The History of the Valorous and Witty Knight-errant Don Quixote of the Mancha

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>

giU of

Aline D. and
Morgan A. Gunst

STANFORD UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES

OF THIS BOOK ONLY ONE THOUSAND ONE HUN-
DRED AND FIFTY COPIES HAVE BEEN PRINTED.

ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE COPIES, SEP-
ARATELY IMPRINTED AND NUMBERED, HAVE
BEEN SOLD FOR PUBLICATION IN GREAT
BRITAIN.

THERE ARE OFFERED FOR SALE IN THE
UNITED STATES

ON IMPERIAL JAPAN PAPER, ONE HUNDRED
AND FORTY COPIES, NUMBERED I-I4O, WITH
TWO ADDITIONAL FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS,
AND WITH EXTRA PRINTS, BEFORE LETTER,
OF ALL THE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

ON DECKEL-EDGED PAPER, EIGHT HUNDRED
AND FORTY-FIVE COPIES NUMBERED I4I-985.

NO

.JlM.

DON QUIXOTE

OF
THE MANCHA

i/'m,3.„jx,f,'fi«,^,-j /', //-■ ^f„/

I
• I

THE HISTORY OF THE VALOROUS
AND WITTY KNIGHT-ERRANT

DON QUIXOTE

OF THE MANCHA
BY

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES Sac^^-!^"^

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS SHELTON
THE ILLUSTRATIONS BY

DANIEL VIERGE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ROYAL CORTISSOZ
IN FOUR VOLUMES VOLUME III

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
M C M V I I

rt r

t .'

! . ^J

COPYRIGHT, 1907
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER's SONS

Tit's ediHon h made for the Umted States and Great Britain
mud her Colonies and its sate is expressly forbidden in France
and her Colonies and the Countries of Belgium and Switzerland.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME III

PAGE

Dedication to Part II, xvii

The Author's Prologue to the Reader, . . xix

THE SECOND PART

CHAPTER

I How the Vicar and the Barber passed their
time with Don Quixote, touching his Infir-
mity, 5

II Of the Notable Fray that Sancho Panza had
with the Niece and the Old Woman, and
other delightful Passages, . . . . 21

III The ridiculous Discourse that passed betwixt

Don Quixote, Sancho, and the Bachelor Sam-
son Carrasco, 3o

IV How Sancho Panza satisfies the Bachelor Sam-

son Carrasco's Doubts and Demands, with
other Accidents worthy to be known and
related, 40

V Of the wise and pleasant Discourse that passed
betwixt Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa
Panza, and other Accidents worthy of happy

remembrance, 49

ix

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

VI What passed betwixt Don Quixote, his Niece,
and the Old Woman; and it is one of the
most material chapters in all the History, 58

VII What passed betwixt Don Quixote and his

Squire, with other most famous Accidents, 66

VIII What befel Don Quixote going to see his

Mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, . . 77

IX Where is set down as followeth, ... 88

X How Sancho cunningly enchanted the Lady
Dulcinea, and other Successes, as ridicu-
lous as true, 97

XI Of the strange Adventure that befel Don
Quixote, with the Cart or Waggon of the
Parliament of Death, . . . . no

XII Of the rare Adventure that befel Don Quixote

with the Knight of the Looking-glasses, . 1 20

XIII Where the Adventure of the Knight of the

Wood is prosecuted, with the discreet, rare,
and sweet Colloquy that passed betwixt the
two Squires, 1 3o

XIV How the Adventure of the Knight of the

Wood is prosecuted, . . . . i38

XV Who the Knight of the Looking-glasses and

his Squire were, 1 54

XVI What befel Don Quixote with a discreet Gen-
tleman of Mancha, 1 58

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XVII Where is showed the last and extremest Haz-
ard to which the unheard-of courage of
Don Quixote did or could arrive, with the
prosperous accomplishment of the Adven-
ture of the Lions, . . . . . 172

XVIII What happened to Don Quixote in the Castle,
or Knight of the Green Cassock his house,
with other extravagant Matters, . . 188

XIX Of the Adventure of the Enamoured Shep-
herd, with other (indeed) pleasant Acci-
dents, . . . . . . . 199

XX Of the Marriage of rich Camacho, and the

Success of poor Basilius, . . . 209

XXI Of the prosecution of Camacho's Marriage,

with other delightful Accidents, . . 222

XXII Of the famous Adventure of Montesinos'
Cave, which is in the heart of Mancha,
which the valorous Don Quixote happily
accomplished, 282

XXIII Of the admirable things that the unparalleled

Don Quixote recounted, which he had seen
in Montesinos' profound Cave, whose
strangeness and impossibility makes this
Chapter be held for Apocrypha, . . 244

XXIV Where are recounted a thousand Flim-flams,

as impertinent as necessary to the under-
standing of this famous History, . . 259

XI

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XXV Of the Adventure of the braying, and the
merry one of the Puppet-man, with the
memorable soothsaying of the prophesy-
ing Ape, 267

XXVI Of the delightful Passage of the Puppet-Play ,

and other Pleasant Matters, . . . 280

XXVII Who Master Peter and his Ape were, with
the ill success that Don Quixote had in the
Adventure of the Braying, which ended not
so well as he would, or thought for, . 294

XXVIII Of things that Benengeli relates, which he

that reads shall know, if he read them with
attention, . . . . . . 3o5

XXIX Of the famous Adventure of the Enchanted

Bark, . . . . . . . 814

XXX What happened to Don Quixote with the fair

Huntress, 325

XXXI That treats of many and great Affairs, . 333

XXXII Of Don Quixote's answer to his Reprehender,

with other Successes as wise as witty, . 347

XXXIII Of the wholesome Discourse that passed be-

twixt the Duchess and her Damosels, with
Sancho Panza, worthy to beread and noted, 365

XXXIV How notice is given for the disenchanting of

the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, which
is one of the most famous Adventures in all
this Book, 375

■ •

xu

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
OF VOLUME III

PAGE

Don Quixote Comes to the Vent . Frontispiece vi
Don Quixote's Niece and Housekeeper Adjured to

Cherish Him ....... 5

The Vicar and the Barber Visit Don Quixote . 7

The Parable of the Madman ..... 14

Sancho Strives to Reach His Master . 21

The Vicar 23

Cid Hamet Benengeli 25

The Bachelor Samson Carrasco Salutes Don Quixote 3o

The Bachelor's Repast 38

Rozinante Calls His Master to Arms ... 40

The Stealing of Dapple 43

Sancho's Wife Teresa 5 1

The Fall of the Knight-Errant .... 58

Sancho at His Master's Door 64

Don Quixote's Housekeeper Appeals to Samson Car-
rasco 66

Samson Carrasco Offers to Help Don Quixote . 71

The Goodly City of Toboso 77

Rome • . • . . . . . . 81

Don Quixote Awaits Sancho's Return from His Em-
bassy to Dulcinea 88

• • •
XUl

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Entering Toboso ....

The Ploughman Interrogated .

The False Dulcinea Dismounted

Sancho Beseeches the Country Wenches

The Fool with the Bladders

The Players Make Ready to Receive Don Quixote

Sancho Talks with the Squire of the Wood

The Surprise Beneath the Oak

Sancho Refreshed

The Squire of the Wood

The Knight of the Looking-Glasses Unhorsed .

The Long Nose Explained ....

Don Quixote Rejoices Over His Great Victory

Don Quixote Continues in Joyous Mood .

Don Diego de Miranda Rides with Don Quixote

The Lion Cart

The Mishap of the Curds

Don Quixote and the Lion

Don Quixote Welcomed by the

Mother
Corchuelo and the Parson
The Duel
Sancho in Luck
The Garland Dance.
Wedding Fare

Acclaiming Camacho and His Bride
Don Quixote Guided by the Scholar
Don Quixote Slashes the Birds at Montesinos' Cave
Supper at the Cave's Mouth
A Message from Dulcinea

Scholar Poet and His

PAGE

89
93

97
o3

i5

18

20

23

3o
38

49

52

55
58
65
72

75
81

89

99
2o5

209

2l5
222
225
232
239
242
244

XIV

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Montesinos ......

Durandarte

By Hill and Valley .

The Aldermen Braying for the Lost Ass .

Melisendra Evilly Treated

Don Gayferos Rescues His Wife

Don Quixote Falls Upon the Puppets

Emperor Charlemain and King Marsilius Undone

Sancho in Sad Case ....

Master Peter and His Ape

Don Quixote Retires Before the Squadron

Master and Man Repose ....

Sancho Overcome by His Bat-Blows

Rozinante and Dapple Deserted

Don Quixote and Sancho Saved by the Millers

The Enchanted Bark ....

Sancho Kneels to the Fair Huntress

Sancho, Betrayed, Betrays His Master to a Fall

The Duke's Table

Don Quixote Unarmed by the Six Damsels
Don Quixote Dressed for the Feast .
The Damsels Wash Don Quixote
Sancho Before the Duchess
The Boar Hunt

PAGE

247

249

263

269

280

282

285

288

294

297

3oi

3o5

307

3i4

3i9

322

325

329

333

337

341

35i

367

377

XV

[The Publisher's Dedication to This Translation of Part II]

To the Right Honourable

GEORGE, MARQUIS BUCKINGHAM,

VISCOUNT VILLIERS,

Baron of Whaddon ; Lord High Admiral of England; Justice
in Eyre of all His Majesty's Forests, Parks ^and Chases
beyond Trent; Master of the Horse to His Majesty^
aftd One of the Gentlemen of His Majesty's Bed-
chamber; Knight of the Most Noble Order
of the Garter; and One of His Majes-
ty's Most Honourable Privy Coun-
cil of England and Scotland

Right Noble Lord, —

YOUR humble servant hath observed, in the multitude
of books that have passed his hands, no small variety
of dedications, and those severally sorted to their
presenters' end: some for the mere ambition of great names;
others for the desire or need of protection ; many to win friends,
and so favour and opinion; but most for the more sordid re-
spect, gain. This humbly offers into your Lordship's presence
writh none of these deformities; but as a bashful stranger,
newly arrived in English, having originally had the fortune to
be born commended to a Grandee of Spain, and, by the way
of translation, the grace to kiss the hands of a great lady of
France, could not despair of less courtesy in the Court of Great
Britian than to be received of your Lordship's delight, his
study being to sweeten those short starts of your retirement
from public affairs which so many so unseasonably, even to
molestation, trouble.

By him who most truly honours, and humbly professes all
duties to your Lordship, Ed. Blount.

xvii

THE AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE TO

THE READER

N^ OW God defend, reader, noble or plebeian, whatever
thou art! how earnestly must thou needs by this
time expect this prologue, supposing that thou
must find in it nothing but revenge, brawling, and railing
upon the author of the Second Don Quixote, of whom I only
say as others say, that he was begot in Tordesillas, and born
in Tarragona ! The truth is, herein I mean not to give thee
content. Let it be never so general a rule that injuries awaken
and rouse up choler in humble breasts, yet in mine must this
rule admit an exception. Thou, it may be, wouldst have me
be-ass him, be-madman him, and be-fool him; but no such
matter can enter into my thought; no, let his own rod whip
him; as he hath brewed, so let him bake; elsewhere he shall
have it: and yet there is somewhat which I cannot but re-
sent, and that is, that he exprobates unto me my age and my
maim,' as if it had been in my power to hold time back,
that so it should not pass upon me, or if my maim had befal-
len me in a tavern, and not upon the most famous occasion*
which either the ages past or present have seen, nor may

' He lost one of his hands. ' At the battle of Lepanto.

xix

DON QUIXOTE

the times to come look for the like. If my wounds shine not in
the eyes of such as behold them, yet shall they be esteemed
at least in the judgment of such as know how they were
gotten. A soldier had rather be dead in the battle than free
by running away; and so is it with me, that should men set
before me and facilitate an impossibility, I should rather
have desired to have been in that prodigious action than
now to be in a whole skin free from my scars for not hav-
ing been in it. The scars which a soldier shows in his face
and breast are stars which lead others to the heaven of hon-
our, and to the desire of just praise: and beside, it may be
noted that it is not so much men's pens which write as
their judgments; and these use to be bettered with years.
Nor am I insensible of his calling me envious, and describing
me as an ignorant. What envy may be, I vow seriously that,
of those two sorts that are, I skill not but of that holy, noble,
and ingenious envy, which being so as it is, I have no mean-
ing to abuse any priest, especially if he hath annexed unto him
the title of Familiar of the Inquisition; and if he said so, as
it seems by this second author that he did, he is utterly de-
ceived; for I adore his wit, admire his works and his con-
tinual virtuous employment. And yet in effect I cannot but
thank this sweet signior author for saying that my novels
are more satiric than exemplar; and that yet they are good,
which they could not be were they not so quite thorough.
It seems thou tellest me that I write somewhat limited and
obscurely, and contain myself within the bounds of my mod-
esty, as knowing that a man ought not add misery to him
that is afflicted, which doubtless must needs be very great
in this signior, since he dares not appear in open field in the
light, but conceals his name, feigns his country, as if he had

XX

AUTHORS S PROLOGUE

committed some treason against his King. Well, if thou
chance to light upon him and know him, tell him from me
that I hold myself no whit aggrieved at him; for I well know
what the temptations of the devil are ; and one of the great-
est is when he puts into a man's head that he is able to com-
pose and print a book, whereby he shall gain as much fame
as money, and as much money as fame; for confirmation
hereof, I entreat thee, when thou art disposed to be merry
and pleasant, to tell him this tale.

There was a madman in Seville which hit upon one of
the prettiest absurd tricks that ever madman in this world
lighted on, which was: he made him a cane sharp at one
end, and then catching a dog in the street, or elsewhere,
he held fast one of the dog's legs under his foot, and the
other he held up with his hand. Then, fitting his cane as
well as he could behind, he fell a-blowing till he made the
dog as round as a ball; and then, holding him still in the same
manner, he gave him two claps with his hand on the belly,
and so let him go, saying to those which stood by (which
always were many), *How think you, my masters, is it a
small matter to blow up a dog like a bladder?' And how
think you, is it a small matter to make a book ? If this tale
should not fit him, then, good reader, tell him this other, for
this also is of a madman and a dog. In Cordova was an-
other madman, which was wont to carry on his head a
huge piece of marble, not of the lightest, who, meeting a mas-
terless dog, would stalk up close to him, and on a sudden down
with his burden upon him; the dog would presently yearn,
and barking and yelling run away; three streets could not
hold him. It fell out afterwards, among other dogs upon
whom he let fall his load, there was a capper's dog, which

xxi

DON QUIXOTE

his master made great account of, upon whom he let down
his great stone and took him full on the head: the poor
battered cur cries pitifully; his master spies it, and, affected
with it, gets a meteyard, assaults the madman, and leaves
him not a whole bone in his skin; and at every blow that he
gave him he cries out, *Thou dog, thou thief! my spaniel !
Saw'st thou not, thou cruel villain, that my dog was a spaniel?'
And ever and anon repeating still *his spaniel,' he sent away
the madman all black and blue. The madman was terribly
scared herewith, but got away, and for more than a month
after never came abroad: at last out he comes with his in-
vention again, and a bigger load than before; and coming
where the dog stood, viewing him over and over again very
heedily, he had no mind, he durst not let go the stone, but
only said, * Take heed, this is a spaniel.' In fine, whatsoever
dogs he met, though they were mastiffs or fisting-hounds, he
still said they were spaniels. So that after that he never
durst throw his great stone any more. And who knows but
the same may befal this our historian, that he will no more
let fall the weight of his wit in books? for in being naught,
they are harder than rocks.

Tell him too, that for his menacing that with his book he
will take away all my gain, I care not a straw for him ; but, be-
taking myself to the famous interlude of Perendenga, I answer
him, *Let the old man my master live, and Christ be with us
all.' Long live the great Conde de Lemos, whose Christianity
and well-known liberality against all the blows of my short
fortune keeps me on foot; and long live that eminent charity
of the Cardinal of Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojus !
Were there no printing in the world, or were there as many
books printed against me as there are letters in the rhymes of

xxii

AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE

Mingo Revulgo, those two princes, without any solicitation of
flattery or any other kind of applause, of their sole bounty have
taken upon them to do me good, and to favour me; wherein I
account myself more happy and rich than if Fortune, by some
other ordinary way, had raised me to her highest honour. A
poor man may have it, but a vicious man cannot. Poverty
may cast a mist upon nobleness, but cannot altogether obscure
it; but, as the glimmering of any light of itself, though but
through narrow chinks and crannies, comes to be esteemed by
high and noble spirits, and consequently favoured. Say no
more to him, nor will I say any more to thee; but only adver-
tise that thou consider that this Second Part ofTion Quixote,
which I offer thee, is framed by the same art and cut out of
the same cloth that the first was. In it I present thee with
Don Quixote enlarged, and at last dead and buried, that so no
man presume to raise any further reports of him; those that
are past are enow ; and let it suffice that an honest man may
have given notice of these discreet follies, with purpose not to
enter into them any more. For plenty of anything, though
never so good, makes it less esteemed; and scarcity, though of
evil things, makes them somewhat accounted of. I forgot to
tell thee that thou mayst expect PersileSj which I am now
about to finish; as also the Second Part of Galatea.

XXlll

THE HISTORY OF THE VALOROUS

AND WITTY KNIGHT-ERRANT

DON QUIXOTE OF THE

MANCHA

THE SECOND PART

CHAPTER I

HOW THE VICAR AND THE BARBER PASSED THEIR

TIME WITH DON QUIXOTE, TOUCHING

HIS INFIRMITY

CID Hamet Benengeli tells us in the Second Part of
this History, and Don Quixote his third sally, that
the vicar and barber were almost a whole month
without seeing him, because they would not renew and bring
to his remembrance things done and past. Notwithstanding,
they forbore not to visit his niece and the old woman, charg-
ing them they should be careful to cherish him, and to give
5

DON QUIXOTE

him comforting meats to eat, good for his heart and brain,
from whence in likelihood all his ill proceeded. They an-
swered that they did so, and would do it, with all possible
love and care, for they perceived that their master continually
gave signs of being in his entire judgment; at which the two
received great joy, and thought they took the right course
when they brought him enchanted in the ox-wain (as has been
declared in the First Part of this so famous as punctual His-
tory). So they determined to visit him, and make some trial
of his amendment, which they thought was impossible; and
agreed not to touch upon any point of knight-errantry, because
they would not endanger the ripping up of a sore whose
stitches made it yet tender.

At length they visited him, whom they found set up in his
bed, clad in a waistcoat of green baize, on his head a red
Toledo bonnet, so dried and withered up as if his flesh had been
mummied. He welcomed them, and they asked him touching
his health: of it and himself he gave them good account, with
much judgment and elegant phrase, and in process of discourse
they fell into State matters, and manner of government, cor-
recting this abuse and condemning that; reforming one cus-
tom and rejecting another, each of the three making himself
a new law-maker, a modern Lycurgus, and a spick-and-span
new Solon; and they so refined the Commonwealth as if they
had clapped it into a forge, and drawn it out in another fash-
ion than they had put it in. Don Quixote in all was so dis-
creet that the two examiners undoubtedly believed he was
quite well and in his right mind. The niece and the old
woman were present at this discourse, and could never give
God thanks enough, when they saw their master with so good
understanding. But the vicar, changing his first intent, which

6

DON QUIXOTE'S ADVICE

was not to meddle in matters of cavallery, would now make
a thorough trial of Don Quixote's perfect recovery ; and so now
and then tells him news from court, and, amongst others, that
It was given out for certain that the Turk was come down
with a powerful army, that his design was not known, nor
where such a cloud would discharge itself, and that all Christen-
dom was affrighted with this terror he puts us in with his
yearly alarm ; likewise, that his Majesty had made strong the
coasts of Naples, Sicily, and Malta. To this said Don
Quixote, ^ His Majesty hath done like a most politic warrior,
in looking to his dominions in time, lest the enemy might take
him at unawares; but, if my counsel might prevail, I would
advise him to use a prevention which he is far from thinking
on at present/ The vicar scarce heard this, when he thought
with himself, ^God defend thee, poor Don Quixote! for me-
thinks thou fallest headlong from the high-top of thy madness
into the profound bottom of thy simplicity.' But the barber
presently, being of the vicar's mind, asks Don Quixote what
advice it was he would give; 'for per ad venture,' said he, 'it
is such an one as may be put in the roll of those many idle ones
that are usually given to princes.' 'Mine, goodman shaver,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'is no such.' 'I spoke not to that in-
tent,' replied the barber, ' but that it is commonly seen that
all or the most of your projects that are given to his Majesty
are either impossible or frivolous, either in detriment of the
king or kingdom.' 'Well, mine,' quoth Don Quixote, 'is
neither impossible nor frivolous, but the plainest, the justest,
the most manageable and compendious that may be contained
in the thought of any projector.' 'You are long a-telling us
it, Master Don Quixote,' said the vicar. 'I would not,' re-
plied he, ' tell it you here now, that it should be early to-mor-

9

DON QUIXOTE

row in the ears of some privy councillor, and that another should
reap the praise and reward of my labour/ *For me/ quoth
the barber, 'I pass my word, here and before God, to tell
neither king nor keisar, nor any earthly man, what you say, —
an oath learned out of the Ballad of the Vicar, in the Preface
whereof he told the king of the thief that robbed him of his
two hundred double pistolets and his gadding mule/ ' I know
not your histories,' said Don Quixote ; ^ but I presume the oath
is good, because master barber is an honest man.' *If he
were not,' said the vicar, * I would make it good, and under-
take for him that he shall be dumb in this business upon pain
of excommunication.' 'And who shall undertake for you,
master vicar?' quoth Don Quixote. *My profession,' an-
swered he, * which is to keep counsel.' ' Body of me ! ' said Don
Quixote, * is there any more to be done then, but that the king
cause proclamation to be made that at a prefixed day all the
knights-errant that rove up and down Spain repair to the
court ? and if there came but half a dozen, yet such an one
there might be amongst them as would destroy all the Turk's
power. Hearken to me, ho! and let me take you with me:
do you think it is strange that one knight-errant should con-
quer an army of two hundred thousand fighting-men, as if all
together had but one throat, or were made of sugar pellets ?
But tell me, how many stories are full of those marvels ? You
should have brave Don Belianis alive now, with a pox to me,
for ril curse no other; or some one of that invincible lineage
of Amadis de Gaul ; for if any of these were living at this day,
and should affront the Turk, i' faith I would not be in his coat.
But God will provide for His people, and send some one, if not
so brave a knight-errant as those formerly, yet at least that
shall not be inferior in courage; and God knows my meaning,

lO

THE BARBER'S PARABLE

and I say no more/ ^ Alas! ' quoth the niece at this instant,

* hang me, if my master have not a desire to turn knight-errant
again/ Then cried Don Quixote, ^I must die so; march the
Turk up and down when he will, and as powerfully as he can —
I say again, God knows my meaning/ Then said the barber,

* Good sirs, give me leave to tell you a brief tale of an accident
in Seville, which because it falls out so pat, I must tell it/
Don Quixote was willing, the vicar and the rest gave their at-
tention, and thus he began:

* In the house of the madmen at Seville, there was one
put in there by his kindred, to recover him of his lost wits;
he was a bachelor of law, graduated in the Canons at Osuna,
and though he had been graduated at Salamanca, yet, as many
are of opinion, he would have been mad there too. This
bachelor, after some years' imprisonment, made it appear
that he was well and in his right wits, and to this purpose
writes to the archbishop, desiring him earnestly and with
forcible reasons to deliver him from that misery in which he
lived, since by God's mercy he had now recovered his lost
understanding; and that his kindred, only to get his wealth,
had kept him there, and so meant to hold him still, wrong-
fully, till his death. The archbishop, induced by many sen-
sible and discreet lines of his, commanded one of his chap-
lains to inform himself from the rector of the house of the
truth, and to speak also with the madman, that if he per-
ceived he was in his wits he should give him his liberty. The
chaplain did this, and the rector said that the party was still
mad; that although he had sometimes fair intermissions, yet
in the end he would grow to such a raving as might equal
his former discretion, as he told him he might perceive by
discoursing with him. The chaplain would needs make trial,

II

DON QUIXOTE

and, coming to him, talked with him an hour or more; and
in all that time the madman never gave him a cross nor
wild answer, but rather spoke so advisedly, that the chaplain
was forced to believe him to be sensible enough; and, amongst
the rest, he told him the rector had an inkling against him,
because he would not lose his kindred's presents, that he
might say he was mad by fits. Withal he said that his wealth
was the greatest wrong to him in his evil fortune, since to
enjoy that his enemies defrauded him, and would doubt of
God's mercy to him that had turned him from a beast to a
man. Lastly, he spoke so well that he made the rector to
be suspected, and his kindred thought covetous and damnable
persons, and himself so discreet that the chaplain determined
to have him with him, that the archbishop might see him,
and be satisfied of the truth of the business. With this good
belief the chaplain required the rector to give the bachelor
the clothes he brought with him thither. Who replied, desir-
ing him to consider what he did, for that the party was still
mad. But the rector's advice prevailed nothing with the chap-
lain to make him leave him; so he was forced to give way to
the archbishop's order, and to give him his apparel, which was
new and handsome. And when the madman saw himself civ-
illy clad, and madman's weeds off, he requested the chaplain
that in charity he would let him take his leave of the madmen
his companions. The chaplain told him that he would like-
wise accompany him, and see the madmen that were in the
house. So up they went, and with them some others there
present, and the bachelor being come to a kind of cage,
where an outrageous madman lay, although as then still and
quiet, he said, ^* Brother, if you will command me aught, I
am going to hiy house; for now it hath pleased God of His

12

THE BARBER'S PARABLE

infinite goodness and mercy, without my desert, to bring me
to my right mind. I am now well and sensible, for unto
God's power nothing is impossible. Be of good comfort;
trust in Him, that since He hath turned me to my former
estate, He will do the like to you, if you trust in him. I
will be careful to send you some dainty to eat, and by any
means eat it; for let me tell you what I know by experience,
that all our madness proceeds from the emptiness of our
stomachs, that fills our brains with air. Take heart, take
heart; for this dejecting in misery lessens the health, and
hastens death." Another madman in a cage over against
heard all the bachelor's discourse, and raising himself upon
an old mattress, upon which he lay stark naked, asked aloud
who it was that was going away sound and in his wits. The
bachelor replied, " It is I, brother, that am going, for I have
no need to stay here any longer; for which I render infinite
thanks to God, that hath done me so great a favour.'' "Take
heed what you say, bachelor," replied the madman; "let
not the devil deceive you ; keep still your foot, and be quiet
here at home, and so you may save a bringing back." " I
know," quoth the bachelor, " I am well, and shall need to
walk no more stations hither." " You're well ?" said the
madman : " the event will try ! God be with you ; but I swear
to thee by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that
for this day's offence I will eat up all Seville for delivering thee
from hence, and saying thou art in thy wits ; I will take such
a punishment on this city as shall be remembered for ever and
ever. Amen. Knowest not thou, poor rascal bachelor, that I
can do it, since, as I say, I am thundering Jupiter, that carry
in my hands the scorching bolts with which I can and use to
threaten and destroy the world ? But in one thing only will I

i3

The Parable of the Madman

chastise this ignorant town, which is that for three years
together there shall fall no rain about it, nor the liberties
thereof, counting from this time and instant henceforward that
this threat hath been made. Thou free, thou sound, thou
wise? and I mad, I sick, I bound? As sure will I rain as I
mean to hang myself." The standers-by gave attention to the
madman ; but our bachelor, turning to the chaplain and taking
him by the hand, said, " Be not afraid, sir, nor take any heed
to this madman's words; for if he be Jupiter, and will not rain,
I that am Neptune, the father and god of the waters, will rain
as oft as I list and need shall require." To which quoth the
chaplain, "Nay, Master Neptune, it were not good angering
Master Jupiter. I pray stay you here still, and some other
time, at more leisure and opportunity, we will return for you

DON QUIXOTE^S REPLY

again/' The rector and standers-by began to laugh, and the
chaplain began to be half abashed ; the bachelor was unclothed,
there remained; and there the tale ends/

* Well, IS this the tale, master barber,' quoth Don Quixote,
* that because it fell out so pat you could not but relate it ? Ah,
goodman shavester, goodman shavester ! how blind is he that
sees not light through the bottom of a meal-sieve ! and is it
possible that you should not know that comparisons made be-
twixt wit and wit, valour and valour, beauty and beauty, and
betwixt birth and birth, are always odious, and ill-taken ? I
am not Neptune, god of the waters, neither care I who thinks
me a wise man, I being none; only I am troubled to let the
world understand the error it is in, in not renewing that most
happy age in which the order of knight-errantry did flourish.
But our depraved times deserve not to enjoy so great a happi-
ness as former ages, when knights-errant undertook the defence
of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the succouring of or-
phans, the chastising the proud, the reward of the humble.
Most of your knights nowadays are such as rustle in their silks,
their cloth of gold and silver ; and such rich stuff^s as these they
wear rather than mail, with which they should arm themselves.
You have no knight now that will lie upon the bare ground,
subject to the rigour of the air, armed cap-a-pie; none now that
upright on his stirrups, and leaning on his lance, strives to .
behead sleep, as they say your knights-errant did. You have
none now that, coming out of this wood, enters into that moun-
tain, and from thence tramples over a barren and desert shore
of the sea, most commonly stormy and unquiet; and finding
at the brink of it some little cock-boat, without oars, sail, mast,
or any kind of tackling, casts himself into it with undaunted
courage, yields himself to the implacable waves of the deep

i5

DON QUIXOTE

main, that now toss him as high as heaven and then cast him
as low as hell ; and he, exposed to the inevitable tempest, when
he least dreams of it, finds himself at least three thousand
leagues distant from the place where he embarked himself, and
leaping on a remote and unknown shore, lights upon successes
worthy to be written in brass and not parchment. But now
sloth triumphs upon industry, idleness on labour, vice on vir-
tue, presumption on valour, the theory on the practice of arms,
which only lived and shined in those golden ages and in those
knights-errant. If not, tell me who was more virtuous, more
valiant than the renowned Amadis de Gaul ; more discreet than
Palmerin of England; more affable and free than Tirante the
White; more gallant than Lisuart of Greece; a greater hack-
ster, or more hacked, than Don Belianis ; more undaunted than
Perian of Gaul ; who a greater undertaker of dangers than
Felismarte of Hircania; who more sincere than Esplandian;
who more courteous than Don Cierongilio of Thracia; who
more fierce than Rodomant; who wiser than King Sobrinus;
who more courageous than Renaldo ; who more invincible than
Roldan; who more comely or more courteous than Rogero,
from whom the Dukes of Ferrara at this day are descended,
according to Turpin in his Cosmography ? All these knights,
and many more, master vicar, that I could tell you, were
knights-errant, the very light and glory of knighthood. These,
or such as these, are they I wish for; which if it could be, his
Majesty would be well served, and might save a great deal of
expense, and the Turk might go shake his ears; and there-
fore let me tell you, I scorn to keep my house, since the chap-
lain delivers me not, and his Jupiter, as goodman barber
talks, rains not; here am I that will rain when I list: this I
speak that goodman Bason may know I understand him.'

i6

KNIGHTS-ERRANT DESCRIBED

* Truly, Master Don Quixote/ said the barber, *I spoke it
not to that end ; and so help me God as I meant well, and you
ought not to resent anything/ ^ I know well enough whether
I ought or no, sir,' replied Don Quixote. Then quoth the
vicar, * Well, go to ; I have not spoken a word hitherto; I would
not willingly remain with one scruple which doth grate and
gnaw upon my conscience, sprung from what Master Don
Quixote hath here told us/ 'For this and much more you
have full liberty, good master vicar,' said Don Quixote, 'and
therefore tell your scruple, for sure it is no pleasure to con-
tinue with a scrupulous conscience.' 'Under correction,'
quoth the vicar, 'this it is: I can by no means be persuaded
that all that troop of knights-errant which you named were
ever true and really persons of flesh and bone in this world;
I rather imagine all is fiction, tales and lies, or dreams set
down by men waking, or, to say trulier, by men half-asleep.'
'There's another error,' quoth Don Quixote, 'into which
many have fallen, who believe not that there have been such
knights in the world; and I myself, many times, in divers
companies, and upon several occasions, have laboured to show
this common mistake, but sometimes have failed in my purpose,
at others not, — supporting it upon the shoulders of Truth,
which is so infallible that I may say that with these very eyes
I have beheld Amadis de Gaul, who was a goodly tall man,
well-complexioned, had a broad beard and black, an equal
countenance betwixt mild and stern, a man of small discourse,
slow to anger, and soon appeased; and, just as I have delineated
Amadis, I might in my judgment paint and decipher out as
many knights-errant as are in all the histories of the world ;
for, by apprehending they were such as their histories report
them, by their exploits they did and their qualities, their fea-

17

DON QUIXOTE

tures, colours, and statures may in good philosophy be guess-
ed at.' * How big, dear Master Don Quixote,' quoth the bar-
ber, * might giant Morgante be ? '

'Touching giants,' quoth Don Quixote, * there be different
opinions whether there have been any or no in the world ; but
the holy Scripture, which cannot err a jot in the truth, doth
show us plainly that there were, telling us the story of that
huge Philistine Golias, that was seven cubits and a half high,
which is an unmeasurable greatness. Besides, in the Isle of
Sicilia there have been found shank-bones and shoulder-bones
so great that their bigness showed their owners to have been
giants, and as huge as high towers, which geometry will make
good. But, for all this, I cannot easily tell you how big Mor-
gante was, though I suppose he was not very tall ; to which
opinion I incline, because I find in his history, where there is
particular mention made of his acts, that many times he lay
under a roof; and therefore, since he found an house that
would hold him, 'tis plain he could not be of extraordinary
bigness.'

' 'Tis true,' quoth the vicar, who, delighting to hear him
talk so wildly, asked him what he thought of the faces of Ren-
aldo of Mont-alban, Don Roldan, and the rest of the twelve
peers of France, who were all knights-errant. ' For Ren-
aldo,' quoth Don Quixote, ' I dare boldly say, he was broad-
faced, his complexion high, quick and fiill-eyed, very excep-
tious and extremely choleric, a lover of thieves and debauched
company. Touching Rolando, or Rotolando, or Orlando —
for histories afford him all these names — I am of opinion and
affirm that he was of a mean stature, broad-shouldered, some-
what bow-legged, auburn-bearded, his body hairy, and his looks
threatening, dull of discourse, but affable and well-behaved.'

i8

ANGELICA

*If Orlando,' said the vicar, *was so sweet a youth as you
describe him, no marvel though the fair Angelica disdained
him and left him for the handsome, brisk, and conceited beard-
budding Medor, and that she had rather have his softness than
toother's roughness/ 'That Angelica,' quoth Don Quixote,
*was a light housewife, a gadder, and a wanton, and left the
world as full of her fopperies as the reports of her beauty; she
despised a thousand knights, a thousand both valiant and dis-
creet, and contented herself with a poor beardless page, with-
out more wealth or honour than what her famous singer Ariosto
could give her, in token of his thankfulness to his friend's love,
either because he durst not in this respect, or because he would
not chant what befel this lady, after her base prostitution, for
sure her carriage was not very honest. So he left her when
he said, —

" And how Cataya's sceptre she had at will,
Perhaps some one will write with better quill."

And undoubtedly this was a kind of prophecy, for poets are
called pates — that is, soothsayers — and this truth hath been
clearly seen, for since that time a famous Andalusian poet
wept and sung her tears, and another famous and rare poet
of Castile her beauty.' ' But tell me. Master Don Quixote,'
quoth the barber, 'was there ever any poet that wrote a satire
against this fair lady, amongst those many that have written in
her praise?' 'I am well persuaded,' quoth Don Quixote,
* that if Sacripant or Orlando had been poets they had trounced
the damosel ; for it is an ordinary thing amongst poets once
disdained or not admitted by their feigned mistresses (feigned
indeed, because they feign they love them) to revenge them-
selves with satires and libels, — a revenge truly unworthy noble
spirits ; but hitherto I have not heard of any infamatory verse

19

DON QUIXOTE

against the lady Angelica, that hath made any hurly burly
in the world.' * Strange!' quoth the vicar. With that they
might hear the niece and the old woman, who were before
gone from them, keep a noise without in the court, so they
went to see what was the matter.

20

CHAPTER II

OF THE NOTABLE FRAY THAT SANCHO PANZA HAD

WITH THE NIECE AND THE OLD WOMAN,

AND OTHER DELIGHTFUL PASSAGES

THE Story says, that the noise which Don Quixote, the
vicar, and the barber heard was of the niece and the
old woman, that were rating Sancho Panza, that
strove with them for entrance to see Don Quixote, who kept
the door against him. *What will this bloodhound have

DON QUIXOTE

here?' said they; *get you home to your own house, for you
are he, and none else, that doth distract and ringlead our mas-
ter, and carry him astray/ To which quoth Sancho, ' Woman
of Satan, I am he that is distracted, ringled, and carried astray,
and not your master ; 'twas he that led me up and down the
world and you deceive yourselves and understand by halves.
He drew me from my house with his conycatching, promising
me an island, which I yet hope for/ ' A plagueof your islands,'
replied the niece, ' cursed Sancho ! And what be your islands ?
is it anything to eat, goodman glutton, you cormorant, as you
are ? ' * 'Tis not to eat,' quoth Sancho, * but to rule and govern,
better than four cities, or four of the king's judges.' * For all
that,' said the old woman, 'you come not in here, you bundle
of mischief and sack of wickedness : get you home and govern
there, and sow your grain, and leave seeking after islands or
dilands.' The vicar and the barber took great delight to hear
this dialogue between the three ; but Don Quixote, fearing lest
Sancho should out with all, and should blunder out a company
of malicious fooleries, or should touch upon points that might
not be for his reputation, he called him to him, and command-
ed the women to be silent, and to let him in. Sancho entered,
and the vicar and barber took leave of Don Quixote, of whose
recovery they despaired, seeing how much he was bent upon
his wild thoughts, and how much he was besotted with his
damned knights-errant. ' So,' quoth the vicar to the barber,
'you shall quickly, gossip, perceive, when we least think of it,
that our gallant takes his flight again by the river.' *No
doubt,' said the barber; 'but I wonder not so much at the
knight's madness, as the squire's simplicity, that believes so in
the islands, and I think all the art in the world will not drive
that out of his noddle.' 'God mend them,' said the vicar,

22

I.

* and let us expect what issue the multitude of this knight and
squire's absurdities will have; for it seems they were both
framed out of one forge, as it were, for the master's madness,
without the servant's folly, is not worth a chip.* ''Tis true,'
said the barber, 'and I should be glad to know their present
discourse.' 'I warrant,' said the vicar, Hhe niece and old

23

DON QUIXOTE

woman will tell us all when they have done, for they are not
so mannerly as not to hearken.'

In the interim, Don Quixote locked in Sancho, and thus
discoursed with him: 'I am very sorry, Sancho, you should
affirm and make good that I was he that drew you from your
dog-hole cottage, knowing that I willingly left mine, a palace
in comparison. We went out jointly, so we marched on, and
so we held our whole peregrination, both of us having under-
gone the same lot, the same fortune ; and, if once thou wast
tossed in a blanket, I have been banged an hundred times, and
herein have I the advantage of thee.' * Why, it was very fit,'
answered Sancho, * for, as you hold, misfortunes are more
annexed to knights-errant than to their squires.' *Thou art de-
ceived, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for, according to the
saying, *'Quando caput dolet," etc' — 'I understand no other
language but my own,' said Sancho. 'Why, I mean,' replied
Don Quixote, ' that when the head aches all the body is out of
tune; so that I, being thy lord and master, am thy head, and
thou a part of me, since thou art my servant, in which respect
the ill that touches me must concern and grieve thee, and so
thine me.' 'Indeed,' quoth Sancho, 'it ought to be so; but
when I was tossed in the blanket, my head stood aloof, like a
part, beholding me fly in the air, without any feeling [of] my
grief; and, since the members are bound to suffer for the head,
the head in requital should also suffer for them.' ' You mean,
Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that I had no feeling of your
being tossed? And, if you mean so, do not, neither imagine
any such thing ; for at that time I was more vex!ed in spirit than
thou couldst be in body. But leave we this for the present,
for we shall have leisure to consider and rectify it, and tell me,
friend Sancho, what say the common people of me ? In what

24

KNIGHT AND SQUIRE

estimation do the gentlemen hold me ? In what the knights
and gallants? What say they of my valour? what of my ex-
ploits? what of my affability? what discourse they touching
my plot in raising and restoring to the world the long-forgotten
order of knight-errantry? To conclude, I would have thee
tell me all that thou hast heard : and you must tell me without
adding to my praise or diminishing my dispraise, for it is the
part of loyal servants to tell the naked truth to their masters,
in its native colour, without increasing it by flattery or dimin-
ishing it for any other vain respect. And I would have thee,
Sancho, learn by the way that, if the naked truth should
come to the ears of princes, without the apparel of flattery, we
should have another manner of world, and other ages would
be called iron, and not ours, and this would be called the
golden age. And let me advise thee, Sancho, that well and
discreetly thou tell me the truth of what thou knowest, concern-
ing my demand.' ' I shall, with a very good will, sir,' quoth
Sancho, ' upon condition that you shall not be angry at what
I shall tell you, since you will have the naked truth, with-
out any other clothing than what I have seen her with.'
'By no means will I be angry,' answered Don Quixote;
'thou mayst speak freely, Sancho, and without any disguise.'
'Why, then, first of all I must tell you, the common people
hold you for a notable madman, and that I am no less [a]
coxcomb. The ordinary gentlemen say that, not contain-
ing yourself within the limits of gentry, you will needs
be-don yourself, and be a man of honour, having but three or
four acres of land, and a rag before and another behind. The
knights say they would not have your poor squires be ranked
with them that clout their own shoes, and take up a stitch in
their own black stockings with green silk.' 'That concerns

27

DON QUIXOTE

not me/ quoth Don Quixote, * for thou seest that I go always
well clad, and never patched: indeed a little torn sometimes,
but more with my armour than by long wearing/ * Concern-
ing your valour,' quoth Sancho, ' your aflfability, your exploits,
and your plot, there be different opinions: some say you are
a madman, but a merry one; others that you are valiant, but
withal unfortunate ; a third sort, that you are affable, but im-
pertinent; and thus they descant upon us, that they leave
neither you nor me a sound bone.' ^ Why, look thou, Sancho,'
quoth Don Quixote; 'wheresoever virtue is eminent it is per-
secuted ; few or none of those brave heroes that have lived
have scaped malicious calumniation. Julius Caesar, that
most courageous, most wise, most valiant captain, was noted
to be ambitious, and to be somewhat slovenly in his apparel
and his conditions ; Alexander, who for his exploits obtained
the title of Great, is said to have been given to drunkenness ;
Hercules, he with his many labours, was said to have been
lascivious and a striker; Don Galaor, brother to Amadis de
Gaul, was grudged at for being offensive, and his brother for
a sheep-biter. So that, Sancho, since so many worthy men
have been calumniated, I may well suffer mine, if it have been
no more than thou tellest me.' *Why, there's the quiddity of
the matter, body of my father!' quoth Sancho. *Was there
any more said then ?' quoth Don Quixote. 'There's more be-
hind yet,' said Sancho ; ' all that was said hitherto is cakes and
whitebread to this. But, if you will know all concerning these
calumnies, I'll bring you one hither by and by that shall tell
'em you all without missing a scrap ; for last night Bartholo-
mew Carrasco's son arrived, that comes from study from Sala-
manca, and hath proceeded bachelor, and, as I went to bid
him welcome home, he told me that your history was in print,

28

HIS HISTORY IN PRINT

under the title of The Most Ingenious Gentleman T)on
Quixote de la Mancha ; and he tells me that I am mentioned
too, by mine own name of Sancho Panza, and Dulcinea del
Toboso is in too, and other matters that passed betwixt us, at
which I was amazed, and blessed myself how the historian
that wrote them could come to the knowledge of them.' * As-
sure thee, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, ^ the author of our history
is some sage enchanter: for such are not ignorant of all secrets
they writs.' ' Well,' said Sancho, ' if he were wise and an en-
chanter, I will tell you according as Samson Carrasco told
me, — for that's the man's name that spoke with me, — that
the author's name of this history is Cid Hamet Beregena."
*That is the name of a Moor,' said Don Quixote. * It is very
like,' quoth Sancho, 'for your Moors are great lovers of Be-
rengens.'* ' Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'you are out in the
Moor's surname, which is Cid Hamet Benengeli; and Cid in
the Arabic signifieth Lord.' 'It may be so,' quoth Sancho,
but, if you will have the bachelor come to you, Y\\ bring him
to you flying.' 'Friend,' quoth Don Quixote, 'thou shalt do
me a special pleasure; for I am in suspense with what thou
hast told me, and will not eat a bit till I am informed of all.'
'Well, I go for him,' said Sancho. And, leaving his master
a while, went for the bachelor, with whom after he returned,
and the three had a passing pleasant dialogue.

I It should be Benengeli, but Sancho simply mistakes, as followeth in the next note,
* Berengena is a fruit in Spain which they boil with sod meat, as we do carrots, and

here was Sancho's simplicity in mistaking, and to think that name was given the author

for loving the fruit.

29

CHAPTER III

THE RIDICULOUS DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWIXT

DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO, AND THE BACHELOR

SAMSON. CARBASCO

DON QUIXOTE was monstrous pensative, expecting
the bachelor Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear
the news of himself in print, as Sancho had told
him ; and he could not be persuaded that there was such a his-
tory, since yet the blood of enemies killed by him was scarce
dry upon his sword blade, and would they have his noble acts
3o

SAMSON CARRASCO

of chivalry already in the press? Notwithstanding, he thought
that some wise man, or friend, or enemy, by way of enchant-
ment, had committed them to the press: if a friend, then to
extol him for the most remarkable of any knight-errant; if an
enemy, to annihilate them, and clap 'em beneath the basest and
meanest that ever were mentioned of any inferior squire;
although, thought he to himself, no acts of squire were ever
divulged; but if there were any history, being of a knight-
errant, it must needs be lofty and stately, famous, magnificent,
and true. With this he comforted himself somewhat, but
began to be discomforted to think that his author must be a
Moor, by reason of that name of Cid; and from Moors there
could be no truth expected, for all of them are cheaters, im-
postors, and chy mists.

He feared likewise that he might treat of his love with some
indecency, that might redound to the lessening and prejudice
of his LadyDulcinea del Toboso's honesty; he desired that he
might declare his constancy and the decorum he had ever kept
toward her, contemning queens and empresses, and damsels
of all sorts, keeping distance with violencies of natural mo-
tions. Sancho and Carrasco found him thus tossed and tur-
moiled in these and many such-like imaginations, whom Don
Quixote received with much courtesy.

This bachelor, though his name was Samson, was not very
tall, but a notable wag-halter, lean-faced, but of a good under-
standing: he was about four-and-twenty years of age, round-
faced, flat-nosed, and wide-mouthed, all signs of a malicious
disposition, and a friend to conceits and merriment, as he
showed it when he saw Don Quixote ; for he fell upon his knees
before him, saying, 'Good Master Don Quixote, give me your
greatness his hand ; for by the habit of St. Peter, which I wear,

3i

DON QUIXOTE

you are, sir, one of the most complete knights-errant that hath
been or shall be upon the roundness of the earth. Well fere
Cid Hamet Benengeli, that left the stories of your greatness
to posterity ! and more than well may that curious author fare
that had the care to cause them to be translated out of the
Arabic into our vulgar Castilian, to the general entertainment
of all men ! '

Don Quixote made him rise and said: *Then it seems my
history is extant, and that he was a Moor and a wise man that
made it.' *So true it is,' quoth Samson, *that, upon my
knowledge, at this day there be printed above twelve thousand
copies of your history ; if not, let Portugal, Barcelona, and
Valencia speak, where they have been printed ; and the report
goes that they are now printing at Antwerp, and I have a kind
of guess that there is no nation or language where they will
not be translated.' *One of the things, then,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'that ought to give a man virtuous and eminent con-
tent is to see himself living, and to have a good name from
everybody's mouth, to be printed and in the press; I said with
a good name, for otherwise no death could be equalled to that
life.' *If it be for a good name,' said the bachelor, *your
worship carries the prize from all knights-errant; for the Moor
in his language, and the Christian in his, were most careful to
paint to the life your gallantry, your great courage in attempt-
ing of dangers, your patience in adversities, and your suffer-
ance as well in misfortunes as in your wounds, your honesty
and constancy in the so platonic loves of yourself and my Lady
Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.' *I never,' replied Sancho,
* heard my lady styled Don before, only the Lady Dulcinea del
Toboso ; and there the history erreth somewhat.' *This is no
objection of moment,' said Carrasco. *No, truly,' quoth Don

32

GRIT ICISM S

Quixote; ^but tell me, signior bachelor, which of the exploits
of mine are most ponderous in this history?'

4n this,' said the bachelor, 'there be different opinions, as
there be different tastes. Some delight in the adventure of the
windmills, that you took to be Briareans and giants ; others
in that of the fulling-hammers ; this man in the description of
the two armies, which afterwards fell out to be two flocks of
sheep; that man doth extol your adventure of the dead man
that was carried to be buried at Segovia; one saith that that
of the freeing of the galley-slaves goes beyond them all ; another
that none comes near that of the Benitian giants, with the
combat of the valorous Biscayner.' 'Tell me,' said Sancho,
'sir bachelor, comes not that in of the Yanguesian carriers,
when our precious Rozinante longed for the forbidden fruit?'
'The wise man,' said Samson, 'left out nothing; he sets down
all most punctually, even to the very capers that Sancho fetched
in the blanket.' 'Not in the blanket,' replied Sancho, ' but in
the air, more than I was willing.'

'According to my thought,' said Don Quixote, 'there is no
human history in the world that hath not his changes, espe-
cially those that treat of cavallery, which can never be full
of prosperous successes.' 'For all that,' replied the bachelor,
' there be some that have read your history, that would be
glad the authors had omitted some of those infinite bastings
that in divers encounters were given to Sir Don Quixote.'
'Ay, there,' quoth Sancho, ' comes in the truth of the story.'
*They might likewise in equity silence them,' said Don
Quixote, ' since those actions that neither change nor alter
the truth of the story are best left out, if they must redound
to the misprizing of the chief person of the history. Eneas,
i' faith, was ne'er so pitiful as Virgil paints him out, nor

33

DON QUIXOTE

Ulysses so subtle as Homer describes him.' *True it is/
said Samson; *but it is one thing to write like a poet, and
another like an historian: the poet may say or sing things,
not as they were, but as they ought to have been; and the
historian must write things, not as they ought to be, but as
they have been, without adding or taking away aught from
the truth/

*Well,' said Sancho, Mf you go to telling of truths, we
shall find that this Signior Moor hath all the bastings of my
master and me ; for I am sure they never took measure of his
worship's shoulders, but they took it of all my body too; but
no marvel, for, as my master himself saith, the rest of the
parts must participate of the head's grief.' ^Sancho, you
are a crack-rope,' quoth Don Quixote; 'i' faith you want no
memory when you list to have it.' * If I would willingly for-
get those cudgellings that I have had, the bunches yet fresh
on my ribs would not consent.' * Peace, Sancho,' quoth
Don Quixote, * and interrupt not the bachelor, whom I request
to proceed and tell me what is said of me in the mentioned
history.' * And of me too,' said Sancho, ^for it is said that I
am one of the principal parsonages of it.' * Personages, and
not parsonages, you would say, Sancho,' quoth Samson.

* More correcting of words ! ' quoth Sancho. ^ Go to this, and
we shall not end in our lifetime.' *Hang me, Sancho,' said
Samson, * if you be not the second person in the story; and you
have some that had as lief hear you speak as the best there ;
though others would not stick to say you were too credulous
to believe that your government of the island offered by Sir
Don Quixote, here present, might be true.'

* There is yet sunshine upon the walls,' quoth Don Quixote;

* and when Sancho comes to be of more years, with the expe-

34

SANG HO'S I SLAND

rience of them he will be more able and fit than now to be a
governor/ 'By the mass,' said Sancho, * if I be not fit to
govern an island at these years, I shall never govern, though
I come to be as old as Methusalem; the mischief is, that the
said island is delayed I know not how, and not that I want
brain to govern it.' * Leave all to God, Sancho,' said Don
Quixote, * for all will be well, and perhaps better than you think
for; and the leaves in the tree move not without the will
of God.'

''Tis true, indeed,' said Samson, *for, if God will, Sancho
shall not want a thousand islands, much less one.' * I have
seen,' said Sancho, * of your governors in the world that are
not worthy to wipe my shoes, and, for^U this, they give 'em
titles, and are served in plate.' * Those are not governors of
islands,' replied Samson, *but of other easier governments;
for they that govern islands must be at least grammarians.'
*For your "gra"I care not, but your **mare" I could like
enough; but, leaving this government to God's hands, let
Him place me where He pleaseth. I say, sir bachelor Samson
Carrasco, that I am infinitely glad that the author of the his-
tory hath spoken of me in such sort that the things he speaks
of me do not cloy the reader ; for, by the faith of a Christian,
if he had spoken anything of me not befitting an old Christian
as I am,' I should make deaf men hear on't.' 'That were to
work miracles,' said Samson. 'Miracles or not miracles,'
quoth Sancho, 'every man look how he speaks or writes of
men, and set not down each thing that comes into his noddle
in a mingle-mangle.' 'One of the faults that they say,' said
Carrasco, ' is in that history is this: that his author put in a
certain novel or tale, entitled The Curious-Impertinent; not

■ In Spanish Cbristianoviiio, a name they desire to be distinguished from the Moors by.

35

DON QUIXOTE

that it was ill or not well contrived, but that it was unseason-
able for that place, neither had it anything to do with the
history of Don Quixote.'

* rU hold a wager,' quoth Sancho, * the dog-bolt hath made
a gallimaufry.' * Let me tell you,' said Don Quixote, *the au-
thor of my story is not wise, but some ignorant prater, that at
unawares and without judgment undertook it, hab-nab, as Or-
baneja, the painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he paint-
ed, answered, "As it happens." Sometimes he would paint ye
a cock, but so unlike that he was forced to write underneath
it in Gothish letters, "This is acock"; and thus I believe it
is with my history, that it hath need of a comment to make
it understood.'

*No, surely,' replied Samson; Mt is so conspicuous and so
void of difficulty that children may handle him, youths may
read him, men may understand him, and old men may cele-
brate him. To conclude, he is so gleaned, so read, and so
known to all sorts of people that they scarce see a lean horse
pass by, when they say, "There goeth Rozinante." And
amongst these pages are most given to read him ; you have no
great man's withdrawing room that hath not a Don Quixote
in him; some take him, if others lay him down; these close
with him, they demand him. Lastly, the story is the most
pleasing, the least hurtful for entertainment that hath hitherto
been seen; for all over it there is not to be seen a dishonest
word, or one like one, nor an imagination less than catholic'

*He that should write otherwise,' quoth Don Quixote,
* should write no truths, but lies; and he that doth so ought
to be burned, like them that coin false money; and I know not
what the author meant to put in novels and strange tales, my
story affording him matter enough; belike he holds himself to

36

CRITICISMS

the proverb of chaff and hay, etc. Well, FU tell you, out of
mentioning only my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my honest
wishes, and my onsets, he might have made a greater volume
than all Tostatus' works. Indeed, signior bachelor, all that I
conceive is, that to write a history, or any other work of what
sort so ever, a man had need of a strong judgment and a ripe
understanding: to speak wittily and write conceits belongs
only to good wits: the cunningest part in a play is the fool's,
because he must not be a fool that would well counterfeit to
seem so. An history is as a sacred thing, which ought to be
true and real; and where truth is there God is, inasmuch as
concerneth truth: howsoever, you have some that do so com-
pose and cast their works from them as if they were fritters.'
* There is no book so bad,' said the bachelor, * that hath not
some good in it.' *No doubt of that,' said Don Quixote; * but
many times it falls out that those that have worthily hoarded
up and obtained great fame by their writings, when they com-
mit them to the press, they either altogether lose it, or in some-
thing lessen it.' *The reason of it,' quoth Samson, 4s this,
that as the printed works are viewed by leisure their faults are
easily espied, and they are so much the more pried into by how
much the greater the author's fame is. Men famous for their
wits, great poets, illustrious historians, are always, or for the
most part, envied by them that have a pleasure and particular
pastime to judge of other men's writings, without publishing
their own.' * That's not to be wondered at,' cries Don Quixote,
*for there be many divines that are nothing worth in a pulpit,
and are excellent in knowing the defect or excess of him that
preacheth.' *A11 this,' said Carrasco, *Sir Don Quixote, is
right; but I could wish such censurers were more mild and
less scrupulous in looking on the motes of the most clear sun

37 .

The bachetor's repait

of his works whom they bite; for, if "aliquando bonus dormi-
tat Homerus," let 'em consider how much he watched to show
the light of his work, without the least shadow that might be ;
and it might be that what seems III to them were moles, that
sometimes increase the beauty of the face that hath them ; and
thus, I say, that he that prints a book puts himself into a man-
ifest danger, being of all impossibilities the most impossible
to frame it so that it may content and satisfy all that shall
read it.'

