DON QUIXOTE
VOL. I.
TH E
INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MA NCHA
B Y
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.
With Introduction and Notes.
B Y
JOHN ORMSBY,
Translator oflhe Poem of the Cid"
IN FOUR VOLS._ I.
LONDON,
SMITH, ELDER & C9 15, WATERLOO PLACE
1885.
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIBST VOLUME.
INTRODUCTION :
PREFATORY 1
CERVANTES . 13
'DoN QUIXOTE' 51
PART I.
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE 81
COMMENDATORY VERSES 98
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS
GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA . ... 105
CHAPTER II.
WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE
MADE FROM HOME 114
CHAPTER III.
WHEREIN is RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE
HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A KNIGHT . 124
vy.v OF
. \v\\.\\ iv.
PACK
B KNIiiHT \\1IKN Hi: U.KT THF. INN . 1 '.\\
OF on: KXKillT'S MISHAP IS COX-
....... . . . . 145
CHAPTEE VI.
Mi IMl'oKTANT SCRUTINY WHICH TI1K CURATE
IN THE LIBRARY OF OUIi IN(iK\I()rs
.......... 152
CHA1TKR VII.
i !.V OK UUU WOI.'THY KXK1IIT I >ON ^L'lXOTE
I \ M\N« HA .......... 1I5S
OHAPTEB VIII.
.'. JIK'H THK VALIANT J)(»X (^TIXOTE HAD
\NI> r\J)i;KAMT-()F ADVKNTrUi; el.' THU
WIM' PH OTHBB OCCURRENCES \\oi;THY To J5K FITLY
" ........... 170
CHAPTEB IX.
\M» l-INJSI|];i) Tin J'. \TTI.K
BlBOATAM \ND Tin; \AI.I\NT MAN-
....... . . iss
CHAPTEB X.
DOM Quixi
l'\N/\ ...... I'.),)
\I.
K)ATHERD8 . '20-\
THE FIRST VOLUME. vii
CHAPTER XII.
PAOK
()F WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE . 214
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA.
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS ........
CHAPTER XIV.
\YHKKEIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD
SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED
FOU
CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT
QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN
HEARTLESS YANGUESANS '249
CHAPTER XVI.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN
WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE 2()ft"
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH
THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE &ANCHO
PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MISFORTUNE
HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
CHAPTER XVIII.
IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH
HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER ADVEN-
TURES WORTH RELATING
/'///: FIRST VOLUME.
CHAPTEB XIX.
WHICH SANCHO IIKLD WITH HIS
: TIII-: ADVENTI :I;E THAT HEFELL HIM WITH A
IKK WITH OTHKK NOTABLE OCCURRENCES . 25)8
(•HAITKI! XX.
LMPLED \\D UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS
\. HI ;MK VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
:l. Tll\\ ANY FA KU ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS
\ iii). WOULD ........ 310
CHAPTEB XXL
\\IIIt II Tl.T. VTS <>K THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRI/.E
M \Mi:i;iNn's HI:LMET, TOUETMEU WITH OTHER THIN«;S
[NVINCIBLE KNIGHT . . . . 8'2(.)
CHAPTEB XXII.
DOM (JJ'IXDTE (ONFKI;UED ON SEVEUAL UN-
110 AtiAlNsT THKI1! WILL WERE BEIXG CARRIED
•Will l:i -IJIl-.V HAD NO WISH To (iO H-K)
CHAPTEB XXLII.
B IN THE SlEIIKA MolIENA, WHICH
.-[l ADVKNTL-KES RELATED IN THIS
30'2
CHAI'Tl-.K XXIV.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SlERHA Mo-
MAP.
. v MANCII \ . . . 7'n Jar.
iV
INTRODUCTION.
PREFATORY.
IT was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour
of the present undertaking what had long been a favourite
project, that of a new edition of Shelton's ' Don Quixote,'
which has now become a somewhat scarce book. There are
some — and I confess myself to be one — for whom Shelton's
racy old version, with all its defects, has a charm that no modern
translation, however skilful or correct, could possess. Shelton
had the inestimable advantage of belonging to the same genera-
tion as Cervantes ; ' Don Quixote ' had to him a vitality that
only a contemporary could feel ; it cost him no dramatic effort to
see things as Cervantes saw them ; there is no anachronism
in his language ; he put the Spanish of Cervantes into the
English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most likely knew
the book ; he may have carried it home with him in his saddle-
bags to Stratford on one of his last journeys, and under the
mulberry tree at New Place joined hands with a kindred genius
in its pages.
But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even a
moderate popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted
English would, no doubt, be relished by a minority, but it would
be only by a minority. His version has strong claims on senti-
mental grounds, but on sentimental grounds only. His warmest
admirers must admit that he is not a satisfactory representative
of Cervantes. His translation of the First Part was very hastily
made — in forty days he says in his dedication — and, as his
marginal notes show, never revised by him. It has all the fresh -
VOL. I. B
2 INTRODUCTION.
nesg a . Inn also a full measure of the faults, of a hasty
\ literal- -barbarously literal frequently
as often very loose. He had evidently a good col-
; Spanish, hut apparently not much more.
occur to him that the same translation of
-.1 will not suit in , so. With him 'discrete' — a
chameleon of a word in its way of taking various meanings
rcomstancee is always 'discreet,' ' admirar ' is
• admin-.' ' sucesos ' always ' successes ' (which it seldom
honest' (which it never means),
• suspended ; ' ' desmayarse,' to swoon or
• to dismay ' (one lady is a ' mutable and dis-
.' when ' li<-kle and fainting ' is meant, and an-
other -made shew of dismaying' when she 'seemed ready to
. a crisis or einer^eney, is always simply 'trance; '
,' which, however, if not a trans-
i illustration of the meaning, for it is indeed 'non-
Tin si an- nu-ivly a few samples taken at haphazard, but
.ill sulVu-e to show how Shelton translated, and why his
as it is to the Cervantist and
c of old books and old English, cannot be accepted as
an adequate translation.
It id that \ io satisfactory translation of
• hoit To those who are familiar with the original, it
truism or platitude to say so, for in truth there can
lation of 'Don Quixote' into
1 1 is not that the Spanish idioms
Mile, or that the untranslatable words,
di no doubt, are, so superabundant, but rather
io which the humour of the book
Spanish, and can at best be only
•Iy imitated in any other tongue. The dilemma of the
i hat tei-M ^cntial to the
sage, but if he translates he will
not b<
f our English translations of ' Don Quixote ' is
PREFATORY. 3
instructive. Shelton's, the first in any language, was made, appa-
rently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of course was
only the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second, pub-
lished in 1620, is not the work of Shelton, but there is nothing to
support the assertion save the fact that it has less spirit, less of
what we generally understand by ' go,' about it than the first,
which would be only natural if the first were the work of a young
man writing currents calamo, and the second that of a middle-
aged man writing for a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer
and more literal, the style is the same, the very same translations,
or mistranslations, of ' suceso,' ' trance,' * desmayarse,' &c. occur
in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a new translator would, by
suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to carry off the credit.
In 1687 John Phillips, Milton's nephew, produced a 'Don
Quixote' 'made English,' he says, ' according to the humour of
our modern language.' The origin of this attempt is plain
enough. In 1656 that indecorous Oxford Don, Edmond Gayton,
had produced his 'Festivous Notes on Don Quixote,' a string of
jests, more or less dirty, on the incidents in the story, which
seems to have been much relished ; and in 1667 Sir Eoger
1'Estrange had published his version of Quevedo's ' Visions' from
the French of La Geneste, a book which the lively though
•decidedly coarse humour, cockney jokes and London slang,
wherewith he liberally seasoned it, made a prodigious favourite
with the Kestoration public. It struck Phillips that, as Shelton
was now rather antiquated, a ' Don Quixote ' treated in the same
way might prove equally successful. He imitated L'E strange as
well as he could, but L'Estrange was a clever penman and a
humourist after his fashion, while Phillips was only a dull
buffoon. His ' Quixote ' is not so much a translation as a travesty,
and a travesty that for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is
almost unexampled even in the literature of that day.
Ned Ward's ' Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote,
merrily translated into Hudibrastic Verse' (1700), can scarcely be
reckoned a translation, but it serves to show the light in which
4 Don Quixote ' was regarded at the time.
4 PRODUCTION.
A further illustration may be found in the version published
., who had then recently combined tea-
1 1 is described as ' translated from the
hut if so all Spanish flavour has entirely
evaporated under tin- manipulation of the several hands. The
luix. on the other hand, is distinctly Franco-
Hi- who compares it carefully with the original
will 1,; loubt that it is a concoction from Shelton and the
it of Filleau de Saint Martin, eked out by borrowings from
IMiilli; mode of treatment it adopts. It is, to be sure,
more d d decorous, but it treats 'Don Quixote' in the
same fashion a- a comic book that cannot be made too comic.
To attempt to improve the humour of 'Don Quixote' by an
infusion of cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux's
nl. i< not merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin
•it an absolute falsification of the spirit of the
book, a proof of the uncritical way in which 'Don
rally read that this worse than worthless transla-
tion- '-liling to represent, worse than worthless a&
nting— should have been favoured as it has been.
.5 should have heen popular in its own day, or that a critic
who understood the original so little as Alexander Fraser Tytler
should think it ' by far the best,' is no great wonder. But that
Ticknor should have given it even the
iijijimval lie Inflows upon it, and that it should have
reproduction in luxurious shapes three or four
\vithin these last three or four years, is somewhat surprising.
of humour, and intimate knowledge!
the Spanish character, make him a more trust-
this partieular question than even the illustrious
it of all Knglish translations ' the very worst.'
'i and could not be worse
:]ority of those \\lio can relish 'Don
inal will confirm the judgment substantially.
It ! :. of bringing out a, translation
in a very dilVereiit spirit, that of Charles:
PREFATORY. 5
Jervas, the portrait painter, and friend of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot,
and Gay. Jervas has been allowed little credit for his work,
indeed it may be said none, for it is known to the world in general
as Jarvis's. It was not published until after his death, and the
printers gave the name according to the current pronunciation
of the day. It has been the most freely used and the most freely
abused of all the translations. It has seen far more editions than
any other, it is admitted on all hands to be by far the most faithful,
and yet nobody seems to have a good word to say for it or for its
author. Jervas no doubt prejudiced readers against himself in his
preface, where among many true words about Shelton, Stevens,
and Motteux, he rashly and unjustly charges Shelton with having
translated not from the Spanish, but from the Italian version of
Franciosini, which did not appear until ten years after Shelton's
first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too, seems to have
attached to him because he was by profession a painter and a
mediocre one (though he has given us the best portrait we have of
Swift), and this may have been strengthened by Pope's remark that
he 'translated " Don Quixote" without understanding Spanish.'
He has been also charged with borrowing from Shelton, whom
he disparaged. It is true that in a few difficult or obscure passages
he has followed Shelton, and gone astray with him ; but for one
case of this sort, there are fifty where he is right and Shelton
wrong. As for Pope's dictum, anyone who examines Jervas's
version carefully, side by side with the original, will see that he
was a sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one than
Shelton, except perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. Unlike
Shelton, and indeed most translators, who are generally satisfied
with the first dictionary meaning or have a stereotyped trans-
lation for every word under all circumstances, he was alive to
delicate distinctions of meaning, always an important matter in
Spanish, but especially in the Spanish of Cervantes, and his
notes show that he was a diligent student of the great Spanish
Academy Dictionary, at least its earlier volumes ; for he died
in- 1739, the year in which the last was printed. His notes
show, besides, that he was a man of very considerable reading,
6 INTRODUCTION.
t of chivalry romance, and they
in in; mtieipate Howie, who generally has the
Quixote ' annotator and commentator.
nthful. and painstaking translator,
siml 1., ' -ion which, whatever its shortcomings may
be, is singular!} tYi-r from errors and mistranslations.
Tl:> si it is that it is stiff, dry — ' wooden' in a
-and no one can deny that there is foundation for it. But it
may be pleaded ' that a good deal of this rigidity is due
, of the light, flippant, jocose style of his prede-
1 3 one of the few, very few, translators that have
shown any app of the unsmiling gravity which is the
otic humour ; it seemed to him a crime to bring
••d smirking and grinning at his own good things,
) this may he attributed in a great measure the ascetic
abstii rvthing savouring of liveliness which is the
iraiislation. Could he have caught but ever
Arbutlmot's style, he might have hit upon a
would have made his version as readable as it is
il. or at ;ived him from the reproach of having
marn-i in 'Don Quixote.' In most modern
should he observed, his style has been smoothed and
hut without any reference to the original Spanish, so
made to read more agreeably he has also
'•hief merit of fidelity.
. published in \i:>~>. may be almost counted
iate it is plain that in its construction
very freely drawn upon, and very little
io the original Spanish.
'ions may he dismissed in a few words.
which iip; 17W, ' printed for the Trans-
re, being nothing more than
ith a few of the words, here and then-, art-
Wilmot's i 1771 1 was only an ahridg-
• skilfully. and lh«- version
in 1N1S. to accompany her brother's
PREFATORY, 7
plates, was merely a patchwork production made out of former
translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J. Duffield's, it would be in
every sense of the word impertinent in me to offer an opinion
here. I had not even seen it when the present undertaking was
proposed to me, and since then I may say vidi tantum, having
for obvious reasons resisted the temptation which Mr. Duffield's
reputation and comely volumes hold out to every lover of
Cervantes.
From the foregoing history of our translations of ' Don
Quixote,' it will be seen that there are a good many people who,
provided they get the mere narrative with its full complement
of facts, incidents, and adventures served up to them in a form
that amuses them, care very little whether that form is the one
in which Cervantes originally shaped his ideas. On the other
hand, it is clear that there are many who desire to have
not merely the story he tells, but the story as he tells it, so-
far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances permit,,
and who will give a preference to the conscientious trans-
lator, even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat
awkwardly. It is not very likely that readers of the first class
are less numerous now than they used to be, but it is no extra-
vagant optimism to assume that there are many more of the
other way of thinking than there were a century and a half ago.
But after all there is no real antagonism between the two
classes ; there is no reason why what pleases the one should not
please the other, or why a translator who makes it his aim to
treat 'Don Quixote' with the respect due to a great classic, should
not be as acceptable even to the careless reader as the one who
treats it as a famous old jest-book. It is not a question of caviare
to the general, or, if it is, the fault rests with him who makes it so.
The method by which Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish people
ought, mutatis mutandis, to be equally effective with the great ma-
jority of English readers. At any rate, even if there are readers
to whom it is a matter of indifference, fidelity to the method is as
much a part of the translator's duty as fidelity to the matter.
If he can please all parties, so much the better; but his first
\
S INTRODUCTION.
look to him lor as faithful a representation
of i,|_ [a in his power to give them, faithful to the
is iiract i cable, faithful to the spirit so
it.
\\; bo fidelity to the letter, there is of course no
o be observed; a translator is bound to be
is lie fan, but persistence in absolute literality,
n- author's idea in the shape the author
:t an offence against fidelity as the loosest
. As to fidelity to the spirit, perhaps the only rule
is for the translator to sink his own individuality altogether, and
with reflecting his author truthfully. It is dis-
regard of this rule that makes French translations, admirable as
11 v are in till that belongs to literary workmanship,
so often u : >ry. French translators, for the most part,
• > consider themselves charged with the duty of introducing
nithor to polite society, and to feel themselves in a measure
for his behaviour. There is always in their versions
: in air of • I lear your body more seeming, Audrey.' Viardot,
• . has produced a ' Don Quixote' that is delightfully
• ad ing ; but the Castilian character has been
smoothed away. He has forced Cervantes into a French mould,
•moulding his French to the features of Cervantes. It
fair, perhaps, to expect a Frenchman to efface himself
•lav second fiddle under any circumstances; but
to lo<>i tiOD inn- to the spirit from a translator who
improve his author is, as a Spaniard would
say, ' MI,, the elm tree.'
however, is not to dogmatise on the rules
on, but to indicate those I have followed, or at least
ility to follow, in the present instance.
«-an not be too rigidly followed in
10 avoid everything that savours of
The book il deed, in one >rotest
bhorred it. more than Cervantes. ' Toda
; his favourite proverbs. For this
reason, I thin! .ptation to use antiquated or obsolete
PREFATORY. 9
language should be resisted. It is after all an affectation, and one
for which there is no warrant or excuse. Spanish has probably
undergone less change since the seventeenth century than any
language in Europe, and by far the greater and certainly the
best part of ' Don Quixote ' differs but little in language from the
colloquial Spanish of the present day. That wonderful supper-
table conversation on books of chivalry in chap, xxxii. Part I. is
just such a one as might be heard now in any venta in Spain.
Except in the tales and Don Quixote's speeches, the trans-
lator who uses the simplest and plainest everyday language
will almost always be the one who approaches nearest to the
original.
Seeing that the story of ' Don Quixote ' and all its characters
.and incidents have now been for more than two centuries and a
half familiar as household words in English mouths, it seems to
me that the old familiar names and phrases should not be
changed without good reason. I am by no means sure that I
have done rightly in dropping Shelton's barbarous title of
' Curious Impertinent ' by which the novel in the First Part has
been so long known. It is not a translation, and it is not
English, but it has so long passed current as the title of the story
that its original absurdity has been, so to speak, effaced by
time and use. ' Ingenious ' is, no doubt, not an exact translation
of ' Ingenioso ; ' but even if an exact one could be found, I
doubt if any end would be served by substituting it. No one
is likely to attach the idea of ingenuity to Don Quixote.1 ' Dapple '
is not the correct translation of ' rucio,' as I have pointed out
in a note, but it has so long done duty as the distinctive title
of Sancho's ass that nobody, probably, connects the idea of
colour with it. * Curate ' is not an accurate translation of ' cura,'
1 ' Ingenio ' was used in Cervantes' time in very nearly the same way
as ' wit ' with us at about the same period, for the imaginative or inventive
faculty. Collections of plays were always described as being by ' les me j ores
ingenios ' — ' the best wits.' By ' Ingenioso ' he means one in whom the
imagination is the dominant faculty, overruling reason. The opposite is
the ' discrete,' he in whom the discerning faculty has the upper hand— he
whose reason keeps the imagination under due control. The distinction is
admirably worked out in chapters xvi., xvii. and xviii. of Part II.
