assure Anselmo lliat he
had in Camilla a model of purity. To Leonela's words Camilla added
her own, calling hei'self 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 uijon him the obligation of taking vengeance on Lothario,
which he could not do but at great risk to himself ; and it was the
dutv of a true wife not to give her husband provocation to quarrel,
hni, on the contrai-y, 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 caii I know, my dear? " said Camilla, " for 1 should
not dare to forge or keep up a falsehood if my life depended on it.
If we can think of no escaj^e 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 honorable. Com-
pose yourself, seiiora, and endeavor to calm your excitement lest my
lord find you agitated ; and leave the rest to my cai'e and God's, who
always suppoi'ts good intentions."

Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played
out the tragedy of the death of his honor, which the performers acted
with such wonderfully eftective truth that it seemed as if they had
Ijecome 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
jiearl 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 de-
scribe how he embi-aced him when he found him, am! the things he
said to liim 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,

300 DON QUIXOTE.

and how dishonovably he had wronged hinj ; and tliough Anselmo
could see that Lothario was not glad, still he imagined it was only
because he had left CaniiUa wounded and had been iiimself 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 eviilently trifling ; and that being so, he had no cause
tor 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 venti;red 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 conduct-
ing the instrument of his glory, led home by the hand him who had
been the utter destruction of his good name ; whom Camilla received
with averted countenance, though with smiles in her heart. The de-
ception was cai'ried on for some time, until at the end of a few
months Fortune turned her wheel and the guilt which iiad 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 Prin-
cess Micomicona, snch 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 yon in yoiir 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

DON QUIXOTE ATTACKING THE WINE SKINS. Vol. I. Page 301

CHAPTER XXXV. 301

have got thee and thy cimeter shall not avail thee ! " And
then it seemed as thongh he were slashing vigorously at the
wall.

" Don't stop to listen," sa*d 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
J)on Quixote iii 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 actiially 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 al-
ready reached the kingdom of Micomicon, and was engaged in,
combat with his enemy ; and believing he was laying on to
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
clinched fist began to punuuel him in such a way, that if Car-
denio 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

302 DON QUIXOTE.

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 Avhere I am noV, I got ever so many thumps
and thwacks without knowing who gave them to me, or being
able to see anybody ; and now this head is not to be seen any-
where about, though I saw it cut off with my own eyes and the
blood running from the body as if from a fountain."

" ^Vhat 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
roona ? — 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 coun-
try will melt away like salt in water;" — for Sancho awake was
far worse than his master asleep, so much had his master's
l)romises 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 gootl 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 pres-
ence of the Princess ]\Iicomicona, 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 favor 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 was n't drunk ; there you see my master has already
salted the giant ; there 's no doubt about the bulls : -^ my coun-
try is all right ! "

Who could have helped laiighing at the absurdities of the
pair, master and man ? And laugh they did, all except the land-

' Prov. 228 — expressive probably of popular aiixii'tv on the eve of a

bull-tight.

CHAPTER XXXV. 803

lord, who cursed himself ; liiit 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 cry-
ing, " At an evil moment and in an unlucky hour he came into
ray house, this knight-errant — would that I had never set
eyes on him, for dear he has cost rae ; 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 ad-
ventures 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 quartillos ^ 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
wiiie ! I wish I saw his own blood spilt ! But let him not de-
ceive himself, for, by the bones of my father and the shade of
my mother, they shall pay me down every quarto; 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

1 Quartillo — tlie fourth of a real.

304 DON QUIXOTE.

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 get on with the novel, as
he saw there was but little more left to read. Dorothea and
the others begged him to fuiish 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 the virtue
of Camilla, he lived happy and free from anxiety, and Camilla pur-
posely looked coldly on J^othario, that Anselmo might suppose her
feelings towards him to be the opjjosite of what they were ; and the
better to support the positio-n, 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 Avould on no account allow such a thing, and so in a thousand
ways he ijecame the author of his own dishonor, while he believed
he was insui"ing his happiness. Meanwhile the satisfaction with
which Leonela saw herself empowered to carry on her amour reachetl
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 eff"ect either
purpose, for Leouela flung her arms around 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, l)idding her tell the trnth 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 forme now," said Leonela, "I am so
agitated : leave me till to-morrow, and then you shall hear from me
what will fill j^ou with astonishment ; but rest assured that he who
leajied through the window is a young man of this city, who has
given me his promise to become my husbaud."

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.

CHAPTER XXXV. 305

He went at once to see Camilla, and tell her, as he did, all that had
passed between him and her handmaid, and the ijromise she had
given him to inform him of matters of serious importance.

There is no need of saying whetlier Camilla was agitated or not,
for so great was her fear and dismay, that, mailing sure, as she had
good reason to do, that Leonela would tell Anselmo ail she knew of
her faithlessness, she had not the courage to wait and see if her
suspicions were contirmed ; 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 any-
body 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 Avas 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 tlien himself (juitted the city without letting any one know of
his dejiarture.

As soon as daylight came Anselmo, without missing Camilla from
his side, rose eager to learn what Leonela had to tell him, and hast-
ened to the room where he had locked lier 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 tliat 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 him-
self 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 liim and the servants reported that he had been al:)sent 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, i-emaining 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 honor, for in
Camilla's disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long reflection
he resolved at last to go to his friend's country house where he had
been staying when he afforded opportunities for tlie 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 ;
Vol. I. — 20

306 DON QUIXOTE.

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 whicli
he threw himself, giving vent to piteous heart-rending sighs ; and
there he remained till nearly nightfall, when he observed a man ap-
proaching 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 himself by a sheet from the windows of
Anselmo's house. I know not indeed, precisely, how the afl:air came
to pass ; all I know is that the whole city is wondering at the occur-
rence, 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
veiy 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 mis-
fortune, but seeing him come pale, Avorn, 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 strangle end. He begfan 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-ad-
vised curiosity had entailed upon him. The master of the house ob-
serving that it was now late and that Anselmo did not call, determined
to go in and ascertain if his indisjiosition was increasing, and found
him lying on his face, his body i)artly in the bed, partly on the
writing-table, on which he lay with the written jjaper open and the
l^en still in his hand. Having first called to him without receiving
any answer, his host aj^proached him, and taking him by the hand,
found that it was cold, and saw that he was dead. Greatly sui-prised
and distressed he summoned the household to witness the sad fate
which had befallen Anselmo ; and then he read the paper, the hand-
writing of which he recognized as his, and which contained these
words :

" A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of life. If the

CHAPTER XXXVI. 307

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 dislionor, there is no reason why " —

So far Anselmo had written, and thus it was plain that at this
point, before he could finish what lie 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 tlie tidings of
his death, but because of those she received of her lover's departure.
Although siie saw herself a widow, it is said she refused either to
quit the convent or take the veil, until, not long afterwards, intelli-
gence reached her that Lothario had been killed in a battle in which
M. de Lautrec had been recently engaged with tlie 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 can not 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 ; Init 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 TKEATS OF MORB^ CUKIOUS INCIDEJSTTS 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 gaiideavvus.'^

" What are they ? " said Cardenio.

^' Four men," said the landlord, " riding a lajmetu,'-^ with

' Lautrec and the Great Captain were not engaged in tlie same cam-
paigns. The former commanded in Italy in the time of Francis I. and
Charles V., several years after the death of the Great Captain.

^ i.e. on high saddles with short stirrups.

308 DON QUIXOTE.

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 re-
treated 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 high-
bred 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 Avhere 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 can not 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 can not 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
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 mar-
vellous 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 ;

CHAPTER XXXVI. 309

and perhaps it is because taking tlie 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 for my part
offer you my services with all my heart."

To this the unhappy lady made no reply ; and though ])oro-
thea 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 otters 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 lier
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, utter-
ing a loud exclamation he cried, " Good God ! what is this I
hear ? What voice is this that has reached my ears ? " kStar-
tled at the voice the lady turned her head ; and not seeing the
speaker she stood up and attempted to enter the room ; observ-
ing 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, l)ut
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 ex-
cited the pity of Dorothea and all who beheld her, though
they knew not what caused it. The gentleman grasped her
firmly by the shoiilders, 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 Doro-
thea, who was holding the lady in her arms, raising her eyes

310 DON QUIXOTE.

saw that he who likewise held her was her husband, Don
Fernando. The instant she recognized 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, recognized 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 recog-
nized Cardenio by his voice, as he had recognized her. Car-
denio 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 Car-
denio at once ; and all three, Luscinda, ( -ardenio, and Doro-
thea,-' stood in silent amazement scarcely knowing what had
happened to them.

They gazed at one another without s})eaking, Dorothea at
Don Fernando, Don Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Lu-
scinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. The first to break silenc.e
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 yoiir prom-
ises, 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 ni}^ 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."

MeanAvhile Dorothea had come to herself, and had heard
Luscinda's words, by means of which she divined who she was ;

' Only a few lines back we are told Dorothea had fainted, and a little
farther on how she came to herself.

aUAPTEli XXX Vt. Bll

but seeint? that Don Fernando did not yet release her or reply
to her, suuunoning np her resolution as well as she could she
rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of bright and touch-
ing tears addressed him thus :

" If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou boldest
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 Avilt have it so, the unha,p])y and
unfortunate Dorothea. 1 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 importu-
nity, 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
1 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 sim-
plicity, thou didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert not igno-
rant of my station, well dost thou know how I yielded wholly
to thy will ; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead de-
ception, 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 oft'
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 ser-
vices they as faithful vassals have ever rendered thine are not
deserving of such a return ; and if thou tliinkest it will debase

312 DON QUIXOTE.

thy blood to mingle it Avith 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 tho\i
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
gayety, 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 intelli-
gence 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 tixed 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

' The first edition has firma que hiciste ; but Don Fernando did not sign
any paper, but gave Dorothea a ring,

CHAPTER XXXVL 313

now receive thee, and received thee before when fortune per-
mitted me to call thee mine."

At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first
beginning to recognize 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 Avith surprise at an incident so luilooked
for. Dorothea fancied that Don Fernando changed color 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 l)e right for thee, whether it Avill be pos-
sible 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 while Dorothea was speaking Cardenio, though he
held Luscinda in his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fer-
nando, 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

314 DON QUIXOTE.

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 recognize
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, Avithout 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 argu-
ments that Don Fernando's manly heart, being after all
nourished by noble blood, w^as touched, and yielded to the
truth which, even had he Avished 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 i-ight 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

THE RECONCILIATION. Vol. I. Page 314.

CHAPTER XXXVI. 815

look at the eyes of the now happy Liiseiiula, and you Avill see
in them an excuse for all my errors : and as she has found and
gained the object of her desires, and 1 have found in you
what satisfies all my wishes, i^iay she live in peace and con-
tentment as many hax)py 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 miich 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 hap})iness, 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 favors. 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 favor 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 Car-
denio, 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 Lusciuda'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
liave 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 shoidd
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 ascer-
tained 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 Car-
denio ; and as soon as he had learned this, taking these three

316 DON QUIXOTE.

gentlemen as his companions, lie 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 carry-
ing 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 foimd 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 CONTINUEU THE STOKY OK THE FAMOUS PRIN-
CESS MICOMICOlSrA, WITH OTHEK DKOLL 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 imconscious 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
favor shown to him and for having been rescued from the intri-
cate 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 humor was the

CHAPTER XXX VII . 817

landlady, because of the promise Cardenio and the curate had
given her to pay for all the losses and damage she had sus-
tained 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 mas-
ter, who had just awoke, and said to him, " Sir Rueful Counte-
nance, 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 gaint
that I ever remember having had all the days of my life ; and
Avitli 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 Avater."

" 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 Avorship get up," said Sancho, " and you Avill see
the nice business you have made of it, and Avhat Ave liaA-e to
pay ; and you will see the queen turned into a private lady
called Dorothea, and other things that Avill 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 Ave
were here I told thee that everything that happened here Avas
a matter of enchantment, and it Avould be no Avonder if it
were the same noAv."

"I could believe all that," replied Sancho, "if my blanket-
ing Avas the same sort of thing also ; only it Avas n't, but real
and genuine ; for I saAV the landlord, Avho is here to-day, hold-
ing one end of the blanket and jerking me up to the skies A'^ery
neatly and smartly, and Avith as much laughter as strength ;
and Avhen it comes to be a case of knowing people, I hold for
my part, simple and sinner as I am, that there is no enchant-
ment about it at all, but a great deal of bruising and plenty of
bad luck."

818 iJON QUIXOTE.

" Well, well, God will give a remedy," said Don Qui-
xote ; " 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 withdraAv him from that Pefia 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 pro-
ceeding 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 l)e 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 armor 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

CHAPTER XXX VI I. 310

know half the Mass,^ and was little versed in the annals of
chivalry; for, if he had read and gone through them as atten-
tively and deliberately as I have, he would have found at
every turn that knights of less renown than mine, have accom-
plished things more difficult : it is no great matter to kill a
whelj) 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, Avill 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 cont-hision, high and disinherited
lad}^, 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, be-
fore 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 Kueful Counte-
nance, 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
nie more than I coidd have hoped for, have made some altera-
tion 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 invincil)le
arm. And so, seflor, let your goodness reinstate the father that
begot me in your good opinion, and l)e 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 ;

' No saber de la misa la media^ a familiar mode of describing ignorance.

320 DON QUIXOTE.

and for the rest of the happy result I am looking forward to,
I trust to (jod and the valor of your heart."

80 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 vil-
lain in Spain. Say, thief and vagabond, liast 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 be-
ing red wine, I make no mistake, as sure as there is a God ;
because the wounded skins are there at the head of your wor-
ship's bed, and the red 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 here 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 any one."

" 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 unijaralleled achievements he is about to perform
in the course of this mighty enterprise which he has mider-
taken."

" It is I who shall wait upon and accompany you," said Don
Quixote ; " and I am much gratified by the favor that is be-
stowed 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."

' Prov. 120. The time at Avhich the truth of any statement will be
seen.