'The book that treats of me,' quoth Don Quixote, 'will
please very few.' 'Rather contrary,' says Samson, 'for, as
"stultorum infinitus est numerus," an infinite number have
38

SANCHO'S PISTOLETS

been delighted with this history; but some found fault, and
craftily taxed the author's memory, in that he forgot to tell
who was the thief that stole Sancho's Dapple ; for there is no
mention there, only it is inferred that he was stole, and not
long after we see him mounted upon the same ass, without
knowledge how he was found. They also say, that he forgot
to tell what Sancho did with those hundred pistolets which he
found in the mail in Sierra Morena, for he never mentions
them more, and there be many that desire to know what be-
came of them, and how he employed them, which is one of the
essential points in the work/

* Master Samson,' said Sancho, ' I am not nowforyour reck-
onings or relations, for my stomach is faint, and, if I fetch it
not again with a sup or two of the old dog, it will make me as
gaunt as Saint Lucia. I have it at home, and my pigsney stays
for me. When I have dined I am for ye, and will satisfy you
and all the world in anything you will ask me, as well touch-
ing the loss of mine ass as the expense of the hundred pisto-
lets.' And so, without expecting any reply, or exchanging
another word, home he goes.

Don Quixote entreated the bachelor to stay and take a pit-
tance with him; the bachelor accepted the invitement, and so
stayed dinner. Beside their ordinary fare, they had a pair of
household pigeons added. At table they discoursed of caval-
lery; Carrasco followed his humour; the banquet was ended,
and they slept out the heat; Sancho returned, and the former
discourse was renewed.

39

CHAPTER IV

HOW SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE BACHELOR SAMSON

CABRASCO's DOUBTS AND DEMANDS, WITH OTHER

ACCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE KNOWN AND

RELATED

SANCHO came back to Don Quixote's house, and turning
to his former discourse said, 'Touching what Master
Samson desired to know — who, how, and when mine
ass was stolen — by way of answer I say, that the very same
night we fled from the hue-and-cry we entered Sierra Morena,
after the unfortunate adventure of the galley-slaves and the
dead man that was carrying to Segovia. My master and I
40

SANCHO'S PISTOLETS

got us unto a thicket, where he leaning upon his lance, and I
upon my Dapple, both of us well bruised and wearied with
the former skirmishes, we fell to sleep as soundly as if we
had been upon four feather-beds, especially I, that slept so
soundly that he, whosoever he was, might easily come and
put me upon four stakes, which he had fastened upon both
sides of my pack-saddle, upon which he left me thus mounted,
and, without perceiving it, got my Dapple from under me.'
^This was easy to be done,' said Don Quixote, *and no strange
accident ; for we read that the same happened to Sacripant,
when, being at the siege of Albraca, that famous thief Bru-
nelo, with the selfsame sleight, got his horse from under his
legs.' Sancho proceeds: *It was light day,' said he, *when
I had scarce stretched myself, but the stakes failed, and I got
a good squelch upon the ground; then I looked for mine ass,
but, not finding him, the tears came to mine eyes, and I made
such a strange moan that, if the author of our history omitted
it, let him be assured he forgot a worthy passage. I know
not how long after, coming with my lady the Princess Mi-
comicona, I knew mine ass, and that he who rode on him in
the habit of a gypson was that Gines de Passamonte, that
cheater, that arrant mischief-monger that my master and I
freed from the chain.'

*The error was not in this,' said Samson, *but that, before
there was any news of your ass, the author still said you were
mounted upon the selfsame Dapple.' * I know not what to
say to that,' quoth Sancho, *but that either the historian
was deceived, or else it was the carelessness of the printer.'
* Without doubt,' saith Samson, * 'twas like to be so. But
what became of the pistolets? were they spent?'

* I spent them upon myself,' quoth Sancho, 'and on my

41

DON QUIXOT E

wife and children, and they have been the cause that she hath
endured my journeys and careers which I have fetched in my
master Don Quixote's service; for if I should have returned
empty, and without mine ass, I should have been welcomed
with a pox. And, if you will know any more of me, here I
am that will answer the king himself in person ; and let no-
body intermeddle to know whether I brought or whether I
brought not, whether I spent or spent not; for, if the blows
that I have had in these voyages were to be paid in money,
though every one of them were taxed but at three-farthings
apiece, an hundred pistolets more would not pay me the half
of them; and let every man look to himself, and not take
white for black, and black for white ; for every man is as God
hath made him, and sometimes a great deal worse/

*Let me alone,' quoth Carrasco, *for accusing the author
of the history, that if he print it again he shall not forget
what Sancho hath said, which shall make it twice as good as
it was.' 4s there aught else, sir bachelor,' said Don Quixote,
*to be mended in this legend?' * Yes, marry, is there,' said
he; *but nothing so important as what hath been mentioned.'
* Perhaps the author promiseth a Second Part?' quoth Don
Quixote. * He doth,' said Samson, * but saith he neither finds
nor knows who hath it, so that it is doubtful whether it will
come out or no; so that partly for this, and partly because
some hold that Second Parts were never good, and others
that there is enough written of Don Quixote, it is doubted
that there will be no Second Part, although some, more
Jovial than Saturnists, cry out, *^ Let's have more Quixotisms :
Let Don Quixote assault and Sancho speak, let the rest be
what they will, this is enough."' ^And how is the author in-
clined?'

4^

*■ ■ ■ ■

■./'

r'^-.

*■,

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■■■>:

'. "V- '■:•:.

■V.

f

i.

r-./

\5;

/

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.'■s

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f

J*

^
1^

DON QUIXOTE'S PLANS

To which said Samson, * When he hath found this history,
that he searcheth after with extraordinary diligence, he will
straight commit it to the press, rather for his profit, though,
than for any other respect.' To this said Sancho, ^What!
doth the author look after money and gain ? 'Tis a wonder
if he be in the right ; rather he will be like your false-stitch-
ing tailors upon Christmas Eves, for your hasty work is never
well performed. Let that Master Moor have a care of his
business, for my master and I will furnish him with rubbish
enough at hand, in matter of adventures, and with such dif-
ferent successes that he may not only make one Second Part,
but one Hundredth. The poor fellow thinks, belike, that we
sleep here in a haymow; well, let it come to scanning, and
he shall see whether we be defective. This I know, that if
my master would take my counsel, he should now be abroad
in the champain, remedying grievances, rectifying wrongs,
as good knights-errant are wont to do.'

No sooner had Sancho ended this discourse when the
neighing of Rozinante came to his ears, which Don Quixote
took to be most auspicious, and resolved within three or four
days after to make another sally, and, manifesting his mind
to the bachelor, asked his advice to know which way he should
begin his journey; whose opinion was that he should go to
the kingdom of Aragon, and to the city of Saragosa, where
not long after there were solemn jousts to be held in honour
of St. George, wherein he might get more fame than all the
knights of Aragon, which were above all other knights. He
praised his most noble and valiant resolution, but withal de-
sired him to be more wary in attempting of dangers, since
his life was not his own, but all theirs also who needed his
protection and succour in their distress.

45

DON QUIXOTE

*I renounce that, Master Samson,' said Sancho, *for my
master will set upon an hundred armed men as a boy would
upon half a dozen of young melons. Body of the world! sir
bachelor, there is a time to attempt, a time to retire; all must
not be** Saint Jaques, and upon 'em!'' ' Besides, I have heard,
and I believe from my master himself, if I have hot forgotten,
that valour is a mean between the two extremes of a coward
and a rash man; and, if this be so, neither would I have him
fly nor follow, without there be reason for it; but, above all,
I wish that, if my master carry me with him, it be upon con-
dition that he fight for us both, and that I be tied to nothing
but waiting upon him, to look to his clothes and his diet, for
this will I do as nimbly as bring him water; but to think that
I will lay hand to my sword, although it be but against base
fellows and poor rascals, is most impossible. I, Master Sam-
son, strive not to hoard up a fame of being valiant, but of the
best and trustiest squire that ever served knight-errant; and
if Don Quixote my master, obliged thereunto by my many
services, will bestow any island upon me of those many his
worship saith we shall light upon, I shall be much bound to
him; and, if he give me none, I was born, and one man must
not live to rely on another, but on God ; and perhaps I shall
be as well with a piece of bread at mine ease as to be a gov-
ernor; and what do I know whether, in these kinds of gov-
ernment, the devil hath set any tripping-block before me
where I may stumble and fall, and dash out my teeth?
Sancho was I born, Sancho must I die. But, for all that, if
so and so, without any care or danger, Heaven should pro-
vide some island for me, or any such-like thing, I am not so

^** Santiago, y Citrra Espaiia!" As we use in England ''Saint George and the
Victory."

46

THE BACHELOR'S ACROSTICS

very an ass as to refuse it, according to the proverb, ** Look
not a given horse in the mouth."'

* Friend Sancho,' quoth Carrasco, *you have spoken like
an oracle; notwithstanding, trust in God and Master Don
Quixote, that he will give you not only an island, but a king-
dom too.' *I think one as well as t'other,' quoth Sancho,

* and let me tell you, Master Samson,' said Sancho, * I think
my master's kingdom would not be bestowed on me in vain;
for I have felt mine own pulse, and find myself healthy enough
to rule kingdoms and govern islands, and thus I have told my
master many times.'

* Look ye, Sancho,' quoth Samson, * honours change man-
ners, and perhaps, when you are once a governor, you may
scarce know your own mother.' * That's to be understood,'
said Sancho, * of them that are basely born, and not of those
that have on their souls four fingers fat of the old Christian,
as I have.' No, but come to my condition, which will be
ungrateful to nobody.' *God grant it,' quoth Don Quixote,

* and we shall see when the government comes ; for methinks
I have it before mine eyes.' Which said, he asked the bach-
elor whether he were a poet, and that he would do him the
favour to make him some verses, the subject of his farewell
to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, and withal that at the
beginning of every verse he should put a letter of her name,
that so, joining all the first letters, there might be read Dul-
cinea del Toboso. The bachelor made answer that, though
he were none of the famous poets of Spain, which they said
were but three and an half, yet he would not refuse to com-
pose the said metre, although he found a great deal of diffi-
culty in the composition, because there were seventeen letters

>To express his not being born a Jew or Moor.

47

DON QUIXOTE

in the name; and if he made four staves, of each four verses,
that there would be a letter too much ; and if he made them
of five, which they call decimi, there would be three too little;
but for all that he would see if he could drown a letter, so in
four staves there might be read Dulcinea del Toboso, ^By
all means,' quoth Don Quixote, Met it be so; for, if the name
be not plain and conspicuous, there is no woman will believe
the metre was composed for her.'

Upon this they agreed, and that eight days after their de-
parture should be. Don Quixote enjoined the bachelor to
keep it secret, especially from the vicar and Master Nicholas,'
his niece, and the old woman, lest they should disturb his
noble and valiant resolution. Carrasco assured him, and so
took leave, charging Don Quixote he should let him hear of
all his good or bad fortune at his best leisure. So they took
leave, and Sancho went to provide for their journey.

"The Barber.

48

CHAPTER V

OF THE WISE AND PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED

BETWIXT SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA

PANZA, AND OTHER ACCIDENTS WORTHY

OF HAPPY REMEMBRANCE

THE translator of this history, when he came to write
this fifth chapter, says that he holds it for apocrypha,
because Sancho speaks in it after another manner
than could be expected from his slender understanding, and
speaks things more acutely than was possible for him ; yet he
would translate it for the accomplishment of his promise; and
so goes on, as foUoweth.

Sancho came home so jocund and so merry that his wife
perceived it a flight-shot off, insomuch that she needs would
ask him, * Friend Sancho, what's the matter that you are so
joyful?' To which he answered, *Wife, I would to God I
were not so glad as I make show for/ ^ I understand you not,
husband,' quoth she; *and I understand not what you mean,
that, if it pleased God, you would not be so contented; for,
though I be a fool, yet I know not who would willingly
be sad.'

49

DONQUIXOTE

*Look ye, Teresa/ said Sancho, * I am jolly, because I am
determined to serve my master Don Quixote once more, who
will now this third time sally in pursuit of his adventures, and
I also with him, for my poverty will have it so, besides my
hope that rejoiceth me, to think that I may find another hun-
dred pistolets for those that are spent. Yet I am sad again to
leave thee and my children ; and if it pleased God that I might
live quietly at home, without putting myself into those deserts
and crossways, which He might easily grant if He pleased and
were willing, it is manifest that my content might be more
firm and wholesome, since the present joy I have is mingled
with a sorrow to leave thee: so that I said well, I should be
glad if it pleased God I were not so contented.'

*Fie, Sancho,' quoth Teresa; *ever since thou hast been a
member of a knight-errant thou speakest so round-about the
bush that nobody can understand thee.' * It is enough,' quoth
Sancho, ^ that God understands me, who understands all things;
and so much for that. But mark, sister, I would have you for
these three days look well to my Dapple, that he may be fit for
arms. Double his allowance, seek out his pack-saddle and the
rest of his tackling; for we go not to a marriage, but to com-
pass the world, and to give and take with giants, sprites, and
hobgoblins; to hear hissing, roaring, bellowing, and bawling,
and all this were sweetmeat if we had not to do with Yangu-
eses'and enchanted Moors.'

* I believe, indeed,' quoth Teresa, *that your squires-errant
gain not their bread for nothing; I shall therefore pray to our
Lord, that he deliver you speedily from this misfortune.' ^ I'll
tell you, wife,' said Sancho, * if I thought not ere long to be
governor of an island, I should die suddenly.' ^None of that,

I The carriers that beat the master and man. Vide Part I., Don Quixote.

5o

Sancbo's wife Teresa

husband,' quoth Teresa; Met the hen live, though it be with
her pip; liveyou,and the devil take all the governments in the
world. Without government were you born, without govern-
ment have you lived hitherto, and without government must
you go or be carried to your grave, when it shall please God.
5i

DON QUIXOTE

How many be there in the world that live without govern-
ments, yet they live well enough, and well esteemed of! Hun-
ger is the best sauce in the world, and when the poor want not
this they eat contentedly. But hark, Sancho ; if you should
chance to see a government, pray forget not me and your chil-
dren: little Sancho is now just fifteen years old, and ^tis fit he
go to school if his uncle the abbot mean to make him a church-
man ; and look ye too, Mary Sancha our daughter will not die
if we marry her ; for I suspect she desires marriage as much
as you your government ; and indeed a daughter is better ill
married than well paramoured.'

^In good faith,' quoth Sancho, * if I have aught with my
government, wife, Mary Sancha shall be so highly married
that she shall be called lady at least/ * Not so, Sancho,' quoth
Teresa : ^ the best way is to marry her with her equal ; for,
if instead of her pattens you give her high-shoes; 'if, instead
of a coarse petticoat, a farthingale and silk kirtle; and from
little Mai, my Lady Wacham, the girl will not know herself,
and she will every foot fall into a thousand errors, discover-
ing the thread of her gross and coarse web.'

* Peace, fool ! ' said Sancho ; * all must be two or three years'
practice, and then her greatness will become her, and her state
fall out pat. Howsoever, what matter is it ? Let her be your
ladyship, and come what will on it.' ^ Measure yourself by
your means,' said Teresa, *and seek not after greater; keep
yourself to the proverb, *^Let neighbours' children hold to-
gether." 'Twere pretty, i' faith, to marry our Mary with a
great lord or knight, that, when the toy takes him in the head,
should new-mould her, calling her milkmaid, boor's daughter,
rock-peeler. Not while I live, husband; for this, forsooth,

I Chapines
52

SANCHO AND HIS WIFE

have I brought up my daughter ? Get you money, Sancho, and
for marrying her let me alone. Why, there^s Lope Tocho,
John Toch^s son, a sound chopping lad; we know him well,
and I know he casts a sheep's eye upon the wench ; and 'tis
good marrying her with this her equal, and we shall have him
always with us, and we shall be all one — parent, sons, and
grandsons, and son-in-law — and God's peace and blessing will
always be amongst us ; and let not me have her married into
your courts and grand palaces, where they'll neither under-
stand her nor she them.'

* Come hither, beast,' quoth Sancho; * woman of Barabbas,
why wilt thou, without any reason, hinder me from marrying
my daughter where she may bring me grandsons that may be
styled lordship? Behold, Teresa, I have always heard mine
elders say that he that will not when, he may, when he desireth
shall have nay; and it is not fit that whilst good luck is knock-
ing at our door we shut it: let us therefore sail with this pros-
perous wind.' (For this, and for that which foUoweth, that
Sancho spoke, the author of the history says he held this chap-
ter for apocrypha.) ^ Do not you think, brute-one,' said Sancho,
* that it will be fit to fall upon some beneficial government that
may bring us out of want, and to marry our daughter Sancha
to whom I please, and you shall see how she shall be called
Dona Teresa Panza, and sit in the church with your carpet and
your cushions, and your hung cloths, in spite of the gentle-
women of the town? No, no; remain still as you are, in one
estate, without increasing or diminishing, like a picture in
hangings; go to, let's have no more; little Sancha must be a
countess, say thou what thou wilt.'

* What a coil you keep ! ' quoth Teresa ; ^ for all that, I fear
this earldom will be my daughter's undoing; yet do what ye

53

DON QUIXOTE

will, make her duchess or princess, it shall not be with my con-
sent; I have always loved equality, and I cannot abide to see
folks take upon 'em without grounds. I was christened Te-
resa, without welt or gard, nor additions of Don or Dona;
my father's name was Cascaio, and because I am your wife
they call me Teresa Panza, for indeed they should have called
me Teresa Cascaio. But great ones may do what they list,
and I am well enough content with this name, without putting
any Don upon it, to make it more troublesome, that I shall not
be able to bear it. And I will not have folk laugh at me, as
they see me walk in my countess's apparel, or my governess's ;
you shall have them cry straight, " Look how stately the hog-
rubber goes, she that was but yesterday at her spindle, and
went to church with the skirt of her coat over her head
instead of an huke; to-day she is in her farthingale and in her
buttons, and so demure as if we knew her not." God keep
me in my seven wits, or my five, or those that I have, and TU
not put myself to such hazards. Get you, brother, to be a
government or an island, and take state as you please, for, by
my mother's holidam, neither I nor my daughter will stir a
foot from our village; better a broken joint than a lost name,
and keep home the honest maid, to be doing is her trade. Go
you with Don Quixote to your adventures, and leave us to our
ill fortunes; God will send better, if we be good; and I know
not who made him a Don, or a title which neither his father
nor his grandfather ever had.'

*NowI say,' quoth Sancho, *thou hast a familiar in that
body of thine. Lord bless thee for a woman, and what a com-
pany of things hast thou strung up without head or feet ! What
hath your Cascaio, your buttons, or your proverbs, or your
state to do with what I have said ? Come hither, coxcomb,

54

SANCHO AND HIS WIFE

fool, — for so I may call you, since you understand not my mean*
ing, and neglect your happiness, — if I should say my daughter
should cast herself down some tower, or she should rove up
and down the world, as did the Princess Donna Urraca,' you
had reason not to consent; but if in less than two trap-blows,
or the opening and shutting of an eye, I clap ye a Don and
ladyship upon your shoulders, and bring it out of your stubble,
and put it you under barn-cover, and set you in your state,
with more cushions than the Almohada Moors had in all their
lineage, why will you not consent to that that I will have you ?'

* Would you know why, husband ? ' answered Teresa : ^ for the
proverb that says he that covers thee discovers thee. Every
one passeth his eyes slightly over the poor, and upon the rich
man they fasten them; and, if the said rich man have at any
time been poor, there is your grumbling and cursing, and your
backbiters never leave, who swarm as thick as hives of bees
thorough the streets.'

*Mark, Teresa,' said Sancho, ^and give ear to my speech,
such as peradventure you have not heard in all your lifetime;
neither do I speak anything of mine own, for all I purpose to
speak is sentences of our preacher that preached all last Lent
in this town, who, as I remember, said that all things that we
see before our eyes present do assist our memories much bet-
ter, and with much more vehemency, than things past.' (All
these reasons here delivered by Sancho are the second for which
the translator of the history holds this chapter for apocrypha,
as exceeding the capacity of Sancho, who proceeded, saying:)

* Whereupon it happens that, when we see some personage
well clad in rich apparel, and with many followers, it seems
he moves and invites us perforce to give him respect : although

■ An infanta of Spain.

55

DON QUIXOTE

our memory at that very instant represents unto us some kind
of baseness which we have seen in that personage, the which
doth vilify him, be it either for poverty or lineage, both passed
over are not, and that which we see present only is. And if
this man, whom fortune blotted out of his baseness, and to
whom consequently his father left all height of prosperity, be
well-behaved, liberal, and courteous towards all men, and con-
tends not with such as are most anciently noble, assure thy-
self, Teresa, all men will forget what he was, and reverence
him for what he is, except the envious, whom the greatest
scape not/ ^ I understand you not, husband,^ replied Teresa;
*do what you will, and do not trouble me with your long
speeches and your rhetoric ; and if you be revolved to do what
yousay ' — * Resolved you must say, wife,' quoth Sancho, * and
not revolved.' *I pray dispute not with me, husband,' said
Teresa; ^I speak as it pleases God, and strive not for more
eloquence; and I tell you, if you persist in having your govern-
ment, take your son Sancho with you, and teach him from
henceforth to govern, for it is fit that the sons do inherit and
learn the offices of their fathers.'

* When I have my government,' quoth Sancho, * I will send
post for him, and I will send thee moneys, for I shall want none,
and there never want some that will lend governors money
when they have none. But clothe him so that he shall not ap-
pear what he is, and may seem what he must be.' * Send you
money,' quoth Teresa, * and I'll clad him like a date-leaf.' * So
that now,' said Sancho, * we are agreed that our daughter shall
be a countess.' ^The day that I shall see her a countess,' said
Teresa, * will be my death's-day. But I tell you again, do what
you will; for we women are born with this clog, to be obedi-
ent to our husbands, though they be no better than leeks.'

56

SANCHO AND HIS WIFE

And here she began to weep so heartily as if her little daugh-
ter Sancha had been dead and buried.

Sancho comforted her, saying that, though she must be a
countess, yet he would defer it as long as he could. Here their
dialogue ended, and Sancho returned to see Don Quixote, to
give order for their departure.

ti.

CHAPTER VI

WHAT PASSED BETWIXT DON QUIXOTE, HIS NIECE,

AND THE OLD WOMAN; AND IT IS ONE OF THE

MOST MATERIAL CHAPTERS IN ALL

THE HISTORY

WHILST Sancho and his wife were in this imperti-
nent aforesaid discourse, Don Quixote's niece
and old woman were not idle, and by a thousand
signs guessed that her uncle and their master would a-slash-
58

A DISCOURSE ON KNIGHTS

ing the third time, and return to the exercising of his (for them)
ill knight-errantry. They sought by all means possible to di-
vert him from so bad a purpose; but all was to no purpose, to
preach in a desert, or to beat cold iron. Notwithstanding,
amongst many other discourses that passed betwixt them, the
old woman told him, * Truly, master, if you keep not your foot
still, and rest quiet at home, and suffer yourself to be led
through mountains and valleys, like a soul in purgatory, seek-
ing after those they call adventures, which I call misfortunes,
I shall complain on you, and cry out to God and the king, that
they remedy it.' To which Don Quixote answered : * Woman,
what God will answer to your complaints I know not, nor what
his Majesty will; only I know, if I were a king, I would save a
labour in answering such an infinity of foolish petitions as are
given him daily; for one of the greatest toils, amongst many
other that kings have, is this: to be bound to hearken to all,
to answer all ; therefore I would be loath that ought concern-
ing me should trouble him.' ^Then,' quoth the old woman,
* tell us, sir, in his Majesty's court be there not knights?' ^Yes,'
answered he, * and many, and good reason, for the adornment
and greatness of princes, and for ostentation of the royal Maj-
esty.' * Why would not your worship,' replied she, *be one
of them that might quietly serve the king your master at
court ? '

* Look ye, friend,' answered Don Quixote; ^ all knights can-
not be courtiers, nor all courtiers neither can, nor ought to be
knights-errant. In the world there must be of all sorts, and,
though we be all knights, yet the one and the other differ
much: for your courtiers, without stirring out of their cham-
bers, or over the court thresholds, can travel all the world
over, looking upon a map, without spending a mite, without

59

DON QUIXOTE

suffering heat, cold, hunger, or thirst ; but we, the true knights-
errant, with sun, with cold, with air, with all the inclemencies
of heaven, night and day, a-horseback and on foot, do trace
the whole world through : and we do not know our enemies by-
supposition, as they are painted, but in their real being; and
at all times and upon every occasion we set upon them, with-
out standing upon trifles, or on the laws of duello, whether a
sword or lance were longer or shorter, whether either of the
parties wore a charm or some hidden deceit, if they shall fight
after the sun's going down or no, with other ceremonies of this
nature which are used in single combats betwixt man and
man, that thou knowest not of, but I do. Know further that
the good knight-errant, although he see ten giants that with
their heads not only touch but overtop the clouds, and that
each of them hath legs as big as two great towers, and arms
like the masts of mighty ships, and each eye as big as a mill-
wheel and more fiery than a glass-oven, must not be affrighted
in any wise, rather with a staid pace and undaunted courage
he must set on them, close with them, and, if possible, over-
come and make them turn tail in an instant; yea, though they
came armed with the shells of a certain fish, which, they say,
are harder than diamonds; and though instead of swords they
had cutting-skeins of Damasco steel, or iron clubs with pikes
of the same, as I have seen them more than once or twice.
All this have I said, woman mine, that you may see the dif-
ference betwixt some knights and others; and it is reason that
princes should more esteem this second, or, to say fitter, this
first species of knights-errant; for, as we read in their histo-
ries, such an one there hath been amongst them that hath been
a safeguard, not only of one kingdom, but of many.'

* Ah, sir,' then said his niece, * beware* for all is lies and

60

THE NIECE'S BLASPHEMY

fiction that you have spoken touching your knights-errant,
whose stories, if they were not burnt, they deserve each of
them at least to have a penance inflicted upon them, or some
note by which they might be known to be infamous, and ruin-
ers of good customs/

* I assure thee certainly,' quoth Don Quixote, * if thou wert
not lineally my niece, as daughter to mine own sister, I would
so punish thee for the blasphemy thou hast spoken, as should
resound thorough all the world. Is it possible that a piss-kit-
chen, that scarce knows how to make bone-lace, dares speak
and censure the histories of knights-errant ? What would Sir
Amadis have said if he should have heard this? But I war-
rant he would have forgiven thee, for he was the humblest and
most courteous knight of his time, and moreover a great pro-
tector of damosels ; but such an one might have heard thee
that thou mightest have repented thee ; for all are not cour-
teous or pitiful, some are harsh and brutish. Neither are all
that bear the name of knights so truly; for some are of gold,
others of alchymy; yet all seem to be knights, but all cannot
brook the touchstone of truth. You have some base knaves
that burst again to seem knights, and some that are knights
that kill themselves in post-haste till they become peasants.
The one either raise themselves by their ambition or virtue ;
the others fall, either by their negligence or vice; and a man
had need be wise to distinguish between these two sorts of
knights, so near in their names, so distant in their actions.'

*Help me God!' quoth the niece, *that you should know
so much, uncle, as were it in case of necessity, you might step
into a pulpit, and preach in the streets;' and for all that you

lAn usual thing in Spain, that a friar or Jesuit, when a fiery zeal takes him, makes his
pulpit in any part of the street or market-place.

6i

DON QUIXOTE

go on so blindly and fall into so eminent a madness that you
would have us think you valiant now you are old; that you
are strong being so sickly; that you are able to make crooked
things straight, being crooked with years; and that you are a
knight when you are none : for, though gentlemen may be
knights, yet the poor cannot.'

* You say well, niece, in that,' quoth Don Quixote, *andl
could tell thee things concerning lineages that should admire
thee; but because I will not mingle divinity with humanity I
say nothing. Mark ye, ho ! to four sorts of lineages — ^hearken
to me — may all in the world be reduced, and they are these:
some that from base beginnings have arrived at the greatest
honours; others that had great beginnings and so conserve
them till the end; others that, though they had great begin-
nings, yet they end pointed like a pyramis, having lessened
and annihilated their beginning, till it ends in nothing; others
there are, and these the most, that neither had good beginning
nor reasonable middle, and so they pass away without men-
tion, as the lineage of the common and ordinary sort of people.
Let the house of the Othomans be an example to thee of the
first, who had an obscure beginning, but rose to the greatness
they now preserve ; that from a base and poor shepherd that
gave them their first beginning have come to this height in
which now we see them. Many princes may be an instance
of the second lineage, that began in greatness, and was so pre-
served without augmentation or diminution, only kept their
inheritance, containing themselves within the limits of their
own kingdoms peacefully. Thousands of examples there be
of such as began in greatness, and lessened towards their end.
For all your Pharaohs, your Ptolemies of Egypt, your Caesars
of Rome, with all the hurry, if I may so term them, of your

62

ON LINEAGES

infinite princes, monarchs, lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians,
Grecians, and Barbarians, — all these lineages, all these lord-
ships, ended, pointed, and came to nought, as well they as
those that gave them beginning; for it is not possible to find
any of their successors, and, if it were, he must be in mean and
base estate. With the common sort I have nothing to do,
since they only live and serve to increase the number of men,
without deserving more fame or elogy of their greatness.
Thus much, fools, you may infer from all that hath been said,
that the confusion of lineages is very great; and that those are
the most great and glorious that show it in the virtue, wealth,
and liberality of their owners. Virtue, wealth, and liberality,
I say, for that great man that is vicious will be the more so
by his greatness, and the rich man not liberal is but a covet-
ous beggar; for he that possesseth riches is not happy in them,^
but in the spending them; not only in spending, but in well
spending them. The poor knight hath no way to show he is a
knight, but that he is virtuous, affable, well-fashioned, courte-
ous and well-behaved, and officious; not proud, not arrogant,
not back-biting; and above all, charitable; for in a penny that
he gives cheerfully to the poor he shows himself as liberal as
he that for ostentation gives an alms before a multitude ; and
there is no man that sees him adorned with these virtues, but,
although he know him not, he will judge of him and think he
is well descended; for, if he were not, 'twere miraculous, and
the reward of virtue hath been always praise, and the virtu-
ous must needs be praised. There be two courses for men to
come to be wealthy and noble by; the one is arts, t'other arms.
I have more arms than learning, and was born, according to
my inclination that way, under the influence of the planet
Mars, so that I must of force follow his steps, which I mean

63

Sincho at his maxter'i door

to do in spite of all the world, and it is vain for you to strive
to persuade me that I should nil! what the heavens will me,
fortune ordains, and reason requires, and above all my affec-
tion desires. Well, in knowing, as I know, the innumerable
troubles that are annexed to knight-errantry, so I know the
infinite goods that are obtained with it. And I know that the
path of virtue is very narrow, and the way of vice large and
64

KNIGHT AND SQUIRE

spacious; and I know that their ends and resting-places are
different; for that of vice, large and spacious, ends in death;
and that of virtue, narrow and cumbersome, ends in life; and
not in a life that hath ending, but that is endless; and I know
what our great Castilian poet' said:

** To the high seat of immortality,
Through crabbed paths we must our journey take,
Whence he that falls can never climb so high."'

* Woe is me! ' said the niece, * my master too is a poet, he
knows everything. FU hold a wager, if he would be a mason,
he would build a house as easily as a cage.' * I promise thee,
niece,' said Don Quixote, * if these knightly cogitations did not
rap my senses there is nothing I could not do, nor no curios-
ity should escape me, especially cages and tooth-pickers.'

By this one knocked at the door, and asking who was there,
Sancho answered, *'Tis I.' The old woman, as soon as she
heard him, ran to hide herself, because she would not see him.
The niece let him in; and his master Don Quixote went to
receive him with open arms ; and they both locked themselves
in, where they had another dialogue as good as the former.

I Boscan.

65

CHAPTER VII

WHAT PASSED BETWIXT DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE,
WITH OTHER MOST FAMOUS ACCIDENTS

THE old woman, as soon as she saw her master and
Sancho locked together, began to smell their drift;
and imagining that his third sally would result from
that consultation, and taking her mantle, full of sorrow and

THE OLD WOMAN'S TROUBLE

trouble, she went to seek the bachelor Samson Carrasco, sup-
posing that as he was well spoken, and a late acquaintance of
Don Quixote's, he might persuade him to leave his doting pur-
pose. She found him walking in the court of his house, and
seeing him, she fell down in a cold sweat, all troubled, at his
feet. When Carrasco saw her so sorrowful and affrighted,
he asked her, * What's the matter ? what accident is this ? Me-
thinks thy heart is at thy mouth/ * Nothing,' said she, * Mas-
ter Samson, but my master is run out; doubtless, he is run
out.' * And where runs he?' said he; *hath he broken a hole
in any part of his body?' *He runs not out,' answered she,
* but out of the door of his madness. I mean, sweet sir bach-
elor, he means to be a-gadding again, and this is his third
time he hath gone a-hunting after those you call adventures :
I know not why they give 'em this name. The first time they
brought him us athwart upon an ass, beaten to pieces. The
second time he came clapped up in an ox-wain, and locked in
a cage, and he made us believe he was enchanted; and the
poor soul was so changed that his mother that brought him
forth would not have known him, so lean, so wan, his eyes so
sunk in his head, that I spent above six hundred eggs to re-
cover him, as God is my witness and all the world, and my
hens that will not let me lie.' 'That I well believe,' quoth
the bachelor, ' for they are so good, and so fat, and so well
nurtured that they will not say one thing for another if they
should burst for it. Well, is there aught else ? hath there any
other ill luck happened more than this you fear, that your mas-
ter will abroad ? ' * No, sir,' said she. ' Take no care,' quoth
he, * but get you home on God's name, and get me some warm
thing to breakfast, and by the way as you go pray me the ori-
son of St. Apolonia, if you know it, and TU go thither pres-

67

DON QUIXOTE

ently, and you shall see wonders/ ' Wretch that I am ! ' quoth
she; *the orison of St. Apolonia, quoth you? that were if my
master had the toothache, but his pain is in his head/ *I
know what I say,' quoth he, * and do not you dispute with me,
since you know I have proceeded bachelor at Salamanca. Do
you think there is no more than to take the degree?' said he.
With that, away she goes: and he went presently to seek the
vicar, and communicate with him, what shall be said here-
after.

At the time that Don Quixote and Sancho were locked to-
gether, there passed a discourse between them, which the his-
tory tells with much punctuality, and a true relation. Sancho
said to his master, ' I have now reluced my wife to let me go
with you whithersoever you please.' * Reduced you would
say, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote. * I have bid you more than
once, if I have not forgotten,' said Sancho, *that you do not
correct my words, if so be you understand my meaning; and
when you do not understand them, cry, ** Sancho, or devil, I
understand thee not"; and if I do not express myself, then you
may correct me, for I am so focible.'

*I understand thee not, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, *for
I know not the meaning of your focible.' *So focible is,' said
Sancho, 'I am, so, so.' *Less and less do I understand,' said
Don Quixote. ^ Why, if you do not understand,' said Sancho,
*I cannot do withal, I know no more, and God be with me.'
*Thou meanest docible, I believe, and that thou art so pliant
and so taking that thou wilt apprehend what I shall tell thee,
and learn what I shall instruct thee in.'

* I'll lay a wager,' said Sancho, * you searched and under-
stood me at first, but that you would put me out, and hear
me blunder out a hundred or two of follies.' *It may be so,'

68

SANG HO ASKS WAGES

quoth Don Quixote; *but what says Teresa?' ^Teresa bids me
make sure work with you, and that we may have less saying
and more doing; for great sayers are small doers. A bird in
the hand is worth two in the bush; and I say a woman's advice
is but slender, yet he that refuseth it is a madman/ * I say so
too,' quoth Don Quixote; *but say, friend Sancho, proceed;
for to-day thou speakest preciously.'

*The business is,' quoth Sancho, *that, as you better know
than I, we are all mortal here to-day, and gone to-morrow, as
soon goes the young lamb to the roast as the old sheep; and
no man can promise himself more days than God hath given
him; for death is deaf, and when she knocks at life's door, she
is in haste; neither threats, nor entreaties, nor sceptres, nor
mitres can stay her, as the common voice goes, and as they
tell us in pulpits.'

*A11 this is true,' said Don Quixote; *but I know not where
thou meanest to stop.' *My stop is,' quoth Sancho, *that
your worship allow me some certain wages by the month,
for the time that I shall serve you;' and that the said wages
be paid me out of your substance; for I'll trust no longer to
good turns, which come either slowly, or meanly, or never;
God give me joy of mine own! In a word, I must know what
I may gain, little or much; for the hen lays as well upon one
egg as many, and many littles make a mickle; and whilst
something is gotten nothing is lost. Indeed, if it should so
happen, which I neither believe nor hope for, that your wor-
ship should give me the island you promised me, I am not
so ungrateful, nor would carry things with such extremity, as
not to have the rent of that island prized, and so to discount
for the wages I received, cantity for cantity.' * Is not quantity

■ The custom of Spain is to pay their servants' wages by the month.

69

DON QUIXOTE

as much worth as cantity, friend Sancho?' answered Don
Quixote. * I understand you now,' said Sancho, * and dare
lay anything that I should have said quantity, and not cantity:
but that's no matter, seeing you have understood me/

* I understand you very well,' answered Don Quixote, *and
have penetrated the utmost of your thoughts, and know very
well what mark you aim at, with the innumerable arrows of
your proverbs. Look ye, Sancho, I could willingly afford
you wages, if I had found in any histories of knights-errant
any example that might give me light through the least chink
of any wages given monthly or yearly; but I have read all or
the most part of their histories, and do not remember that
ever I have read that any knight-errant hath allowed any set
wages to his squire; only I know that all lived upon counte-
nance, and, when they least dreamt of it, if their masters had
good luck, they were rewarded either with an island or
some such thing equivalent, and at least they remained with
honour and title. If you, Sancho, upon these hopes and ad-
ditaments have a mind to return to my service, a' God's
name; but to think that I will pluck the old use of knight-
errantry out of his bounds, and off the hinges, is a mere im-
possibility. So that, Sancho, you may go home and tell your
Teresa mine intention; and if that she and you will rely upon
my favour, bene quidem; and, if not, let's part friends; for,
if my pigeon-house have cumins, it will want no doves. And
take this by the way, "A good expectation is better than a
bad possession, and a good demand better than an ill pay."
I speak thus, Sancho, that you may plainly see I know as well
as you to sprinkle proverbs like rain-showers. Lastly, let
me tell you, if you will not trust to my reward, and run the
same fortune with me, God keep you, and make you a saint;

70

■ • .'

■V"

,1

^-^

,1

Ui>njm'. 'i^i.r^in, ^'}/i^< ^.*i^ .Si«^««o./t.

CARRASCO'S OFFER

for I shall not want more obedient squires, and more careful,
and not so irksome nor so talkative as you.'

When Sancho heard his master's firm resolution, he waxed
cloudy, and the wings of his heart began to stoop, for he
thought verily his master would not go without him for all
the treasure in the world. Thus being doubtful and pensa-
tive, Samson Carrasco entered, and the niece, desirous to
hear how he persuaded her master that he should not return
to his adventures.

In came Samson, a notable crack-rope, and, embracing
him as at first, began in this loud key: ' O flower of chivalry,
bright light of arms, honour and mirror of our Spanish na-
tion! may it please Almighty God of His infinite goodness,
that he or they that hinder or disturb this thy third sally, that
they never find it in the labyrinth of their desires, nor let the
ill they wish for ever be accomplished.' And, turning to the
old woman, he said: * You need no longer pray the orison of
Saint Apolonia, for I know the determination of the spheres
is that Don Quixote put in execution his lofty and new de-
signs; and I should much burden my conscience if I should
not persuade and intimate unto this knight that he do no
longer withdraw and hold back the force of his valorous arm,
and the courage of his most valiant mind, for with his delay-
ing he defrauds the rectifying of wrongs, the protection of
orphans, the honour of damsels, the bulwark of married
women, and other matters of this quality, which concern, ap-
pertain, depend, and are annexed unto the order of knight-
errantry. Go on then, my beautiful, my brave Don Quixote,
rather to-day than to-morrow ; let your greatness be upon the
way; and, if anything be wanting to your journey, here am
I to supply with my wealth, with my person, and, if need be,

73

DON QUIXOTE

to be thy magnificence his squire, which I shall hold a most
happy fortune.'

Then said Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, ^Did not I
tell thee, Sancho, that I should want no squires ? See who
offers himself to me; the most rare bachelor Samson Car-
rasco, the perpetual darling and delighter of the Salamancan
schools, sound and active of body, silent, suffering of heats
and colds, hunger and thirst, with all the abilities that belong
to the squire of a knight-errant: but Heaven forbid that for
my pleasure I hox and break off the column of learning, the
vessel of sciences, and that I lop off the eminent branch of
the liberal arts : remain thou another Samson in thy country,
honour it and those grey hairs of thine aged parents, for I
will content myself with any squire, since Sancho deigns not
to attend me.'

^ I do deign,' said Sancho, all tender, and the tears stand-
ing in his eyes, and thus proceeds: *It shall not be said, mas-
ter, for me, ^'No longer pipe no longer dance"; nor am I made
of hardest oak, for all the world knows, and especially my
town, who the Panzas were, from whom I descend; besides,
I know and have searched out, by many good works and many
good words, the desire that your worship hath to do me a
kindness, and, if I have been to blame to meddle in reckon-
ings concerning my wages, it was to please my wife, who,
when she once falls into a vein of persuading, there's no
hammer that doth so fasten the hoops of a bucket as she
dothy till she obtain what she would have. But howsoever
the husband must be husband, and the wife wife; and, since
I am a man everywhere — I cannot deny that — I will also
be so at home in spite of any; so that there's no more to
be done but that you make your will and set to your codicil,

74

THE THIRD SALLY PLANNED

in such sort that it may not be revolked, and let's straight
to our journey, that Master Samson's soul may not suffer;
for he saith his conscience is unquiet till he have persuaded
you to your third sally through the world, and I afresh offer
my service faithfully and loyally, as well and better than any
squire that ever served knight-errant in former times, or in
present.'

The bachelor wondered to hear Sancho's manner and
method of speaking; for, though in the first history he had
read of his master, he never thought Sancho had been so
witty as they there paint him out; yet hearing him now men-
tion will and codicil, revolking instead of revoking, he be-
lieved all that he had read of him, and confirmed him to be
one of the most solemnest coxcombs of our age, and said to
himself that two such madmen as master and man were not
in all the world again.

Now Don Quixote and Sancho embraced, and remained
friends, and with the grand Carrasco's approbation and good-
will, who was then their oracle, it was decreed that within
three days they should depart, in which they might have time
to provide all things necessary for their voyage, and to get an
helmet, which Don Quixote said he must by all means carry.
Samson offered him one, for he knew a friend of his would
not deny it him, although it were fouler with mould and rust
than bright with smooth steel.

The niece and old woman cursed the bachelor unmerci-
fully; they tore their hair, scratched their faces, and, as your
funeral mourners use, they howled at their master's depar-
ture, as if he had been a dead man. The design that Samson
had to persuade him to this third sally was to do what the
history tells us hereafter, all by the advice of the vicar and

75

DON QUIXOTE

the barber, to whom he had before communicated it. Well,
in those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho fitted them-
selves with what they thought they needed ; and, Sancho hav-
ing set down the time to his wife, and Don Quixote to his
niece and the old woman, toward night, without taking leave
of anybody but the bachelor, who would needs bring them
half a league from the town, they took their way towards
Toboso, Don Quixote upon his good Rozinante, and Sancho
on his old Dapple. His wallets were stuffed with provant,
and his purse with money that Don Quixote gave him for
their expenses. Samson embraced him and desired him that
he might hear of his good or ill fortune, to rejoice for the
one or be sorry for the other, as the law of friendship did
require. Don Quixote made him a promise, Samson re-
turned home, and the two went on towards the famous city
of Toboso.

76

• - ■ *■"■'.

o-i--^

■■^■'■^ K.- ..

y:i2j^.j^ ■-,

Uiv

CHAPTER VIII

WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE GOING TO SEE HIS
MISTRESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

LESSED be the powerful Ala!' saith Hamet Ben-
engeli, at the beginning of this eighth chapter.'
* Blessed be Ala!' which he thrice repeated, and
said that he rendered these benedictions to see that now Don
Quixote and Sancho were upon their march, and that the
readers of their delightful history may reckon that from this
time the exploits and conceits of Don Quixote and his squire
do begin. He persuades them that they should forget the
former chivalry of the noble knight, and fix their eyes upon
his acts to come, which begin now in his way towards Toboso,
as the former did in the fields of Montiel; and it is a small re-
quest, for so much as he is to perform ; so he proceeds, saying :
Don Quixote and Sancho were now all alone, and Samson

I 'Ala' amongst the Moors is as much as 'Mahomet' amongst the Turks.

77

DON QUIXOTE

was scarce gone from them, when Rozinante began to neigh, »
and Dapple to sigh, which both by knight and squire were
held for lucky signs and an happy presaging, though, if the
truth were told, Dapple's sighs and brayings were more than
the horse's neighing, whereupon Sancho collected that his
fortune should exceed and overtop his master's, building I
know not upon what judicial astrology, that sure he knew,
although the history says nothing of it; only he would often
say when he fell down or stumbled, he would have been glad
not to have gone abroad, for of stumbling or falling came
nothing but tearing his shoes or breaking a rib; and, though
he were a fool, yet he was not out in this.

Don Quixote said unto him: ^Friend Sancho, the night
comes on us apace, and it will grow too dark for us to reach
Toboso ere it be day, whither I am determined to go before I
undertake any adventure ; and there I mean to receive a bene-
diction, and take leave of the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso,
after which I know and am assured I shall end and close up
every dangerous adventure, for nothing makes knights-errant
more hardy than to see themselves favoured by their mis-
tresses.' 'I believe it,' quoth Sancho; *but I doubt you will
not speak with her; at least, not see her where you may re-
ceive her blessing, if she give you it not from the mud walls
where I saw her the first time, when I carried the letter and
news of your mad pranks which you were playing in the heart
of Sierra Morena.'

'Were those mud walls in thy fantasy, Sancho,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'where or thorough which thou sawestthat never-
enough-praised gentleness and beauty? They were not so,
but galleries, walks, or goodly stone pavements — or how call
ye 'em ? — of rich and royal palaces.' 'All this might be,' an-

78

SANCHO AND DULCINEA

swered Sancho, ^ but to me they seemed no better, as I remem-
ber.' * Yet let's go thither,' quoth Don Quixote ; ' for, so I see
her, let them be mud walls or not, or windows ; all is one
whether I see her thorough chinks or thorough garden lattices,
for each ray that comes from the sun of her brightness to mine
eyes will lighten mine understanding and strengthen mine
heart, and make me sole and rare in my wisdom and valour.'

^ Truly, sir,' said Sancho, * when I saw that sun, it was not
so bright that it cast any rays from it; and belike 'twas that,
as she was winnowing the wheat I told you of, the dust that
came from it was like a cloud upon her face, and dimmed it.'

* Still dost thou think, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, * be-
lieve, and grow obstinate that my mistress Dulcinea was win-
nowing, it being a labour so unfit for persons of quality, that
use other manners of exercises and recreation, which show a
flight-shoot off their nobleness ! Thou dost ill remember those
verses of our poet, where he paints out unto us the exercises
which those four nymphs used in their crystal habitations,
when they advanced their heads above the loved Tagus,' and
sat in the green fields working those rich embroideries which
the ingenious poet there describes unto us, all which were of
gold, of purl, and woven with embossed pearls. Such was the
work of my mistress when thou sawest her, but that the envy
which some base enchanter bears to mine aflfairs turns all that
should give me delight into diflferent shapes; and this makes
me fear that the history of my exploits which is in print — if
so be some wizard my enemy were the author — that he hath
put one thing for another, mingling with one truth a hundred
lies, diverting himself to tell tales not fitting the continuing
of a true history. O envy, thou root of infinite evils, thou

« A river in Spain.

79

DON QUIXOTE

worm of virtues ! All vices, Sancho, do bring a kind of pleas-
ure with them; but envy hath nothing but distaste, rancour,
and raving/

*I am of that mind too,^ said Sancho; 'and I think that in
the history that Carrasco told us of, that he had seen of us,
that my credit is turned topsy-turvy, and, as they say, goes
a-begging. Well, as I am honest man I never spoke ill of any
enchanter, neither am I so happy as to be envied ; true it is
that I am somewhat malicious and have certain knavish
glimpses; but all is covered and hid under the large cloak of
my simplicity, always natural to me, but never artificial; and
if there were nothing else in me but my belief (for I believe in
God, and in all that the Roman Church believes, and am sworn
a mortal enemy to the Jews), the historians ought to pity me
and use me well in their writings. But, let 'em say what they
will, naked was I born, naked I am; I neither win nor lose;
and, though they put me in books, and carry me up and down
from hand to hand, I care not a fig, let 'em say what they
will.'

^ 'Twas just the same,' quoth Don Quixote, ^ that happened
to a famous poet of our times, who, having made a malicious
satire against all the courtesans, he left out one amongst them,
as doubting whether she were one or no, who, seeing she was
not in the scroll among the rest, took it unkindly from the
poet, asking him what he had seen in her that he should not
put her amongst the rest, and desired him to enlarge his sa-
tire, and put her in the spare room; if not, she would scratch
out his eyes. The poet consented, and set her down with a
vengeance; and she was satisfied to see herself famous, al-
though indeed infamous. Besides, the tale of the shepherd
agrees with this that set Diana's Temple on fire, which was

80

■^: f%

,>-r>.

THE DESIRE FOR FAME

one of the Seven Wonders of the World, because he would be
talked of for it; and, although there were an edict that no man
should either mention him by speaking or writing, that he
might not attain to his desire, yet his name was known to be
Erostratus. The same allusion may be had out of an acci-
dent that befel the great Emperor Charles the Fifth with a
knight of Rome. The emperor was desirous to see the fa-
mous Temple of the Rotunda, which in ancient times was called
*^ the Temple of all the Gods," and now, by a better style, *' of
all Saints," and it is the only entire edifice that hath remained
of all the Gentiles in Rome, and that which doth most con-
serve the glory and magnificence of its founders. 'Tis made
like an half orange, exceeding large and very lightsome, hav-
ing but one window that gives it light, or, to say truer, but
one round louver on the top of it. The emperor looking on
the edifice, there was a Roman knight with him that showed
him the devices and contriving of that great work and mem-
orable architecture, and, stepping from the louver, said to the
emperor: ^' A thousand times, mighty monarch, have I desired
to seize your majesty, and cast myself down from this louver,
to leave an everlasting fame behind me." *^ I thank you," said
the emperor, ^^that you have not performed it, and hence-
forward I will give you no such occasion to show your loyalty;
and therefore I command you that you neither speak to me
nor come to my presence." And, for all these words, he re-
warded him. ril tell you, Sancho, this desire of honour is an
itching thing. What dost thou think cast Horatius from the
bridge all armed into deep Tiber ? What egged Curtius to
launch himself into the lake? What made Mutius burn his
hand? What forced Caesar against all the soothsayers to
pass the Rubicon ? And, to give you more modern examples,

83

DON QUIXOTE

what was it bored those ships, and left those valorous Span-
iards on ground, guided by the most courteous Cortez in the
New World ? All these and other great and several exploits
are, have been, and shall be the works of fame, which mortals
desire as a reward and part of the immortality which their
famous arts deserve; though we that be Christian Catholic
knights-errant must look more to the happiness of another
world, which is eternal in the ethereal and celestial regions,
than to the vanity of fame, which is gotten in this present frail
age, and which, let it last as long as it will, it must have end-
ing with this world which hath its limited time; so that, O
Sancho, our actions must not pass the bounds that Christian
religion, which we profess, hath put us in. In giants we must
kill pride, envy in generousness and noble breasts; anger in a
continent, reposed, and quiet mind; riot and drowsiness in
temperance and vigilance ; lasciviousness in the loyalty we
observe to those that we have made the mistresses of our
thoughts ; and sloth by travelling up and dovm the world, seek-
ing occasions that may make us, beside Christians, famous
knights. These, Sancho, are the means by which the ex-
tremes of glory are obtained, which fame brings with it.'

* All that you have hitherto spoken,' quoth Sancho, * I un-
derstand passing well; but I would fain have you zolve me of
one doubt, which even now comes into my head.' * Resolve,
thou wouldst say, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote ; * speak i' God's
name, for I'll answer thee as well as I can.' *Tell me, sir,'
said Sancho; * these JuHes or Augusts, and all these famous
knights you talk of, that are dead, where are they now?' *The
Gentiles,' said he, * undoubtedly are in hell; the Christians, if
they were good Christians, either in purgatory' or in hell.'

I According to the Romish opinions, erroneous.

84

KNIGHTS-ERRANT AND FRIARS

'^Tis very well; but the sepulchres where the bodies of these
great lordings lie interred, have they silver lamps' burning
before them, or are their chapel walls decked with crutches,
winding-sheets, periwigs, legs, and wax eyes? And, if not
with these, with what?' *The sepulchres of the Gentiles,'
said Don Quixote, ^were, for the most part, sumptuous tem-
ples. The ashes of Julius Caesar's body were put upon a huge
pyramis of stone, which at this day is called Saint Peter's
Needle. The Emperor Adrian's sepulchre was a great castle
as big as a pretty village; it was called Moles Adriani, and,
at this day, the Castle of Saint Angelo in Rome. Queen
Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a sepulchre which
was held to be one of the Seven Wonders of the World. But
none of all these, nor many others the Gentiles had, were
decked with winding-sheets, nor any kind of offerings or signs
that testified they were saints that were buried in them.'

'That's it I come to,' said Sancho; * and tell me now, which
is more, to raise a dead man or to kill a giant ? ' ' The answer
is at hand,' said Don Quixote: 'to raise a dead man.' 'There
I caught you,' quoth Sancho. 'Then, the fame of him that
raiseth the dead, gives sight to the blind, makes the lame
walk, restoreth sick men, who hath lamps burning before his
sepulchre, whose chapel is full of devout people, which upon
their knees adore his relics, — this man hath greater renown,
and in another world, than ever any of your Gentile emperors
or knights-errant ever left behind them.'

'I grant you that,' quoth Don Quixote. 'Well,' answered
Sancho, ' this fame, these graces, these prerogatives — how call
ye 'em? — ^have the bodies and relics of saints, that, by the ap-
probation and license of our holy Mother the Church, have

I Relics that used to be hanged up in the papists' churches.

85

DON QUIXOTE

their lamps, their lights, their winding-sheets, their crutches,
their pictures, their heads of hair, their eyes and legs, by
which they increase men's devotion, and endear their Chris-
tian fame. Kings carry the bodies of saints or their relics
upon their shoulders; they kiss the pieces of their bones, and
do deck and enrich their chapels with them, and their most
precious altars/

^ What will you have me infer from all this, Sancho ? ^ quoth
Don Quixote. 'I mean,' said Sancho, ^that we endeavour to
be saints, and we shall the sooner obtain the fame we look
after. And let me tell you sir, that yesterday or t'other day,
— for so I may say, it being not long since, — there were two
poor barefoot friars canonized or beatified, and now many
think themselves happy to kiss or touch those iron chains with
which they girt and tormented their bodies ; and they are more
reverenced than is, as I said, Roldan's sword in the armoury
of our lord the King — God save him! So that, master mine,
better it is to be a poor friar, of what order soever, than a val-
iant knight-errant; a dozen or two of lashes obtain more at
God's hands than two thousand blows with the lance, whether
they be given to giants, to spirits, or hobgoblins.'

* All this is true,' answered Don Quixote; ^but all cannot
be friars, and God Almighty hath many ways by which He
carries His elect to heaven. Cavallery is a religion, and you
have many knights saints in heaven.' *That may be,' said
Sancho; 'but I have heard you have more friars there than
knights-errant.' 'That is,' quoth Don Quixote, 'because the
religious in number are more than the knights.' 'But there
are many knights-errant,' said Sancho. ' Many, indeed,' quoth
Don Quixote, 'but few that deserve the name.'

In these and such-like discourses they passed the whole

86

NEARING TOBOSO

night and the next day, without lighting upon anything worth
relation, for which Don Quixote was not a little sorry; at last,
the next day toward night, they discovered the goodly city of
Toboso, with which sight Don Quixote's spirits were revived,
but Sancho's dulled, because he knew not Dulcinea's house,
nor ever saw her in his life, no more than his master; so that,
the one to see her, and the other because he had not seen her,
were at their wits' end, and Sancho knew not how to do it, if
his master should send him to Toboso. But Don Quixote re-
solved to enter the city in the night, and till the time came
they stayed between certain oaks that were near Toboso ; and,
the prefixed moment being come, they entered the city, where
they lighted upon things, things indeed.

87

CHAPTER IX

WHERE IS SET DOWN AS FOLLOWETH

MIDNIGHT was near spun out when Don Quixote and
Sancho left the mountain and entered the city: the
town was all hushed, and the dwellers were asleep
with their legs stretched at length, as they say; the night was
brightsome, though Sancho wished it had been darker, that
he might not see his madness; the dogs in the town did noth-
ing but bark and thunder in Don Quixote's ears, and affrighted

m

•v.

'■i

.*..

A

•^^

(fCr.y,,,^ .5W*,

IN QUEST OF DULCINEA

Sancho's heart; now and then an ass brayed, hogs grunted,
cats mewed, whose different howlings were augmented with
the silent night; all which the enamoured knight held to be
ominous, but yet he spoke to Sancho: * Son Sancho,' said he,

* guide to Dulcinea's palace; it maybe we shall find her wak-
ing/ ^ Body of the sun ! ' quoth Sancho, * to what palace shall
I guide? for where I saw her highness it was a little house.'