I0 INTRODUCTION.
ifl likrly to confound Don Quixote's good fussy neigh-
es in modern fiction. For ' Knight
t'ul Countenance,' no defence is necessary, for, as I
.-hap. xix. i, it is quite right ; Sancho uses ' triste
figura ' -yinous \\ith ' mala cara.'
i tilings peculiarly Spanish, like ' olla,' 'bota,'
think, better left in their original Spanish ;
•lions like 'bottle' and 'saddle-bags' give an incorrect
idea, and books of travel in Spain have made the words sum-
familiar to most readers. It is less easy to deal with the
I words that are untranslatable, or at least translatable only
by two or more words; such words as ' desengano,' 'discrete,'
ire,1 and tbc like, which in cases where conciseness is of
ml importance with literality must often be left only
!ly translated.
Of course a translator who holds that 'Don Quixote' should
the treatment a great classic deserves, will feel himself
bound by the injunction laid upon the Morisco in chap. ix. not
H or add anything. Everyone who takes up a sixteenth or
tury author knows very well beforehand that he
•: to find strict observance of the canons of nine-
oricty. Two or three hundred years ago, words,
<! allusions were current in ordinary conversation which
would he as inadmissible now as the costume of our first parents,
M author who reflects the life and manners of his time must
:ly reflect its language also.
of Cervantes. There is no more apology
il on his In-half than on behalf of the age in which he lived.
Mithors for whom dirt has the attraction
bfl bluebottle ; be was not even one of those that with a
jolly indifV. TOM-., nvat it as capital matter to make a joke of.
with his contemporaries and most of his successors who
•Aith lit'.' and manners, be is purity itself; there are words,
luflions that one could wish away, there are tilings
all— that oiVend one, but there is no
imp" • nee in tin- writings of (Vrv:r
PREFATORY. n
The text I have followed generally is Hartzenbusch's. But
Hartzenbusch, though the most scholarly of the editors and com-
mentators of * Don Quixote,' is not always an absolutely safe guide.
His text is preferable to that of the Academy in being, as far as
the First Part is concerned, based upon the first of La Cuesta's
three editions, instead of the third, which the Academy took as
its basis on the supposition (an erroneous one, as I have shown
elsewhere) that it had been corrected by Cervantes himself. His
emendations are frequently admirable, and remove difficulties and
make rough places smooth in a manner that must commend itself
to every intelligent reader ; but his love and veneration for
Cervantes too often get the better of the judicious conservatism
that should be an editor's guiding principle in dealing with the text
of an old author. Notwithstanding the abundant evidence before
him that Cervantes was — to use no stronger word — a careless
writer, he insists upon attributing every blunder, inconsistency,
or slipshod or awkward phrase to the printers. Cervantes, he
argues, wrote a hasty and somewhat illegible hand, his failing eye-
sight made revision or correction of his manuscript an irksome
task to him, and the printers were consequently often driven
to conjecture. He considers himself, therefore, at liberty to reject
whatever jars upon his sense of propriety, and substitute what, in
his judgment, Cervantes ' must have written.'
It is needless to point out the destructive results that would
follow the adoption of this principle in settling the text of old
authors. In Hartzenbusch's ' Don Quixote ' it has led to a good
deal of unnecessary tampering with the text, and, in not a few
instances, to something that is the reverse of emendation. He
is not, therefore, by any means an editor to be slavishly followed,
though all who know his editions will cordially acknowledge his
services, among which may be reckoned his judicious arrange-
ment of the text into paragraphs, and the care he has bestowed
upon the punctuation, matters too much neglected by his pre-
decessors. Nor is the valuable body of notes he has brought
together the least of them. In this respect he comes next to
Clemencin ; but the industry and erudition of that indefatigable
INTRODUCTION.
I. -ft comparatively few gleanings for those
him.
I have had frequent recourse,
a will show. Notes are unfortunately indispens-
Don Quixote,' and the old question arises
v hetter placed at the end of the chapter or at
n)t of the page. There are objections to both plans.
that encroach upon the page are an eyesore and in
impertinence ; on the other hand, it is not fair
rrupt tin- reader and send him to another part of the book
[ perhaps one or two lines of information. The
dilliculty may be in some degree met by keeping the shorter
«y reach, and relegating the longer to the end of
the chap'
traduced by Cervantes in the First Part have
printed in a smaller type; they are, as he himself freely
iiisivc matter, and if they cannot be removed, they
should at least he distinguished as wholly subordinate.
It i to say that the account given in the appendix
of the editions and translations of * Don Quixote' does not
full bibliography, which, indeed, would require a
volume to it-elf. It is, however, though necessarily an imper-
. fuller and more accurate, I think, than any that has
ind it will, at any rate, serve to show, better than
my other means, how the book made its way
id. and at the same time indicate the relative import-
editions.
The account of the chivalry romances will give the reader
"f the extent and character of the literature that
-upp] ''h the motive for ' Don Quixote.'
form a part of the national literature of Spain, and
' have always been regarded as a
of the hook. They are, moreover, indepen-
himiour, ;ind sagacity, choice specimens of
r will probably, therefore, be glad to
-•an^ed alphabetically accord-
PREFATORY. 13
ing to what is of course the only rational arrangement for
proverbs, that of key-words, and numbered for convenience of
reference in the notes.
CERVANTES.
FOUR generations had laughed over ' Don Quixote ' before it
occurred to anyone to ask, who and what manner of man was
this Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra whose name is on the title-
page ; and it was too late for a satisfactory answer to the question
when it was proposed to add a life of the author to the London
edition published at Lord Carteret's instance in 1738. All traces
of the personality of Cervantes had by that time disappeared.
Any floating traditions that may once have existed, transmitted
from men who had known him, had long since died out, and of
other record there was none ; for the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries were incurious as to ' the men of the time,' a reproach
against which the nineteenth has, at any rate, secured itself, if it
has produced no Shakespeare or Cervantes. All that Mayans y
Siscar, to whom the task was entrusted, or any of those who
followed him, Kios, Pellicer, or Navarrete, could do was to eke
out the few allusions Cervantes makes to himself in his various
prefaces with such pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon
his life as they could find.
This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer to
such good purpose that, while he has superseded all predecessors,
he has left it somewhat more than doubtful whether any suc-
cessor will ever supersede him. Thoroughness is the chief
characteristic of Navarrete's work. Besides sifting, testing,
and methodising with rare patience and judgment what had
been previously brought to light, he left, as the saying is, no
stone unturned under which anything to illustrate his subject
might possibly be found, and all the research of the sixty-five
years that have elapsed since the publication of his * Life
of Cervantes ' has been able to add but little or nothing of
, 4 INTRODUCTION.
of tacts lie collected and put in order.
I one all that industry and acumen could do, and
.It of liis if lit- has not given us what we want. What
Hallam says of Shakespeare may be applied to the almost parallel
case of Cervantes : 4 It is not the register of his baptism, or the
if his will, or the orthography of his name that we seek;
t his writing, no record of his conversation, no charac-
liini drawn with any fulness by a contemporary has been
P.y the irony of fate all or almost all we know of the
.Id lias ever seen is contained in documents
the most prosaic the art of man can produce, and he who of all
tlu- men that ever lived soared highest above this earth is seen to
us only as a long-headed man of business, as shrewd and metho-
as the veriest Philistine among us. Of
i tainly know more than we do of Shakespeare, but
of what we know the greater part is derived from sources of the
troin formal documents of one kind or another. Here,
semblance ends. In Shakespeare's case the docu-
\ idence points always to prosperity and success ; in
vantt s it tells of difficulties, embarrassments, or
only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cervantes,
i.rick without straw, should have recourse largely
to con id that conjecture should in some instances come
to take the place of established fact. All that I
propose to do here is to separate what is matter of fact from
of conjecture, and leave it to the reader's judg-
decide \\h» ther the data justify the inference or not.
iines by common consent stand in the front
I'aiiish Literature, Cervantes, Pope de Vega, Quevedo,
•he Mendo/as, (longora, were
J'H ni» 11 of anri.nt families, and, curiously, all, except the last,
i igin to the same mountain district
ih of Spain. The family of Cervantes is commonly
(ialician origin, and un.piesf ionably it was
-session of lands in (ialicia at a very early date ; but I
CERVANTES. 15
think the balance of the evidence tends to show that the ' solar,'
the original site of the family, was at Cervatos in the north-west
corner of Old Castile, close to the junction of Castile, Leon, and
the Asturias. As it happens, there is a complete history of the
Cervantes family from the tenth century down to the seventeenth,
extant under the title of ' Illustrious Ancestry, Glorious Deeds,
and Noble Posterity of the Famous Nuno Alfonso, Alcaide of
Toledo,' written in 1648 by the industrious genealogist Eodrigo
Mendez Silva, who availed himself of a manuscript genealogy by
Juan de Mena, the poet laureate and historiographer of John II.
The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso
was almost as distinguished in the struggle against the Moors in
the reign of Alfonso VII. as the Cid had been half a century
before in that of Alfonso VI., and was rewarded by divers grants
of land in the neighbourhood of Toledo. On one of his acquisi-
tions, about two leagues from the city, he built himself a castle
which he called Cervatos, because — so Salazar de Mendoza, in
his ' Dignidades de Castilla ' (1618), gives us to understand —
* he was lord of the solar of Cervatos in the Montana,' as the
mountain region extending from the Basque Provinces to Leon
was always called. At his death in battle in 1143, the castle
passed by his will to his son Alfonso Munio, who, as territorial
or local surnames were then coming into vogue in place of the
simple patronymic, took the additional name of Cervatos. His
eldest son Pedro succeeded him in the possession of the castle,
and followed his example in adopting the name, an assumption
at which the younger son, Gonzalo, seems to have taken umbrage.
Everyone who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will
remember the ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot
where the bridge of Alcantara spans the gorge of the Tagus,
and with its broken outline and crumbling walls makes such an
admirable pendant to the square solid Alcazar towering over the
city roofs on the opposite side. It was built, or as some say
restored, by Alfonso VI. shortly after his occupation of Toledo in
1085, and called by him San Servando after a Spanish martyr, a
name subsequently modified into San Servan (in which form it
INTRODUCTION.
• Poem of the Cid'i, San Servantes, and San
ml to which last the ' Handbook for Spain '
•inst tin- supposition that it has anything to
do with tin- author of 'Don Quixote.' Ford, as all know who
•akeii him for a companion and counsellor on the roads of
Spain, is seldom wrong in matters of literature or history. In
-tancc. ho\\ever. lie is in error. It has everything to do
with the author of 'Don Quixote,' for it is in fact these old walls
to Spain the name she is proudest of to-day.
(ion/.alo. ahove mentioned, it may be readily conceived, did not
relish the appropriation by his brother of a name to which
IK himself had an equal right, for though nominally taken from
reality derived from the ancient territorial
of the family ; and as a set-off, and to distinguish
riarse) from his brother, he took as a surname
the name of the castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the building
of which, according to a family tradition, his great-grandfather
-hare. At the same time, too, in place of the family arms,
.:ito' means a young stag) on a field azure, he
took two hinds on a field vert. The story deserves notice, if for
no oil because it disposes of Conde's ingenious theory
that by ' P»«'ii-engrli ' Cervantes intended an Arabic translation
of his own name. Cervantes was as unlikely a man as Scott to
orant of his own family history, or to suppose that the
tic bore meant ' son of the stag.'
3 founded families. The Cervatos branch
nourished ' :derable time, and held many high offices in
Toledo, hut, according to Sala/ar de Mendoza, it had become
had | lassed into other families in 1618.
The < I. ranch had more tenacity; it sent offshoots in
;-; direction-. Andalusia. Kst.remadura, Galicia,and Portugal,
My line of men distinguished in the service
of Church . CiMii/alo himself, and apparently a son of
III. in the great campaign of 1286-48
'id Seville to Christian Spain and penned up
in th«- kingdom of (iranada, and his descendants inter-
1-lest families of the Peninsula and
CERVANTES. 17
numbered among them soldiers, magistrates, and Church digni-
taries, including at least two cardinal archbishops.
Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Diego de Cervantes,
Commander of the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avellaneda,
daughter of Juan Arias de Saavedra, and had several sons, of
whom one was Gonzalo Gomez, Corregidor of Jerez and ances-
tor of the Mexican and Columbian branches of the family ; and
another, Juan, whose son Rodrigo married Dona Leonor de
Cortinas, and by her had four children, Kodrigo, Andrea, Luisa,
and Miguel, the author of ' Don Quixote.' l It is true that docu-
mentary evidence is wanting for the absolute identification of
Juan the Corregidor of Osuna, whom we know to have been
the grandfather of Cervantes, with Juan the son of Diego, but it
is not a question that admits of any reasonable doubt. It is
difficult to see who else he could have been if the date and
1 TELU> MURIKLLIZ (Rico Home of Castile, A.D. 988)
Oveco Tellez
Gonzalo Ovequiz
Aldefonso Gonzalez
Munio Aldefouso
Aldefonso Munio (with Alfonso VI. at Toledo, 1085)
Xuno Alfonso (Alcaide of Toledo, d. 1143)
Pedro ,
Guttierez = G-iniena Alfonso Mnnio do Oervatos
l ( ! (
Pedro Alfonso Gonzalo /with Ferdinand III.X
de Cervatos de Cervantes \ at Seville in 1248 / '
Ferdinand Juan Alfonso /Commander of the\
of Aragou de Cervantes \0rder of Calatrava /
Alonso Gomez Tequetiques de Cervantes
Diego Gomez de Cervantes (first to settle in Andalusia)
Rui Gomez de Cervantes Gonzalo Gomez de Cervantes
(Prior of the Order of San Juan)
Cardinal Rodrigo de Cervantes Diego Gomez / Prior of the
Juan de Cervantes
de Cervantes \ Order of San Jua
„>
(Archbishop of Seville, 1453)
Juan de Cervantes (Veinticuatroof Seville temp. John II.)
Diego de Cervantes = Juana Avellaneda, d. of
Commander of the"*
Order of Santiago ;
f Commander of the\ I Juan Arias de Saavedra
iago/ |
Juan de Cervantes Gonzalo Gomez de Cervantes
(Corregidor of Osuna) (Corregidor of Jerez)
Rodrigo de Cervantes =Leouor de Cortiuas
Rodrigo Andrea Luisa Miguel
b. 1543 b. 1544 b. 1546 b. 1547
VOL. I. C .
,8 INTRQDUCTION.
ohm: Bare taken into consideration, or how,
ihe issue of tlie marriage with the daughter of
.luan idson could have been Cervantes
edra; while his name .luan points to his having been the
t . I uana and grandson of the two Juans, Cervantes and
dra. The pedigree of Cervantes is not without its bearing
on • I )on Quixote.' A man who could look back upon an ancestry
iiiine knights-errant extending from well-nigh the time of
iege of Granada was likely to have a strong feel-
ing on the subject of the sham chivalry of the romances. It
i point, too, to what he says in more than one place about
families that have once been great and have tapered away until
they have come to nothing, like a pyramid. It was the case of
wn.
He wa- horn at Aleald de Henares, possibly, as his name
-t, on St. Michael's Day, and baptised in the
church of Santa Maria Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547. Of
his boyhood and youth we know nothing, unless it be from the
u'liinp us in the preface to his ' Comedies ' of himself as
looking on with delight while Lope de Eueda and his com-
ii their rude plank stage in the plaza and acted the
tan-rs \\liicli lie himself afterwards took as the model of
his interludes. This first glimpse, however, is a significant one,
-hows the early development of that love of the drama
which exercised such an influence on his life and seems to have
as lie grew older, and of which this very preface,
n only a few months before his death, is such a striking
'•s us to understand, too, that he was a great
in Ins \outh; but of this no assurance was needed, for
the First Tart of ' 1 >on (Quixote ' alone proves a vast amount of
romances of chivalry, ballads, popular
- chronicle^, for which lie had no time or opportunity
in the first twenty years of his life ; and his misquota-
.ind mistakes in matters of detail are always, it maybe
<>f a man recalling the reading of his boyhood.
Otl" the drama were in their infancy \\heii
CERVANTES. 19
'Cervantes was a boy. The period of his boyhood was in every
way a transition period for Spain. The old chivalrous Spain
had passed away. Its work was done when Granada surren-
•dered. The new Spain was the mightiest power the world had
seen since the Eomaii Empire, and it had not yet been called upon
to pay the price of its greatness. By the policy of Ferdinand
and Ximenez the sovereign had been made absolute, and the
•Church and Inquisition adroitly adjusted to keep him so. The
nobles, who had always resisted absolutism as strenuously as
they had fought the Moors, had been divested of all political
power, a like fate had befallen the cities, the free constitutions of
Castile and Aragon had been swept away, and the only function
that remained to the Cortes was that of granting money at the
King's dictation. But the loss of liberty was not felt imme-
diately, for Charles V. was like an accomplished horseman with
a firm seat and a light hand, who can manage the steed without
fretting it, and make it do his will while he leaves its movements
to all appearance free.
The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Garcilaso '
de la Vega and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, followed the Italian
wars, had brought back from Italy the products of the post-
Eenaissance literature, which took root and flourished and even
threatened to extinguish the native growths. Damon and Thyr-
sis, Phillis and Chloe had been fairly naturalised in Spain,
together with all the devices of pastoral poetry for investing with
.an air of novelty the idea of a despairing shepherd and inflexible
shepherdess. Sannazaro's ' Arcadia ' had introduced the taste for
prose pastorals, which soon bore fruit in Montemayor's ' Diana '
and its successors ; and as for the sonnet, it was spreading like
the rabbit in Australia. As a set-off against this, the old his-
torical and traditional ballads, and the true pastorals, the songs
and ballads of peasant life, were being collected assiduously and
printed in the cancioneros that succeeded one another with in-
creasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence, perhaps,
of the spread of printing was the flood of romances of chivalry
that had continued to pour from the press ever since Garci
c 2 -
20 INTRODUCTION.
• lontalvo had resuscitated ' Amatlis of Gaul ' at the
ry.
outli fond of reading, solid or light, there could
spot iii Spain than AIcal;l de Hen
in tin- middle of tin- sixteenth century. It was then a busy,
populous un: wn, something more than the enterprising
: Salamanca, and altogether a very different place from
'mi-holy, silent, deserted Alcala the traveller sees now
from Madrid to Saragossa. Theology and medicine
may have been the strong points of the university, but the town
to have inclined rather to the humanities and light
literatim, ami as a producer of hooks Alcala was already begin-
nii ipete with the older presses of Toledo, Burgos,
;ianca. and Seville.