CHAPTER XXXVII. 321

Many were the compliments and expressions of politeness
that passed between Dun C^nixote and Don Fernando ; bnt they
were brought to an end by a traveller who at this moment en-
tered the inn, and who seemed from his attire to be a Christian
lately come froni the country of the Moors, for he was dressed
in a short-skirted coat of blue cloth with half -Sleeves and with-
out a collar ; his breeches were also of blue cloth, and his cap
of the same color, and he wore yellow buskins and had a Moor-
ish 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 rol)ust
and well-proportioned frame, in age a little over forty, rather
swarthy in comjdexion, with long mustaches and a full beai'd,
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 took
her down from the saddle in his arms.* Lusciuda, 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, courteoiis, 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 ns
(pointing to Lusciuda) perhaps you will have found worse ac-
commodations 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 ad-
dressed to her, he said, " Ladies, this damsel hardly under-
stands my language and can speak none but that of her own

' Cervantes forgets that he has not as yet said anything about his captivity.
Vol. I. — 21

322 DON QUIXOTE.

country, for which reasou she does not and can not answer
what has been asked of her."

"Nothmg 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 favor
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, seilor," 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 baptized ? " returned Luscinda.

" There has been no opportunity^ for that," replied the cap-
tive, "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 baptize
her before she has been instructed in all the ceremonies our
holy mother Church ordains ; but, please God, ere long she
shall be baptized with the solemnity befitting her quality,
which is higher than her dress or mine indicates."

By these words he excited a desire in all who heard them
to know who the Moorish lady and the captive were, but no
one liked to ask jiist then, seeing that it was a fitter moment
for helping them to rest themselves than for questioning them
about their lives. Dorothea took the IMoorish lady by the hand
and leading her to a seat beside herself, requested her to re-
move 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 Doro-
thea she seemed more beautiful than Luscinda, and to Luscinda
more beautiful than Dorothea, and all the by-standers 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

CHAPTER XXXVII. 323

the preferei^ce. And as it is the privilege and charm of beauty
to win the lieart 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 earnest-
ness with which she uttered them, drew more than one tear from
some of the listeners, particularly the women, who are by nat-
ure 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 honor 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 ob-
served 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, began to address them :

" Verily, gentlemen, if we reflect upon it, great and marvel-
lous are the things they see, Avho make profession of the order
of knight-errantry. Nay, 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

'Properly ma-kan-shy — the common emphatic negative in popular
Arabic, at least in the Barbary States.

324 DON QUIXOTE.

this art and calling surpasses all those that mankind has in-
vented, and is the more deserving of being held in honor in
proportion as it is the more exposed to peril. Away with
those who assert that letters have the pre-eminence 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 labors 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 vigor 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 in-
finite 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 imdoubtedly 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 Avas that
which the angels annoimced on the night that was oiu* 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,

' " Man of letters " — letrado^ as will be seen, means here specially one
devoted to jurisprudence.

CHAPTER XXXVII. 325

' Peace be on this house ; ' and many other times he said to
tlieni, ' 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 labors 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
})leasure as he continued : " Here, then, I say is what the
stiulent has to undergo ; first of all poverty ; not that all are
l)oor, 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 al)out 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 neighbor'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 fail again, they reach
the rank they desire, and that once attained, we have seen
many who have passed these Syrtes and Scyllas and Charyb-
dises, as if borne flying on the wings of favoring fortune ; we

' Andar a la sopa — to attend at the convents where soup is given out
to the poor. The convent soup, as Quevedo says in the Gran Tacano^
was also a great resource of the picaro class.

326 DON QUIXOTE.

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 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, Avliich,
unless by some fault of his, never sins by being over narrow,
for he can easily measure out on the ground as many feet 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 ar-
rived, 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 en-
gagements and more battles, and come victorious out of all

CHAPTER XXXV II I. 327

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 can not
be nimibered, while the living who have Ijeen rewarded may be
summed up witli 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 men of letters than thirty thousand soldiers, for the
former nuiy be remunerated by giving them jilaces, which must
perforce be conferred upon men of their calling, while the lat-
ter can only be recompensed out of the ver}^ pro[jerty 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 l^esides
those I have mentioned, letters say that without them arms
can not 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 ansAver that without
them laws can not be maintained, for by arms states are de-
fended, 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 in-
comparably higher degree, for at every step he runs the risk

M.e. fall short of 1,000.

* Clemencin explains this as "in one way or another." Another ex-
planation is that by skirts (faldas) regular salary is meant, and by sleeves
(jnangas) douceurs, perquisites, and the like.

328 DON QUIXOTE.

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 beleagnered in some stronghold
monnting gnard in some ravelin or cavalier, knows that the
enemy is pushing a mine towards . the post where he is sta-
tioned, and can not 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 Avings 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 Avith the first heedless step he
will go down to visit the profundities of Neptune's bosom, still
Avith dauntless heart, urged on by honor 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 Avaits for
him like an enemy, another and another will succeed him Avith-
out a jnoment's pause betAveen their deaths : courage and
daring the greatest that all the chances of Avar can show.^
ifa})py the blest ages that knew not the dread fury of those
devilish engines of artillery, Avhose inventor I am persuaded is
in hell receiving the reward of his diabolical iuA^ention, by
Avhich he made it easy for a base and coAvardly arm to take the
life of a gallant gentleman ; and that, A\dien he knoAVS not hoAV
or Avhence, in the height of the ardor and enthusiasm that
fire and animate braA'^e hearts, there should come some random
bullet, discharged perhaps by one Av^ho fled in terror at the
flash Avhen he fired off his accursed machine, w^hich in an
instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life of one
Avho deserves to Wyq for ages to come. And thus when I

' Wi' have here, no (h)uht, a personal reminiscence of Lepanto. It was in
ail affair sonu'what of this sort that Cervantes himself received bis woiinds.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 329

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 honored, 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 appar-
ently sound sense, and with rational views on every subject he
discussed, so hopelessly Avanting in all, when his wretched un-
lucky chivalry was in question. The curate told him he was
quite right in all he had said in favor 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 Maritonies were getting Don
Qiiixote 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 to ask,
where a command had such weight, and added, '•' If your wor-
ships will give me your attention you will hear a true story
which, perhaps, fictitious ones constructed with ingenious and
studied art can not come up to. " ' These words made them set-
tle 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.

330 DON QUIXOTE.

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 liber-
ality and bordered on prodigality, a disposition b}^ no means advan-
tageous to a married man who has children to succeed to his name
and i^osition. 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 instru-
ment 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 eifect :

" My sons, to assui'e 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 3'our patiimony is concerned ;
therefore, that you may for the future feel sure that I love j'ou like a
father, and liave uo 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 honor and profit when you are older ; and what I have i-esolved
to do is to divide my property into four parts ; thi'ee I will give to
you, to each his portion without making any difterence,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 1 wish each of you
on taking possession of the share that falls to him to follow one of
the paths 1 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
plaifter language, whoever wants to flourish and become rich, let

' " Montanas de Burgos " and " Montanas de Leon " were the names
given to the southern slopes of the western continuation of the Pyrenees,
the cradle of most of the old Gothic families of Spain, that of Cervantes
himself among the number.

2Prov. 121.

CHAPTER XXXIX. 331

him follow the church, or go to sea, adopting commerce as his call-
ing, or go into the king's service in his household, for they say,
' Better a king's crumb than a lord's favor.' ' 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 liis 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 ui'ginghim
not to strip himself of his property but to spend it all as he pleased,
for we were young men able to g;un 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 In-other hav-
ing 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
emln-aced us all, and in the short time he mentioned cari-ied 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 jireferred 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 prospei'ous voyage, and proceeded thence to
Milan, whei-e I provided myself with arms and a few soldier's
accoutrements ; then it was my intention to go and take service in
Piedmont, but as I was already on the road to Alessandria della

' Trov. 202.

332 DON QUIXOTE.

Paglia, I learned that the great Duke of Alva was on his way to
Flanders.' 1 changed my plans, joined him, served under him in
the campaigns he madi^ 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 C'y|jrus, 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 rumors were abroad of the vast warlike prepai'a-
tions which were being made, all which stirred my heart and tilleil
me with a longing to take part in the camjiaign which was expected ;
and though I had reason to believe, and most certain promises, that
on the first opportunity that presented itself I should be promoted
to be captain, 1 preferred to leave all and betake myself, as I did,
to Italy ; and it w^as 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 honorable chai'ge my good luck rather than my
merits raised me; and that day — so fortunate for Christendom, be-
cause 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 liappened in this way : El Uchali,^ the King of Algiers, a daring
and successful corsair, having attacked and taken the leading Mal-
tese galley (only three knights being left alive in it, and they badly
wounded), the chief galley of ffohn Andrea," on board of which I
and my company were placed, came to its relief, and doing as I was
bound to do in such a case, I leaped on board the enemy's galley,
which, sheering off fi-om that which had attacked it. prevented my
men from following me, and so I found myself alone in the midst of
my enemies, wiio 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 pris-

' Alva went to Fhmders in 1567, so that the present scene would be
laid in 1589 ; but Cervantes paid no attention to chronology.

- This was the captain of the company in Diego de Moncada's regiment
ill which Cervantes lirst served.

^ Properly — Alu(;h Ali.

* John Andrea Duria, nephew of the great Andrea Doria.

CHAPTER XXXIX. 333

oner in his power, the only sad being among so many filled with joy,
and the only captive among so many free ; for there were lifteen
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 bat-
tle and carri(!d otf 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 gaHey with the
three lanterns.' There I saw and observed how the opportunity of
capturing the whole Turkish fleet in harbor was lost; for all the
marines and janizzaries that belonged to it made sure that they were
about to be attacked inside the very harbor, 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 gen-
eral 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
his forces fortified the mouth of the harbor and waited quietl}' until
Don John retired. On this expedition was taken the galleycalled
the Prize, whose captain was a son of the famous corsair Barbarossa.
It was taken by the chief Neapolitan galley called the She- wolf, com-
manded by that thunderbolt of war, that father of his men, that suc-
cessful and unconquered captain Don Alvaro de Bazan, Marquis of
Santa Cruz ; and I cannot help telling you what look 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, Avas 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 be(!arae known that Don John had seized Tunis and taken
the kingdom from the Turks, and placed Muley Ilamet in possession,
jjutting an end to the hopes which INIuley Hamida, the crudest 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 ,fohn
had left half built near Tunis. While all these events were occur-

' The distinguishing mark of the admiral's galley.

^ The fort commanding the entrance, the " gullet," to the lagoon of
Tunis.

334 DON QUIXOTE.

ring, I was laboring at the oar without any hope of freedom ; at least
1 had no hope of obtaining it by ransom, for I was firmly resolved
not to write to ray 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 hand they might liave covered
the Goletta and the fort with handfuls of earth. The first to fall was
the Goletta, until then reckoned imi^regnable, 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 intrenchments could
be made in the desert sand there ; for water used to be found at two
jjalms depth, wliile the Turks found none at two yards ; and so by
means of a quantity of sandbags they raised theii* 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 tlie
defence.

It was a common opinion that our men should not have shut them-
selves 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 strong-
hold 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 a special favor and mercy which Heaven
showed to Spain in pei-mitting the destruction of that source and
hiding-place of mischief, that devourer, sponge, and moth of count-
less money, fruitlessly wasted there to no other purpose save pre-
serving 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 genei'al
assaults exceeded twenty-five thousand. Of three hundred that re-
mained 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 soldicn-, ca-
pitulated 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 foi't, Gabrio Cer-
bellon ' by name, a Milanese gentleman, a great engineer and a very
brave soldier. Tn these two fortresses perished many persons of

' Or Serbelloni.

CHAPTER XXXIX. 335

note, amonoj whom was Pagano Doria, knight of the Order of St.
John, a man of generous disposition, as was shown by liis 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 tiie tort was now lost, he intrusted himself, and
who otfered to e(mduet him in the tlisguise of a ^loor to 'J'abarca, a
small fort or station on the coast hekl by the Genoese emph:)yed in
the coral tishery. These Arabs cut off his head and carried it to the
commander of the Turkisli fleet, who proved on them the truth of
our Castilian proverb, tliat " though the treason may jjlease, tiie
traitor is hated ; " ' for they say he ordered tliose who brought him
the present to be hanged for not having brought him alive.

Among the Ciiristians who were taken in the fort was one named
Don Pedro de Aguilar, a native of some place, T know not what, in
Andalusia, who had been ensign in the fort, a soldier of great repute
and rare intelligence, who had in pai'ticular a special gift for what
they call poetry. I say so because his fate bi'ouglit 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 epitajDhs, one on the (Joletta 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 captain mentioned the name of Don Pedro
de Aguilar, Don Fernando looked at his companion,s 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 Constanti-
nople, though I was unable to ask him what the result of the
jou.rney 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."

' Prov. 230.

^ The memories of this Don Pedro de Aguihir were printed in 1755 by
the Sociedad de Bibliofilos Espaiioles.

33(5 DON QUIXOTE.

"And what is more," said the gentleman, "I know the
sonnets my brotlier 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 ardor 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.

' Clemencin says the merits of this sonnet are slender, and that the
next is no better. He particuhirly objects to the idea of sovls dyeing the
sea with their blood. But Clemencin had no bowels of compassion for
the straits of a sonneteer.

CHAPTER XL. 337

The onslaught of the foeman to repel
By might of arm all vainly did they try,
And when at length 't was 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 jjlaces ; 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 tlie fleet returned victorious and triumph-
ant 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 Tiu'ks
to name people from some defect or virtue they may possess ; the
reason being that there are among them only four surnames belong-
ing 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" I'owed at
the oar as a slave of the Grand Signer'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 valor
that, without owing his advancement to the base ways and means
b}^ which most favorites 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 favored youths.

' Fratin, " the little friar," the name by which Jacome Palearo went.
Vol. I. — 22

338 DON QUIXOTE.

He came to be the most cruel renegade I ever saw : his name Avas
Hassan Aga/ and he grew very rich and became Iving of Algiers.
With him i went theie Irom Constantinople, rather glad to be so near
Spain, not that I intended to write to any one about my unhappy lot,
but to try if fortune would be kinder to me in Algiers than in Con-
stantinople, where 1 had attempted in a thousand ways to escape
without ever finding a favorable time or chance ; but in Algiers I
resolved to seek for other means of eftecting tlie 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 tlie king's as tliose belonging to private individu-
als, 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 libertj' with great difficulty, for, as they are public
property and have no particular master, there is no one with whom
to treat for tlieir ransom, even though they may have the means.
To these baiios, 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 theniAvrite
for it more pressingly, they compel them to work and go for wood,
which is no light labor.

