(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Children's Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "The ingenious gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha"

mru 



^vi4>; 



^^, 



■ifeli^illllHiiiiiiiMininnininKiinrifitnttnititirrnitiiiiiiiiaiiirTtikiiixinaiiAAAAMi 




V.T.Stoutemyer 



t^f 



V 







b 



\ 






^' 




I 



n 



5^' 



-V 



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, 

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." 









^^"^^.Vl" 






lit' 



^Y>„ 







OX^rt^^ 



J (A 



^ 



DcnRndrigc 



/"f 






JfUo 



'•.SJVvfcc 




ItziLtlA 



' oCraTVttula- 



o 

ILrraX- 



..©Taldepefiaa 

O CnlanSa, dtl K^ 




I £lf 







, ct^oWiTtt > 



HtnaQjof^^ 



|[COBi>OVA 



Bujalonce . 






SpoJuA Laa^uta 



(xci) 



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, " 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. 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, " 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, 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, " 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, 
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, " 
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 : 

" 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, 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. 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