A pendant to the picture (Vnantes has given us of his first
pl;i -light, no doubt, have been often seen in the streets
of Alcala at that time ; a bright, eager, tawny-haired boy peering
into a bo<>k->hop where the latest volumes lay open to tempt the
public, wondering, it may be, what that little book with the
• of the blind beggar and his boy, that called itself ' Vida
illo de Tonnes, segunda impresion,' could be about ; or
with eyes brimming over with merriment gazing at one of those
rotis portraits of a knight-errant in outrageous panoply
1 plumes with which the publishers of chivalry romances
loved to embellish the title-pages of their folios. He had seen
"Tinan ritters many a time, but they were slim
pay i compared with this. What fun it would be to see
!i a figure come charging into the plaza ! How he'd frighten
the old women and scatter the turkeys! If the boy was the
khei of the man, the sense of the incongruous that was strong
at fifty was lively at ten. and some such reflections as these may
have been the tru- of ' Don (Quixote.'
'1 education, we are told, he went to Sala-
• why Itodrigd de Cervantes, who was very poor,
• his son to a, university a hundred and fifty
hen he had one at his own door, would be a puzzle,.
CERVANTES.
21
if we had any reason for supposing that he did so. The only
evidence is a vague statement by Professor Tomas Gonzalez,
that he once saw an old entry of the matriculation of a Miguel
de Cervantes. This does not appear to have been ever seen again ;
but even if it had, and if the date corresponded, it would prove
nothing, as there were at least two other Miguels born about
the middle of the century ; one of them, moreover, a Cervantes
Saavedra, a cousin, no doubt, who was a source of great
embarrassment to the biographers.
That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcala is
best proved by his own works. No man drew more largely upon
experience than he did, and he has nowhere left a single remi-
niscence of student life — for the * Tia Fingida,' if it be his, is not
one — nothing, not even ' a college joke,' to show that he remem-
bered days that most men remember best. All that we know
positively about his education is that Juan Lopez de Hoyos, a
professor of humanities and belles-lettres of some eminence,
calls him his ' dear and beloved pupil.' / This was in a little
•collection of verses by different hands on the death of Isabel de
Valois, second queen of Philip II., published by the professor in
1569, to which Cervantes contributed four pieces, including an
•elegy, and an epitaph in the form of a sonnet. It is only by a
rare chance that a ' Lycidas ' finds its way into a volume of
this sort, and Cervantes was no Milton. His verses are no worse
than such things usually are ; so much, at least, may be said
for them.
By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as
fate ordered it, for twelve years, the most eventful ones of his
life. Giulio, afterwards Cardinal, Acquaviva had been sent
at the end of 1568 to Philip II. by the Pope on a mission,
partly of condolence, partly political, and on his return to Eome,
which was somewhat brusquely expedited by the King, he took
•Cervantes with him as his camercro (chamberlain), the office he
himself held in the Pope's household. The post would no doubt
have led to advancement at the Papal Court had Cervantes retained
it, but in the summer of 1570 he resigned it and enlisted as a private
INTRODUCTION.
, tain Diego <le Urbina's company, belonging to Don
!u 1 de Moncada's regiment, but at that time forming a part of
: i land of Marc Antony Colonna. What impelled him to
this know not. whether it was distaste for the career
• re him, or purely military enthusiasm. It may well have
M tin- latter, for it was ;i stirring time; the events, however,
which led to the alliance between Spain, Venice, and the Pope,
ilie common enemy, the Porte, and to the victory of the
bined fleets at Lepanto, belong rather to the history of
Kurope than to the life of Cervantes. He was one of those
that sailed from Messina, in September 1571, under the com-
iid of Don John of Austria; but on the morning of the 7th
of October, when the Turkish fleet was sighted, he was lying
l-elow ill with fever. At the news that the enemy was in sight
and, in spite of the remonstrances of his comrades and
superiors, insisted on taking his post, saying he preferred death
in the service of God and the King to health. His galley, the-
as in the thick of the fight, and before it was over
had iecei\cd tliree gunshot wounds, two in the breast and
one in the left hand or arm. On the morning after the battle,
Navarrete, he had an interview with the coin-
nder-in-cliief, Don John, who was making a personal inspec-
tion of the wounded, one result of which was an addition of
tin. to his pay. and another, apparently, the friendship
of 1 1 . Strada says of Don John that he knew personally
ry soldier tinder his command, but at any rate it was as much for
friendly hearing and solicitude for their comfort and well-
t'or his abilities and gallantry in the field that he
beloved by his men, and it is easy to conceive that he should
• ial interest in the case of Cervantes, who, it
observed, v\as exactly his own age. and curiously enough
though it is not very likely Don John was aware of the fact —
his kinsman in a remote degree, inasmuch as the mother of
a descendant of Nufio Alfonso above
d.
winded maybe inferred from
CERVANTES. 23
the fact, that with youth, a vigorous frame, and as cheerful and
buoyant a temperament as ever invalid had, he was seven months
in hospital at Messina before he was discharged. He came out
with his left hand permanently disabled ; he had lost the use
of it, as Mercury told him in the ' Viaje del Parnaso,' for the
greater glory of the right. This, however, did not absolutely unfit
him for service, and in April 1572 he joined Manuel Ponce de
Leon's company of Lope de Figueroa's regiment, in which, it seems
probable, his brother Kodrigo was serving, and shared in the opera-
tions of the next three years, including the capture of the Goletta
and Tunis. Taking advantage of the lull which followed the re-
capture of these places by the Turks, he obtained leave to return
to Spain, and sailed from Naples in September 1575 on board
the Sun galley, in company with his brother Eodrigo, Pedro
Carillo de Quesada, late Governor of the Goletta, and some
others, and furnished with letters from Don John of Austria
and the Duke of Sesa, the Viceroy of Sicily, recommending him
to the King for the command of a company, on account of his- i
services ; a dono infelice as events proved. On the 26th they
fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and after a stout
resistance were overpowered and carried into Algiers.
It is not easy to resist the temptation to linger over the •
story of Cervantes' captivity in Algiers, for in truth a more
wonderful story has seldom been told. Alexandre Dumas could
hardly have invented so marvellous a series of adventures, and
certainly would have hesitated before he asked even romance
readers to accept anything so improbable. Nevertheless, in-
credible as the tale may seem, there is evidence for every
particular that scepticism itself will not venture to call in
question. At the distribution of the captives, Cervantes fell to
the share of one Ali or Dali Mami, the rais or captain of one of
the galleys, and a renegade, as were almost all embarked in the
trade ; for a trade the capture of Christians had now become, as
Cervantes implies in the title of the ' Trato de Argel.' The
Turks, to supply the demand for rowers, dockyard labourers, and
the like, for their great Mediterranean fleet, had long been in the
INTRODUCTION.
of kidnapping, either l).y making descents upon tlie coasts,
ing the crews of vessels at sea. Moved by the suffer-
•.•• unhappy victims, noble-minded men of various
ius orders in Spain devoted themselves to the work of
ating tlie release of as many as it was possible to ran-
som, acting as intermediaries between the captors and the
i'riends of the captives, making up the sums required out of the
funds contributed by the charitable, and even, as Cervantes
himself says in the ' Trato de Argel ' and the novel of the
fiola Inglesa,' surrendering themselves as hostages when
the money was not immediately forthcoming. It seems strange
that a proud and powerful nation should have submitted to this ;
and stranger still that Philip should have condescended to
countenance negotiations of the sort, and formally recognise
demptorist Fathers as his agents, when probably a tenth
of the force he was employing to stamp out heresy among
his Flemish subjects would have sufficed to destroy the nest of
that was tlie centre of the trade. To this pass had ' one-
man power' already brought Spain in the last quarter of the
ith century. As is unhappily often the case with philan-
thrope tlie exertions of the good Kedemptorist Fathers
ated the evil. They supplied an additional motive for
capturing Christians by all'ording facilities for converting captives
into cash, and by making them valuable as property added to
their misery.
means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers contrived
to inform their family of their condition, and the poor people at
Alcal. to raise tlie ransom money, the father dis-
, and the two sisters giving up their mar-
portions. I'.nt Dali Maim had found on Cervantes the letters
bo the King by Don -John and the Duke of Sesa, and,
concluding that his pri/.e must be a person of great consequence,
when the money canir he rein , nfiilly as being altogether
ne owner of llodrigo, however, was more easily
'•rptcd in his case, and it was arranged
I hat he should return to Spain and procure
CERVANTES. 25
.a vessel in which he was to come back to Algiers and take off
Miguel and as many of their comrades as possible./ This was
not the first attempt to escape that Cervantes had made. Soon
.after the commencement of his captivity he induced several of
his companions to join him in trying to reach Oran, then a
Spanish post, on foot ; but after the first day's journey, the
Moor who had agreed to act as their guide deserted them, and
they had no choice but to return. The second attempt was more
disastrous. In a garden outside the city on the sea-shore, he con-
structed, with the help of the gardener, a Spaniard, a hiding-place,
to which he brought, one by one, fourteen of his fellow-captives,
keeping them there in secrecy for several months, and supplying
them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador, ' the
Gilder.' How he, a captive himself, contrived to do all this, is
one of the mysteries of the story. Wild as the project may
appear, it was very nearly successful. The vessel procured by
Kodrigo made its appearance off the coast, and under cover of
night was proceeding to take off the refugees, when the crew were
alarmed by a passing fishing boat, and beat a hasty retreat. On
renewing the attempt shortly afterwards, they, or a portion of
them at least, were taken prisoners, and just as the poor fellows
in the garden were exulting in the thought that in a few moments
more freedom would be within their grasp, they found themselves
surrounded by Turkish troops, horse and foot. The Dorador had
revealed the whole scheme to the Dey Hassan, v
When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged
his companions to lay all the blame upon him, and as they
were being bound he declared aloud that the whole plot was
of his contriving, and that nobody else had any share in it.
Brought before the Dey, he said the same. He was threatened
with impalement and with torture ; and as cutting off ears and
noses were playful freaks with the Algerines, it may be con-
ceived what their tortures were like ; but nothing could make
him swerve from his original statement that he and he alone
was responsible. The upshot was that the unhappy gardener
was hanged by his master, and the prisoners taken possession
26 IXTROD UCTION.
of by tin- iVy. who. however, afterwards restored most of them to-
tlu-ir ' it kept (Yrvantes, paying Dali Mami 500 crowns
for liini. If*- felt, no doubt, that a man of such resource, energy,
and during. wa- too dangerous apiece of property to be left in
hands ; and lie had him heavily ironed and lodged in his
own prison. If lie thought that by these means he could break
• irit or shake the resolution of his prisoner, he was soon
undeceived, for Cervantes contrived before long to despatch a
\ vrnor of Oran, entreating him to send him some
one that could be trusted, to enable him and three other gentlemen,
fellow-captives of his, to make their escape ; intending evidently
. w his first attempt with a more trustworthy guide. Un-
fortunately the Moor who carried the letter was stopped just outside
Oran. and the letter being found upon him, he was sent back to
Algiers, where by the order of the Dey he was promptly impaled
U a warning to others, while Cervantes was condemned to receive
two thousand blows of the stick, a number which most likely
\\ould have deprived the world of ' Don Quixote,' had not some
18, who they were we know not, interceded on his behalf,
r this lie seems to have been kept in still closer confine-
tlian before, for nearly two years passed before he made
another attempt. This time his plan was to purchase, by the aid
i-anisli renegade and two Valeneian merchants resident in
. an armed vessel in which he and about sixty of the lead-
ptivea were to make their escape ; but just as they were
about to pat it into execution, one Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz,
lesiastio and a compatriot, informed the Dey of the plot.
The Dorador. who had betrayed him on the former occasion, was
a poor civature. influenced probably by fear of the consequences,
but Pdanco <lc hi/ \\-as a scoundrel of deeper dye. Cervantes 1>\
"t character, by his self-devotion, by his untiring energy.
and his exertion- to lighten the lot of his companions in misery,
deared himself to all. and become the leading spirit in the
oiptive colony. ;,,,,!. incredible as it may seem, jealousy of his
'"fluencc Jind tl m which he was held, moved this man
traction by a cruel death. The merchants
CERVANTES. 27
finding that the Dey knew all, and fearing that Cervantes under
torture might make disclosures that would imperil their own lives,
tried to persuade him to slip away on board a vessel that was on
the point of sailing for Spain ; but he told them they had nothing
to fear, for no tortures would make him compromise anybody,
and he went at once and gave himself up to the Dey.
As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accomplices.
Everything was made ready for his immediate execution ; the
halter was put round his neck and his hands tied behind him, but
all that could be got from him was that he himself, with the
help of four gentlemen who had since left Algiers, had arranged
the whole, and that the sixty who were to accompany him were
not to know anything of it until the last moment. Finding he
could make nothing of him, the Dey sent him back to prison
more heavily ironed than before.
But bold as these projects were, they were surpassed in daring-
by a plot to bring about a revolt of all the Christians in Algiers r
twenty or twenty-five thousand in number, overpower the Turks,
and seize the city. Of the details of his plan we know nothing ;
all we know is that at least two of those in his confidence believed
it would have been successful had it not been for the treachery of
some persons in the secret ; and certain it is that the Dey Hassan
stood in awe of Cervantes, and used to say that so long as he
kept a tight hold of the crippled Spaniard, his captives, his ships,.
and his city were safe. What was it, then, that made him
hold his hand in his paroxysms of rage ? When it was so easy
to relieve himself of all the trouble and anxiety his prisoner
caused him, what was it that restrained him ? It may be said
it was the admiration he felt at the noble bearing, dauntlessj
courage, and self-devotion of the man, that made him merci-1
ful. But is it likely that the fiend Haedo and Cervantes
describe, who hanged, impaled, and cut off ears every day,
for the mere pleasure of doing it — who most likely had, like
his friend the Arnaut Mami, * a house filled with noseless
Christians ' — would have been influenced by any such feel- !
ing ? There are, we know, men who seem to bear a charmed
INTRODUCTION
.id to exercise some mysterious power over
mind: l>ut the Dey Hassan was no savage ; he was
With all respect lor the Haedos, uncle and nephew, and
•hii-f iiitbrniant Doctor de Sosa, it would he hard to avoid
;.-ion that they had exaggerated, were it not that the story
11 is confirmed in every particular by a formally attested
document discovered in 1808 by Cean Bermudez, acting on a
jtion of Navarrete's, in the Archive General de India s at
Seville.
Tin- poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this time
once more to raise the ransom money, and at last a sum
of three hundred ducats was got together and entrusted to the
.piorist Father .hum (iil, who was about to sail for Algiers.
The Dey. howevei , demanded more than double the sum offered,
and as his term of ollice had expired and he was about to sail
for Constantinople, taking all his slaves with him, the case of
\\ as critical. He was already on board heavily ironed,
win n the Dry at length agreed to reduce his demand by one -
halt', and Father (iil by borrowing was able to make up the
amount, and on September IS), 1580, after a captivity of five
.ill hut a week, Cervantes was at last set free. Before long
he disco\cred that JUanco de Pax, who claimed to be an ot'iieer
of the Inquisition, was now concocting on false evidence a charge
of misconduct to be brought against him on his return to Spain.
To checkmate him (Vr\ antes drew up a series of twenty-live
in- the whole period of his captivity, upon which
ted Father (lil to take the depositions of credible
before :i notary. Fleven witnesses taken from among
ihe principal captives in Algiers deposed to all tin- facts above
the intended seizure of the city, which
'unpromising a matter to be referred to), and to a
deal mor< I. There is something touching in tin;
admiration, love, and gratitude we see struggling to iind expres
niitl language of the notary, as they testily one
deeds of Cerxantes, how he comforted
and helped the \\eak-hearted, how he kept up their drooping
CERVANTES. 29
courage, how he shared his poor purse with this deponent, and
how ' in him this deponent found father and mother.'
On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to-
march for Portugal to support Philip's claim to the crown, and
utterly penniless now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was in
the expeditions to the Azores in 1582 and the following year, and
on the conclusion of the war returned to Spain in the autumn of
1583, bringing with him the manuscript of his pastoral romance,
the ' Galatea,' and probably also, to judge by internal evidence,
that of the first portion of * Persiles and Sigismunda.' He also-
brought back with him, his biographers assert, an infant daughter,
the offspring of an amour, as some of them with great circumstan-
tiality inform us, with a Lisbon lady of noble birth, whose name,
however, as well as that of the street she lived in, they omit to
mention. The sole foundation for all this is that in 1605 there
certainly was living in the family of Cervantes a Dona Isabel de
Saavedra, who is described in an official document as his natural
daughter, and then twenty years of age. This is all we know
about her, unless she is to be identified with the sister Isabel
who in 1614 took the veil in the convent in which he himself was
afterwards buried.
With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was
hopeless, now that Don John was dead and he had no one to
press his claims and services, and for a man drawing on to forty
life in the ranks was a dismal prospect ; he had already a certain
reputation as a poet ; Luis Galvez de Montalvo had mentioned
him as a distinguished one in the 'Pastor de Filida ' in 1582, and
we know from Dr. de Sosa, one of the witnesses examined at
Algiers, that he used to beguile his imprisonment with poetry ;
he made up his mind, therefore, to cast his lot with literature,
and for a first venture committed his ' Galatea ' to the press.
It was published, as Salva y Mallen shows conclusively, at
Alcala, his own birthplace, in 1585, not at Madrid in 1584 as his
biographers and bibliographers all say, and no doubt helped to
make his name. more widely known, but certainly did not do him
much good in any other way.
3o /. V TR OD UCTION.
While i <;ng through the press, lie married Dona
ui .It- ralacios Salaxar y Yo/.mediano, a lady of Esquivias
Madrid, and apparently a friend of the family, who brought
him a fortune which may possibly have served to keep the wolf from
ii it so. tliat \vas all. The drama had by this time out-
urown market-place stages and strolling companies, and with his
old love tor it he naturally turned to it for a congenial employ-
In about three years he wrote twenty or thirty plays,
which he tells us wi-iv performed without any throwing of
Cucumbers or other missiles, and ran their course without any
. or disturbance. In other words, his plays were
.1 enough to be hissed off the stage, but not good enough to
hold their own upon it. Only two of them have been preserved,
they happen to be two of the seven or eight he mentions
with complacency, we may assume they are favourable specimens,
and no one who reads the 'Numancia' and the ' Trato de Argel '
will feel any surprise that they failed as acting dramas. What-
• Merits they may have, whatever occasional power they
how, they are, as regards construction, incurably clumsy.