I, however, was one of those on ransom, for when it was dis-
covered that 1 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 1 passed my life in that baiio with several other gentlemen and
persons of quality marked out as held to ransom ; but tliough at
times, or rather almost always, we sufi"ered from hunger and scanty
clothing, nothing distressed us so much as hearing and seeing at

' This should be Hassan Pacha : Hassan Aga died in 1543.

* The story of the captive, it is needless to say, is not tlie story of Cer-
vantes himself ; but it is colored throughout by bis own experiences, and
he himself speaks in the person of the captive. In the above passage, for
exauiple, we have an expression of the indomitable spirit that supported
him, not only in captivity, but in the struggles of his later life.

^ The barrack or building in which slaves were kept. Littre explains
it hj saying that a " bath " — • hagne^ hano — was on one occasion used as
a place of confinement for Christian slaves at Constantinople. Conde, on
the other hand, says the word has notlung to do with bano — batli, but is
pure Arabic, and means a building coated with plaster or stucco.

CHAPTER XL. 339

every turn the unexampled and unheard-of cruelties my master in-
flicted upon the Christians. Every day ho hanged a man, impaled
one, cut oft' the ears of another; and all with so little provocation,
or so entirely without any, that the Turks acknowledged he did it
merely for tlie 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 thhigs 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 narra-
tion of my own tale.

To go on with my story ; the courtyard of our prison was over-
looked by the windows of the house belonging to a wealth}' 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 blinds. It so happened, then, that as I was one day on the
terrace of our prison with three otlier comrades, trying, to pass
&wa.y the time, how far we could leaj) with our chains, we beino-
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 wav-
ing to and fro, and moving as if making signs to us to come and
take it. We watched it, and one of those wdio were with me went
and stood under the reed to see whether they would let it dro]), 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, makino-
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 results 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 1 rejoiced over this godsend, and my joj^ was
not less than my wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fort-

' This "tal de Saavedra" was of course Cervantes himself. The story
of his captivity and adventures had been already written by Ilaedo, but
did not appear in print till 1012. Rodrigo Mendez Silva was so much
struck by it that he mentions Cervantes as the most remarkable of the
descendants of Nuiio Alfonso; but, strange to say, though he wrote in
1648, he does not seem to be aware that he is speaking of the author of
Don Quixote. Perhaps the good Dryasdust had never heard of such a
book.

340 DON QUIXOTE.

line could have come to us, but to me specially ; for the evident un-
willingness to drop the reed for any but me showed that it was for
me the favor 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 iuuuediately withdrawn. This sign led us
to Ijelieve 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, thoug'h we thought it mio-ht 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 con-
jectures we AVfere wide of the truth ; so from that time forward our
sole occupation was watching and gazing at the window whei'e the
cross had appeared to us, as if it were our pole-star ; but at least
fifteen days passed without our seeing it or the hand, or any other
sign whatever ; and though meanwhile we endeavored with the ut-
most 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 IVIoor of
high position, Hadji ]\lorato by name, formerly alcaide of LaPata,'
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 at-
tached to it, and this at a time Avhen, as on the former occasion, the
bafio was deserted and unoccupied.

We made trial as before, each of the same three going forward be-
fore T dill ; but the reed was delivered to none but me, and on my ap-
proach it was let drop. I untied the knot and 1 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 JMurcia, who professed
a very great friendship for me, and had given pledges that bound him
to keep any secret I might intrust to him ; for it is the custom with
some renegades, when they intend to return to Christian territoiy,
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

' La Pata, a fort near Oran.

CHAPTER XL. 341

to escape on the first opportunity tli.-it may present itself. Some
obtain tliese testimonials with good intentions, others put them to a
cunning use; for wlien they go to pillage on Christian territory, if
they chance to be cast away, or taken prisoners, they produce their
certificates and say that fnjm these papers may ha seen tiie oljjecit
they came for, which was to remain on Ciiristian 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 maice tlieir
peace with the riuirch before it does them any harm, and tlien when
they have the chance they return to l>arbary to become wiiat 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 de-
scribed ; he had certificates from all our comrades, in which we tes-
tified in his favor as strongly as we could ; and if the Moors had
found the j)apers 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 sometime
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 niust
give him pen and ink that he might do it more satisfactorily. We
at once gave him what he required, and he set aljout translating it
bit by bit, and when he had done he said, "All that is here in
Spanish is what tiie JMoorish paper contains, and you must bear in
mind that when it says, ' Lela Marien ' it means Our Lady the
Virgin Mary.' " We read the ])aper and it ran thus :

" When I was a cliild ni}' father had a slave who taught me to
pray the Christian ])rayer 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 slie told me to go to the land of the Christians to see
i>ela 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 huslxind tliere, and if thou wilt
not it will not distress me, for Lela ISlarien 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. 1 ani
greatly troubled on this account, for 1 would not have thee confide
in any one, because if my father knew it he would at once fling me
down a well and cover me Avith stones. I will 2iut 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 un-
dei'stand 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

342 • DON QUIXOTE.

words of this paj^er ; and both one and the otlier were so gi-eat, that
the renegade perceived that the paper had not been found by chance,
but had Ijeen in reality addressed to some one of us, and he begged
us, if what lie svispected 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, Jiis 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 anj'thing 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 ad-
visable to answer the INloorish 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 imj^ortance that took
place in this aflair 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, Lad}', 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 sayost, 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 floors. Allah and j\Iarien his mother watch over
thee, my Lady."

The paper being written and folded I waited two days until the
baiio 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
T could not distinguish who i)ut it out, I showed the paper as a sign
to attach the thread, l)ut it was already tixed to the reed, and to it I
tied the i^aper ; and shortly afterwards our star once more made its
appearance with the white tlag of peace, the little bundle. It was
dropped, and I picked it up, and fouud in the cloth, in gold and-

CHAPTER XL. 348

silver coins of all sorts, more than fifty crowns, which fifty times
more doubled our joy and strengthened our hope of gaining our
liberty. That very night our renegade returned and said lie had
learned tliat the Moor we liad Ijeen toUl of lived in that house, that
liis name was Hailji Morato, tliat lie was enormously rich, that he
had one only daughter the heiress of all his wealth, and that it was
the general opinion throughout the cit}- that she was the most beau-
tiful woman in Barbary, and that several of the viceroys who came
there had sought her for a wife, but that she had been always un-
willing to marry ; and he had learned, moreover, that she had a
Christian slave who was now dead ; all which agreed with the con-
tents 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 jjresent we should wait for a second com-
munication from Zoi-aida (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 I'eed delayed its appeai*-
ance 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 he said was to this eflect :

" I can not think of a plan, sehor, 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,
whicli is at the Babazoun gate ' near the sea-shore, 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 husbantl, else I will pray
to Marien to punish thee. If thou canst not trust any one to go for
the vessel, ransom thyself and do thou go, for I know thou wilt re-
turn more surely than any other, as thou art a gentleman and a
Christian. Endeavor 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,
seiior."

These were the words and contents of the second i?aper, 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 i-enegade objected,
saying that he would not on any account consent to one being set

'Babazoun, "the gate of grief," the south gate of Algiers.

S44 DON QUIXOTE.

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 eft'ace 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 gentle-
man 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 b}' 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 trading to Tetuan and along the coast; and when master of
the vessel, it would be easy for him to hit on someway of getting us
all out of the baiio and putting us on board ; especially if the Moorish
lady gave, as she saitl, money enough to ransom all, because once
free it would he 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, vmless it be a large
vessel for going on roving expeditions, because they are afraid that
any one 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 i)urchase of the vessel and in the profit on the
cargo ; and under cover of this h(! 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 ^iven 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 recom-
mended, 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 bafio
chanced to be emjjty she at difierent times gave us by means of the
reed and cloth two thousand gold crowns and a paper in which she
said that the next Junia, that is to sa}' 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

CHAPTER XLL 345

to a Valenciaii merchant who hai:)pene<l 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 wonld pay my ransom ; for if he
had given the money at once it would have made the king suspect
tliat 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 1 dared not on any account
pay down the money at once. The Thui'sday before the Friday on
which the fair Zoraida was to go to the garden she gave ns a thou-
sand 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 rememl:)er to
commend us to Lela Marien with all tlie prayei'S 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, see-
ing me ransomed and themselves not, though the money was forth-
coming, 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 apj^re-
hension, nevertheless I was unwilling to run any risk in tiie 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 con-
fidence give security; witliout, however, confiding our arrangement
and secret to him, which might have been dangerous.

CHAPTFE XLL

IN "WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES.

Before fifteen days were over our renegade had already pur-
chased an excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons ;
and to make the transaction safe and lend a color 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 rigs. Two or three times he made this vo3'age in com-
pany with the Tagarin already mentioned. The Moors of Aragon
are called Tagarins in Barbary, and those of Granada IMudejares ; but
in the Kingdom of Fez thej call the Mudejares Elches, and the}^ are
the people the king chiefly employs in war. To proceed : every time
lie passed with his vessel he anchored in a cove that was not two
cross-bow shots from the garden where Zoraida was waiting ; and
there the renegade, together with the two JNIoorish lads that rowed,
used purposely to station himself, either going through his prayers,
or else practising as a pai't what he meant to perform in earnest.
And thus he would go to Zoi-aida's garden and ask for fruit, which
her father gave him, not knowing him ; but though, as he afterwards

B46 DON QUIXOTE.

told me, he sought to speak to Zoraida, and tell hei" 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 jNIoorish women do not allow themselves to be seen
by any Moor or Turk, unless their husband or fathers 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 s^joken 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 opportu-
nity for our renegade's well-meant jjurpose ; 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 de-
parture. 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 aud hang about Hadji Morato's garden, waiting for me there
until I came. These directions I gave each one separately, with or-
ders 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, anotiier 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 Avere 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 j^retence of
gathering herbs. The first person I met was her father, who ad-
dressed me in the language that all over Barbai'y and even in Con-
stantinople 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 gar-
den, and to whom I belonged. I replied that I was a slave of the Ar-
naut 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

' Tlie Arn.aiit Mami was the captor of the Sol galley on hoard of wliich
Cervantes and his brother Rodrigo were returning to Spain. He was
noted for his cruelty, and was said to have his house futl of noseless and
earless Christians.

CHAPTER XLL 347

me then whether Tvere on ransom or not, and what my master de-
manded for me. While these questions and answers were proceed-
ing, the fair Zoraida. who had already perceived me some time
before, came out of the liou.se in the j^-arden, and as Moorish women
are by no means particular about letting themselves be seen l)y Chris-
tians, or, as 1 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 ricli brilliant attire of my beloved Zora-
ida as she presented herself before my eyes. I will content
myself with saying that more ])earls 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 tokl me afterwards liei' 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 disjjlay 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 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. Whetlier 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 every orje knows, the beauty of some
women has its times audits 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 tlie
utmost splendor, and supremely beautiful ; at any rate, she seemed
to me the most beautiful object I had ever seen ; and when, besides,
1 thought of all I owed to her I felt as though I had l)efore me some
heavenly being come to eartli 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 \y\\j 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 they had given
one thousand five hundred zoltanis' for me; to which siie replied,
" Hadst thou been my father's, I can tell thee, I would not have let
him pai't with thee for twice as much, for you Christians always tell
lies about yourselves and make yourselves out poor to cheat the
Moors."

' An Algerine coin equal to about thirty-six reals.

B48 DON QUIXOTE.

" 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 1 shall go in her."

" Would it not be better," said Zoraida, " to wait for the arrival of
ships from S]min 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; how-
ever, it is more likely I shall depart to- morrow, for the longing I feel
to return to my country and to tliose 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," 1 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, shQ is very like thee."

At this her father laughed very heartily and said, " By Allah, Chris-
tian, 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 plirases, 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
<;oramonl}% 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. So her father said to Zoraida,
"Daughter, i-etire 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, wlio 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. Chris-
tian, art thou going ? "

I made answer, " Yes, lady, but not without thee, come what may:
be on the watch for me on the next Jum;'i, and be not alarmed when
thou seest us ; for most surely we shall go to the land of the Chris-
■ tiaus."

CHAPTER XLL 840

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 lui fortunate if Heaven had not other-
wise ordered it), just as we were moving on in the manner and posi-
tion I have described, with her arm round my neck, her father, as he
returned after having sent away the Turks, saw how we were walk-
ing and we perceived that he saw us ; but Zoraida, ready and quick-
witted, 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 faintiny,
while I at the same time maile it seem as though I were supporting
her against my will. Her father came running up to wliere we
were, and seeing his daughter in this state asked what was the mat-
ter 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 sa}', the Turks at my request have gone back the way
they came."

" It was they who ten-itied her, as thou hast said, senor," said 1 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 than here."

" Come back for any thou hast need of," replied Hadji Moi'ato ;
" for my daughter does not speak thus because she is displeased witli
thee or any Chi'istian : 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 ajDproaches and outlets, and the
fastenings of the house and everything that could be taken advan-
tage of to make our task easy. Having done so 1 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 apjwinted day we so longed for arrived; and, all
following out the arrangement and plan which, after careful con-
sideration and many a long discussion, we had decided upon, we
succeeded as fully as we could have wished ; for on the Friday fol-
lowing 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 ditferent places round about, all waiting for me, anxious

350 DON QUIXOTE.

and elated, and eager to attack the vessel they had before their eyes ;
for they did not linow the renegade's plan, but expected that tliey
were to gain their liberty by force of arms and b}" 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 ]\Ioors were oft" 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 life." By this almost all the Cln-istians were
on board, and the JNloors, who were faint-liearted, 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 outciy they would be all put to the sword. This having been
aceoni|)lished, and half of our party being left to keej? guard over
them, the rest of us, again taking the renegade as our guide, hastened
towards Hadji JNIorato's garden, and as good luck would have it,
on trying the gate it opened as readily as if it had not been locked ;
and so, quite quietly and in silence, we reached the house without
being perceived by anybody. The lovel}^ Zoraida was watching for
us at a window, and as soon as she perceived that there were jjeople
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
beo^o-ed her to come down. As soon as she recoornized me she did
not delay an mstant, but Avithout answermg a word came down im-
mediately, opened the door and presented hei'self 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 rene-
gade 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 wei'e I'eturning thanks to her, and recognizing her
as the giver of our libert\'. 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

CHAPTER XLI. 351

you shall see," and so saying she went in again, telling us she would
return immediately, and bidding us keep quiet without 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. Unfortu-
nately 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, tlid
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 jjrevented 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 covei-ed her eyes so as not to see him, and her father was
horror-stricken, not knowing how willingly slie had placed herself in
our hands. But it was now most essential for us to be on the move,
and carefully and (juickly we regained the vessel, where those who
had remained on board were waiting for us in appi'ehension of some
mishap having befallen us. It was barely two hours after night set
in when we were all on Iward the vessel, where the cords wei-e re-
moved from the hands of Zoraida's father, and the nai)kin 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 lie perceived that I held her
closely embraced and that she lay quiet without resisting or com-
plaining, 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 JMoors
bound, bade the renegade ask me to do her the favor 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 caiitive 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 Chi'istian
ground we reached. On this point we all agreed ; and Zoraida, to

352 DON QUIXOTE.

whom it was explained, together with the reasons that prevented us
from doing at once wliat 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 coui'se for JNIajorca, 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
galliiit, so that it Avere not a cruiser, not only should we not be lost,
but that we should take a vessel in which we could more safely ac-
complish our voyage. As we pursued our course Zoraida kept her
head between my hands so as not to see lier father, and 1 felt sure
that she was praying to Lela IMarien 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 any one to see us. For all that, however, by hard row-
ino" we put out a little to sea, for it was now somewhat calmer, and
]ia° ing 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
eigjit 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 fve should set them free on the
first opportunity.