* Belike,' quoth Don Quixote, ^she was retired into some cor-
ner of her palace to solace herself in private with her damo-
sels, as great ladies and princesses use to do.' *Sir,' quoth
Sancho, ^ since, whether I will or no, you will have my mis-
tress Dulcinea's house to be a palace, do you think neverthe-
less this to be a fit time of night to find the door open in ? Do
you think it fit that we bounce, that they may hear and let us
in, to disquiet the whole town? Are we going to a bawdy-
house, think ye, like your whoremasters that come and call
and enter at what hour they list, how late soever it be ? ' * First
of all, to make one thing sure, let's find the palace,' replied
Don Quixote, *and then, Sancho, Til tell thee what's fit to be
done. And look, Sancho, either my sight fails me or that
great bulk and shadow that we see is Dulcinea's palace.'

* Well, guide on, sir,' said Sancho; * it may be it is so, though
ril first see it with my eyes, and feel it with my hands, and
believe it as much as it is now day.'

Don Quixote led on, and, having walked about some two
hundred paces, he lighted on the bulk that made the shadow,
and saw a great steeple, which he perceived was not the pal-
ace, but of the chief church in the town. Then said he, * San-
cho, we are come to the church.' * I see it very well,' quoth
Sancho, *and I pray God we come not to our graves; for it is
no good sign to haunt churchyards so late, especially since I

9«

DON QUIXOTE

told you, as I remember, that this lady's house is in a little
alley without passage through.' * A pox on thee, blockhead ! '
said Don Quixote; * where hast thou ever found that king's
houses and palaces have been built in such alleys?' ^Sir,'
quoth Sancho, * every country hath their several fashions. It
may be here in Toboso they build their great buildings thus,
and therefore pray, sir, give me leave to look up and down
the streets or lanes that lie in my way, and it may be that in
some corner I may light upon this palace — the devil take it ! —
that thus mocks and misleads us.' * Speak mannerly, sir,'
quoth Don Quixote, * of my mistress' things, and let's be merry
and wise, and cast not the rope after the bucket.'

^ I will forbear,' said Sancho; *but how shall I endure that
you will needs have me be thoroughly acquainted with a house
I never saw but once, and to find it at midnight, being you
cannot find it that have seen it a million of times ?' ^ Sirrah,
I shall grow desperate,' quoth Don Quixote. ^ Come hither,
heretic. Have not I told thee a thousand times that I never
saw the peerless Dulcinea, nor never crossed the thresholds
of her palace, and that I only am enamoured on her by hear-
say, and the great fame of her beauty and discretion ?' * Why,
now I hear you,' said Sancho; 'and, since you say you have
never seen her — nor I neither.' 'That cannot be,' said Don
Quixote; ' for you told me, at least, that you had seen her win-
nowing of wheat, when you brought me the answer of the let-
ter I sent by you.' ' Ne'er stand upon that,' said Sancho ; ' for
let me tell you, that I only saw her by hearsay too, and so
was the answer I brought, for I know her as well as I can box
the moon.' 'Sancho, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'there's a
time to laugh and a time to mourn. Not because I say I have
neither seen nor spoken to the mistress of my soul shouldest

92

IN QUEST OF DULCINEA

thou say thou hast neither seen nor spoken to her, it being
otherwise, as thou knowest/

Being in this discourse, they saw one passing by them with
two mules, and by the noise the plough made which they drew
upon the ground they might see it was some husbandman that
rose by break of day to go to his tillage, and so it was: as he
came, he went singing that Romante of the battle of Ronces-
valles with the Frenchmen. In hearing of which quoth Don
Quixote, ^ Sancho, hang me if we have any good fortune this
night! Do not you hear what this clown sings?' * Yes, marry,
do I,' said Sancho; *but what doth the Chase of Roncesvalles
concern us ? Tis no more than if he had sung the Romante of
Calainos;' and all one, for our good or ill luck in this business.'

By this the ploughman came by them, and Don Quixote
questioned him : * Can you tell me, friend, so God reward you,
which is the palace of the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso?'
*Sir,' answered the young man, 'I am a stranger, and have
lived but a while in this town, and serve a rich husbandman,
to till his ground; here over-against the vicar and the sexton
both live ; any of them will tell you of this lady princess, as
having a list of all the inhabitants of Toboso; although I think
there is no such princess here, but many gentlefolk, each of
which may be a princess in her own house.' ^ Why, friend,'
quoth Don Quixote, *it may be that she I ask for is amongst
these.' * It may be so,' said the fellow, *and God speed you,
for now it begins to be day-peep'; and, switching his mules,
he stayed for no more questions.

Sancho, seeing his master in a deep suspense and very mal-
content, told him, *Sir, the day comes on apace, and it will
not be so fit that we sun ourselves in the street; it is better to

I As if we should have said in English Chevy Chase, or some such-like.

95

DON QUIXOTE

go out of the city, and that you shade yourself in some grove
hereabouts, and I will come back anon, and not leave a by-
place in all this town, where I may search for the house, castle,
or palace of my lady, and it were ill luck if I found her not;
and, if I do, I will speak with her and let her know where and
how you do, expecting that she give you order and direction
how you may see her, without any manner of prejudice to her
honour and good name/ ^Sancho,' said Don Quixote, *thou
hast spoken a thousand sentences, enclosed in the circle of thy
short disco*urse. The advice that thou hast now given me I
hunger after, and most lovingly accept of. Come, son, let us
take shade, and thou shalt return, as thou sayst, to seek, to
see, and to speak to my mistress, from whose discretion and
courtesy I hope for a thousand miraculous favours.'

Sancho stood upon thorns till he had drawn his master
from the town, lest he should verify the lie of the answer that
he had carried him from Dulcinea to Sierra Morena. So he
hastened him to begone, which was presently done, some two
miles from the town, where they found a forest or wood, where
Don Quixote took shade; and Sancho returned to the city to
speak with Dulcinea, in which embassy matters befel him that
require a new attention, and a new belief.

96

CHAPTER X

HOW SANCHO CUNNINGLY ENCHANTED THE LADY

DULCINEA, AND OTHER SUCCESSES, AS

RIDICULOUS AS TRUE

THE author of this history, coming to relate that which
he doth in this chapter, says that he would willingly
have passed it over in silence, as fearing not to be
believed, because here Don Quixote's madness did exceed, and
was at least two flight-shots beyond his greatest that ever was;
but, for all this fear and suspicion, he set it down as t'other
acted it, without adding or diminishing the least jot of truth
in the history, not caring for anything that might be objected
against him for a Har ; and he had reason, for truth is stretched,
but never breaks, and tramples on the lie as oil doth upon
97

DON QUIXOTE

water; and so, prosecuting his history, he says that as Don
Quixote had shaded himself in the forest or oak-wood near the
grand Toboso, he willed Sancho to return to the city, and not
to come to his presence without he had first spoken to his mis-
tress from him, requesting her that she would please to be
seen by her captived knight, and to deign to bestow her bless-
ing on him, that by it he might hope for many most prosper-
ous successes in all his onsets and dangerous enterprises.
Sancho took on him to fulfil his command, and to bring him
now as good an answer as the former.

^Go, lad,' said Don Quixote, *and be not daunted when
thou comest before the beams of the sun of beauty, which thou
goest to discover .^ Oh, happy thou above all the squires of
the world! be mindful, and forget not how she entertains thee,
— if she blush just at the instant when thou deliverest my em-
bassy : if she be stirred and troubled when she hears my name ;
whether her cushion cannot hold her, if she be set in the rich
state of her authority. And if she stand up, mark her whether
she clap sometimes one foot upon another; if she repeat the
answer she gives thee twice or thrice over, or change it from
mild to curst, from cruel to amorous; whether she seem to
order her hair, though it be not disordered. Lastly, observe
all her actions and gestures; for, if thou relate them just as
they were, I shall guess what is hidden in her heart, touching
my love, in matter of fact; for know, Sancho, if thou knowest
it not, that the actions and outward motions that appear, when
love is in treaty, are the certain messengers that bring news
of what passeth within. Go, friend ; and better fortune guide
thee than mine, and send thee better success than I can expect
'twixt hope and fear in this uncouth solitude in which thou
leavest me.'

98

IN QUEST OF DULCINEA

* I go/ said Sancho, * and will return quickly. Enlarge that
little heart of yours, no bigger than an hazel-nut, and consider
the saying, " Faint heart never," etc.; *^ Sweet meat must have
sour sauce"; and another, "Where we least think, there goes
the hare away." This I say, because that if to-night we found
not the castle or palace of my lady, now by day I doubt not
but to find it, when I least dream of it, and so to find her.' * Be-
lieve me, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, ^thou always bringest
thy proverbs so to the hair of the business we treat of as God
give me no worse fortune than I desire. '

This said, Sancho turned his back and switched his Dap-
ple; and Don Quixote stayed a-horseback, easing himself on
his stirrups, and leaning on his lance, full of sorrowful and
confused thoughts, where we will leave him, and wend with
Sancho, who parted from his master no less troubled and
pensative than he; insomuch that he was scarce out of the
wood when, turning his face and seeing that Don Quixote was
out of sight, he lighted from his ass, and, resting at the foot of
a tree, he began to discourse thus to himself, and say, * **Now,
brother Sancho, I pray let's know, whither is your worship
going? To seek some ass that you have lost?" **No, for-
sooth." ** Well, what is it you seek for? " " I seek a matter
of nothing — a princess, and in her the sun of beauty, and all
heaven withal." ** And where do you think to find this you
speak of, Sancho?" ** Where? Why, in the grand city of
Toboso." ** Well, and from whom do you seek her ?" " From
the most famous knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, he that
righteth wrongs, gives the thirsty meat, and the hungry
drink."' "All this is well. And do you know her house,
Sancho?" "My master says it is a royal palace, or a lofty

I Mistakes of simplicity.

99

DON QUIXOTE

tower." * * And have you ever seen her, trow ? '' * ' Neither he
nor I, never." ** And do you think it were well that the men
of Toboso should know that you were here to entice their
princesses, and to trouble their wenches, and should come
and grind your ribs with bangs, and leave you never a sound
bone? Indeed, belike they should consider that you are
commanded, friend, but as a messenger; that you are in no
fault, not you. Trust not to that, Sancho, for your Manchegan
people are as choleric as honest, and do not love to be jested
with. In very deed, if they smell you, you are sure to pay for
it." ''Ware hawk, ware hawk! No, no, let me for another's
pleasure seek better bread than's made of wheat! and I may
as well find this Dulcinea as one Mary in Robena,* or a
scholar in black in Salamanca. The devil, the devil, and
none else, hath clapped me into this business."'

This soliloquy passed Sancho with himself, and the up-
shot was this : *A11 things,' said he, 'have a remedy but death,
under whose yoke we must all pass in spite of our teeth, when
life ends. This master of mine, by a thousand signs that I
have seen, is a bedlam, fit to be bound ; and I come not a whit
short of him, and am the greater coxcomb of two, to serve
him, if the proverb be true that says, "Like master, like man";
and another, "Thou art known by him that doth thee feed,
not by him that doth thee breed." He being thus mad, then,
and subject, out of madness, to mistaking of one thing for
another, to judge black for white, and white for black, as ap-
peared when he said the windmills were giants, and the friars'
mules dromedaries, and the flocks of sheep armies of enemies,
and much more to this tune, it will not be hard to make him
believe that some husbandman's daughter, the first we meet

3 As if we should say, one Joan in London.

ICO

SANG H O'S CONCEIT

with, is the Lady Dulcinea ; and, if he believe it not, Til swear;
and, if he swear Til outswear him; and, if he be obstinate, FU
be so more: so that I will stand to my tackling, come what
will on it. Perhaps with mine obstinacy I shall so prevail
with him that he will send me no more upon these kind of
messages, seeing what bad despatch I bring him ; or perhaps
he will think that some wicked enchanter, one of those that
he says persecute him, hath changed her shape to vex him/

With this conceit Sancho^s spirit was at rest, and he thought
his business was brought to a good pass ; and so, staying there
till it grew to be toward the evening, that Don Quixote might
think he spent so much time in going and coming from
Toboso, all fell out happily for him; for when he got up to
mount upon Dapple he might see three country-wenches com-
ing towards him from Toboso, upon three ass-colts, whether
male or female the author declares not, though it be likely
they were she-asses, they being the ordinary beasts that those
country-people ride on; but, because it is not very pertinent
to the story, we need not stand much upon deciding that. In
fine, when Sancho saw the three country- wenches, he turned
back apace to find out his master Don Quixote, and found him
sighing, and uttering a thousand amorous lamentations.

As soon as Don Quixote saw him, he said: *How now,
Sancho, what is the matter? May I mark this day with a
white or a black stone ?' ^Twere fitter,' quoth Sancho, *you
would mark it with red ochre, as the inscriptions are upon
professors' chairs, that they may plainly read that see them.'
^Belike, then,' quoth Don Quixote, *thou bringest good news.'
'So good,' said Sancho, *that you need no more but spur Roz-
inante, and straight discover the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
with two damsels waiting on her, coming to see your wor-

lOI

DON QU IXOTE

ship.' * Blessed God! friend Sancho, what sayst thou?'
quoth Don Quixote. *See thou deceive me not with thy false
mirth to glad my true sorrow.'

*What should I get by deceiving you,' quoth Sancho, ^the
rather yourself being so near to discover the truth? Spur, sir,
ride on, and you shall see our mistress the princess coming,
clad indeed and adorned like herself; she and her damsels are
a very spark of gold; they are all robes of pearl, all diamonds,
all rubies, all cloth of gold ten storeys high at least; their
hairs hung loose over their shoulders, that were like so many
sunbeams playing with the wind ; and, besides all this, they
are mounted upon three flea-bitten nackneys, the finest sight
that can be.' ^Hackneys thou wouldst say, Sancho.' *Hack-
ney or nackney, ' quoth Sancho, ^there is little difference;
but, let them come upon what they will, they are the bravest
ladies that can be imagined, especially my lady the Princess
Dulcinea that dazzles the senses.' ' Let's go, son Sancho,'
quoth Don Quixote ; ^and, for a reward for this unlooked-for
good news, I bequeath the best spoil I get in our first adven-
ture next; and, if this content thee not, I give thee my this
year's colts by my three mares thou knowest I have to foal in
our own town common.' ^The colts I like,' quoth Sancho,
' but for the goodness of the spoil of the first adventure, I have
no mind to that.'

By this they came out of the wood, and saw the three
country-wenches near them. Don Quixote stretched his eyes
all over Toboso way, and, seeing none but the three wenches,
he was somewhat troubled, and demanded of Sancho if he
had left them coming out of the city. ' How lout of the city?'
quoth Sancho ; * are your eyes in your noddle, that you see
them not coming here, shining as bright as the sun at noon?'

102

i-

ij—

THE ENCHANTED DULCINEA

*I see none,' said he, 'but three wenches upon three asses.'
*Now, God keep me from the devil!' quoth Sancho; 'and is it
possible that three hackneys — or how call ye 'em ? — as white
as a flake of snow, should appear to you to be asses ? As sure
as may be, you shall pull off my beard if that be so.' 'Well.
I tell you, friend Sancho, 'tis as sure that they are he or she
asses, as I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, and thou Sancho
Panza; at least to me they seem so.' 'Peace, sir,' quoth San-
cho, 'and say not so; but snuff your eyes, and reverence the
mistress of your thoughts, for now she draws near.' And so
saying he advanced to meet the three country- wenches, and,
alighting from Dapple, took one of their asses by the halter,
and, fastening both his knees to the ground, said, 'Queen,
and princess, and duchess of beauty , let your haughtiness and
greatness be pleased to receive into your grace and good liking
your captived knight that stands yonder turned into marble,
all amazed and without his pulse, to see himself before your
magnificent presence. I am Sancho Panza his squire, and
he is the way-beaten knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, other-
wise called the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance.'

And now Don Quixote was on his knees by Sancho, and
beheld with unglad but troubled eyes her that Sancho called
queen and lady ; but, seeing he discovered nothing in her but
a country- wench, and not very well favoured, for she was
blub-faced and flat-nosed, he was in some suspense, and durst
not once open his lips. The wenches too were astonished to
see those two so different men upon their knees, and that they
would not let their companion go forward. But she that was
stayed, angry to hear herself misused, broke silence first,
saying, ' Get you out of the way, with a mischief, and let's
be gone, for we are in haste.' To which quoth Sancho: 'O

io5

DON QUIXOTE

princess and universal Lady of Toboso ! why doth not your
magnanimous heart relent, seeing the pillar and prop of
knight-errantry prostrated before your sublimated presence ? ^
Which when one of the other two heard, after she had cried
out to her ass, that was turning aside, she said : * Look how
these yonkers come to mock at poor country-folk, as if we knew
not how to return their flouts upon them! Get you gone your
way and leave us, you had best.'

'Rise, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, * at this instant, for I
perceive now that mine ill fortune, not satisfied, hath shut up all
the passages by which any content might come to this my
wretched soul within my flesh. O thou, the extreme of all
worth to be desired, the bound of all human gentleness, the
only remedy of this mine afflicted heart that adores thee ! now
that the wicked enchanter persecutes me, and hath put clouds
and cataracts in mine eyes, and for them only, and none else,
hath transformed and changed thy peerless beauty and face
into the face of a poor country-wench, — if so be now he have
not turned mine too into some hobgoblin, to make it loath-
some in thy sight, look on me gently and amorously, perceiv-
ing by this submission and kneeling which I use to thy coun-
terfeit beauty the humility with which my soul adores thee.'

* Marry, muff! ' quoth the country-wench; * I care much for
your courtings ! Get you gone, and let us go, and we shall
be beholding to you. '

Sancho let her pass by him, most glad that he had sped so
well with his device. The country-wench that played Dul-
cinea's part was no sooner free, when, spurring her hackney
with a prickle she had at the end of her cudgel, she began to
run apace; and the ass, feeling the smart of it more than or-
dinary, began to wince so fast that down came my Lady Dul-

io6

• \

THE ENCHANTED DULCINEA

cinea ; which when Don Quixote saw, he came to help her up,
and Sancho went to order and gird her pack-saddle, that
hung at the ass's belly; which being fitted, and Don Quixote
about to lift his enchanted mistress in his arms to her ass,
she, being now got upon her legs, saved him that labour, for,
stepping a little back, she fetched a rise, and clapping both
her hands upon the ass's crupper, she lighted as swift as an
hawk upon the pack-saddle, and sat astride like a man.

Then said Sancho : ^ By Saint Roque, our mistress is as
light as a robin-ruddock, and may teach the cunningest Cor-
dovan or Mexicanian to ride on their jennets. At one spring
she hath leaped over the crupper, and without spurs makes
the hackney run like a musk-cat ; and her damosels come not
short of her, for they fly like the wind.' And he said true;
for when Dulcinea was once on horseback they all made after
her, and set a-running for two miles without looking behind
them.

Don Quixote still looked after them ; but, when they were
got out of sight, turning to Sancho, he said: * Sancho, how
thinkest thou ? How much enchanters do hate me ! And see
how far their malice extends, and their aim at me, since they
have deprived me of the happiness I should have received to
have seen my mistress in her true being. Indeed, I was born
to be an example of unfortunate men, to be the mark and butt
at which ill-fortune's arrows should be sent. And thou must
note, Sancho, that these enchanters were not content to have
changed and transformed my Dulcinea, but they have done it
into a shape so base and ugly as of a country-wench thou saw-
est; and, withal, they have taken from her that which is so
proper to her and great ladies, to wit, her sweet scent of
flowers and amber ; for let me tell thee, Sancho, that when I

107

DON QUIXOTE

went to help Dulcinea to her hackney — which as thou sayst,
seemed to me to be a she-ass — she gave me such a breath of
raw garlic as pierced and intoxicated my brain.'

* O base rout!' cried out Sancho instantly ; *0 dismal and ill-
minded enchanters ! I would I might see you all strung up to-
gether like galls, or like pilchards in shoals. Cunning you
are, much you can, and much you do. It had been enough
for you, rascals, to have turned the pearls of my lady's eyes
into corky galls, and her most pure golden hair into bristles
of a red ox's tail, and, finally, all her feature from good to
bad, without meddling with her breath ; for only by that we
might have guessed what was concealed under that coarse
rind ; though, to say true, I never saw her coarseness, but her
beauty, which was infinitely increased by a mole she had
upon her lip, like a mustacho, with seven or eight red hairs
like threads of gold, and above a handful long.' *To this
mole,' quoth Don Quixote, * according to the correspondency
that those of the face have with those of the body, she hath
another in the table of her thigh that corresponds to the side
where that of her face is; but hairs of that length thou speak-
est of are very much for moles.' 'Well, I can tell you,' quoth San-
cho, 'that there they appeared, as if they had been born with
her.' ' I believe it, friend,' replied Don Quixote ; ' for nature
could form nothing in Dulcinea that was not perfect and com-
plete; and so, though she had a hundred moles, as well as
that one thou sawest in her, they were not moles, but moons
and bright stars. But tell me, Sancho, that which thou didst
set on, which seemed to me to be a pack-saddle, was it a plain
saddle or a saddle with a back?' 'It was,' said Sancho, 'a
jennet-saddle, with a field covering, worth half a kingdom for
the richness of it. ' ' And could not I see all this ? Well, now

1 08

THE ENCHANTED DULCINEA

I say again, and will say it a thousand times, I am the un-
happiest man alive/ The crack-rope Sancho had enough to
do to hold laughter, hearing his master's madness, that was
so delicately gulled.

Finally, after many other reasons that passed betwixt them
both, they gat up on their beasts, and held on the way to Sara-
gosa, where they thought to be fitly to see the solemnities that
are performed once every year in that famous city. But be-
fore they came thither things befel them that, because they
are many, famous, and strange, they deserve to be written
and read, as shall be seen here following.

109

CHAPTER XI

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT BEFEL DON
QUIXOTE, WITH THE CART OR WAGGON OF
THE PARLIAMENT OF DEATH

DON QUIXOTE went on, wonderful pensative to think
what a shrewd trick the enchanters had played him, in
changing his mistress Dulcinea into the rustic shape
of a country- wench, and could not imagine what means he
might use to bring her to her pristine being; and these
thoughts so distracted him that carelessly he gave Rozinante
the reins, who, perceiving the liberty he had, stayed every
stitch- while to feed upon the green grass of which those fields
were full; but Sancho put him out of his maze, saying, ^Sir,
sorrow was not ordained for beasts but men, yet if men do ex-
ceed in it they become beasts. Pray, sir, recollect and come
to yourself, and pluck up Rozinante's reins; revive and cheer
yourself, show the courage that befits a knight-errant. What
a devil's the matter ? What faintness is this ? Are we dream-
ing on a dry summer? Now, Satan take all the Dulcineas in
the world ! since the welfare of one only knight-errant is
more worth than all the enchantments and transformations in
the world.'

Peace, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, with a voice now not,

no

THE ENCHANTED DULCINEA

very faint; 'peace, I say, and speak no blasphemies against
that enchanted lady, for I only am in fault for her misfortune
and unhappiness ; her ill plight springs from the envy that en-
chanters bear me/ *So say I too,' quoth Sancho; *for what
heart sees her now, that saw her before, and doth not deplore ? '
*Thou mayst well say so, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'since
thou sawest her in her just entire beauty, and the enchant-
ment dimmed not thy sight nor concealed her fairness.
Against me only only, against mine eyes, the force of its venom
is directed. But for all that, Sancho, I have fallen upon one
thing, which is that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me ;
for, if I forget not, thou saidst she had eyes of pearls, and such
eyes are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than a fair dame's ; but,
as I think, Dulcinea's eyes are like two green emeralds rared
with two celestial arcs, that serve them for eyebrows. And
therefore, for your pearls, take them from her eyes andputthem
to her teeth ; for doubtless, Sancho, thou mistookest eyes for
teeth.'

'All this may be,' saidSancho, 'for her beauty troubled me
as much as her foulness since hath done you ; but leave we all
to God, who is the knower of all things that befals us in this
vale of tears, in this wicked world, where there is scarce any-
thing without mixture of mischief, impostorship, or villainy.
One thing, master mine, troubles me more than all the rest —
to think what means there will be, when you overcome any
giant or other knight, and command him to present himself
before the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea, where this poor giant
or miserable vanquished knight shall find her ? Methinks I
see 'em go staring up and down Toboso to find my Lady Dul-
cinea, and, though they should meet her in the middle of the
street, yet they would no more know her than my father.'

Ill

DON QUIXOTE

*It may be Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, *her enchantment
will not extend to take from vanquished and presented giants
and knights the knowledge of Dulcinea; and therefore, in one
or two of the first I conquer and send, we will make trial
whether they see her or no, commanding them that they return
to relate unto me what hath befallen them.'

*I say, sir,' quoth Sancho, 4 like what you have said very
well, and by this device we shall know what we desire; and,
if so be she be only hidden to you, your misfortune is beyond
hers. But, so my Lady Dulcinea have health and content, we
will bear and pass it over here as well as we may, seeking
our adventures ; and let time alone, who is the best physician
for these and other infirmities.'

Don Quixote would have answered Sancho Panza, but he
was interrupted by a waggon that came cross the way, loaden
with the most diflFerent and strange personages and shapes that
might be imagined. He that guided the mules, and served for
waggoner, was an ugly devil. The waggon's self was open,
without tilt or boughs. The first shape that presented itself
to Don Quixote's eyes was of Death herself, with a human
face, and next her an angel with large painted wings; on one
side stood an emperor, with a crown upon his head, to see
to, of gold; at Death's feet was the god called Cupid, not blind-
folded, but with his bow, his quiver and arrows. There was
also a knight completely armed, only he had no morion or
headpiece, but a hat full of divers-coloured plumes. With
these there were other personages of different fashions and
faces. All which, seen on a sudden, in some sort troubled
Don Quixote, and affrighted Sancho's heart; but straight Don
Quixote was jocund, believing that some rare and dangerous
adventure was offered unto him; and with this thought and

112

THE PLAYERS

a mind disposed to give the onset to any peril, he got himself
before the waggon, and with a loud and threatening voice
cried out, 'Carter, coachman, or devil, or whatso'er thou art,
be not slow to tell me who thou art, whither thou goest, and
what people these are thou earnest in thy cart-coach, rather
like Charon's boat than waggons now in use.'

To which the devil, staying the cart, gently replied, * Sir,
we are players of Thomas Angulo's company. We have
played a play called The Parliament of Death against this
Corpus Christi tide, in a town behind the ridge of yonder
mountain, and this afternoon we are to play it again at the
town you see before us, which because it is so near, to save a
labour of new attiring us, we go in the same clothes in which
we are to act. That young man plays Death ; that other an
angel; that woman, our author's wife, the queen; a fourth
there, a soldier; a fifth the emperor; and I the devil, which
is one of the chiefest actors in the play, for I have the best
part. If you desire to know anything else of us, ask me, and
I shall answer you most punctually; for, as I am a devil, no-
thing is unknown to me.'

'By the faith of a knight-errant,' said Don Quixote, 'as soon
as ever I saw this waggon I imagined some strange adventure
towards; and now I say it is fit to be fully satisfied of these
apparitions, by touching them with our hands. God be with
you, honest people ; act your play, and see whether you will
command anything wherein I may be serviceable to you ; for
I will be so most cheerfully and willingly: for since I was a
boy I have loved mask-shows, and in my youth I have been
ravished with stage-plays.'

Whilst they were thus discoursing, it fell out that one of the
company came toward them, clad for the fool in the play,

ii3

DON QUIXOTE

with morrice-bells, and at the end of a stick he had three
cows' bladders fiill-blown, who thus masked, running toward
Don Quixote, began to fence with his cudgel, and to thwack
the bladders upon the ground, and to frisk with his bells in
the air, which dreadful sight so troubled Rozinante that, Don
Quixote not able to hold him in, for he had gotten the bridle
betwixt his teeth, he fell a-running up and down the field,
much swifter than his anatomised bones made show for. San-
cho, that considered in what danger of being thrown down
his master might be, leaped from Dapple, and with all speed
ran to help him; but, by that time he came to him, he was upon
the ground, and Rozinante by him, for they both tumbled to-
gether. This was the common pass Rozinante's tricks and
boldness came to. But no sooner had Sancho left his horse-
backship to come to Don Quixote, when the damning devil
with the bladders leaped on Dapple, and, clapping him with
them, the fear and noise, more than the blows, made him fly
thorough the field toward the place where they were to play.
Sancho beheld Dapple's career and his master's fall, and knew
not to which of the ill chances he might first repair; but yet,
like a good squire and faithful servant, his master's love pre-
vailed more with him than the cockering of his ass, though
every hoisting of the bladders, and falling on Dapple's but-
tocks, were to him trances and tidings of death, and rather
had he those blows had lighted on his eyeballs than on the
least hair of his ass's tail.

In this perplexity he came to Don Quixote, who was in a
great deal worse plight than he was willing to see him; and,
helping him on Rozinante, said, ^ Sir, the devil hath carried
away Dapple.' ^ What devil?' quoth Don Quixote. 'He with
the bladders,' replied Sancho. 'Well, I will recover him,'

114

THE PLAYERS

said Don Quixote, ^though he should lock him up with him in
the darkest and deepest dungeons of hell. Follow me, San-
cho, for the waggon goes but slowly, and the mules shall
satisfy Dapple's loss/ *There is no need,' said Sancho; * tem-
per your choler, for now I see the devil hath left Dapple,
and he returns to his home. ' And he said true, for the devil
having fallen with Dapple, to imitate Don Quixote and Rozi-
nante, he went on foot to the town, and the ass came back
to his master.

' For all that, ' said Don Quixote, ' it were fit to take re-
venge of the devil's unmannerliness upon some of those in the
waggon, even of the emperor himself.' 'Oh, never think ot
any such matter,' said Sancho, *and take my counsel, that is,
never to meddle with players, for they are a people mightily
beloved. I have known one of 'em in prison for two murders,
and yet scaped scot-free. Know this, sir, that, as they are
merry jovial lads, all men love, esteem, and help them, espe-
cially if they be the king's players, and all of them in their fash-
ion and garb are gentleman-like.' 'For all that,' said Don
Quixote, ' the devil-player shall not scape from me and brag
of it, though all mankind help him.' And so saying, he got
to the waggon, that was now somewhat near the town,
and, crying aloud, said, 'Hold, stay, merry Greeks, for TU
make ye know what belongs to the asses and furniture belong-
ing to the squires of knights-errant. Don Quixote's noise was
such that those of the waggon heard it ; and, guessing at his
intention by his speeches, in an instant Mistress Death leaped
out of the waggon, and after her the emperor, the devil-wag-
goner, and the angel, and the queen too, with little Cupid ; all
of them were straight loaded with stones, and put themselves
in order, expecting Don Quixote with their pebble-points.

"7

DON QUIXOTE

Don Quixote, that saw them in so gallant a squadron,
ready to discharge strongly their stones, held in Rozinante's
rein's, and began to consider how he should set upon them with
least hazard of his person. Whilst he thus stayed, Sancho
came to him, and, seeing him ready to give the onset, said :
' 'Tis a mere madness, sir, to attempt this enterprise; I pray

consider that, for .__. . _ _

jour n\ei sop& .^^

there are no de-

The players mahe

ready to receive Don Quixote

fensive weapons in the world, but to be shut up and inlaid
under a brazen bell ; and consider likewise 'tis rather rashness
than valour for one man alone to set upon an army wherein
Death is, and where emperors fight in person, and where good
and bad angels help; and, if the consideration of this be not
sufficient, may this move you, to know that amongst all
these, though they seem to be kings, princes and emperors,
yet there is not so much as one knight-errant.'

'Thou hast hit upon the right, Sancho,' said Don Quixote,

■ Meaning the stones.

THE PLAYERS

'the very point that may alter my determination. I nei-
ther can nor must draw my sword, as I have often told thee,
against any that be not knights-errant. It concerns thee,
Sancho, if thou meanest to be revenged for the wrong done
unto thine ass; and I will encourage thee, and from hence give
thee wholesome instructions.' 'There needs no being re-
venged of anybody 'said Sancho, 'for there is no Christianity in
It; besides, mine ass shall be contented to put his cause to me
and to my will, which is to live peaceable and quietly, as long
as Heaven shall be pleased to afford me life.' 'Since this is thy
determination,' said Don Quixote, 'honest, wise, discreet,
Christian-like, pure Sancho, let us leave these dreams, and
seek other better and more real adventures; for I see this coun-
try is like to afford us many miraculous ones.'

So he turned Rozinante's reins, and Sancho took his Dap-
ple; Death with all the flying squadron returned to the wag-
gon, and went on their voyage ; and this was the happy end
of the waggon of Death's adventure, thanks be to the good
advice that Sancho Panza gave his master, to whom the day
after there happened another adventure, no less pleasant, with
an enamoured knight-errant as well as he.

119

CHAPTERXII

OF THE RARE ADVENTURE THAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE
WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE LOOKING-GLASSES

DON QUIXOTE and his squire passed the ensuing
night after their Death's encounter, under certain
high and shady trees, Don Quixote having first, by
Sancho's entreaty, eaten somewhat of the provision that came
upon Dapple; and as they were at supper Sancho said to his
master, ' Sir, what an ass had I been, had I chosen for a re-

THE PLAYERS

ward the spoils of the first adventure which you might end,
rather than the breed of the three mares ! Indeed, indeed, a
bird in the hand is better than two in the bush.'

^For all that,' quoth Don Quixote, ^ if thou, Sancho, hadst
let me give the onset, as I desired, thou hadst had to thy share,
at least, the empress's golden crown and Cupid's painted
wings, for I had taken 'em away against the hair, and given
'em thee.' * Your players' sceptres and emperors' crowns,'
said Sancho, *are never of pure gold, but leaf and tin.'

* 'Tis true,' answered Don Quixote, 'for it is very necessary
that your play-ornaments be not fine, but counterfeit and
seeming, as the play itself is, which I would have thee, San-
cho, to esteem of, and consequently the actors too, and the
authors, because they are the instruments of much good to a
commonwealth, being like looking-glasses, where the actions
of human life are lively represented; and there is no compari-
son that doth more truly present to us what we are, or what we
should be, than comedy and comedians. If not, tell me, hast
not thou seen a play acted, where kings, emperors, bishops,
knights, dames, and other personages are introduced? One
plays a ruffian, another the cheater ; this is a merchant, t'other
a soldier; one a crafty fool, another a foolish lover; and, the
comedy ended and the apparel taken away, all the rehearsers
are the same they were.' * Yes, marry, have I,' quoth Sancho.
'Why, the same thing,' said Don Quixote, 'happens in the
comedy and theatre of this world, where some play the em-
perors, others the bishops, and, lastly, all the parts that may
be in a comedy; but, in the end — that is, the end of 'our life —
death takes away all the robes that made them differ, and at
their burial they are equal.' 'A brave comparison,' quoth
Sancho; 'but not so strange to me, that have heard it often,

121

DON QUIXOTE

as that of the chess-play, that while the game lasts every piece
hath its particular motion; and, the game ended, all are min-
gled and shuffled together, and cast into a leathern bag, which
is a kind of burial.'

* Every day, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'thou growest
wiser and wiser.' 4t must needs be,' said Sancho, 'that some
of your wisdom must cleave to me; for grounds that are dry
and barren, by mucking and tilling them, give good fruit; I
mean your conversation hath been the muck that hath been
cast upon the sterile ground of my barren wit, and the time
that I have served you the tillage, with which I hope to render
happy fruit, and such as may not gainsay or slide out of the
paths of good manners which you have made in my withered
understanding.'

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected reasons, and it
seemed true to him, what he had said touching his reformation;
for now and then his talk admired him, although for the most
part, when Sancho spoke by way of contradiction, or like a
courtier, he ended his discourse with a downfall from the
mount of his simplicity to the profundity of his ignorance; but
that wherein he showed himself most elegant and memorable
was in urging of proverbs, though they were never so much
against the hair of the present business, as hath been seen and
noted in all this history.

A great part of the night they passed in these and such-
like discourses, but Sancho had a great desire to let fall the
portcullises, as he called them, of his eyes, and sleep; and so,
undressing his Dapple, he turned him freely to graze. With
Rozinante's saddle he meddled not, for it was his master's ex-
press command that whilst they were in field or slept not with-
in doors he should not unsaddle him, it being an ancient

122

ROZINANTE AND DAPPLE

custom observed by knights-errant to take the bridle and hang
it at the saddle-pommel, but beware taking away the saddle,
which Sancho observed, and gave him the same liberty as to
his Dapple, whose friendship and Rozinante's was so sole and
united that the report goes by tradition from father to son
that the author of this true history made particular chapters
of it; only, to keep the decency and decorum due to so heroic
a story he omitted it, although sometimes he forgets his pur-
pose herein, and writes that, as the two beasts were together,
they would scratch one another, and, being wearied and satis-
fied, Rozinante would cross his throat over Dapple's neck at
least half a yard over the other side, and, both of them look-
ing wistly on the ground, they would stand thus three days
together, at least as long as they were let alone, or that hunger
compelled them not to look after their provender. 'Tis said,
I say, that the author, in his story, compared them, in their
friendship, to Nisus and Euryalus, to Pylades and Orestes,
which if it were so, it may be seen, to the general admiration,
how firm and steadfast the friendship was of the^e two pacific
beasts,to the shame of men, that so ill know the rules of friend-
ship one to another. For this it was said, *No falling out like
to that of friends.' And let no man think the author was un-
reasonable in having compared the friendship of these beasts
to the friendship of men; for men have received many items
from beasts, and learned many things of importance, as the
stork's dung, the dog s vomit and faithfulness, the crane's
watchfulness, the ant's providence, the elephant's honesty,
and the horse's loyalty.

At length Sancho fell fast asleep at the foot of a cork
tree, and Don Quixote reposed himself under an oak; but not
long after, a noise behind wakened him, and, rising suddenly,

125

DON QUIXOTE

he looked and hearkened from whence the noise came, and
he saw two men on horseback, and the one, tumbling from
his saddle, said to the other, 'Alight, friend, and unbridle our
horses, for methinks this place hath pasture enough for them,
and befits the silence and solitude of my amorous thoughts/
Thus he spoke, and stretched himself upon the ground in an
instant, but, casting himself down, his armour wherewith he
was armed made a noise, a manifest token that made Don
Quixote think he was some knight-errant, and coming to
Sancho, who was fast asleep, he plucked him by the arm, and
told him softly, 'Brother Sancho, we have an adventure.'
' God grant it be good ! ' quoth Sancho ; ' and where is this
master adventure's worship?' 'Where, Sancho !' replied Don
Quixote: 'look on one side, look, and there thou shalt see a
knight-errant stretched who, as it appears to me, is not over-
much joyed, for I saw him cast himself from his horse, and
stretch on the ground, with some shows of grief, and as he
fell he crossed his arms.' 'Why, in what do you perceive that
this is an adventure?' quoth Sancho. 'I will not say,' an-
swered Don Quixote, 'that this is altogether an adventure,
but an introduction to it, for thus adventures begin. But
hark, it seems he is tuning a lute or viol, and, by his spitting
and clearing his breast, he prepares himself to sing.' 'In good
faith, you say right,' quoth Sancho, 'and 'tis some enamoured
knight.' 'There is no knight-errant,' said Don Quixote, 'that
is not so. Let us give ear, and by the circumstance we shall
search the labyrinth of his thoughts, if so be he sing; for out
of the abundance of the heart the tongue speaketh.' Sancho
would have replied to his master; but the Knight of the
Wood's voice, which was but so-so, hindered him, and whilst
the two were astonished he sung as followeth :

126

THE KNIGHT OF THEWOOD

SONNET

Permit me, mistress, that I follow may

The bound, cut out just to your heart's desire,
The which in mine I shall esteem for aye.

So that I never from it will retire.
If you be pleased, my grief I silent stay,

And die, make reckoning that I straight expire;
If I may tell it you, the unusual way,

I will, and make Love's self be my supplier.
Fashioned I am to proof of contraries.

As soft as wax, as hard as diamond too;
And to Love's laws my soul herself applies;

Or hard, or soft, my breast I offer you;
Graven, imprint in't what your pleasure is,

I, secret, swear it never to forego.

With a deep-fetched *Heigh-ho!' even from the bottom
of his heart, the Knight of the Wood ended his song; and,
after some pause, with a grieved and sorrowful voice, uttered
these words: 'Oh, the fairest and most ungrateful woman in
the world ! And shall it be possible, most excellent Casildea
de Vandalia, that thou suffer this thy captive knight to pine
and perish, with continual peregrinations, with hard and pain-
ful labours? Sufficeth not that I have made all the knights
of Navarre, of Leon, all the Tartesians, all the Castilians con-
fess thee to be the fairest lady of the world — ay, and all the
knights of Mancha too ?' 'Not so,' quoth Don Quixote straight;
'for I am of the Mancha, but never yielded to that, for I neither
could nor ought confess a thing so prejudicial to the beauty
of my mistress; and thou seest, Sancho, how much this knight
is wide; but let us hear him, it may be he will unfold himself
more.' 'Marry, will he,' quoth Sancho, *for he talks as if he
would lament a month together.'

But it fell out otherwise; for the Knight of the Wood
having overheard that they talked somewhat near him, ceas-

127

DON QUIXOTE

ing his complaints, he stood up, and with a clear but familiar
voice thus spake: * Who's there? who is it? Is it haply some
of the number of the contented or of the afflicted?' *0f the
afflicted,' answered Don Quixote. ^Come to me, then,' said
he of the Wood, *and make account you come to sadness itself,
and to affliction's self.' Don Quixote, when he saw himself
answered so tenderly and so modestly, drew near, and Sancho
likewise. The wailful knight laid hold on Don Quixote's arm,
saying, ^Sit down, sir knight; for to know that you are so,
and one that professeth knight-errantry, it is enough that I have
found you in this place, where solitariness and the Serene
bear you company,' the natural beds and proper beings for
knights-errant.' To which Don Quixote replied, *A knight
I am, and of the profession you speak of; and, though dis-
graces, misfortunes, and sorrows have their proper seat in
my mind, nothwithstanding, the compassion I have to other
men's griefs hath not left it. By your complaints I guess you
are enamoured, — I mean that you love that ungrateful fair one
mentioned in your laments.' Whilst they were thus discours-
ing, they sat together lovingly upon the cold ground, as if
by daybreak their heads also would not break. The Knight
of the Wood demanded, 'Are you happily enamoured, sir
knight?' ^Unhappily I am,' quoth Don Quixote, ^although
the unhappiness that ariseth from well-placed thoughts ought
rather to be esteemed a happiness than otherwise.' 'True it
is,' replied he of the Wood, *if disdains did not vex our
reason and understanding, which, being unmerciful, come
nearer to revenge.' 'I was never,' said Don Quixote, 'dis-
dained of my mistress.' 'No, indeed,' quoth Sancho, who
was near them; 'for my lady is as gentle as a lamb, and

» Serene, the night-dew that falls.

128

THE TWO SQUIRES

as soft as butter.' 4s this your squire?' said he of the
Wood. 'He is,' said Don Quixote. ^1 ne'er saw squire,'
replied he of the Wood, 'that durst prate so boldly before
his master; at least yonder is mine, as big as his father,
and I can prove he never unfolded his lips, whensoever I
spake.' 'Well, i' faith,' quoth Sancho, 'I have spoken, and
may speak before — as — and perhaps — but let it alone ; the
more it is stirred, the more it will stink.'

The Squire of the Wood took Sancho by the hand, saying,
' Let us go and talk what we list squire-like, and let us leave
these our masters ; let them fall from their lances and tell of
their loves, for I warrant you the morning will overtake them
before they have done.' 'A' God's name,' quoth Sancho;
'and I'll tell you who I am, that you may see whether I may
be admitted into the number of your talking squires.' So the
two squires went apart, between whom there passed as witty
a dialogue as their masters' was serious.

129

CHAPTER XIII

WHERE THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD

IS PROSECUTED, WITH THE DISCREET, RARE,

AND SWEET COLLOQUY THAT PASSED

BETWIXT THE TWO SQUIRES

THE knights and their squires were divided, these tell-
ing their lives, they their loves; and thus saith the
story, that the Squire of the Wood said to Sancho,
'It is a cumbersome life that we lead, sir, — we, I say, that
are squires to knights-errant; for truly we eat our bread with
the sweat of our brows, which is one of the curses that God
i3o

THE SQUIRES^ TALK

laid upon our first parents.' 'You may say also/ added San-
cho, Hhat we eat it in the frost of our bodies; for who endure
more heats and colds than your miserable squires to knights-
errant? And yet not so bad if we might eat at all, for good
fare lessens care; but sometimes it happens that we are two
days without eating, except it be the air that blows on us.'

* All this may be borne,' quoth he of the Wood, 'with the
hope we have of reward; for, if the knight-errant whom the
squire serves be not too unfortunate he shall, with a little
good hap, see himself rewarded with the government of
some island, or with a reasonable earldom.' ' I,' said Sancho,
'have often told my master that I would content myself
with the government of any island, and he is so noble and
liberal that he hath often promised it me.' 'I,' said he of the
Wood, 'for my services would be satisfied with some canonry
which my master too hath promised me.' 'Your master,
indeed,' said Sancho, 'belike is an ecclesiastical knight, and
may do his squires these kindnesses; but my master is merely
lay, though I remember that some persons of good discretion,
though out of bad intention, counselled him that he should be
an archbishop, which he would not be, but an emperor; and I
was in a bodily fear lest he might have a mind to the Church,
because I held myself uncapable of benefits by it; for let me
tell you, though to you I seem a man, yet in Church matters I
am a very beast.'

' Indeed, sir,' said he of the Wood, 'you are in the wrong,
for your island governments are not all so special, but that some
are crabbed, some poor, some distasteful, and, lastly, the
stateliest and best of all brings with it a heavy burden of cares
and inconveniences, which he to whom it falls to his lot un-
dergoes. Far better it were that we who profess this cursed

i3i

DON QUIXOTE

slavery retire home, and there entertain ourselves with more
delightful exercises, to wit, hunting and fishing; for what
squire is there in the world so poor that wants his nag, his
brace of greyhounds, or his angle-rod, to pass his time with
at his village?' *I want none of this,' said Sancho. *True
it is, I have no nag; but I have an ass worth two of my mas-
ter's horse. An ill Christmas God send me — and let it be the
next ensuing — if I would change for him, though I had four
bushels of barley to boot. You laugh at the price of my Dap-
ple, for dapple is the colour of mine ass; — well, greyhounds
I shall not want neither, there being enough to spare in our
town; besides, the sport is best at another man's charge.'
^Indeed, indeed, sir squire,' said he of the Wood, * I have
proposed and determined with myself to leave these bezzlings
of these knights, and return to my village, and bring up my
children, for I have three like three orient pearls.' *Two have
I,' said Sancho, 'that may be presented to the Pope in person,
especially one, a wench, which I bring up to be a countess —
God save her! — although it grieve her mother.' 'And how
old,' asked he of the Wood, 'is this lady Countess that you
bring up so?' 'Fifteen, somewhat under or over,' said San-
cho; 'but she is as long as a lance, and as fresh as an April
morning, and as sturdy as a porter.' 'These are parts,' said
he of the Wood, 'not only for her to be a countess, but a
nymph of the greeny grove. Ah, whoreson whore, and what
a sting the quean hath !' To which quoth Sancho, somewhat
musty, 'She is no whore, neither was her mother before her;
and none of them, God willing, shall be, as long as I live.
And I pray, sir, speak more mannerly; for these speeches are
not consonant from you that have been brought up amongst
knights-errant, the flowers of courtesy.' 'Oh,' said he of the

I 32

THE SQUIRES' TALK

Wood, ^sir squire, how you mistake, and how little you know
what belongs to praising! What! have you never observed
that when any knight in the market-place gives the bull a sure
thrust with his lance, or when anybody doth a thing well,
the common people use to say, ^^Ah, whoreson whoremaster,
how bravely he did it!'' So that that which seems to be a
dispraise, in that sense is a notable commendation; and re-
nounce you those sons and daughters that do not the works
that may make their parents deserve such-like praises.' 'I
do renounce,' said Sancho, ^and, if you meant no otherwise, I
pray you clap a whole whore-house at once upon my wife and
children; for all they do or say are extremes worthy of such
praises; and so I may see them, God deliver me out of this
mortal sin — that is, out of this dangerous profession of being
a squire — into which this second time I have incurred, being
enticed and deceived with the purse of the hundred ducats
which I found one day in the heart of Sierra Morena; and
the devil cast that bag of pislolets before mine eyes ; methinks
every foot I touch it, hug it, and carry it to mine house, set
leases and rents, and live like a prince; and still when I think
of this all the toil that I pass with this blockhead my master
seems easy and tolerable to me, who, I know, is more mad-
man than knight,' ^ Hereupon,' said he of the Wood, *it is said
that *^A11 covet, all lose." And now you talk of madmen, I
think my master is the greatest in the world ; he is one of them
that cries, '' Hang sorrow!" and, that another knight may re-
cover his wits, he'll make himself mad, and will seek after that
which perhaps, once found, will tumble him upon his snout.'
*And is he amorous, haply?' ^ Yes,' said he of the Wood; ^he
loves one Casildea de Vandalia, the most raw and most roast-
ed lady in the world; but she halts not on that foot of her

i33

DON QUIXOTE

rawness, for other manner of impostures do grunt in those
entrails of hers, which ere long will be known.' ' There is no
way so plain,' quoth Sancho, *that hath not some rub or pit,
or, as the proverb goes, **In some houses they seethe beans,
and in mine whole kettles-full," So madness hath more com-
panions, and more needy ones, than wisdom. But, if that
which is commonly spoken be true, that to have companions
in misery is a lightener of it, you may comfort me, that serve
as sottish a master as I do.' ' Sottish but valiant,' answered
he of the Wood, 'but more knave than fool or than valiant.' ' It
is not so with my master,' said Sancho ; *for he is ne'er a whit
knave; rather he is as dull as a beetle, hurts nobody, does good
to all; he hath no malice, a child will make him believe 'tis
night at noonday; and for his simplicity, I love him as my
heart-strings, and cannot find in my heart to leave him for all
his fopperies.' *For all that, brother and friend,' said he of
the Wood, * if the blind guide the blind, both will be in danger
to fall into the pit. 'Tis better to retire fair and softly, and
return to our loved homes ; for they that hunt after adventures
do not always light upon good.'

Sancho spit often, and, as it seemed, a kind of gluey and
dry matter, which noted by the charitable woody squire, he
said, 'Methinks with our talking our tongues cleave to our
roofs; but I have a suppler hangs at the pommel of my horse
as good as touch.' And, rising up, he returned presently with
a borracha of wine, and a baked-meat at least half a yard long ;
and it is no lie, for it was of a parboiled cony so large that
Sancho, when he felt it, thought it had been of a goat, and not
a kid, which being seen by Sancho, he said, 'And had ye this
with you too, sir ?' ' Why, what did ye think ?' said the other.
' Do you take me to be some hungry squire ? I have better

1 34

THE SQUIRES' TALK

provision at my horse's crupper than a general carries with
him upon a march.' Sancho fell to without invitation, and
champed his bits in the dark, as if he had scraunched knotted
cords, and said, ^ Ay, marry, sir, you are a true legal squire,
round and sound, royal and liberal, as appears by your feast,
which if it came not hither by way of enchantment, yet it seems
so at least; not like me, unfortunate wretch, that only carry in
my wallets a little cheese, so hard that you may break a giant's
head with it, and only some dozens of St. John's weed leaves,
and some few walnuts and small nuts, — plenty in the strictness
of my master, and the opinion he hath and the method he ob-
serves, that knights-errant must only be maintained and sus-
tained only with a little dry fruit and sallets.' * By my faith,
brother,' replied he of the Wood, *my stomach is not made to
your thistles nor your stalks, nor your mountain roots; let our
masters deal with their opinions and their knightly statutes,
and eat what they will; I have my cold meats, and this bottle
hanging at the pommel of my saddle, will he or nill he, which
I reverence and love so much that a minute passeth not in
which I give it not a thousand kisses and embraces.' Which
said, he gave it to Sancho, who, rearing it on end at his mouth,
looked a quarter of an hour together upon the stars ; and when
he had ended his draught he held his neck on one side, and, •
fetching a great sigh, cries, *0 whoreson rascal, how Catholic
it is!' * Law ye there!' said he of the Wood, in hearing San-
cho's ^whoreson,' 'how you have praised the wine in calling it
whoreson!' *I say,' quoth Sancho, *that I confess I know it
is no dishonour to call anybody whoreson, when there is a
meaning to praise him. But tell me, sir, by the remembrance
of her you love best, is this wine of Ciudad Real ?' ' 'A brave

I A place in Spain that hath excellent wines.

l35

DON QUIXOTE

tftste,' said he of the Wood; ^it is no less, and it is of some
years^ standing too/ * Let me alone,' said Sancho; *you could
not but think I must know it to the height. Do you think it
strange, sir squire, that I should have so great and so natural
an instinct in distinguishing betwixt wines, that, coming to
smell any wine, I hit upon the place, the grape, the savour,
the lasting, the strength, with all circumstances belonging to
wine? But no marvel, if in my lineage by my father's side I
had two of the most excellent tasters that were known in a long
time in Mancha, for proof of which you shall know what befel
them. They gave to these two some wine to taste out of a
hogshead, asking their opinions of the state, quality, good-
ness or badness of the wine : the one of them proved it with
the tip of his tongue, the other only smelt to it. The first
said that that wine savoured of iron; the second said. Rather
of goat's leather. The owner protested the hogshead was
clean, and that the wine had no kind of mixture by which it
should receive any savour of iron or leather. Notwithstand-
ing, the two famous tasters stood to what they had said.
Time ran on, the wine was sold, and when the vessel was
cleansed there was found in it a little key with a leathern
thong hanging at it. Now you may see whether he that
comes from such a race may give his opinion in these mat-
ters.' 'Therefore I say to you,' quoth he of the Wood, Met
us leave looking ^ter these adventures, and, since we have
content, let us not seek after dainties, but return to our cot-
tages, for there God will find us, if it be His will.' *TiIl my
master come to Saragosa, I mean,' quoth Sancho, 'to serve
him, and then we'll all take a new course.'

In fine, the two good squires talked and drank so much
that it was fit sleep should lay their tongues and slake their

1 36

THE SQUIRES' TALK

thirst, but to extinguish it was impossible; so both of them
fastened to the nigh empty bottle, and, their meat scarce out
of their mouths, fell asleep, where for the present we will leave
them, and tell what passed between the two knights.

1 37

CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE
WOOD IS PROSECUTED

AMONGST many discourses that passed between Don
Quixote and the Knight of the Wood, the history
^ says that he of the Wood said to Don Quixote, *In
brief, sir knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or,
to say better, my election, enamoured me upon the peerless
Casildea de Vandalia. Peerless I call her, as being so in the
greatness of her stature, and in the extreme of her being and
beauty. This Casildea I tell you of repaid my good and vir-
tuous desires in employing me, as did the stepmother of Her-
cules, in many and different perils, promising me, at the ac-

THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD

complishing of each one, in performing another I should enjoy
my wishes; but my labours have been so linked one upon an-
other that they are numberless, neither know I which may
be the last to give an accomplishment to my lawful desires.
Once she commanded me to give defiance to that famous giant-
ess of Seville called the Giralda, who is so valiant and so
strong as being made of brass, and, without changing place,
is the most moveable and turning woman in the world. I
came, I saw, and conquered her, and made her stand still and
keep distance ; for a whole week together no winds blew but
the north. Otherwhiles she commanded me to lift up the an-
cient stones of the fierce bulls of Guisando,' an enterprise fit-
ter for porters than knights. Another time she commanded
me to go down and dive in the vault of Cabra — a fearful and
unheard-of attempt — and to bring her relation of all that was
enclosed in that dark profundity. I stayed the motion of the
Giralda; I weighed the bulls of Guisando; I cast myself down
the steep cave, and brought to light the secrets of that bottom;
but my hopes were dead, how dead! ner disdains still living,
how living! Lastly, she hath now commanded me that I run
over all the provinces of Spain, and make all the knights-errant
that wander in them confess that she alone goes beyond all
other women in beauty, and that I am the valiantest and most
enamoured knight of the world, in which demand I have
travelled the greatest part of Spain, and have overcome many
knights that durst contradict me. But that which I prize and
esteem most is that I have conquered in single combat that
so famous knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, and made him
confess that my Casildea is fairer than his Dulcinea; and in
this conquest only I make account that I have conquered all

I As if we should say, to remove the stones at Stonage in Wiltshire.

139

DON QUIXOTE

the knights in the world, because the aforesaid Don Quixote
hath conquered them all, and I having overcome him, his fame,
his glory, and his honour hath been transferred and passed
over to my person, and the conquerer is so much the more
esteemed by how much the conquered was reputed, so that the
innumerable exploits of Don Quixote now mentioned are mine,
and pass upon my account.'