•ompletely they failed is manifest from the fact that with
all his sanguine temperament and indomitable perseverance
unable to maintain the struggle to gain a livelihood as a
dramati-t for more than three years; nor was the rising popula-
e tin- cause, as is often said, notwithstanding his own
to the contrary. When Lope began to write for the stage
rtain, but it was certainly after Cervantes went to Seville.
This, according to Navarrete, was in 1588, but the ' Nuevos
' published by Don Jose Asensioy Toledo in 1864 show
have been early in 1587. His first employment seems
to have been under Diego de Yaldivia, a judge of the Audiencia
beginning of 15HK he was appointed one of four
under Antonio de Guevara, purvey or- general to
1 adies1 known to history as the Invincible Armada.
iouht an irksome and ill-paid office, for in 1590 he ad-
Memorial to the King, setting forth his services and
for an appointment to one of three or four posts then
CERVANTES. 31
vacant in the Spanish possessions across the Atlantic, an appli-
cation which, fortunately for the world, was 'referred,' it would
seem, to some official in the Indies Office at Seville, and being
shelved, so remained until it was discovered among the documents
brought to light by Cean Bermudez.
Among the * Nuevos Documentos ' printed by Senor Asensio y
Toledo is one dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of Cervantes.
It is an agreement with one Eodrigo Osorio, a manager, who
was to accept six comedies at fifty ducats (about 61.) apiece,
not to be paid in any case unless it appeared on representation
that the said comedy was one of the best that had ever been re-
presented in Spain. The test does not seem to have been ever
applied; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent to Kodrigo Osorio
that the comedies were not among the best that had ever been
represented. Among the correspondence of Cervantes there
might have been found, no doubt, more than one letter like that
we see in the ' Kake's Progress,' ' Sir, I have read your play,
and it will not doo.'
He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in
1595 in honour of the canonisation of St. Jacinto, when his com-
position won the first prize, three silver spoons. The year before
this he had been appointed a collector of revenues for the
kingdom of Granada, a better post probably than his first, but
certainly a more responsible one, as he found in the end to his
cost. In order to remit the money he had collected more con-
veniently to the treasury, he entrusted it to a merchant, who failed
and absconded ; and as the bankrupt's assets were insufficient to
cover the whole, he was sent to prison at Seville in September
1597. The balance against him, however, was a small one,
about 26Z., and on giving security for it he was released at the
end of the year.
It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the
king's taxes, that he noted down those bits of inn and wayside
life and character that abound in the pages of ' Don Quixote : '
the Benedictine monks with spectacles and sunshades, mounted
on their tall mules ; the strollers in costume bound for the next
INTRODUCTION.
village; tin- barber with his basin on his Load, on his way to-
bleed a patient : tin- recruit with his breeches in his bundle,
tramping along the road sinking; the reapers gathered in the
vi-nta gateway listening to ' Felixmarte de Hircania ' read out to
them ; and those little Hogarthian touches that he so well knew
how to bring in, the ox- tail hanging up with the landlord's comb
stiu-k in it. the wine-skins at the bed-head, and those notable
examples of hostelry art, Helen going off in high spirits on
Taris's arm, and Dido on the tower dropping tears as big as
walnuts. Nay, it may well be that on those journeys into remote
regions he came across now and then a specimen of the pauper
gentleman, with his lean hack and his greyhound and his books
of chivalry, dreaming away his life in happy ignorance that the
world had changed since his great-grandfather's old helmet was
But it was in Seville that he found out his true vocation,
though he himself would not by any means have admitted it to
It was there, in the Triana, that he was first tempted to
try his hand at drawing from life, and first brought his humour
into play in the exquisite little sketch of ' Binconete y Cortadillo,'
the germ, in more ways than one, of 'Don Quixote.'
AVhere and when that was written, we cannot tell. After his
imprisonment all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity disap-
froni which it may be inferred that he was not reinstated.
That he was still in Seville in November 1508 appears from
a satirical sonnet of his on the elaborate catafalque erected to
testily the grief of the city at the death of Philip II., but from
this up to UJ(K-J we have no clue to his movements. The words
in ihe pn-fa.ce to tin; First Part of 'Don Quixote1 are generally held
to l.e conclusive that he conceived the idea of the book, and wrote
the beginning of it at least, in a prison, and that he may have
.treiiiely likely. At the same time it should be borne
in mind that they contain no assertion to that effect, and may
mean nothing more than that this brain-child of his was be-
uinli-r ciirui! d. -pressing as prison life. If we
them literally, the prison may very well have been that ill
which he W&S confined for nearlv three months at Seville.
CER V ANTES. 33
The story of his having been imprisoned afterwards at
Argamasilla de Alba rests entirely on local tradition. That
Argamasilla is Don Quixote's village does not admit of a doubt.
Even if Cervantes himself had not owned it by making the
Academicians of Argamasilla write verses in honour of Don
Quixote, there is no other town or village in La Mancha, except
perhaps its near neighbour Tomelloso, the relative position of
which to the field of Montiel, the high road to Seville, Puerto
Lapice, and the Sierra Morena, agrees with the narrative ; and
we know by Quevedo's burlesque ballad on Don Quixote's Testa-
ment that in 1608 it was already famous as Don Quixote's town.
Also that Cervantes had a grudge of some kind against the town
seems likely from his having ' no desire to call its name to mind,'
and from the banter about the Academicians. It would be
uncritical to reject the story absolutely because it depends on
local tradition, at the same time it needs very little insight into
mythology to see how easily the legend might have grown up
under the circumstances.
The cause of the imprisonment is variously stated. It is
attributed to a dispute about tithes due to the Priory of St. John
which Cervantes had to collect, to a squabble about water
rights, to ' a stinging jest ' of his, to a love affair with the
daughter of a hidalgo, whose portrait, with that of his daughter,
hangs in the village church, and who is conjectured from the
inscription upon it to have been the original of Don Quixote.
But whatever the cause, the Argamasillans are all agreed that
the prison was the arched cellar under the Casa de Medrario, and
the late J. E. Hartzenbusch was so far impressed by the tradition
that he had two editions of ' Don Quixote ' printed there, the
charming little Elzevir edited by him in 1863, and the four
volumes containing the novel in the twelve-volume edition of
Cervantes' works completed in 1865.
The books mentioned in chap. vi. (e.g. the ' Pastor de Iberia,'
printed in 1591) and the adventure of the dead body in chap, xx.,
which is obviously based upon an actual occurrence that made
some noise in the South of Spain about the year 1593, limit the
VOL. I. D
34 1XTRODUCTION.
time within which the- First Part can have been written, and it
was licensed for tin- press in September 1604. But it is plain the
book had circulated in manuscript to some extent before this, for
in the • Picara .lustina,' whidi was licensed in August 1604, there
a in which .lustina speaks of herself as more
famous than Don Quixote, Celestina, Lazarillo, or Guzman de
Alt'urache. so that more than four months before it had been
printed we have ' Don Quixote ' ranked with the three most famous
fictions «>f Spain. Nor is this all. In a letter which is extant,
dated August 1604, Lope de Vega says that of the rising poets
' there is not one so bad as Cervantes or so silly as to write in
of " Don Quixote ; " ' and in another passage that satire is
• as odious to him as his comedies are to Cervantes ' — evidently
alluding to the dramatic criticism in chap, xlviii.
There is a tradition that Cervantes read some portions of his
work to a select audience at the Duke of Bejar's, which may have
helped to make the book known; but the obvious conclusion is
that i he First Part of ' Don Quixote ' lay on his hands some time
before he could find a publisher bold enough to undertake a
venture of so novel a character ; and so little faith in it had
Francisco liobles of Madrid, to whom at last he sold it, that he
did not care to incur the expense of securing the copyright for
Aragon or Portugal, contenting himself with that for Castile.
The printing was finished in December, and the book came out
with tlie new year, 1605^/It is often said that ' Don Quixote ' was
• received coldly. The facts show just the contrary. No
sooner was it in the hands of the public than preparations were
made to issue pirated editions at Lisbon and Valencia, and to
protect his property Eobles had to bring out a second edition
with the additional copyrights for Aragon and Portugal, which ho
secured in February. P>ut two Lisbon publishers were in- the
field with editions almost, if not quite, as soon as lie was. and if
lie lost the whole or a good part of his royalties on the copies
sold in Portugal, no one, 1 imagine, will feel much pity for him.
time, however, to secure his rights in Valencia, where
in th' miner an authorised edition appeared,
CERVANTES. 35
but not two, as Salva y Mallen, Gallardo, and others say, for the
differences they rely on are mere variations of copies of the
same edition. There were, in fact, five editions within the year,
.and in less than three years' time these were exhausted.
No doubt it was received with something more than coldness
by certain sections of the community. Men of wit, taste, and
discrimination among the aristocracy gave it a hearty welcome,
but the aristocracy in general were not likely to relish a book
that turned their favourite reading into ridicule and laughed at
so many of their favourite ideas, and Lope's letter above quoted
•expresses beyond a doubt the feeling of the literary class with a
few exceptions. The dramatists who gathered round Lope as
their leader regarded Cervantes as their common enemy, and it
is plain that he was equally obnoxious to the other clique, the
culto poets who had Gongora for their chief. Navarrete, who
knew nothing of the letter above mentioned, tries hard to show
that the relations between Cervantes and Lope were of a very
friendly sort, as indeed they were until ' Don Quixote ' was
written. The first public praise Lope ever got was from
Cervantes in the ' Galatea ; ' and when he published his ' Dra-
gontea ' in 1598 Cervantes wrote for it a not ungraceful sonnet
upon that * fertile Vega that every day offers us fresh fruits ; '
.and Lope on his part mentioned Cervantes in a complimentary
way in the ' Arcadia.'
But Cervantes' criticism on the drama of the new school,
though in truth it amounts to no more than Lope himself
admitted in 1602 in the ' New Art of Comedy Writing,' seems to
have changed all this. Cervantes, indeed, to the last generously
and manfully declared his admiration of Lope's powers, his un-
failing invention, and his marvellous fertility ; but in the preface
to the First Part of ' Don Quixote ' and in the verses of ' Urganda
the Unknown,' and one or two other places, there are, if we read
between the lines, sly hits at Lope's vanities and affectations that
argue no personal good-will ; and Lope openly sneers at ' Don
Quixote ' and Cervantes, and fourteen years after his death gives
him only a few lines of cold commonplace in the ' Laurel de
36 INTRODUCTION.
Apolo,' that seem all the colder for the eulogies of a host of
•ities whose names are found nowhere else.
Tin -iv was little in the First Part of 'Don Quixote' to give
offence to (iongora and his school, but no doubt instinct told
them that the man who wrote it was no friend of theirs (as was
abundantly proved when the Second Part came out), and they
^howed their animus almost immediately. There were great
rejoicing at Valladolid in the spring of 1605, on the occasion
of the baptism of the prince, afterwards Philip IV., which co-
incided with the arrival of Lord Howard of Effingliam and a
numerous retinue to ratify the treaty of peace between England
and Spain, and the official 'Relation' of the fete is believed
by Pellicer, Xavarrete, Hartzenbusch and others to have been
written by Cervantes. Thereupon there appeared a sonnet in
that bitter trenchant style of which Gongora was such a master,
declaring that the sole object of the expenditure and display was
to do honour to the heretics and Lutherans, and taunting the
authorities with having employed * Don Quixote, Sancho, and
B ' to write an account of their doings. In the opinion of
Don Pascual de Gayangos (' Cervantes en Valladolid,' Madrid,
1884) the connection of Cervantes with the ' Relation ' is doubt-
ful, as it is also that Gongora, to whom the sonnet is generally
attributed, was really the author. All that can be said is that it
is in his manner, and that the reference to the heretics and
Lutherans is (Jongora all over; if not his it comes from his
school, and shows the feeling existing in that quarter towards
utes and his work.
In another piece, still more characteristic, he makes an
attack on Cervantes which has never been noticed, so far as I am
aware. In the- ballad beginning ' Castillo de San Cervantes' lie
taunts tin- old castle on the Tsigus, already referred to, with
beiii.u no longer what it was in the days of its youth when
it did such gallant service against the Moors, compares its
crumbling battlements to an old man's teeth, and bids it look
down and see in the stream below how age has changed it.
'^, who inserts the luillad in his ' llomancero,' admits
CERVANTES. 37
that the idea is poetical, but confesses he cannot see the drift
of the poet, who seems to him to be here rather a preacher
than a poet ; and no doubt others have shared his perplexity. It
was evidently a recognised gibe to compare Cervantes to the
ruined castle that bore his name ; Avellaneda, in the scurrilous
preface to his continuation of ' Don Quixote,' jeers at him, in
precisely the same strain as the ballad, for having grown as old,
and being as much the worse for time as the castle of San
Cervantes. Gongora, it may be observed, had a special gift of
writing pretty, innocent-looking verses charged with venom.
Who would take the lines to a mountain brook, beginning —
Whither away, my little river,
Why leap clown so eagerly,
Thou to be lost in the Guadalquivir,
The Guadalquivir in the sea ? —
as guileless apparently as a lyrical ballad of Wordsworth's, to
be in reality a bitter satire on the unlucky upstart, Kodrigo
Calderoii ?
Another reason for the enmity of Gongora and his clique to
Cervantes may well have been that their arch-enemy Quevedo
was a friend of his. Cervantes, indeed, expressly declares his
esteem for Quevedo as ' the scourge of silly poets.' It is a pity
that we know so little of the relations of these two men to
one another. Quevedo now here mentions Cervantes personally,
though he shows himself to have been an appreciative reader of
* Don Quixote,' and Cervantes only twice mentions Quevedo.
But each time there is something in his words that suggests a
close personal intimacy. Thus, in the ' Viaje del Parnaso,'
when Mercury proposes to wait for Quevedo, Cervantes says he
* takes such short steps that he will be a whole age coming ; '
a remark which has puzzled a good many readers. The fact is
that Quevedo had clubbed feet, but, so far from being sensitive
about the deformity, made it a matter of joke. Cervantes, how-
ever, could not feel sure that he would relish a joke on the
subject from another, had he not been intimate with him, and
INTRODUCTION.
we know lie held with the proverb, 'Jests that give pain are no
(.MieNrd.. seems to have been the only one among the younger
men. except perhaps Juan de Jauregui, with whom Cervantes
had any friendship, and even among the men of his own gene-
ration his personal friendships appear to have been but few.
And yet, so far as the few glimpses we get allow us to judge,
Cervantes must have been one of the most lovable men this
world has ever seen. The depositions of the witnesses at Algiers,
given by Navarrete, show his power of winning the love of his
fellow-men. He was a staunch and loyal friend himself, one
that could see no fault in a friend, and never missed a chance of
>aying a kindly word when he thought he could give pleasure to
a friend. He bore his hard lot with sweet serenity and noble
patience, facing adversity as he had faced death with high
courage and dauntless spirit ; and surely those two fancy por-
traits Hartzenbusch has prefixed to his editions are libellous
rntations. The features of Cervantes never wore that
of agonised despair. We may rely upon it that it
ith the 'smooth untroubled forehead and bright cheerful
of his own half-playful description that he met adverse
fortune*
In H;oi Yalladolid was made the seat of the Court, and at
the beginning of 1003 Cervantes had been summoned thither in
connection with the balance due by him to the Treasury, which
till outstanding. In what way the matter was settled we
but we hear no more of it. He remained at Yalla-
dolid. apparently supporting himself by agencies and scrivener's
work of some sort; probably drafting petitions and drawing up
of claims to he presented to the Council, and the like.
ther from the depositions taken on the occa-
of the d.-ath of M ;jentleman, the victim of a street brawl,
who had been carried into the house in which he lived. In
lie himself is described as a man who wrote and transacted
•nid it appears that his household then consisted of his
•lie natural da :l.el de Saa\edra already mentioned,
CERVANTES. 39
his sister Andrea, now a widow, her daughter Costanza, a
mysterious Magdalena de Sotomayor calling herself his sister,
for whom his biographers cannot account, and a servant-maid.
From another document it would seem that the women
found employment in needlework for persons in attendance on
the Court, and the presumption is, therefore, that when the
Court was removed once more to Madrid in 1606, Cervantes and
his household followed it ; but we have no evidence of his being
in Madrid before 1609, when he was living in the Calle de la
Magdalena, a street running from the Calle de Atocha to the
Calle de Toledo.
Meanwhile ' Don Quixote ' had been growing in favour, and
its author's name was now known beyond the Pyrenees. In
1607 an edition was printed at Brussels. Eobles, the Madrid
publisher, found it necessary to meet the demand by a third
edition, the seventh in all, in 1608. The popularity of the book
in Italy was such that a Milan bookseller was led to bring out
an edition in 1610 ; and another was called for in Brussels in
1611. It seemed as if the hope in the motto of Juan de la
Cuesta's device on his title-page l was at last about to be realised ;
and it might naturally have been expected that, with such proofs
before him that he had hit the taste of the public, Cervantes
would have at once set about redeeming his rather vague promise
of a second volume.
But, to all appearance, nothing was farther from his thoughts.
He had still by him one or two short tales of the same vintage
as those he had inserted in ' Don Quixote '— ' Einconete y Cor-
tadillo,' above mentioned, the ' Amante Liberal,' a story like that
of the ' Captive,' inspired by his own experiences, and perhaps
the ' Celoso Estremeno' — and instead of continuing the adven-
tures of Don Quixote, he set to work to write more of these
* novelas exemplares,' as he afterwards called them, with a view
to making a book of them. Possibly the ' Ilustre Fregona' and
the 'Fuerza de la Sangre' were not written quite so late, but
1 ' Post tenebras spero lucem.' F. fac-simile on title-page.
4o INTRODUCTION.
internal evidence shows beyond a doubt that the others, tlic
• (iitanilla.' the ' Kspafiola Inglesa,' the ' Licenciado Yidriero,'
Doneellas,' the * St-nora Cornelia,' the ' Casamiento
Kngafioso,' and tin- ' Coloquio de los Perros ' were all written
.11 IC.or, and KJ12.
YVhether the • Tia Fingida,' wliich is now generally included
in his novels, is the work of Cervantes or not, must be left an
open question. No one who has read it in the original would
\\illingly accept it, but disrelish is no reason for summarily
rejecting it, and it cannot be denied that the style closely
resembles his. There is nothing in the objection that 'listed'
is never used by Cervantes for ' vuestra merced,' for its employ-
ment in the tale may be due to the transcriber or printer ; and
of the two MSS. in existence one at least, though certainly
not in the handwriting, is of the time of Cervantes, in the
opinion of so good a judge as Senor Fernandez-Guerra y Orbe.