The same was said to Zoraida's father, who replied, "Anything
else, O Christian, I might hope for or think likely from your generos-
ity and good behavior, 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 great-
est 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

' A wind from the north, so called from coming across the Alps.

CHAPTER XLI. 353

ran to throw her arms round him, and pressing her face to his, they
both gave way to sucli 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 daugliter? Last niglit, before this terrible misfortune in which
we are plunged befell us, I saw thee in tliy every-day 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 tliee 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 liis
daughter ; she, however, returned him no answer. But when he
observed in one corner of the vessel the little trunk in whicli she
used to keep her jewels, which he well knew he had left in Algieis
and had not brought to the gai'den, 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, seiior, for the one answer 1 will give
thee will serve for all ; I would have thee know that she is a Chris-
tian, and that it is she who has been the tile 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 frt^ni
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 haixlly heard these words when with marvellous
quickness he flung himself head-foremost into the sea, where no
doubt he would have been drowned had not the long and full dress
he wore held him uj) for a little on the surface of the water. Zoraida
cried aloud to us to save him, and we all hastened to help, aud seiz-
ing 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 jiite-
ously 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 make a cove
Vol. 1,-23

354 DON QUIXOTE.

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 wliom Spain was lost, lies buried at that spot ; " cava "
in their language meaning " wicked woman," and " rumia" " Chris-
tian ; " ' moreover, they count it unlucky to anchor there when neces-
sity 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 liands, and ate
of the stores the renegade had laid in, imiDloring (iod and Our Lady
with all our hearts to help and protect us, that we might give a happy
endino" to a beginning so prosperous. At the entreaty of Zoraida
orders wei-e given to set on sliore 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 pris-
oners 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 the wind immediately changed in our favor, and the sea grew
calm, inviting us once more to resume our voyage with a good heart.
Seeing this we unbound the Moors, and one by one j)ut them on
shore, at which they were filled with amazement ; but when we came
to landZoraida'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 l)ecause 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 tui-iiiug 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 lux-
ury 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 be;a-d and tore his hair anil 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

' Cervantes gives the popular name by which the spot is known. Prop-
erly it is"Kiibba Rumia," the Christian's tomb; "that being the name
given to the curious circular structure about which there has been so much
discussion among French archaeologists.

CHAPTER XLI. 355

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, Avho will
yield up his life on this barren strand it'thon 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 JVlarien, 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
accomjjlishment 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 owY voyage, in which a breeze from the right point so favored 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 disturb-
ing 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 ai-e 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 favoring 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
out 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
tlie vessel was now lying to leeward, suddenly they fired two guns,
and apparently both loaded with chainshot, 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 comi^letely, but without doing any further
damage. We, however, finding oui'selves sinking began to shout
for help and call upon those in the ship ti) 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 matchlocks, 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 any one perceiving what
he did. In siiort 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

356 DON QUIXOTE.

from Zoraida they took ev^en 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 lier 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 tliey 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 jjurpose was to trade
at some of the ports of Spain, giving themselves out as Bretons,
and if they brought us alive they would be punislied as soon as the
robbery was discovered; but the captain (who was the one who had
i:)lundered 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 hy night, or as best he could, and make
for Rochelle, from which he had sailed. So they agreed by common
consent to give us the skiff belojiging to their ship and all we re-
(juired 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 com-
pletely forgotten as if they had never been endured by us, such is
the delight of I'ecovering 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. AVe got into the boat, returning them thanks for their
kindness to us, and showing ourselves grateful rather than indig-
nant. They stood out to sea, steering for the straits ; we, without
looking to any comjjass save the land we had before us, set our-
selves to row with such energy that by sunset we were so near that
we might easily, we thought, land before the night was far ad-
vanced. 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 tiieir own houses. But of the conflict-
ing counsels the one which was adopted was that we should ap-
I^roach 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 conven-

^ The Sierra Tejeda, to the south of Albania, is apparently that which
Cervantes means.

CHAPTER XL I. 357

iently. We ran oui- boat up on the sand, and all sprang out and
kissed the ground, and with tears- of joyful satisfaction returned
thanks to (Jod our J^ord 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 thoroughly \yev-
suade ouselves 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 oi'der to see if from the summit any habi-
tation or any shepherd's luits 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 7m-
raida goin<r on foot over that rough ground ; for though I once car-
ried her on my shoulders, she was more wearied by my wearmess
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 lied 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 tran-
((uilly 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
iiimljly to his feet, for, as we afterwards learned, the first who pre-
sented themselves to his sight were the renegade and Zoraida, and
seeing them in ^loorish dress he imagined that all the ]Moors of Bar-
bary were upon him ; and plunging with marvellous swiftness mto
the thicket in front of him, he began to raise a prodigious outcry, ex-
claiming, "The Moors — the Moors have landed!" 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 t lie renegade must strip oft" his Turk-
ish garments and put on a captive's jacket or coat, which one of our
2)art3' 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 de-
ceive us, for two hours had not passed when, coming out of the brush-
wood 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 arras. I said yes, and
as I was about to explain to liim what had occurred, and whence we
came and who we were, one of the Christians of our i)arty recog-
nized the hoi'seman who had put the question to us, and before I

358 DON QUIXOTE.

could say anything moi'e he exdaimed, " Thanks be to God, sms, for
bringing ns 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,
seiior, who ask who we are, are Pedro de ikistamente, my uncle."

The Christian captive had hardly uttered these words, when the
horseman threw himself oft' his horse, and ran to embrace the young
man, crying, " Nejjhew of my soul and life I I recognize 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 w^iom God has been pleased
to preserve that they may enjoy the happiness of seeing thee. We
knew long since that thou Avert in Algiers, and from the aijpearance
of thy garments and those of all this com2)any, 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 tlie horsemen understood that we were Christian cap-
tives, they dismounted from their horses, and each oft'ered 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 Moorish captives, for people
on that coast are vvell used to see both one and the other ; but they
were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, which was just then height-
ened, 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 su(-h a glow ui)on her face, that, unless my affection for her
were deceiving me, I would ventufe 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 ha<i received, and when Zoraida entered it she said there
were faces there like Lela IMarien'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 (juick and clear instinct, undei'stood at once all he
said to her about them. Thence they took us away and distributed
us all in difterent 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 oi: which the renegade,
having informed himself of all that was re(iuisite 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

' About eighteen miles to the east of Malaga, at a little distance from
the coast.

CHAPTER XLTT. 359

released cajitives took their departures, each the way that seemed
best to him, and Zoraida and I were left alone, with nothino: more
than the crowns which the courtesy ot tiie Frenchman had bestowed
upon Zoraida, out of which 1 bouglit the beast on which she i"ides ;
and, I for tlie 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 comj^anion of Zoraida, I think
no other lot could be assigned to me, however hapj^y, that I would
rather have. The patience with which she endures the hardshi[)s
that poverty brings with it, and the eagerness she shows to Ijccome a
Christian, are such that they fill me with admiration, and bind me to
serve her all my life ; though the hajjpiness I feel in seeing myself
hers, and her mine, is disturbed and marred by not knowing whether
L shall find any corner to shelter lier in my own country, or whether
time and death may not have made such changes in the fortimes and
lives of my father and brothers, that I shall hardly find any one who
knows me, if they are not to be found.

I have no more of my story to tell you, gentlemen ; whether it he
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 cir-
cumstance.

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 Fer-
nando said to him, " In truth, captain, the manner in Avhiehyou
have rehited this remarkable adventure has been such as befitted
the novelty and strangeness of the matter. The whole story is
curious and imcommon, and abounds witli incidents that fill the
hearers with wonder and astonishment ; and so great is tlie
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 o('CU})ied witli 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 lan-
guage so kindly and sincere that the captain was much grati-
fied 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 Avith the means of making his appearance

860 DON QUIXOTE.

in his own country witli the credit and comfort he was entitled
to. For all this the captive returned thanks very courteously,
but 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 de-
manded 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 wel-
come ; for my husband and I will give up our room to accom-
modate his worship."

" Very good, so be it," said the squire ; but in the mean-
time 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
ruttted sleeves that he wore showed that he was, as his servant
said, a ju^dge of appeal. He led by the hand a yoimg 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
iilled 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 can not 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 throAV 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

MY LORD JUDGE AND DON QUIXOTE. Vol.1. Page 360.

CHAPTER XLII. 361

Don Quixote, whom he scrutinized very carefully, no less as-
tonished 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 qualit}^ ; but with the figure, coun-
tenance, and bearing of Don Quixote he was at his wits' end ;
and all civilities having been exchanged, and the accommoda-
tion 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 ju.dge, 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 arrange-
ment 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 servants 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 con-
vinced 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 Avhat mea,ns he should adopt to make himself

362 DON QUIXOTE.

known, or to ascertain beforehand whether, when he had made
himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor, woukl be
ashamed of him, or wonld receive him with a warm heart.

" Leave it to me to find out that," said the curate ; " though
there is no reason for supposing, 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 the 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 cour-
age."

" 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 favor he lost it, and with it his liberty, on
that glorious day Avhen so many recovered theirs, at the battle
of Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goletta, and after a variety

' Cervantes apparently forgets that they had supped already.

CHAPTER XLII. 363

of adventnres we found ourselves comrades at Constantinople.
Thence we went to Algiers, where we met with one of the most
extraordinary adventures that ever befell any one in this world."

Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother's advent-
ure with Zoraida ; to all which the judge gave such an attentive
hearing as he had never yet given to any cause he heard. ^ The
curate, however, only went so far as to describe how the French-
men 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 bi'other,
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, " ( )h,
seiior, if you only knew what news you have g•i^'en me and how
it comes home to me, making me show how I feel it ^^'\H\ these
tears that spring from my eyes in spite of all my worldly Avis-
dom 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 honorable and worthy
calling of arms, Avhich 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 posi-
tion in which yon 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 sur-
prises me is, that having so much common sense as he had, he
should 4iave neglected to give any intelligence about himself,

1 If so, the judge's views of the vahie of evidence were peculiar. How
could the curate, for instance, have known that the Frenchmen robbed liis
friend, if he had never been able to learn whether he reached Spain or
had been carried otf to France?

364 DON QUIXOTE.

either in Ms 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 jour-
ney, 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 in the deepest dun-
geon 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 goodness to a brother ! That I could
be ])resent 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 arid 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 others 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 Viednia, 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 recognized 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, miich less put down

CHAPTER XLTI. 365

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 ]\Ioor 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 oft' 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 humor, with
which he was not a little amused. Sancho Panza alone was
fuming at the lateness of the hour for retirement to rest ; and
he of all Avas 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 Doila Clara de Viedma, for so the judge's
daughter was called, lay sleeping. No one coiild 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 court-yard, at another in the stable ; and
as they were all attention, wondering, Cardenio came to the

366 DON QUIXOTE.

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, sefior," said Dorothea ; on
which Cardenio went away ; and Dorothea, giving all her at-
tention to it, made out the words of the song to be these :

CHAPTER XLIII.

WHEREIX IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY O'F THE MULE-
TEER, 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 '11 know that death is near me.

^ In this translation an attempt has been made to imitate the prevailing
rhyme of the Spanish ballad, the double assonant in the second and fourth
lines.

* Surgit Palinurus, et . . .
Sidora runcta notat tacito labentia coelo. — ^neid iii.
^ " Clara estrella."

CHAPTER XLIII. 367

The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea tliat it
was not fair to let Clara miss hearing STieh 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 be-
came 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 great-
est kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my
eyes and ears so as neither to see nor hear that unhappy
musician."

"What art thou talking about, child?" said Dorothea.
'' Why, they say this singer is a nmleteer."

" Nay, he is the lord of nuiny 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 yon, Seilora Clara ; ex-
plain 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 hinderance or impediment,

Have thou no fear
If at each step thou findest death is near.

368 DON QUIXOTE.

No victory,
No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know;

Unblest is he
That a bold front to Portune dares not show,

But soul and sense
In bondage yieldeth up to indolence.

If Love his wares
Do dearly sell, his right must be confest ;

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 })ut her mouth so close to her
ear that she could speak safely without fear of being heard by
any one else, and said, " This singer, dear senora, is the son
of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of two villages, who lives op-
posite my father's house at Madrid ; and though my father
had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, and blinds
in summer, in some way — I know not how — this gentleman,
who was pixrsuing his studies, saw me — whether in church or
elsewhere, I can not 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 sIioav me he wished to marry
me ; and, though I should have been glad if that could be,

» Prov. 190.

CHAPTER XLIII. 369

being alone and motherless I knew not whom to ojjcn my
mind to, and so I left it as it was, showing him no favor, ex-
cept when my father, and his too, were from home, to raise
the curtain or the blind a little and let him see me })lainly. at
which he would show such delight that he seemed as if he
were going mad. Meanwhile the time for my father's de-
parture 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 hiin, 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 recognize him. But I knew
him, and I was surprised, and glad; he watched me, unsus-
pected 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 lie 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 recognize 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

Vol. I. — 24

370 DON QUIXOTE.

lie would think I was not fit to be even a servant to liis son,
much less wife ? And as to marrying without the knowledge
of my father, I would not do it for all the Avorld. I would
not ask anything more than that this youth should go back
and leave me ; perhaps Avith not seeing him, and the long
distance we shall have to travel, the pain I suffer now may
become easier ; though I dare say the remedy I propose will
do me very little good. I don't know by what deviltry 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 shall 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, seiiora," 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 land-
lady's daughter and her servant Maritornes, who, knowing the
weak point of Don Quixote's hiunor, and that he was outside
the inn mounting guard in armor 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, perf^tion of all beauty, summit
and crown of discretion, treasure house of grace, depository of
virtue, and, finally, ideal of all that is good, honorable, 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

' " Tria virgiuis ora Dianae." — ^neid iv. 511.