Don Quixote admired to hear the Knight of the Wood,
and was a thousand times about to have given him the lie,
and had his * Thou liest' upon the point of his tongue; but he
deferred it as well as he could, to make him confess with his
own mouth that he lied, and so he told him calmly : * That you
may have overcome, sir knight, all the knights-errant of Spain
and the whole world I grant ye ; but that you have overcome
Don Quixote de la Mancha, 1 doubt it; it may be some other
like him, though few there be so like.' * Why not?' replied
he of the Wood: *I can assure you, sir, I fought with him,
overcame, and made him yield. He is a tall fellow, with-
ered-faced, lank and dry in his limbs, somewhat hoary, sharp-
nosed, and crooked; his mustachoes long, black, and fallen; he
marcheth under the name of the Knight of the Sorrowful
Countenance; he presses the loin and rules the bridle of a
famous horse called Rozinante; and has for the mistress of his
thoughts one Dulcinea del Toboso, sometimes called Aldonsa
Lorenso, just as mine, that because her name was Casilda,
and of Andaluzia, I call her Casildea de Vandalia; and, if all
these tokens be not enough to countenance the truth, here is
my sword that shall make incredulity itself believe it.'

* Have patience, good sir knight,' quoth Don Quixote, *and
hear what I shall say. Know that this Don Quixote you speak
of is the greatest friend I have in this world, and so much that

140

A COMBAT ARRANGED

I may tell you I love him as well as myself, and by the
signs that you have given of him, so punctual and certain, I
cannot but think it is he whom you have overcome. On the
other side, I see with mine eyes, and feel with my hands,
that it is not possible it should be he, if it be not that, as he
hath many enchanters that be his enemies, especially one that
doth ordinarily persecute him, there be some one that hath
taken his shape on him, and suffered himself to be overcome,
to defraud him of the glory which his noble chivalry hath
gotten and laid up for him throughout the whole earth. And,
for confirmation of this, I would have you know that these
enchanters mine enemies, not two days since, transformed
the shape and person of the fair Dulcinea del Toboso into a
foul and base country-wench, and in this sort belike they have
transformed Don Quixote; and, if all this be not sufficient to
direct you in the truth, here is Don Quixote himself, that will
maintain it with his arms on foot or on horseback, or in what
manner you please'; and he grasped his sword, expecting
what resolution the Knight of the Wood would take ; who with
a staid voice answered and said : * A good paymaster needs no
surety; he that could once, Don Quixote, overcome you when
you were transformed, may very well hope to restore you to
your former being. But because it becomes not knights to
do their feats in the dark, like highway robbers and ruffians,
let us stay for the day, that the sun may behold our actions ;
and the condition of our combat shall be that he that is over-
come shall stand to the mercy of the conqueror, who, by his
victory, shall have power to do with him according to his
will, so far as what he ordaineth shall be fitting for a knight.'
*I am overjoyed with this condition and agreement,' quoth
Don Quixote.

141

DON QUIXOTE

And this said, they went where their squires were, whom
they found snorting, and just as they were when sleep first
stole upon them. They wakened them, and commanded they
should make their horses ready, for by sunrising they meant
to have a bloody and unequal single combat. At which news
Sancho was astonished and amazed, as fearing his master's
safety, by reason of the Knight of the Wood's valour, which
he had heard from his squire; but, without any reply, the two
squires went to seek their cattle, for by this the three horses
and Dapple had smelt out one another, and were together.

By the way, he of the Wood said to Sancho, *You must
understand, brother, that your combatants of Andalusia use,
when they are sticklers in any quarrel, not to stand idly with
their hands in their pockets, whilst their friends are fighting.
I tell you this, because you may know that whilst our masters
are at it we must skirmish too, and break our lances to shivers.'
'This custom, sir squire,' answered Sancho, ^may be current
there, and pass amongst your ruffians and combatants you talk
of; but with your squires that belong to knights-errant, not so
much as a thought of it ; at least I have not heard my master
so much as speak a word of any such custom, and he knows
without book all the ordinances of knight-errantry. But let
me grant ye that 'tis an express ordinance that the squires
fight, whilst their masters do so, yet I will not fulfil that, but
pay the penalty that shall be imposed upon such peaceable
squires; for I do not think it will be above two pound of wax,
and I had rather pay them, for I know they will cost me less
than the lint that I shall spend in making tents to cure my
head, which already I make account is cut and divided in two;

» Alluding to some penalties enjoined by confessors, to pay to burn in candles in
the church.

142

SANCHO DEMURS

besides, 'tis impossible I should fight, having never a sword,
and I never wore any.'

*For that,' quoth he of the Wood, ^I'll tell you a good
remedy: I have here two linen bags of one bigness; you shall
have one, and I the other, and with these equal weapons we'll
fight at bag-blows.' * Let us do so an' you will,' said Sancho;
*for this kind of fight will rather serve to dust than to wound
us.' *Not so,' said the other; ^for within the bags, that the
wind may not carry them to and fro, we will put half a dozen
of delicate smooth pebbles of equal weight, and so we may
bag-baste one another without doing any great hurt.' * Look
ye, body of my father!' quoth Sancho, * what martens' or sables'
fur, or what fine carded wool he puts in the bags, not to beat
out our brains, or make privet of our bones ! But know, sir,
if they were silk balls I would not fight ; let our masters fight,
and hear on it in another world ; let us drink and live, for time
will be careful to take away our lives, without our striving to
end them before their time and season, and that they drop
before they are ripe.' ' For all that,' said he of the Wood, ^we
must fight half an hour.' *No, no,' said Sancho; 4 will not
be so discourteous and ungrateful as to wrangle with whom
I have eaten and drunk, let the occasion be never so small —
how much more I being without choler or anger; who the
devil can barely without these fight ? ' ' For this,' said he of
the Wood, ' I'll give you a sufficient cause, which is, that before
we begin the combat I will come me finely to you, and give
you three or four boxes, and strike you to my feet, with which
I shall awake your choler, although it sleep like a dormouse.'
* Against this cut I have another,' quoth Sancho, *that comes
not short of it: I will take me a good cudgel, and before you
waken my choler I will make you sleep so soundly with bas-

143

DON QUIXOTE

tinadoing you that you shall not wake but in another world,
in which it shall be known that I am not he that will let any
man handle my face ; and every man look to the shaft he shoots ;
and the best way were to let every man's choler sleep with him,
for no man knows what's in another, and many come for wool
that return shorn; and God blessed the peace-makers, and
cursed the quarreller; for if a cat shut into a room, much
baited and straitened, turn to be a lion, God knows what I
that am a man may turn to. Therefore from henceforward,
sir squire, let me intimate to you that all the evil and mischief
that shall arise from our quarrel be upon your head/ * 'Tis
well,' quoth he of the Wood ; * let it be day and we shall thrive
by this.'

And now a thousand sorts of painted birds began to chirp
in the trees, and in their different delightful tones it seemed
they bade good-morrow and saluted the fresh Aurora, that
now discovered the beauty of her face thorough the gates and
bay-windows of the east, shaking from her locks an infinite
number of liquid pearls, bathing the herbs in her sweet liquor,
that it seemed they also sprouted and rained white and small
pearls. The willows did distil their savoury manna; the foun-
tains laughed; the brooks murmered; the woods were cheered;
and the fields were enriched with her coming.

But the brightness of the day scarce gave time to distinguish
things, when the first thing that offered itself to Sancho's sight
was the Squire of the Wood's nose, which was so huge that
it did as it were shadow his whole body. It is said, indeed,
that it was of an extraordinary bigness, crooked in the midst,
and all full of warts of a darkish-green colour, like a berengene,
and hung some two fingers over his mouth. This hugeness,
colour, warts, and crookedness did so disfigure his face that

144

THE TWO KNIGHTS

Sancho, in seeing him, began to lay about him backward and
forward, like a young raw ancient, and resolved with himself
to endure two hundred boxes before his choler should waken
to fight with that hobgoblin.

Don Quixote beheld his opposite, and perceived that his
helmet was on and drawn, so that he could not see his face;
but he saw that he was well set in his body, though not tall :
upon his armour he wore an upper garment or cassock, to see
to, of pure cloth of gold, with many moons of shining looking-
glasses spread about it, which made him appear very brave
and gorgeous; a great plume of green feathers waved about
his helmet, with others white and yellow ; his lance, which he
had reared up against a tree, was very long and thick, and
with a steel pike above a handful long. Don Quixote observed
and noted all, and by what he had seen and marked judged
that the said knight must needs be of great strength; but yet
he was not afraid, like Sancho, and with a bold courage thus
spoke to the Knight of the Looking-glasses: *If your eager-
ness to fight, sir knight, have not spent your courtesy, for it
I desire you to lift up your visor a little, that I may behold
whether the liveliness of your face be answerable to that of
your disposition, whether vanquished or vanquisher you be in
this enterprise.' * Sir knight,' answered he of the Looking-
glasses, 'you shall have time and leisure enough to see me ;
and, if I do not now satisfy your desire, it is because I think
I shall do a great deal of wrong to the fair Casildea de
Vandalia, to delay so much time as to lift up my visor, till I
have first made you confess what I know you go about.' * Well,
yet while we get a»horseback,' Don Quixote said, 'you may
resolve me whether I be that Don Quixote whom you said
you had vanquished.' *To this I answer you,' said he of the

145

DON QUIXOTE

Looking-glasses, ^ you are as like the knight I conquered as one
egg is to another; but, as you say, enchanters persecute you,
and therefore I dare not affirm whether you be he or no/ ^ It
sufficeth,^ quoth Don Quixote, * for me that you believe your
being deceived ; but that I may entirely satisfy you let's to
horse; for in less time than you should have spent in the lifting
up your visor, if God, my mistress, and mine arm defend me,
will I see your face ; and you shall see that I am not the van-
quished Don Quixote you speak of/

And here cutting off discourse, to horse they go, and Don
Quixote turned Rozinante about to take so much of the field as
was fit for him to return to encounter his enemy; and the
Knight of the Looking-glasses did the like. But Don Quixote
was not gone twenty paces from him when he heard that he
of the Looking-glasses called him; so the two parting the way,
he of the Glasses said, *Be mindful, sir knight, that the con-
dition of our combat is that the vanquished, as I have told you
before, must stand to the discretion of the vanquisher.' * I
know it,' said Don Quixote, *so that what is imposed and
commanded the vanquished be within the bounds and limits
of cavallery.' ^ So it is meant,' said he of the Glasses.

Here Don Quixote saw the strange nose of the squire,
and he did not less wonder at the sight of it than Sancho;
insomuch that he deemed him a monster, or some new kind
of man not usual in the world. Sancho, that saw his master
go to fetch his career, would not tarry alone with Nose-autem,
fearing that at one snap with t'other's nose upon his, their
fray would be ended; that either with the blow, or it, he
should come to ground; so he ran after his master, laying
hold upon one of Rozinante's stirrup-leathers; and when he
thought it time for his master to turn back he said, 'I beseech

146

SANCHO'S RETREAT

your worship, master mine, that before you fall to your en-
counter you help me to climb up yon cork-tree, from whence
I may better, and with more delight than from the ground,
see the gallant encounter you shall make with this knight.'

* Rather, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, * thou wouldst get
aloft, as into a scaffold to see the bulls without danger.' *Let
me de^l truly,' said Sancho; * the ugly nose of that squire hath
astonished me, and I dare not come near him.' * Such an one
it is,' said Don Quixote, * that any other but I might very well
be afraid of it; and therefore come and Til help thee up.'

Whilst Don Quixote was helping Sancho up into the cork-
tree, he of the Looking-glasses took up room for his career, and
thinking that Don Quixote would have done the like, without
looking for trumpet's sound, or any other warning sign, he
turned his horse's reins — no better to see to, nor swifter, than
Rozinante — and with his full speed, which was a reasonable
trot, he went to encounter his enemy; but, seeing him busied
in the mounting of Sancho, he held in his reins and stopped
in the midst of his career, for which his horse was most thank-
ful, as being unable to move. Don Quixote, who thought his
enemy by this came flying, set spurs lustily to Rozinante's
hinder flank, and made him post in such manner that, the
story says, now only he seemed to run, for all the rest was plain
trotting heretofore; and with this unspeakable fury he came
where he of the Looking-glasses was jagging his spurs into
his horse to the very hoops, without being able to remove him
a fingePs length from the place where he had set up his rest
for the career.

In this good time and conjuncture Don Quixote found his
contrary puzzled with his horse, and troubled with his lance;
for either he could not or else wanted time to set it in his rest.

147

D ON QU IXOTE

Don Quixote, that never looked into these inconveniences,
safely and without danger encountered him of the Looking,
glasses so furiously that in spite of his teeth he made him come
to the ground from his horse-crupper, with such a fall that,
stirring neither hand nor foot, he made show as if he had been
dead. Sancho scarce saw him down, when he slid from the
cork-tree, and came in all haste to his master, who dismounted
from Rozinante, got upon him of the Looking-glasses, and un-
lacing his helmet to see if he were dead or if he were alive, to
give him air, he saw — who can tell without great admiration,
wonder, and amaze to him that shall hear it ? — he saw, says the
history, the selfsame face, the same visage, the same aspect, the
same physiognomy, the same shape, the same perspective of
the bachelor Samson Carrasco; and as he saw it he cried aloud,
*Come, Sancho, and behold what thou mayst see, and not
believe ; run, whoreson, and observe the power of magic, what
witches and enchanters can do.'

Sancho drew near, and saw the bachelor Samson Carrasco's
face, and so began to make a thousand crosses, and to bless
himself as oft. In all this while the overthrown knight made
no show of living. And Sancho said to Don Quixote, *I am
of opinion, sir, that by all means you thrust your sword down
this fellow's throat that is so like the bachelor Samson Carras-
co, and so perhaps in him you shall kill some of your enemies
the enchanters.' ' 'Tis not ill advised,' quoth Don Quixote.
So drawing out his sword, to put Sancho's counsel in execu-
tion, the knight's squire came in, his nose being off that
had so disfigured him, and said aloud, 'Take heed, Sir Don
Quixote, what you do; for he that is now at your mercy is the
bachelor Samson Carrasco your friend, and I his squire.'

Now Sancho, seeing him without his former deformity,

148

S'V,.:'fl„.f/.f,,/-n;.i/i„i:,„^-'<>/,^MM„/,^n.J

A NEW ENCHANTMENT

said to him, ' and your nose ? ' To which he answered, ' Here
it is in my pocket'; and, putting his hand to his right side, he
pulled out a pasted nose and a varnished vizard, of the manu-
facture described. And Sancho, more and more beholding
him, with a loud and admiring voice said, ' Saint Mary defend
me! and is not this Thomas Cecial my neighbour and my
gossip?' ^ And how say you by that? ' quoth the unnosed squire,
'Thomas Cecial I am, gossip and friend Sancho, and straight I
will tell you the conveyances, sleights, and tricks that brought
me hither ; in the meantime request and entreat your master
that he touch not, misuse, wound or kill the Knight of the
Looking-glasses, now at his mercy, for doubtless it is the bold
and ill-advised bachelor Samson Carrasco our countryman.'

By this time the Knight of the Looking-glasses came to
himself, which Don Quixote seeing, he clapt the bare point
of his sword upon his face, and said, 'Thou diest, knight, if
thou confess not that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso excels
your Casildea de Vandalia in beauty; and moreover you shall
promise, if from this battle and fall you remain with life, to go
to the city of Toboso, and present yourself from me before her,
that she may dispose of you as she pleaseth; and if she pardon
you you shall return to me ; for the track of my exploits will
be your guide, and bring you where I am, to tell me what
hath passed with her. These conditions, according to those
we agreed on before the battle, exceed not the limits of knight-
errantry.' 'I confess,' said the fallen knight, 'that the Lady
Dulcinea del Toboso's torn and foul shoe is more worth than
the ill-combed hair, though clean, of Casildea ; and here I
promise to go and come from her presence to yours, and give
entire and particular relation of all you require.' 'You shall
also confess and believe,' added Don Quixote, ' that the knight

i5i

The long nose explained

whom you overcame neither was nor could be Don Quixote de
la Mancha, but some other like him, as I confess and believe
that you, although you seem to be the bachelor Samson
Carrasco, are not he, but one like him, and that my enemies
have cast you into his shape, that I may withhold and temper
the force of my choler, and use moderately the glory of my
conquest.' 'I confess, judge, and allow of all, as you confess,
judge, and allow,' answered the back-broken knight. * Let
me rise, I pray you, if the blow of my fall will let me; for it
hath left me in ill case.'

Don Quixote helped him to rise, and Thomas Cecial his
squire, on whom Sancho still cast his eyes, asking him ques-

l52

THE VANQUISHED KNIGHT

tions, whose answers gave him manifest signs that he was
Thomas Cecial indeed, as he said; but the apprehension that
was made in Sancho by what his master had said, that the
enchanters had changed the form of the Knight of the Glasses
into Samson Carrasco's, made him not believe what he saw
with his eyes. To conclude, the master and man remained
still in their error; and he of the Glasses and his squire, very
moody and ill errants, left Don Quixote, purposing to seek
some town where he might cerecloth himself, and settle his
• ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho held on their way to Saragosa,
where the story leaves them, to tell who was the Knight of
the Glasses and his nosy squire.

i53

CHAPTER XV

WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE LOOKING-GLASSES AND HIS

SQUIRE WERE

DON QUIXOTE was extremely contented, glad, and
vain-glorious, that he had subdued so valiant a knight
as he imagined he of the Looking-glasses was, from
whose knightly word he hoped to know if the enchantment of
his mistress were certain, since of necessity the said vanquished
knight was to return, on pain of not being so, to relate what
had happened unto him; but Don Quixote thought one thing,
and he of the Glasses another, though for the present he minded
nothing but to seek where he might cerecloth himself. The
history then tells us that, when the bachelor Samson Carrasco
advised Don Quixote to prosecute his forsaken cavallery, he en-
tered first of all into counsel with the vicar and the barber to
know what means they should use that Don Quixote might be
persuaded to stay at home peaceably and quietly, without
troubling himself with his unlucky adventures; from which
counsel, by the common consent of all and particular opinion
of Carrasco, it was agreed that Don Quixote should abroad
again, since it was impossible to stay him; and that Samson
should meet him upon the way like a knight-errant, and should
fight with him, since an occasion would not be wanting, and

1 54

rejoices over his great victory

SO to overcome him, which would not be difficult, and that
there should be a covenant and agreement that the vanquished
should stand to courtesy of the vanquisher, so that, Don
Quixote being vanquished, the bachelor knight should com-
mand him to get him home to his town and house, and not
to stir from thence in two years after, or till he should com-
mand him to the contrary; the which in all likelihood Don
Quixote, once vanquished, would infallibly accomplish, as

DON QUIXOTE

unwilling to contradict or be defective in the laws of knight-
hood, and it might so be that, in this time of sequestering, he
might forget all his vanities, or they might find out some con-
venient remedy for his madness. Carrasco accepted of it, and
Thomas Cecial offered himself to be his squire — Sancho
Panza's neighbour and gossip, a merry knave and a witty. Sam-
son armed himself, as you have heard, and Thomas Cecial fitted
the false nose to his own, and afterwards he clapt on his vizard,
that he might not be known by his gossip when they should
meet. So they held on the same voyage with Don Quixote, and
they came even just as he was in the adventure of Death's
waggon; and at last they lighted on them in the wood, where
what befel them the discreet reader hath seen; and, if it had
not been for the strange opinion that Don Quixote had, that
the bachelor was not the self-same man, he had been spoiled
forever for taking another degree, since he missed his mark.
Thomas Cecial, that saw what ill use he had made of his
hopes, and the bad effect that his journey took, said to the
bachelor, * Truly, Master Samson, we have our deserts; things
are easily conceived, and enterprises easily undertaken, but
very hardly performed. Don Quixote mad, we wise; but he
is gone away sound and merry, you are here bruised and
sorrowful; let us know, then, who is the greatest madman,
he that is so and cannot do withal, or he that is so for his
pleasure.' To which quoth Samson: ^The difference between
these madmen is, that he that of necessity is so will always re-
main so, and he that accidentally is so may leave it when he
will.' 'Since it is so,' said Thomas Cecial, 'I that for my
pleasure was mad, when I would needs be your squire, for the
same reason I would leave the office and return home to my
own house.' ' 'Tis fit you should,' said Samson; ' yet to think

i56

SAMSON CARRASCO

•

that I will do so till I have soundly banged Don Quixote is
vain. And now I go not about to restore him to his wits, but
to revenge myself on him; for the intolerable pain I feel in my
ribs will not permit me a more charitable discourse.'

Thus they two went on parleying till they came to a town
where by chance they lighted upon a bone-setter, who cured
the unfortunate Samson. Thomas Cecial went home and left
him, and he stayed musing upon his revenge : and the history
hereafter will return to him, which at present must make
merry with Don Quixote.

i57

-'~'^*^rm^

^

-^

< '

.1

IJIEK

I.

CHAPTER XVI

WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET

GENTLEMAN OF MANCHA

DON QUIXOTE went on his journey with the joy, con-
I tent, and gladness as hath been mentioned, imagin-
ing that for the late victory he was the most valiant
knight that that age had in the world; he made account that
all adventures that should from thenceforward befal him were
brought to a happy and prosperous end; he cared not now for
any enchantments or enchanters; he forgot the innumerable
bangs that in the prosecution of his chivalry had been given
him, and the stones cast, that strook out half his teeth, and

i58

ENCHANTMENTS

the unthankfulness of the galley-slaves, and the boldness and
showers of stakes of the Yangueses. In conclusion, he said
to himself that, if he could find any art, manner, or means
how to disenchant his mistress Dulcinea, he would not envy
the greatest happiness or prosperity that ever any knight-
errant of former times had obtained.

He was altogether busied in these imaginations when
Sancho told him: *How say you, sir, that I have still before
mine eyes that ill-favoured, more than ordinary, nose of my
gossip Thomas Cecial ?' *And do you happily, Sancho, think
that the Knight of the Looking-glasses was the bachelor
Samson Carrasco, and his squire Thomas Cecial your gossip?'
' I know not what to say to it,' quoth Sancho; ^ only I know
that the tokens he gave nys of my house, wife, and children,
no other could give 'em me but he; and his face, his nose
being oflF, was the same, that Thomas Cecial's, as I have seen
him many times in our town, and next house to mine; and
his voice was the same.' *Let us be reasonable, Sancho,'
quoth Don Quixote; *come hither. How can any man im-
agine that the bachelor Samson Carrasco should come like
a knight-errant, armed with arms offensive and defensive, to
fight with me ? Have I ever given him occasion that he
should dog me? Am I his rival; or is he a professor of arms,
to envy the glory that I have gotten by them ?' * Why, what
should I say,' answered Sancho, * when I saw that knight, be
he who he will, look so like the bachelor Carrasco, and his
squire to Thomas Cecial my gossip ? And if it were an en-
chantment, as you say, were there no other two in the world
they might look like? ' *A11 is juggling and cunning,' quoth
Don Quixote, * of the wicked magicians that persecute me,
who, foreseeing that I should remain victor in this combat, had

1 59

DON Q-U IXOTE

provided that the vanquished knight should put on the shape
of my friend Carrasco, that the friendship I bear him might
mediate betwixt the edge of my sword and the rigour of my
arm, and temper my heart's just indignation; and so that he
might escape with his life that with tricks and devices sought
to take away mine. For proof of which, O Sancho ! thou know-
est, by experience that will not let thee lie or be deceived,
how easy it is for enchanters to change one face into another,
making the beautiful deformed, and the deformed beautiful;
and it is not two days since with thine own eyes thou sawest
the beauty and liveliness of the peerless Dulcinea in its perfec-
tion and natural conformity, and I saw her in the foulness
and meanness of a coarse milkmaid, with blear eyes and
stinking breath, so that the peryerse enchanter that durst
cause so wicked a metamorphosis, 'tis not much that he hath
done the like in the shapes of Samson Carrasco and Thomas
Cecial, to rob me of the glory of my conquest. Notwithstand-
ing, I am of good comfort; for, in what shape soever it were,
I have vanquished mine enemy.' *God knows all,' said
Sancho; and, whereas he knew the transformation of Dulcinea
had been a trick of his, his master's chimeras gave him no
satisfaction; but he durst not reply a word, for fear of dis-
covering his cozenage.

Whilst they were thus reasoning, one overtook them that
came their way, upon a fair flea-bitten mare, upon his back
a riding-coat of fine green cloth, welted with tawny velvet,
with a hunter's cap of the same; his mare's furniture was for
the field, and after the jennet fashion, of the said tawny and
green; he wore a Moorish scimitar, hanging at a broad belt
of green and gold; his buskins were wrought with the same
that his belt was ; his spurs were not gilt, but laid on with

i6o

DON DIEGO DE MIRANDA

a green varnish, so smooth and burnished that they were
more suitable to the rest of his clothes than if they had been
of beaten gold. Coming near, he saluted them courteously,
and, spurring his mare, rode on; but Don Quixote said to
him, * Gallant, if you go our way, and your haste be not great,
I should take it for a favour that we might ride together.'
*Truly, sir,' said he with the mare, ^I should not ride from
you, but that I fear your horse will be unruly with the com-
pany of my mare.' *You may well, sir,' said Sancho, ^you
may well rein in your mare; for our horse is the honestest
and mannerliest horse in the world; he is never unruly upon
these occasions; and once, when he flew out, my master and
I paid for it with a witness. I say again, you may stay if you
please, for, although your mare were given him between two
dishes, he would not look at her.'

The passenger held in his reins, wondering at Don
Quixote's countenance and posture, who was now without his
helmet, for Sancho carried it in a cloak-bag at the pommel
of Dapple's pack-saddle; and, if he in the green did much
look at Don Quixote, Don Quixote did much more eye him,
taking him to be a man of worth. His age showed him to
be about fifty, having few gray hairs; his face was some-
what sharp, his countenance of an equal temper; lastly, in
his fashion and posture, he seemed to be a man of good
quality. His opinion of Don Quixote was that he had never
seen such a kind of man before; the lankness of his horse, the
tallness of his own body, the spareness and paleness of his
face made him admire; his arms, his gesture, and composi-
tion, a shape and picture, as it were, had not been seen many
ages before in that country.

Don Quixote noted well with what attention the traveller

i6i

DON QUIXOTE

beheld him, and in his suspense read his desire, and, being
so courteous and so great a friend to give all men content,
before he demanded him anything, to prevent him, he said:
*This outside of mine that you have seen, sir, because it
is so rare and different from others now in use, may, no
doubt, have bred some wonder in you, which you will cease
when I shall tell you, as now I do, that I am a knight, one
of those, as you would say, that seek their fortunes. I went
out of my country, engaged mine estate, left my pleasure,
committed myself to the arms of Fortune, to carry me
whither she pleased. My desire was to raise again the dead
knight-errantry; and long ago, stumbling here and falling
there, casting myself headlong in one place and rising up
in another, I have accomplished a great part of my desire,
succouring widows, defending damosels, favouring married
women, orphans, and distressed children, the proper and
natural office of knights-errant; so that by my many valiant
and Christian exploits I have merited to be in the press, in
all or most nations of the world; thirty thousand volumes
of my history have been printed, and thirty thousand millions
more are like to be, if Heaven permit. Lastly to shut up all
in a word, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called
the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance; and, though one
should not praise himself, yet I must needs do it, — that is,
there being none present that may do it for me; so that,
kind gentleman, neither this horse, this lance, nor this
shield, nor this squire, nor all these arms together, nor the
paleness of my face, nor my slender macilency, ought hence-
forward to admire you, you knowing now who I am, and the
profession I maintain.

This said, Don Quixote was silent, and he with the green

162

DON DIEGO DE MIRANDA

coat was a great while ere he could answer, as if he could
not hit upon't; but, after some pause, he said: *You were
in the right, sir knight, in knowing, by my suspension, my
desire; but yet you have not quite removed my admiration,
which was caused with seeing you; for, although that, as
you say, sir, that to know who you are might make me leave
wondering, it is otherwise rather, since, now I know it, I
am in more suspense and wonderment. And is it possible
that at this day there be knights-errant in the world, and
that there be true histories of knighthood printed ? I can-
not persuade myself that any now favour widows, defend
damosels, honour married women, or succour orphans; and
I should never have believed it, if I had not in you beheld
it with mine eyes. Blessed be heavens ! for with this history
you speak of, which is printed, of your true and lofty chivalry,
those innumerable falsities of feigned knights-errant will be
forgotten, which the world was full of, so hurtful to good
education and prejudicial to true stories/ * There is much
to be spoken,' quoth Don Quixote, * whether the histories
of knights-errant were feigned or true.' *Why, is there
any that doubts,' said he in the green, * that they be not
false?' *I do,' said Don Quixote, *and let it suffice; for, if
our journey last, I hope in God to let you see that you have
done ill to be led with the stream of them that hold they
are not true.'

At this last speech of Don Quixote the traveller suspected
he was some idiot, and expected when some others of his might
confirm it; but, before they should be diverted with any other
discourse, Don Quixote desired to know who he was, since
he had imparted to him his condition and life. He in the
green made answer: * I, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Coun-

i63

DON QUIXOTE

tenance, am a gentleman born in a town where, God willing,
we shall dine to-day; I am well to live; my name is Don Diego
de Miranda; I spend my life with my wife and children, and
friends: my sports are hunting and fishing; but I have neither
hawk nor greyhounds, only a tame cock-partridge, or a murder-
ing ferret; some six dozen of books, some Spanish, some Latin,
some history, others devotion; your books of knighthood have
not yet entered the threshold of my door; I do more turn
over your profane books than religious, if they be for honest
recreation, such as may delight for their language, and admire
and suspend for their invention, although in Spain there be
few of these. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and
friends, and otherwhiles invite them; my meals are neat and
handsome, and nothing scarce. I neither love to backbite
myself, nor to hear others do it; I search not into other men's
lives, or am a lynce to other men's actions; I hear every day a
mass; part my goods with the poor, without making a muster
of my good deeds, that I may not give way to hypocrisy and
vain-glory to enter into my heart, enemies that easily seize
upon the wariest breast; I strive to make peace between such
as are at odds; I am devoted to our Blessed Lady, and always
trust in God's infinite mercy.'

Sancho was most attentive to this relation of the life and
entertainments of this gentleman, which seeming to him to
be good and holy, and that he that led it worked miracles,
he flung himself from Dapple, and in great haste laid hold of
his right stirrup, and with the tears in his eyes often kissed
his feet, which being seen by the gentleman, he asked him,
* What do you, brother ? Wherefore be these kisses ? ' * Let
me kiss,' quoth Sancho, *for methinks your worship is the
first saint that in all the days of my life I ever saw a-horse-

164

h-i

"".*» m.

T .

V ■ :■■

■: C

>■■

DON DIEGO DE MIRANDA

back/ * I am no saint/ said he, * but a great sinner; you, in-
deed, brother, are, and a good soul, as your simplicity shows
you to be.' Sancho went again to recover his pack-saddle,
having, as it were, brought into the market-place his mas-
ter's laughter out of a profound melancholy, and caused a new
admiration in Don Diego.

Don Quixote asked him how many sons he had, who told
him that one of the things in which the philosopher's summum
bonum did consist (who wanted the true knowledge of God)
was in the goods of nature and in those of fortune; in having
many friends, and many and virtuous children. *I, Sir Don
Quixote,' answered the gentleman,* have a son, whom if I had
not, perhaps you would judge me more happy than I am, —
not that he is so bad, but because not so good as I would have
him. He is about eighteen years of age, six of which he hath
spent in Salamanca, learning the tongues, Greek and Latin :
and, when I had a purpose that he should fall to other sciences,
I found him so besotted with poesy, and that science, if so it may
be called, that it is not possible to make him look upon the law,
which I would have him study, nor divinity, the queen of all
sciences. I would he were the crown of all his lineage, since
we live in an age wherein our King doth highly reward good
learning; for learning without goodness is like a pearl cast in
a swine's snout. All the day long he spends in his criticisms,
whether Homer said well or ill in such a verse of his Iliads,
whether Martial were bawdy or no in such an epigram,
whether such or such a verse in Virgil ought to be understood
this way or that way. Indeed, all his delight is in these aforesaid
poets, and in Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and TibuUus; but of
your modern writers he makes small account: yet, for all the
grudge he bears to modern poesy, he is mad upon your catches,

167

DON QUIXOTE

and your glossing upon four verses, which weresent him from
Salamanca, and that I think is his true study.'

To all which Don Quixote answered: ^Children, sir, are
pieces of the very entrails of their parents, so let them be good
or bad, they must love them, as we must love our spirits that
give us life. It concerns their parents to direct them from their
infancy in the paths of virtue, of good manners, and good and
Christian exercises, that when they come to years they may
be the staff of their age and the glory of their posterity; and I
hold it not so proper to force them to study this or that sci-
ence, though to persuade them were not amiss: and, though
it be not to study to get his bread — the student being so happy
that God hath given him parents able to leave him well — mine
opinion should be that they let him follow that kind of study
he is most inclined to, and, though that of poetry be less profit-
able than delightful, yet it is none of those that will dishonour
the professor. Poetry, signior, in my opinion, is like a tender
virgin, young and most beautiful, whom many other virgins
— to wit, all the other sciences — are to enrich, polish, and
adorn; she is to be served by them all, and all are to be author-
ised by her. But this virgin will not be handled and hurried
up and down the streets, nor published in every market-nook
nor court-corners; she is made of a kind of alchymy thathethat
knows how to handle her will quickly turn her into the purest
gold of inestimable value; he that enjoyeth her must hold her
at distance, not letting her lash out in unclean satires nor in
dull sonnets; she must not by any means be vendible, except
in heroic poems, in lamentable tragedies, or pleasant and ar-
tificial comedies; she must not be meddled with by jesters, nor
by the ignorant vulgar, uncapable of knowing or esteeming
the treasures that are locked up in her. And think not, sir,

1 68

ON POETRY

that I call here only the common people vulgar, for whosoever
is Ignorant, be he potentate or prince, he may and must enter
into the number of the vulgar; so that he who shall handle
and esteem of poetry with these requisites I have declared, he
shall be famous, and his name shall be extolled in all the politic
nations of the world. And whereas, sir, you say your son
neglects modern poesy, I persuade myself he doth not well in
it; and the reason is this: great Homer never wrote in Latin,
because he was a Grecian; nor Virgil in Greek, because he
was a Latin ; indeed, all your ancient poets wrote in the tongue
which they learnt from their cradle, and sought not after
strange languages to declare their lofty conceits. Which be-
ing so, it were reason this custom sho.uld extend itself through
all nations, and that your German poet should not be under-
valued because he writes in his language, nor the Castilianor
Biscayner because they write in theirs. But your son, as I
suppose, doth not mislike modern poesy, but poets that are
merely modern, without knowledge of other tongues or sci-
ences that may adorn, rouse up, and strengthen their natural
impulse; and yet in this there may be an error. For it is a
true opinion that a poet is born so; the meaning is, a poet is
naturally born a poet from his mother's womb, and, with that
inclination that Heaven hath given him, without further study
or art, he composeth things that verify his saying that said,
"Est Deus in nobis," etc. Let me also say, that the natural
poet that helps himself with art shall be much better and have
the advantage of that poet that only out of his art strives to be
so: the reason is because art goes not beyond nature, but only
perfects it; so that nature and art mixed together, and art
with nature, make an excellent poet. Let this, then, be the
scope of my discourse, sir : let your son proceed whither his

169

DON QUIXOTE

star calls him; for, if he be so good a student as he ought to
be, and have happily mounted the first step of the sciences,
which is the languages, with them, by himself, he will ascend
to the top of human learning, which appears as well in a gen-
tleman, and doth as much adorn, honour, and ennoble him, as
a mitre doth a bishop, or a loose cassock a civilian. Chide
your son if he writes satires that may prejudice honest men;
punish him and tear them; but if he mako SermoneSj like those
of Horace, to the reprehension of vice in general, as he so ele-
gantly did, then cherish him; for it is lawful for a poet to write
against envy, and to inveigh against envious persons, in his
verse, and so against other vices, if so be he aim at no particular
person; but you have poejs that, instead of uttering a jerk of wit,
they will venture a being banished to the islands of Pontus. If
a poet live honestly, he will be so in his verses; the pen is the
mind's tongue; as the conceits are which be engendered in it,
such will the writings be; and, when kings and princes see the
miraculous science of poesy in wise, virtuous, and grave sub-
jects, they honour, esteem, and enrich them, and even crown
them with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt of-
fends not,' in token that none shall offend them that have their
temples honoured and adorned with such crowns.'

The gentleman admired Don Quixote's discourse, and so
much that now he forsook his opinion he had of him, that he
was a coxcomb. But in the midst of this discourse Sancho,
that was weary of it, went out of the way to beg a little milk of
some shepherds not far off, curing of their sheep; so the gen-
tleman still maintained talk with Don Quixote, being wonder-
fully taken and satisfied with his wise discourse. But Don
Quixote, lifting up suddenly his eyes, saw that in the way

» The laurel.

170

THE KING'S COLOURS

toward them there came a cart full of the king's colours, and,
taking it to be some rare adventure, he called to Sancho for his
helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called on, left the shepherds
and spurred Dapple apace, and came to his master, to whom a
rash and stupendious adventure happened.

171

Al^

CHAPTER XVII

WHERE IS SHOWED THE LAST AND EXTREMEST HAZARD TO
WHICH THE UNHEARD-OF COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE
DID OR COULD ARRIVE, WITH THE PROSPEROUS
ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE ADVEN-
TURE OF THE LIONS

THE history says that when Don Quixote called to
Sancho to bring him his helmet he was buying curds
which the shepherds sold him, and, being hastily
laid at by his master, he knew not what to do with them, or
how to bestow them without losing them, for he had paid for
them; so he bethought himself, and clapped them into his
master's helmet; and, this good order taken, he went to see
what he would have, who, when he came, said, 'Give me,
friend, that same helmet ; for either I know not what belongs

THE CURDS

to adventures, or that I see yonder is one that will force me to
take arms.' He of the green coat, that heard this, turned his
eyes every way, and saw nothing but a cart that came toward
them with two or three small flags, which made him think
that the said cart carried the king's money, and so he told Don
Quixote; but he believed him not, always thinking that every-
thing he saw was adventure upon adventure; so he answered
the gentleman, *He that is warned is half armed; there is
nothing lost in being provided; for I know by experience that I
have enemies visible and invisible, and I know not when, nor
where, nor at what time, nor in what shape they will set upon
me.' And, turning to Sancho, he demanded his helmet, who,
wanting leisure to take the curds out, was forced to give it
him as it was. Don Quixote took it, and, not perceiving what
was in it, clapped it suddenly upon his head; and, as the curds
were squeezed and thrust together, the whey began to run
down Don Quixote's face and beard, at which he was in such
a fright that he cried out to Sancho, * What ails me, Sancho?
for methinks my skull is softened, or my brains melt, or that
I sweat from top to toe; and, if it be sweat, I assure thee it
is not for fear. I believe certainly that I am like to have a
terrible adventure of this; give me something, if thou hast it,
to wipe on, for this abundance of sweat blinds me.' Sancho
was silent, and gave him a cloth, and with it thanks to God
that his master fell not into the business. Don Quixote wiped
himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was that, as he
thought, did benumb his head, and, seeing those white splashes
in his helmet, he put them to his nose, and, smelling to them,
said, *By my mistress Dulcinea del Toboso's life, they are
curds that thou hast brought me here, thou base traitor and
unmannerly squire.' To which Sancho very cunningly, and

173

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DON QUIXOTE

with a great deal of pause, answered : * If they be curds, give
them me, pray, and Fll eat 'em. But let the devil eat 'em,
for he put 'em there ! Should I be so bold as to foul your wor-
ship's helmet ? And there you have found, as I told you, who
did it! In faith, sir, as sure as God lives, I have my en-
chanters too that persecute me as a creature and part of you,
and I warrant have put that filth there to stir you up to choler,
and to make you bang my sides, as you use to do. Well, I
hope this time they have lost their labour; for I trust in my
master's discretion, that he will consider that I have neither
curds nor milk, nor any such thing; for, if I had, I had rather
put it in my stomach than in the helmet.' * All this may be,'
said Don Quixote.

The gentleman observed all, and wondered, especially
when Don Quixote, after he had wiped his head, face, beard,
and helmet, clapped it on again, settling himself well in his
stirrups, searching for his sword and grasping his lance, he
cried out, *Now come on't what will, for here I am with a
courage to meet Satan himself in person.'

By this the cart with the flags drew near, in which there
came no man but the carter with his mules, and another upon
the foremost of them. Don Quixote put himself forward, and
asked, ^Whither go ye, my masters? what cart is this? what
do you carry in it? and what colours be these?' To which
the carter answered, *The cart is mine, the carriage is two
fierce lions caged up, which the General of Oran sends to the
King at court for a present: these colours be his Majesty's,
in sign that what goes here is his.' 'And are the lions big?'
said Don Quixote. 'So big,' said he that went toward the
cart door, 'that there never came bigger out of Africa into
Spain; and I am their keeper, and have carried others, but

174

H

THE LIONS

never any so big. They are male and female; the male is in
this first grate, the female in the hindermost, and now they
are hungry, for they have not eat to-day; and therefore I
pray, sir, give us way, for we had need come quickly where
we may meat them/ To which quoth Don Quixote, smiling
a little,* * Your lion whelps to me? to me your lion whelps?
and at this time of day? Well, I vow to God, your General
that sends 'em this way shall know whether I be one that am
afraid of lions. Alight, honest fellow, and, if you be the
keeper, open their cages, and let me your beasts forth; for Til
make 'em know, in the midst of this champian, who Don
Quixote is, in spite of those enchanters that sent 'em.' ^ Fie!
fie !' said the gentleman at this instant to himself, ^ our knight
shows very well what he is; the curds have softened his skull
and ripened his brains.'

By this Sancho came to him and said, ^ For God's love
handle the matter so, sir, that my master meddle not with
these lions, for if he do they'll worry us all.' ' Why, is your
master so mad,' quoth the gentleman, ^that you fear or be-
lieve he will fight with wild beasts ? ' ^ He is not mad,' said
Sancho, ^ but hardy.' ^ I'll make him otherwise,' said the gen-
tleman; and coming to Don Quixote, that was hastening the
keeper to open the cages, said, * Sir knight, knights-errant
ought to undertake adventures that may give a likelihood of
ending them well, and not such as are altogether desperate;
for valour grounded upon rashness hath more madness than
fortitude. How much more, these lions come not to assail
you; they are carried to be presented to his Majesty, and
therefore 'twere not good to stay or hinder their journey.'
^ Pray get you gone, gentle sir,' quoth Don Quixote, ' and
deal with your tame partridge and your murdering ferret and

177

DON QUIXOTE

leave every man to his function ; this is mine, and I am suffi-
cient to know whether these lions come against me or no/

So, turning to the keeper, he cried: ' By this ! goodman

slave,' if you do not forthwith open the cage. Til nail you
with my lance to your cart.'

The carter, that perceived the resolution of that armed
vision, told him, ^ Signior mine, will you be pleased in charity
to let me unyoke my mules, and to put myself and them in
safety, before I unsheath my lions ? for if they should kill
them I am undone all days of my life, for I have no other living
but this cart and my mules/ ^O thou wretch of little faith!'
quoth Don Quixote, ^ light, and unyoke, and do what thou
wilt, for thou shalt see thou mightest have saved a labour/

The carter alighted, and unyoked hastily, and the keeper
cried out aloud, ' Bear witness, my masters all, that I am forced
against my will to open the cages and to let loose the lions,
and that I protest to this gentleman that all the harm and mis-
chief that these beasts shall do light upon him; besides that he
pay me my wages and due. Shift you, sirs, for yourselves,
before I open, for I am sure they'll do me no hurt.'

The gentleman persuaded him a second time that he should
not attempt such a piece of madness, for such a folly was to
tempt God. To which Don Quixote answered that he knew
what he did. The gentleman replied that he should consider
well of it, for he knew he was deceived. *WelI, sir,' said
Don Quixote, * if you will not be a spectator of this which you
think tragedy, pray spur your flea-bitten, and put yourself in
safety.' Which when Sancho heard, with tears in his eyes, he
beseeched him to desist from that enterprise, in comparison
of which that of the windmills was cakebread, and that fear-

» * yoio a tal' When he would seem to swear, but swears by nothing.

178

THE LIONS

ful one also of the fulling-mill, or all the exploits that ever he
had done in his life. ^ Look ye, sir,' said Sancho, * here's no
enchantment, nor any such thing; for I have looked thorough
the grates and chinks of the cages, and have seen a claw of a
true lion, by which claw I guess the lion is as big as a
mountain/

* Thy fear, at least,' said Don Quixote, * will make him as
big as half the world. Get thee out of the way, Sancho, and
leave me ; and if I die in the place thou knowest our agree-
ment; repair to Dulcinea, and that's enough.' To these he
added other reasons, by which he cut off all hope of his leav-
ing the prosecution of that foolish enterprise.

He of the green coat would have hindered him, but he
found himself unequally matched in weapons, and thought
it no wisdom to deal with a madman, for now Don Quixote
appeared no otherwise to him, who, hastening the keeper
afresh and reiterating his threats, made the gentleman set
spurs to his mare, and Sancho to his Dapple, and the carter
to his mules, each of them striving to get as far from the cart
as they could, before the lions should be unhampered. Sancho
bewailed his master's loss, for he believed certainly that the
lion would catch him in his paws; he cursed his fortune, and
the time that ever he came again to his master's service ; but,
for all his wailing and lamenting, he left not punching of Dap-
ple, to make him get far enough from the cart. The keeper,
when he saw those that fled far enough off, began anew to
require and intimate to Don Quixote what he had formerly
done, who answered that he heard him, and that he should
leave his intimations, for all was needless, and that he should
make haste.

Whilst the keeper was opening the first cage, Don Quixote

179

DON QUIXOTE

began to consider whether it were best to fight on foot or on
horseback; and at last he determined it should be on foot,
fearing that Rozinante would be afraid to look upon the lions;
and thereupon he leaped from his horse, cast by his lance,
buckled his shield to him, and unsheathed his sword: fair
and softly, with a marvellous courage and valiant heart, he
marched toward the cart, recommending himself first to God
and then to his lady Dulcinea.

And here it is to be noted that, when the author of the
true history came to this passage, he exclaims and cries: ^O
strong and beyond all comparison courageous Don Quixote !
Thou looking-glass in which all the valiant knights of the
world may behold themselves ! Thou new and second Don
Manuel de Leon, who was the honour and glory of the Span-
ish knights! With what words shall I recount this fear-
ful explpit, or with what arguments shall I make it credible
to ensuing times? Or what praises shall not fit and square
with thee, though they may seem hyperboles above all hy-
perboles? Thou on foot, alone, undaunted, and magnani-
mous, with thy sword only — and that none of your cutting
fox-blades — with a shield, not of bright and shining steel,
expectest and attendest two of the fiercest lions that ever
were bred in African woods. Let thine own deeds extol thee,
brave Manchegan; for I must leave 'em here abruptly, since I
want words to endear them.'

Here the author's exclamation ceased, and the thread of
the story went knitting itself on, saying: — The keeper seeing
Don Quixote in his posture, and that he must needs let loose
the male lion, on pain of the bold knight's indignation,
he set the first cage wide open, where the lion, as is said,
was of an extraordinary bigness, fearful and ugly to see to.

1 80

Sl^n £>M^n.n, n,,^/ f/,rL-^!,„ .

THE LIONS

The first thing he did was to tumble up and down the cage,
stretch one paw, and rouse himself; forthwith he yawned
and gently sneezed; then with his tongue, some two hand-
fuls long, he licked the dust out of his eyes, and washed
his face, which done he thrust his head out of the cage
and looked round about him, with his eyes like fire-coals, a
sight and gesture able to make temerity itself afraid. Only
Don Quixote beheld him earnestly, and wished he would leap
out of the cart, that they might grapple, for he thought to
slice him in pieces. Hitherto came the extreme of his not-
heard-of madness. But the generous lion, more courteous
than arrogant, neglecting such childishness and bravadoes,
after he had looked round about him, as is said, turned his
back, and showed his tail to Don Quixote, and very quietly lay
down again in the cage. Which Don Quixote seeing, he com-
manded the keeper to give him two or three blows to make
him come forth. * No, not I,' quoth the keeper, ' for if I urge
him I shall be the first he will tear in pieces. I pray you, sir
knight, be contented with your day's work, which is as much
as could in valour be done, and tempt not a second hazard.
The lion's door was open; he might have come out if he would;
but, since he hath not hitherto, he will not come forth all this
day. You have well showed the stoutness of your courage;
no brave combatant, in my opinion, is tied to more than to
defy his enemy and to expect him in field; and, if his con-
trary come not, the disgrace is his, and he that expected re-
mains with the prize.'

^True it is,' answered Don Quixote. * Friend, shut the
door, and give me a certificate, in the best form that you can,
of what you have seen me do here: to wit, that you opened to
the lion, that I expected him, and he came not out; that I ex-

i83

DON QU IXOT E

pected him again, yet all would not do, but he lay down. I
could do no more. Enchantments avaunt! God maintain
right and truth, and true chivalry! Shut, as I bade, you,
whilst I make signs to them that are fled that they may know
this exploit from thy relation.^

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote putting his hand-
kerchief on the point of his lance, with which he had wiped
the curd-shower from off his face, he began to call those that
fled, and never so much as looked behind them, all in a troop,
and the gentleman the fore-man; but Sancho, seeing the
white cloth, said, ^Hang me if my master have not vanquished
the wild beasts, since he calls us.^ All of them made a stand,
and knew it was Don Quixote that made the sign; so, lessening
their fear, by little and little they drew near him, till they could
plainly hear that he called them. At length they returned to
the cart ; and Don Quixote said to the carter, ' Yoke your mules
again, brother, and get you on your way: and, Sancho, give
him two pistolets in gold, for him and the lion-keeper, in recom-
pense of their stay.' *With a very good will,' said Sancho. *But
what's become of the lions ? are they alive or dead ? ' Then the
keeper fair and softly began to tell them of the bickering, extoll-
ing as well as he could Don Quixote's valour, at whose sight the
lion, trembling, would not or durst not sally from the cage, al-
though the door were open a pretty while; and that because he
had told the knight that to provoke the lion was to tempt God,
by making him come out by force — as he would that he should
be provoked in spite of his teeth, and against his will — he suf-
fered the door to be shut. * What think you of this, Sancho?'
quoth Don Quixote. ' Can enchantment now prevail against
true valour ? Well may enchanters make me unfortunate; but
'tis impossible they should bereave me of my valour.'

184

KNIGHT OF THE LIONS

Sancho bestowed the pistolets, and the carter yoked; the
keeper took leave of Don Quixote, and thanked him for his
kindness, and promised him to relate his valorous exploit to
the King himself, when he came to court. ^ Well, if his Majesty
chance to ask who it was that did it, tell him ^^ the Knight of
the Lions" ; for henceforward I will that my name be trucked,
exchanged, turned, and changed now from that I had of the
Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance; and in this I follow the
ancient use of knights-errant, that would change their names
when they pleased, or thought it convenient/

The cart went on its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he
in the green held on theirs. In all this while Don Diego de
Miranda spoke not a word, being busied in noting Don Quixote's
speeches and actions, taking him to be a wise madman, or a
mad man that came somewhat near a wise man. He knew
nothing as yet of the first part of his history; for, if he had
read that, he would have left admiring his words and deeds,
since he might have known the nature of his madness; but, for
he knew it not, he held him to be wise and mad by fits; for
what he spoke was consonant, elegant, and well delivered, but
his actions were foolish, rash, and unadvised. * And,' thought
he to himself, *what greater madness could there be than to
clap on a helmet full of curds, and to make us believe that en-
chanters had softened his skull ? or what greater rashness or
foppery than forcibly to venture upon lions?'

Don Quixote drew him from these imaginations, saying,
*Who doubts, Signior Don Diego de Miranda, but that you
will hold me in your opinion for an idle fellow, or a madman ?
And no marvel that I be held so, for my actions testify no less;
for all that, I would have you know that I am not so mad or so
shallow as I seem. It is a brave sight to see a goodly knight

i85

DON QUIXOTE

in the midst of the market-place, before his prince, to give a
thrust with his lance to a fierce bull'; and it is a brave sight
to see a knight armed in shining armour pass about the tilt-
yard at the cheerful jousts before the ladies; and all those
knights are a brave sight that in military exercises, or such as
may seem so, do entertain, revive, and honour their princes'
courts; but, above all these, a knight-errant is abetter sight,
that by deserts and wildernesses, by crossways and woods and
mountains, searcheth after dangerous adventures, with a pur-
pose to end them happily and fortunately, only to obtain glo-
rious and lasting fame. A knight-errant, I say, is a better sight,
succouring a widow in some desert, than a court knight court-'
ing some damosel in the city. All knights have their particu-
lar exercises. Let the courtier serve ladies, authorise his
prince's court with liveries, sustain poor gentlemen at his
table, appoint jousts, maintain tourneys, show himself noble,
liberal, and magnificent, and, above all, religious; and in these
he shall accomplish with his obligation. But, for the knight-
errant, let him search the corners of the world, enter the most
intricate labyrinths, every foot undertake impossibilities, and
in the deserts and wilderness let him resist the sunbeams in
the midst of summer, and the sharp rigour of the winds and
frosts in winter; let not lions fright him, nor spirits terrify
him, nor hobgoblins make him quake; for to seek these, to set
upon them, and to overcome all, are his prime exercises. And
since it fell to my lot to be one of the number of these knights-
errant, I cannot but undergo all that I think comes under the
jurisdiction of my profession. So that the encountering those
lions did directly belong to me, though I knew it to be an exor-

I In Spain they use with horsemen and footmen to course their bulls to death in the
market-places.

l86

DON DIEGO^S INVITATION

bitant rashness; for well I know that valour is a virtue betwixt
two vicious extremes, as cowardice and rashness; but it is less
dangerous for him that is valiant to rise to a point of rash-
ness than to fall or touch upon the coward. For, as it is more
easy for a prodigal man to be liberal than a covetous, so it is
easier for a rash man to be truly valiant than a coward to come
to true valour. And, touching the onset in adventures, believe
me, Signior Don Diego, it is better playing a good trump than
a small; for it sounds better in the hearer's ears, "Such a knight
is rash and hardy," than "Such a knight is fearful and cow-
ardly."' *I say, signior,' answered Don Diego, ^that all that
you have said and done is levelled out by the line of reason, and
I think, if the statutes and ordinances of knight-errantry were
lost, they might be found again in your breast, as in their own
storehouse and register. And so let us haste, for the day grows
on us; let us get to my village and house, where you shall
ease yourself of your former labour, which, though it have
not been bodily, yet it is mental, which doth often redound
to the body's weariness.' *I thank you for your kind offer,
signior,' quoth Don Quixote; and, spurring on faster, about
two of the clock they came to the village and Don Diego's
house, whom Don Quixote styled the Knight of the Green
Cassock.

187

CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE, OR
KNIGHT OF THE GREEN CASSOCK HIS HOUSE.
WITH OTHER EXTRAVAGANT MATTERS

DON QUIXOTE perceived that Don Diego de Miranda's
house was spacious, after the country manner; and
his arms, though of coarse stone, upon the door to-
wards the street; his wine-cellar in the court, his other cellar
or vault in the entry, with many great stone vessels round
about that were of Toboso, which renewed the remembrance
of his enchanted and transformed Mistress Dulcinea; so sigh-
ing, and not minding who was by, said:

'O happy pledges, found out to my loss,
Sweet and reviving, when the time was, once! ■

O you Tobosian tuns, that bring to my remembrance the
sweet pledge of my greatest bitterness ! '

The scholar poet, son to Don Diego, that came out with his
mother to welcome him, heard him pronounce this, and the
mother and son were in some suspense at the strange shape
of Don Quixote, who, alighting from Rozinante, very cour-
teously desired to kiss her hands; and Don Diego said, ' I pray,

» O dukes prendas. A beginning of a sonnet in * Diana de Montemayor/ which Don
Quixote here raps out upon a sudden.

1 88

Don Quixote welcomed by the scholar poet and lus mother

wife, give your wonted welcome to this gentleman, Signior

Don Quixote de la Mancha, a knight-errant, and the valiantest

and wisest in the world.' The gentlewoman, called Donna

189

DON QUIXOTE

Christina, welcomed him very aflfectionately and with much
courtesy, which Don Quixote retorted with many wise and
mannerly compliments, and did, as it were, use the same over
again to the scholar, who, hearing Don Quixote speak, took
him to be wondrous wise and witty.

Here the author paints out unto us all the circumstances
of Don Diego his house, deciphering to us all that a gentle-
man and a rich farmer's house may have ; but it seemed good
to the translator to pass over these and such-like trifles, be-
cause they suited not with the principal scope of this history,
the which is more grounded upon truth than upon bare di-
gressions.

Don Quixote was led into a hall ; Sancho unarmed him,
so that now he had nothing on but his breeches and a cham-
ois doublet, all smudged with the filth of his armour; about
his neck he wore a little scholastical band, unstarched and with-
out lace; his buskins were date-coloured, and his shoes close
on each side ; his good sword he girt to him, that hung at a
belt of seawolves' skins, for it was thought he had the running
of the reins many years; he wore also a long cloak of good
russet cloth; but first of all, in five or six kettles of water — for
touching the quantity there is some difference — he washed
his head and his face; and for all that the water was turned
whey-colour — God-a-mercy on Sancho's gluttony, and the buy-
ing those dismal black curds that made his master so white.
With the aforesaid bravery, and with a sprightly air and gal-
lantry, Don Quixote marched into another room, where the
scholar stayed for him to entertain him till the cloth was laid;
for the mistress of thehouse, Donna Christina, meant to show
to her honourable guest that she knew how to make much of
them that came to her house.