The novels were published in the summer of 101H, with a
dedication to the Conde de Lemos, the Maecenas of the day, and
with one of those chatty confidential prefaces Cervantes was so
fond of. In this, eight years and a half after the First Part of
' J)on Quixote' had appeared, we get the first hint of a forth-
coming Second Part. 'You shall see shortly,' he says, 'the
further exploits of Don Quixote and humours of Sancho Pan/a.'
His idea of 'shortly' was a somewhat elastic one, for, as we
know by the date to Sancho's letter, he had barely one-half of
the hook completed that time twelvemonth.
The fact was that, to use a popular phrase, he had 'many
MI tin- fire/ There was the Second Part of his • (ialatea '
written, his ' Persiles' to he finished, he had on his hands
tenuputfl del .Jurdin ' and his 'Bernardo,' of the nature of
wliich we know nothing, and there was the ' Yiaje del Parnaso '
to be .: for the press. The last, now made accessible to
Knglish readers by the admirable translation of Mr. .lames Y.
i. hail been, in part, at Least, written about three years
la were printed. Its motive was the commission
Mile de Lemos, on his appointment as Viceroy of
CERVANTES. 41
Naples, to the brothers Argensola to select poets to grace his
court, which suggested to Cervantes the idea of a struggle for
Parnassus between the good and bad poets ; and as he worked it
out he passed in review every poet and poetaster in Spain. But it
is what he says about himself in it, and in the prose appendix to it,
' the Adjunta,' that gives it its chief value and interest now, and
from no other source do we learn so much about him and his
writings, and his own estimate of them.
But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his
dramatic ambition that engrossed his thoughts. The same in-
domitable spirit that kept him from despair in the bagnios of
Algiers, and prompted him to attempt the escape of himself and his
comrades again and again, made him persevere in spite of failure
and discouragement in his efforts to win the ear of the public as
a dramatist. The temperament of Cervantes was essentially
sanguine. The portrait he draws in the preface to the novels,
with the aquiline features, chestnut hair, smooth untroubled
forehead, and bright cheerful eyes, is the very portrait of a
sanguine man. Nothing that the managers might say could
persuade him that the merits of his plays would not be recognised
at last if they were only given a fair chance. In the famous
forty-eighth chapter of 'Don Quixote,' in the Adjunta to the
1 Viaje del Parnaso,' in the preface to his comedies, and other
places, he shows plainly enough the ambition that lay next his
heart. The old soldier of the Spanish Salamis was bent oil
being the ^Eschylus of Spain. He was to found a great national
drama, based on the true principles of art, that was to be the
envy of all nations ; he was to drive from the stage the silly,
childish plays, the ' mirrors of nonsense and models of folly '
that were in vogue through the cupidity of the managers and
short-sightedness of the authors ; he was to correct and educate
the public taste until it was ripe for tragedies on the model
of the Greek drama — like the ' Numaiicia ' for instance — and
comedies that would not only amuse but improve and instruct.
All this he was to do, could he once get a hearing : there was
the initial difficulty.
42 1XIRODUCTWX.
He shows plainly enough, too, that 'Don Quixote' and the-
demolition of the chivalry romances was not the work that lay
his heart. He was. indeed, as he says himself in his
preface, more a stepfather than a father to 'Don Quixote.'
it work so neglected by its author. That it was
written carelessly, hastily, and by fits and starts, was not always
his fault, but it seems clear he never read what he sent to the
press. He knew how the printers had blundered, but he never
took the trouble to correct them when the third edition was in
progress, as a man who really cared for the child of his brain
would have done. He appears to have regarded the book as
little more than a mere ' libro de entretenimiento,' an amusing
book, a thing, as he says in the ' Viaje,' 'to divert the melan-
choly moody heart at any time or season.' No doubt he had an
affection for his hero, and was very proud of Sancho Panza. It
would have been strange indeed if he had not been proud of the
most humorous creation in all fiction. He was proud, too, of
the popularity and success of the book, and beyond measure
delightful is the muwle with which he shows his pride in a
do/en passages in the Second Part. But it was not the success
he coveted. In all probability he would have given all the
success of 'Don Quixote,' nay, would have seen every copy of
' Don Quixote ' burned in the Pla/a Mayor, for one such success
as Lope de Vega, was enjoying on an average once a week.
And so he went on, dawdling over * Don Quixote,' adding a
chapter now and again, and putting it aside to turn to ' Persiles
and Sigisnmnda' which, as we know, was to be the most
entertaining hook in the language, and the rival of ' Theagenes
and ('liai-iclea . ' — or finishing off one of his darling comedies;
and if llohles asked when ' Don Quixote' would be ready, the
answer no doubt, was 'con brevedad' — shortly, there was time
b tor that. At sixty-eight he was as full of life and hope
and plans for the future as a hoy of eighteen.
NemeSlB was coming, however. He had got as far as
chapter lix., which at his leisurely pace he could hardly have
•I before October or November 1T.11. when there was put
CERVANTES. 43
into his hand a small octavo lately printed at Tarragona, and
calling itself ' Second Volume of the Ingenious Gentleman Don
Quixote of La Mancha : by the Licentiate Alonso Fernandez,
de Avellaneda of Tordesillas.' The last half of chapter lix. and
most of the following chapters of the Second Part give us some
idea of the effect produced upon him, and his irritation was not
likely to be lessened by the reflection that he had no one to
blame but himself. Had Avellaneda, in fact, been content with
merely bringing out a continuation to 'Don Quixote,' Cervantes
would have had no reasonable grievance. His own intentions
were expressed in the very vaguest language at the end of the
book ; nay, in his last words, ' forse altri cantera con miglior
plettro,' he seems actually to invite some one else to continue
the work, and he made no sign until eight years and a half had
gone by ; by which time Avellaneda's volume was no doubt
written.
In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as
the mere continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose to-
write a preface to it, full of such coarse personal abuse as only
an ill-conditioned man could pour out. He taunts Cervantes
with being old, with having lost his hand, with having been in
prison, with being poor, with being friendless, accuses him of
envy of Lope's success, of petulance and querulousness, and so
on ; and it was in this that the sting lay. Avellaneda's reason
for this personal attack is obvious enough. Whoever he may
have been, it is clear that he was one of the dramatists of
Lope's school, for he has the impudence to charge Cervantes with
attacking him as well as Lope in his criticism on the drama.
His identification has exercised the best critics and baffled all
the ingenuity and research that has been brought to bear on it.
Navarrete and Ticknor both incline to the belief that Cervantes
knew who he was ; but I must say I think the anger he shows
suggests an invisible assailant ; it is like the irritation of a man
stung by a mosquito in the dark. Cervantes from certain
solecisms of language pronounces him to be an Aragonese, and
Pellicer, an Aragonese himself, supports this view and believes
44 1XTRODUCTION.
him, moreover, to have been an ecclesiastic, a Dominican probably.
Jt has been suggested that he was Luis de Aliaga, the King's
Bor; Andres IVrex, the author of the ' Picara Justina ; '
Bartolome de Argensola, the poet; Cervantes' old enemy Blanco
: A la mm, the dramatist ; even the great Lope himself; but
tin- \\ildest surmise of all was that of the late Rawdon Brown,
who put in a claim for the German scholar Gaspar Scoppe, or
Scioppius, apparently because he was quarrelsome and happened
to In- in Spain about this time, v
Neither tho (jiu'stion nor the book would ever have been heard
of outside the circle of bookworms had Cervantes only behaved
as A Ionian did when his continuation of ' Guzman de Alfarache '
was forestalled by -Juan Marti. But the persistence and the
vi-liomonco of his invective sent readers to the book who would
otherwise never have troubled themselves about it. In its own
day it foil doad from the press, for the second edition in 1015
mentioned by Kbert is purely imaginary. But Bias de Nasarre,
an early specimen of a type of litterateur now common, saw in
Cervantes' vituperation a sufficient reason for taking the book up
and proving it meritorious ; and this he did in an edition in
M'.Vl. in which he showed that it was on the whole a superior
work to the genuine ' Don Quixote.' The originality of this
view — not that it was original, for Le Sage had said much the
sanu — so charmed M. (lermond de Lavigne that he produced
in is.VJ a I'Yench translation with a preface and notes, wherein
i only maintained that in humour, taste, invention, and
truth to nature, Cervantes was surpassed by Avollaneda ; but
pointed out several passages to prove that he had borrowed ideas
from a hook that most likely did not exist at the time, and that
• •ertainly he had not seen or hoard of. All this of course
is intelligible, hut not so that a sound Spanish scholar and critic
like the late Vicente Salv;i should have said, that, it' Cervantes'
• Don (t)ui\oto ' were not in existence Avellaneda's would be the
ovol in the language ; which (not to speak of the absurdity
of putting it before * La/arillo de Tonnes,' '(in/man de Alfarache,'
•(,ran Tacafio,' Isla's ' 1'Yay (lorundiodo Campa/as ')
CERVANTES. 45
is like saying that if there were no sun, the moon would be the
brightest body in the heavens. Any merit Avellaneda has is
reflected from Cervantes, and he is too dull to reflect much.
* Dull and dirty ' will always be, I imagine, the verdict of the
vast majority of unprejudiced readers. He is, at best, a poor
plagiarist ; all he can do is to follow slavishly the lead given
him by Cervantes ; his only humour lies in making Don Quixote
take inns for castles and fancy himself some legendary or
historical personage, and Sancho mistake words, invert proverbs,
and display his gluttony ; all through he shows a proclivity to
coarseness and dirt, and he has contrived to introduce two tales
filthier than anything by the sixteenth century novellieri and
without their sprightliness ; tales that even Le Sage and M. de
Lavigne did not dare to reproduce as they found them.
But whatever Avellaneda and his book may be, we must not \
forget the debt we owe them. But for them, there can be no
doubt, ' Don Quixote ' would have come to us a mere torso instead
of a complete work. Even if Cervantes had finished the volume
he had in hand, most assuredly he would have left off with
a promise of a Third Part, giving the further adventures of Don
Quixote and humours of Sancho Panza as shepherds. It is
plain that he had at one time an. intention of dealing with the
pastoral romances as he had dealt with the books of chivalry,
and but for Avellaneda he would have tried to carry it out. But
it is more likely that, with his plans, and projects, and hopeful-
ness, the volume would have remained unfinished till his death,
and that we should have never made the acquaintance of the
Duke and Duchess, or gone with Sancho to Barataria.
From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to
have been haunted by the fear that there might be more Avel-
lanedas in the field, and putting everything else aside, he set
himself to finish off his task and protect Don Quixote in the only
way he could, by killing him. The conclusion is no doubt a
hasty and in some places clumsy piece of work — the last chapter,
indeed, is a curiosity of slovenly writing — and the frequent
repetition of the scoldings administered to Avellaneda becomes
46 INTRODUCTION.
in the end rather wearisome ; but it is, at any rate, a conclusion
and for that we must thank Avellaneda.
The new volume was ready for the press in February, but
ot printed till the very end of 1615, and during the interval
ntes put together the comedies and interludes he had
written within the last few years, and, as he adds plaintively,
found no demand for among the managers, and published them
with a preface, worth the book it introduces tenfold, in which he
gives an account of the early Spanish stage, and of his own
attempts as a dramatist. As for the interludes (cntremcses} they
are mere farcical scenes without any pretence to a plot, but not
without a certain amount of life and humour. With regard to
the comedies, the unanimity of opinion is remarkable. Every-
one seems to approach them with the hope of finding them not
altogether unworthy of Cervantes, not altogether the poor pro-
ductions the critics have pronounced them, and every reader is
compelled ill the end reluctantly to give them up, and own, in
the words of M. Kmile Chasles, that * on se croirait a mille
lieiies du bon sens viril qui eclatera dans " Don Quichotte." '
Nothing, perhaps, gives a better idea of their character and
quality than that Bias de Nasarre, who published the second
edition in 1749, should have, in perfect seriousness, advanced the
theory that Cervantes wrote them with an object somewhat
similar to that of ' Don Quixote,' in fact as burlesques upon the
silly senseless plays of the day; and indeed had the ' Eufian
Dichoso' been written forty years later there would be nothing
jn-iind facie absurd in supposing it a caricature of Calderon's
mvstic devotional dramas. It is needless to say they were put
forward by Cervantes in all good faith and full confidence in
their merits. The reader, however, was not to suppose they
i is last word or final effort in the drama, for he had in
ham1! a comedy called ' Kngano a los ojos,' about which, if he
mistook not, there would be no <|iiestion.
Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has had no opportu-
nity of judging; his health had been failing for some time, and
itly of dropsy, on tli3 2Mrd of April, ](>](), the
CERVANTES. 47
day on which England lost Shakespeare, nominally at least, for
the English calendar had not yet been reformed.
He died as he had lived, accepting his lot bravely and cheer-
fully. His dedication of the ' Persiles and Sigismimda ' to the
Conde de Lemos is notable among recorded death-bed words for
its simple unaffected serenity. He could wish, he says, that the
opening line of the old ballad ' One foot in the stirrup already '
did not serve so aptly to begin his letter with ; they had given
him the extreme unction the day before, his time was now short,
his pains were growing greater, his hopes growing less ; still he
would gladly live a little longer to welcome his benefactor back
to Spain ; but if that might not be, Heaven's will be done.
And then, the ruling passion asserting itself, he goes on to talk
of his unfinished works, ' The Weeks of the Garden,' the famous
' Bernardo,' the conclusion of the ' Galatea ' that his Excellency
liked so much ; all which he would complete should Heaven pro-
long his life, which now could only be by a miracle.
Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes ? His biographers
all tell us that it was ; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard
life, a life of poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of
disappointment, but Cervantes carried within himself the anti-
dote to all these evils. His was not one of those light natures
that rise above adversity merely by virtue of their own buoyancy ;
it was in the fortitude of a high spirit that he was proof against
it. It is impossible to conceive Cervantes giving way to de-
spondency or prostrated by dejection. As for poverty, it was
with him a thing to be laughed over, and the only sigh he ever
allows to escape him is when he says, ' Happy he to whom
Heaven has given a piece of bread for which he is not bound to
give thanks to any but Heaven itself.' Add to all this his vital
energy and mental activity, his restless invention and his san-
guine temperament, and there will be reason enough to doubt
whether his could have been a very unhappy life. He who could
take Cervantes' distresses together with his apparatus for en-
during them would not make so bad a bargain, perhaps, as far
as happiness in life is concerned.
INTRODUCTION.
It i< pleasant, however, to think that the sunset was brighter
than the da\ had been, and that at the close of his life he was
;i dependent on his mvn high courage for comfort and
support. Hi' had tailed in the object of his heart, but he had
isolation of knowing that if Spain had refused his dramas
the World had welcomed his novel. He was still a poor man;
• a soldier, a hidalgo, old and poor,' was the description given to
strangers asking who and what the author of 'Don Quixote'
was. r>ut lie was no longer friendless, and he no longer felt the
pressure of poverty as he had felt it in the days of his obscurity.
•od friends, the Conde de Lemos and the Archbishop of
Toledo, as lie himself tells us, had charged themselves with his
welfare, and the booksellers did not look askance at his books
now. If Juan de Yillaroel paid him ' reasonably,' as he admits,
for so unpromising a venture as the volume of comedies, we may
presume that llobles gave him something substantial for the
novels and for the Second Part of ' Don Quixote.' He was able
to live, too, hi what was then a fashionable quarter of Madrid,
the maze of dull streets lying between the Carrera de San
(ieronimo and the Calle de Atocha. The house in which he
died is in the Calle del Leon, but the doorway, marked by a
medallion, is in the Calle de Francos, now the Calle de Cervantes,
in which, a few doors farther down, the great Lope lived and
died, while Qnevedo lived a few paces off in the Calle del Nino.
Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was
buried, in accordance with his will, in the neighbouring convent.
of Trinitarian nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter,
Isabel de Saavedra, was an inmate, and that a few years after-
ihe nuns removed to another convent, carrying their dead
with them. lint \\liether the remains of Cervantes were in-
cluded in the removal or not no one knows, and the clue to their
now lost beyond all hope. This furnishes
perhaps the least defensible of the items in the charge of neglect
lirought against his contemporaries. In some of the others
i deal of exaggeration. To listen to most of his
i. hers one would suppose that all Spain was in league not
CERVANTES. 49
only against the man but against his memory, or at least that it
was insensible to his merits, and left him to live in misery and
die of want. To talk of his hard life and unworthy employments
in Andalusia is absurd. What had he done to distinguish him
from thousands of other struggling men earning a precarious
livelihood? True, he was a gallant soldier, who had been
wounded and had undergone captivity and suffering in his
country's cause, but there were hundreds of others in the same
case. He had written a mediocre specimen of an insipid class
of romance, and some plays which manifestly did not comply
with the primary condition of pleasing : were the playgoers to
patronise plays that did not amuse them, because the author was
to produce ' Don Quixote ' twenty years afterwards ?
The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed
immediately on the appearance of the book, does not look like
general insensibility to its merits. No doubt it was received
coldly by some, but if a man writes a book in ridicule of
periwigs he must make his account with being coldly received
by the periwig wearers and hated by the whole tribe of wig-
makers. If Cervantes had the chivalry-romance readers, the
sentimentalists, the dramatists, and the poets of the period all
against him, it was because ' Don Quixote ' was what it was ;
and if the general public did not come forward to make him
comfortable for the rest of his days, it is no more to be charged
with neglect and ingratitude than the English-speaking public
that did not pay off Scott's liabilities. It did the best it could ;
it read his book and liked it and bought it, and encouraged
the bookseller to pay him well for others.
Another charge is that his fellow-countrymen have been so
careless of his memory that they have allowed his portraits to
be lost. It is always assumed that there was once a portrait
of him painted by his friend Juan, de Jauregui, but the words
on which the assumption rests prove nothing of the kind.
They imply nothing more than that Jauregui could or would
paint a portrait of him if asked to do so. There is even less
ground for the supposition that Pacheco ever painted or drew
VOL. i. E '
5o INTRODUCTION.
his portrait, unless indeed \ve accept as satisfactory the arguments
used by Don .lose-Maria Asensio y Toledo in support of tbat
inserted by him in his ' Xuevos Documentos,' and reproduced
in Sir \V. Stirling Maxwell's ' Don John of Austria ' and Mr.