CHAPTER XLIII. 371

gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over some balcony,
meditating how, whilst preserving \n\v [)urity and greatness,
she may mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine
endures for her sake, what glory shoidd recompense my suffer-
ings, what repose my toil, and lastly what death my life, and
what reward my services ? And thoi;, 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 nuide thee sweat and run so on the plains
of Thessaly, or on the banks of the Peneus (for I do not ex-
actly 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, " Seiior,
come over here, please."

At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and
&cxw by the light of the moon, which then was in its full splen-
dor, 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 l)elieved the inn to be,
ought to have ; and it immediately suggested itself to his imag-
ination 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 endeavoring 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 per-
ceived 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 uidiappy 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 pas-
sion, compel me to show myself more ungrateful ; and if, of the

'i.e. Daphne.

^ Cecear — to call attention by making a hissing sound such as the
Andalusians produce when they have to pronounce ce.

372 DON QUIXOTE.

love you bear me, you should find that there is anything else
in my power wherein I can gratify yoii, provided it be not love
itself, demand it of me ; for I swear to you by that sweet ab-
sent 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 honor ; 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 re-
turned 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 love-lorn 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 caress-

CHAPTER XLIII. 373

iug my hand ; treat it not so harshly, for it is not to l)lanie for
the offence my resohition 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, fas-
tened 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 liocinante 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 Eocinante, he had
good reason to expect that he would stand Avithout 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 belabored 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 suc-
ceeded 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 him-
self, but it had been inade so fast that all his efforts were in
vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Ivocinante should luove,
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 l)ore him ; then he called upon
the sages Lirgandeo and Alquif e ^ to come to his aid ; then he

' Magicians that figure in Tlie Knight of Phoebus.

374 DON QUIXOTE.

invoked his good friend Urganda to succor 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 Avould last forever, inasmuch as he was enchanted ;
and of this he Avas 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 slee])ing-, until the malign influence of the stars was over-
past, or mitil some other more sage enchanter should disen-
chant him.

But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for day-
light 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 Avas still shut ; on seeing
which, Don Quixote, even there Avhere 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 Avill be })roper 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 Avithin it people
Avho have had the sceptre in the hand and the crown on the
head."

" It Avould be better if it were the other way," said the
traveller, " the sceptre on the head and the croAvn in the hand ;
but if so, maybe there is within some company of players, with
whom it is a common thing to have those crowns and sceptres

DON QUIXOTE HANGING FROM THE INN. Vol.1. Page 375.

CHAPTER XLin. 375

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 K-oci-
nante, 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
oft" 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 tliroi;gh 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.^

' There is some inconsistency here. How conkl Don Quixote fall almost
to the ground, if wlien standing on Rocinante he was tied tip so tightly as
we are told? Hartzenbusch, more suo, has an ingenious exphmation, by
which he avoids the simpler one, that Cervantes never gave a tbought to
the matter. The strappado was inflicted by tying the hands of the victim
behind his back and then hanging him by the wrists from a crossbeam or
bough of a tree. Examples of it may be seen among Callot's sketches.
There is something almost ghastly in its introduction here as an illustra-
tion which must as a matter of course be familiar to every reader.

376 DON QUIXOTE.

CHAPTER XLIV.

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEAED-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 any one 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 trav-
ellers, 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 Ro-
cinaute, 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 Mi-
comicona 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 tell-
ing 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 Doiia 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.

CHAPTER XLTV. 377

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 al)le 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 or-
dinances of chivalry that it was lawfid for a knight-errant to
undertake or engage in another enterprise, when he had plighted
his word and faith not to involve hijuself 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 em-
prise 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 travel-
lers ; one of whom found the youth they were seeking lying
asleep by the side of a muleteer, without a thought of any one
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 recognized 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 ; Avhile the servant
went on to say, " There is nothing for it now, Seflor 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

378 DON QUIXOTE.

imagine that we shall return so soon and restore you to those
eyes that so yearn for yon."

'' That shall be as I please, or as Heaven orders," returned
Don Luis.

" What can you please or Heaven order," said the other, " ex-
cept 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, Oardenio, 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 wauted 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 at-
tempted to employ force against him ; so they hastened to
where he was still talking and arguing with his servant. Dor-
othea 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 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
endeavor 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 re-
turn and console his father and at once 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, honor,
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 particxilarly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his com-
panions, the judge, the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote ;

CHAPTER XLIV. 379

for he now considered there was no necessity for mounting
gnard over the castle any longer. Cardenio being already ac-
quainted with the young man's story, asked the men who wanted
to take him, 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 gentle-
man'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 \\s, to make us do
what we came for, and what it it our duty to do."

" Let us hear what the whole affair is about," said the judge
at this ; but the man, who kncAv him as a neighbor of theirs,
replied, " Do you not know this gentleman, senor judge ? He
is the son of your neighbor, 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 recog-
nized him, and embracing him said, " What folly is this, Sehor
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 un-
able to utter a word in reply to the judge, who told the four
servants not to be uneasy, for all would be satisfactorily set-
tled ; 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 con-
ceived 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 lan-
guage 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

S80 t)ON QUIXOTE.

Quixote, and to him the daughter said, " Sir knight, by the
virtue God has given you, help my poor father, for there are
two wicked men beating him to a mummy."

To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegm atically
replied, " Fair damsel, at the present moment your request is
inopportune, for I am debarred from involving myself in any
adventure nntil I have brought to a happy conclusion one to
which my word has pledged me ; bi;t that Avhich 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 re-
quest permission of the Princess Micomicona to enable me to
succor 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, seilora, to obtain the permission I speak
of," returned Doii 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 Doro-
thea, requesting her Highness in knightly and errant phrase
to be pleased to grant him permission to aid and succor the
castellan of the castle, who now stood in grievoiis jeo])ardy.
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 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, Avho were furious when they saw the pusil-
lanimity of Don Quixote, and the hard treatment their master,

en AFTER XLIV. S81

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 fi^fty paces to see
what Don Luis said in reply to the judge whom we left ques-
tioning him privately as to his reasons for coming on foot and
so meanly dressed.

To which the youth, pressing his hand in a Avay that showed
his heart was troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a
flood of tears, made answer : " 8eiior, I have no more to tell
you than that for the moment when, through Heaven's will and
our being near neighbors, 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 imi)edi-
ment, this very day she shall become my wife. For her I left
my father's house, and for her I assumed this disguise, to fol-
low 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 some-
times 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 hajipy,
accept me at once as your son ; for if my father, influenced by
other objects of his own, should disap})rove of this ha})piness 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 l)y 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

382 DON QXTTXOTE.

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
tlie 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 Sanclio 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 hear-
ing 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 re-
linquish the prize he had made in the pack-saddle ; on the con-
trary, he raised such an outcry that every one 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
1 OAve God a death, and I know it as Avell as if I had given
birth to it, and here is my ass in tlie 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 hand-
selled, that would fetch a crown any day."

CHAPTER XLIV. 383

At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answer-
ing ; 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 that 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 capar-
ison into a pack-saddle, I can give no exi)lanation except the
usual one, that such transformations will take place in advent-
ures 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 can not 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, " Yoiir worships niay see with what a face this scpiire
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 hel-
met is the identical one I took from him, Avithout anything
added to or taken from it."

" There is no doubt of that," said Sancho, " for from the
time my master won it luitil now he has only fought one battle
in it, when he let loose those unlucky men in chains ; and if it
had not been for this basin-helmet he would not have come off
over Avell that time, for there was plenty of stone-throwing in
that affair."

384 DON QUIXOTE.

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 even want to make out that
this is not a basin but a helmet ? "

<' And Avhoever 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 humor 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 license 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 mean
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 com-
plete 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 com-
panions agreed with him, and even the judge, if his thoughts
had not been so full of Don Luis's aifair, would have helped
to carry on the joke ; but he was so taken up with the serious
matters he had on his mind that hei 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 honorable company can say that

CHAPTER XLV. 385

this is not a basin but a helmet ? Why, this is a thing that
wouhl astonisli a whole nniversity, however wise it mij^ht 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 con-
cern myself."

" As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison," said the cu-
rate, " it is only for Sehor Don Quixote to say ; for in these mat-
ters of chivalry all these gentlemen and I bow to his authority."

'' By God, gentlemen," said Don Quixote, " so many strange
things have hap})ened to me in this castle on the two occasions
on which I have sojourned in it, that I will not venture to as-
sert anything positively in reply to any question touching any-
thing it contains ; for it is my belief that everything that
goes on within it goes by enchantment. The first time, an en-
chanted 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, with-
out knowing how or why I came by such a mislia}). So that
now, for me to come forward to give an opinion in* such a puz-
zling nmtter, 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 worship's better judgment.
Perhaps as you are not dubbed knights like myself, the en-
chantments of this place have nothing to do with you, and
your faculties are imfettered, 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 gentle-
men in secret, and declare the result clearly and fully."

To those who were in the secret of Don Quixote's humor all
this afforded great amusement ; but to those who knew noth-
ing 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

Vol.. I. -35

386 DON QUIXOTE.

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 tnrned into Mambrino's
helmet, and whose pack-saddle, he had no doubt whatever w^as
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 fight-
ing 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 mim-
ber of opinions, for I hnd 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 capar-
ison 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 j
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 uoav 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 can not bring myself to lielieve 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 ex-
perience and truth itself ; for I swear by " — and here he

* Prov. 204. " Laws go as kings like : " a very old proverb, said to owe
its origin to the summary manner in which Alfonso VI. at Toledo settled
the question a« to wliicli of the rival rituals, the French or the Musarabic,
was to be adopted. It was agreed to try them by the test of fire, and the
latter came out victorious, on which the king, who favored the other, fiung
it back into the flames.

CHAPTER XLV. 387

rapped out a ronnrt 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 oris not a pack-saddle, as your worsliips say."

On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the
Brotherhood, who had been listening to the dispute and con-
troversy, unable to restrain his anger and impatience, ex-
claimed, '' It is a pack-saddle as sure as iny father is my
father, and whoever has said or Avill 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, call-
ing 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 barl)er, seeing the house
turned upside down, once more laid hold of his pack-saddle and
Sancho did the same ; Don Quixote drew his SAVord, 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 Avas wailing, Maritornes Avas Aveeping, Dorothea
Avas 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, Avho A^entured to
catch hini by the arm to keep him from escaping, a cuff that
bathed his teeth in blood ; the judge took his part ; Don Fer-
nando had got one of the officers doAvn and Avas belaboring 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,
SAvord-cuts, fisticuffs, cudgellings, kicks, and bloodshed ; and in
the midst of all this chaos, com})lication, and general entangle-
ment, Don Quixote took it into his head that he had been

388 DON QUIXOTE.

plunged into tlie tliick of tlie discord of Agraniante's camp ; ^
and, in a voice tliat 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 Avhereof 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,
sefior judge, and you, seiior 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 Fer-
nando, Cardenio, and their companions, were not to be ap-
peased ; 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,
Avho 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 per-
suasion 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 Avas his desire that Don Luis should accom-

' V. Orlando Fiirioso^ canto xxvii. Agramante was the leader of the
Mohammedan kings and princes assembled at the siege of Paris, of whom
Sobrino was one.

CHAPTER XLV. 389

pauy him to Andalusia, Avhere he woiikl receive from the mar-
quis his ])rother 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 Fer-
nando and the resolution of Don Li;is 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 author-
ity of Agraiuante and the wisdom of King Sobrino all this com-
plication of disputes was arranged ; biit 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 elaljorate entanglement, resolved to try his
hand once more l)y stirring iq) fresh quarrels and disturbances.

It came about in this wise : the oificers were pacified on
learning the rank of those with whom they had been engaged,
and Avithdrew from the contest, considering that Avhatever the
result might be they were likely to get the Avorst 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, Avliom 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 feat-
ures corresponded ; and taking a parchment out of his bosom
he lit upon Avliat 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 wp the
parchment, he took the warrant in his left hand and with his
right seized L^on Quixote by the collar so tightl}' that he did
not allow hini to breathe, and shouted aloud, ^' Help for the
Holy Brotherhood ! and that you may see I demand it in ear-
nest, read this warrant which says this highwayman is to be
arrested."

The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer
said Avas true, and that it agreed Avith Don Quixote's appear-

390 DON QUIXOTE.

ance, avIio, on liis part, when he found himself roiighly 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 l)y 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, wdien she saw her husband engaged in a fresh
quarrel, lifted up her voice afresh, and its note was immedi-
ately 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 im-
possible 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 ynisoner 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 be-
half they again demanded aid and assistance to effect the capt-
ure of this robber and footpad of the highways and byways.

Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said
very calmly, " Come now, base, ill-born brood ; call ye it high-
way robbery to give freedom to those in bondage, to release
the captives, to succor the miserable, to raise up the fallen, to
relieve the needy ? Infamous beings, who by your vile grovel-
ling 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
license of the Holy Brotherhood ; tell me who was the ignora-
mus 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 ? Vfho,
I say again, was the fool that knows not that there are no
letters patent of nobility that confer such privileges or exemp-
tions as a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a knight,
and devotes himself to the arduous calling of chivalry ? "What

CHAPTER XLVI. 391

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 or pleas-
ure ? 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 OP THE OFFICERS
OF THE HOLY BROTHERHOOD ; AND OF THE GREAT FEROC-
ITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE.

While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate
was endeavoring 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 hun-
dred times if they liked.

" For all that," said the curate, " you must not take hini
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 bitter-
ness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the ques-
tion by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if
not perfectly contented, at least to some extent satisfied ; for

* Escote ; old French cscot.