190

DON LORENZO

Whilst Don Quixote was disarming himself, Don Lorenzo
had leisure — for that was Don Diego's son's name — to ask his
father, 'What do you call this gentleman, sir, that you have
brought with you; for his name, his shape, and your calling
him knight-errant makes my mother and me wonder ? ' * Faith,
son,' quoth Don Diego, 'I know not what I should say to thee
of him; only I may tell thee I have seen him play the maddest
pranks of any madman in the world, and speak again speeches
so wise as blot out and undo his deeds. Do thou speak to him,
and feel the pulse of his understanding, and, since thou art
discreet, judge of his discretion or folly as thou seest best,
though, to deal plainly with thee, I rather hold him to bemad
than wise.'

Hereupon Don Lorenzo, as is said, went to entertain Don
Quixote; and, amongst other discourse that passed betwixt
them, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo : ' Signior Don Diego
de Miranda, your father, hath told me of your rare abilities
and subtle wit, and chiefly that you are an excellent poet.'
* A poet, perhaps,' replied Don Lorepzo ; ' but excellent, by
no means; true it is that I am somewhat affectionated to
poesy, and to read good poets, but not so that I may deserve
the name of excellent that my father styles me with.' * I do
not dislike your modesty,' quoth Don Quixote, * for you have
seldom-times any poet that is not arrogant, and thinks himself
to be the best poet in the world.' 'There is no rule,' quoth
Don Lorenzo, * without an exception; and some one there is
that is so, yet thinks not so.' 'Few,' said Don Quixote.
' But tell me, sir, what verses be those that you have now in
hand, that your father says do trouble and puzzle you? and,
if it be some kind of gloss, I know what belongs to glossing,
and should be glad to hear them ; and, if they be of your

191

DON QUIXOTE

verses for the prize, content yourself with the second reward;'
for the first goes always by favour, or according to the quality
of the person ; and the second is justly distributed ; so that
the third comes, according to this account, to be the second,
and the first the third, according to degrees that are given in
universities: but for all that the word '* first" is a great mat-
ter/ ' Hitherto,' thought Don Lorenzo to himself, ' I cannot
think thee mad; proceed we.' And he said, 'It seems, sir,
you have frequented the schools ; what sciences have you
heard?' *That of knight-errantry,' quoth Don Quixote,
* which is as good as your poetry, and somewhat better.' *I
know not what science that is,' quoth Don Lorenzo, ' neither
hath it as yet come to my notice.' * 'Tis a science,' quoth
Don Quixote, 'that contains in it all or most of the sciences
of the world, by reason that he who professes it must be skil-
ful in the laws, to know justice distributive and commutative,
to give every man his own and what belongs to him; he must
be a divine, to know how to give a reason clearly and dis-
tinctly of his Christian profession, wheresoever it shall be de-
manded him; he must be a physician, and chiefly an herbal-
ist, to know in a wilderness or desert what herbs have virtue
to cure wounds, for your knight-errant must not be looking
every pissing-while who shall heal him ; he must be an astron-
omer, to know in the night by the stars what o'clock 'tis, and
in what part and climate of the world he is; he must be skil-
ful in the mathematics, because every foot he shall have need
of them; and, to let pass that he must be adorned with all
divine and moral virtues, descending to other trifles, I say he
must learn to swim, as they say, Fish Nicholas, or Nicolao,

» ' De justa Jiteraria' : a custom in universities in Spain, of rewards proposed to them
that make the best verses.

192

KNIGHT-ERRANTRY

did; he must know how to shoe a horse, to mend a saddle or
bridle; and, coming again to what went before, he must serve
God and his mistress inviolably; he must be chaste in his
thoughts, honest in his words, liberal in his deeds, valiant in
his actions, patient in afflictions, charitable towards the poor,
and, lastly, a defender of truth, although it cost him his life
for it. Of all these great and lesser parts a good knight-
errant is composed, that you may see, Signior Don Lorenzo,
whether it be a snivelling science that the knight that learns
it professeth, and whether it may not be equalled to the
proudest of them all taught in the schools/ *If it be so,'
said Don Lorenzo, 'I say this science goes beyond them all.'
'If it be so!' quoth Don Quixote. *Why, let me tell you,'
said Don Lorenzo, ' I doubt whether there be any knights-
errant now adorned with so many virtues.' 'Oft have I
spoken,' replied Don Quixote, 'that which I must now speak
again, that the greatest part of men in the world are of opin-
ion that there be no knights-errant; and I think, if Heaven do
not miraculously let them understand the truth, that there
have been such and that at this day there be, all labour will
be in vain, as I have often found by experience. I will not
now stand upon showing you your error; all I will do is to
pray to God to deliver you out of it, and to make you under-
stand how profitable and necessary knights-errant have been
to the world in former ages, and also would be at present, if
they were in request ; but now, for our sins, sloth, idleness,
gluttony, and wantonness do reign.' 'I' faith,' thought Don
Lorenzo, 'for this once our guest hath scaped me; but, for all
that, he is a lively ass, and I were a dull fool if I did not be-
lieve it.'

Here they ended their discourse, for they were called to

193

DON QUIXOTE

dinner. Don Diego asked his son what trial he had made of
their guest's understanding, to which he made answer, 'AH
the physicians and scriveners in the world will not wipe out
his madness. He is a curious madman, and hath neat dilem-
mas.' To dinner they went, and their meat was such as Don
Diego upon the way described it, such as he gave to his
guests, well-dressed, savoury, and plentiful; but that which
best pleased Don Quixote was the marvellous silence through-
out the whole house, as if it had been a covent of Carthu-
sians; so that, lifting up his eyes, and grace being said, and
that they had washed hands, he earnestly entreated Don Lo-
renzo jto speak his prize verses. To which quoth he: * Be-
cause I will not be like your poets, that when they are over-
entreated they use to make scruple of their works, and when
they are not entreated they vomit 'em up, I will speak my
gloss, for which I expect no reward, as having written them
only to exercise my muse.' ' A wise friend of mine,' said Don
Quixote, 'was of opinion that to gloss was no hard task for
any man, the reason being that the gloss could ne'er come
near the text, and most commonly the gloss was quite from
the theme given; besides that the laws of glossing were too
strict, not admitting interrogations of "Said he?" or ''Shall
I say ? '' or changing nouns into verbs, without other ligaments
and strictnesses to which the glosser is tied, as you know.'
'Certainly, Signior Don Quixote,' said Don Lorenzo, 'I de-
sire to catch you in an absurdity, but cannot, for still you slip
from me like an eel.' ' I know not,' said Don Quixote, 'what
you mean by your slipping.' ' You shall know my meaning,'
said Don Lorenzo; 'but for the present I pray you hearken
with attention to my glossed verses, and to the gloss, as for
example, —

194

DON LORENZO'S GLOSSES

^* If that my ' was ' might turn to ' is/
I look for % then it comes complete;
Oh, might I say, * Now, now time 'tis,'
Our after 'griefs may be too great."

THE GLOSS

"As everything doth pass away,
So Fortune's good, that erst she gave,
Did pass, and would not with me stay,
Though she gave once all I could crave.
Fortune, 'tis long since thou hast seen
Me prostrate at thy feet, I wis;
I shall be glad, as I have been,
If that my *was' return to *is.'

" Unto no honour am I bent.
No prize, conquest, or victory,
But to return to my content.
Whose thought doth grieve my memory:
If thou to me do it restore,
Fortune, the rigour of my heat
Allayed is; let it come before
I look for 't, then it comes complete.

" Impossibles do I desire
To make time past return, in vain ;
No power on earth can once aspire.
Past, to recall him back again.
Time doth go, time runs and flies
Swiftly, his course doth never miss,
He's in an error then that cries,
*0, might I say, **now, now, time 'tis.'*'

*' I live in great perplexity.
Sometimes in hope, sometimes in fear;
Far better were it for to die,
That of my griefs I might get clear;
For me to die 'twere better far;
Let me not that again repeat:
Fear says, *'Tis better live long, for
Our after-griefs may be too great.'"'

195

DON QUIXOTE

When Don Lorenzo had ended, Don Quixote stood up and
cried aloud, as if he had screeched, taking Don Lorenzo by the
hand, and said: * Assuredly, generous youth, I think you are
the best poet in the world, and you deserve the laurel, not of
Cyprus or Gaeta, as a poet said (God forgive him!), but of
Athens, if it were extant, Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca. I
would to God those judges that would deny you the prize
might be shot to death with arrows by Phoebus, and that the
Muses never come within their thresholds. Speak, sir, if you
please, some of your loftier verses, that I may altogether feel
the pulse of your admirable wit/

How say you by this, that Don Lorenzo was pleased, when
he heard himself thus praised by Don Quixote, although he
held him to be a madman ? O power of flattery, how far thou
canst extend, and how large are the bounds of thy pleasing
jurisdiction ! This truth was verified in Don Lorenzo, since
he condescended to Don Quixote's request, speaking this fol-
lowing sonnet to him, of the fable or story of Pyramus and
Thisbe:

*The wall was broken by the virgin fair,
That oped the gallant breast of Pyramus ;
Love parts from Cyprus, that he may declare,
Once seen, the narrow breach prodigious.
There nought but silence speaks; no voice doth dare,
Thorough so strait a strait, be venturous;
Let their minds speak; Love works this wonder rare.
Facilitating things most wonderous.
Desire in her grew violent, and haste
In the fond maid, instead of heart's delight.
Solicits death.. See, now the story's past:
Both of them in a moment, O strange sight !
One sword, one sepulchre, one memory.
Doth kill, doth cover, makes them never die.'

196

LEAVE-TAKING

*Now, thanked be God/ quoth Don Quixote, having heard
this sonnet, ^that amongst so many consummated poets as be,
I have found one consummate, as you are, sir, which I perceive
by your well-framed sonnet.'

Don Quixote remained four days, being well entertained, in
Don Diego's house, at the end of which he desired to take his
leave, and thanked him for the kindness and good welcome he
had received : but, because it was not fit that knights-errant
should be too long idle, he purposed to exercise his function,
and to seek after adventures he knew of; for the place whither
he meant to go to would give him plenty enough to pass his
time with, till it were fit for him to go to the jousts at Sara-
gosa, which was his more direct course; but that first of all he
meant to go to Montesinos' vault, of which there were so many
admirable tales in every man's mouth, so to search and inquire
the spring and origin of those seven lakes commonly called of
Ruydera. Don Diego and his son commended his noble de-
termination, and bid him furnish himself with what he pleased
of their house and wealth, for that he should receive it with
all love and good will ; for the worth of his person, and his hon-
ourable profession, obliged them to it.

To conclude, the day for his parting came, as pleasing to
him as bitter and sorrowful to Sancho, who liked wondrous
well of Don Diego's plentiful provision, and was loth to return
to the hunger of the forests and wilderness, and to the hard-
ness of his ill-furnished wallets, notwithstanding he filled and
stuffed them with the best provision he could. And Don
Quixote, as he took his leave of Don Lorenzo, said, * I know
not, sir, whether I have told you heretofore, but, though I
have, I tell you again, that when you would save a great deal of
labour and pains, to arrive at the inaccessible top of Fame's

1 97

DON QUIXOTE

temple, you have no more to do but to leave on one hand the
strait and narrow path of poesy, and to take the most narrow
of knight-errantry, sufficient to make you an emperor, ere you
would say, ''What's this?" '

With this epilogue Don Quixote shut up the comedy of his
madness ; only this he added : ' God knows, I would willingly
carry Signior Don Lorenzo with me, to teach him what belongs
to pardoning the humble, to curbing and restraining the proud,
virtues annexed to my profession; but, since his slender age
is not capable, and his laudable enterprises will not permit him,
I am only willing to advise you that being a poet you may be
famous, if you govern yourself by other men's judgments more
than by your own ; for you have no parents that dislike their
own children, fair or foul, and this error is more frequent in
men's understandings.'

The father and the son afresh admired at Don Quixote's
oft-interposed reasons, some wise, some foolish, and at his ob-
stinate being bent altogether upon his unlucky adventures,
which he aimed at, as the mark and end of his desire. They
renewed again their kindoffers and compliments with him; but
Don Quixote, takinghisleaveof thelady of thecastle, mounted
his Rozinante, and Sancho his Dapple: so they parted.

198

CHAPTER XIX

OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD,
WITH OTHER (iNDEED) PLEASANT ACCIDENTS

DON QUIXOTE was not gone far from Don Diego's
town, when he overtook two men that seemed to be
parsons,or scholars, with two husbandmen thatwere
mounted upon four asses. One of the scholars had (as it were
in a portmanteau) a piece of white cloth for scarlet, wrapped
up in a piece of green buckram, and two pair of cotton stock-
ings; the other had nothing but two foils and a pair of pumps;
the husbandmen had other things, which showed they came
199

DON QUIXOTE

from some market town, where they had bought them to carry
home to their village. So as well the scholars as the husband-
men fell into the same admiration that all they had done who
first saw Don Quixote, and they longed to know what manner
of fellow he was, so different from all other men. Don Quixote
saluted them, and after he asked them whither they went,
and that they had said they went his way, he oflFered them his
company, and desired them to go softlier, for that their young
asses travelled faster than his horse: and, to oblige them the
more, he told them who he was, and of his profession, that
he was a knight-errant, that he went to seek adventures round
about the world. He told them his proper name was Don
Quixote de la Mancha, but his ordinary name the Knight of
the Lions.

All this to the husbandmen was heathen Greek or pedlar's
French ; but not to the scholars, who straight perceived the
weakness of Don Quixote's brain: notwithstanding, they be-
held him with great admiration and respect, and one of them
said, ^Knight, if you go no set journey, as they which seek ad-
ventures seldom do, I pray go with us, and you shall see one
of the bravest and most sumptuous marriages that ever was
kept in the Mancha, or in many leagues round about.' Don
Quixote asked them if it were of any prince, for so he imag-
ined. ' No, sir,' said he, * but betwixt a farmer and a farmer's
daughter; he is the richest in all the country, and she the fair-
est alive. Their provision for this marriage is new and rare,
and it is to be kept in a meadow near the bride's town. She
is called, the more to set her out, Quiteria the Fair, and he Ca-
macho the Rich; she is about eighteen years of age, and he
two-and-twenty ; both well met, but that some nice people, that
busy themselves in all men's lineages, will say that the fair Qui-

200

CAMACHO AND BASILIUS

teria is of better parentage than he ; but that's nothing, riches
are able to solder all clefts. To say true, this Camacho is lib-
eral, and he hath longed to make an arbour, and cover all the
meadow on the top, so that the sun will be troubled to enter
to visit the green herbs underneath. He hath also certain war-
like morrices, as well of swords as little jingling bells; for we
have those in the town that will jangle them. For your foot-
clappers I say nothing; you would wonder to see them bestir
themselves; but none of these, nor others I have told you of,
are like to make this marriage so remarkable as the despised
Basilius. This Basilius is a neighbouring swain of Quiteria's
town, whose house was next door to her father's. From hence
love took occasion to renew unto the world the long forgotten
loves of Py ramus andThisbe; for Basilius loved Quiteria from
a child, and she answered his desires with a thousand loving
favours ; so that it grew a common talk in the town, of the love
between the two little ones. Quiteria began to grow to some
years, and her father began to deny Basilius his ordinary ac-
cess to the house; and, to avoid all suspicion, purposed to
marry her to the rich Camacho, not thinking it fit to marry her
to Basilius, who was not so rich in fortune's goods as in those
of the mind ; for, to say truth without envy, he is the activest
youth we have, a famous bar-pitcher, an excellent wrestler, a
great tennis-player, he runs like a deer, outleaps a she-goat,
and plays at ten-pins miraculously, sings like a lark, plays upon
a gittern as if he made it speak, and, above all, fenceth as well
as the best.'

* For that sleight only,' quoth Don Quixote, 'the youth de-
serves not only to match with the fair Quiteria, but with Queen
Ginebra herself, if she were now alive, in spite of Lansarote,
and all that would gainsay it.' * There's for my wife now,'

201

DON QUIXOTE

quoth Sancho, that had been all this while silent, * that would
have every one marry with their equals, holding herself to the
proverb that says, "Like to like, quoth the devil to the col-
lier." All that I desire is, that honest Basilius, for methinks
I love him, were married to Quiteria ; and God give 'em joy,
I was saying, those that go about to hinder the marriage of
two that love well.'

* If all that love well,' quoth Don Quixote, * should marry,
parents would lose the privilege of marrying their children
when and with whom they ought ; and, if daughters might
choose their husbands, you should have some would choose
their father's servants, and others any passenger in the street,
whom they thought to be a lusty swaggerer, although he were
a cowardly ruffian; for love and aflFection do easily blind the
eyes of the understanding, which is only fit to choose, and the
state of matrimony is a ticklish thing, and there is great heed
to be taken, and a particular favour to be given from above, to
make it light happily. Any man that would but undertake some
voyage, if he be wise, before he is on his way he will seek him
some good companion. And why should not he do so that
must travel all his lifetime till he come to his resting-place,
death ; and the rather if his company must be at bed and at
board, and in all places, as the wife's company must be with
the husband ? Your wife is not a commodity like others, that
is bought and sold, or exchanged, but an inseparable accident
that lasts for term of life. It is a noose that, being fastened
about the neck, turns to a Gordian knot, which cannot be un-
done but by Death's sickle. I could tell ye much more in this
business, were it not for the desire I have to be satisfied by
master parson if there be any more to come of Basilius his
story.'

202

CAMACHO AND BASILIUS

To which he answered, ' This is all : that from the instant
that Basilius knew the fair Quiteria was to be married to the
rich Camacho he was never seen to smile, or talk sensibly; and
he is always sad and pensative, talks to himself — an evident
token that he is distracted — eats little, sleeps much ; all he eats
is fruits, and all his sleep is in the fields, upon the hard ground,
like a beast; now and then he looks up to heaven, and some-
times casts his eyes downward, so senseless as if he were only
a statue clothed, and the very air strikes off his garments. In
fine, he hath all the signs of a passionate heart, and we are
all of opinion that by that time Quiteria to-morrow gives the
"Ay" it will be the sentence of his death.'

* God forbid,' said Sancho; *for God gives the wound, and
God gives the salve ; nobody knows what may happen ; 'tis a
good many hours between this and to-morrow; and in one
hour, nay, one minute, a house falls; and I have seen the sun
shine and foul weather in an instant; one goes to bed sound at
night, and stirs not the next morning; and pray tell me, is
there anyone here that can say he hath stayed the course of
Fortune's great wheel ? No, truly, and between a woman's
"Ay" and "No" I would be loth to put a pin's point, for it
would hardly enter. Let me have Mistress Quiteria love Ba-
silius with all her heart, and I'll give him a bag full of good
luck; for your love, as I have heard tell, looks wantonly with
eyes that make copper seem gold, and poverty riches, and filth
in the eyes pearls.'

* Whither a plague runn'st thou, Sancho?' quoth Don
Quixote. * When thou goest threading on thy proverbs and thy
flimflams, Judas himself, [though he] take thee, cannot hold
thee. Tell me, beast, what knowest thou of Fortune or her
wheel, or anything else?' *0h, if you understand me not, no

203

DON QUIXOTE

marvel though my sentences be held for fopperies. Well, I
know what I say, and know I have not spoken much from the
purpose; but you, sir, are always the turney to my words and
actions.' 'Attorney, thou wouldst say; God confound thee,
thou prevaricator of language!' ' Do not you deal with me,'
said Sancho, * since you know I have not been brought up in
court, nor studied in Salamanca to know whether I add or di-
minish any of my syllables. Lord God ! you must not think
your Galician' can speak like your Toledonian, and they
neither are not all so nimble.' * For matter of your court lan-
guage,' quoth the parson, * 'tis true; for they that are bred in
the tanner-rows and the Zocodoner * cannot discourse like them
that walk all day in the high church cloisters; yet all are To-
ledonians. The language is pure, proper, and elegant, in-
deed, only in your discreet courtiers, let them be born where
they will; discreet, I say, because many are otherwise, and
discretion is the grammar of good language, which is accom-
panied with practice. I, sir, I thank God, have studied the
canons in Salamanca, and presume sometimes to yield a rea-
son in plain and significant terms.' ' If you did not presume,'
said the other scholar, ' more on your using the foils you carry
than your tongue, you might have been senior in your degree,
whereas now you are lag.' * Look you, bachelor,' quoth the
parson, 'you are in the most erroneous opinion of the world
touching the skill of the weapon, since you hold it frivolous.'
' 'Tis no opinion of mine,' said Corchuelo, 'but a manifest
truth; and, if you will have me show it by experience, there
you have foils commodious: I have an arm and strength, which,
together with my courage, which is not small, will make you

> One of that province that speak a bastard language to the Spanish.
^ The market-place so called in Toledo.

204

confess I am not deceived. Alight, and keep your distance,
your circles, your corners, and all your science; I hope to
make you see the stars at noonday with my skill, which is but
modern and mean, which though it be small, I hope to God
the man is yet unborn that shall make me turn my back; and
there is no man in the world but I'll make him give ground/
' For turning your back,* said the skilful, ' I meddle not, though
perhaps where you first set your foot, there your grave might
be digged, — I mean, you might be killed for despising skill.*

305

DON QUIXOTE

'That you shall try/ said Corchuelo; and, lighting hastily
from his ass, he snatched one of the swords that the parson
carried. 'Not so,' said Don Quixote instantly; TU be the
master of this fence, and the judge of this undecided contro-
versy.' And, lighting from Rozinante, and taking his lance,
he stepped between them till such time as the parson had put
himself into his posture and distance against Corchuelo, who
ran, as you would say, darting fire out of his eyes.

The two husbandmen that were by, without lighting from
their asses, served for spectators of the mortal tragedy. The
blows, the stockadoes, your false thrusts, your back-blows,
yourdoubling-blows, that came from Corchuelo, were number-
less, as thick as hops or hail ; he laid on like an angry lion ; but
still the parson gave him a stopple for his mouth, with the but-
ton of his foil, which stopped him in the midst of his fury; and
he made him kiss it as if it had been a relic, though not with
so much devotion as is due to them. In a word, the parson
with pure stockadoes told all the buttons of his cassock which
he had on, his skirts flying about him like a fish's tail. Twice
he struck off his hat, and so wearied him that, what for despite,
what for choler and rage, he took the sword by the hilt and
flung it into the air so forcibly that one of the husbandmen
that was by, who was a notary, and went for it, gave testimony
after that he flung it almost three-quarters of a mile, which
testimony serves, and hath served, that it may be known and
really seen that force is overcome by art.

Corchuelo sat down, being very weary, and Sancho, com-
ing to him, said, 'Truly, sir bachelor, if you take my advice,
hereafter challenge no man to fence, but to wrestle or throw
the bar, since you have youth and force enough for it; for I
have heard those that you call your skilful men say that they

206

A FENCING PARSON

will thrust the point of a sword through the eye of a needle/
'I am glad,' quoth Corchuelo, 'that I came from my ass, and
that experience hath showed me what I would not have be-
lieved.' So, rising up, he embraced the parson, and they were
as good friends as before. So, not staying for the notary that
went for the sword, because they thought he would tarry long,
they resolved to follow, and come betimes to Quiteria's vil-
lage, of whence they all were. By the way the parson dis-
courses to them of the excellency of the art of fencing, with so
many demonstrative reasons, with so many figures and mathe-
matical demonstrations, that all were satisfied with the rare-
ness of the science, andCorchuelo reduced from his obstinacy.

It began to grow dark, but before they drew near they all
saw a kind of heaven of innumerable stars before the town.
They heard likewise harmonious and confused sounds of divers
instruments, as flutes, tabors, psalteries, recorders, hand-
drums, and bells ; and, when they drew near, they saw that the
trees of an arbour, which had been made at the entrance of the
town, were all full of lights, which were not offended by the
wind, that then blew not, but was so gentle that it scarce
moved the leaves of the trees. The musicians were they that
made the marriage more sprightly, who went two and two in
companies, some dancing and singing, others playing upon
divers of the aforesaid instruments; nothing but mirth ran up
anddown the meadow; others were busied in raising scaffolds,
that they might the next day see the representations and dances
commodiously, dedicated to the marriage of the rich Camacho,
and the obsequies of Basilius.

Don Quixote would not enter the town, although the hus-
bandmen and the bachelor entreated him; for he gave a suffi-
cient excuse for himself, as he thought, that it was the custom

207

DON QUIXOTE

of knights-errant to sleep in fields and forests, rather than in
habitations, though it were under golden roofs; so he went a
little out of the way, much against Sancho's will, who remem-
bered the good lodging he had in the castle or house of Don
Diego.

208

CHAPTER XX

OF THE MARRIAGE OF RICH CAMACHO, AND THE
SUCCESS OF POOR BASILIUS

SCARCE had the silver morn given bright Phoebus leave,
with the ardour of his burning rays, to dry the liquid
pearls on his golden locks, when Don Quixote, shak-
ing off sloth from his drowsy members, rose up, and called
Sancho his squire, that still lay snorting; which Don Quixote
seeing, before he could wake, he said : * O happy thou above
all that live upon the face of the earth, that without envy, or
being envied, sleepest with a quiet breast, neither persecuted
by enchanters nor frighted by enchantments'. Sleep, I say
209

DON QUIXOTE

once again — nay, an hundred times — sleep; let not thy mas-
ter's jealousy keep thee continually awake, nor let care to pay
thy debts make thee watchful, or how another day thou and
thy small but straitened family may live, whom neither am-
bition troubles nor the world's vain pomp doth weary, since
the bounds of thy desires extend no farther than to thinking of
thine ass; for, for thine own person, that thou hast committed
to my charge, — a counterpoise and burden that nature and
custom hath laid upon the masters. The servant sleeps, and
the master wakes, thinking how he may maintain, good him,
and do him kindnesses; the grief that it is to see heaven obdu-
rate in relieving the earth with seasonable moisture troubles
not the servant, but it doth the master, that must keep, in
sterility and hunger, him that served him in abundance and
plenty,'

Sancho answered not a word to all this, for he was asleep,
neither would he have awaked so soon, if Don Quixote had
not made him come to himself with the little end of his lance.
At length he awaked sleepy and drowsy, and, turning his
face round about, he said : * From this arbour, if I be not de-
ceived, there comes a steam and smell rather of good broiled
rashers than thyme and rushes; a marriage that begins with
such smells, by my holidam, I think 'twill be brave and plen-
tiful.' *Away, glutton !' quoth Don Quixote. ^Come and
let us go see it, and what becomes of the disdained Basilius.'
*Let him do what he will,' said Sancho, ^were it not better
that he were poor still and married to Quiteria ? There is no
more in it, but let the moon lose one quarter and she'll fall
from the clouds. Faith, sir, I am of opinion that the poor fel-
low be contented with his fortunes, and not seek after things
impossible. FU hold oneof mine arms that Camacho will cover

210

CA MACHO'S MARRIAGE

Basilius all over with sixpences; and if it be so, as 'tis like,
Quiteria were a very fool to leave her bravery and jewels that
Camacho hath and can give her, and choose Basilius for his bar-
pitching and fencing. In a tavern they will not give you a pint
of wine for a good throw with the bar, or a trick at fence; such
abilities that are worth nothing have 'em whoso will for me;
but when they light upon one that hath crowns withal, let me
be like that man that hath them. Upon a good foundation a good
building may be raised, and money is the best bottom and foun-
dation that is in the world.' * For God's love, Sancho,' quoth
Don Quixote, * conclude thy tedious discourse, with which, I
believe, if thou wert let alone, thou wouldst neither eat nor
sleep for talking.' ^ If you had a good memory, ' said Sancho,
* you would remember the articles of our agreement before we
made our last sally from home, one of which was that you would
let me speak as much as I list, on condition that it were not
against my neighbour or against your authority; and hitherto
I am sure I have not broken that article.' * I remember no
such article, Sancho,' said he ; * and, though it were so, I would
have you now be silent and come with me; for now the in-
struments we heard over night begin to cheer the valleys, and
doubtless the marriage is kept in the cool of the morning, and
not deferred till the afternoon's heat.'

Sancho did what his master willed him, and, saddling Ro-
zinante, with his pack-saddle clapped likewise on Dapple, the
two mounted, and fair and softly entered the arbour. The
first thing that Sancho saw was a whole steer spitted upon a
whole elm, and for the fire, where it was to be roasted, there
was a pretty mountain of wood, and six pots that were round
about this bonfire, which were never cast in the ordinary mould
that other pots were, for they were six half olive-butts, and

211

DON QUIXOTE

every one was a very shambles of meat, they had so many
whole sheep soaking in 'em which were not seen, as if they
had been pigeons. The flayed hares and the pulled hens that
were hung upon the trees to be buried in the pots were num-
berless; birds and fowls of divers sorts infinite, that hung on
the trees, that the air might cool them, Sancho counted
above threescore skins of wine, each of them above two ar-
robas, ' and as it afterwards seemed, of sprightly liquor; there
were also whole heaps of purest bread, heaped up like corn in
the threshing-floors; your cheeses, like bricks piled one upon
another, made a goodly wall; and two kettles of oil, bigger
than a dyer's, served to fry their paste-work, which they took
out with two strong peels when they were fried, and they
ducked them in another kettle of honey that stood by for the
same purpose. There were cooks above fifty, men and women,
all cleanly, careful, and cheerful. In the spacious belly of the
steer there were twelve sucking pigs, which, being sewed
there, served to make him more savoury. The spices of divers
sorts, it seems they were not bought by pounds, but by arro-
bas, and all lay open in a great chest. To conclude, this prep-
aration for the marriage was rustical, but so plentiful that it
might furnish an army.

Sancho Panza beheld all, and was much affected with it;
and first of all the goodly pots did captivate his desires, from
whence with all his heart he would have been glad to have re-
ceived a good pipkin-full; by and by he was enamoured on the
skins; and last of all on the fried meats, if so be those vast ket-
tles might be called frying-pans: so, without longer patience,
as not being able to abstain, he came to one of the busy cooks,
and with courteous and hungry reasons desired him that he

I Arroba, a measure of 25 lb. weight, which may be some six gallons of wine.

212

DANCING

might sop a cast of bread in one of the pots. To which the
cook replied, * Brother, this is no day on which hunger may
have any jurisdiction, thanks be to the rich Camacho; alight,
and see if you can find ever a ladle there, and skim out a hen
or two, and much good may they do you! ' * I see none,' said
Sancho. * Stay,' said the cook; * God forgive me, what a ninny
'tis!' And saying this, he laid hold of a kettle, and, sousing
into it one of the half-butts, he drew out of it three hens and
two geese, and said to Sancho, ^ Eat, friend, and break your
fast with this froth till dinner-time.' * I have nothing to put it
in,' said Sancho. *Why, take spoon and all,' said the cook;
*for Camacho's riches and content will very well bear it.'

Whilst Sancho thus passed his time, Don Quixote saw that
by one side of the arbour there came a dozen husbandmen
upon twelve goodly mares, with rich and sightly furniture fit
for the country, with many little bells upon their petrels, all
clad in bravery for that day's solemnity, and all in a joint troop
ran many careers up and down the meadow, with a great deal
of mirth and jollity, crying, * Long live Camacho and Quiteria !
he as rich as she fair, and she the fairest of the world.' Which
when Don Quixote heard, thought he to himself, ^ It well ap-
pears that these men have not seen my Dulcinea del Toboso;
for, if they had, they would not be so forward in praising this
their Quiteria.'

A while after there began to enter, at divers places of the
arbour, certain different dances, amongst which there was
one sword-dance by four-and-twenty swains, handsome lusty
youths, all in white linen, with their handkerchiefs wrought
in several colours of fine silk; and one of the twelve upon the
mares asked him that was the foreman of these, a nimble lad,
if any of the dancers had hurt themselves. * Hitherto,' said

2X3

DON QUIXOTE

he, * nobody is hurt; we are all well, God be thanked/ And
straight he shuffled in amongst the rest of his companions,
with so many tricks and so much sleight that Don Quixote,
though he were used to such kind of dances, yet he never liked
any so well as this. He also liked another very well, which was
of fair young maids, so young that never a one was under four-
teen nor none above eighteen, all clad in coarse green, theirhair
partly filleted and partly loose — but all were yellow, and might
compare with the sun — upon which they had garlands of jas-
mines,' roses, woodbine, and honeysuckles. They had for
their guides a reverend old man and a matronly woman, but
morelight and nimble than could be expected from their years.
They danced to the sound of a Zamora bagpipe,* so that with
their honest looks and their nimble feet, they seemed to be the
best dancers in the world.

After this there came in another artificial dance, of those
called brawls; it consisted of eight nymphs, divided into two
ranks; god Cupid guided one rank and Money the other: the
one with his wings, his bow, his quiver and arrows ; the other
was clad in divers rich colours of gold and silk. The nymphs
that followed Love carried a white parchment scroll at their
backs, in which their names were written in great letters. The
first was Poesy, the second Discretion, the third Nobility, the
fourth Valour. In the same manner came those whom god
Money led: the first was Liberality, the second Reward, the
third Treasure, the fourth Quiet Possession. Before them
came a wooden castle, which was shot at by two savages clad
in ivy, and canvas dyed in green, so to the life that they had
well-nigh frighted Sancho. Upon the frontispiece and on each

'Jasmines, a little sweet white (lower that grows in Spain in hedges, like our sweet
marjoram.

2 Zamora, a town in Castile famous for that kind of music like our Lancashire hornpipe.

214

' 1

^i..

■ V

LOVE AND MO NEY

side of the castle was written, *The Castle of Good Heed.'
Four skilful musicians played to them on a tabor and pipe;
Cupid began the dance, and, after two changes, he lifted up
his eyes and bent his bow against a virgin that stood upon the
battlements of the castle, and said to her in this manner:

* I am the powerful deity,

In heaven above and earth beneath,
In sea's and hell's profundity.
O'er all that therein live or breathe.

* What 'tis to fear, I never knew ;
I can perform all that I will;
Nothing to me is strange or new ;
I bid, forbid, at pleasure still.'

The verse being ended, he shot a flight over the castle, and re-
tired to his standing. By and by came out Money, and per-
formed his two changes; the tabor ceased, and he spoke:

^ Lo ! I that can do more than love.
Yet Love is he that doth me guide;
My offspring great'st on earth, to Jove
Above I nearest am allied.

'I Money am, with whom but few
Perform the honest works they ought;
Yet here a miracle to show.
That without me they could do aught.'

Money retired, and Poetry advanced, who, after she had done
her changes as well as the rest, her eyes fixed upon the dam-
sel of the castle, she said:

' Lady, to thee, sweet Poesy
Her soul in deep conceits doth send,
Wrapped up in writs of sonnetry.
Whose pleasing strains do them commend.

217

DON QUIXOTE

* If, with my earnestness, I thee
Importune not, fair damsel, soon
Thy envied fortune shall, by me.
Mount to the circle of the moon.'

Poetry gave way, and from Money's side came Liberality, and
after her changes, spoke :

' To give is Liberality,
In him that shuns two contraries,
The one of prodigality.
T'other of hateful avarice.

* rU be profuse in praising thee,
Profuseness hath accounted been
A vice, yet sure it cometh nigh
Affection, which in gifts is seen.'

In this sort both the shows of the two squadrons came in
and out, and each of them performed their changes and spoke
their verses, some elegant, some ridiculous. Don Quixote only
remembered (for he had a great memory) the rehearsed ones.
And now the whole troop mingled together, winding in and
out with great sprightliness and dexterity ; and still as Love
went before the castle he shot a flight aloft, but Money broke
gilded balls, and threw into it.

At last, after Money had danced a good while, he drew out
a great purse made of a Roman cat's skin, which seemed to be
full of money, and, casting it into the castle, with the blow the
boards were disjoined and fell down, leaving the damsel dis-
covered, without any defence. Money came with his assist-
ants, and, casting a great chain of gold about her neck, they
made a show of leading her captive, which, when Love and his
party saw, they made show as if they would have rescued her;
and all these motions were to the sound of the tabors. With
skilful dancing the savages parted them, who very speedily

218

HAVE-MUCH AND HAVE-LITTLE

went to set up and join the boards of the castle, and the damo-
sel was there enclosed anew; and with this the dance ended,
to the great content of the spectators.

Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who had so dressed
and ordered her. She answered, a parson of the town, who
had an excellent capacity for such inventions. TU lay a
wager,' said Don Quixote, *he was more Basilius his friend
than Camacho's, and that he knows better what belongs to a
satire than an evensong; he hath well fitted Basilius his abil-
ities to the dance, arid Camacho's riches.'

Sancho Panza, that heard all, said, *The king is my cock;
I hold with Camacho.' 'Well, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote,
*thou art a very peasant, and like them that cry, **Long live
the conqueror!" ' *I know not who I am like,' said Sancho;
* but I know I shall never get such delicate froth out of Basilius
his pottage-pots as I have out of Camacho's.' And with that
showed him the kettle full of geese and hens, and, laying hold
on one, he fell to it merrily and hungerly. And for Basilius'
abilities this he said to their teeth: *So much thou art worth
as thou hast, and so much as thou hast thou art worth. An
old grandam of mine was wont to say there were but two lin-
eages in the world. Have-much and Have-little; and she was
mightily inclined to the former; and at this day, master, your
physician had rather feel a having pulse than a knowing pulse,
and an ass covered with gold makes a better show than a horse
with a pack-saddle. So that I say again I am of Camacho's
side, the scum of whose pots are geese, hens, hares, and conies,
and Basilius his, be they near or far off, but poor thin water.'

*Hast thou ended with thy tediousness, Sancho?' said
Don Quixote. * I must end,' said he, * because I see it offends
you; for, if it were not for that, I had work cut out for three

219

DON QUIXOTE

days/ * Pray God, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, * that I may
see thee dumb before I die/ * According to our life,' said
Sancho, * before you die I shall be mumbling clay, and then
perhaps I shall be so dumb that I shall not speak a word till
the end of the world, or at least till doomsday/ * Although it
should be so, Sancho,' said he, * thy silence will never be equal
to thy talking past and thy talk to come ; besides, 'tis very likely
that I shall die before thee, and so I shall never see thee dumb,
— no, not when thou drinkest or sleepest, to paint thee out
thoroughly.' ' In good faith, master,' quoth Sancho, ' there is
no trusting in the Raw-bones, I mean Death, that devours
lambs as well as sheep ; and I have heard our vicar say she
tramples as well on the high towers of kings as the humble cot-
tages of poor men. This lady hath more power than squeam-
ishness; she is nothing dainty, she devours all, plays at all, and
fills herwallets with all kind of peoples, ages, and pre-eminen-
ces; she is no mower that sleeps in the hot weather, but mows
at all hours, and cuts as well the green grass as the hay; she
doth not chew, but swallows at once, and crams down all that
comes before her; she hath a canine appetite, that is never
satisfied; and, though she have no belly, yet she may make us
think she is hydropsical, with the thirst she hath to drink all
men's lives, as if it were a jug of cold water.' *No more,
Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, * at this instant; hold while thou
art well, and take heed of falling, for certainly thou hast
spoken of Death, in thy rustical terms, as much as a good
preacher might have spoken. I tell thee, Sancho, that for thy
natural discretion thou mightst get thee a pulpit, and preach
thy fine knacks up and down the world.' * He preaches well
that lives well,' said Sancho, ' and I know no other preaching.'
' Thou needest not,' quoth he ; ' but I wonder at one thing, that

220

SANCHO'S WISDOM

wisdom beginning from the fear of God, that thou, who fearest
a lizard more than Him, shouldst be so wise ? ' ' Judge you of
your knight-errantry,' said Sancho, 'and meddle not with
other men's fears or valours, for I am as pretty a fearer of God
as any of my neighbours, and so let me snufFaway this scum ;'
for all the rest are but idle words, for which we must give ac-
count in another life.'

And in so saying he began to give another assault to the
kettle, with such a courage that he wakened Don Quixote, that
undoubtedly would have taken his part, if he had not been
hindered by that that of necessity must be set down.

I Meaning to eat hb hen and the goose.

221

CHAPTER XXI

OF THB PROSECUTION OF CAHACHO's MARRIAGE*
WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL ACCIDENTS

AS Don Quixote and Sancho were in their discourse
mentioned in the former chapter, they heard a great
^ n^ise and outcry, which was caused by them that
rode on the mares, who with a large career and shouts went
to meet the married couple, who, hemmed in with a thousand
tricks and devices, came in company of the vicar, and both
their kindreds, and all the better sort of the neighbouring
towns, all clad in their best apparel.

And as Sancho saw the bride he said, 'In good faith she is
not dressed like a country- wench, but like one of your nice
court dames; by the mass, methinks her glass necklaces she
should wear are rich coral, and her coarse green of Cuenca is
a thirty-piled velvet'; and her lacing, that should be white
linen, I vow by me! is satin. Well look on her hands, that

■ Instead of three-piled.

BASILIUS' TRICK

should have their jet rings; let me not thrive if they be not
golden rings, arrant gold, and set with pearls as white as a
sillabub, each of them as precious as an eye. Ah, whoreson,
and what locks she hath! for, if they be not false, I never saw
longer nor fairer in my life. Well, well, find not fault with
her liveliness and stature, and compare her me to a date-tree,
that bends up and down when it is loaden with bunches of
dates; for so doth she with her trinkets hanging at her hair
and about her neck. I swear by my soul, she is a wench of
mettle, and may very well pass the pikes in Flanders.'

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's rustic praises, and he
thought that, setting his mistress Dulcinea aside, he never
saw a fairer woman. The beauteous Quiteria was somewhat
pale, belike, with the ill night that brides always have when
they dress themselves for the next day's marriage. They
drew near to a theatre on one side of the meadow that was
dressed with carpets and boughs, where the marriage was to
be solemnised, and where they should behold the dances and
inventions; and just as they should come to the place they
heard a great outcry behind them, and a voice saying, * Stay a
while, rash people as well as hasty'; at whose voice and words
they all turned about, and saw that he that spoke was one clad,
to see to, in a black jacket, all welted with crimson in flames,
crowned, as they straight perceived, with a crown of mournful
cypress; in his hand he had a great truncheon; and, coming
nearer, he was known by all to be the gallant Basilius, who
were in suspense, expecting what should be the issue of those
cries and words, fearing some ill success from this so un-
looked-for arrival. He drew near, weary and out of breath;
and, coming before the married couple and clapping his trun-
cheon upon the ground, which had a steel pike at the end of

223

DON QUIXOTE

it, his colour changed, and, his eyes fixed upon Quiteria, with
a fearful and hollow voice thus spoke: ^Well knowest thou,
forgetful Quiteria, that, according to the law of God that we
profess, that whilst I live thou canst not be married to any
other; neither are you ignorant that, because I would stay till
time and my industry might better my fortunes, I would not
break that decorum that was fitting to the preserving of thy
honesty; but you, forgetting all duty due to my virtuous de-
sires, will make another master of what is mine, whose riches
serve not only to make him happy in them, but every way for-
tunate; and, that he may be so to the full (not as I think he
deserves it, but as the Fates ordain it for him), I will with
these hands remove the impossibility or inconvenience that
may disturb him, removing myself out of the way. Live, rich
Camacho, live with the ungrateful Quiteria many and pros-
perous years; and let your poor Basilius die, whose poverty
clipped the wings of his happiness, and faid him in his grave/
And, saying this, he laid hold of his truncheon that he had
stuck in the ground, and, the one-half of it remaining still
there, showed that it served for a scabbard to a short tuck
that was concealed in it; and, putting that which might be
called the hilt on the ground, with a nimble spring and a reso-
lute purpose he cast himself upon it, and in an instant the
bloody point appeared out of his back, with half the steel
blade, the poor soul weltering in his blood all along on the
ground, run thorough with his own weapon. His friends ran
presently to help him, grieved with his misery and miserable
hap, and Don Quixote, forsaking his Rozinante, went also to
help him, took him in his arms, but found that as yet there
was life in him. They would have pulled out the tuck, but
the vicar, there present, was of opinion that it were not best,

224

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*■*-'

¥>'■•

.\i

X-

• ■ ■ \ ^

^■

> V

BASILIUS' TRICK

before he had confessed himself; for that the drawing it out
and his death would be both at one instant. But Basilius,
coming a little to himself, with a faint and doleful voice said,
* If thou wouldst, O Quiteria, yet in this last and forcible
trance give me thy hand to be my spouse, I should think my
rashness might something excuse me, since with this I obtain
to be thine/ The vicar, hearing this, bade him he should
have a care of his soul's health, rather than of the pleasures
of his body, and that he should heartily ask God forgiveness
for his sins, and for his desperate action. To which Basilius
replied that he would by no means confess himself if Quiteria
did not first give him her hand to be his spouse, for that
content would make him cheerfully confess himself. When
Don Quixote heard the wounded man's petition he cried
aloud that Basilius desired a thing very just and reasonable,
and that Signior Camacho would be as much honoured in
receiving Quiteria, the worthy Basilius his widow, as if he
had received her from her father's side: * Here is no more to
do but give one *' Ay," no more than to pronounce it, since
the nuptial bed of this marriage must be the grave.'

Camacho gave ear to all this, and was much troubled, not
knowing what to do or say; but Basilius his friends were so
earnest, requesting him to consent that Quiteria might give
him her hand to be his spouse, that he might not endanger
his soul by departing desperately, that they moved him and
enforced him to say that if Quiteria would he was content-
ed, seeing it was but deferring his desires a minute longer.
Then all of them came to Quiteria, some with entreaties,
others with tears, most with forcible reasons, and persuaded
her she should give her hand to poor Basilius; and she, more
hard than marble, more lumpish than a statue, would not

227

DON QUIXOTE

answer a word, neither would she at all, had not the vicar
bid her resolve what she would do, for Basilius was even now
ready to depart, and could not expect her irresolute deter-
mination. Then the fair Quiteria, without answering a
word, all sad and troubled, came where Basilius was with
his eyes even set, his breath failing him, making show as if
he would die like a Gentile, and not like a Christian,

Quiteria came at length, and upon her knees made signs
to have his hand. Basilius unjoined his eyes, and, looking
steadfastly upon her, said, ^O Quiteria! thou art now come
to be pitiful, when thy pity must be the sword that shall end
my life, since now I want force to receive the glory that thou
givest in choosing me for thine, or to suspend the dolour that
so hastily closeth up mine eyes with the fearful shade of death.
All I desire thee is (O fatal star of mine !) that the hand thou
requirest, and that that thou wilt give me, that it be not for
fashion-sake, nor once more to deceive me, but that thou con-
fess and say, without being forced to it, that thou givest me
thy hand freely, as to thy lawful spouse, since it were unmer-
ciful in this trance to deceive me, or to deal falsely with him
that hath been so true to thee.' In the midst of this discourse
he fainted, so that all the standers-by thought now he had
been gone. Quiteria, all honest and shamefaced, laying hold
with her right hand on Basilius his, said to him, *No force
can work upon my will, and so I give thee the freest hand I
have, to be thy lawful spouse, and receive thine, if thou give
it me as freely, and that the anguish of thy sudden accident
do not too much trouble thee.' *I give it,' said Basilius,
* lively and courageously, with the best understanding that
Heaven hath endowed me withal, and therefore take me, and
I deliver myself as thy espousal.' ^ And I,' said Quiteria, *as

228

BASILIUS' TRICK

thy spouse, whether thou live long, or whether from my arms
they carry thee to thy grave/

*This young man,' said Sancho, * being so wounded, talks
much methinks; let him leave his wooing, and attend his
soul's health, which methinks appears more in his tongue
than in his teeth.'

Basilius and Quiteria having their hands thus fastened,
the vicar, tender-hearted and compassionate, poured his bless-
ing upon them, and prayed God to give good rest to the new-
married man's soul, who as soon as he received this bene-
diction suddenly starts up, and, with an unlooked-for agility,
drew out the tuck which was sheathed in his body. All the
spectators were in a maze, and some of them, more out of
simplicity than curiosity, began to cry out, 'A miracle! a
miracle!' But Basilius replied, *No miracle, no miracle;
but a trick, a trick.' But the vicar, heedless and astonished,
came with both his hands to feel the wound, and found that
the blade had neither passed through flesh or ribs, but through
a hollow pipe of iron, that he filled with blood, well fitted in
that place, and, as after it was known, prepared so that it
could not congeal. At last the vicar and Camacho, and all
the standers-by, thought that they were mocked and made a
laughing-stock. The bride made no great show of sorrow;
rather when she heard say that the marriage could not stand
current, because it was deceitful, she said that she anew con-
firmed it; by which they all collected that the business had
been plotted by the knowledge and consentment of them both.
At which Camacho and his friends were so abashed that they
remitted their revenge to their hands, and, unsheathing many
swords, they set upon Basilius, in whose favour in an instant
there were as many more drawn; and Don Quixote, taking

229

DON QUIXOTE

the vanguard on horseback, with his lance at his rest, and
well covered with his shield, made way through 'em all.
Sancho, whom such fears did never please or solace, ran to
the pottage-pot from whence he had gotten the skimmings,
thinking that to be a sanctuary, and so to be respected. Don
Quixote cried aloud, ^ Hold, hold, sirs; for there is no reason
that you should take revenge for the wrongs that love doth
us; and observe that love and war are all one; and, as in war
it is lawful to use sleights and stratagems to overcome the
enemy, so, in amorous strifes and competencies, impostures
and juggling-tricks are held for good, to attain to the wished
end, so it be not in prejudice and dishonour of the thing af-
fected. Quiteria was due to Basilius, and Basilius to Quiteria,
by the just and favourable inclination of Heaven. Camacho
is rich, and may purchase his delight, and whom God hath
joined let no man separate. Basilius hath but this one sheep;
let none offer to take it from him, be he never so powerful;
he that first attempts it must first pass through the point
of this lance.' At which he shaked his lance strongly and
cunningly, that he frighted all that knew him not.

But Quiteria's disdain was so inwardly fixed in Camacho's
heart that he forgot her in an instant; so that the vicar's per-
suasions prevailed with him (who was a good, discreet, and
honest-minded man), by which Camacho and his complices
were pacified and quieted, in sign of which they put up their
swords, rather blaming Quiteria's facility than Basilius his
industry. Camacho framed this discourse to himself, — that
if Quiteria loved Basilius when she was a maid she would
also have continued her love to him though she had been his
wife, so that he ought to give God thanks rather for having
ridden him of her than to have given her to him.

23o

BASILIUS' TRICK

Camacho, then, and those of his crew being comforted and
pacified, all Basilius his likewise were so; and Camacho, to
show that he stomached not the jest, nor cared for it, was
willing the feast should go forward, as if he had been really
married. But neither Basilius, nor his spouse, nor their fol-
lowers would stay, but went to Basilius his town; for your
poor that be virtuous and discreet have as well those that will
follow, honour, and uphold them, as the rich theirs, and such
as will flatter them. Don Quixote went with them too, for
they esteemed him to be a man of worth and valour; but
Sancho's mind was in a mist to see that it was impossible for
him to stay for Camacho's sumptuous feast and sports that
lasted till the evening; so that straitened and sorrowful he
followed on with his master that went in Basilius his squad-
ron, and thus left behind him those flesh-pots of Egypt,
though he bore them with him in his mind, whose scum
which he carried in the kettle, being consumed now and
ended, represented unto him the glorious and abundant hap-
piness he lost; so that all sad and sorrowful, though hunger-
less, without alighting from Dapple, he followed Rozinante's
track.

23l

CHAPTER XXII

OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF MONTESINOS' CAVE,

WHICH IS IN THE HEART OF MANCHA, WHICH

THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE

HAPPILY ACCOMPLISHED

THE married couple made wonderful much of Don
Quixote, obliged thereunto for the willingness he
showed to defend their cause, and with his valour
they paralleled his discretion, accounting him a Cid in arms
and a Cicero in eloquence. The good Sancho recreated him-
self three days at the bridegroom's charge, and now knew
that Quiteria knew nothing of the feigned wounding, but that
it was a trick of BasiHus, who hoped for the success that hath

232

ON MARRIAGE

been showed. True it was that he had made some of his lov-
ing friends acquainted with his purpose, that they might help
him at need, and make good his deceit.

*They cannot be called deceits,' quoth Don Quixote, ^that
are done to a virtuous end, and that the marriage of a loving
couple was an end most excellent. But, by the way, you must
know that the greatest opposite that love hath is want and
continual necessity; for love is all mirth, content, and glad-
someness, and the more when he that loves enjoys the thing
loved, against which necessity and poverty are open and de-
clared enemies.' All this he spoke with a purpose to advise
Basilius that he should leave exercising his youthful abilities;
that, although they got him a name, yet they brought no
wealth ; and that he should look to lay up something now by
lawful and industrious means, which are never wanting to
those that will be wary and apply themselves. *The honest
poor man, if so be the poor man may be called honest, hath a
jewel of a fair woman, which if any man bereave him of, dis-
honours him and kills her. She that is fair and honest when
her husband is poor deserves to be crowned with laurel and
triumphant bays. Beauty alone attracts the eyes of all that
behold it, and the princely eagles and high-flying birds do
stoop to it as to the pleasing lure; but, if extreme necessity be
added to that beauty, then kites and crows will grapple with
it, and other ravenous birds; but she that is constant against
all these assaults doth well deserve to be her husband's crown.
Mark, wise Basilius,' proceeds Don Quixote, * it was an opin-
ion of I know not what sage man, that there was but one good
woman in the world; and his advice was that every man should
think, that was married, that his wife was she, and so he should
be sure to live contented. I never yet was married, neither

233

DON QUIXOTE

have I any thought hitherto that way; notwithstanding, I
could be able to give any man counsel herein that should ask
it, and how he should choose his wife. First of all I would
have him rather respect fame than wealth; for the honest
woman gets not a good name only with being good, but in
appearing so ; for your public looseness and liberty doth more
prejudice a woman's honesty than her sinning secretly. If
you bring her honest to your house, 'tis easy keeping her so,
and to better her in that goodness; but if you bring her dis-
honest, 'tis hard mending her, for it is not very pliable to pass
from one extreme to another, — I say not impossible, but I hold
it to be very difficult.'

Sancho heard all this, and said to himself, * This master of
mine, when I speak matters of marrow and substance, is wont
to tell me that I may take a pulpit in hand, and preach my fine
knacks up and down the world; but I may say of him that
when he once begins to thread his sentences he may not only
take a pulpit in hand, but in each finger too, and go up and
down the market-place, and cry, *^ Who buys my ware?" The
devil take thee for a knight-errant, how wise he is! On my
soul, I thought he had known only what belonged to his knight-
errantry; but he snaps at all, and there is no boat that he hath
not an oar in.'

Sancho spoke this somewhat aloud, and his master over-
heard him, and asked, *What is that thou art grumbling,
Sancho?' 'I say nothing, neither do I grumble,' quoth he; * I
was only saying to myself that I would I had heard you before
I was married, and perhaps I might now have said, ''The
sound man needs no physician.'" 'Is Teresa so bad, Sancho?'
said Don Quixote. ' Not very bad,' said Sancho, ' and yet not
very good — at least, not so good as I would have her.' 'Thou

234

THE SCHOLAR

dost ill, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, *to speak ill of thy wife,
who is indeed mother of thy children.' ^ There's no love lost,'
quoth Sancho, ^for she speaks ill of me too when she list, es-
pecially when she is jealous; for then the devil himself will
not cope with her.'

Well, three days they stayed with the married couple,
where they were welcomed like princes. Don Quixote de-
sired the skilful parson to provide him a guide that might
show him the way to Montesinos' Cave, for he had a great de-
sire to enter into it, and to see with his own eyes if those won-
ders that were told of it up and down the country were true.
The parson told him that a cousin-german of his, a famous
student and much addicted to books of knighthood, should go
with him, who should willingly carry him to the mouth of the
cave, and should show the famous lake of Ruydera, telling
him he would be very good company for him, by reason he
was one that knew how to publish books and direct them to
great men.

By and by the young student comes me upon an ass with
foal, with a coarse packing-cloth or doubled carpet upon his
pack-saddle. Sancho saddled Rozinante, and made ready his
Dapple, furnished his wallets, and carried the student's too, as
well provided; and so taking leave and bidding all God be
with you, they went on, holding their course to Montesinos'
Cave. By the way Don Quixote asked the scholar of what
kind or quality the exercises of his profession and study were.
To which he answered that his profession was humanity, his
exercises and study to make books for the press, which were
very beneficial to himself and no less grateful to the common-
wealth; that one of his books was intituled The Book of the
Liveries, * where are set down seven hundred and three sorts

235

DON QUIXOTE

of liveries, with their colours, mottoes, and ciphers, from
whence any may be taken at festival times and shows by cour-
tiers, without begging them from anybody, or distilling, as
you would say, from their own brains to suit them to their de-
sires and intentions; for I give to the jealous, to the forsaken,
to the forgotten, to the absent, the most agreeable, that will
fit them as well as their punks. Another book I have, which
I mean to call the Metamorphosis, or Spanish Ovid, of a new
and rare invention; for, imitating Ovid in it, byway of mock-
ing, I show who the Giralda of Seville was, the Angel of the
Magdalena, who was the pipe of Vecinguerra of Cordova,
who the bulls of Guisando, Sierra Morena, the springs of
Leganitos and Lavapies in Madrid;* not forgetting that of
Pioio, that of the gilded pipe and of the abbess; and all this
with the allegories, metaphors, and translations, that they de-
light, suspend, and instruct all in a moment. Another book I
have, which I call a Supply to Polydore Virgil, concerning the
invention of things, which is of great reading and study, by
reason that I do verify many matters of weight that Polydore
omitted, and declare them in a very pleasing style. Virgil
forgot to tell us who was the first that had a catarrh in the
world, and the first that was anointed for the French disease,
and I set it down presently after I propose it, and authorise
it with at least four-and-twenty writers, that you may see
whether I have taken good pains, and whether the said book
may not be profitable to the world.'