(libson's ' Journey to Parnassus.' But in truth they amount to
nothing more than a chain of mere assumptions. It is an
assumption that the manuscript on which the whole depends is
u trustworthy document ; an assumption that the picture Seiior
Asensio has fixed on is the one the manuscript means ; and an
assumption that the boatman he has fixed on in the picture is
the portrait of Cervantes.
On the other hand, there is, among others, the improbability
of Pacheco painting a portrait of Cervantes as a boatman, with
the full use of both hands, and about five-and-twenty years of
. Cervantes being thirty-three at the time of his release at
Algiers (which is supposed to be the occasion represented) and
at least fifty-four at the time the picture was painted, if Pacheco
was the painter. It will need a stronger case than this to esta-
blish a vcni effigies of Cervantes.1 It is hardly necessary to
remind the reader that the Spanish Academy picture from which
the familiar engraved portrait is taken is now admitted on all
hands to be a fabrication, based in all probability on the fancy
portrait by Kent in Tonson's ' Quixote ' of 1738.
It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has
erected no monument to the man she is proudest of ; no
tot Asencno'a case may be said, indeed, to break down in his last
assumption. 'When- Cervantes was from the end of 1598 to the beginning
of 1608 W6 know not; but all his biographers are agreed that he did not
remain in Seville. Hut the commission to paint the six pictures, of which
Sefmr Asensio's is one, was only given to Va/quex. and 1'acheco in 1600,
and no doubt they took some considerable time to paint. Cervantes, there-
fore, could not have sat for the head of the boatman. In the face of this
ditliculty. ;isio assumes that Pacheco painted ii from a portrait
.iously taken between 1.V.IO and 1;VJ7. Jlul, grunted that Pacheeo might
have made Cervantefl nearly thirty years younger in the picture, what
motive could he have had for representing him as a young man of five or
and twenty in a sketch made, we are to suppose, as a memorial of his
CERVANTES. 51
monument, that is to say, worthy of him ; for the bronze
statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las Cortes, a fair
work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been set up
to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial town,
is not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has
Cervantes of ' such weak witness of his name ; ' or what could a
monument do in his case except testify to the self-glorification
of those who had put it up ? Si monumentum quceris, circnm-
spice. The nearest bookseller's shop will show what bathos
there would be in a monument to the author of * Don Quixote.'
'DON QUIXOTE.'
NINE editions of the First Part of ' Don Quixote ' had, as we have
seen, already appeared before Cervantes died, thirty thousand
copies in all, according to his own estimate, and a tenth was
printed at Barcelona the year after his death. Of the Second
Part, five had been published by the middle of the same year.
So large a number naturally supplied the demand for some time,
but by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted ; and from that
time down to the present day the stream of editions has continued
to flow rapidly and regularly. The translations show still more
clearly in what request the book has been from the very outset.
Shelton's seems to have been made as early as 1607 or 1608 ;
Oudin's, the first French one, in 1616 ; the first German in
1621, and Franciosini's Italian version in 1622 ; so that in seven
years from the completion of the work it had been translated
into the four leading languages of Europe. How translations
and editions of translations multiplied as time went on will be
seen by a glance at the list given in the Appendix, necessarily
incomplete as it is. Except the Bible, in fact, no book has been
so widely diffused as ' Don Quixote.' The ' Imitatio Christi '
may have been translated into as many different languages, and
INTRODUCTION.
perhaps ' llohinson Crusoe' and the ' Vicar of Wakefield ' into
nearly as many, hut in multiplicity of translations and editions
Quixot.-' leaves them all far behind.
Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion.
'Don Quixote' has been thoroughly naturalised among people
whose ideas about knight-errantry, if they litid any at all, were of
the vaguest, who had never seen or heard of a book of chivalry,
who could not possibly feel the humour of the burlesque or
sympathise with the author's purpose. Another curious fact is
that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the world, is one of
the most intensely national. ' Manon Lescaut ' is not more
thoroughly French, 'Tom Jones' not more English, ' Rob Eoy '
not moiv Scotch, than ' Don Quixote ' is Spanish, in character,
in ideas, in sentiment, in local colour, in everything. What,
then, is the secret of this unparalleled popularity, increasing
year by year for well-nigh three centuries ? One explanation, no
doubt, is that of all the books in the world, ' Don Quixote ' is
the most catholic. There is something in it for every sort of
reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As Cervantes
himself says with a touch of pride, ' It is thumbed and read and
got by heart by people of all sorts ; the children turn its leaves,
the young people read it, the grown men understand it, the oldj
folk praise it.'
But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more*
than its humour, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or
knowledge of human nature it displays, has insured its success
with the multitude, is the vein of farce that runs through it. It
was the attack upon the sheep, the battle with the wine-skins,
Manibrino's helmet, the balsam of Fierabras, Don Quixote
knocked <>v»-r by the sails of the windmill, Sancho tossed in the
blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master and man, that
'.riginally the great attraction, and perhaps are so still to
BOme extent with the majority of readers. The bibliography of
• •k i- a proof of this. There were ten editions of t.h«-
cond, where the humour is throughout much
nkiii to comedy than to f;irce. five only were printed. It
<DON QUIXOTE: 53
is plain that ' Don Quixote ' was generally regarded at first, and
indeed in Spain for a long time, as little more than a queer droll
book, full of laughable incidents and absurd situations, very
amusing, but not entitled to much consideration or care. All
the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to 1771, when the
famous printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade editions,
badly and carelessly printed on vile paper and got up in the
style of chap-books intended only for popular use, with, in most
instances, uncouth illustrations and clap-trap additions by the
publisher. Those of Brussels and Antwerp were better in every
way, neater and more careful, but still obviously books intended
for a class of readers not disposed to be critical or fastidious so
long as they were amused.
To England belongs the credit of having been the first
country to recognise the right of ' Don Quixote ' to better
treatment than this. The London edition of 1738, commonly
called Lord Carteret's from having been suggested by him, was
not a mere edition de lutfe. It produced ' Don Quixote ' in
becoming form as regards paper and type, and embellished with
plates which, if not particularly happy as illustrations, were at
least well intentioned and well executed, but it also aimed at
correctness of text, a matter to which nobody except the editors
of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given even a passing
thought ; and for a first attempt it was fairly successful, for
though some of its emendations are inadmissible, a good many
of them have been adopted by all subsequent editors.
The example set was soon followed in the elegant duodecimo
editions with Coypel's plates published at the Hague and Amster-
dam, and later in those of Ibarra and Sancha in Spain. But the
most notable results were the splendid edition in four volumes
by the Spanish Royal Academy in 1780, and the Rev. John
Bowie's, printed at London and Salisbury in 1781. In the
former a praiseworthy attempt was made to produce an authorita-
tive text ; but unfortunately the editors, under the erroneous im-
pression that Cervantes had either himself corrected La Cuesta's
1608 edition of the First Part, or at least authorised its correc-
54 INTRODUCTION.
tions. attached an excessive importance to emendations which in
reality are entitled to no higher respect than those of any other
printer. The distinguishing feature of Bowie's edition is the mass
of noti's. filling two volumes out of the six. Bowie's industry, /eal,
and erudition have made his name deservedly venerated by all
students of ' Don Quixote ; ' at the same time it must be owned
that the practical value of his notes has been somewhat over-
rated. "What they illustrate is not so much 'Don Quixote' as
the amiotator's extensive reading. The majority of them are
intended to show the sources among the books of chivalry from
which Cervantes took the incidents and ideas he burlesqued, and
the connection is very often purely fanciful. They rendered an
important service, however, in acting as a stimulus and furnishing
a foundation for other commentaries ; as, for example, Pellicer's,
which, though it does not contain a fiftieth of the number of
notes, is fifty times more valuable for any purpose of genuine
elucidation ; and Clemencin's, that monument of industry, re-
search, and learning, which has done more than all others put
together to throw light upon the obscurities and clear away the
difficulties of ' Don Quixote.'
The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about
a remarkable change of sentiment with regard to ' Don Quixote.'
; number of its admirers began to grow ashamed of laugh-
ing over it. It became almost a crime to treat it as a humorous
book. The humour was not entirely denied, but, according to
the new view, it was rated as an altogether secondary quality, a
accessory, nothing more than the stalking-horse under the
tation of which Cervantes shot his philosophy or his satire,
or whatever it was lie meant to shoot ; for on this point opinions
varied. All were agreed, however, that the object he aimed at
1)1 the hooks of chivalry. He said emphatically in the pre-
ihe Kiist Part and in the last sentence of the Second, that
lie Inn! no other object in view than to discredit these books, and
d criticism, made it clear that his object must
hav<
theory was that the book was a_kind_of allegory,.. setting
QUIXOTE: 55
forth the eternal struggle between the ideal^and the real, be-
tween the spirit of poetry and the^ spirit jrf prose ; and perhaps
German philosophy never evolved a more ungainly or unlikely
camel out of the depths of its inner consciousness. Something
of the antagonism, no doubt, is to be found in ' Don Quixote,'
because it is to be found everywhere in life, and Cervantes drew
from life. It is difficult to imagine a community in which the
never-ceasing game of cross purposes between Sancho Panza and
Don Quixote would not be recognised as true to nature. In the
stone age, among the lake dwellers, among the cave men, there
were Don Quixotes and Sancho Panzas ; there must have been
the troglodyte who never could see the facts before his eyes, and
the troglodyte who could see nothing else. But to suppose
Cervantes deliberately setting himself to expound any such idea
in two stout quarto volumes is to suppose something not only
very unlike the age in which he lived, but altogether unlike
Cervantes himself, who would have been the first to laugh at an
attempt of the sort made by anyone else.
Another idea, which apparently had a strange fascination for
some minds, was that there are deep political meanings lying
hidden under the drolleries of ' Don Quixote.' This, indeed, was
not altogether of modem' growth. If we believed, what nobody
believes now, the Buscapie to be genuine, some such notion
would seem to have been current soon after the appearance of
the book. At any rate Defoe, in the preface to the ' Serious Ke-
flections of Kobinson Crusoe,' tells us that though thousands
read ' Don Quixote ' without any suspicion of the fact, ' those who
know the meaning of it know it to be an emblematic history of,
and a just satire upon, the Duke of Medina Sidonia.' That the
' Duke of Lerma ' was the original of ' Don Quixote ' was a ta-
vourite theory with others, who, we must suppose, saw nothing
improbable in the Archbishop of Toledo making a protege of the
man that according to them had ridiculed and satirised his
brother. Other suggestions were that Cervantes meant Charles V.,
Philip II., Ignatius Loyola ; while those who were not prepared
to go so far as to declare the whole book to be a political satire,
56 INTRODUCTION.
applied their ingenuity to the discovery of allusions to the
events and persoi lages of tin- day in almost every incident of the
It liecame, in short, a kind of pastime with literary idlers
to go a mare's-nesting in ' J )on Quixote' and hunt for occult
significations in the hill of ass-colts delivered to Sancho Pan/a,
the decision on the pack-saddle and hasin question, the names
.and arms ol the chieftains in the encounter with the sheep, or
wherever the ordinary reader in his simplicity flattered himself
that the author's drift was unmistakahle. In fact, to believe
, scholiasts, Cervantes was the prince of cryptographers,
and ' Don (Quixote ' a tissue of riddles from beginning to end.
The pursuit has evidently attractions inexplicable to the un-
initiated, but perhaps its facility may have something to do with
harm, for in truth nothing is easier than to prove oneself
wiser than the rest of the world in this way. All that is neces-
sary is to assert dogmatically that by A the author means B, and
that when he says 'black' he means 'white.' If some future
commentator chooses to say that 'Pickwick ' is an ' emblematic
history ' of Lord Melbourne ; that Jingle, with his versatility,
audacity, and volubility, is meant for Lord Brougham; Sam
AVeller for Sydney Smith, the faithful joker of the "Whig party ;
and Mr. Pickwick's mishap on the ice for Lord Melbourne's fall-
ing through from insufficient support in 1834 ; and that he is a
blockhead who offers to believe otherwise ; who shall say him
nay'.' It, will lie impossible to confute him. save by calling up
Charles Dickens from his grave in Westminster Abbey.
According toothers, there are philosophical ideas of a startling
kind to he found in ahundance in ' Don Quixote' by those who
chof»e to look for them, ideas that show Cervantes to have been
far in advance of his time. The precise nature of these ideas is
in general rather vaguely intimated ; though, to be sure, in one
instance it is claimed for Cervantes that he anticipated Descartes.
' Don Quixote,' it will he rememhered, on awaking in the cave of
Montesinos was at first doubtful of his own identity, but on feel-
ing himself jill over and observing 'the collected thoughts that
p;i— « .I through his mind,' he was convinced that he was himself
QUIXOTE: 57
and not a phantom, which, it has been urged plausibly, was in
effect a practical application of the Cartesian ' Cogito, ergo sum.'
But for the most part the expositors content themselves with the
assertion that running through ' Don Quixote ' there is a vein of
satire aimed at the Churclj, dogma, sacerdotalism, and the Inqui-
sition. This, of course, will at once strike most people as being
extremely unlikely. Cervantes wrote at about the most active
period of the Inquisition, and if he ventured upon satire of this
sort he would have been in the position of the reduced gentle-
woman who was brought down to selling tarts in the street for
a livelihood, and who used to say to herself every time she
•<3ried her wares, ' I hope to goodness nobody hears me.'
There is, moreover, something very characteristic of nine-
teenth century self-conceit in the idea that it was reserved for
our superior intelligence to see what those poor blind stupid
'Officers of the Inquisition could not perceive. Anyone, however,
who, for instance, compares the original editions of Quevedo's
' Visions ' with the authorised Madrid edition will see that these
officials were not so very blind, but that on the contrary their
eyes were marvellously keen to detect anything that had the
slightest tincture of disrespect or irreverence. Nay, ' Don
Quixote ' itself is a proof of their vigilance, for three years after
the Second Part had appeared they cut out the Duchess's not
very heterodox remark that works of charity done in a lukewarm
way are of no avail. It may be said that S audio's observations
upon the sham sambenito and mitre in chapter Ixix. Part II., and
Dapple's return home adorned with them in chapter Ixxiii., are
meant to ridicule the Inquisition ; but it is plain the Inquisition
itself did not think so, and probably it was as good a judge as
anyone now- a -days.
For one passage capable of being tortured into covert satire
.against any of these things, there are ten in ' Don Quixote ' and
the novels that show — what, indeed, is sufficiently obvious from
the little we know of his life and character— that Cervantes was
a faithful son of the Church. As to his having been in advance
•of his age, the line he took up on the expulsion of the Moriscoes
INTRODUCTION.
. rtion. Ha.l he been the far-seeing philo-
•1.1 profound thinker the (Vrvantists strive to make him
in- would have looked with contempt and disgust upon an
mpid and childish as ever came of priestly bigotry
acting on popular fanaticism and ignorance; and if not moved by
the barbarous cruelty of the measure, lie would have been ini-
-ed bv its mischievous consequences to his country, as all the
-talesmen of the day were. No loyal reader of his will
believe for a moment that his vigorous advocacy of it was un-
dertaken against his convictions and solely in order to please his
patron, the leader of the movement. The truth is, no doubt,
that in the Archbishop's antechamber he heard over and over
si gain all the arguments he has reproduced in ' Don Quixote '
and in the novel of the ' Colloquy of the Dogs,' and that his
opinions, as opinions so often do, took their complexion from his
surroundings. There is no reason to question his sincerity, but
the less that is said of his philosophy and foresight the better.
He was a philosopher in one and perhaps the best sense, for
he knew how to endure the ills of life with philosophy ; his
knowledge of human nature was profound, his observation was
marvellous ; but life never seems to have presented any mystery
to him, 01 d any problem to his mind.
It does not require much study of the literary history of the
time, or any profound critical examination of the work, to see
that these elaborate theories and ingenious speculations are not
real! iv to explain the meaning of 'Don Quixote' or
the purpose of Cervantes. The extraordinary influence of the
rom hivalry in his day is quite enough to account for
the gmesis of the hook.
Some idea of the prodigious development of this branch of
literature in the sixteenth century may be obtained from the
\en in the Appendix, if the reader bears in mind tl>at
only a portion of the romances belonging to by far the largest
|i are enumerated. As to its effect upon the nation, th-
iimdant evidence. I'Yom the time when the Amadises and
I'almerins Ix-gsin to grow popular down to the very end of the
QUIXOTE: S9
century, there is a steady stream of invective, from men whose
character and position lend weight to their words, against the
romances of chivalry and the infatuation of their readers. It
would be easy to fill a couple of pages with the complaints
that were made of the mischief produced by the inordinate
appetite for this kind of reading, especially among the upper
classes, who, unhappily for themselves and their country, had
only too much time for such pursuits under the rule of Charles V,
and his successors. As Pedro Mexia, the chronicler of Charles V.
puts it, there were many who had brought themselves to think in
the very style of the books they read, books of which might often
be said, and with far more truth, what Ascham said of the
' Morte d' Arthur,' that ' the whole pleasure standeth in two
speciall poyntes, in open manslaughter and bold bawdrye.'
Ticknor, in his second volume, cites some of the most notable
of these predecessors of Cervantes ; but one not mentioned by
him, or, so far as I am aware, by any other writer on the
subject, may be quoted here as having been perhaps the imme-
diate predecessor of, and using language curiously like that in,
' Don Quixote.' I mean Fray Juan de Tolosa, v/ho says he wrote
his fantastically entitled religious treatise, the ' Aranjuez del
Alma ' (Saragossa, 1589), in order to ' drive out of our Spain that
dust-cloud of books of chivalries, as they call them (of knaveries,
as I call them), that blind the eyes of all who, not reflecting
upon the harm they are doing their souls, give themselves up to
them, and waste, the best part of the year in striving to learn
whether Don Belianis of Greece took the enchanted castle, or
whether Don Florisel de Niquea, after all his battles, celebrated
the marriage he was bent upon.' Good Fray Juan did not
choose the right implement. Eidicule was the only besom to
sweep away that dust.
That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had
ample provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to
those who look into the evidence ; as it will be also that it was
not chivalry itself that he attacked and swept away. Of all the
absurdities that, thanks to Poetry, will be repeated to the end of
<io INTRODUCTION.
time, there is n- one than saying that ' Cervantes smiled
Spain's chivalry away." In tin- iirst place there was no chivalry
for him to smile away. Spain's chivalry had heen dead for
than a century. Its work was done when Granada fell,
and as chivalry was essentially republican in its nature, it could
not live under the rule that Ferdinand suhstituted for the free
institutions of media'val Spain. What he did smile away was
not chivalry hut a degrading mockery of it; it would be just as
;ihle to say that England's chivalry was smiled away by
Micule showered in 'Punch' upon the men in block-tin
who ride in the Lord Mayor's Show.