392 DON QUIXOTE.

tliey changed the pack-saddles, but not the girths or head-
stalls ; and as to Manibrino'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 en-
gagement 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 re-
turn while one was left to accompany him whither Don Fer-
nando desired to take him ; and good luck and better fortune,
having already begun to solve difficulties and remove obstruc-
tions in favor 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 Qui-
xote's reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his
wine-skins, and the loss of his wine, swearing that neither
Eocinante 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; thoiigh the judge had also
vefy readily offered to pay the score ; and all became so peace-
ful and quiet that the inn no longer reminded one of the dis-
cord of Agramante's camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the
peace and traufj^uillity 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 unex-
am})led generosity of Don Feruando.

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

' i.e. Augustus.

CHAPTER XL VI. 393

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 doubtfnl case to a successful termination ; but in nothing
does this truth show itself more plainly than in Avar, 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 opportimity be given him he may
seize it to fortify himself in some impregnable castle or strong-
hold, against which all my efforts and the might of my inde-
fatigable 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 await-
ing the reply of the beauteous princess, who, with commanding-
dignity and in a Ityle 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 nat-
ural obligation to succor the orphan and the needy, display
to afford me aid in my sore trouble ; and Heaven grant that
your wishes and mine may be realized, 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 intrusted to you the defence of her per-
son, and placed in your hands the recovery of her dominions,
must not think of offering opposition to that which your wis-
dom 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 ances-
tors. 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

'Prov. 77. * Prov. 222.

394 DON QUIXOTE.

can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Eocinante, 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 vil-
lage 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, when
thou fearest, art behaving like thyself ; but I like myself, when
I fear not."

" 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 rublnng noses with one that
is here every instant and behind every doon"

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 con-
sidered 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 contin-
ued, " This I say, seiior, 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 labors, there is no need for me to be in a hurry to
saddle Eocinante, put the pad on the ass, or get ready the pal-
frey ; for it wi}l 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,

' Prov. 9. Generally mistranslated " than is dreamt of," as if it was
suena instead of suena. ^ I'rov. 196.

CHAPTER XLVI. 395

and eyes that flashed living fire, he exclaimed, " Rascally
clown, boorish, insolent, and ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouth eel,
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 harbor such gross and shameless
thoughts in thy miKldled imagination ? Begone from my pres-
ence, thou born monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths,
garner of knaveries, inventor of scandals, publisher of absurd-
ities, 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 un-
derstood Don Quixote's humor, said, to mollify his wrath, " Be
not irritated at the absurdities your good squire has uttered,
Sir Knight of the Bueful Countenance, for perhaps he did not
utter them without cause, and from his good sense and Chris-
tian conscience it is not likely that he would bear false witness
against any one. We may therefore believe, without any hesi-
tation, 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 dialjolical
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 woidd 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 inca-
pable of bearing false witness against anybody."

" True, no doubt," said Don Fernando, " for which reason,
Seiior Don Quixote, you ought to forgive him and restore him
to the bosom of your favor, sicut erat in principio, before illu-
sions of this sort had taken away his senses."

Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the

396 DON QUIXOTE.

curate went for Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling
on his knees begged for the hand of his master, who having pre-
sented it to him and allowed him to kiss it, gave him his bless-
ing and said, '^ JSTow, Sancho my son, thou wilt be convinced of
the truth of what I have many a time told thee, that every
thing in this castle is done by means of enchantment."

" So it is, I believCj" 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 any one 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 per-
suade 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 imagi-
nary 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
ox-cart 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, cov-
ered 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 pro-
found silence they entered the room where he was asleep,
taking his rest after the past frays, and advancing to where
he Avas sleeping tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the

CHAPTER XLVL 397

kind happening, tliey seized him firmly and bound liim fast
hand and foot, so that, when he awoke startled, he was nuable
to move, and could only marvel and wonder at the strange fig-
ures 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 phan-
toms of the enchanted castle, and that he himself was unques-
tionably enchanted as he could neither move nor help himself ;
precisely what the curate, the concocter of the scheiae, ex-
pected would happen.'^ Of all that were there Sancho was the
only one who was at once in his senses and in his own ju'oper
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 0})en his lips
until he saw what came of this assault and capture of his
master ; nor did the latter utter a word, waiting to see 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 attlict 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
luiion 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 nym})h shall
in his swift natural coiirse have twice visited the starry signs.
And thou, 0 most noble and obedient srpure that ever bore
sword at side, beard on face, or nose to smell with, be not dis-
mayed 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 ;

' This resembles the scene in the Morgante Maggiore (xii. 88), where
Orhiudo is seized and l)ound by the pagans.

398 DON QUIXOTE.

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 destina-
tion assigned to both of you ; and as it is not permitted to me
to Siiy 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 in-
clined 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 To-
boso, 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, " 0 thou, whoever thou art, who hast
foretold me so much good, I im])lore of thee that on my part
thou entreat that sage enchanter who takes charge of my in-
terests, that he leave me not to perish in this captivity in
which they are now carrying me away, ere I see fulfilled prom-
ises 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 battlefield, 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 dis-
posal."

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.

' A name formed from " nientir," to tell lies.

CHAPTER XL VI I. 399

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 marvel-
lous 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 fan-
tastic shapes to come and do this, and bring me to this condi-
tion ? 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 biisily, has
firm flesh, and another property very different from Avhat I
have heard say devils have, for by all accounts they all sniell
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 ;

400 DON QUIXOTE.

" for let me tell thee devils are crafty ; and even if tliey do
cany odors about with them, they themselves have no smell,
because they are spirits ; or, if they have any smell, they can
not smell of anything sweet, but of something lo\\\ 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 enjoy-
ment, 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 depart-
ure, 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 shoi;ld 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 Roci-
nante's saddle and the basin on the other, and by signs com-
manded 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 T 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 valor 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 Zoroastes 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. For-

' Here, for once, Hartzenbuscb has overlooked an inconsistency. In
chapter xlv. we were told the officers were three in number. Farther on
it will be seen that they carried crossbows, not muskets.

m .

«

i| i! y Is, '

DON QUIXOTE IN THE CART. Vol. I. Page 400

CHAPTER XLVII. 401

give lue, fair ladies, if, througli inadvertence, I have in auglit
offended yon ; for intentionally and wittingly I liave 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 favors
that ye have bestowed upon me in this castle shall be held in
memory by me, that I may acknowledge, recognize, 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, and
that he too, on his part, would send him word of everything he
thought he would like to know, about his marriage, Zoraicla'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 tlTOm 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," l)y 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 kei)t
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 recognized by Don Quixote, and set out fol-
lowing 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

^ Rinconete y Cortadillo is the third of tlie Novelas EJc'mx>hires pub-
lished by Cervantes in 1613. From this we may assume that the Cnrioso
Impertinente was written about the same time, i.e. during his residence
in Seville.

Vol. I. — 26

402 DON QUIXOTE.

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 afore-
said, 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 evirate, 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 pos-
sible at the inn which was in sight not a league off. The
quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous saluta-
tions were exchanged ; and one of the new comers, who was, in
fact, a canon of Tolecto and master of the others who accom-
panied 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 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,

CHAPTER XLVII. 403

in order to answer in sucli 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 Villal-
pando's elements of logic ; ^ so if that be all, you may safely
tell me what you please."

'' In God's name, then, sefior," 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 immortalizing in her record, but of those
who, in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and all the magi-
cians that Persia, or Brahnians 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 honor in arms."

'' What Seiior 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 malevo-
lence of those to whom virtue is odious and valor hateful.
This, seiior, 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 imperish-
able 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 him-
self 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

^ Siima de las Sumulas, Alcala 1557, by Gaspar Carillo do Villalpando,
a theologian who distinguished laimself for learning and eloquence at the
Council of Trent.

404 DON QUIXOTE.

had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that's the case,
what do they mean by wanting me to believe that he is en-
chanted ? For I have heard many a one say that enchanted
people neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk ; and my master, if yon
don't stop him, will talk more than thirty lawyers." Then
tnrning to the curate he exclaimed, " And, seiior curate, seiior
curate ! do you think I don't know yon ? Do you think I don't
guess and see the drift of these new enchantments ? Well,
then, I can tell you I know yon, 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 be-
tide 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 succors 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 com-
pany in the cage, and be enchanted like him for having caught
some of his humor 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 any one," 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

1 Prov. 209.

' A title sometimes given to ecclesiastics in lieu of " Reverence."

' Proverbial phrase — " Adobadme esos candiles,"

CHAPTER XL VI I. 405

I owe nothing to nobody, and if 1 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 will only make 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 apprehen-
sion the curate had asked the canon to ride on a little in ad-
vance, 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 mischiev-
ous to the State ; and though, led by idle and false taste, I
have read the beginnings of almost all that have been i)rinte(l,
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 amuse-
ment 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

iProvs, 112 and 117. * Prov. 178, =• Prov. 69.

406 DON QUIXOTE.

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 iigliness or dispro-
portion 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 per-
force 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 Avith a faiy 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 Avrite them as fiction, and therefore are not
bound to regard ruceties 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

' Alluding to Belianis of Greece, who when only sixteen cut a knight
in two at Persepolis.

- Literally, " the more of the doubtful," meaning the more of that
which is not manifestly impossible.

I

CHAPTER XLVII. 407

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, absui'd 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 ^-ave 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 Avide 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 beau-
teous 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 him-
self 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 ^-Eneas, the
valor 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

408 DON QUIXOTE.

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 XLVIIL

IN WHICH THE CAXON 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 to 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 Avritten ; 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 further 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.

' In the original it is burlado, " scoffed at," which makes no sense.
Hartzenbusch suggests viioreado, but I think alahado is the more likely
word and suits the context better.

CHAPTER XLVni. 409

" But what most of all made me hold my hand and even aban-
don 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 pub-
lic 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 Avill
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 El
Campillo.' ^ And though I have sometimes endeavored to con-
vince actors that tliey 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, tliey 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 fel-
lows, ' 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 ? '

' Alluding to the proverb (216) El sastre del Campillo, que cosia de halde
y x>onia el kilo — "The tailor of El Campillo, who stitched for nothing
and found the thread." In the original it is "del cantillo" and the Mar-
quis of Santillana gives the proverb in tliis form ; but in the Ficara Jnstina,
in Quevedo, and most other authorities it is given as above. " Cantillo "
is unmeaning, while " Campillo, " or " El Campillo " is the name of nearly
a score of places in Spain. Any one versed in proverbial literature will
see that this is one of the class of quasi local proverbs to which so many of
the Spanish belong, e. g. "the squire of Guadalajara," "the abbot of Zar-
zuela," " the smith of Arganda," " the doctors of Valencia," and that pe-
culiarly humorous one, which ought by right to be Scottish, " The piper of
Bujalance, (who got) one maravedi to strike up and ten to leave off."

410 DON QUIXOTE.

"'No doubt/ replied the actor in question, 'you mean tlie
" 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 non-
sense, 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 cer-
tain 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 dumb-
foundered, but not so satisfied or convinced that I could dis-
abuse him of his error."

" You have touched upon a subject, seiior 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 ndrror 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

' Bj' Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola.

^ La Ingratitud vengada^ a comedy by Lope de Vega ; La Numancia.,
a tragedy by Cervantes liimself , first printed in 1784 ; El Mercader amante.,
a comedy by Gaspar de Aguilar ; and La Enemiga favorable., by the licen-
tiate Francisco Tarraga.

CHAPTER XLVIII. 411

should keep in view, how is it possible for any average under-
standing to be satisfied when the action is supposed to pass in
the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the principal per-
sonage 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 be-
tween 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 probal)ility, 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 refine-
ment. And then if we turn to sacred dramas — what miracles^
they invent in them ! AVhat apocryphal, ill-devised incidents,
attributing to one saint the miracles of another ! And even
in secular plays they venture to introduce ndracles 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 non-
sense 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 pub-
lic, is to entertain the people with some harmless amusement
occasionally, and keep it from those evil humors which idle-
ness 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

' The foreigners Cervantes alludes to here could only have been the
Italians, who had made sonic efforts in the direction of dramatic propriety.
There was no French stage at the time ; and the English certainly did not
" scrupulously observe " the laws he alludes to.

412 DON QUIXOTE.

sharpened by tlie 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
thoroughly 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 gayety, 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 ofl'ensive 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 in-

' The fertile wit Avas, of course, Lope de Vega, at whom, in particular,
this criticism is aimed; and Cervantes shows great adroitness in the mode
in which he has conducted his attack. There is hardly anything, however,
which he says that Lope does not admit with cynical candor in the Arte
nuevo de hacer Comedias^ where he insists upon the right of the puldic to
have nonsense if it prefers it, inasmuch as it pays. This chapter has a
peculiar interest, not only as showing the views of Cervantes, hut as fur-
nishing an explanation of the bitter feeling with which he was unquestion-
ably regarded by Lope and Lope's school ; a' feeling that found expression
a few years later in the attack nuide upon him by Avellaneda. Cervantes
himself shortly afterwards in his comedies violated nearly all the prin-
ciples lie lays down here, and in tlie second act of the JRufian Dichoso
solemnly reads his recantation. Much of what be says here is almost
identical with what Sir Philip Sidney had said in the Apologie for Poetrie.

CHAPTER XLVIIL 413

tended 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 authorized 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 elo-
quence, 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 can not be always bent, nor can weak human nature
exist without some lawful amusement."

The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their
con\ ersation, when the barber, coming forward, joined them,
and said to the curate, '' This is the spot, seiior 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 pro})Osed 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 un-
necessary to get anything from the inn except barley.

" In that case," said the canon, '' take all the beasts there,
and make the sumpter mule come back."

While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could
speak to his master without having the curate and the barber.

414 DON QUIXOTE.

of whom he had his suspicions, present all the time, ap-
proached the cage in which Don Quixote was placed, and said,
" Seiior, 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 hood-
winked 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 neighbors and acquaint-
ances, 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 like-
ness ; 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 com-
pany 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 en-
chanted ? So thou mayst set thy inind at rest as to the idea
that they are what thou sayest, for they are as much so as I
am a Turk. IJut touching thy desire to ask me something,
say on, and I will answer thee, though thou shouldst ask ques-
tions from this till to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER XLVIII. 415

" May Our Lady be good to me ! " said Saiiclio, lifting up his
voice ; " and is it possible that yonr worshi}) 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 im-
prisonment and misfortune than enchantment ? But as it i's
so, T 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 any-
thing, 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 pro-
fesses 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 talk-
ing about, I would ask, speaking with all reverence, whether
since your worship has been shut up and, as you think, en-
chanted 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 can not 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."