Sancho, that was very attentive to the scholar's narration,
asked him, *Tell me, sir, so God direct your right hand in the
impression of your books, — can you tell me (for I know you
can, since you know all) who was the first man that scratched

1 All these several rarities of Spain.

236

THE SCHOLAR

his head, for I believe it was our first father Adam?' * Yes,
marry, was it,' said he; ^for Adam, no doubt, had both head
and hair, and, being the first man in the world, would some-
times scratch himself.' ' I believe it,' quoth Sancho ; ^ but tell
me now, who was the first vaulter in the world?' ^ Truly,
brother,' said he, ^ I cannot at present resolve you; I will study
it when I come to my books, and then I'll satisfy you when we
see one another again ; for I hope this will not be the last time.'
* Well, sir,' said Sancho, ^ never trouble yourself with this, for
now I can resolve the doubt: know that the first tumbler in
the world was Lucifer, when he was cast out of heaven, and
came tumbling down to hell.' *You say true,' quoth the
scholar. And Don Quixote said, ^This answer, Sancho, is
none of thine; thou hast heard somebody say so.' * Peace,
sir,' quoth Sancho, ' for, if I fall to question and answer, I shall
not make an end between this and morning; and to ask fool-
ish questions, and answer unlikelihoods, I want no help of my
neighbours.' *Thou hast spoken more, Sancho, than thou
thinkest for,' quoth Don Quixote; ^for you have some that
are most busied in knowing and averring things, whose knowl-
edge and remembrance is not worth a button.'

All that day they passed in these and other delightful dis-
courses, and at night they lodged in a little village, from whence
the scholar told them they had but two little leagues to Mon-
tesinos' Cave, and that if he meant to enter it he must be pro-
vided of ropes to tie and let himself down into the depth. Don
Quixote said that, though it were as deep as hell, he would see
whither it reached ; so they bought an hundred fathom of cord-
age, and the next day at two of the clock they came to the cave,
whose mouth is wide and spacious, but full of briars and
brambles, and wild fig-trees, and weeds so intricate and thick

237

DON QUIXOTE

that they altogether blind and dam it up. When they came
to it, Sancho and the scholar alighted, and Don Quixote whom
they tied strongly with the cordage; and, whilst they were
swathing and binding of him, Sancho said to him, *Take
heed, sir, what you do; do not bury yourself alive, and do not
hang yourself, like a bottle to be cooled in some well, for it
neither concerns nor belongs to you to search this place, worse
than a dungeon.' ' Bind me and peace,' quoth Don Quixote;
*for such an enterprise as this, Sancho, was reserved for me.'
Then said the guide, 'I beseech you, Signior Don Quixote,
that you take heed, and look about you with an hundred eyes,
to see what is within ; for perhaps you may meet with things
that will be fit for me to put in my book of Transformations.'
*He hath his instrument in his hand,' quoth Sancho, *that
knows how to use it.'

This said, and Don Quixote's binding ended, which was
not upon his harness, but upon his arming-doublet, he said,
* We did unadvisedly in not providing ourselves of some small
bell, that might have been tied with me to the same cord, by
whose sound you might know that I were still toward the bot-
tom and alive; but, since there is now no remedy, God be our
good speed!' And straight he kneeled upon his knees, and
made a soft prayer to God Almighty, desiring His aid, and
to give him good success in that (to see to) dangerous and
strange adventure; and then straightways he cried aloud, 'O
thou mistress of my actions and motions, most excellent, peer-
less Dulcinea del Toboso ! if it be possible that the prayers and
requests of this thy happy lover come to thine ears, hearken, I
beseech thee, by thy unheard-of beauty; deny not now unto
me thy favour and protection, which I so much need. I go to
cast myself headlong to a plunge, and sink myself into the

238

0.on.0-ai^<^u9SxaA^M^^^^,^<^y<,^~^^»^^i■f!^

THE DESCENT

abyssus that presents itself to me, that the world may know
that if thou favour me there shall be nothing impossible for
me to undergo and end/

And in saying this he came to the mouth, but saw he could
not come near to be let down, except it were by making way
with main force, or with cutting through; and so, laying hand
on his sword, he began to cut and slash the weeds that were
at the mouth of the cave, at whose rushing and noise there
came out an infinite company of crows and daws, so thick and
so hastily that they tumbled Don Quixote on the ground; and,
if he had been as superstitious as good Christian, he would
have taken it for an ill sign, and not have proceeded.

Well, he rose, and seeing the crows were all gone, and
that there were no other night-birds, as bats, that came out
amongst the crows, Sancho and the scholar let him down to
search the bottom of that fearful cave ; but Sancho first be-
stowed his benediction on him, and, making a thousand crosses
over him, said, *God and the Rock of France, together with
the Trinity of Gaeta,' guide thee, thou flower, cream, and
scum of knights-errant. There thou goest, hackster of the
world, heart of steel, and arms of brass; God again be thy
guide, and deliver thee sound and without scar to the light of
this world which thou leavest, to bury thyself in the obscurity
which thou seekest/

The scholar did, as it were, make the same kind of wishes
and deprecations. Don Quixote cried out that they should
yet give him more rope, which they gave by little and little;
and when his voice, that was stopt in the gutters of the cave,
could be no longer heard, and that they had let down their
hundred fathom of rope, they were of opinion to hoist him

I Several places of devotion.

241

Supper at tbe cave's month

up again, since they could give him no more cord; for all
that, they stayed some half an hour, and dien began easily

to draw up the rope, and without any weight, which made
them think Don Quixote was within; and Sancho believing
it wept bitterly, and drew up apace, that he might be satis-
fied; but, coming somewhat near fourscore fathom, they felt
a weight, which made them very much rejoice. At length,
when they came to ten, they plainly saw Don Quixote, to
whom Sancho cried out, saying, 'You are well returned, sir,
for we thought you had stayed there for breed.'

But Don Quixote did not answer a word, but, drawing
him altogether out, they saw that his eyes were shut, as if
he were asleep; they stretched him on the ground and un-
342

THE AWAKENING

bound him, and for all this he awaked not. But they, so
turned, tossed, and shaked him that a pretty while after he
came to himself, lazing himself, as if he had wakened out of
a great and profound sleep, and, looking wildly around about
him, said, * God forgive you, friends, for you have raised me
from one of the delicatest and pleasingest lives and sights
that ever was seen by human eye. Now at length I perceive
that all the delights of this world do pass like a shadow or
dream, or wither like a flower of the field. O unhappy
Montesinos! O ill-wounded Durandarte ! O luckless Beler-
ma! O mournful Guadiana! and you, unfortunate daughters
of Ruydera, that show by your waters those your fair eyes
wept! '

The scholar and Sancho gave ear to these words which
Don Quixote spake, as if with great pain they came from his
very entrails; they desired him to let them know his meaning,
and to tell them what he had seen in that hellish place. * Hell-
ish, call ye it?' said Don Quixote. *Well, call it not so, for it
deserves not the name, as straight you shall hear.' He de-
sired them to give him somewhat to eat, for he was exceed-
ing hungry. They laid the scholar's coarse wrapper upon the
green grass, and went to the spence of their wallets; and, all
three of them being set like good fellows, eat their bever, and
supped all together. The cloth taken up, Don Quixote said,
^ Sit still, ho! let none of you rise, and mark me attentively.'

243

CHAPTER XXI

OF THE ADMIRABLE THINGS THAT THE UNPARALLELED
DON QUIXOTE RECOUNTED, WHICH HE HAD SEEN IN
MONTESINOS' PROFOUND CAVE, WHOSE STRANGE-
NESS AND IMPOSSIBILITY MAKES THIS CHAP-
TER BE HELD FOR APOCRYPHA

IT was well toward fourof the clock, when the sun, cov-
ered between two clouds, showed but a dim light, and
withhis temperate beams gave Don Quixote leave, with-
out heat or trouble, to relate to his two conspicuous auditors
what he had seen in Montesinos' Cave; and he began as fol-
loweth :

'About a twelve or fourteen men's heights in the profun-
244

MONTESINOS' CAVE

dity of this dungeon, on the right hand, there is a concavity
and space able to contain a cart, mules and all ; some light
there comes into it by certain chinks and loopholes, which
answer to it afar off in the superficies of the earth. This
space and concavity saw I, when I was weary and angry to
see myself hanging by the rope, to go down to that obscure
region, without being carried a sure or known way; so I de-
termined to enter into it, and to rest a little. I cried out unto
you, that you should let down no more rope till I bade you,
but it seemed you heard me not; I went gathering up the rope
you let down to me, and, rolling of it up into a heap, sat me
down upon it very pensative, thinking with myself what I
might do to get to the bottom; and, being in this thought and
confusion, upon a sudden, without any former inclination in
me, a most profound sleep came upon me, and when I least
thought of it, without knowing how, nor which way, I waked
out of it, and found myself in the midst of the fairest, most
pleasant, and delightful meadow that ever Nature created, or
the wisest human discretion can imagine. I snuffed mine
eyes, wiped them, and saw that I was not asleep, but really
awake; notwithstanding, I felt upon my head and my breast,
to be assured if I were there myself or up in person, or that it
were some illusion or counterfeit ; but my touching, feeling,
and my reasonable discourse that I made to myself certified
me that I was then present, the same that I am now. By and
by I saw a princely and sumptuous palace or castle, whose
walls and battlements seemed to be made of transparent crys-
tal, from whence, upon the opening of two great gates, I saw
that there came towards me a reverend old man, clad in a
tawny baize frock, that he dragged upon the ground ; over
his shoulders and breast he wore a tippet of green satin, like

245

DON QUIXOTE

your fellows of colleges, and upon his cap a black Milan bon-
net, and his hoary beard reached down to his girdle. He had
no kind of weapon in his hand, but only a rosary of beads,
somewhat bigger than reasonable walnuts, and the credo-beads
about the bigness of ostrich-eggs; his countenance, pace, grav-
ity, and his spreading presence, each thing by itself, and alto-
gether, suspended and admired. He came to me, and the first
thing he did was to embrace me straitly, and forthwith said:
^* It is long since, renowned knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha,
that we who live in these enchanted deserts have hoped to see
thee, that thou mightest let the world know what is contained
here, and enclosed in this profound cave which thou hast en-
tered, called Montesinos' Cave; an exploit reserved only to be
attempted by thy invincible heart and stupendious courage.
Come with me, thou most illustrious knight, for I will show
thee the wonders that this transparent castle doth conceal, of
which I am the governor and perpetual chief warder, as being
the same Montesinosfroni whom the cave takes name.'^ Scarce
had he told me that he wajs Montesinos, when I asked him
whether it were true that was bruited here in the world
above, that he had taken his great friend Durandarte's heart
out of the midst of his bosom with a little dagger, and carried
it to the Lady Belerma, as he willed at the instant of his
death. He answered me that all was true, but only that of
the dagger; for it was no dagger, but a little stiletto as sharp
as a nawl.'

'Belike,' quoth Sancho, *it was of Ramon de Hozes the
Sevillian's making.' 'I know not,' said Don Quixote; 'but
'twas not of that stiletto-maker, for he lived but the other day,
and that battle of Roncesvalles, where this accident happened,
was many years since. But this averring is of no importance

246

or let, neither alters the truth, or story's text.' * You say right,'
quoth the scholar, ' for I hearken with the greatest delight in
the world.'

' With no less do I tell it you,' said Don Quixote, ' and pro-
247

DON QUIXOTE

ceed. The venerable Montesinos brought me into the crys-
talline palace, where in a low hall, exceeding fresh and cool,
all of alabaster, was a great sepulchre of marble, made with
singular art, upon which I saw a knight laid at length, not of
brass, marble, or jasper, as you use to have in other tombs,
but of pure flesh and bone; he held his right hand (which was
somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign that the owner was very
strong) upon his heart side; and before I asked Montesinos
aught, that saw me in suspense, beholding the tomb, he said:
*^This is my friend Durandarte, the flower and mirror of chiv-
alry, of the enamoured and valiant knights of his time; he is
kept here enchanted, as myself and many more knights and
ladies are, by Merlin, that French enchanter who, they say,'
was son to the devil; but, as I believe, he was not so, only he
knew more than the devil. Why or how he enchanted us, no-
body knows, which the times will bring to light, that I hope
are not far off^; all that I admire is, since I know for certain,
as it is now day, that Durandarte died in my arms, and that
after he was dead I took out his heart (and surely it weighed
above two pounds; for, according to natural philosophy, he
that hath the biggest heart is more valiant than he that hath
but a less), which being so, and that this knight died really
how he complains and sighs sometimes as if he were alive/'
Which said, the wretched Durandarte, crying out aloud, said,
" O my cousin Montesinos, the last thing that I requested you
when I was dying, and my soul departing, was that you would
carry my heart to Belerma, taking it out of my bosom, either
with poniard or dagger." Which when the venerable Mon-
tesinos heard, he kneeled before the grieved knight, and with
tears in his eyes said, " Long since, O Durandarte, long since,

I For so I translate it, to show the author's mistake.

248

.■■■'•-

.\

w

.**

■•■* ■

*J5

MONTESINOS' CAVE

my dearest cousin, I did what you enjoined me in that bitter
day of our loss. I took your heart, as well as I could, with-
out leaving the least part of it in your breast; I wiped it with
a laced handkerchief, and posted with it towards France, hav-
ing first laid you in the bosom of the earth, with so many tears
as was sufficient to wash my hands, or to wipe off the blood
from them which I had gotten by stirring them in your entrails;
and, for more assurance that I did it, my dearest cousin, at the
first place I came to from Roncesvalles, I cast salt upon your
heart, that it might not stink, and might be fresh and em-
balmed when it should come to the presence of the Lady Bel-
erma, who with you and me, Guadiana your squire, the wait-
ing-woman Ruydera, and her seven daughters, and her two
nieces, and many other of your acquaintances and friends,
have been enchanted here by Merlin, that wizard, long since;
and, though it be above five hundred years ago, yet none of
us is dead; only Ruydera, her daughters and nieces are want-
ing, whom, by reason of their lamentation. Merlin, that had
compassion on them, turned them into so many lakes now liv-
ing in the world; and in the province of Mancha they are
called the lakes of Ruydera; seven belong to the Kings of
Spain, and the two nieces to the Knights of the most Holy
Order of Saint John. Guadiana your squire, wailing in like
manner this mishap, was turned into a river that bore his own
name, who, when he came to the superficies of the earth, and
saw the sun in another heaven, such was his grief to have left
you that he straight plunged himself into the entrails of the
earth; but, as it is not possible for him to leave his natural
current, sometimes he appears and shows himself where the
sun and men may see him. The aforesaid lakes do minister
their waters to him, with which, and many others, he enters

25l

«

DON QUIXOTE

Portugal in pomp; but, which way soever he goes, he shows
his sorrow and melancholy, and contemns the breeding of
dainty fish in his waters and such as are esteemed, but only
muddy and unsavory, far differing from those of golden Tagus.
And what I now tell you, cousin mine, I have told you often,
and, since you answer me nothing, J imagine you either
believe me not, or not hear me, for which God knows I am
heartily sorry. One news I will let you know, which, though
perhaps it may not any way lighten your grief, yet it will no
way increase it. Know that you have here in your presence —
open your eyes and you shall see him — ^that famous knight of
whom Merlin prophesied such great matters, that Don
Quixote de la Mancha, I say, that now newly, and more hap-
pily than former ages, hath raised the long-forgotten knight-
errantry, by whose means and favour it may be that we also
may be disenchanted ; for great exploits are reserved for great
personages/* ** And if it be otherwise," answered the grieved
Durandarte, with a faint and low voice, ^^if it be otherwise,
O cousin, I say, patience and shuffle'*;' and, turning on one
side, he returned to his accustomed silence, without speaking
one word.

* By this we heard great howling and moan, accompanied
with deep sighs and short-breathed accents : I turned me about
and saw that in another room there came passing by the crys-
tal waters a procession of a company of most beautiful dam-
sels, in two ranks, all clad in mourning, with turbants upon
their heads, after the Turkish fashion; at last, and in the end
of the ranks, there came a lady, who by her majesty appeared
so, clothed in like manner in black, with a white dressing on

« *Paiienciay haraiar*; a metaphor taken from card-players, who, when they lose, cry
to the dealer, ' Patience, and shuffle the cards.

252

MONTESINOS' CAVE

her head, so large that it kissed the very ground. Her turban
was twice as big as the biggest of the rest; she was somewhat
beetle-browed, flat-nosed, wide-mouthed, but red-lipped; her
teeth, for sometimes she discovered them, seemed to be thin and
not very well placed, though they were as white as blanched
almonds; in her hand she carried a fine cloth, and within it, as
might be perceived, a mummied heart, by reason of the dry
embalming of it. Montesinos told me that all those in that
procession were servants to Durandarte and Belerma, that
were there enchanted with their masters; and that she that
came last with the linen cloth and the heart in her hand was
the Lady Belerma, who, together with her damsels, four days
in the week did make that procession, singing, or, to say truer,
howling their dirges over the body and grieved heart of his
cousin; and if now she appeared somewhat foul to me, or not
so fair as fame hath given out, the cause was her bad nights,
but worse days, that she endured in that enchantment, as I
might see by her deep-sunk eyes and her broken complexion.
"And her monthly disease is not the cause of these (an ordi-
nary thing in women), for it is many months since, and many
years, that she hath not had it, nor known what it is, but the
grief that she hath in her own heart, for that she carries in her
hand continually, which renews and brings to her remem-
brance the unfortunateness of her luckless lover ; for , if it were
not for this, scarce would the famous Dulcinea del Toboso
equal her in beauty, wit, or liveliness, that is so famous in the
Mancha, and all the world over." "Not too fast," then said
I, " Signior Don Montesipos; on with your story as befits; for
you know all comparisons are odious, and so leave your com-
paring; the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and
the Lady Belerma is what she is and hath been; and let this

253

DON QUIXOTE

suffice." To which he answered, " Pardon me, Signior Don
Quixote; for I confess I did ill, and not well, to say the Lady
Dulcinea would scarce equal the Lady Belerma, since it had
been sufficient that I understood — I know not by what aim
— that you are her knight, enough to have made me bite my
tongue, before I had compared her with anything but heaven
itself." With this satisfaction that Montesinos gave me, my
heart was free from that sudden passion I had, to hear my
mistress compared to Belerma.^ ^ And I marvel,^ said Sancho,
^ that you got not to the old carle and banged his bones and
pulled his beard, without leaving him a hair in it.^ ^ No, friend
Sancho,^ said he; ^ it was not fit for me to do so; for we are all
bound to reverence our elders, although they be no knights,
and most of all when they are so, and are enchanted. I know
well enough I was not behindhand with him in other questions
and answers that passed between us/

Then said the scholar, ^ I know not, Signior Don Quixote,
how you in so little time as it is since you went down have
seen so many things, and spoken and answered so much/
*How long is it,' quoth he, * since I went down?' *A little
more than an hour,' said Sancho. *That cannot be, replied
Don Quixote, * because it was morning and evening, and even-
ing and morning, three times; so that, by my account, I have
been three days in those parts so remote and hidden from our
sight.' ' Surely my master,'quoth Sancho, * is in the right; for,
as all things that befal him are by way of enchantment, so per-
haps that which appears to us but an hour is to him there three
nights and three days.' * He hath hit it,' said Don Quixote.
*And have you eat, sir, in all this time?' quoth the scholar.
*Not a bit,' quoth Don Quixote, * neither have I been hungry,
or so much as thought of eating.' ^ And the enchanted, eat

254

MONTESINOS' CAVE

they ?' said the scholar. ^ No,' said he, ^ neither are they troub-
led with your greater excrements, although it be probable that
their nails, their beards, and their hairs grow.' * Sleep they
haply?' said Sancho. ^No, indeed,' said Don Quixote; ^at
least, these three days that I have been with them, not one of
them hath closed his eyes, nor I neither.' * That fits the prov-
erb,' quoth Sancho, * which says, *^ You shall know the person
by his company." You have been amongst the enchanted, and
those that watch and fast; no marvel, therefore, though you
neither slept nor eat whilst you were amongst them. But
pray, sir, pardon me if I say, God — or the devil, I was about
to say — take me, if I believe a word of all this you have spoken.'
'Why not?' said the scholar. 'Do you think Signior Don
Quixote would lie to us ; for, though he would, he hath not had
time to compose or invent such a million of lies?' ' I do not
believe,' quoth Sancho, ' that my master lies.' * But what do
you believe, then? quoth Don Quixote. 'Marry, I believe,'
said Sancho, 'that that Merlin, or those enchanters, that en-
chanted all that rabble that you say you have seen and con-
versed with there below, clapped into your apprehension or
memory all this machine that you have told us, and all that
remains yet to be told.' 'AH this may be, Sancho,' said Don
Quixote; 'but 'tis otherwise; for what I have told I saw with
these eyes, and felt with these hands. But what wilt thou say
when I shall tell thee that amongst infinite other matters and
wonders that Montesinos showed me, which at more leisure
and at fitting time in process of our journey I shall tell thee,
he showed me three country-wenches, that went leaping and
frisking up and down those pleasant fields, like goats? and I
scarce saw them when I perceived the one was the peerless
Dulcinea, and the other two the selfsame that we spoke to when

255

DON QUIXOTE

we left Toboso. I asked Montesinos whether he knew them,
who answered me, not ; but that sure they were some ladies
of quality there enchanted, that but lately appeared in those
fields ; and that it was no wonder, for that there were many
others of former times, and these ptesent, that were enchanted
in strange and different shapes, amongst whom he knew Queen
Guinivere, and her woman Quintaniona, filling Lansarote's
cups when he came from Britain/

When Sancho heard his master thus far^ made him stark
mad, and ready to burst with laughter; for by reason diat he
knew die truth of Dulcinea^s enchantment, as having been
himself the enchanter, and the raiser of that tale, he did un-
doubtedly ratify his belief that his master was mad and out of
his wits; and so told him, ^ In an ill time, and dismal day, pa*
tron mine, went you down into the odier world, and at an ill
season met with Signior Montesinos, that hath returned you
in this pickle; you were well enough here above, in your right
senses as God hath given them you, uttering sentences and
giving good counsel every foot, and not, as now, telling the
greatest unlikelihoods that can be imagined.' ^Because I
know thee, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, ^I make no account
of thy words/ ^Nor I of yours,' said he; *you may strike or
kill me if you will, either for those I have spoken or those I
mean to speak, if you do not correct and amend yourself. But
pray tell me, sir, whilst we are at quiet, how knew you it was
our mistress. Spoke you to her ? What said she ? And what
answered you?'

^ I knew her,' said Don Quixote, ^by the same clothes she
had on at such time as thou show'dst her me. I spoke to her,
but she gave me not a word, but turned her back, and scudded
away so fast that a flight would not have overtaken her. I

256

MONTESINOS' CAVE

meant to have followed her, and had done it, but that Monte-
sinos told me it was in vain, and the rather, because it was now
high time for me to return out of the cave. He told me like-
wise that in process of time he would let me know the means
of disenchanting Durandarte, and Belerma, and himself, to-
3[ether with all the rest that were there. But that which most
yrieved me was, that whilst I was thus talking with Monte-
sinos, one of the unfortunate Dulcinea's companions came on
Dne side of me, I not perceiving it, and, with tears in her eyes
and hollow voice, said to me, *'My Lady Dulcinea del Toboso
commends her to you, and desires to know how you do; and
withal, because she is in great necessity, she desires you with
all earnestness that you would be pleased to lend her three
shillings upon this new cotton petticoat that I bring you, or
what you can spare, for she will pay you again very shortly."
This message held me in suspense and admiration; so that,
turning to Signior Montesinos, I asked him, **Is it possible,
Signior, that those of your better sort that be enchanted are
in want?" To which he answered, " Believe me, Signior Don
Quixote, this Necessity rangeth and extends itself everywhere,
and overtakes all men, neither spares she the enchanted; and
therefore, since the Lady Dulcinea demands these three shil-
lings of you, and that the pawn seems to be good, lend them
her, for sure she is much straitened." ** I will take no pawn,"
quoth I, ** neither can I lend what she requires, for I have but
two shillings." These I gave, which were the same, Sancho,
that thou gavest me t'other day for alms to the poor we met;
and I told the maid, *^ Friend, tell your mistress that I am sorry
with all my heart for her wants, and I would I were a Fucar'

I Fucares were a rich family and name in Germany that maintained a bank of moneys
in Spain, and still used to furnish Philip the Second with moneys in his wars.

257

DON QUIXOTE

to relieve them ; and let her know that I neither can nor may
have health, wanting her pleasing company and discreet con-
versation; and that I desire her, as earnestly as may be, that
this her captive servant and way-beaten knight may see and
treat with her. You shall also say, that when she least thinks
of it she shall hear say that I have made an oath and vow,
such as was the Marquis his of Mantua, to revenge his nephew
Baldwine, when he found him ready to give up the ghost in
the midst of the mountain, which was, not to eat his meat with
napkins, and other flim-flams added thereunto, till he had re-
venged his death; and so swear I, not to be quiet till I have
travelled all the seven partitions of the world, more punctually
than Prince Don Manuel of Portugal, till I have disenchanted
her." ^* All this and more you owe to my mistress," said the
damsel; and, taking the two shillings, instead of making me a
courtesy, she fetched a caper two yards high in the air.'

* Blessed God ! ' Sancho cried out, * and is it possible that
enchanters and enchantments should so much prevail upon
him as to turn his right understanding into such a wild mad-
ness ? Sir, sir, for God's love have a care of yourself, and look
to your credit; believe not in these bubbles that have lessened
and crazed your wits.' ' Out of thy love, Sancho, thou speak-
est this,' said Don Quixote; 'and, for want of experience in
the world, all things that have never so little difficulty seem
to thee to be impossible: but time will come, as I have told
thee already, that I shall relate some things that I have seen
before, which may make thee believe what I have said, which
admits no reply or controversy.'

258

CHAPTER XXIV

WHERE ARE RECOUNTED A THOUSAND FLIM-FLAMS, AS
IMPERTINENT AS NECESSARY TO THE UNDER-
STANDING OF THIS FAMOUS HISTORY

THE translator of this famous history out of his original,
written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, says that, when he
came to the last chapter going before, these words
were written in the margin by the same Hamet: *I cannot be-
lieve or be persuaded that all that is written in the antecedent
chapter happened so punctually to the valorous Don Quixote;
the reason is, because all adventures hitherto have been acci-
dental and probable; but this of the cave, I see no likelihood
of the truth of it, as being so unreasonable; yet to think Don
Quixote would lie, being the worthiest gentleman and noblest
knight of his time, is not possible, for he would not lie though
he were shot to death with arrows. On the other side, I con-
sider that he related it with all the aforesaid circumstances,
and that in so short a time he could not frame such a machina
of fopperies; and, if this adventure seem to be apocrypha, the
fault is not mine; so that, feaving it indifferent, I here set it
down. Thou, O reader, as thou art wise, judge as thou think-
est good, for I can do no more; though one thing be certain,
that when he was upon his deathbed he disclaimed this adven-
ture, and said that he had only invented it because it suited

259

DON QUIXOTE

with such as he had read of in his histories.' So he proceeds,
saying :

The scholar wondered as well at Sancho's boldness as his
master's patience; but he thought that by reason of the joy
that he received in having seen his mistress Dulcinea, though
enchanted, that softness of condition grew upon him; for, had
it been otherwise, Sancho spoke words that might have
grinded him to powder, for in his opinion he was somewhat
saucy with his master, to whom he said: ^Signior Don
Quixote, I think the journey that I have made with you very
well employed, because in it I have stored up four things : the
first is the having known yourself, which I esteem as a great
happiness; the second, to have known the secrets of this Mon-
tesinos' Cave, with the transformations of Guadiana and Ruy-
dera's lakes, which may help me in my Spanish Ovid I have
in hand; the third is, to know the antiquity of card-playing,
which was used at least in time of the Emperor Charles the
Great, as may be collected out of the words you say Duran-
darte used, when, after a long speech between him and Mon-
tesinoSjhe awakened saying, " Patience and shuffle'' (and this
kind of speaking he could not learn when he was enchanted,
but when he lived in France, in time of the aforesaid emperor);
and this observation comes in pudding-time for the other book
that I am making, which is my Supply to Polydore Virgil in
the Invention of Antiquities; and I believe in his he left out
cards, which I will put in, as a matter of great importance,
especially having so authentic an author as Signior Duran-
darte. The fourth is to have known for a certain the true
spring of the river Guadiana, which hath hitherto been con-
cealed.'

'You have reason,' said Don Quixote; ^but I would fain

260

ON HERMITS

know of you, now that it hath pleased God to give you abilities
to print your books, to whom will you direct them?' * You
have lords and grandees ' in Spain,' said the scholar, * to whom
I may direct them.' ' Few of them,' said Don Quixote; ^ not
because they do not deserve the dedications, but because they
will not admit of them, not to oblige themselves to the satis-
faction that is due to the author's pains and courtesy. One
prince I know that may supply the deserts of the rest, with
such advantage that, should I speak of it, it might stir up envy
in some noble breasts; but let this rest till some fit time, and
let us look out where we may lodge to-night.' * Not far from
hence,' said the scholar, ' there is a hermitage, where dwells a
hermit that they say hath been a soldier, and is thought to be
a good Christian, and very discreet and charitable. Beside
the hermitage, he hath a little house which he hath built at
his own charge; yet, though it be little, it is fit to receive
guests.' * Hath he any hens, trow ?' said Sancho. * Few her-
mits are without 'em,' quoth Don Quixote; *for your hermits
nowadays are not like those that lived in the deserts of Egypt,
that were clad in palm-leaves, and lived upon the roots of the
earth; but mistake me not, that because I speak well of them
I should speak ill of these, only the penitency of these times
comes not near those; yet, for aught I know, all are good, at
least I think so; and, if the worst come to the worst, your
hypocrite that feigns himself good doth less hurt than he that
sins in public'

As they were thus talking they might espy a footman com-
ing towards them, going apace, and beating with his wand a
he-mule laden with lances and halberds. When he came near

I A name given to men of title, as dukes, marquises, or earls, in Spain, whose only priv-
ilege is to stand covered before the king.

261

DON QUIXOTE

them he saluted diem and passed on ; but Don Quixote said to
him, ^ Honest fellow, stay, for methinks you make your mule
go faster dian needs/ ^ I cannot stay, sir,' said he, ^because
these weapons that you see I carry. muM Ij^itsed to-morrow
morning, so I must needs go on my way. ' Farewell; but, if
you will know why I ^arrylKem, I shall lodge to-night in the
vent ' above the hermitagcf ; andiif you go that way, there you
shall have me, and I will tell you wonders; and so once more
farewell/ So the mule pricked on so fast that^Don Quixote
had no leisure to ask him what wonders diey were; and as he
was curious, and always desirous of novelties, he took order
that they should presently go and pass that nigkt in the vent,
without touching at the hermitage, where the scholar would
have stayed diat night.

So aU three of diem mounted, and went toward the vent,
whither they reached somewhat before it grew dark, and the
scholar invited Don Quixote to drink a sup by the way at the
' ^^ hermitage, which as soon as Sancho heard, he made haste with

\ Dapple, as did Don Quixote and the scholar likewise; but, as

Sancho's ill-luck would have it, the hermit was not at home, as
was told them by the under-hermit. They asked him whether
he had any of the dearer sort of wine, who answered his mas-
ter had none, but, if they would have any cheap water, he
would give it them with a good will. * If my thirst would be
quenched with water, we might have had wells to drink at by
the way. Ah, Camacho's marriage and Don Diego's plenty,
how oft shall I miss you ! '

Now they left the hermitage and spurred toward the vent,
and a little before them they overtook a youth that went not

> yenias— places in Spain, in barren unpeopled parts, for lodging, like our beggarly ale-
houses upon the highway.

262

\

1

very fast before them;
so they overtook him.
He had a sword upon

his shoulder, and upon it, as it seemed, a bundle of clothes,
as breeches and cloak and a shirt — for he wore a velvet jerkin
that had some kind of remainder of satin, and his shirt hung
out — his stockings were of silk, and his shoes square at toe,
after the court fashion ; he was about eighteen years of age,
and active of body to see to; to pass the tediousness of the
way, he went singing short pieces of songs, and as they came
near him he made an end of one, which the scholar, they say,
learned by heart, and it was this:

*To the wars I go for necessity.
At home would I tarry if I had money.'

DON QUIXOTE

Don Quixote was the first that spoke to him, saying, ^ You
go very naked, sir gallant; and whither, a God^s name ? Let's
know, if it be your pleasure to tell us?* To which the youth
answered, ^ Heat and poverty are the causes that I walk so
light, and my journey is to the wars.' * Why for poverty?'
quoth Don Quixote ; ^ for heat it may well be/ ^ Sir,* said the
youth, ^ I carry in this bundle a pair of slops, fellows to this
jerkin ; if I wear *em by the way, I shall do myself no credit
with them when I come to any town, and I have no money to
buy others with; so as well for this as to air myself I go till I
can overtake certain companies of foot, which are not above
twelve leagues from hence, where I shall get me a place, and
shall not want carriages to travel in, till I come to our embark-
ing-place, which, they say, must be in Cartagina, and I had
rather have the king to my master, and serve him, than any
beggarly courtier/ ^ And pray tell me, have you any extraor-
dinary pay ?* said the scholar. ^ Had I served any grandee, or
man of quality,* said the youth, ^no doubt I should; for that
comes by your serving good masters, that out of the scullery
men come to be lieutenants or captains, or to have some good
pay; but I always had the ill luck to serve your shagrags and
upstarts, whose allowance was so bare and short that one half
of it still was spent in starching me a ruff, and it is a miracle
that one venturing page amongst a hundred should ever get
any reasonable fortune/ ^But tell me, friend,' quoth Don
Quixote, ^ is it possible that in all the time you served you
never got a livery?' ^Two,' said the page; ^but, as he that
goes out of a monastery before he professeth hath his habit
taken from him, and his clothes given him back, so my mas-
ters returned me mine, when they had ended their businesses
for which they came to the court, and returned to their own

264

THE PROFESSION OF ARMS

homes, and witheld their liveries which they had only showed
for ostentation/

^A notable Espilorcheria, ' as saith your Italian/ quoth
Don Quixote. ^For all that, think yourself happy that you
are come from the court with so good an intention, for there
is nothing in the world better nor more profitable than to serve
God first, and next your prince and natural master, especially
in the practice of arms, by which, if not more wealth, yet at
least more honour, is obtained than by learning; as I have said
many times, that though learning hath raised more houses
than arms, yet your swordmen have a kind of I know not what
advantage above scholars, with a kind of splendour that doth
advantage them over all. And bear in your mind what I shall
now tell you, which shall be much for your good and much
lighten you in your travels; that is, not to think upon adver-
sity, for the worst that can come is death, which if it be a good
death, the best fortune of all is to die. Julius Caesar, that
brave Roman emperor being asked which was the best death,
answered, ^^ A sudden one, and unthought of"; and, though
he answered like a Gentile, and void of the knowledge of the
true God, yet he said well, to save human feeling a labour^
for say you should be slain in the first skirmish, either with
cannon-shot or blown up with a mine, what matter is it ? All
is but dying, and there's an end; and, as Terence says, a sol-
dier slain in the field shows better than alive and safe in flight;
and so much the more famous is a good soldier, by how much
he obeys his captains and those that may command him. And
mark, child, it is better for a soldier to smell of his gunpowder
than of civet; and when old age comes upon you in this hon-
ourable exercise, though you be full of scars, maimed or lame,

I Cullionry.

265

1

DON QUIXOTE

at least you shall not be without honour, which poverty cannot
diminish; and, besides, there is order taken now that old and
maimed soldiers may be relieved; neither are they dealt withal
like those men^s negarsy that when they are old and can do
their masters no service, they (under colour of making them
free) turn them out of doors and make them slaves to hunger,
from which nothing can free them but death.' And for this
time I will say no more to you, but only get up behind me till
you come to the vent, and there you shall sup with me, and to-
morrow take your journey, which God speed as your desires
deserve/

The page accepted not of his invitement to ride behind
him ; but for the supper he did. And at this season, they say,
Sancho said to himself, ^ Lord defend thee, master ! And is
it possible that a man that knows to speak such, so many, and
so good things as he hath said here should say he hath seen
such impossible fooleries as he hath told us of Montesinos*
Cave? Well, we shall see what will become of it.'

And by this they came to the vent just as it was night, for
which Sancho was glad, because too his master took it to be a
true vent, and not a castle, as he was wont. They were no
sooner entered when Don Quixote asked the venter* for the
man with the lances and halberds, who answered him he was
in the stable looking to his moil. Sancho and the scholar did
the same to their asses, giving Don Quixote's Rozinante the
best manger and room in the stable.

I He describes the right subtle and cruel nature of his damned countrymen
a Center Of the master of the vent.

266

CHAPTER XXV

OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRAYING, AND THE MERRY

ONE OF THE PUPPET-MAN, WITH THE MEMORABLE

SOOTHSAYING OF THE PROPHESYING APE

DON QUIXOTE stood upon thorns till he might hear
I and know the promised wonders of the man that
carried the arms, and went where the venter had
told him, to seek him; where finding him, he said that by all
means he must tell him presently what he had promised him
upon the way. The man answered him, 'The story of the
wonders requires more leisure, and must not be told thus
standing. Good sir, let me make an end of provendering my
beast, and I will tell you things that shall admire you.' 'Let
not that hinder you,' quoth Don Quixote, 'for FU help you';
and so he did, sifting his barley and cleansing the manger, a
humility that obliged the fellow to tell him his tale heartily.
Thus sitting down upon a bench, Don Quixote by him, with
the scholar, page, and Sancho, and the venter, for his com-
plete senate and auditory, he began:

'You shall understand that in a town some four leagues
and an half from this vent it fell out that an alderman there,
by a trick and a wile of a wench, his maid-servant (which
were long to tell how), lost his ass; and, though the said

267

DON QUIXOTE

alderman used all manner of diligence to find him, it was im-
possible. His ass was wanting, as the public voice and fame
goeth, fifteen days, when the alderman that lost him, being
in the market-place, another alderman of the same town told
him, ^'Pay me for my news, gossip, for your ass is forth-
coming.'' ^^ I will willingly, gossip,'' said the other; **but let
me know where he is." ^'This morning," said the second,
'^I saw him upon the mountains without his pack-saddle or
any other furniture, so lean that it was pity to see him. I
would have gotten him before me, and have driven him to you,
but he is so mountainous and wild that when I made towards
him he flew from me, and got into the thickest of the wood.
If you please, we will both return and seek him; let me first
put up this ass at home, and I'll come by and by." ''You
shall do me a great kindness," quoth he, ''and I will repay
you, if need be, in the like kind."

'With all these circumstances, just as I tell you, all that
know the truth relate it. In fine, the two aldermen, afoot
and hand to hand, went to the hills, and, coming to the place
where they thought to find the ass, they missed of him, neither
could they find him for all their seeking round about. See-
ing then there was no appearance of him, the alderman that
had seen him said to the other, "Hark you, gossip, I have a
trick in my head with which we shall find out this beast,
though he be hidden under ground, much more if in the
mountain. Thus it is: I can bray excellent well, and so can
you a little — well, 'tis a match." "A little, gossip!" quoth
the other; "verily, FlI take no odds of anybody, nor of an ass
himself." "We shall see then," said the second alderman;
"for my plot is that you go on one side of the hill, and I on
the other, so that we may compass it round; now and then

268

THE BRA VERS

you shall bray, and so will I, and it cannot be but that your
ass will answer one of us, if he be in the mountain."

^To this the owner of the ass answered, ^*I tell you, gos-
sip, the device is rare, and worthy your great wit." So divid-
ing themselves, according to the agreement, it fell out that
just at one instant both brayed, and each of them cozened
with the other's braying came to look one another, thinking
now there had been news of the ass; and as they met the loser
said, ''Is it possible, gossip, that it was not mine ass that
brayed?" '^ No, 'twas I," said the other. ''Then," replied the
owner, ''gossip, between you and an ass there is no difference
touching your braying; for in my life I never heard a thing
more natural." "These praises and extolling," said the
other, "do more properly belong to you than me; for truly
you may give two to one to the best and skilfullest brayer in
the world; for your sound is lofty, you keep very good time,
and your cadences thick and sudden. To conclude, I yield
myself vanquished, and give you the prize and glory of this
rare ability." "Well," said the owner, "I shall like myself
the better for this hereafter, and shall think I know something,
since I have gotten a quality; for, though I ever thought I
brayed well, yet I never thought I was so excellent at it as
you say." " Let me tell you," said the other, "there be rare
abilities in the world that are lost and ill employed in those
that will not good themselves with them." "Ours," quoth
the owner, "can do us no good but in such businesses as we
have now in hand, and pray God in this they may."

'This said, they divided themselves again, and returned
to their braying, and every foot they were deceived and met,
till they agreed upon a countersign, that, to know it was
themselves and not the ass, they should bray twice together;

271

DON QUIXOTE

so that with this doubling their brays every stitch-whilc they
compassed the hill, the lost ass not answering so much as by
the least sign; but how orald the poor and ill-thriving beast
uiswer, when they found him in the tliicket eaten with
wolves? And his owner seeing him said, "I marvelled he
did not answer; for if he had not been dead he v^ould have
brayed, if he had heard us, or else he had been no ass. But
i' &idi, gossip, since I have heard your ddic&te braying, I
think my pains well bestowed in looking this ass, though 1
have found him dead." "*Tis in a very good hand, gossip,"
said the other; ' "and if the abbot sing well the little monk
comes not behind him."*

*With this, all comfortless and hoarse, home they went,
where they told their friends, neighbours, and acquaintances
what had happened in the search for the ass, the one exag^
gerating the other's cunning in braying, aU which was known
and spread abroad in the neighbouring towns; and the devil,
that always watcheth how he may sow and scatter quarrels
and discord everywhere, raising brabbles in the air, and mak-
ing great chimeras of nothing, made the people of other towns
that when they saw any of ours they should bray, as hitting
us in the teeth with our aldermen's braying. The boys at
length fell to it, which was as if it had fallen into the jaws of all
the devils in hell; so this braying spread itself from one town
to the other, that they which are born in our town are as well
known as the beggar knows his dish; and this unfortunate
scoff hath proceeded so far that many times those that were
scoffed at have gone out armed in a whole squadron, to give
battle to the scoffers, without fear or wit, neither king nor

I 'En btienna mano tsta' : illuding to two thit strive to make one another drink lint.
> The one as very an ass as the other.

THE PUPPET-MASTER

kaiser being able to prevent them. I believe that to-morrow
or next day those of my town will be in field — to wit, the bray-
ers — against the next town, which is two leagues off, one of
them that doth most persecute us; and, because we might be
well provided, I have bought those halberds and lances that
you saw. And these be the wonders that I said I would tell
you of; and, if these be not so, I know not what may.'

And here the poor fellow ended his discourse; and now
there entered at the door of the vent one clad all in his
chamois, in hose and doublet, and called aloud, ^Mine host,
have you any lodging? for here comes the prophesying ape,
and the motion of Melisendra.^ ^ Body of me!' quoth the ven-
ter, ^here is Master Peter; we shall have a brave night of it.'
I had forgot to tell how this Master Peter had his left eye
and half his cheek covered with a patch of green taffeta, a
sign that all that side was sore. So the venter proceeded,
saying, 'You are welcome, Master Peter. Where's the ape
and the motion, that I see 'em not?' *They are not far off,'
quoth the chamois-man; 'only I am come before to know if
you have any lodging.' ' I would make bold with the Duke of
Alva himself,' said the venter, 'rather than Master Peter
should be disappointed. Let your ape and your motion come,
for we have guests here to-night that will pay for seeing that,
and the ape's abilities.' *In good time,' said he of the patch,
'for I will moderate the price, so my charges this night be
paid for; and therefore I will cause the cart where they are to
drive on.' With this he went out of the vent again.

Don Quixote straight asked the venter what Master Peter
that was, and what motion or ape those he brought. To
which the venter answered, 'He is a famous puppet-master,
that this long time hath gone up and down these parts of

273

DON QUIXOTE

Aragon, showing this motion of Melisendra and 'Don Gay-
ferosy one of the best histories that hath been represented
diese many years in this kingdom. Besides, he hath an ape,
the strangest that ever was; for, if you ask him anything, he
marketh what you ask, and gets up upon his master's shoul-
der, and tells him in hts ear, by way of answer, what he was
asked, which Master Peter declares. He tells things to come
as well as things past; and, though he do not always hit upon
the right, yet he seldom errs, and makes us believe the devil
is in him. Twelve-pence for every answer we give, if the ape
do answer, — I mean, if his master answer for him, after he
hath whispered in his ear; so it is thought that Master Peter
is very rich. He is a notable fellow, and, as your Italian saith,
a boon companion, hadi the best life in the world, talks bis
share for six men, and drinks for a dozen, all at his tongue*8
charge, his motion, and his ape's.'

By this Master Peter was returned, and his motion and
ape came in a small carriage; his ape was of a good bigness,
without a tail, and his bum as bare as a felt, but not very ill-
favoured. Don Quixote scarce beheld him when he demanded,
' Master prophesier, what fish do we catch? Tell us what will
become of us, and here is twelvepence,' which he commanded
Sancho to give Master Peter, who answered for the ape and
said, ' Sir, this beast answers not, nor gives any notice of things
to come; of things past he knows something, and likewise a
little of things present.' ' Zwookers!' quoth Sancho, ' I'll not
give a farthing to know what is past; for who can tell that
better than myself? and to pay for what I know is most fool-
ish; but, since you say he knows things present, here's my
twelvepence, and let goodman ape tell me what my wife
Teresa Panza doth, and in what she busies herself.'

THE PROPHESYING APE

Master Peter would not take his money, saying, ' I will
not take your reward beforehand, till the ape hath first done
his duty'; so, giving a clap or two with his right hand on his
left shoulder, at one frisk the ape got up, and, laying his
mouth to his ear, grated his teeth apace; and, having showed
this feat the space of a creed's saying, at another frisk he
leaped to the ground, and instantly Master Peter very hastily
ran and kneeled down before Don Quixote, and embracing
his legs said, 'These legs I embrace as if they were Hercules'
Pillars. O famous reviver of the long-forgotten knight-er-
rantry! O never-sufBciently-extoUed knight, Don Quixote de
la Mancha! Raiser of the faint-hearted, propper of those that
fall, the staff and comfort of all the unfortunate!'

Don Quixote was amazed, Sancho confused, the scholar
in suspense, the page astonished, the braytownsman all in a
gaze, the venter at his wit's end, and all admiring that heard
the puppet-man's speech, who went on saying: 'And thou,
honest Sancho Panza, the best squire to the best knight of
the world, rejoice, for thy wife Teresa is a good housewife,
and at this time she is dressing a pound of flax; by the same
token, she hath a good broken-mouthed pot at her left side
that holds a pretty scantling of wine, with which she easeth
her labour.'

'I believe that very well,' said Sancho, 'for she is a good
soul; and if she were not jealous I would not change her for
the giantess Andandona, that, as my master says, was a wo-
man for the nonce; and my Teresa is one of those that will
not pine herself, though her heirs smart for it.'

'Well, I say now,' quoth Don Quixote, 'he that reads much
and travels much sees much and knows much. This I say,
for who in the world could have persuaded me that apes could

275

DON QUIXOTE

prophesy, which now I have seen with mine own eyes? For
I am the same Don Quixote that this beast speaks o^, although
he have been somewhat too liberal in my praise ; but, how*
soever I am, I give God thanks that He hath made me so re*
lenting and compassionate; always inclined to do good to aU,
and hurt to no man/

^ If I had money,^ said the page, * I would ask master ape
what should befal me in the peregrination I have in hand.^ To
which Master Peter answered (that was now risen from Don
Quixote^s foot), ^ I have told you once that this littiie beast fore*
tells not things to come; for, if he could, 'twere no matter for
your money; for here is Signior Don Quixote present, for
whose sake I would forego all the interest in the world; and to
show my duty to him, and to give him delight, I will set up
my motion, and freely show all the company in the vent some
pastime gratis/ Which the ventner hearing, unmeasurably
glad, pointed him to a place where he might set it up, which
was done in an instant.

Don Quixote liked not the ape's prophesying very welU
holding it to be frivolous that an ape should only tell things
present, and not past or to come. So, whilst Master Peter
was fitting his motion, Don Quixote took Sancho with him
to a corner of the stable, and in private said : * Look thee,
Sancho, I have very well considered of this ape's strange
quality, and find that this Master Peter hath made a secret
express compact with the devil, to infuse this ability into the
ape, that he may get his living by it, and when he is rich he
will give him his soul, which is that that this universal enemy
of mankind pretends. And that which induceth me to this
belief is that the ape answers not to things past, but only pres-
ent, and the devil's knowledge attains to no more; for things

276

THE PROPHESYING APE

to come he knows not, only by conjecture; for God alone can
distinguish the times and moments; and to Him nothing is
past or to come, but all is present. Which being so, it is
most certain that this ape speaks by instinct from the devil,
and I wonder he hath not been accused to the Inquisition, and
examined, and that it hath not been pressed out of him, to
know by what virtue this ape prophesieth; for certainly
neither he nor his ape are astrologers, nor know how to cast
figures, which they call judiciary, so much used in Spain; for
you have no paltry woman nor page nor cobbler that pre-
sumes not to cast a figure, as if it were one of the knaves at
cards upon a table, falsifying that wondrous science with their
ignorant lying. I knew a gentlewoman that asked one of
these figure-flingers if a little foisting-hound of hers should
have any puppies, and, if it had, how many, and of what col-
our the whelps should be. To which my cunning man, after
he had cast his figure, answered that the bitch should have
young, and bring forth three little whelps, the one green, the
other carnation, and the third of a mixed colour, — with this
proviso, that she should take the dog between eleven and
twelve of the clock at noon, or at night, which should be on
the Monday or the Saturday. And the success was that some
two days after the bitch died of a surfeit, and master figure-
raiser was reputed in the town a most perfect judiciary, as all
or the greatest part of such men are.'

' For all that,' said Sancho,' 4 would you would bid Master
Peter ask his ape whether all were true that befel you in Mon-
tesinos' Cave; for I think, under correction, all was cogging
and lying, or at least but a dream.' ^ All might be,' said Don
Quixote; 'yet I will do as thou dost advise me, though I have
one scruple remaining.'

2/7

DON QUIXOTE

Whilst they were thus communing, Master Peter came to
call Don Quixote, and to tell him that the motion was now
op, if he would please to see it, which would give hitn con-
tent. Don (^izote told bim his desire, and wished that his
ape might tell him if certain diings that befel him iti Mon-
tesinoa' Cave were true or but dreams, for himself was un-
certain whether. Master Peter, without answering a word,
fetched his ape, and, patting him before Don Quixote and
Sancho, said, 'Look you, master ape, Signior Don Quixote
would have you tell him whether certain things that hap-
pened to him in Montesinos' Cave were true or false.' And,
making the accustomed sign, the ape whipped upon his left
dioulder, and, seeming to speak to him in his ear, Master
Peter straight interpreted: 'The ape, signior, says that part
of those things are false and part of them true, and this is all
he knows touching this demand; and now his virtue is gone
from him, and, if you will know any more, you must expect
till Friday next, and then he will answer you all you will ask,
for his virtue will not return till then.'

'Law ye there!' quoth Sancho, 'did not I tell you that I
could not believe that all you said of Montesinos' Cave could
hold current?' 'The success hereafter will determine that,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'for time, the discoverer of all things,
brings everything to the sun's light, though it be hidden in
the bosom of the earth. And now let this suffice, and let us
go see the motion, for I believe we shall have some strange
novelty.' 'Some strange one!' quoth Master Peter; 'this mo-
tion of mine hath a thousand strange ones. I tell you, sign-
ior, it is one of the, rarest things to be seen in the world;
"Operibus credite et non verbis," and now to work, for it is
late, and we have much to do, say, and show.'
378

THE TRUDGEMAN BEGINS

Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed, and went where the
motion was set and opened, all full of little wax-lights, that
made it most sightly and glorious. Master Peter straight
clapped himself within it, who was he that was to manage
the artificial puppets, and without stood his boy to interpret
and declare the mysteries of the motion; in his hand he had
a white wand, with which he pointed out the several shapes
that came in and out. Thus, all that were in the vent being
placed, and some standing over against the motion, Don
Quixote, Sancho, the scholar, and the page placed in the best
seats, the trudgeman* began to speak what shall be heard or
seen by him that shall hear or read the next chapter.

I El Trujaman* an interpreter amongst the Turks, but here taken for any in general.

279

CHAPTER XXVI

OF THE DELIGHTFUL PASSAGE OF THE PUPPET-PLAV,
AND OTHER PLEASANT MATTERS

HERE Tyrians and Trojans were all silent — I mean all
the spectators of the motion had their ears hanged
upon the interpreter's mouth, that should declare the
wonders; by and by there was a great sound of kettle-drums
and trumpets, and a volley of great shot within the motion,
280

THE PUPPET-PLAY

which passing away briefly, the boy began to raisehis voice and
to say: ^This true history which is here represented to you is
taken word for word out of the French chronicles and the Span-
ish romaunts, which are in everybody's mouth, and sung by
boys up and down the streets. It treats of the liberty that Sig-
nior Don Gayferos gave to Melisendra his wife, that was im-
prisoned by the Moors in Spain, in the city of Sansuenna,which
was then so called, and now Saragosa; and look you there, how
Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to the song, —

**Now Don Gayferos at tables doth play,
Unmindful of Melisendra away."

And that personage that peeps out there, with a crown on his
head and a sceptre in his hand, is the Emperor Charlemain, the
supposed father of the said Melisendra, who, grieved with the
sloth and neglect of his son-in-law, comes to chide him; and
mark with what vehemency and earnestness he rates him, as
if he meant to give him half a dozen cons with his sceptre; some
authors there be that say he did, and sound ones too. And after
he had told him many things concerning the danger of his rep-
utation, if he did not free his spouse, 'twas said he told him,
*' I have said enough, look to it.'' Look ye, sir, again, how the
emperor turns his back, and in what case he leaves Don Gay-
feros, who, all enraged, flings the tables and the table-men from
him, and hastily calls for his armour, and borrows his cousin-
german Roldan his sword Durindana, who offers him his com-
pany in this difficult enterprise. But the valorous enraged
knight would not accept it, saying that he is sufficient to free
his spouse, though she were put in the deep centre of the earth.
And now he goes in to arm himself for his journey.

^Now turn your eyes to yonder tower that appears, for you
must suppose it is one of the towers of the castle of Saragosa,

281

Don Gayferos rescues his wife

which is now called the AHaferia; and that lady that appears
in the window, clad in a Moorish habit, is the peerless Meli-
sendra, that many atime looks toward France, thinking on Paris
and her spouse, the only comfort inher imprisonment. Behold
also a strange accident now that happens, perhaps never the
282

THE PUPPET-PLAY

like seen. See you not that Moor that comes fair and softly,
with his finger in his mouth, behind Melisendra ? Look what
a smack he gives her in the midst of her lips, and how suddenly
she begins to spit, and to wipe them with her white smock-
sleeves, and how she laments, and for very anguish despiteous-
ly roots up her fair hairs, as if they were to blame for this wick-
edness. Mark you also that grave Moor that stands in that
open gallery; it is Marsilius, King of Sansuenna, who when he
saw the Moor's sauciness, although he were a kinsman, and a
great favourite of his, he commanded him straight to be appre-
hended, and to have two hundred stripes given him, and to be
carried through the chief streets in the city, with minstrels be-
fore and rods of justice behind. And look ye how the sentence
is put in execution before the fault be scarce committed; for
your Moors use not, as we do, any legal proceeding.'

^ Child, child,' cried Don Quixote aloud, ^ on with your story
in a direct line, and fall not into your crooks and your transver-
sals ; for to verify a thing, I tell you, there had need to be a legal
proceeding.' Then Master Peter too said from within, ^ Boy,
fall not you to your flourishes, but do as that gentleman com-
mands you, which is the best course. Sing you your plain-
song, and meddle not with the treble, lest you cause the strings
break.'

4 will, master,' said the boy, and proceeded, saying: ^He
that you see there,' quoth he, *on horseback, clad in a Gascoyne
cloak, is Don Gayferos himself, to whom his wife, now revenged
on the Moor for his boldness, shows herself from the battle-
ments of the castle , taking hi m to be some passenger , with whom
she passed all the discourse mentioned in the romaunt, that says:

** Friend, if towards France you go.
Ask if Gayferos be tliere or no."

283

<

DON QUIXOTE

The rest I omit, for all prolixity is irksome; 'tis sufficient that
you see there how DonGayferos discovers himself, and, by Me-
lisendra's jocund behaviour, we may imagine she knows him,
and the rather because now we see she lets herself down from
a bay-window to ride away behind her good spouse; but, alas!
unhappy creature, one of the skirts of her kirtle hath caught
upon one of the iron bars of the window, and she hovers in the
air without possibility of coming to the ground. But see how
pitiful heavens relieve her in her greatest necessity; for Don
Gayferos comes, and, without any care of her rich kirtle, lays
hold of it, and forcibly brings her down with him, and at one
hoist sets her astride upon his horse's crupper, and commands
her to sit fast, and clap her arms about him, that she fall not;
for Melisendra was not used to that kind of riding. Look you
how the horse by his neighing shows that he is proud with the
burden of his valiant master and fair mistress; look how they
turn their backs to the city and merrily take their way toward
Paris. Peace be with you, O peerless couple of true lovers!
safely may you arrive at your desired country, without fortune's
hindering your prosperous voyage! May your friends and kin-
dred see you enjoy the rest of your years — as many as Nestor's
— peaceably ! '

HereMasterPetercriedoutaloud again, saying/ Plainness,
good boy; do not you soar so high; this affectation is scurvy.'