The true nature of the 'right arm' and the ' bright array,'
which, according to the poet, 'the world gave ground,'
and which Cervantes' single laugh demolished, may be gathered
from the words of one of his own countrymen, Don Felix
co, as reported by Captain George Carleton, in his
• Military Memoirs from 1672 to 1713.' l 'Before the appear-
i the world of that labour of Cervantes,' he said, 'it was
to aii impossibility for a man to walk the streets with any
delight or without danger. There were seen so many cavaliers
prancing and curvetting before the windows of their mistresses,
that a would have imagined the whole nation to have
• .thing less than a race of kniglit-errants. But after the
world h. came a little acquainted with that notable history, the
man that was seen in that once celebrated drapery was pointed
a Don (Quixote, and found himself the jest of high and low.
And I verily believe that to this, and this only, we owe that
dampness and poverty of spirit which has run through all our
councils for a century past, so little agreeable to those nobler
is of our famous ancestors.1
all ' Don (Quixote ' a sad hook, preaching a pessimist view
<'f lit'- . total misconception of its drift. It would be so
moral were that, in this world, true enthusiasm naturally
1 This Look, it may he as \\rll to remind some readers, is not, as it is
^till "; ed, one of Defoe's novels, but the genuine experiences of
in Spain during the BuCOCBSion War.
' DON QUIXOTE: 61
leads to ridicule and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of
the sort ; its moral, so far as it can be said to have one, is that
the spurious enthusiasm that is born of vanity and self-conceit,
that is made an end in itself, not a means to an end, and that
acts on mere impulse, regardless of circumstances and con-
sequences, is mischievous to its owner, and a very considerable
nuisance to the community at large. To those who cannot dis-
tinguish between the one kind and the other, no doubt ' Don
Quixote ' is a sad book ; no doubt to some minds it is very sad
that a man who had just uttered so beautiful a sentiment as
that ' it is a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and
Nature made free,' should be ungratefully pelted by the scoundrels
his crazy philanthropy had let loose on society ; but to others-
of a more judicial cast it will be a matter of regret that reckless
self-sufficient enthusiasm is not oftener requited in some such
way for all the mischief it does in the world.
A very slight examination of the structure of ' Don Quixote r \
will suffice to show that Cervantes had no deep design or elaborate
plan in his mind when he began the book. When he wrote those
lines in which * with a few strokes of a great master he sets before
us the pauper gentleman,' he had no idea of the goal to which
his imagination was leading him. There can be little doubt that
all he contemplated was a short tale to range with those he had
already written — ' Rinconete and Cortadillo,' 'The Generous
Lover,' ' The Adventures of Cardenio and Dorothea,' the ' Ill-
advised Curiosity,' ' The Captive's Story ' — a tale setting forth
the ludicrous results that might be expected to follow the attempt
of a crazy gentleman to act the part of a knight -errant in modern
life.
It is plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter
into the original scheme, for had Cervantes thought of him he
certainly would not have omitted him in his hero's outfit, which
he obviously meant to be complete. Him we owe to the
landlord's chance remark in chapter iii. that knights seldom
travelled without squires. It is needless to point out the
difference this implies. To try to think of a Don Quixote
INTRODUCTION,
without Sandio Pan/a is like trying to think of a one-bladed
pair •>;
Tlu- -lory was written at first, like the others, without any
division, as may U' seen by the beginnings and endings of the
first half-do/.en chapters ; and without the intervention of Cid
Hai; igeli; and it seems not unlikely that Cervantes
had sonic intention of bringing Dulcinea, or Aldonza Lorenzo,
DM tlif scene in person. It was probably the ransacking of the
Don's library and the discussion on the books of chivalry that
first suggested it to him that his idea was capable of develop-
ment. What, if instead of a mere string of farcical misadven-
tures, he were to make his tale a burlesque of one of these
. caricaturing their style', incidents, and spirit?
In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and some-
what clumsily divided what he had written into chapters on the
model of ' Amadis,' invented the fable of a mysterious Arabic
manuscript, and set up Cid Hamet Benengeli in imitation of the
almost invariable practice of the chivalry-romance authors, who
fond of tracing their books to some recondite source. In
working out the new idea, he soon found the value of Sancho
Pan/a. Indeed, the keynote, not only to Sancho's part, but to
the whole book, is struck in the first words Sancho utters when
he announces his intention of taking his ass with him. ' About
the ass/ \\e are told, ' Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying
whether hi- could call to mind any knight-errant taking with him
an esmihv mounted on ass-hack ; but no instance occurred to his
memory.' We can see the whole scene at a glance, the stolid
unconsciousness of Sancho and the perplexity of his master,
upon whose perception the incongruity lias just forced itself.
This is Sancho's mission throughout the book; he is an un-
. |>histnphelcs, always unwittingly making mockery i
of i pirai.ions. always exposing the fallacy of his
ideas by some unintentional ail dlixurdinn, always bringing him
hack to the world of fact and commonplace by force of sheer '
The hurl--, pie, it will he observed, is not steadily kept up
<DON QUIXOTE: 63
•even throughout the First Part. Cervantes seems, as in fact he
confesses in the person of Cid Hamet in chapter xliv. of the
Second Part, to have grown weary before long of the restrictions
it imposed upon him, and to have felt it, as he says himself,
* intolerable drudgery to go on writing on one subject,' chroni-
cling the sayings and doings of the same two characters. It is
plain that, as is often the case with persons of sanguine tempera-
ment, sustained effort was irksome to him. For thirty years
he had contemplated the completion of the ' Galatea,' unable to
bring himself to set about it. He had the ' Persiles,' which he
looked upon as his best work — in prose at least — an equal length
of time on his hands. The Second Part of * Don Quixote ' he
wrote in a very desultory fashion, putting it aside again and
again to turn to something else. And when he made an end,
it was always a hasty one. Each part of ' Don Quixote ' lie
finishes off with a wild nourish, and seems to fling down 'his
pen with a ' whoop ' like a schoolboy at the eTicT of a task he has
been kept in for. Even the ' Viaje del Parnaso,' a thing entered
upon and written con amore, he ends abruptly as if he had got
tired of it.
It was partly for this reason, as he himself admits, that he
inserted the story of ' Cardenio and Dorothea,' that with the
untranslatable title which I have ventured to call the ' Ill-advised
Curiosity,' and ' The Captive's Story,' that fill up the greater part
of the last half of the volume, as well as the ' Chrysostom and
Marcela ' episode in the earlier chapters. But of course there
were other reasons. He had these stories ready written, and it
seemed a good way of disposing of them ; it is by no means
unlikely that he mistrusted his own powers of extracting from
Don Quixote and Sancho material enough to fill a book ; but
above all it is likely he felt doubtful of his venture. It was an
experiment in literature far bolder than ' Lazarillo de Tonnes '
or ' Guzman de Alfarache ; ' he could not tell how it would be
received ; and it was as well therefore to provide his readers with
something of the sort they were used to, as a kind of insurance
against total failure.
04 INTRODUCTION.
Tin- event did not justify his diffidence. The public, lie
acknowledges, skimmed tin- talcs hastily and impatiently, eager
11-11 to the adventures of Don Quixote and Saneho ; and the
public lias ever since done much the same. He himself owns
that they are altogether out of place, and nothing but the natural
reluctance of editors and translators to mutilate a great classic
has pn^erved them, for in truth they are not only out of place,
hut positive blemishes. An exception might be made in favour
of the story of the Captive, which has an interest in itself inde-
nt of the autobiographical touches it contains, and is in the
main told in a straightforward soldierly style.
Hut the others have nothing to recommend them. They are
commonplace tales of intrigue that might have been written by
any tenth-rate story-teller. With a certain pretence of moral
purpose, the ' Ill-advised Curiosity' is a nauseous story, and the
morality of Dorothea's story is a degree worse than that of
llichardson's ' Pamela; ' it is, in fact, a story of 'easy virtue
rewarded.' The characters are utterly uninteresting ; the men,
Cardenio and Don Fernando, Anselmo and Lothario, are a
iptihle set ; and the women are remarkable for nothing but
a tendency tt swoon away on slight provocation, and to make
long speeches the very adjectives of which would be enough for
a strong man. The reader will observe the difference between
'orothea of the tale and the graceful, sprightly, natural
Dorothea who acts the part of the Princess Micomicona with
such genuine gaiety and fun.
J'.ut it is in style that these tales offend most of all. They
.1 worth telling, and they are told at three times the
length that would have been allowable if they were. No device
known to prolixity is omitted. Verbs and adjectives always go
in pairs like panniers on a donkey, as if one must inevitably fall
to the ground without the other to balance it. Nobody ever
anything, he always declares and asserts it, or per-
and discerns it. If a thing is beautiful it must likewise
he lovely, and nothing can he odious without being detestable
""I.1-'!' sis a nile adjectives are seldom used but in the
1 DON QUIXOTE: 65
superlative degree. Everything is said with as much circum-
locution and rodomontade as possible, as if the lavish expendi-
ture of words were the great object. And yet, following
immediately upon these tawdry artificial productions, we have
the charming little episode of Don Luis and Doiia Clara, as if
Cervantes wished to show that when he chose he could write a
love story in a simple, natural style.
The latter portion of the First Part is, in short, almost all
episodes and digressions ; no sooner are the tales disposed of,
than we have the long criticism on the chivalry romances and
the drama, interesting and valuable no doubt, but still just as
much out of place, and that is followed by the goatherd's some-
what pointless story.
By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his
hands, and summoned up resolution enough to set about the
Second Part in earnest, the case was very much altered. Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza had not merely found favour, but
had already become, what they have never since ceased to be,
veritable entities to the popular imagination. There was no
occasion for him now to interpolate extraneous matter ; nay, his
readers told him plainly that what they wanted of him was more
Don Quixote and more Sancho Panza, and not novels, tales, or
digressions. To himself, too, his creations had become realities,
and he had become proud of them, especially of Sancho. He
began the Second Part, therefore, under very different conditions,
and the difference makes itself manifest at once. Even in
translation the style will be seen to be far easier, more flowing,
more natural, and more like that of a man sure of himself and
of his audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a change
also. In the First Part, "Don Quixote has no character or|
individuality whatever. He is nothing more than a crazy re-
presentative of the sentiments of the chivalry romances. In
all that he says ana!" ctoes he is simply repeating the lesson he
has learned from his books ; and therefore, as Hallam with
perfect justice maintains, it is absurd to speak of him in the
gushing strain of the sentimental critics when they dilate upon
VOL. I. F
66 IXTRODUCTIOX.
his I'.oblem -ss, disinterestedness, dauntless courage, and so forth,
It was ilu- business of a knight- errant to right wrongs, redress
injuries, and succour the distressed, and this, as a matter of
course, he makes his business when he takes up the part; a
knight-errant was bound to be intrepid, and so he feels bound to
fear aside. Of all Byron's melodious nonsense about Don
Quixote, the most nonsensical statement is that ' 'tis his virtue
makes him mad!' The exact opposite is the truth; it is his
(jmulness makes him virtuous.
In this respect he remains unchanged in the Second Part ;
but at the same time Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader,
as if it was a point upon which he was anxious there should be
no mistake, that his hero's madness is strictly confined to delu-
sions on the subject of chivalry, and that on every other subject
he is ' discrete,' one, ki fact, whose faculty of discernment is in
perfect order. He thus invests Don Quixote with a dignity
which was wholly wanting to him in the First Part, and at the
same time reserves to himself the right of making him speak
and act not only like a man of sense, but like a man of excep-
tionally cleai1 tu id acute mind, whenever it may become desirable
to travel outside the limits of the burlesque. The advantage of
this is that he is enabled to make use of Don Quixote as a
mouthpiece for his own reflections, and so, without seeming to
digress, allow himself the relief of digression when he requires
freely as in a commonplace book.
It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don
Quixote is not very great. There are some natural touches of
character about him, such as his mixture of irascibility and
placability, and his curious affection for Sancho together with his
impatience of the squire's loquacity and impertinence; but in
tin- main, apart from his craze, he is little more than a thought-
I i'ul. cultured . with instinctive good taste and a great
1 of shrewdness and originality of mind.
0 Sancho. it is plain, from the concluding words of the
preface to the First Part, that he was a favourite with his
tor even before he had been taken into favour by the public.
IDON QUIXOTE: 67
An inferior genius, taking him in hand a second time, would
very likely have tried to improve him by making him more
comical, clever, amiable, or virtuous. But Cervantes was too
true an artist to spoil his work in this way. Sancho, when he
reappears, is the old Sancho with the old familiar features ; but
with a difference ; they have been brought out more distinctly,
but at the same time with a careful avoidance of anything like
caricature ; the outline has been filled in where filling in was
necessary, and, vivified by a few touches of a master's hand,
Sancho stands before us as he might in a character portrait by
Velazquez. He is a much more important and prominent figure
in the Second Part than~in the~i1irst ; indeed, it is his matchless
mendacity about Dulcinea that to a great extent supplies the
action of the story.
His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any
other. In the First Part he displays a great natural gift of lying, |
as may be seen in his explanation of Don Quixote's bruises in
chapter xvi., and above all in that marvellous series of lies he
strings together in chapter xxxi. in answer to Don Quixote's
questions about Dulcinea. His lies are not of the highly ima-
ginative sort that liars in fiction commonly indulge in ; like
Falstaff's, they resemble the father that begets them ; they are '
simple, homely, plump lies ; plain working lies, in short. But
in the service of such a master as Ik);n_ Quixote he develops
rapidly, as we see when he comes to palm off the three country
wenches as Dulcinea and her ladies in waiting. It is worth
noticing how, flushed by his success in this instance, he is
tempted afterwards to try a flight beyond his powers in his
account of the journey on Clavileno.
In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents
of the chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque.
Enchantments of the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and the
Trifaldi and the cave of Montesinos play a leading part in the
later and inferior romances, and another distinguishing feature
is caricatured in Don Quixote's blind adoration of Dulcinea. In
the romances of chivalry love is either a mere animalism or a
68 INTRODUCTION.
fantastic idolatry. Only a coarse-minded man would care to
make merry with the former, but to one of Cervantes' humour
tin- latter was naturally an attractive subject for ridicule. Like
everything else in these romances, it is a gross exaggera-
tion of the real sentiment of chivalry, but its peculiar extra-
vagance is probably due to the influence of those masters of
hyperbole, the Provencal poets. When a troubadour professed
his readiness to obey his lady in all things, he made it incumbent
upon the next comer, if he wished to avoid the imputation of
tanieness and commonplace, to declare himself the slave of her
will, which the next was compelled to cap by some still stronger
declaration ; and so expressions of devotion went on rising one
above the other like biddings at an auction, and a conventional
language of gallantry and theory of love came into being that
in time permeated the literature of Southern Europe, and bore
fruit, in one direction in the transcendental worship of Beatrice
and Laura, and in another in the grotesque idolatry which found
nonents in writers like Feliciano de Silva. This is what
Cervantes deals with in Don Quixote's passion for Dulcinea, and
in no instance has he carried out the burlesque more happily.
I'.y keeping Dulcinea in the background, and making her a
va.^ue shadowy being of whose very existence we are left in
doubt, he invests Don Quixote's worship of her virtues and
i <-harms with an additional extravagance, and gives still more
point to the caricature of the sentiment and language of the
romances.
There will always be a difference of opinion as to the relative
merits of the First and Second Parts of ' Don Quixote. '__As natur-
ally follows from the difference in aim between the two Parts, the
First is the richer in laughable incidents, the Second in character ;
and the First will always be the favourite with those whose taste
leans to humour of a farcical sort, while the Second will have the
preference with those who incline to the humour of comedy.
Another reason why the Second Tart has less of the purely ludi-
Irment in it is that Cervantes, having a greater respect
his hero, is more careful of his personal dignity. In the
QUIXOTE: 69
interests of the story lie lias to allow Don Quixote to be made a
butt of to some extent, but he spares him the cudgellings and
cuffings which are the usual finale of the poor gentleman's
adventures in the First Part.
There can be no question, however, as to the superiority of
the Second Part in style and construction. It is one of the com-
monplaces of criticism to speak of ' Don Quixote ' as if it were a
model of Spanish prose, but in truth there is no work of note in
the language that is less deserving of the title. There are of
course various styles in ' Don Quixote.' Don Quixote's own <-
language (except when he loses his temper 'with Sancho) is
most commonly modelled on that of the romances of chivalry,
and many of the descriptive passages, like those about the sun
appearing an the balconies of the east, and so forth, are parodies
of the same. I have already spoken of the wearisome verbosity"^
of the inserted novels, but the narrative portions of the book
itself, especially in the First Part, are sometimes just as long-
winded and wordy. In both the style reminds one somewhat
of that of the euphuists, and of their repugnance to saying
anything in a natural way, and their love of cold conceits and
verbal quibbles. These were the besetting sins of the prose of
the day, but Cervantes has besides sins of his own to answer for.
He was a Careless writer at all times, but in ' Don Quixote '
he is only too often guilty of downright slovenliness. The word
is that of his compatriot and staunch admirer Clemencin, or I
should not venture to use it, justifiable as it may be in the case
of a writer who deals in long sentences staggering down the
page on a multiplicity of ' ands,' or working themselves into
tangles of parentheses, sometimes parenthesis within parenthesis ;
who begins a sentence one way and ends it another ; who sends
relatives adrift without any antecedent to look to ; who mixes
up nominatives, verbs, and pronouns in a way that would have
driven a Spanish Cobbett frantic. Here is an example of a
very common construction in ' Don Quixote : ' ' The host stood
staring at him, and entreated with him that he would rise ; but
he never would until he had to tell him that he granted him
7o INTRODUCTION.
the boon lie be^ed of him.' Here, as Cobbett would have said,
ront'iision and pell-mell,' though no doubt the meaning
H el.
Nor are his laxities of this sort only ; his grammar is very
i lax, lie repeats words and names out of pure heedlessness,
and he has a strange propensity to inversion of ideas, and a
curious tendency to say the very opposite of what he meant to
His blind worshippers, with whom it is an axiom that he
can do no wrong, make an odd apology for some of these slips.