416 DON QUIXOTE.

CHAPTER XLIX.

WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO
PANZO 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 humor, ' I don't know what ails so-and-so, that he
neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor gives a })ro])er 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 enchant-
ments, 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 succor 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 Eocinante, 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 yom* worship, if so be

CHAPTER XLIX. 417

yoii 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 Avait-
ing for them. The carter at once imyoked the oxen and left
them to roam at hu'ge about the pleasant green spot, the fresh-
ness of which seemed to invite, not enchanted people like Don
Quixote, but wide-aAvake, sensible folk like his squire, who
begged the curate to allow his master to leave the cage for a
little ; for if tliey did not let him out, the prison might not be
as clean as the propriety of such a gentleman as his master re-
quired. 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 for everything," 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 he woidd
give it ; and that moreover one who was enchanted as he was
could not do as he liked with himself ; for he who had en-
chanted him could prevent his moving from one place for three
ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring him back fly-
ing ; and that being so, they might as well release him, particu-
larly as it would be to the advantage of all ; for, if they did
not let him outj 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 Avas 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, 0 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

Vol. I.— 27

418 DON QUIXOTE.

calling for wliicli God sent me into the world." And so say-
ing, accompanied by Sanclio, 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, Avondering 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 pro-
visions, '' 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 your-
self enchanted, and the like, all as far from the truth as false-
hood 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 en-
counters, splendid costumes, love-sick princesses, squires made
counts, droll dwarfs, love-letters, billings and cooings, swash-
buckler 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 j^ou 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, Seizor Don Quixote, have some compassion

'e.g. Bradamante, Marfiaa, and Antea, in the Orlando and Morgante
Maggiore.

CHAPTER XLIX. 419

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 honor. And if, still led away by your natural
bent, yoii 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, (Jarthage a Hannibal,
Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan Gonzalez, Valen-
cia 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 till them Avith delight and wonder. Here, Senor
Don Quixote, will l)e reading worthy of your sound under-
standing ; from which you will rise learned in history, in love
with virtue, strengtrhened in goodness, improved in manners,
brave without rashness, prudent without cowardice ; and all
to the honor of (xod, your own advantage and the glory of La
Mancha, whence, I am informed, your worship derives your
birth and origin."

Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the
canon's words, and when he found he had finished, after re-
garding 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, mis-
chievous, 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

' Count Ferniin Gonz ilez of Ca.'^tile, tlie Iuto of many ballads, ttourislu'd
in the tenth century ; for Gonzalo Fernandez, or Hernandez, and Diego
Garcia de Paredes see notes to chapter xxxii. : Garcia Perez de Vargas is
the hero of more than one ballad, but from the mention of Jerez it may be
that Cervantes meant Diego Perez de Vargas, who, at the siege of Jerez,
performed the feat that got him the name of the Pounder. (See chapter
viii.) Garcilaso is not the poet but an ancestor of his, known as " el del
Ave Maria," from having slain at the battle of the Salado a Moor who
appeared with a label bearing the words "Ave Maria" tied to his horse's
tail; an exploit generally said to have been performed at (Jranada. Don
Manuel Ponce de Leon was a knight of the time of Ferdinand and Isa-
bella, who figures in the ballads of the Siege of Granada ; for him see
note to chapter xvii. Part II.

420 DON QUIXOTE.

tliat 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 nie much harm, inasmuch as they had up-
set my senses, and shut me up in a cage, and that it woiild 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 rieral;)ras
and the bridge of jNIantible, 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 of those of Guinevere and Lancelot,
when there are persons who can almost remember having seen
the Dame Quintaiiona, who was the best cup-bearer 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

' The Princess Floripes was the sister of Fierabras, and wife of Guy
of Burgundy, a nephew of Charlemagne. The bridge of Mantible, re-
ferred to in the History of Charlemagne, was defended by the giant
Galafre supported by the Turks, but carried by Charlemagne with the
help of Fierabras. The Estremaduran peasants have given the name to
the ruins of the old Roman bridge over the Tagus at Alconetar, north of
Caceres.

^ A romance of the Charlemagne series, originally written in Italian,
but translated into Spanish in 1527.

CHAPTER XLIX. 421

venerable hood, used to say to nie, ' Grandson, that one is like
Dame Quintaiiona ; ' from Avhicli T conclude that she must
have known her, or at least had numaged 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 armory the Y)in Avith Avliich the valiant IMerres
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
])in 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 advent-
urers. 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 A]-ras fought with the
famous lord of Charny, Mosen Pierres by name, and afterwards
in the city of Basle with Mosen Enrique de Remestan, coming
out of both encounters covered with fame and honor ; * or ad-
ventures and challenges achieved and delivered, also in Bur-
gundy, 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 Quiiiones, him of the
' Paso,' ^ and the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces "^ against the

' The history of Pierres and Magalona is a rroven9al romance written
in tlie twelfth century by Bernardo Treviez, and transUited into Spanish
apparently as early as 1519.

* The "dread horn of Roland," Olifant, was, in fact, an elephant's tusk.
^ Juan de Merlo was a Portuguese knight in the reign of John II. of Cas-
tile, whose deeds are celebrated by Juan de Menain the Laberinto(VJ8, lOd).

■• Fernando de Giievara was another knight of tlie time of John 11.

* The " Paso Ilonroso " was one of the most famous feats of cliivalry
of the Middle Ages. Suero de Quiiiones, a knight of Leon, with nine
others, undertook in U34 to hold the bridge of Orbigo, near Astorga,
against all comers for thirty days. Each was to break three lances with
every gentleman who presented himself. There were 727 encounters and
16G lances broken. An account of it was written l)y a contemporary, Pero
Kodriguez de Lena, secretary of Jolin II., whicli was afterwards re-edited
by Juan de Pineda, and printed at Salamanca in 1588 luider the title of
Lihro del Paso Honroso. It is appended to the Cronica de Alvaro de
Luna, Madrid, 1784.

* A knight of Navarre mentioned in the Cronica of John II. and in
Zurita's Annals of Aragon.

422 DON QUIXOTE.

Castilian knight, Don Gonzalo cle Guzman, were mere mock-
eries ; 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 Avanting in
reason and good sense."

The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and
fiction Don Quixote uttered, and to see how Avell acquainted
he was with everything relating or belonging to the achieve-
ments of his knight-errantry ; so he said in reply, " I can not
deny, Seilor Don Quixote, that tliere is some truth in what you
say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant ; and I
ani Avilling to grant too that the Twelve Peers of France ex-
isted, V)ut I am not disposed to believe that they did all the
things that the Archbishop Turpin relates of them.^ For the
trutii 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 Avere 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 distinc-
tion 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 Avere chosen for the
military order. That there Avas a Cid, as Avell as a pjernardo
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 Coimt Pierres that you speak of,
and say is near Babieca's saddle in the Armory, 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 Avorship says it is."

'• For all that it is there. Avithout any manner of doubt,"
said Don Quixote ; "' and more by token they say it is enclosed
in a sheath of cowhide to keep it from rusting."

" All that may be," replied the canon ; '- but, by the orders I

' See note on Turpin. cliapter vii.

• No siK-h title as Knight of the Twelve Peers ever existed.

3 With regard to the Cid the canon is quite.' right : there is no historical
foundation for three-fourths of the aehievenients attributed to him by the
ballads and eronicas. As to Bernardo del Carpio, there may be, of course,
some nucleus of fact round which the legends have clustered, but that is
all that can be said for his existence. The saddle of the Cid is not now
among the treasures of the Armeria at Madrid, if indeed it ever was.

CHAPTER L. 423

have received, I do not rememljer seeing it. However, grant-
ing it is there, that is no reason why I ani bound to l)elieve 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 wor-
ship, 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 COXTROVERSY WHICH DOX QUIXOTE AXD THE
CAXOX HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER IXCIDEXTS.

" A GOOD joke, that ! " returned Don Quixote. <■' Books that
have been printed with the king's license, and with the appro-
bation 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 achieve-
ments, step by step, and day by day, performed by such and
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 3'ou 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 aljout 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 valor of
thy stout heart and cast thyself into the midst of its dark burn-
ing 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,

424 DON QUIXOTE.

without pausing to reflect upon the danger to which he is ex-
posing himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of
his massive armor, commending himself to God and to his lady,
plunges into the mist 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
imtutored melody of the countless birds of gay plumage that
flit to and fro among the interlacing branches. Here he sees a
l)rook whose limpid Avaters, like liquid crystal, ripple over fine
saiids and white pebbles that look like sifted gold and purest
pearls. There he perceives a cunningly wrought fountain of
many-colored 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 Avith fragmentsof glittering crystal and mock emeralds,
)nake up a work of varied aspect, Avhere art, imitating nature,
seems to have outdone it. Suddenly there is presented to his
sight a strong castle or gorgeous palace Avith Avails 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 l)nilt are nothing less than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies,
pearls, gold, and emeralds, the Avorknuinship is still more rare.
And after having seen all this, Avhat 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, Avere I to set
myself uoav to depict it as the histories describe it to us, I
should never have done ; and then how she Avho seems to be
the first among them all takes the bold knight Avho plunged
into the boiling lake by the hand, and Avithout addressing a
Avord to him leads him into the rich palace or castle, and stri})s
him as naked as when his nu)lher bore him, and bathes him in
lukewarm Avater, and anoints him all over Avith SAveet-smelling
unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendal, all
scented and perfumed, Avhile another damsel comes and throAvs
over his shoulders a mantle Avhich is said to be Avorth at the very
least a city, and even more ? How charming it is, then, Avhen
tliey tell us hoAv, after all this, they lead him to another cham-
ber Avliere he finds the tables set out in such style that he is

CHAPTER L. 425

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 re-
sounds while he is at ta])le, 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
seat herself by his side, and begin to tell him what the castle
is, and how she is held enclianted there, and other things that
amaze the knight and astonish the readers who are })erusing his
history. But I Avill not expatiate any further u})on this, as it
may be gathered from it that whatever part of whatever history
of a knight-errant one reads, it Avill 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 jnelancholy you may feel and raise yoiir spirits should they
be depressed. For myself 1 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 grati-
tude and generosity that dwell in my heart ; for by my faith,
senor, the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue
of generosity to any one, though he may possess it in the high-
est 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 fortiuie 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 sc[uire, 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

426 DON QUIXOTE.

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 '11 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 Cxod 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 an-
other, and as much body as any one, 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, Avithout any sci'U])les 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

^ In laCuesta's thiril edition i>f 1G08 a passage is inserted here for ■which
there is neither autliority nor necessit}'.

CHAPTER L. 427

the way in whicli lie had described the adventure of the kni<,dit
of the Like, 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 ad-
vantage of the spot, as has been already said. As they were
eating they suddenly heard a loud noise and the sound of a
bell tliat 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 nuike 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 conung up seized it by the horns
and began to talk to it as if it were possessed of reason and
understamliug : ''Ah wanderer, wanderer, Spotty, S])()tty ;
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 can not keep qiuet '' A plague on your humors
and the humors 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 in
this fashion, 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 Avill soothe your irrita-
tion, and in the mean time 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 l)e sorry if your worships
were to take me for a simpleton for having spoken so seriously

428 DON QUIXOTE.

as I did to this animal ; but tlie 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' huts harbor philosophers."

" At all events, seiior," 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 foi- a little, tell you a true story
which will confirm this gentleman's words (and he pointed to
the curate) as well as my own."

To this Don Quixote replied, " Seeing that this affair has a
certain color of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, Avill
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 (piite sure your story will do. So begin, friend, for we
are all })repared 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 can not
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

' Tlie phrase used only by a player who wishes to withdraw from a
game.

CHAPTER LI. 429

up ill his face to show him slie was all attention to what
he was going to say, and then in these words he began his
story.

CHAPTEK 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 oue of the richest in all this neighborhood, and in it tliere
lived a farmer, a very worthy man, and so much respecletl tliat,
although to be so is the natural consequence of being ricli, he was
even more respected for his virtue tiian 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 every one who knew her and beheld her marvelled at
the extraordinary gifts with which heaven and earth 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, wlien 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 bet-
ter than her own modesty. The wealth of the father and the beauty of
the daugliter led many neiglibors as well as strangers to seek her for
a wife ; but he, as one might well be who had tlie disposal of so rich
a jewel, was perplexed and unable to make up his mind to which of
her countless suitors he should intrust her. I was one among tlu;
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 <if success. There
was another of the same place and qualilications 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 es-
cape from this state of perplexity he resolved to refer the matter to
Leandra (for that is the name of tlie rich damsel who has reduced nu;
to misery), reflecting that as we Avere both equal it would be best to
leave it to his dear daughter to choose according to her inclination —
a course tliat is worthy of imitation Ijy all fathers who wish to settle
their childreu 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; 1 only

430 DON QUIXOTE.

know hei' father put us 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 traged}', the end of which
is still in suspense, though it is plain to see it must be disastrous.

About this time tiiere arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca,
the son of a po<n- 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
liim off from our village when he was a boy of about twelve years,
and now twelve }'ears later the young man came back in a soldier's
uniform, arrayed in a thousand colors, and all over glass trinkets and
line steel chains. To-day he would appear in one gay dress, to-mor-
row in another; but all flimsy and gamly, of little substance and less
worth. Tlie 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 lie liad tlu'ee suits of different colors, with garters and stockings
to match ; Init he made so many arrangements and combinations
out of them, that if tliey had not counted them, any one would have
sworn tiiat 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, tor they have a great
deal to do with the story. lie used to seat himself on a bench under
the great poplar in (uir ])laza ; an<l there he would keep us all hanging
open-moutlicd on the stories he tohl 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 iiad killed more Moors than there are
in Moi'occo and Tunis, and fought more single combats, according
to his own account, than (iarcilaso,' Diego Garcia de Paredes and
a thousand others he named, and out of all he iiad come victorious
without losing a drop of blood. On the other hand he showed marks
of wounds, whi(;h, though they could not be made out, he said were
gunshot wounds received in divers encounters and actions. Lastly,
with monstrous impudence lie 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
jTood as the kin": himself. And to add to these swaggerino; 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 accomplislmients end
here, for he was something of a ))oet too, and on every trifle that
hapjiened in the town he made a ballad a league and a half 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

^ The oriuiaal editions have " Gante y Luna," which are not names of
persons known in connection with any feats of the kind described. Gar-
cilaso {v. J). 41!l) is nuich more likely to \>v the name mentioned witli
Dietjo Garcia de Paredes.