The interpreter answered nothing, but went on, saying,
* There wanted not some idle spectators that pry into every-
thing, who saw the going-down of Melisendra, and gave Mar-
silius notice of it, who straight commanded to sound an alarm;
and now behold how fast the city even sinks again with the
noise of bells that sound in the high towers of the Mesquits."

' Mesquitas, Moorish churches.

284

^^^^Hr^i>^<^TE: ^^^^1

^^^^^^^Bi- ; 'tis sufficient that ^^^|

^^^^^^^Hr<: 'liniself, and,byMe- ^^H

^^^^^^^^^k. ' ^^^1

^^^^^^^■r <' from ^^H

^^^^^^^B^ J spouse; but, atas! ^^H

^^^^^^^^H^i ^^^1

^^^^^^^H • , .i!iJ she hovers in the ^^H

^^^^^^^^Bl«^ <^ *hu ground. But see how ^^H

^^^^^^^^^^B her ^^iitcst necessity ; for Doa ^^^|

^^^^^^^^■1 m*y c-Are her Icirtle, tajs ^^H

^^^^^^^^^B| Wr tjdwii with him, and ooe ^^^H

^^^^^^^^■l bMi-sc's crupper, and c-'ininands ^^H

^^^^^^^Kkmis him, that »hc oot; ^^H

^^^^^^PVH to that kind of riding. Look you ^^^4

^^^^BsufrUing showK thai he is proud with the

^^^^^ master and fair mistress; took How they |

^Hpt **> (He city and oiorrily take their w^ tuward ^^^|

Bb 1h> with ynu, O peerless couple of true lown*. ^^H

^^^^PF^uETv IT ■

1 country, without fortune's ^^H

^^y hiniU

May your friends and kta- ^^^|

^^- (Ired -

, oara— M many as Nostor's ^^^

— peaceably '.

Here Ma-^tcrPctcrcricd^ lit alouJ a;^'ain,sayin[:.' Puiinn-js?,

pc>i)d buy: dn not you soar ■-'> high: t'lis afTcctati^.n is scurvy.'

Thu interpreter an.swtrcd ncithinj^, but \\ei.l or', savin:'.

■ I !(jre w Hired not some idle s|KL"tators tha; pry into every-

!: : i^'.w' - r.v the g"in^'-down of Mcliser;tiia,and c^avc M;ir-

'■1'^ ; o ol t. who straight commandeil to soiiud an aiarm:

.lelu.ld how fa-: the city even sinks aijain with tiie

■jI!? that sc .! : i)ie high tnwersof the Mcsquits,''

&^„ £i..,^«r,':i^//.,^//y,„„ //,, '/i.^^.r/j

THE PUPPET-PLAY

* There you are out, boy/ said Don Quixote, ^and Master
Peter is very improper in his bells; for amongst Moors you have
no bells, but kettledrums, and a kind of shaulms that be like our
waits; sothatyour sounding of bells in Sansuenna is a most idle
foppery.' * Stand not upon trifles, Signior Don Quixote,' said
Master Peter, * and so strictly upon everything, for we shall not
know how to please you. Have you not a thousand comedies,
ordinarily represented, as full of incongruities and absurdities,
and yet they run their career happily, and are heard not only
with applause but great admiration also?' *0n, boy, say on;
and so I fill my purse let there be as many improprieties as motes
in the sun.' * You are in the right,' quoth Don Quixote; and
the boy proceeded.

*Look what a company of gallant knights go out of the city
in pursuit of the Catholic lovers: how many trumpets sound,
how many shaulms play, how many drums and kettles make a
noise! I fear me they will overtake them, and bring them back
both bound to the same horse's tail, which would be a horrible
spectacle.^

Don Quixote seeing and hearing such a deal of Moor ism and
such a coil, bethought fit to succour those that fled; so, standing
up, with a loud voice he cried out, ' I will never consent, while
I live, that in my presence such an outrage as this be offered to
so valiant and to so amorous a bold knight as Don Gayferos.
Stay, you base scoundrels, do not ye follow or persecute him;
if you do, you must first wage war with me.' So doing and
speaking, he unsheathed his sword, and at one frisk he got to
the motion, and with an unseen and posting fury he began to
rain strokes upon the puppetish Moorism, overthrowing some
and beheading others, maiming this and cutting in pieces that;
and, amongst many other blows, he fetched one so downright

287

Em^nt Ouriemain and King Manffin n

that, had not Master Peter tumbled and squatted down^he had

clipped his mazard as easily as if it had been made of march-
pane. Master Peter cried out, saying, * Hold, Signior Don
Quixote, hold; and know that these you hurl down, destroy, and
kill are not real Moors, but shapes made of pasteboard. Look
you, look ye now, wretch that I am, he spoils all and undoes me.'
But for all this Don Quixote still multiplied his slashes,
doubling and redoubling his blows as thick as hops; and, in a
word, in less than two credos, he cast down the whole motion,
all the tackling first cut to fitters, and all the puppets. King
Marsilius was sore wounded, and the Emperor Charlemain
his head and crown were parted in two places; the senate and
auditors were all in a hurry; and the ape gat up to the top of
288

THE PUPPET-PLAY

the house, and so out at the window. The scholar was
frighted; the page clean dastarded; and even Sancho himself
was in a terrible perplexity ^or, as he sware after the storm was
past, he never saw his master so outrageous.

The general ruin of the motion thus performed, Don
Quixote began to be somewhat pacified, and said, ^ Now would
I have all those here at this instant before me, that believe not
how profitable knights-errant are to the world; and had not I
been now present, what, I marvel, would have become of Si-
gnior Don Gayferos and the fair Melisendra ? I warrant ere this
those dogs would have overtaken and showed them some foul
play. When all is done, long live knight-errantry above all
things living in the world.'

' Long live it, on God's name! ' said Master Peter again with
a pitiful voice; ' and may I die, since I live to be so unhappy as
to say with King Don Rodrigo," Yesterday I was lord of all
Spain, but to-day have not a battlement lean call mine.''* 'Tis
not yet half an hour, scarce half a minute, that I was master of
kings and emperors; had my stables, coffers, and bags full of
horses and treasure ; but now I am desolate , dejected , and poor;
and, to add more affliction, without my ape, that before I can
catch him again I am like to sweat for it; and all through the
unconsiderate furies of this sir knight, who is said to protect
the fatherless, to rectify wrongs, and to do other charitable
works; but to me only this his generous intention hath been
defective, I thank God for it. In fine, it could be none but the
Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance that discountenanced
me and mine.'

Sancho grew compassionate to hear Master Peter's lamen-

* Don Rodrigo was the last king of the Goths that reigned in Spain conquered by the
Moors.

289

DON QUIXOTE

tation^ and said, 'Weep not, nor grieve, Master Peter, for thou
breakest my heart; and let me tell thee that my master Don
Quixote is so scrupulous and Catholic a. Christian that, if he
fall into ibe reckoning that he have done thee any wrong, he
knows how* and will satisfy it with much advantage.' ' If,'
said Master Peter, 'Signior Don Quixote would but pay me
for some part of the pieces that he hath spoiled, I should be
contented,andhi8worshipmig^tnotbe troubled in conscience;
for he that keeps that that is another man's, against the owner's
will, and restores it not, can hardly be saved.'

'That's true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but hitherto, Master
Peter, I know notwhedier I ha^ detained aught of yours.'
*No? not?' said Master Peter; *why, these poor relics that lie
upon the hard and barren earth, whoscattered and annihilated
them but the invincible force of that powerful arm ? And whose
were those bodies, but mine? And with whom did 1 maintain
mjrself, but with ^em?* 'Well, I now,' said Don Quixote,
*Terily believe what I have done often, that the enchanters
that persecute me do nothing but ptit shapes really as they are
before mine eyes, and by and by truck and change them at their
pleasure. Verily, my masters, you that hear me, I tell you,
all that here passed seemed to me to be really so, and imme-
diately; that that Melisendra was Melisendra; Don Gayferos,
Don Gayferos; and Marsilius, Marsilius; and Charlemain,
Charlemain; and this was it that stirred up my choler; and, to
accomplish my profession of knight-errant, my meaning was
to succour those that fled; and to this good purpose I did all
that you have seen; which if it fell out unluckily, 'twas no fault
of mine, but of my wicked persecutors. Yet for all thiserror,
though it proceeded from no malice of mine, I myself will con-
demn myself in the charge; let Master Peter see what he will
290

THE PUPPET-PLAY

have for the spoiled pieces, and I will pay it all in present coin
of Castile.'

Master Peter made him a low leg, saying, * I could expect
no less from the unheard-of Christianity of the most valorous
Don Quixote de la Mancha, the true succourer and bulwark of
all those that be in need and necessity, or wandering vaga-
munds; and now let the venter and the grand Sancho be arbi-
trators and price-setters between your worship and me, and let
them say what every torn piece was worth.' The venter and
Sancho both agreed; and by and by Master Peter reached up
Marsilius, King of Saragosa, headless, and said, * You see how
impossible it is for this prince to return to his first being, and
therefore, saving your better judgments, I think fit to have for
him two shillings and threepence.' 'On then,' quoth Don
Quixote. ' Then for this,' quoth Master Peter, * that is parted
from head to foot,' taking the Emperor Charlemain up, *I
think two shillings sevenpence halfpenny is little enough.'
*Not very little,' quoth Sancho. * Nor much,' said the venter;
*but moderate the bargain, and let him have half-a-crown.'
* Let him have his full asking,' said Don Quixote,* for for such
a mishap as this we'll ne'er stand upon three halfpence more
or less. And make an end quickly, Master Peter, for it is near
supper-time, and I have certain suspicions that I shall eat.'
' For this puppet,' said Master Peter, * without a nose, and an
eye wanting, of the fair Melisendra, I ask but in justice four-
teen pence halfpenny.' 'Nay, the devil's in it,' said Don
Quixote, * if Melisendra be not now in France, or upon the
borders at least, with her husband; for the horse they rode on,
to my seeming, rather flew than ran; and therefore sell not
me a cat for a coney, presenting me here Melisendra noseless,
when she, if the time require it, is wantonly solacing with her

291

DON QUIXOTE

husband in France. God give each man his own, Master
Peter; let us have plain dealing, and so proceed/ Master
Peter, that saw Don Quixote in a wrong vein, and that he re-
turned to his old theme, thought yet he should not escape him,
and so replied, * Indeed, this should not be Melisendra, now I
think on't, but some one of the damsels that served her, so that
fivepence for her will content me/

Thus he went on pricing of other torn puppets, which the
arbitrating judges moderated to the satisfaction of both parties,
and the whole prices of all were twenty-one shillings and
elevenpence, which when Sancho had disbursed, Master Peter
demanded over and above twelvepence for his labour, to look
the ape. *Give it him, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, *not to
catch his ape, but a monkey; * and I would give five pound for
a reward to anybody that would certainly tell me that the Lady
Melisendra and Don Gayferos were safely arrived in France,
amongst their own people.' * None can better tell than my
ape,' said Master Peter, ^though the devil himself will scarce
catch him; yet I imagine, making much of him, and hunger,
will force him to seek me to-night, and by morning we shall
come together.'

Well, to conclude; the storm of the motion passed, and all
supped merrily, and like good fellows, at Don Quixote's
charge, who was liberal in extremity. Before day, the fellow
with the lances and halberds was gone, and somewhat after
the scholar and the page came to take leave of Don Quixote,
the one to return homeward and the other to prosecute his in-

m

tended voyage; and for a relief Don Quixote gave him six shil-
lings.

Master Peter would have no more to do with him, for he

' As we say. to catch a fox.

202

THE PUPPET-PLAY

knew him too well. So he got up before the sun, and gather-
ing the relics of the motion together, and his ape, he betook
him to his adventures. The venter, that knew not Don
Quixote, wondered as much at his liberality as his madness.
To conclude, Sancho paid him honestly, by his master^s orders;
and taking leave, about eight of the clock they left the vent,
and went on their way, where we must leave them; for so it is
fit, that we may come to other matters pertaining to the true
declaration of this famous history.

293

CHAPTER XXVII

WHO MASTER PETER AND HIS APE WERE, WITH THE ILL

SUCCESS THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE ADVEN-
TURE OF THE BRAYING, WHICH ENDED
NOT SO WELL AS HE WOULD,
OR THOUGHT FOR

CID HAMET, the chronicler of this famous history,
begins this chapter with these words : ' I swear like
a Catholic Christian.' To which the translator says
that Cid his swearing like a Catholic Christian, he being a
Moor, as undoubtedly he was, was no otherwise to be under-
stood than that, as the Catholic Christian, when he swears,
doth or ought to swear truth, so did he, as if he had sworn like
294

MASTER PETER

a Catholic Christian in what he meant to write of Don Quixote,
especially in recounting who Master Peter and the prophesy-
ing ape were, that made all the country astonished at his fore-
telling things. He says, then, that he who hath read the
former part of this history will have well remembered that
same Gines de Passamonte whom Don Quixote, amongst other
galley-slaves, freed in Sierra Morena, a benefit for which
afterward he had small thanks and worse payment from that
wicked and ungrateful rout.

This Gines de Passamonte, whom Don Quixote called
Ginesillo de Parapilla, was he that stole Sancho's Dapple,
which, because neither the manner nor the time were put in
the First Part, made many attribute the fault of the impression
to the author's weakness of memory. But true it is that Gines
stole him as Sancho slept upon his back, using the same trick
and device of Brunelo's, whenas Sacripante being upon the
siege of Albraca, he stole his horse from under his legs; and
after Sancho recovered him again as was showed.

This Gines, fearful of being found by the justices that sought
after him, to punish him for his infinite villanies and faults,
that were so many and so great that himself made a great vol-
ume of them, determined to get him into the kingdom of
Aragon,and so covering his left eye, to apply himself to the
office of a puppet-man; for this and juggling he was excellent
at. It fell out so that he bought his ape of certain captive
Christians that came out of Barbary, whom he had instructed
that upon making a certain sign he should leap upon his shoul-
der, and should mumble, or seem to do so at least, something
in his ear. This done, before he would enter into any town
with his motion or ape, he informed himself in the nearest
town, or where he best could, what particulars had happened

295

DON QUIXOTE

in such a place or to sudi persons, and, bearing all well in
mind, the first thing he did was to show his motion, which was
sometimes of one story, otherwhiles of another; batall merry,
delightful, and familiarly known. The sight being finished,
he propounded the rarities of his ape, telling the people that
he could declare unto them all thiogs past and present; but in
things to come he had no skill. For an answer to each ques-
tion he demanded a shilling; but to some he did it cheaper,
according as he perceived the demanders in case to pay him.
And sometimes he came to such places as he knew what had
happened to die inhabitants, who, aldiough they would de-
mand nothing, because diey would not pay him, yet he would
still make signs to the ape, and tell them the' beast had told
him this or that, which fiell out just by what he had before
heard, and with this he got an unspeakable name, and all men
flocked about him; and at odi^r times, as he was very cunning
he would reply so that the answer fell out very fit to the ques-
tions; and, since nobody went about to sift or to press hitn
how his ape did prophesy, he gulled everyone and filled his
pouch. As soon as ever he came into the vent he knew Don
Quixote and Sancho,and all that were there; but it had cost
him dear if Don Quixote had let his hand fall somewhat lower
when he cut off King Marsilius his head and destroyed all his
chivalry, as was related in the antecedent chapter. And this
is all that may be said of Master Peter and his ape.

And, returning to Don Quixote de la Mancha, I say that
after he was gone out of the vent he determined first of all to
see the banks of the river Heber, and all round about, before he
went to the city of Saragosa, since between that and the jousts
there he had time enough for all. Hereupon he went on his
way, which he passed two days without lighting on anything
396

Master Peter and his ape

worthwriting, till the third day, going uparidgeway, he heard
a sound of drums, trumpets, and guns. At first he thought
some regiment of soldiers passed by that way; so to see them
he spurred Rozinante, and got up the ridge, and when he was
at the top he saw, as he guessed, at thefoot of it, near upon two
297

DON QUIXOTE

hundred men, armed with di6fereiit sorts of arms^to wit, spears,
crossbovra, partisans, halberds and pikes, and some guns, and
many targets. He came down from the high ground, and
drew near to die squadron, insomuch diat he might distinctly
perceive theirbanners, judged of dietr colours, and noted their
impresses, and especiallyone, which was on astandard or shred
of white satin, where was lirely painted a little ass, like one of
your Sardinian asses, his head lifted up, his mouth open, and
his tongue out, in act and posture just as he were braying; about
him were these two verses written in £air letters :
,* *Twu not for nought that dsy

The one and th' other judge did bnj.*

By diis device Don Quixote collected that those people be-
longed to the braying town, and so he told Sancho, declaring
likewise what was written in the standard. He told him also
that he that told them the story was in the wrong to say they
were two aldermen that brayed, for by the verses of thestand-
ard they were two judges. To vriiidi Sandio answered, ' Sir,
diat breaks no square ; for it may very well be that the alder-
men that then brayed might come in time to be judges of the
town; so they may have been called by both titles. Howso-
ever, 'tis not material to the truth of the story whether the
brayers were aldermenor judges, one for another be they who
they would ; and a judge is even as likely to bray as an alder-
man.'

To conclude, they perceived and knew that the town that
was mocked went out to skirmish with another that had too
much abused them, and more than was fitting for good neigh-
bours. Don Quixote went towards them, to Sancho's no
small grief, who was no friend to those enterprises. Those of
the squadron hemmed him in, taking him to be some one of

GOOD ADVICE

their side. Don Quixote, lifting up his visor, with a pleasant
countenance and courage, came toward the standard of the ass,
and there all the chiefest of the army gathered about him to
behold him, falling into the same admiration as all else did the
first time they had seen him. Don Quixote, that saw them
attentively look on him, and no man offering to speak to him,
or ask him aught, taking hold on their silence, and breaking
his own, he raised his voice and said, * Honest friends, I desire
you with all earnestness that you interrupt not the discourse
that I shall make to you, till you shall see that I either distaste
or weary you; which if it be so, at the least sign you shall make,
I will seal up my looks and clap a gag on my tongue.' All of
them bade him speak what he would, for they would hear him
willingly.

Don Quixote, having this licence, went on, saying, *I,my
friends, am a knight-errant, whose exercise is arms, whose
profession to favour those that need favour and to help the dis-
tressed. I have long known of your misfortune, and the cause
that every while moves you to take arms to be revenged on
your enemies. And having, not once but many times, pon-
dered your business in my understanding, I find, according to
the laws of duel, that you are deceived to think yourselves
affronted; for no particular person can aff^ront a whole town,
except it be in defying them for traitors in general, because he
knows not who in particular committed the treason for which
he defied all the town. We have an example of this in Don
Diego Ordonnez de Lara, who defied the whole town of Za-
mora, because he was ignorant that only Velido de Olfos com-
mitted the treason in killing his king; so he defied them all,
and the revenge and answer concerned them all; though, how-
soever, Don Diego was somewhat too hasty and too forward,

299

DON QUIXOTE

for it was needless for him to have defied the dead, or the
waters, or the com, or the children unborn, with many other
triflesthere mentioned; but let it go,for when choler overflows
die tongue hath neither father, governor, or guide that may
correct it. This beingso, then, that one particular person can-
not af&ont a kingdom, province, city, commonwealth, or town
only, it is manifest that the revenge of defiance for such as
affront is needless, since it is none ; for it were a goodly mat-
ter sure that those of the town of ReIo:ra should every foot
go out to kill those that abuse diem so ; or that your Cazoteros,
Verettgeneros,VaUenatos,Xanoneros,' or others of these kinds
of nicknames that are common in every boy's mouth, and the
ordinary sort of people — 'twere very good, I say, that all these
femous towns should be ashamed, and take revenge, and run
with dietr swords continually drawn like sackbuts, for every
slender quarrel. No, no, God forbid! Men of wisdom and
well-governed commonwealths ought to take arms for four
diings, and so to endanger their persons, lives, and estatra:
first, to defend the Catholic faith; secondly, dieir lives, which
is according to divine and natural law; thirdly, to defend their
honour, family, and estates; fourthly, to serve their prince in
a lawful war; and, if we will, we may add a fifth (that may
serve for a second), to defend their country. To these five
capital causes may be joined many others, just and reasonable,
that may oblige men to take arms; but to take them for trifles,
and things that are rather fit for laughter and pastime than for
any aff'ront, it seems that he who takes them wants his judg-
ment. Besides, to take an unjust revenge (indeed nothing can
be just by way of revenge) is directly against God's law which

' Several nicknames given to towns In Spain, upon long tradition, and too tedious to be
put in a margent.

3oo s

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GOOD ADVICE

we profess, in which we are commanded to do well to our ene-
mies, and good to those that hate us — a commandment that,
though it seem difficult to fulfil, yet it is not only to those that
know less of God than the world, and more of the flesh than the
Spirit; for Jesus Christ, true God and man, who never lied,
neither could nor can, being our Law-giver, said that His yoke
was sweet and His burden light; so He would command us
nothing that should be impossible for us to fulfil. So that, my
masters, you are tied both by laws divine and human to be
pacified.'

*The devil take me,' thought Sancho to himself at this in-
stant, * if this master of mine be not a divine; or, if not, as like
one as one egg is to another.'

Don Quixote took breath a while, and, seeing them still at-
tentive, had proceeded in his discourse, but that Sancho's con-
ceitedness came betwixt him and home, who, seeing his mas-
ter pause, took his turn, saying : * My master, Don Quixote de
la Mancha, sometimes called the Knight of the Sorrowful
Countenance, and now the Knight of the Lions, is a very judi-
cious gentleman, speaks Latin and his mother tongue as well
as a Bachelor of Arts, and in all he handleth or adviseth pro-
ceeds like a man of arms, and hath all the laws and statutes of
that you call Duel ad unguent; therefore there is no more to be
done but to govern yourselves according to his direction, and
let me bear the blame if you do amiss. Besides, as you are
now told, 'tis a folly to be ashamed to hear one bray; for I re-
member when I was a boy I could have brayed at any time I
listed, without anybody's hindrance, which I did so truly and
cunningly that when I brayed all the asses in the town would
answer me; and for all this I was held to be the son of honest
parents ; and, though for this rare quality I was envied by more

3o3

DON QUIXOTE

dian four ofthe proudest ofmy parish, I cared not two straws;
and, diat you may know I say true, do but stay and hearken ;
for this science is like swimming} once known never forgotten .*
So, clapping his hand to his nose, he began to bray so strongly
that the valleys near-hand resounded again. But one of them
tiiat stood nearest him, thinking he had floated them, lifted up
agoodbathehadinhishandjandgavehim such a blow that
he tumbled him to the ground.

Don Quixote, that sa,w Sancho so evil entreated, set upon
him that did it, with his lance in his hand; but so many came
betwixt that it was not possible for him to be revenged ; rather
seeing a doud of stones coming towards himself, and that a
Aousand bent cross-bows began to Uuvaten him, and no less
quantity of guns, turning Rozinante^s reins, as fast as he could
gallop he got &om aipong them,recommendinghimseIf hearti-
ly to God to free him ftvm that danger, and fearing every foot
lest some bullet should enter him bdiind,and come out at his
breast; so he still went fetching his breath, to see if it failed
him. But they of the squadron were satined when they saw
him fly, and so shot not at him. Sancho they set upon his ass,
scarce yet come to himself, and let him go after his master;
not that he could tell how to guide him, but Dapple followed
Rozinante's steps, without whom he was nobody.

Don Quixote being now a pretty way off, looked back, and
saw that Sancho was coming, and marked that nobody fol-
lowed him. Those of the squadron were there till dark night,
and, because their enemies came not to battle with them, they
returned home to their town, full of mirth and jollity; and if
they had known the ancient custom of the Grecians they would
have raised a trophy in that place.

OF THINGS THAT BENENGELI RELATES, WHICH HE

THAT READS SHALL KNOW, IF HE READ THEM

WITH ATTENTION

WHEN the valiant man turns his back the advantage
over him is manifest, and it is the part of wise
men to reserve themselves to better occasions:
this truth was verified in Don Quixote, who, giving way to the
fury of the people and to the ill intentions of that angry squad-
ron, took his heels, and without remembering Sancho,or the
3o5

DON QUIXOTE

danger he left him in, got himself so far as he might seem to
be safe. Sancho followed, laid athwart upon his ass, as hath
been said; at last he overtook him, being now come to himself;
and, coming near,he fell off his Dapple at Rozinante's feet, all
sorrowful, bruised and beaten. Don Quixote alighted to search
his wounds; but, finding him whole from top to toe, very an-
grily he said, 'You must bray, with a plague to you! and
where have you found that 'tis good naming the halter in the
hanged man's house? To your braying-music what counter-
point could you expect but bat-blows ? And, Sancho, you may
give God thanks that, since they blessed you with a cudgel,
they had not made the per signum crucis on you with a scimi-
tar.' *I know not what to answer,' quoth Sancho, 'for me-
thinks I speak at my back. Pray let's be gone from hence,
and I'll no more braying; yet I cannot but say that your
knights-errant can fly and leave their faithful squires to be
bruised like privet by their enemies.' 'To retire is not to fly,'
said Don Quixote, 'for know, Sancho, that valour that is not
founded upon the basis of wisdom is styled temerity, and the
rash man's actions are rather attributed to good fortune than
courage. So that I confess I retired, but fled not, and in this
haveimitated many valiant men, that have reserved themselves
for better times; and histories are full of these, which, because
now they would be tedious to me and unprofitable to thee, I
relate them not at present.'

By this time Sancho, with Don Quixote's help, got to horse,
and Don Quixote mounted Rozinante,and by little and little
they had gotten intoalittle elm grove, some quarterofaleague
off". Now and then Sancho would fetch a most deep heigh-ho
and dolorous sighs. And,Don Quixote demanding the reason
of his pitiful complaints, hesatd that from the point of his back-
3o6

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SANCHO REBELS

bone to the top of his crown he was so sore that he knew not
what to do. * The cause of that pain, undoubtedly/ quoth Don
Quixote, *is that, as the cudgel with which they banged thee
was long and slender, it lighted upon those parts of thy back
all along that grieve thee ; and if it had been thicker it had
grieved thee more/ * Truly,' quoth Sancho, *you have re-
solved me of a great doubt, and in most delicate terms declared
it to me. Body of me ! was the cause of my grief so concealed
that you must needs tell me that all of me was sore where the
cudgel lighted ? If my ankles did pain me, I warrant you
would riddle the cause of it; but 'tis poor riddling to tell that
my bruising grieves me. Tfaith, i'faith, master mine, other
men's ills are slightly regarded ; and every day I discover land,
and see how little I can expect from your service; for if at this
time you suffered me to be dry-beaten, we shall come a hun-
dred and a hundred times to the blanket-tossing you wot of and
other childish tricks, which, if they now lighted on my shoul-
ders, they will after come out at mine eyes. It were a great
deal better for me, but that I am a beast, and shall never do
aught well while I live, — it were a great deal better, I say again,
for me to get me home to my wife and children, to maintain
and bring them up with that little God hath given me, and not
to follow you up and down these byways, drinking ill and eat-
ing worse. And for your bed, good honest squire, even count
me out seven foot of good earth; and, if you will have any more,
take as many more ; for you may feed at pleasure, stretch your-
self at your ease. I would the first that made stitch in knight-
errantry were burned or beaten to powder, or at least he that
first would be squire to such fools as all your knights- errant
in former times have been; of the present I say nothing, for,
yourself being one, I respect them, and because I know that

309

p

DON QUIXOTE

you know an ace more than the devil in all you speak and
think.'

' I durst venture agood wager with thee, Sancho,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'that now thou talkest and nobody controls thee,
thou feelest no pain in all thy body. Talk on, child mine, all
that is in thy mind, or comes to thy mouth, for, so thou be'st
not grieved, I will be pleased with the distaste that thy imper-
tinencies might give me. And, if you desire so much to be at
homewith your wife and children, God forbid I should gainsay
it; you have money of mine, and see how long 'tis since our
third sally from home, and how much is due to you for every
month, and pay yourself,'

'When I served,' quoth Sancho, 'Tome Carrasco, father to
the Bachelor Carrasco, whom you know well, I had two ducats
a month besides my victuals: of you I know not how much I
shall have, though I am sure it is a greater toil to be a squire
to a knight-errant than to serve a rich husbandman; for, in-
deed, we that serve husbandmen, though we labour never so
much in the daytime, if the worst come to the worst, at night
we sup with the pottagc-pot, and lie in a bed, which I have not
done ever since I served you, except it were that short time we
were at Don Diego de Miranda's house, and after when I had
the cheer of the skimmings of Camacho's pots, and when I ate
and drunk and slept at Basilius his house; all the rest hath been
upon the cold ground, to the open air, and subject, as you would
say, to the inclemencies of the heavens, only living upon bits
of cheese and scraps of bread, and drinking water, sometimes
of brooks, sometimes of springs, which we met withal by the
ways we went.'

' I confess, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, ' that all thou sayst
may be true; how much more thinkest thou should Igive thee
3jo

SANG HO REPROVED

than Tome Carrasco ?' * You shall please me,' quoth Sancho,
*with twelvepence more a month, and that concerning my
wages for my service; but touching your word and promise
you gave me, that I should have the government of an island,
it were fit you added the t'other three shillings, which in all
make up fifteen.' *It is very well,' said Don Quixote, *and,
according to the wages that you have allotted unto yourself,
it is now twenty-five days since our last sally. Reckon, Sancho,
so much for so much, and see how much is due to you, and pay
yourself, as I have bidden you.' * Body of me! ' said Sancho,
*you are clean out of the reckoning; for, touching the promise
of governing the island, you must reckon from the time you
promised till this present.' * Why, how long is it,' quoth he,
* since I promised it?' * If I be not forgetful,' said Sancho,* it
is now some twenty years wanting two or three days.'

Don Quixote gave himself a good clap on the forehead, and
began to'iaugh heartily,saying, * Why, my being about Sierra
Morena and our whole travels were in less than two months,
and dost thou say it was twenty years since I promised thee the
island ? I am now of opinion that thou wouldst have all the
money thou hast of mine consumed in paying thee wages;
which if it be so, and that thou art so minded, from hence-
forward take it, much good may it do thee ; for, so I may not be
troubled with such a squire, I shall be glad to be poor and with-
out a farthing. But tell me, thou prevaricator of the squirely
laws of knight-errantry, where hast thou ever seen or read of
any squire belonging to knight-errant that hath capitulated
with his master to give him thus much or so much ? Launch,
launch, thou base lewd fellow, thou hobgoblin — launch, I say,
into the mare magnum of their histories; and, if thou find that
any squire have said or so much as imagined what thou hast

3ii

DON QUIXOTE

Said, I will give thee leave to brand my forehead, and, to boot,
to seal me with four tucks in the mouth." Turn thy reins or
thine ass's halter, and get thee to thine house; for thou shalt
not go a step further with me. O ill-given bread, and ill-
placed promises ! O man, more beast than man ! Now when
I thought to have put thee into a fortune, and such a one that,
in spite of thy wife, thou shouldst have been styled my lord,
thou leavest me; now dost thou go when I had a purpose to
have made thee lord of the best island in the world. Well,
well, as thou thyself hath said many times, " The honey is not
for the ass's mouth." An ass thou art, an ass thou wilt be, and
an ass thou shalt die; and till then wilt thou remain so, before
thou fallest into the reckoning that thou art a beast.'

Sancho beheld Don Quixote earnestly all the while he thus
rated him, and was so moved that the tears stood in his eyes,
and with a dolorous low voice he said, ' Master mine, 1 confess
that to be altogether an ass I want nothing but a tail; if you
will put one on me, I will be contented, and will serve you like
an ass all days of my life. Pardon me, sir, and pity my youth,
and consider my folly; for, if I speak much, it proceeds rather
out of simplicity than knavery. "Who errs and mends, to God
Himself commends.'" *I would besorry,little Sancho,' quoth
Don Quixote, ' but that thou shouldest mingle some by-pretty
proverb in thy dialogue. Well, I'll pardon thee for this once,
upon condition hereafter thou mend, and show not thyself so
covetous, but that thou rouse up thy spirits, and encourage
thyself with hope of the accomplishment of my promise; for
better late than not at all.' Sancho answered him he would,
though it were to make a virtue of necessity.

■ A trick to give a tuck with the thumb upon one's lips, as freshmen are used in a uni-

3l2

REPOSE

Hereupon they put into the elm-grove, and Don Quixote
got to the foot of an elm, and Sancho to the foot of a beech; for
these kind of trees and such-like have always feet, butno hands.
Sancho had an ill night on it; for his bat-blow made him more
sensible in the cold. Don Quixote fell into his usual imagina-
tions ; yet they both slept, and by day-peep they were on their
way, searching after the famous banks of Heber, where they
happened upon what shall be told in the ensuing chapter.

3i3

OF THE FAMOU

DON QUIXOTE and Sancho,by theircomputation,two
I days after they were out of the elm-grove, came to
the river Heber, whose sight was very delightsome
to Don Quixote; for first he contemplated on the amenity of
those banks, the clearness of the water, the gentle current and
the abundancy of the liquid crystal, whose pleasing sight
brought a thousand amorous thoughts into his head: espe-
cially he fell to think what he had seen in Montesinos' Cave;
for, though Master Peter's ape had told him that part of it
3.4

THE ENCHANTED BARK

was true and part false, he leaned more to the truth than to
the other, contrary to Sancho, who held all as false as false-
hood itself.

As they were thus going on, Don Quixote might see a lit-
tle boat without oars or any other kind of tackling, which was
tied by the brink of the river to a tree's stump on the bank.
Don Quixote looked round about him, but could see nobody;
so, without more ado, he alighted from Rozinante, and com-
manded Sancho to do the like from Dapple, and that he should
tie both the beasts very well to the root of an elm or willow
there. Sancho demanded of him the cause of that sudden
lighting and of that tying. Don Quixote made answer, * Know,
Sancho, that this boat thou seest directly, for it can be noth-
ing else, calls and invites me to go and enter into it, to give
aid to some knight, or other personage of rank and note, that
is in distress; for this is the style of books of knighthood and
of enchanters that are there intermingled, that when any
knight is in some danger that he cannot be freed from it but
by the hand of some other knight, although the one be distant
from the other two or three thousand leagues or more, they
either snatch him into a cloud, or provide him a boat to enter
in, and, in the twinkling of an eye, either carry him through
the air, or through the sea, as they list, and where his assist-
ance is needful. So that, Sancho, this boat is put here to the
same effect; and this is as clear as day. And, before we go,
tie Dapple and Rozinante together, and let's on in God's name,
for I will not fail to embark myself, though barefoot friars
should entreat me.' * Well, seeing 'tis so,' said Sancho, *and
that you will every foot run into these — I know not what I
shall call them — fopperies, there's no way but to obey and lay
down the neck; according to the proverb, '^ Do as thy master

3i5

DON QUIXOTE

commands thee, and sit down at table with him." But, for
all that, for discharge of my conscience, let me tell you that
methinks that is no enchanted boat, but one that belongs to
some fishermen of the river, for here the bestsabogas in the
world are taken.'

This he spoke whilst he was tying his beasts, leaving them
to the protection and defence of enchanters, which grieved
him to the soul. Don Quixote bade him he should not be
troubled for the leaving those beasts ; for he that should carry
them through such longinque ways and regions would also
look to the other. 'I understand not your lognlck,' quoth
Sancho, 'neither have I heard such a word in all the days of
my life.' 'Longinque,' said Don Quixote, 'that is, far, remote.
And no marvel thou understandest not that word, for thou art
not bound to the understanding of Latin, though ye have some
that presume to know when they are ignorant.' ' Now they
are bound,' said Sancho, ' what shall we do next ? ' ' What ? '
said Don Quixote ; ' bless ourselves and weigh anchor ; I mean
let us embark ourselves, and cut the rope by which this boat
is tied.'

So leaping into it, and Sancho following him, he cut the
cord, and the boat fair and softly fell off from the bank; and
when Sancho saw himself about a two rods' length within the
river he began to tremble, fearing his perdition; but nothing
so much troubled him as to hear Dapple bray, and to see that
Rozinante struggled to unloose himself; and he told his mas-
ter, 'Dapple brays and condoles for our absence, Rozinante
strives to be at liberty to throw himself after us. O most dear
friends, remain you there in safety, and may the madness that
severs us from you, converted into repentance, bring us back
to your presence.'

3i6

THE ENCHANTED BARK

And with that he began to weep so bitterly that Don
Quixote, all moody and choleric, began to cry out, *What
makes thee fear, thou cowardly imp ? What criest thou for,
thou heart of curds ? Who persecutes thee ? Who baits thee,
thou soul of a milksop ? Or what wantest thou in the midst
of all abundance ? Art thou happily to go barefoot over the
Riphaean Mountains? Rather upon a seat like an archduke,
through the calm current of this delightful river, from whence
we shall very quickly pass into the main sea; but hitherto we
have gone and sailed some seven or eight hundred leagues,
and if I had an astrolabe here, to take the height of the pole, I
could tell thee how far we have gone, though either my knowl-
edge is small, or we have now, or shall quickly pass the equi-
noctial line, which divides and cuts the two contraposed poles
in equal distance.' * And when you come to this line you speak
of, how far shall we have gone?' *A great way,' answered
Don Quixote; *for of three hundred and sixty degrees, which
the whole globe containeth of land and water, according to
Ptolemy's computation, who was the greatest cosmographer
known, we shall have gone the half, when we come to the line
I have told you of.' * Verily,' quoth Sancho, * you have brought
me a pretty witness to confirm your saying, To-ly-my and
Comtation,* and I know not what.'

Don Quixote laughed at Sancho 's interpretation he had
given to the name, and to the computation and account of the
cosmographer Ptolemeus, and said to him, * You shall under-
stand, Sancho, that when the Spaniards, and those that em-
bark themselves at Cadiz to go to the East Indies, one of the
greatest signs they have to know whether they have passed
the equinoctial is that all men that are in the ship, their lice

I Mistakes of the words, Ptolemeo andComputo, for so it is in the Spanish.

3i7

v

THE ENCHANTED BARK

By this they discovered two great water-mills in the midst
of the river: and Don Quixote, as soon as he saw them, cried
aloud to Sancho, *Seest thou, friend, that city, castle, or for-
tress, that shows itself, where some knight is sure oppressed,
or some queen or princess in ill plight, for whose succour I am
brought hither?' 'What the devil of city, castle, or fortress,
sir, do you talk of?' quoth Sancho. ' Do you not see that those
are water-mills in the river to grind corn ?' * Peace, Sancho,'
said he; *for, though they look like water-mills, yet they are
not, and I have told thee already that these enchantments chop
and change things out of their natural being. I say not that
they change them out of one being into another really, but in
appearance, as was seen by experience in the transformation
of Dulcinea, the only refuge of my hopes.'

Now the boat, being gotten into the midst of the current,
began to move somewhat faster than before. They of the
mills, that saw the boat come down the river, and that it was
now even gotten into the swift stream of the wheels, many of
them came running out with long poles to stay it; and, as their
faces and clothes were all covered with meal-dust, they made
a strange show, and cried out, saying, * Devils of men, whither
go you ? Are you mad to drown yourselves, or be beaten to
pieces against these wheels?' *Did not I tell thee, Sancho,'
said Don Quixote then, 'that we should come where I should
show the force of mine arm ? Look what wicked uncouth fel-
lows come to encounter me; look what a troop of hobgoblins
oppose themselves against me ; look what ugly visages play
the bull-beggars with us. Now you shall see, you rascals.'
And, standing up in the boat, he began aloud to threaten the
millers, saying, 'You base scum and ill-advised, free and de-
liver that person which is in your fortress or prison oppressed,

321

■.^^^■■^

The cncbanled bark

be he high or low, or of what sort or quality soever,- for I am
Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the
Lions, for whom the happy ending of this adventure is reserved
by order of the high heavens.' And this said, he laid hand to
his sword, and began to fence in the air against the millers,
who, hearing but not understanding those madnesses, stood
with their poles to stay the boat, which was now entenng the
source and channel of the wheels. Sancho kneeled devoutly
upon his knees, praying Heaven to free him from so manifest a
danger, which succeeded happily, by the quickness and skill of
the millers, who, opposing theirstaves to the boat, stayed it, but
30 that they overturned it, and Don Quixote and Sancho toppled
into the river; but it was well for Don Quixote, who could
swim like a goose, though the weight of his arms carried him
twice to the bottom, and, had it not been for the millers, who
leaped into the water and pulled them out both, as if they had
weighed them up, there they had both perished.

333

THE ENCHANTED BARK

When they were both on land, more wet than thirsty, Sancho,
uponhisknees, with joined hands and his eyes nailed to heaven,
prayed to God, with a large and devout prayer, to free him from
thenceforward, from the rash desires and enterprises of his
master. And now the fishermen came, the owners of the boat,
which was broken to pieces by the wheels, who, seeing it
spoiled, began to disrobe Sancho, and to demand payment of
Don Quixote, who very patiently, as if he had done nothing,
said to the millers and fishermen that he would very willingly
pay for the boat, upon condition they should freely deliver him,
without fraud or guile, the person or persons that were op-
pressed in their castle. ^What person, or what castle, mad-
man?' said one of the millers. * Will you, trow, carry away
those that came hither to grind their corn ?' * Enough,' thought
Don Quixote to himself; *here a man may preach in a wilder-
ness, to reduce a base people to a good work. In this adven-
ture two deep enchanters have met, and the one disturbs the
other : the one provided me the bark, and the other overthrew
me out of it. God help us, all this world is tricks and devices,
one contrary to the other; I can do no more.' And, raising his
voice, he went on, saying, * Friends, whosoever you are, locked
up in this prison, pardon me; for, by my ill fortune and yours,
I cannot deliver you from your pain; this adventure is kept and
reserved for some other knight.' When he had said this, he
agreed with the fishers, and paid twenty-five shillings for the
boat which Sancho gave with [no] very good will saying,^ With
two of these boat-tricks we shall sink our whole stock.'

The fishermen and the millers were in a great admiration,
to see two such strange shapes, quite from the ordinary fash-
ion of other men, and never understood to what purpose Don
Quixote used all those discourses to them; so, holding them

323

DON QUIXOTE

for madmen, they left them and got to their mills, and the
fishers to their quarters. Don Quixote and Sancho, like beasts,
turned to their beasts. And this end had the adventure of the
enchanted bark.

CHAPTER XXX

WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH THE FAIR
HUNTRESS

VERY melancholy and ill at ease went the knight and
squire to horseback, especially Sancho, for it grieved
him at the soul to meddle with the stock of their money,
for it seemed to him that to part with anything from thence
was to part with his eyeballs. To be brief, without speaking
a word, to horse they went, and left the famous river, Don
Quixote buried in his amorous cogitations, and Sancho in those
of his preferment, for as yet he thought he was far enough off
from obtaining it; for, although he were a fool, yet he well
perceived that all his master^s actions, or the greatest part of
325

DON QUIXOTE

them, were Idle ; so he sought after some occasion that, with-
out entering into further reckonings or leave-taking with his
master, he might one day get out of his clutches and go home;
but fortune ordered matters contrary to his fear.

It fell out, then, that the next day about sun-setting, and as
they were going out of a wood, Don Quixote spread his eyes
about a green meadow, and at one end of it sawcompany, and,
coming near, he saw they were falconers; he came nearer, and
amongst them beheld a gallant lady upon her palfrey, or milk-
white nag, with green furniture, and her saddle-pommel of sil-
ver. The lady herself was all clad in green, so brave and rich
that bravery itself was transformed into her. On her left hand
she carried a soar-falcon, a sign that made Don Quixote think
she was some great lady, and mistress to all the rest, as true it
was ; so he cried out to Sancho, ' Run, son Sancho, and tell that
lady on the palfrey with the soar hawk that I , the Knight of the
Lions, do kiss her most beautiful hands, and, if her magnifi-
cence give me leave, I will receive her commands, and be her
servant to the uttermost of my power, that her highness may
please to command me in ; and take heed, Sancho, how thou
speakest, and have a care thou mix not thy ambassage with
some of those proverbs of thine.' 'Tell me of that! as if it
were now the first time that I have carried embassies to high
and mighty ladies in my life ?' ' Except it were that thou car-
riedst to Dulcinea?' quoth Don Quixote,*! know not of any
other thou hast carried, at least whilst thou wert with me.'
'That's true,' said Sancho; 'but a good paymaster needs no
surety; and where there is plenty the guests are not empty —
I mean there is no telling nor advising me aught, for of all
things I know a little.' *I believe it,' said Don Quixote; 'get
thee gone in good time, and God speed thee.'
326

THEDUCHESS

Sancho went on, putting Dapple out of his pace with a
career, and, coming where the fair huntress was, alighting,
he kneeled down , and said, ^ Fair lady, that knight you see there,
called the Knight of the Lions, is my master, and I am a squire
of his, whom at his house they call Sancho Panza. This said
Knight of the Lions, who not long since was called the Knight
of the Sorrowful Countenance, sends me to tell your greatness
that you be pleased to give him leave that, with your liking,
good will and consent, he put in practice his desire, which is no
other (as he says and I believe) than to serve your lofty high-
flying beauty;' and, if your ladyship give him leave, you shall
do a thing that may redound to your good, and he shall receive
a most remarkable favour and content.' * Truly, honest squire,'
said the lady, ^thou hast delivered thy ambassage with all the
circumstances that such an ambassage requires. Rise, rise,
for the squire of so renowned a knight as he of the Sorrowful
Countenance, of whom we have here special notice, 'tis not fit
should kneel. Rise up, friend, and tell your master that he
come near on God's name, that the duke my husband and I may
do him service at a house of pleasure we have here.'

Sancho rose up astonished, as well at the good lady's beauty
as her courtship and courtesy, especially for that she told him
she had notice of his master, the Knight of the Sorrowful
Countenance ; for, in that she called him not Knight of the
Lions, it was because it was so lately put upon him. Theduchess
asked h i m (for as yet we know not of what place she was duchess) ,
* Tell me, sir squire, is not this your master one of whom there
is a history printed, and goes by the name of ^^The Ingenious
Gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha," the lady of whose life

■ For so it is in the Spanish to make the simple squire speak absurdly enough, for instead
of Alteca the author makes him say Altaneria.

327

DON QUIXOTE

is likewise one Dulcioea del Toboso?' 'The very selfsame,"
said Sancho, 'and that squire of his that is or should be in the
history, called Sancho Panza, am I, except I were changed in
my cradle — I mean that I were changed in the press.' 'I am
gladof all this,' quoth the duchess. 'Go, brother Panza,and
tell your master that he is welcome to our dukedom, and that
no news could have given me greater content.'

Sancho, with this so acceptable an answer, with great
pleasure returned to his master, to whom he recounted all
that the great lady had said to him, extolling to the heavens
her singular beauty with his rustical terms, her affableness
and courtesy. Don Quixote pranked it in his saddle, sat stiff
in his stirrups, fitted his visor, roused up Rozinante, and with
a comely boldness went to kiss the duchess's hands, who, caus-
ing the duke her husband to be called, told him, whilst Don
Quixote was coming, his whole embassy; so both of them hav-
ing read his First Part, and understood by it his besotted hu-
mour, attended him with much pleasure and desire to know
I him, with a purpose to follow his humour, and to give way to
all he should say, and to treat with him as a knight-errant, as
long as he should be with them, with ail the accustomed cere-
monies in books of knight-errantry, which they had read and
were much affected with.

By this Don Quixote came with his visor pulled up, and,
making show to alight, Sancho came to have held his stirrup ;
but he was so unlucky, that as he was lighting from Dapple
one of his feet caught upon a halter of the pack-saddle, so that
it was not possible for him to disentangle himself, but hung
by it with his mouth and his breast to the ground-ward. Don
Quixote, who used not to alight without his stirrups being
held, thinking Sancho was already come to hold It, lighted
328

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THE DUCHESS

suddenly down, but brought saddle and all to ground (belike
being lU-girt) to his much shame, and curses inwardly laid
upon the unhappy Sancho, that had still his leg in the stocks.
The duke commanded some of his falconers to help the knight
and squire, who raised Don Quixote in ill plight with his fall,
and, limping as well as he could, he went to kneel before the
two lordings ; but the duke would not by any means consent,
rather, alighting from his horse, he embraced Don Quixote,
saying, * I am very sorry. Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Coun-
tenance, that your first fortune hath been so ill in my ground;
but the carelessness of squires is oft the cause of worse suc-
cesses.' * It is impossible, valorous prince, that any should be
bad since I have seen you, although my fall had cast me to the
profound abysm, since the glory of seeing you would have
drawn me out and raised me up. My squire — a curse light on
him! — unties his tongue better to speak maliciously than he
girts his horse's saddle to sit firmly; but howsoever I am,
down or up, on foot or on horseback, I will always be at yours
and my lady the duchess's service, your worthy consort, the
worthy lady of beauty and universal princess of courtesy.'
* Softly, my Signior Don Quixote de la Mancha,' quoth the
duke; *for where my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is present
there is no reason other beauties should be praised.'

Now Sancho Panza was free from the noose, and being at
hand, before his master could answer a word, he said, ^ It can-
not be denied, but affirmed, that my Lady Dulcinea del To-
boso IS very fair; but where we least think there goes the hare
away: for I have heard say that she you call Nature is like a
potter that makes vessels of clay, and he that makes a hand-
some vessel may make two or three, or an hundred. This I
say that you may know my lady the duchess comes not a whit

33i

DON QUIXOTE

behind my mistress the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.' Don
Quixote turned to the duchess, and said, ' Your greatness may
suppose that never any knight in the world had ever such a
prater to his squire, nor a more conceited, than mine, and he
will make good what I say, if your highness shall at any time
be pleased to make trial.' To which quoth the duchess, ' That
honest Sancho may be conceited I am very glad, a sign he is
wise; for your pleasant conceits, signior, as you very well
know, rest not in dull brains, and, since Sancho is witty and
conceited, from henceforward I confirm him to be discreet.'
'And a prater,' added Don Quixote. 'So much the better,'
said the duke, ' for many conceits cannot be expressed in few
words; and, that we may not spend the time in many, come,
Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance.' 'Of the Lions,
your highness must say,' quoth Sancho, ' for now we have no
more sorrowful countenance, and now let the lions bear coun-
tenance.' The duke proceeded : ' I say let the Knight of the
Lions come to my castle, which is near here, where he shall
have the entertainment that is justly due to so high a person-
age, and that, that the duchess and I are wont to give to
knights-errant that come to us.'

By this time Sancho had made ready and girded Rozinan-
te's saddle well; and Don Quixote mounting him, and the duke
upon a goodly horse, set the duchess in the middle, and they
went toward the castle. The duchess commanded that Sancho
should ride by her, for she was infinitely delighted to hear his
discretions. Sancho was easily entreated, and weaved him-
self between the three, and made a fourth in their conversa-
tion. The duke and duchess were much pleased, who held it
for a great good fortune to have lodged in their castle such a
knight-errant and such a squire erred.
33a

CHAPTER XXXI

THAT TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT AFFAIRS

GREAT was the joy that Sancho conceived to see him-
- self a favourite to the duchess, as he thought; for
it shaped out unto him that he should find in her
castle as much as in Don Diego's or that of Basilius; for he
was always affected with a plentiful life, and so laid hold
upon Occasion's lock ever when it was presented. The his-
tory then tells us that, before they came to the house of pleas-
ure or castle, the duke went before, and gave order to all his
followers how they should behave themselves towards Don
Quixote, who as he came on with the duchess to the castle
gates, there came out two lackeys, or palfrey boys, clothed
down to the feet in coats like nightgowns, of fine crimson satin,
and taking Don Quixote in their arms, without hearing or look-
ing on him, they said, 'Go, and let your greatness help my
333

DON QUIXOTE

lady to alight.' Don Quixote did so, and there was great com-
plimenting betwixt both about it; but in the end the duchess's
earnestness prevailed, and she would not descend or alight
from her palfrey but in the duke's arms, saying that she was
too unworthy to be so unprofitable a burden to so high a
knight. At length the duke helped her: and, as they entered
a great base*court, there came two beautiful damsels, and cast
upon Don Quixote's shoulders a fair mantle of finest scarlet;
and in an instant all the leads of the courts and entries were
thronged with men and maid servants of the duke's, who cried
aloud, ' Welcome, O flower and cream of knights-errant ! ' and
all or most of them sprinkled pots of sweet water upon Don
Quixote, and upon the duke, all which made Don Quixote ad-
mire; and never till then did he truly believe that he was a
knight-errant really and not fantastically, seeing he was used
just as he had read knights-errant were in former times.

Sancho, forsaking Dapple, showed himself to the duchess,
and entered into the castle; but, his conscience pricking him
that he had left his ass alone, he came to a reverend old wait-
ing-woman that came out amongst others to wait upon the
duchess, and very softly spoke to her : * Mistress Gonsalez, or
what is your name forsooth?' 'Donna Rodriguez de Gri-
shalva,'said the waiting-woman. 'What would you have,
brother, with me?' To which quoth Sancho, ' I pray will you
do me the favour as to go out at the castle gate, where you
shall find a dapple ass of mine ; I pray will you see him put, or
put him yourself, in the stable; for the poor wretch is fearful,
and cannot by any means endure to be alone.' ' If the mas-
ter,' quoth she, 'be as wise as the man, we shall have a hot
bargain on it. Get you gone, with a murrain to you, and him
that brought you hither, and look to your ass yourself, for the
334

THE WAITING-WOMAN

waiting-women in this house are not used to such drudgeries.'
* Why, truly,' quoth Sancho, * I have heard my master say, who
is the very wizard of histories, telling that story of Lanzarote,
when he came from Britain, that ladies looked to him and
waiting-women to his courser ; and, touching my ass in partic-
ular, I would not change him for Lanzarote's horse.' * Brother,'
quoth she, 4f you be a jester, keep your wit till you have use
of it, for those that will pay you ; for I have nothing but this
fig to give you.' * * Well, yet,' said Sancho, * the fig is like to
be ripe, for you will not lose the primavista of your years by
a pip less.' ^ Son of a whore,' said the waiting-woman all in-
censed with choler, * whether I am old or no God knows; I
shall give Him account, and not to thee, thou rascal, that stink-
est of garlic' All this she spoke so loud that the duchess
heard her, who turning and seeing the woman so altered, and
her eyes so bloody red, she asked her with whom she was an-
gry. *Here,' said she, ^with this idiot, that hath earnestly
entreated me to put up his ass in the stable that is at the castle
gate, giving me for an instance that they have done so I know
not where; that certain ladies looked to one Lanzarote, and
waiting-women to his horse, and, to mend the matter, in man-
nerly terms calls me old one.'* *That would more disgrace
me,' quoth the duchess, * than all he should say.' And speak-
ing to Sancho, she said, *Look you, friend Sancho, Donna
Rodriguez is very young, and that stole she wears is more for
authority and for the fashion than for her years.' ^ A pox on
the rest of my years I have to live,' quoth Sancho, * if I meant
her any ill ; I only desired the kindness for the love I bear to

' La biga, a word of disgrace.

' yieia: a name that a woman in Spain cannot endure to hear, though she were as old as
Methusalem.

335

DON QUIXOTE

mine ass, and because I thought 1 could not recommend him
to a more charitable person than Mistress Rodriguez.' Don
Quixote, that heard all, said, 'Are these discourses, Sancho,
fit forthis place?' 'Sir,' said Sancho, 'let every man express
his wants wheresoe'er he be. Here 1 remembered my Dapple,
and here I spoke of him; and, if I had remembered him in the
stable, there I would have spoken.' To this quoth the duke,
'Sancho is in the right, and there is no reason to blame him;
Dapple shall have provender, as much as he will, and let San-
cho take no care, he shall be used as well as his own person.'

With these discourses, pleasing unto all but Don Quixote,
they went upstairs, and brought Don Quixote into a goodly
hall, hung with rich cloth of gold and tissue; six damosels un-
armed him, and served for pages, all of them taught and in-
structed by the duke and duchess what they should do, and
how they should behave themselves towards Don Quixote,
that he might imagine and see they used him like a knight-
errant.