VINCENT DE LA ROSA. Vol. I. Page 431.

CHAPTER LI. 431

her (for he gave away twenty copies of eveiy 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 hail arranged it, she fell in love witli
him before the presumption of making love to lier had suggested
itself to him ; and as in love-att'airs none are more easily brought to
an issue than those which have the inclination of the lady for an ally,
Leandraand 'Vicente came to an understanding without any difficulty ;
and befoi-e any of her numerous suitors had any suspicion of her
design, she had already carried it into etfect, having left the house
of her dearly beloved father (for mother she had none), and dis-
appeared from the village with the soldier, who came more trium-
phantly out of this enterprise than out of any of the large number
he laid claim to. All tiie village and all who heai-d 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 all in arms. They scoured
the roads, tliey searched the woods and all quarters, and at the end
of three days they found the Highty 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 unhajipy father, and questioned her as to her misfortune, and
she confesse(l without pressure tliat 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 honor, had taken from her every-
thing 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, Avho 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 lier 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 conse(|iience whether she was good or bad ;
but those who knew her shrewdness and intelligence did not attribute
her misdemeanor 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 jjleasure, and
mine were in darkness without a ray of liglit to direct them to any-
thing enjoyable while Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew
gi'eater, our patience grew less ; we cursed the soldier's tineiy and

432 DON QUIXOTE.

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 om- sorrows,
too-ether singing the fair Leandra's praises, or upbraiding her, or
else sio-hing alone, and to Heaven pouring forth our complaints in
solitude. Following our example, man}- more of Leandra's lovei's
have come to these rude mountains and adoj^ted our mode of life,
and they are so numerous that one would fancy the place had been
tuL-ned into tiie pastoral Arcadia, so full it is 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
th6 ragnig fever of jealousy, for which she never gave any one cause,
for, as I have already said, her misconduct was known before her
jjassion. Tliere is no nook among the rocks, no bi'ookside, 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" mur-
mur the brooks, and Leandra keeps us all liewildered and bewitched,
hoping without hope and fearing without knowing Avhat we fear.
Of alf 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 com-
plain of, he onlv complains of separation, and to the accompaniment
of a rebeck, which he plays admirably, he sings his complaints in
verses that show liis ingenuity. 1 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 tlie want of reflection they sliow
in fixing their aftections and inclinations. This, sirs, was the reason
of worcfs 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. Tliis 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 thei-c, as well as a variety of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing
to the eye than to the palate.

CHAPTER LIL 433

CHAPTER LII.

OF THE QUARREL THAT DOX QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOAT-
HERD, 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 tlie canon especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with
particular attention the manner in which it had Ijeen 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 cpute right in saying that the woods bred men
of learning. They all offered their services to Eugenic, 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 Avhat 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."

Vol. I. — 28

434 DON QUIXOTE.

"Yon 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 yon ; " 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, table-cloth, or diners, sprang upon Don
Quixote, and seizing him by the throat Avith 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 doAvn on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses,
and upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote,
finding hiinself free, strove to get on top of the goatherd, who,
Avith his face covered Avith blood, and soundly kicked by
Sancho, Avas on all fours feeling about for one of the table-
knives to take a bloody revenge Avith. The canon and the
curate, hoAvever, prevented him, but the barber so contrived it
that the goatherd got Don Quixote under, and rained doAA^i upon
him such a shoAver of fisticuffs that the poor knight's face
streamed Avith blood as freely as his OAvn. The canon and the
curate Avere bursting Avith laughter, the oflicers Avere capering
Avith delight, and both the one and the other hissed them on
as they do dogs that are Avorrying one another in a fight.'
Sancho alone Avas frantic, for he could not free himself from
the grasp of one of the canon's servants, Avho kept him from
going to his master's assistance.

At last, Avhile they Avere all, Avith the exception of the two
bruisers Avho Avere mauling each other, in high glee and enjoy-
ment, they heard a trumpet sound a note so doleful that it
made them all look in the direction Avhence the sound seemed
to come. But the one that Avas most excited by hearing it Avas
Don Quixote, Avho, though sorely against his Avill he Avas under
the goatherd, and something more than pretty Avell pummelled,
said to him, " Brother devil (for it is impossible but that thou
must be one since thou hast had might ami sti-ength 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 ucav adventure." The

' Hartzenbuscli, who will neviT ailniit an tTror in taste or judgment in
Cervantes, explains the conduct of the canon and curate on this occasion
by pointing out that it was after dinner.

CHAPTER Lir. 435

goatherd, avIio was by this time tired of pummelling and l)eing
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 Avere organizing processions, rogations, and penances, im-
ploring God to open the hands of his mercy and send them
rain ; and to this end the people of a village that was hard by
were going in procession to a holy hermitage that 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 Avas 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 Avas grazing at large, and tak-
ing the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he had
him bridled in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his SAVord
he mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, and in
a loud voice exclaimed to those Avho stood by, " ]S"oav,, noble
company, ye shall see how important it is that there should be
knights in the Avorld professing the order of knight-errantry ;
now, I say, ye shall see, by the deliverance of that Avorthy lady
who is borne captive there, Avhether 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 Ave never read of llocinante
fairly galloping) set off to encounter the penitents, thougli the
curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. ])ut it
Avas out of their poAver, nor did he even stop for the shouts of
Sancho calling after him, " AVliere are you going, Seiior Don
Quixote ? What devils have possessed you to set you on against
our Catholic faith ? Plague take nie ! mind, that is a proces-
sion of penitents, and the lady they are carrying on that stand
there is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take
care Avhat you are doing, senor, for this time it may be safely
said you don't know Avhat you are about." Sancho labored in
vain, for his master Avas so bent on coming to quarters with

430 DON QUIXOTE.

these sheeted figures and releasing the lady in black that he
did not hear a wurd ; and even had he heard, he woidd not have
turned bac!: if the king had ordered him. He came up with
the procession and reined in Eociuante, 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 yoii
are not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am
about to say to you." The first to halt Avere those who were
carrying the image, and one of the four ecclesiastics who were
chanting the Litany, struck by the strange figure of Don Qui-
xote, the leanness of Eocinante, and the other ludicrous pecu-
liarities 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 reason-
able Ave should stop to hear anything, unless indeed it is short
enough to be said in two words."

" I Avill 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 shoAV plainly that ye are carrying her off
against her Avill, and that ye have committed some scandalous
outrage against her ; and I, Avho Avas l^orn into the Avorld to
redress all such like Avrongs, Avill not permit you to advance
another step initil you have restored to her the liberty she
pines for and deserves."

From these Avords all the hearers concluded that he must be
a madman, and began to laugh heartily, and their laughter
acted like gunpoAvder on Don Quixote's fury, for draAving his
sword Avithout another Avord lie made a rush at the stand.
One of those Avho supported it, leaA'ing the burden to his
comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick
that he had for propping up the stand Avhen resting, and Avith
this he caught a mighty cut Don Quixote made at him that
severed it in two ; but Avith the portion that remained in his
hand he dealt siu-h a tliAvack 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, Avho Avas coming on close behind piiffing and
bloAving, seeing him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike
him again, for he Avas a poor enchanted knight, Avho had never
harmed any one all the days of his life ; but Avliat checked
the cloAvn Avas, not Sancho's shouting, but seeing that Don

CIIAPTEU LI I. 437

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 tins time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to
where he lay ; but the processionists seeing them come run-
ninsr, and with them the officers of the Brotherliood 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
iirst 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
1)low of a stick hast ended the course of thy well-spent life !
Oh pride of thy race, honor 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 him-
self, and the first Avord he said was, " He who lives separated
from you, sweetest Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endiire
than these. Aid me, friend Sancho, to mount the enchanted
cart, for T am not in a condition to press the saddle of Eoci-
nante, as this shoulder is all knocked to pieces."

" That I will do with all my heart, senor," said Sancho ; " and

^ It is commonly said that Sancho, though he would have understood
what " isla " meant, liad no conception of the meaning of "insula," the
antiquated word for island Don Quixote always uses ; but it appears from
this that lie understood perfectly what an insula is.

438 DON QUIXOTE.

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 pre-
vails 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 hoAV 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 resig-
nation as his mastei*. 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 en-
tered 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 recognized their townsman they
were filled Avith 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 chiv-
alry ; all which was renewed when they saw Don Quixote com-
ing 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 re-
plied 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 frieud, what have you made by your squirings ?

CHAPTER HI. 439

What gown have you brought me back ? AVliat shoes for your
chilclreu ? "

" 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 every-day 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 AEan-
cha it is customary for wives to take their husl)ands' surnames.

" Don't be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa," said San-
cho ; " 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 advent-
ures. To be sure most of those one finds do not end as pleas-
antly as one could wish, for out of a hundred that one meets
with, ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it
by experience, for out of some I came blanketed, and out of
others belabored. Still, for all that, it is a fine thing to be on
the lookout for what may happen, crossing mountains, search-
ing woofls, 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, Do"!! 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

» Prov. 138.

440 DON QUIXOTE.

curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her uncle
comfortable and to keep a Avatch 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, kej)t 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 \o 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 Manclia the fact that Don Quixote, the third
time he sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Sara-
gossa, where he Avas present at some famous jousts Avhich
came off in that city, and that he had adventures there worthy
of his valor 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 physi-
cian for him who had in his possession a leaden box, Avhich,
according to his account, had been discovered among the
crumbling foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being
rebuilt ; in Avhich box Avere foiuid certain parchment manu-
scripts in Gothic character, but in Castilian verse, containing
many of his achievements, and setting forth the beauty of
Dulcinea, the form of Eocinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza,
and tlie burial of Don Quixote himself, together with sundry
epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character ; but all that
could be read and deciphered Avere those Avhich the trust-
Avorthy 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 Avhich it has cost him in
examining and searching the Manchegan ai-chives in order to
bring it to light, save that they give him the same credit that
people of sense ^ give to the books of chiA'alry that perA^ade

' One of his grieA'ances against tlie books of chivalry being that they
led astray not merely the silly, thoughtless, and uncritical, but A'ast
numbers of people who ought to know better.

CHAPTER LI I. 441

the world and are so popular ; for with this he Avili 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 YILLAfJE OK LA MANCHA,

ON THE LIFE AND 4)EATH OF DON QUIXOTE OF

LA MANCHA,

HOC S C I ; I P S E K U X T .
MOXICOXGO, ACADEMICIAX OF AliCiAMASILLA, OX THE ToMB

OF Dox Quixote.

EPITAPH.

The scatterbrain that gave La JMancha more
Rich spoils than Jason's ; who a })oint so keen
Had to his wit, and happier far had been

If his wit's weathercock a blunter l)ore;

The arm renowned far as Gaeta's shore,
Cathay, and all tiie lands that lie between;
The muse discreet and terrible in mien

As ever wrote on brass in days of yore ;

He who surpassed the Ainadises all,

And Avho 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 tliis cold stone, doth he lie.

' Whether or not this is to he held an indication of some grudge on the
part of Cervantes against the autliorities of the town, it is, at any rate,
conclusive that Don (Quixote's village, " the name of which he did not care
to call to mind," was Argamasilla. "Monicongo" may he translated
" mannikin ; " " l^iniaguado " is a sort of parasite hanging ahout the house
of a patron for such scraps as he can pick up; " Burlador " means a
joker, and " Cachidiablo " a hobgoblin. Except, perhaps, in the sonnet
on Sancho Panza, there is not much drollery or humor in these verses,
but it would not be fair to criticise them severely, as they are obviously
nothing more than a mere outljurstof reckless nonsense to finish ot¥ with ;
a sort of flourish or ruhrica like tliat commonly appended to a Spanish
signature.

442 DON QUIXOTE.

Paniaguado, Academician of Argamasilla, in Laudem
dulcine.e del toboso.

SONNET.

She, whose full features may be here descried,

High-bosonied, 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 JMontiel's famous plain :
On Rocinante oft a weary ride.
Malignant planets, cruel destiny.

Pursued them both, the fair IManohegan 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 marl)le to preserve his name.

C'APKICIIOSO, a most ACUTK ACADEMICIAN OF AkcJAMASILLA,

IN Praise ok Rocinante, Steed of Dox Quixote of
La jNIaxcha.

■ sonnet.

On that proud throne ^ of diamantine sheen.

Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade,
The mad ]\[anchegan's banner now hath been

By him in all its bravery displayed.

There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade
AVherewith, 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,

' 111 tlie second and third (.'ditions irono — "tlirone" — was changed
into ironco^ which llartzenbusch considers a blundering aUeration. I am
inclined to think, however, that he is wrong, and that what Cervantes
meant was not a diamond-studded throne, but an adamant jiillar, a trophy
in fact. But it is no great matter : the sonnet was meant for nonsense,
and is successful either wav.

cuArri:!! lit. 443

Great Quixote crowned in grim ]5elIona's hall
To-day exalts La Manclia over these,

And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head.
Kor ends his glory here, for his good steed
Doth Brillador and 15ayard 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 s(|uire upon this earthly ball
So plain and simple, or of guile so free.
AVithiii an ace of being Count was he,

And wonld have been but for the spite and gall

Of this vile age, mean and illiberal,
That can not even let a donkey be.
For mounted on an ass (excuse the word),

By Eocinante'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,

AVhom Rocinante bore
In his wanderings to and fro.

' Brillador was Orlando's horse; Bayard, Rinaldo's :

" Quel Brigliador si hello e si gagliardo
Che non ha paragon, fuorelie Baiardo."

Orlando Furtoso-i ix. (!<).

444 DUN QUIXOTE.

By the side of the knight is laid
Stolid man Sancho too,
Than whom a squire more true
Was not in the esquire trade.

TlQUITOC, ACADEMICIAI^ 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 lad}- of high degree,

With the port of a lofty dame.

And the great Don Quixote's flame,
And the pride of her village Avas she.

These were all the verses that could Vte 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 plettro." '

' Misquoted from Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, xxx. 16 :

" Forse altri cantera con miglior plettro."

Cervantes, it will be seen, leaves it very uncertain whether he means to
give a continuation of the adventures of Don Quixote or not, and here
almost seems to invite some other historian to undertake the task.

END OF VOL. 1.

YliyO

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