Don Quixote, once unarmed, was in his straight trouses
and doublet of chamois, drj', high, and lank, with his jaws
that within and without bussed one another, a picture that,
if the damosels that served him had not had a care to hold in
their laughter, which was one of the precise orders their lords
had given them, had burst with laughing. They desired him
to unclothe himself to shift a shirt; but he would by no means
consent, saying that honesty was as proper to a knight-errant
as valour. Notwithstanding, he bade them give a shirt to
Sancho, and, locking himself up with him in a chamber, where
was a rich bed, he plucked off his clothes and put on the shirt,
and, as Sancho and he were alone, he thus spoke to him: 'Tell
me, modern jester and old jolt-head, is it a fit thing todishonour
336

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KNIGHT AND SQUIRE

and affront so venerable an old waiting-woman and so worthy
to be respected as she ? Was that a fit time to remember your
Dapple? Or think you that these were lords to let beasts fare
ill, that so neatly use their masters ? For God's love, Sancho,
look to thyself, and discover not thy coarse thread, that they
may see thou art not woven out of a base web. Know, sin-
ner as thou art, that the master is so much the more esteemed
by how much his servants are honest and mannerly; and one
of the greatest advantages that great men have over inferiors
is that they keep servants as good as themselves. Knowest
thou not, poor fellow as thou art, and unhappy that I am, that
if they see thee to be a gross peasant they will think that I am
some mountebank or shifting squire ? No, no, friend Sancho ;
shun, shun these inconveniences, for he that stumbles too
much upon the prater and wit-monger at the first toe-knock
falls, and becomes a scornful jester. Bridle thy tongue, con-
sider and ruminate upon thy words before they come from
thee, and observe we are now come to a place from whence,
with God's help and mine arm's valour, we shall go bettered
threefold, nay fivefold, in fame and wealth.' Sancho prom-
ised him very truly to sew up his mouth, or to bite his tongue,
before he would speak a word that should not be well consid-
ered and to purpose, as he had commanded, and that he should
not fear that by him they should ever be discovered.

Don Quixote dressed himself, buckled his sword to his belt,
and clapped his scarlet mantle upon him, putting on a hunter's
cap of green satin, which the damosels had given him; and
thus adorned to the great chamber he went, where he found
the damosels all in a row, six on one side and six on the other,
and all with provision for him to wash, which they ministered
with many courtesies and ceremonies. Betwixt them straight

339

DON QUIXOTE

they got him full of pomp and majesty, and carried him to an-
other room, where was a rich table, with service for four per-
sons. The duke and duchess came to the door to receive him,
and with them a grave clergyman, one of those that govern
great men's houses;' one of those that, as they are not born
nobly, so they know not how to instruct those that are; one of
those that would have great men's liberalities measured by the
straitness of their minds; of those that, teaching those they
govern to be frugal, would make them miserable; such a one
I say, this grave clergyman was, that came with the duke to
receive Don Quixote. There passed a thousand loving com-
pliments, and at last, taking Don Quixote between them, they
sat down to dinner.

The duke invited Don Quixote to the upper end of the table,
which though he refused, yet the duke so importuned him that
he was forced to take it. The clergyman sat over against him,
and the duke and duchess on each side. Sancho was by at all,
gaping in admiration to see the honour those princes did to
his master; and, seeing the many ceremonies and entreaties
that passed betwixt the duke and him to make him sit down
at the table's end, he said, *If your worships will give me
leave, I'll tell you a tale that happened in our town cbncern-
in*g places.' Scarce had Sancho said this when Don Quixote
began to shake, believing certainly he would speak some idle
speech. Sancho, beholding, understood him and said, 'Fear
not, sir, that I shall be unmannerly, or that I shall say any-
thing that may not be to the purpose; for I have not forgotten
your counsel touching speaking much or little, well or ill.' * I
remember nothing, Sancho,'quoth Don Quixote; 'speak what
thou wilt, so thou speak quickly.'

'A good character of a poor pedant.

340

A SLOW TALE

* Well, what I shall speak/ quoth Sancho, * is as true as my
master Don Quixote will not let me lie, who is here present/
' Fof me,' replied Don Quixote, 4ie as much as thou wilt, for
rU not hinder thee; but take heed what thou speakest.' 'I have
so heeded and re-heeded it that you shall see, I warrant ye/
''Twerevery fit,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that your greatnesses
would command this coxcomb to be thrust out, for he will
talk you a thousand follies.' * Assuredly,' quoth the duchess,
^ Sancho shall not stir a jot from me; for I know he is very
discreet.'

^Discreet years live your holiness,' quoth Sancho, 'for the
good opinion you have of me, although I deserve it not; and
thus says my tale: A gentleman of our town, very rich and
well born — for he was of the blood of the Alami of Medina
del Campo, and married with Donna Mencia de Quinnones,
that was daughter to Don Alonso de Maranon, Knight of the
Order of Saint Jacques, that was drowned in the Herradura,
touching whom that quarrel was not long since in our town;
for, as I remember, my master Don Quixote was in it, where
little Thomas the madcap, son to Balvastro the smith, was
wounded. Is not all this true, master mine?' Say by your life,
that these lords may not hold me for a prating liar.'

'Hitherto,' said the clergyman, 'I rather hold thee for a
prater than a liar; but from henceforward I know not for
what I shall hold thee.' 'Thougivest so many witnesses and
so many tokens, Sancho, that I cannot but say,^ quoth Don
Quixote, 'thou tellest true. On with thy tale, and make an
end, for I think thou wilt not have ended these two days.'
'Let him go on,' quoth the duchess, 'to do me a pleasure, and
let him tell his tale as he pleaseth, though he make not an end

' After he had begun a tale without head or foot, he asks a question.

343

DON QUIXOTE

these six days; for if they were so many years they would be
the best that ever I passed in my life.'

' I say, then, my masters, that the said gentleman I told you
of at first, and whom I know as well as 1 know one hand from
another — for, from my house to his, 'tis not a bow-shoot — in-
vited a poor but honest husbandman.' 'On, brother,' said the
clergyman, 'for mcthinks you travel with your tale as if you
would not rest till the next world.' 'In less than half this I
will, if it please God," said Sancho, 'and so I proceed. The
said husbandman coming to the saidgentleman-Jnviter's house
— God be merciful to him, for he is now dead! and, for a fur-
ther token, they say died like a lamb; for I was not by, for at
that time I was gone to another town to reaping — ' ' I prithee,'
quoth the clergyman, 'come back from your reaping, and,
without burying the gentleman, except you mean to make
more obsequies, end your tale.' 'The business, then,' quoth
Sancho, ' was this, that both of them being ready to sit down
at table; for methinks I see them now more than ever — '

The dukes received great pleasure to see the distaste that
the clergyman took at the delays and pauses of Sancho's tale,
and Don Quixote consumed himself in choler and rage. 'Then
thus,' quoth Sancho: ' both of them being ready to sit down,
the husbandman contended with the gentleman not to sit up-
permost, and he with the other that he should, as meaning to
command in his own house; but the husbandman, presuming
to be mannerly and courteous, never would, till the gentle-
man, very moody, laying hands upon him, made him sit down
perforce, saying, " Sit you down, you thresher; for whereso'er
I sit that shall be the table's end to thee." And now you have
my tale, and truly I believe it was brought in here pretty well
to the purpose.'

344

THE CLERGYMAN

Don Quixote's face was in a thousand colours, that jaspered
upon his brow. The lords dissembled their laughter, that
Don Quixote might not be too much abashed, when they per-
ceived Sancho's knavery: and to change discourse, that San-
cho might not proceed with other fooleries, the duchess asked
Don Quixote what news he had of the Lady Dulcinea, and if
he had sent her for a present lately any giants or bugbears,
since he could not but have overcome many. To which Don
Quixote answered, 'Lady mine, my misfortunes, although
they had a beginning, yet they will never have ending. Giants,
elves, and bugbears I have overcome and sent her; but where
should they find her that is enchanted, and turned into the
foulest creature that can be?' 'I know not,' quoth Sancho;
'methinks she is the fairest creature in the world, at least I
know well that for her nimbleness and leaping' she'll give no
advantage to a tumbler. In good faith, my lady duchess, she
leaps from -the ground upon an ass as if she were a cat.'
'Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?' said the duke.
'How? seen her?' quoth Sancho. 'Why, who the devil but I
was the first that fell into the trick of her enchantment ? She
is as much enchanted as my ass.'

The clergyman, that heard them talk of giants, elves, and
bugbears, and enchantments, fell into reckoning that that was
Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose story the duke ordinarily
read, and for which he had divers times reprehended him, tell-
ing him 'twas a madness to read such fopperies; and, being
assured of the certainty which he suspected, speaking to the
duke very angerly, he said, 'Your Excellency ought to give
God Almighty an account for this man's folly. This Don
Quixote — or Don Coxcomb, or how do you call him? — I sup-

' A good mistake.

345

DON QUIXOTE

pose he is not so very an idiot as your Excellency would make
him, giving him ready occasions to proceed in his empty-
brained madness.' And, framing his discourse to Don
Quixote, he said: 'And who, goodraan dullpate, hath thrust
into your brain that you are a knight-errant, that you over-
come giants and take bugbears? Get you [home], in God's
name, so be it spoken; return to your house, and bring up
your children, if you have them, and look to your stock, and
leave your ranging thorough the world, blowing bubbles, and
making all that know you, or not know you, to laugh. Where
have you ever found, with a mischief, that there have been or
are knights-errant? Where any giants in Spain, or bugbears
in Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas, with the rest of your
troop of simplicities?'

Don Quixote was very attentive to this venerable man's
discourse, and seeing him now silent, without any respect of
the dukes, with an angry countenance he stood up and said —
but his answer deserves a chapter by itself.

346

CHAPTER XXXI I

OF DON QUIXOTE^S ANSWER TO HIS REPREHENDER, WITH
OTHER SUCCESSES AS WISE AS WITTY

DON QUIXOTE being thus upon his legs, and trem-
I bling from head to foot, like a man filled with quick-
silver, with a hasty and thick voice, said, *The place
and presence before whom I am, and the respect I have and
always had to men of your coat, do bind and tie up the hands
of my just wrath; so that as well for what I have said, as for
I know all know that women and gowned men's weapons are
the same, their tongues, I will enter into single combat with
you with mine, though I rather expected good counsel from
you than infamous revilings. Good and well-meant reprehen-
sions require and ask other circumstances, other points ; at
least, your public and so bitter reprehensions have passed all
limits, and your gentle ones had been better; neither was it
fit that, without knowledge of the sin you reprehend, you call
the sinner, without more ado, coxcomb and idiot. Well, for
which of my coxcombries seen in me do you condemn and re-
vile me, and command me home to my own house, to look to
the governing of it, my wife and children, without knowing
whether I have any of these? Is there no more to be done,
but in a hurry to enter other men's houses, to rule their own-

347

DON QUIXOTE

ers? Nay, one that hath been a poor pedagogue, or hath
not seen more world than twenty miles about him, to meddle
so roundly to give laws to chivalry, and to Judge of knights-
errant? Is it happily a vain plot, or time ill spent, to range
through the world, not seeking its dainties, but the bitterness
of it, whereby good men aspire to the seat of immortality? If
your knights, your gallants, or gentlemen should have called
me coxcomb, I should have held it for an affront irreparable;
but that your poor scholars account me a madman, that never
trod the paths of knight-errantry, I care not a chip. A knight
I am, a knight I'll die, if it please the Most Highest. Some
go by the spacious field of proud ambition, others by the way
of servile and base flattery, a third sort by deceitful hypocrisy,
and few by that of true religion; but I, by my star's inclina-
tion, go in the narrow path of knight-errantry, for whose
exercise I despise wealth, but not honour. I have satisfied
grievances, rectified wrongs, chastised Insolencies, overcome
giants, trampled over spirits; I am enamoured, only because
there is a necessity knights-errant should be so; and, though
I be so, yet I am not of those vicious amorists, but of your
chaste platonics. My intentions always aim at a good end,
as to do good to all men, and hurt to none. If he that un-
derstands this, if he that performs it, that practiseth it, deserve
to be called fool, let your greatnesses judge, excellent duke
and duchess.'

*WeU, I advise you,' quoth Sancho, *master mine, speak
no more in your own behalf, for there is no more to be said, no
more to be thought, no more persevering in the world; be-
sides, this signior denying as he hath done that there neither
is nor hath been knight-errant in the world, no marvel though
he knows not what he hath said.'
348

THE CLERGYMAN

* Are you, trow,' quoth the clergyman, *that Panza whom
they say your master hath promised an island?' 'Marry, am
I,' said he, ' and I am he that deserves it as well as any other,
and I am he that — Keep company with good men, and thou
shalt be as good as they;' and I am one of those that — Not
with whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou hast fed; and
of those that — Lean to a good tree and it will shadow thee.
I have leaned to my master, and it is many months since I
have kept him company, and I am his other self. If God
please, live he and I shall live; he shall not want empires to
command, nor I islands to govern/

*No, surely, friend Sancho,' straight said the duke; 'for I,
in Signior Don Quixote's name, will give thee an odd one of
mine, of no small worth.' 'Kneel down, Sancho,' quoth Don
Quixote, ' and kiss his Excellency's foot for the favour he hath
done thee.' Which Sancho did, but when the clergyman saw
this he rose up wonderful angry, saying, ' By my holy order,
I am about to say, your Excellency is as mad as one of these
sinners; and see if they must not needs be mad, when wise
men canonise their madness. Your Excellency may do well
to stay with them, for whilst they be here I'll get me home
and save a labour of correcting what I cannot amend.' And
without any more ado, leaving the rest of his dinner, he went
away, the duke and the duchess not being able to pacify him,
though the duke said not much to him, as being hindered with
laughter at his unseasonable choler.

When he had ended his laughter he said to Don Quixote,
' Sir Knight of the Lions, you have answered so deeply for
yourself that you left nothing unsatisfied to this your griev-
ance, which though it seem to be one, yet is not; for, as wo-

■ He blunders out proverbs as usually to no purpose, which is Sancho's part always.

349

DON QUIXOTE

men have not the power to wrong, neither have churchmen,
as you best know.' '"Tis true," quoth Don Quixote; 'the cause
is that he who cannot be wronged can do no wrong to any-
body. Women, children, and churchmen, as they cannot de-
fend themselves when they are offended, so they cannot suffer
an affront and a grievance. There is this diflference, as your
Excellency best knows: the affront comes from one that may
best do it and be able to make it good; the grievance maycome
from either party without affronting. For example; one stands
carelessly in the street; some ten men come armed, and bas-
tanadoing him, he claps hand to his sword, and doth his de-
voir; but the multitude of his assailants hinder him of his
purpose, which is to be revenged. This man is wronged, but
not affronted, and this shall be confirmed by another example.
One stands with his back turned, another comes and strikes
him, and when he hath done runs away; th'other follows, but
overtakes him not: he that received the blow is wronged, but
not affronted, because the affront ought to have been main-
ktained. If he that struck him, though he did it basely, stand
still and face his enemy, then he that was struck is wronged
and affronted both together — wronged, because he was struck
cowardly; affronted, because he that struck him stood still to
make good what he had done. And so, according to the laws
of cursed duel, I may be wronged, but not affronted; for chil-
dren nor women have no apprehension, neither can they fly,
nor ought to stand still. And so is it with the religious, for
these kinds of people want arms offensive and defensive; so
that, though they be naturally bound to defend themselves,
yet they are not to offend anybody. And, though even now
I said I was wronged, I say now I am not; for he that can re-
ceive no affront can give none; for which causes I have no rea-
35o

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k'v

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WRONGS AND AFFRONTS

son to resent, nor do I, the words that that good man gave me;
only I could have wished he had stayed a little, that I might
have let him see his error, in saying or thinking there have
been no knights-errant in the world; for, if Amadis had heard
this, or one of those infinite numbers of his lineage, I know it
had not gone well with his worship/

*ril swear that,' quoth Sancho; ^they would have given
him a slash that should have cleaved him from top to foot like
a pomegranate or a ripe musk-melon. They were pretty
youths to suffer such jests. By my holidam, I think certainly,
if Renaldos de Montalvan had heard these speeches from the
poor knave, he had bunged up his mouth that he should not
have spoken these three years; ,ay, ay, he should have dealt
with them, and see how he would have scaped their hands.'

The duchess was ready to burst with laughter at Sancho,
and to her mind she held him to be more conceited and mad-
der than his master, and many at that time were of this
opinion.

. Finally, Don Quixote was pacified and dinner ended, and,
the cloth being taken away, there came four damosels, one
with a silver bason, the other with an ewer, a third with two
fine white towels, the fourth with her arms tucked up to the
middle, and in her white hands — for white they were — a white
Naples washing-ball. She with the bason came very man-
nerly, and set it under Don Quixote's chin, who, very silent
and wondering at that kind of ceremony, taking it to be the
custom of the country to wash their faces instead of their
hands, he stretched out his face as far as he could, and in-
stantly the ewer began to rain upon him, and the damosel
with the soap ran over his beard apace, raising white flakes
of snow; for such were those scourings, not only upon his

353

DON QUIXOTE

beard, but over all the face and eyes of the obedient knight,
so that he was forced to shut them.

The duke and duchess, that knew nothing of this, stood
expecting what would become of this lavatory. The barber
damosel, when she had soaped him well with her hand,
feigned that she wanted more water, and made her with the
ewer to go for it, whilst SigniorDon Quixote expected; which
she did, and Don Quixote remained one of the strangest pic-
tures to move laughter that could be imagined. All that were
present, many in number, beheld him; and as they saw him
with a neck half a yard long, more than ordinary swarthy, his
eyes shut, and his beard full of soap, it was great marvel and
much discretion they could forbear laughing. The damosels
'of the jest cast down their eyes, not daring to look on their
lords; whose bodies with choler and laughter even tickled
again, and they knew not what to do, either to punish the
boldness of the girls or reward them for the pastime they re-
ceived to see Don Quixote in that manner.

Lastly, she with the ewer came, and they made an end of
washing Don Quixote, and straight she that had the towels
wiped and dried him gently, and all four of them, at once
making him a low curtsy, would have gone: but the duke,
because Don Quixote should not fall into the jest, called to
the damosel with the bason, saying, 'Come and wash me too,
and see that you have water enough.'

The wench, that was wily and careful, came and put the
bason under the duke, as she had done to Don Quixote, and,
making haste, they washed and scoured him very well, and
leaving him dry and clean, making curtsies, they went away.
After, it was known that the duke swore that if they had not
washed him as well as Don Quixote he would punish them for
354

THE FACE-WASHING

their lightness, which they discreetly made amends for with
soaping him.

Sancho marked all the ceremonies of the lavatory, and said
to himself, ^Lord!' thought he, 'if it be the custom in this
country to wash the squires' beards as well as the knights' ?
for of my soul and conscience I have need of it; and, if they
would, to run over me with a razor too/

*What sayest thou to thyself, Sancho?' said the duchess.
^l say, madam,' quoth he, ^that I have heard that in other
princes' palaces they used to give water to wash men's hands
when the cloth is taken away, but not lye to scour their beards;
and therefore I see 'tis good to live long, to see much; although
'tis said also that he that lives long suffers much, though to
suffer one of these lavatories is rather pleasure than pain.'
*Take no care, Sancho,' quoth the duchess, 'for I'll make one
of my damosels wash thee, and, if need be, lay thee a-bucking.'
' For my beard,' quoth Sancho, ' I should be glad for the pres-
ent; for the rest God will provide hereafter.' ^Look you,
carver,' said the duchess, 'what Sancho desires, do just as he
would have you.' The carver answered that Signior Sancho
should be punctually served; and so he went to dinner, and
carried Sancho with him, the dukes and Don Quixote sitting
still, and conferring in many and several affairs, but all con-
cerning the practice of arms and knight-errantry.

The duchess requested Don Quixote to delineate and de-
scribe unto her, since he seemed to have a happy memory, the
beauty and feature of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for, ac-
cording to fame's trumpet, she thought that she must needs be
the fairest creature in the world, and also of the Mancha.

Don Quixote sighed at the duchess's command, and said,
'If I could take out my heart, and lay it before your great-

355

DON QUIXOTE

ness's eyes upon this table on a dish, I would save my tongue
a labour to tell you that which would not be imagined, for in
my heart your Excellency should see her lively depainted; but
why should I be put to describe and delineate exactly, piece
for piece, each several beauty of the peerless Dulcinea, a bur-
den fitter for other backs than mine — an enterprise in which
the pencils of Parrasius, Timantes, and Apelles, and the tools
of Lysippus, should indeed be employed to paint and carve
her in tables of marble and brass, and Ciceronian and Demos-
thenian rhetoric to praise her.'

'What mean you by your Demosthenian, Signior Don
Quixote ? ' quoth the duchess. ' Demosthenian rhetoric,' quoth
he, 'is as much as to say the rhetoric of Demosthenes, as
Ciceronian of Cicero, both which were the two greatest rhe-
toricians in the world.' ' 'Tis true,' quoth the duke, ' and you
showed your ignorance in asking that question; but, for all
that, Sir Don Quixote might much delight us if he would paint
her out, for I'll warrant, though it be but in her first draught,
she will appear so well that the most fair will envy her.' ' I
would willingly,' said he, ' if misfortune had not blotted out
her Idea, that not long since befel her, which is such that I
may rather bewail it than describe her; for your greatnesses
shall understand that, as I went heretofore to have kissed her
hands and receive her benediction, leave and license, for this
my third sally, I found another manner of one than I looked
for: I found her enchanted, and turned from a princess to a
country- wench, from fair to foul, from an angel to a devil, from
sweet to contagious, from well-spoken to rustic, from modest
to skittish, from light to darkness, and finally from Dulcinea
del Toboso to a peasantess of Sayago.'

' Now God defend us ! ' quoth the duke, with a loud voice,
356

DULCINEA'S ENCHANTMENT

*who is he that hath done so much hurt to the world? Who
hath taken away the beauty that cheered it, the quickness that
entertained it, and the honesty that did credit it?' ^ Who?'
said he; ^who but some cursed enchanter, one of those many
envious ones that persecute me — this wicked race born in the
world to darken and annihilate the exploits of good men, and
to give light and raise the deeds of evil ? Enchanters have me
persecuted ; enchanters me persecute ; and enchanters will me
persecute, till they cast me and my lofty chivalry into the pro-
found abysm of forgetfulness, and there they hurt and wound
me where they see I have most feeling; for to take from a
knight-errant his lady is to take away his eyesight, with which
he sees the sun that doth lighten him and the food that doth
nourish 'him. Oft have I said, and now I say again, that a
knight-errant without a mistress is like a tree without leaves,
like a building without cement, or a shadow without a body
by which it is caused.'

* There is no more to be said,' quoth the duchess; ^but yet,
if we may give credit to the history of Don Quixote, that not
long since came to light with a general applause, it is said, as
I remember, that you never saw Dulcinea, and that there is
no such lady in the world; but that she is a mere fantastical
creature engendered in your brain, where you have painted
her with all the graces and perfections that you please.'

* Here is much to be said,' quoth he. * God knows if there
be a Dulcinea or no in the world, whether she be fantastical
or not; and these be matters whose justifying must not be so
far searched into. Neither have I engendered or brought forth
my lady, though I contemplate on her, as is fitting, she being
a lady that hath all the parts that may make her famous through
the whole world, as these: fair without blemish, grave with-

33;

DON QUIXOTE

out pride, amorous but honest; thankful as courteous, courte-
ous as well bred, and, finally, of high descent, by reason that
beauty shines and matcheth upon her noble blood in more
degrees of perfection than in mean-born beauties.'

' 'Tis true,' said the duke ; ' but Don Quixote must give me
leave to say what the history where his exploits are written
says, where is inferred that, though there be a Dulcinea in
Toboso,orout of it,and that she be fair in the highest degree,
as you describe her, yet in her highness of birth she is not
equal to your Orianas, your Alastraxarias, or your Madasi-
mas,' with others of this kind, of which your histories are full,
as you well know.'

'To this I answer you,' quoth Don Quixote, 'Dulcinea is
virtuous, and virtue adds to lineage, and one that is mean and
virtuous ought to be more esteemed than another noble and
vicious ; besides, Dulcinea hath one shred that may make her
queen with crown and sceptre; for the merit of a fair and vir-
tuous woman extends to do greater miracles, and, although not
formally, yet virtually, she hath greater fortunes laid up for her.'

* I say, Signior Don Quixote,' quoth the duchess, 'that in all
you speak you go with your leaden plummet and, as they say,
with your sounding line in your hand, and that henceforward
I will believe, and make all in my house believe, and my lord
the duke too, if need be, that there is a Dulcinea in Toboso,
and that at this day she lives, that she is fair and well-born,
and deserves that such a knight as Don Quixote should serve
her, which is the most I can or know how to endear her. But
yet I have one scruple left, and, I know not, some kind of ink-
ling against Sancho; the scruple is that the history says that
Panza found the said Lady Dulcinea, when he carried your

■ NanKs of feigned ladies in books of knighthood.
358

DULCINEA'S ENCHANTMENT

epistle, winnowing a bag of wheat, and, for more assurance,
that it was red wheat, a thing that makes me doubt of her
high birth.'

To which Don Quixote replied: *Lady mine, you shall
know that all or the most part of my affairs are clean differ-
ent from the ordinary course of other knights-errant, whether
they be directed by the unscrutable will of the destinies or by
the malice of some envious enchanter; and as it is evident that
[of] all or the most of your famous knights-errant, one hath the
favour not to be enchanted, another to have his flesh so im-
penetrable that he cannot be wounded — as the famous Roldan,
one of the twelve peers of France, of whom it was said that he
could not be wounded but upon the sole of his left foot, and
that this too must be with the point of a great pin, and with no
other kind of weapon; so that when Bernardo del Carpio did
kill him in Roncesvalles, seeing he could not wound him with
his sword, he lifted him in his arms from ground and stifled
him, as mindful of the death that Hercules gave Anteon, that
horrid giant, that was said to be the son of the Earth ; — from
all this I infer that it might be I might have had some of these
favours, as not to be wounded; for many times experience
hath taught me that my flesh is soft and penetrable, or that I
might have the power not to be enchanted ; but yet I have seen
myself clapped in a cage, where all the world was not able to
enclose me, had it not been by virtue of enchantments ; but
since I was free, I shall believe that no other can hinder me;
so that these enchanters, who see that upon me they cannot use
their sleights, they revenge themselves upon the things I most
affect, and mean to kill me by ill-entreating Dulcinea, by whom
I live; and so I believe that when my squire carried my am-
bassage thev turned her into a peasant, to be employed in so

359

DON QUIXOTE

base an office as winnowing of wheat. But I say that wheat
was neither red nor wheat, but seeds of oriental pearls; and,
for proof of this, let me tell your magnitudes that, coming a
while since by Toboso, I could never find Dulcinea's palace,
and, Sancho my squire having seen her before in her own
shape, which is the fairest in the world, to me she then seemed
a foul coarse country- wench, and meanly nurtured, being the
very discretion of the world. And, since I am not enchanted,
neither can I be in all likelihood, she is she that is enchanted,
grieved, turned, chopped and changed; and my enemies have
revenged themselves on me in her, and for her I must live in
perpetual sorrow till she come to her pristine being.

'AH this have I spoken, that nobody may stand upon what
Sancho said of that sifting and winnowing of hers; for, since
to me she was changed, no marvel though for him she was
exchanged. Dulcinea is nobly born, and of the best blood in
Toboso, of which I warrant she hath no small part in her; and
for her that town shall be famous in after-ages, as Troy for
Helen, and Spain for Cava,' though with more honour and
reputation. On the other side, I would have your lordships
know that Sancho Panza is one of the prettiest squires that
ever served knight-errant; sometimes he hath such sharp sim-
plicities that to think whether he be fool or knave, causeth no
small content. He hath malice enough to be a knave, but more
ignorance to be thought a fool; he doubts of everything, and
yet believes all; when I think sometimes he will tumble head-
long to the foot, he comes out with some kind of discretion that
lifts him to the clouds.

'Finally, I would not change him for any other squire,

> Daughter to an earl that betrayed Spain to the Moors. Vidt Mariima, Hitl. dt Reb.
Hhp.

SANCHO'S WASHING

though I might have a city to boot; therefore I doubt whether

it be good to send him to the government that your greatness

hath bestowed on him, though I see in him a certain fitness for

this you call governing; for, trimming his understanding but

a very little, he would proceed with his government as well as

the king with his customs: besides, we know by experience

that a governor needs not much learning or other abilities, for

you have a hundred that scarce can read a word, and yet they

govern like jer-falcons; the business is that their meaning be

good, and to hit the matter aright they undertake, for they <

shall not want counsellors to teach them what they shall do,

as your governors that be swordmen and not scholars, that

have their assistants to direct them. My counsel should be to

him that neither bribe he take nor his due forsake, and some

other such toys as these that I have within me, and shall be

declared at fit time to Sancho's profit, and the island's which

he shall govern/

To this point of their discourse came the duke, duchess,
and Don Quixote, when straight they heard a great noise of »

people in the palace, and Sancho came into the hall unlooked
for, all in a maze, with a strainer instead of a bib, and after
him many lads or, to say better, scullions of the kitchen, and
other inferior people; and one came with a little kneading-tub
of water, that seemed, by the colour and sluttishness, to be
dish-water, who followed and persecuted Sancho, and sought
by all means to join the vessel to his chin, and another would
have washed him.

^What's the matter, ho?' quoth the duchess. ^ What do ye
to this honest man? What, do ye not know he is governor
elect?' To which the barber-scullion replied, ' This gentleman
will not suffer himself to be washed according to the custom,

36 1

DON QUIXOTE

as my lord the duke and his master were.' 'Yes, marry, will
I,' said Sancho, in a great huff; 'but I would have cleaner
towel and clearer suds, and not so sluttish hands; for there is
no such difference between my master and me, that they should
wash him with rose-water and me with the devil's lye. The
customs of great men's palaces are so much better by how lit-
tle trouble they cause; but your lavatory custom here is worse
than penitentiaries. My beard is clean, and I need no such
refreshing; and he that comes to wash me, or touch a hair of
my head — of my beard, I say, sir-reverence of the company —
I'll give him such a box that I'll set my fist in his skull; for
these kind of ceremonies and soap-layings are rather flouts
than entertainers of guests.'

The duchess was ready to die with laughter, to see San-
cho's choler and to hear his reasons; but Don Quixote was not
very well pleased to see him so ill dressed with his jaspered
towel, and hemmed In by so many of the kitchen pensioners;
so making a low leg to the dukes, as if he intended to speak,
ith a grave voice he spoke to the scoundrels: ' Hark ye, gen-
tlemen , pray let the youth alone, and get you gone as you came,
if you please; for my squire is as cleanly as another, and these
troughs are as strait and close for him as your little red clay
drinking-cups. Take my counsel and leave him, for neither
he nor I can abide jests.'

Sancho caught his words out of his mouth, and went on,
saying, *No, let'em come to make sport with the setting-dog
and ril let 'em alone, as sure as it is now night; let 'em bring
a comb hither, or what they will, and curry my beard, and if
they find anything foul in it let 'em shear me to fitters.'

'Then,' quoth the duchess, unable to leave laughing, 'San-
cho says well; he is clean, as he says, and needs no washing;
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SANCHO AND THE DUCHESS

and, if our custom please him not, let him take his choice.
Besides, you ministers of cleanliness have been very slack and
careless — I know not whether I may say presumptuous — to
bring to such a personage and such a beard, instead of a bason
and ewer of pure gold and diaper towels, your kneading-
troughs and dish-clouts; but you are unmannerly rascals, and,
like wicked wretches, must needs show the grudge you bear
to the squires of knights-errant.'

The rascal regiment, together with the carver that came
with them, thought verily the duchess was in earnest; so they
took the sieve-cloth from Sancho's neck, and even ashamed
went their ways and left him, who, seeing himself out of that,
as he thought, great danger, kneeled before the duchess, say-
ing, *From great ladies great favours are still expected: this
that your worship hath now done me cannot be recompensed
with less than to desire to see myself an armed knight-errant,
to employ myself all days of my life in the service of so high
a lady. I am a poor husbandman; my name is Sancho Panza;
children I have, and serve as a squire; if in any of these I may
serve your greatness I will be swifter in obeying than your
ladyship in commanding.'

^'Tiswell seen, Sancho,' quoth the duchess, 'that you have
learnt to be courteous in the very school of courtesy; I mean,
it seems well that you have been nursed at Don Quixote's
breast, who is the cream of compliment and the flower of cere-
monies. Well fare such a master and such a servant! the one
for north-star of knight-errantry, the other for the star of
squire-like fidelity. Rise, friend Sancho, for I will repay your
courtesy, in making my lord the duke, as soon as he can, per-
form the promise he hath made you, of being governor of the
island.'

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DON QUIXOTE

With this their discourse ceased, and Don Qui:^ote went
to his afternoon's sleep, and the duchess desired Sancho that,
if he were not very sleepy, he would pass the afternoon with ■
her and her damsels in a cool room. Sancho answered that,
though true it were that he was used in the afternoons to take
a some five hours' nap, yet to do her goodness service he
would do what he could not to take any that day, and would
obey her command; so he parted.

The duke gave fresh order for Don Quixote's usage to be
like a knight-errant, without differing a jot from the ancient
style of those knights.

364

CHAPTER XXXI I I

OF THE WHOLESOME DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWIXT

THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMOSELS, WITH SANCHO

PANZA, WORTHY TO BE READ AND NOTED

WELL, the Story tells us that Sancho slept not that
day, but according to his promise came when he
had dined to see the duchess, who, for the delight
she received to hear him, made him sit down by her in a low
chair, though Sancho, out of pure mannerliness, would not
sit; but the duchess bade him sit as he was governor, and
speak as he was squire, though in both respects he deserved
the very seat of Cid Ruydiaz the champion.

Sancho shrunk up his shoulders,' obeyed, and sat down,
and all the duchess's waiting-women and damosels stood round
about her, attending with great silence to Sancho's discourse;
but the duchess spake first, saying: * Now that we are all alone,
and that nobody hears us, I would signior governor would re-
solve me to certain doubts I have, arising from the printed
history of the grand Don Quixote, one of which is that, since
honest Sancho never saw Dulcinea — I say the Lady Dulcinea
del Toboso — neither carried her Don Quixote's letter (for it
remained in the note-book in Sierra Morena), how he durst
feign the answer, and that he found her sifting of wheat, this

'The Spaniards* lousy humility.

365

DON QUIXOTE

being a mock and a lie, and so prejudicial to the Lady Dul-
cinea's reputation, and so unbefitting the condition andfidelity
of a faithful squire.'

Here Sancho rose without answering a word, and softly
crooking his body, and with his finger upon his lips, he went
up and down the room, lifting up the hangings, which done,
he came and sat down again, and said, 'Now I see, madam,
that nobody lies in wait to hear us, besides the bystanders,
I will answer you, without fear or fright, all that you have
asked, and all that you will ask me. And first of all I say that I
hold my master Don Quixote for an Incurable madman, though
sometimes he speaks things that in my opinion, and so in all
theirs that hear him, are so discreet, and carried in so even a
track, that the devil himself cannot speak better; but truly
and without scruple, I take him to be a very frantic; for so I
have it in my mazzard, I dare make him believe that that hath
neither head nor foot, as was the answer of that letter, and
another thing that happened some eight days ago, which is
not yet in print, to wit, the enchantment of my Lady Dulcinea;
for I made him believe she is enchanted, it being as true as the
moon is made of green cheese.'

The duchess desired him to tell her that enchantment and
conceit, which he did just as it passed, at which the hearers
were not a little delighted. And, prosecuting her discourse,
the duchess said, ' I have one scruple leaps in my mind, touch-
ing what Sancho hath told me, and a certain buzz coming to
mine ears that tells me, if Don Quixote de la Mancha be such
a shallow madman and widgeon, and Sancho Panza his squire
know it, yet why,for all that, he serves and follows him, and
relies on his vain promises; doubtless he is as very a madman
and blockhead as his master, which being so as it is, it will be
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very unfitting for my lord the duke to give Sancho an island
to govern, for he that cannot govern himself will ill govern
others/

*ByV Lady,' quoth Sancho, ^that scruple comes in pud-
ding-time: but bid your buzz speak plain, or how he will, for
I know he says true; and if I had been wise I might long since
have left my master; but 'twas my luck, and this vile errantry;
I cannot do withal, I must follow him, we are both of one
place, I have eaten his bread, I love him well, he is thankful,
he gave me the ass-colts, and, above all, I am faithful, and
it is impossible any chance should part us but death. And if
your altitude will not bestow the government on me, with less
was I born, and perhaps the missing it might be better for my
conscience; for, though I be a fool, yet I understand the prov-
erb that says the ant had wings to do her hurt, and it may be
Sancho the squire may sooner go to heaven than Sancho the
governor. Here is as good bread made as in France; and in
the night Joan is as good as my lady; and unhappy is that man
that is to break his fast at two of the clock in the afternoon;
and there's no heart a handful bigger than another; and the
stomach is filled with the coarsest victuals ; and the little fowls
in the air have God for their provider and cater; and four
yards of coarse Cuenca cloth keep a man as warm as four of
fine Lemster wool of Segovia;' and when we once leave this
world, and are put into the earth, the prince goes in as narrow
a path as the journeyman; and the pope's body takes up no
more room than a sexton's, though the one be higher than the
other; for when we come to the pit all are even, or made so
in spite of their teeth and — and good night. Let me say again,
if your ladyship will not give me the island as I am a fool, FU

' Their Lemster breed came first out of England.

369

DON QUIXOTE

refuse it for being a wise man ; for I have heard say, the nearer
the church the further from God; and all is not gold that glis-
treth; and that from the oxen, plough, and yokes, the husband-
man Bamba was chosen for King of Spain ; and that Rodrigo,
from his tissues, sports, and riches, was cast out to be eaten
by snakes, if we may believe the rimes of the old romaunts,
that lie not.'

'Why, no more they do not,' said Donna Rodriguez, the
waiting woman, that was one of the auditors, ' for you have
one romaunt that says that Don Rodrigo was put alive Into a
tomb full of toads, snakes, and lizards, and some two days after,
from within the tomb, he cried with a low and pitiful voice,
"Now they eat, now they eat me in the place where I sinned
most"; and, according to this, this man hath reason to say he
had rather be a labourer than a king, to be eaten to death with
vermin.'

The duchess could not forbear laughing, to see the sim-
plicity of her woman, nor to admire to hear Sancho's prover-
bial reasons, to whom she said 'Honest Sancho knows that
when a gentleman once makes a promise he will perform it,
though it cost him his life. My lord and husband the duke,
though he be no errant, yet he is a knight, and so he will ac-
complish his promise of the island, in spite of envy or the
world's malice. Be of good cheer, Sancho; for when thou
least dreamest of it thou shalt be seated in the chair of thy
island, and of estate, and shalt clasp thy government in thy
robes of tissue. All that I charge thee is that you look to the
governing your vassals, for you must know they are all well-
born and loyal.'

' For governing,' quoth Sancho, * there's no charging me ;
for I am naturally charitable and compassionate to the poor,
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SANCHO AND THE DUCHESS

and of him that does well they will not speak ill, and, by my
hoHdam, they shall play me no false play. I am an old dog,
and understand all their ^' Hist! hist!" and I can snufF myself
when I see time, and I will let no cobwebs fall in my eyes, for
I know where my shoe wrings me; this I say because honest
men shall have hand and heart, but wicked men neither foot
nor fellowship. And methinks, for matter of government,
there is no more but to begin, and in fifteen days governor I
could manage the place, and know as well to govern as to
labour in which I was bred.'

* You have reason, Sancho,' quoth the duchess ; * for no man
is born wise, and bishops are made of men, and not of stones.
But, turning to our discourse that we had touching the Lady
Dulcinea's enchantment, I am more than assured that that im-
agination that Sancho had to put a trick upon his master, and
to make him think the country-wench was Dulcinea, that, if
his master knew her not, all was invented by some of those en-
chanters that persecute Signior Don Quixote; for I know
partly that that country-wench that leaped upon the ass-colt
was and is Dulcinea, and Sancho, thinking to be the deceiver,
is himself deceived; and there is no more to be doubted in this
than in things that we never saw. And know, Sancho, that
here we have our enchanters too, that love, and tell us plainly
and truly what passeth in the world, without tricks or devices;
and believe me, Sancho, that leaping wench was and is Dul-
cinea, who is enchanted as the mother that brought her forth,
and, when we least think of it, we shall see her in her proper
shape, and then Sancho will think he was deceived.'

* All this may be,' quoth Sancho, *and now will I believe
all that my master told me of Montesinos' Cave, where he said
he saw our mistress Dulcinea, in the same apparel and habit

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DON QUIXOTE

that I said I had seen her in, when I enchanted her at my
pleasure; and it may be, madam, all is contrary, as you say;
for, from my rude wit, it could not be presumed that I should
in an instant make such a witty lie; neither do I believe that
my master is so mad that with so poor and weak a persuasion
as mine he should believe a thing so incredible. But for all
that, good lady, do not think me to be so malevolent, for such
a leek as I am is not bound to bore into the thoughts and ma-
liciousness of most wicked enchanters. I feigned that to escape
from my master's threats, and not with any purpose to hurt
him; and, if it fell out otherwise, God is above that judgeth
all hearts.'

''Tis true,' said the duchess; 'but tell me, Sancho, what
is that you said of Montesinos' Cave? I should be glad to
hear it.' Then Sancho began to tell, word for word, all that
passed in that adventure, which when the duchess heard,
she said, ' Out of this success may be inferred that, since the
grand Don Quixote says that he saw there the same labouring
wench that Sancho saw at their coming from Toboso, with-
out doubt it is Dulcinea, and that in this the enchanters here
are very listening and wary.'

'This I said," quoth Sancho, 'that, if my Lady Dulcinea
del Toboso be enchanted, at her peril be it, for I'll have noth-
ing to do with my master's enemies, who are many, and bad
ones. True it is, that she that I saw was a country-wench, and
sol held her, and so I judged her to be; and if that were Dul-
cinea I'll not meddle with her, neither shall the blowze pass
upon my account. Ay, ay, let's have giving and taking every
foot: Sancho said it, Sancho did it, Sancho turned, Sancho re-
turned, as if Sancho were a dish-clout, and not the same San-
cho Panza that is now in print all the world over, as Samson
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SANCHO AND THE DUCHESS

Carrasco told me, who at least is one that is bachelorised in
Salamanca; and such men cannot lie, but when they list, or
that it much concerns them; so there is no reason any man
should deal with me, since I have a good report, and, as I have
heard my master say, better have an honest name than much
wealth. Let 'em join me to this government and they shall
see wonders; for he that hath been a good squire will easily
be a good governor.'

* Whatsoever Sancho hitherto hath said,' quoth the duch-
ess,* is Catonian sentences, or at least taken out of the very en-
trails of Michael Verinus, ** florentibus occidit annis." Well,
well, to speak as thou dost, a bad cloak often hides a good
drinker.' * Truly, madam,' said Sancho, * I never drank exces-
sively in my life; to quench my thirst sometimes I have, for I
am no hypocrite. I drink when I am dry, and when I am urged
to; for I love not to be nice or unmannerly; for what heart of
marble is there, that will not pledge a friend's carouse ? But,
though I take my cup, I go not away drunk; besides, your
knight-errant's squires ordinarily drink water, for they always
travel by forests, woods, meadows, mountains, craggy rocks,
and meet not with a pittance of wine, though they would give
an eye for it.' * I believe it,' said the duchess; ' and now, San-
cho, thou mayst repose thyself, and after we will talk at large,
and give order how thou mayst be joined, as thou sayst, to the
government.'

Sancho again gave the duchess thanks, but desired her she
would do him the kindness that his Dapple might be well
looked to. *What Dapple?' quoth she. *My ass,' said San-
cho ; * for, not to call him so, I say my Dapple, and when I came
into the castle I desired this waiting-woman to have a care on
him, and she grew so loud with me as if I called her ugly or

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DON QUIXOTE

old ; for I held it fitter for them to provender asses than to au-
thorise rooms. Lord God ! a gentleman of my town could not
endure these waiting-women.' ' Some peasant/ quoth Donna
Rodriguez, the waiting-woman; 'for, if he had been a gentle-
man and well-bred, he would have extolled them above the
moon.'

'Goto, no more,' quoth the duchess; 'peace, Rodriguez,
and be quiet, Sancho, and let me alone to see that Sancho's ass
be made much of; for, being Sancho's household stuff, I will
hold him on the apples of mine eyes.' 'Let him be in the
stable,' quoth Sancho; 'for neither he nor I am worthy to be
so much as a minute upon those apples of your greatness's
eyes; and I had as lief stab myself as consent to that; for, al-
though my master says that in courtesies one should rather
lose by a card too much than too little, yet in these ass-like
courtesies, and in your apples, it is fit to be wary and proceed
with discretion.' 'Carry him, Sancho,' quoth the duchess,
'to thy government; for there thou mayst cherish hira at thy
pleasure, and manumit him from his labour.' ' Do you think
you have spoken jestingly, lady duchess,' quoth Sancho ; ' for
I have seen more than two asses go to governments, and
'twould be no novelty for me to carry mine.'

Sancho's discourse renewed in the duchess more laughter
and content ; and, sending him to repose, she went to tell the
duke all that had passed between them, and both of them
plotted and gave order to put a jest upon Don Quixote that
might be a famous one, and suiting to his knightly style, in
which kind they played many pranks with him, so proper and
handsome that they are the best contained amongst all the ad-
ventures of this grand history.

374

CHAPTER XXXIV

HOW NOTICE IS GIVEN FOR THE DISENCHANTING OF
THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH
IS ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS ADVEN-
TURES IN ALL THIS BOOK

GREAT was the pleasure the duke and duchess received
with Don Quixote and Sancho Panza's conversation;
and they resolved to play some tricks with them, that
might carry some twilights and appearances of adventures.
They took for a motive that which Don Quixote had told unto
them of Montesinos' Cave, because they would have it a fa-
mous one; but that which the duchess most admired at was
that Sancho's simplicity should be so great that he should
believe for an infallible truth that Dulcinea was enchanted,
he himself having been the enchanter and the impostor of that
business. So, giving order to their servants for all they would
have done, some week after they carried Don Quixote to a
boar hunting, with such a troop of woodmen and hunters as
if the duke had been a crowned king. They gave Don Quixote
a hunter's suit, and to Sancho one of finest green cloth; but
Don Quixote would not put on his, saying that shortly he must
return again to the hard exercise of arms, and that therefore
he could carry no wardrobes or sumpters. But Sancho took
his, meaning to sell it with the first occasion oflFered.

The wished-for day being come, Don Quixote armed him-

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DON QUIXOTE

self, and Sancho clad himself, and upon his Dapple — for he
would not leave him, though they had given him a horse —
thrust himself amongst the troop of the woodmen. The duch-
ess was bravely attired, and Don Quixote out of pure cour-
tesy and manners took the reins of her palfrey, though the
duke would not consent. At last they came to a wood that
was between two high mountains, where taking their stands,
their lanes and paths, and the hunters divided into several
stands, the chase began with great noise, hooting and hollow-
ing, so that one could scarce hear another, as well for the cry
of the dogs as for the sound of the horns.

The duchess alighted, and, with a sharp javelin in her hand,
she took a stand by which she knew some wild boars were used
to pass. The duke also alighted, and Don Quixote, and stood
by her. Sancho stayed behind them all, but stirred not from
Dapple, whom he durst not leave, lest some ill chance should
befal him. And they had scarce lighted, and set themselves
in order with some servants, when they saw there came a huge
boar by them baited with the dogs, and followed by the hunt-
ers, gnashing his teeth and tusks, and foaming at the mouth ;
and Don Quixote, seeing him, buckling his shield to him and
laying hand on his sword, went forward to encounter him;
the like did the duke with his javelin ; but the duchess would
have been foremost of all, if the duke had not stopped her.
Only Sancho, when he saw the valiant beast, left Dapple, and
began to scud as fast as he could ; and striving to get up into
a high oak, it was not possible for him, but being even in the
midst of it, fastened to a bough, and striving to get to the top,
he was so unlucky and unfortunate that the bough broke, and,
as he was tumbling to the ground, he hung in the air fastened
to a snag of the oak, unable to come to the ground ; and see-

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THE BOAR-HUNT

ing himself in that perplexity, and that his green coat was
torn, and thinking that if that wild beast should come thither
he might lay hold on him, he began to cry out and call for help
so outrageously that all that heard him, and saw him not,
thought verily some wild beast was devouring him.

Finally, the tusky boar was laid along, with many javelins'
points, and Don Quixote turning aside to Sancho's noise, that
knew him by his note, he saw him hanging on the oak and his
head downward, and Dapple close by him, that never left him
in all his calamity; and Cid Hamet says that he seldom saw
Sancho without Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho, such was
the love and friendship betwixt the couple. Don Quixote went
and unhung Sancho, who, seeing himself free and on the
ground, beheld the torn place of his hunting-suit, and it grieved
him to the soul, for he thought he had of that suit at least an
inheritance.

And now they laid the boar athwart upon a great mule, and,
covering him with rosemary-bushes and myrtle boughs, he
was carried in sign of their victorious spoils to a great field-
tent that was set up in the midst of the wood, where the tables
were set in order, and a dinner made ready, so plentiful and
well dressed that it well showed the bounty and magnificence
of him that gave it.

Sancho, showing the wounds of his torn garment to the
duchess, said, ' If this had been hunting of the hare, my coat
had not seen itself in this extremity. I know not what pleas-
ure there can be in looking for a beast, that if he reach you
with a tusk, he may kill you. I have often heard an old song
that says:

" Of the bears mayst thou be eat,
As was Favila the Great."

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DON QUIXOTE

'He was aGothish king,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that, going
a-hunting in the mountains, a bear eat him.' 'This I say,'
said Sancho, ' I would not that kings and princes should thrust
themselves into such dangers, to enjoy their pleasure; for
what pleasure can there be to kill a beast that hath committed
no fault?'

' You are in the wrong, Sancho,' quoth the duke ; ' for the
exercise of beast-hunting is the necessariest for kings and
princes that can be. The chase is a show of war, where there
be stratagems, crafts, deceits to overcome the enemy at pleas-
ure; in it you have sufferings of cold and intolerable heats,
sleep and idleness are banished, the powers are corroborated,
the members agilitated. In conclusion, 'tis an exercise that
may be used without prejudice to anybody, and to the pleas-
ure of everybody, and the best of it is that it is not common,
as other kinds of sports are, except flying at the fowl, only fit
for kings and princes. Therefore, Sancho, change thy opin-
ion, and when thou art a governor follow the chase, and thou
shalt be a hundred times the better.'

'Not so,' quoth Sancho; ''tis better for your governor to
have his legs broken and be at home. 'Twere very good that
poor suitors should come and seek him, and he should be tak-
ing his pleasure in the woods; 'twould be a sweet government,
i' faith. Good faith, sir, the chase and pastimes are rather for
idle companions than governors. My sport shall be vyed
trump at Christmas, and at skittle-pins Sundays and holidays;
for your hunting is not for my condition, neither doth it agree
with my conscience.'

' Pray God, Sancho, it be so,' quoth the duke ; * for to do
and to say go a several way.' ' Let it be how 'twill,' said San-
cho; 'for a good paymaster needs no pledge, and God's help

SANCHO'S PROVERBS

is better than early rising; and the belly carries the legs, and
not the legs the belly. I mean that, if God help me, and I do
honestly what I ought, without doubt I shall govern as well as
a jer-falcon. Ay, ay, put your finger in my mouth, and see if
I bite or no.'

* A mischief on thee, cursed Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote,
* and when shall we hear thee, as I have often told thee, speak
a wise speech, without a proverb? My lords, I beseech you
leave this dunce; for he will grind your very souls, not with
his two, but his two thousand proverbs, so seasonable as such
be his health or mine if I hearken to them.'

* Sancho's proverbs,' quoth the duchess, * although they be
more than Mallaria's, yet they are not less to be esteemed than
his, for their sententious brevity. For my part, they more de-
light me than others that be far better and more fitting.'

With these and such-like savoury discourses they went out
of the tent to the wood, to seek some more sport; and the day
was soon past, and the night came on, and not so light and
calm as the time of the year required, it being about midsum-
mer: but a certain dismalness it had, agreeing much with the
dukes' intention. And so as it grew to be quite dark it seemed
that upon a sudden all the wood was on fire, through every
part of it; and there were heard here and there, this way and
that way, an infinite company of cornets and other warlike in-
struments, and many troops of horse that passed through the
wood; the light of the fire and the sound of the warlike instru-
ments did as it were blind and stunned the eyes and ears of the
bystanders and of all those that were in the wood. Straight
they heard a company of Moorish cries,' such as they use when
they join battle; drums and trumpets sounded, and fifes, all,

I Le-li-lies, like the cries of the wild Irish.

38l

DON QUIXOTE

as it were, in an instant, and so fast that he that had had his
senses might have lost them, with the confused sound of these
instruments.

The duke was astonished, the duchess dismayed, Don
Quixote wondered, Sancho trembled; and finally even they
that knew the occasion were frighted. Their fear caused a gen-
eral silence, and a post in a devil's weed passed before them,
sounding, instead of a cornet, a huge hollow horn that made a
hoarse and terrible noise. ' Hark you, post," quoth the duke;
' what are you ? Whither go you ? And what men of war are
they that cross over the wood ?' To which the post answered,
with a horrible and free voice, *I am the devil; I go to seek
Don Quixote de la Mancha ; and they which come here are six
troops of enchanters that bring the peerless Dulcinea del To-
boso upon a triumphant chariot; she comes here enchanted
with the brave Frenchman Montesinos.to give order to Don
Quixote how she may be disenchanted.' 'If thou wert a devil,
as thou sayst,' quoth the duke, ' and as thy shape shows thee
to be, thou wouldst have known that knight Don Quixote de
la Mancha ; for he is here before thee.' ' In my soul and con-
science,' quoth the devil, ' I thought not on it ; for I am so di-
verted with my several cogitations that I quite forgot the chief
for which I came.' * Certainly,' said Sancho, 'this devil is an
honest fellow, and a good Christian; for if he were not he
would not have sworn by his soul and conscience. And now
I believe that in hell you have honest men.'

Straight the devil, without lighting, directing his sight
toward Don Quixote, said, 'The unlucky but valiant knight
Montesinos sends me to thee, O Knight of the Lions — for me-
thinksnowl see thee in their paws — commanding me to tell
thee from him that thou expect him here, where he will meet

THE DEVIL-POST

thee; for he hath with him Dulcinea del Toboso, and means
to give thee instruction how thou shalt disenchant her. And
now I have done my message I must away, and the devils like
me be with thee; and good angels guard the rest/ And this
said, he winds his monstrous horn, and turned his back, and
went without staying for any answer.

Each one began afresh to admire, especially Sancho and
Don Quixote, — Sancho to see that, in spite of truth, Dulcinea
must be enchanted : Don Quixote to think whether that were
true that befel him in Montesinos' Cave; and, being elevated
in these dumps, the duke said to him, ^ Will you stay, Signior
Don Quixote ? ' ' Should I not ?' quoth he. ' Here will I stay
courageous and undaunted, though all the devils in hell should
close with me.' * Well,' quoth Sancho, ' if I hear another devil
and another horn, I'll stay in Flanders as much as here.'

Now it grew darker, and they might perceive many lights
up and down the wood, like the dry exhalations of the earth
in the sky, that seem to us to be shooting-stars; besides, there
was a terrible noise heard, just like that of your creaking
wheels of ox-wains, from whose piercing squeak, they say,
bears and wolves do fly, if there be any the way they pass. To
this tempest there was another added, that increased the rest,
which was that it seemed that in all four parts of the wood
there were four encounters or battles in an instant; for there
was first a sound of terrible cannon-shot, and an infinite com-
pany of guns were discharged, and the voices of the combat-
ants seemed to be heard by and by afar oflF, the Moorish cries
reiterated.

Lastly, the trumpets, cornets and horns, drums, cannons
and guns, and, above all, the fearful noise of the carts, all to-
gether made a most confused and horrid sound, which tried

383

DON QUIXOTE

Don Quixote's uttermost courage to suffer it ; but Sancho was
quite gone, and fell in a swoon upon the duchess's coats, who
received him and commanded they should cast cold water in
his face, which done, he came to himself, just as one of the
carts of those whistling wheels came to the place. Four lazy
oxen drew it, covered with black cloths; at every horn they had
alighted torch tied, and on the top of the cart there was a high
seat made, upon which a venerable old man sat, with a beard
as white as snow, and so long that it reached to his girdle;
his garment was a long gown of black buckram : for because
the cart was full of lights, all within it might very well be dis-
cerned and seen; two ugly spirits guided it, clad in the said
buckram, so monstrous that Sancho, after he had seen them,
winked, because he would sec 'em no more. When the cart
drew near to their standing the venerable old man rose from
his seat, and, standing up, with a loud voice, said, ' I am the
wise Lyrgander'; and the cart passed on, he not speaking a
word more.

After this, there passed another cart in the same manner,
with another old man enthronised, who, making the cart stay,
with a voice no less lofty than the other, said, ' I am the wise
Alquife, great friend to the ungrateful Urganda'; and on he
went. And straight another cart came on, the same pace; but
he that sat in the chief seat was no old man, as the rest, but
a good robustious fellow, and ill-favoured, who, when he came
near, rose up, as the rest; but, with a voice more hoarse and
devilish, said, ' I am Archelaus the enchanter, mortal enemy
to Amadis de Gaul, and all his kindred'; and so on he passed.
All three of these carts, turning a little forward, made a stand,
and the troublesome noise of their wheels ceased, and straight
there was heard no noise, but a sweet and consenting sound
384

MUSIC

of well-formed music, which comforted Sancho, and he held
it for a good sign, and he said thus to the duchess, from whom
he stirred not a foot, not a jot: * Madam, where there is music,
there can be no ill/ * Neither,' quoth the duchess, * where
there is light and brightness.' To which said Sancho, ^The
fire gives light, and your bonfires, as we see, and perhaps
might burn us; but music is always a sign of feasting and jol-
lity.' * You shall see that,' quoth Don Quixote, for he heard
all, and he said well, as you shall see in the next chapter.

385