They are only his fun, they say ; in which case Cervantes must
have written with a prophetic eye to the friends of Mr. Peter
Magnus, for assuredly no others of the sons of men would be
amused by such means.
l>ut besides these two, there is what we may call Cervantes'
own style, that into which he falls naturally when he is not
imitating the romances of chivalry, or under any unlucky impulse
in the direction of fine-writing. It is almost the exact opposite
of the last. It is a simple, unaffected, colloquial style, not .
indeed a model of correctness, or distinguished by any special
e or elegance, for Cervantes always wrote hastily and care-
l«-s>ly, but a model of clear, terse, vigorous expression. To an
iish reader, Swift's style will, perhaps, convey the best idea
of its character ; at the same time, though equally matter-of-fact,
it has more vivacity than Swift's.
Tliis is the prevailing style of the Second Part, which is cast
i;: the dramatic form to a much greater extent than the First,
••(insisting, indeed, largely of dialogue between master and man,
or of Don (Quixote's discourses and Sancho's inimitable com-
ments thereon. Episodes, Cid Hamet tells us, have been
!iLrl\ introduced, and he adds significantly, ' with no more
Ifl than suflice to make them intelligible,' as if even then the
verbosity of the novels had proved too much for some of the
ten "1 the First Part. The assertion, however, is scarcely
borne out by the fair Claudia's story in chapter lx., or that
prodigious speech which Ana Felix delivers with the rope
' k in chapter Ixiii.
' DON QUIXOTE: 7i
It may be, as Hallam says, that in the incidents of the Second
Part there is not the same admirable probability there is in those
of the First ; though what could be more delightfully probable
than the sequel of Sancho's unlucky purchase of the curds in
chapter xvii. for example ? But it must be allowed that the
Second Part is constructed with greater art, if the word can be
applied to a story so artless. The results of Sancho's audacious
imposture at El Toboso, for instance, its consequences to himself
in the matter of the enchantment of Dulcinea and the penance
laid upon him, his shifts and shirkings, and Don Quixote's in-
sistance in season and out of season, are a masterpiece of comic
intrigue. Not less adroit is the way in which encouragement is
doled out to master and man from time to time, to keep them in
heart. Even with all due allowance for the infatuation of Don
•Quixote and the simplicity and cupidity of Sancho, to represent
them as holding out under an unbroken course of misfortune
would have been untrue to human nature. The victory achieved
in such knightly fashion over the Biscayan, supports Don
Quixote under all the disasters that befall him in the First Part ;
and in the Second his success against the Knight of the Mirrors,
and in the adventure with the lion, and his reception as a knight-
erraiit by the Duke and Duchess, serve to confirm him in his idea
•of his powers and vocation. Material support was still more need-
ful in Sancho's case. It is plain that a prospective island would
not have kept his faith in chivalry alive had it not been for
the treasure-trove of the Sierra Morena and the flesh-pots of
Camacho's wedding.
\ One of the great merits of ' Don Quixote,' and one of the
qualities that have secured its acceptance by all classes of
readers and made it the most cosmopolitan of books, is its sim- 1
plicity. As Samson Carrasco says, ' There 's nothing in it to
puzzle over.' The bachelor's remark, however, cannot be taken
literally, else there would be an impertinence in notes and com-
mentaries. There are, of course, points obvious enough to a
Spanish seventeenth century audience which do not imme-
diately strike a reader now-a-days, and Cervantes often takes it
72 INTRODUCTION.
for granted tliai an allusion will be generally understood which is
only intelligible to a few. For example, on many of his readers
in Spain, and most of his readers out of it, the significance of his
yhoice of a country for his hero is completely lost. It would be
going too far to say that no one can thoroughly comprehend
• Don Quixote ' without having seen La Mancha, but undoubtedly
ii a glimpse of La Mancha will give an insight into the mean-
ing of Cervantes such as no commentator can give. Of all the
ions of. Spain it is the last that would suggest the idea of
romance. Of all the dull central plateau of the Peninsula it is the
dullest tract. There is something impressive about the grim soli-
tudes of Estremadura ; and if the plains of Leon and Old Castile
bald and dreary, they are studded with old cities renowned
in story and rich in relics of the past. But there is no redeem-
ing feature in the Manchegan landscape ; it has all the sameness
of the desert without its dignity ; the few towns and villages that
break its monotony are mean and commonplace, there is nothing
venerable about them, they have not even the picturesqueness of
poverty; indeed, Don Quixote's own village, Argamasilla, has a
r of oppressive respectability in the prim regularity of its
streets and houses; everything is ignoble; the very windmills are
,<_rliest and shabbiest of the windmill kind.
To anyone who knew the country well, the mere style and
title of ' Don Quixote of La Mancha ' gave the key to the
author's meaning at once. La Mancha as the kmghVsj^mmtiy
jnid scene of his chivalries is orii~piece with tli^_pasteboard
bourer onass-back jor a squire, knighthood
conferred by ;i rascally ventero, convictstaKen for victims of
oppression, and the rest of the incongruities between Don
Quixote's world and the world he lived in, between things as he
\ them and things us they were. \ /
It i :liat this element of incongruity, underlying the
whole humour and purpose of the book, should have been so
little heeded by tin- majority of those who have undertaken to
inti : i • • Don Quixote.' Lt has been completely overlooked, for
iiiple. by the illustrators. To be sure, the great majority of
' DON QUIXOTE: 73,
the artists who illustrated * Don Quixote ' knew nothing what-
ever of Spain. To them a venta conveyed no idea but the ab-
stract one of a roadside inn, and they could not therefore do full
justice to the humour of Don Quixote's misconception in taking
it for a castle, or perceive the remoteness of all its realities from
his ideal. But even when better informed they seem to have no
apprehension of the full force of the discrepancy. Take, for
instance, Gustave Dore's drawing of Don Quixote watching his
armour in the inn-yard. Whether or not the Venta de Quesada
on the Seville road is, as tradition maintains, the inn described
in * Don Quixote,' beyond all question it was just such an inn-
yard as the one behind it that Cervantes had in his mind's eye,
and it was 011 just such a rude stone trough as that beside the
primitive draw-well in the corner that he meant Don Quixote
to deposit his armour. Gustave Dore makes it an elaborate
fountain such as no arriero ever watered his mules at in the
corral of any venta in Spain, and thereby entirely misses the
point aimed at by Cervantes. It is the mean, prosaic, common-
place character of all the surroundings and circumstances that
gives a significance to Don Quixote's vigil and the ceremony
that follows. Gustave Dore might as well have turned La
Tolosa and La Molinera into village maidens of the opera type
in ribbons and roses.
No humour suffers more from this kind of treatment than
that of Cervantes. Of that finer and more delicate humour
through which there runs a thread of pathos he had but little,
or, it would be fairer to say, shows but little. There are few
indications in ' Don Quixote ' or the novelas of the power that
produced that marvellous scene in ' Lazarillo de Tonnes,' where
the poor hidalgo paces the patio, watching with his hungry eyes
his ragged little retainer munching the crusts and cowheel.
Cervantes' humour is for the most part of that broader and
simpler sort, the strength of which lies in the perception of the
incongruous. It is the incongruity of Sancho in all his ways,
words, and works, with the ideas and aims of his master, quite
as much as the wonderful vitality and truth to nature of the
74 INTRODUCTION,
character, that makes him the most humorous creation in the
whole range of fiction.
That unsmiling gravity of which Cervantes was the first
Cervantes' serious air,' which sits naturally on
Swift alone, perhaps, of later humourists, ia essential to this kind
of humour, and here again Cervantes has suffered at the hands
of his interpreters. Nothing, unless indeed the coarse buffoonery
of L'hillips, could be more out of place in an attempt to represent
Cervantes, than a flippant, would-be facetious style, like that
of Motteux's version for example, or the sprightly, jaunty air,
I'Yeneh translators sometimes adopt. It is the grave matter- of-
i'actness of the narrative, and the apparent unconsciousness of
the author that he is saying anything ludicrous, anything but the
merest commonplace, that give its peculiar flavour to the humour
of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact opposite of the humour
of Sterne and the self-conscious humourists. Even when Uncle
Toby is at his best, you are always aware of ' the man Sterne '
In-hind him, watching you over his shoulder to see what effect
he is producing. Cervantes always leaves you alone with Don
Quixote and Sancho. He and Swift and the great humourists
always keep themselves out of sight, or, more properly speaking,
never think about themselves at all, unlike our latter-day school
of humourists, who seem to have revived the old horse-collar
method, and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque assumption
• if ignorance, imbecility, or bad taste.
It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any
other language is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural
gravity and a sonorous stateliness about Spanish, be it ever so
rulloiniial, that make an absurdity doubly absurd, and give
plausibility to the most preposterous statement. This is what
makes Sancho I'an/.a's drollery the despair of the conscientious
iianslator. Sancho's curt comments can never fall flat, but
they lose half their flavour when transferred from their native
Castilian into any other medium. But if foreigners have failed
to do justice to the humour of Cervantes, they are no worse
/ban liis own countrymen. Indeed, were it not for the Spanish
QUIXOTE: 75
peasant's hearty relish of ' Don Quixote,' one might be tempted
to think that the great humourist was not looked upon as a
humourist at all in Jiis own country. Anyone knowing nothing
of Cervantes, and dipping into the extensive exegetical literature
that has grown up of late years round him and his works, would
infallibly carry away the idea that he was one of the most
obscure writers that ever spoiled paper, that if he had a meaning
his chief endeavour was to keep it to himself, and that whatever
gifts he may have possessed, humour was most certainly not one
of them.
The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have
communicated itself to his critics, making them see things that
are not in the book, and run full tilt at phantoms that have no
existence save in their own imaginations. Like a good many
critics now-a-days, they forget that screams are not criticism,
and that it is only vulgar tastes that are influenced by strings
of superlatives, three-piled hyperboles, and pompous epithets.
But what strikes one as particularly strange is that while they
deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe all manner of imaginary
ideas and qualities to Cervantes, they show no perception of the
quality that ninety-nine out of a hundred of his readers would
rate highest in him, and hold to be the one that raises him above
.all rivalry. If they are not actually insensible to his humour,
they probably regard it as a quality which their own dignity as
well as his will not allow them to recognise, and I am inclined to
suspect that this feeling has as much to do with their bitterness
against Clemencin, as his temerity in venturing to point out faults
in the god of their idolatry. Clemencin, if not the only one, is
one of the few Spanish critics or commentators who show a
genuine and hearty enjoyment of the humour of ' Don Quixote.'
Again and again, as he is. growling over Cervantes' laxities of
grammar and construction, he has to lay down his pen, and wipe
his eyes that are brimming over at some drollery or naivete, of
Sancho's, and it may well be that this frivolous behaviour is re-
garded with the utmost contempt by men so intensely in earnest
as the Cervantistas.
76 INTRODUCTION.
To speak of ' Don (Quixote ' as if it were merely a humorous:
book, would be ;i manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times
makes it a kind of commonplace book for occasional essays and
criticisms, or for the observations and reflections and gathered
wisdom of a long and stirring life. It is a mine of shrewd J
observation on mankind and human nature. Among modern
novels there may be, here and there, more elaborate studies of
character, but there is no book richer in individualised cha-
racter. What Coleridge said of Shakespeare in minimis is true of
Cervantes ; he never, even for the most temporary purpose, puts
forward a lay figure-. There is life and individuality in all his -
characters, however little they may have to do, or however short
a time they may be before the reader. Samson Carrasco, the
curate, Teresa Pan/a, Altisidora, even the two students met on
the road to the cave of Montesinos, all live and move and have
their being; and it is characteristic of the broad humanity
of Cervantes that there is not a hateful one among them all. -
Even poor Maritornes, with her deplorable morals, has a kind
heart of ho- own and ' some faint and distant resemblance to a^
Christian about her;' and as for Sancho, though on dissection
we fail to find a lovable trait in him, unless it be a sort of dog-
like affection for his master, who is there that in his heart does
not love him '.'
Uut it is, after all, the humour of 'Don Quixote' that dis-
tinguishes it from all other books of the romance kind. It is this
that ma! one of the most judicial-minded of modern
critics calls it, 'the best novel in the world beyond all com-
parison.' ' It is its varied humour, ranging from broad farce to.j
comedy as subtle as Shakespeare's or Moliere's, that has natura- 1
lised it in (very country where then- are readers, and made it a
1C in every language that has a literature. ^
We are sometimes told that classics have had their day, and
that the literature of the future means to shake itself loose from
1 I am ^uiiiK through />"» (Jni.rufr a^ain, ami admire it more than ever,
•ily the best novel in the world beyond nil comparison. — MACAULAY,
nd Letters.
QUIXOTE: 77
the past, and respect no antiquity and recognise no precedent.
Will the coming iconoclasts spare 'Don Quixote,' or is Cervantes
doomed, with Homer and* Dante, Shakespeare and Moliere?
So far as a forecast is possible, it seems clear that their humour
will not be his humour. Even now, persons who take their
idea of humour from that form of it most commonly found
between yellow and red boards on a railway book- stall may be
sometimes heard to express a doubt about the humour of /Don
-Quixote,' and the sincerity of those who profess to enjoy it, they
themselves being, in their own phrase, unable to see any fun in
it. The humour of ' Don Quixote ' has, however, the advantage of
being based upon human nature, and as the human nature of the
future, will probably be, upon the whole, much the same as the
/iuman nature of the past, it is, perhaps, no unreasonable sup-
position that what has been relished for its truth may continue
to find some measure of acceptance.
If it be not presumptuous to express any solicitude about the
future, let us hope so ; for, it must be owned, its prophets do not
encourage the idea that liveliness will be among its charac-
teristics. The humour of Cervantes may have its uses too, even
in that advanced state of society. The future, doubtless, will be
great and good and wise and virtuous, but being still human it
will have its vanities and self-conceits, its shams, humbugs, and
impostures, even as we have, or haply greater than ours, for
everything, we are told, will be on a scale of which we have no
conception ; and against these there is 110 weapon so effective as
the old-fashioned one with which Cervantes smote the great
sham of his own day.
DON QUIXOTE
PART I.
THE AUTHOE'S PREFACE.
IDLE READER : thou mayest believe me without any oath
that I would this book, as it is the child of my brain, were
the fairest, gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined.
But I could not counteract Nature's law that everything
shall beget its like ; and what, then, could this sterile, ill-
tilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled,
whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such
as never came into any other imagination — just what might
be begotten in a prison, where every misery is lodged and
every doleful sound makes its dwelling ? Tranquillity, a
cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, bright skies, murmuring
brooks, peace of mind, these are the things that go far to
make even the most barren muses fertile, and bring into
the world births that fill it with wonder and delight.
Sometimes when a father has an ugly, loutish son, the love
he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his
defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind
and body, and talks of them to his friends as wit and grace.
I, however — for though I pass for the father, I am but the
stepfather to ' Don Quixote ' — have no desire to go with the
VOL. i. G
DON QUIXOTE.
current of custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader,
almost with tears in my eyes, as others do, to pardon or
excuse the defects thou wilt perceive in this child of mine.
Thou art neither its kinsman nor its friend, thy soul is
thine own and thy will as free as any man's, whate'er he
be, thou art in thine own house and master of it as much
a> the kinp; is of his taxes — and thou knowest the common
saying ' Tnder my cloak I kill the king ; M all which exempts
and frees thee from every consideration and obligation, and
thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without fear of
being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou
mayest say of it.
My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and
unadorned, without any embellishment of preface or uncount-
able muster of customary sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies,
Mich as are commonly put at the beginning of books. For
1 can tell thee, though composing it cost me some labour,
I found none greater than the making of this Preface thou
art now reading. Many times did I take up my pen to
write it, and many did I lay it down again, not knowing
what to write. One of these times, as I was pondering
with the paper before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow on
the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking of what I
should say, there came in unexpectedly a certain lively,
clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in thought,
jiskrd tin- reason; to which I, making no mystery of it,
answered that I ttas thinking of the 1 're face I had to make
for the ^tory of ' Don Quixote,' which so troubled me that
..201. In its original and correct form it is'^ive orders to the
nise no superior.
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 83
1 had a mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the
achievements of so noble a knight.
' For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about
what that ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when
t sees me, after slumbering so many years in the silence of
oblivion, coming out now with all my years upon my back,
and with a book as dry as a rush, devoid of invention,
meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly wanting in
learning and wisdom, without quotations in the margin or
.annotations at the end, after the fashion of other books I
see, which, though all fables and profanity, are so full of
maxims from Aristotle, and Plato, and the whole herd of
philosophers, that they fill the readers with amazement and
•convince them that, the authors are men of learning, erudi-
tion, and eloquence. And then, when they quote the Holy
Scriptures ! —anyone would say they are St. Thomases
or other doctors of the Church, observing as they do a
decorum so ingenious that in one sentence they describe a
distracted lover and in the next deliver a devout little
sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and read.
Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for I have
nothing to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and
still less do I know what authors I follow in it, to place
them at the beginning, as all do, under the letters A, B, C,
beginning with Aristotle and ending with Xenophon, or
Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer and the
other a painter. Also my book must do without sonnets
.at the beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are
dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets.
Though if I were to ask two or three obliging friends,
DOX QUIXOTE.
\ know they would give me them, and such as the produc-
tions of those that have the highest reputation in our Spain
could not eijiial.1
Mn short, my friend,' I continued, 'I am determined
that Si nor Don Quixote shall remain huried in the archives
of his own La Mancha until Heaven provide some one to
garnish him with all those things he stands in need of;
heraiise I iind myself, through my shallowness and want
of learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am
by nature shy and careless about hunting for authors to
.-ay what I myself can say without them. Hence the
cogitation and abstraction you found me in, and reason
enough, what you have heard from me.'
Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the
forehead and breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed,
' Before God, Brother, now am I disabused of an error in
which I have been living all this long time I have known
you, all through which I have taken you to be shrewd and
sensible in all you do ; but now I see you are as far from
that a> the heaven is from the earth. How? Is it possible
that things of so little moment and so easy to set right
ran occupy ami perplex a ripe wit like yours, fit to break
through and crush far greater obstacles? By my faith,
this rcniifs, not of any want of ability, but of too much
indolence and too little knowledge of life. Do you want to
know if I am telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me,
and you will see how, in the opening and shutting of an
• p away all your difficulties, and supply all those
deficiencies whicb you say check and discourage you from
1 S.-f Not,- A, p. 00.
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 85
bringing before the world the story of your famous Don
Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry.'
' Say on,' said I, listening to his talk ; ' how do you
propose to make up for my diffidence, and reduce to order
this chaos of perplexity I am in ? '
To which he made answer, ' Your first difficulty^about the
sonnets, epigrams, or complimentary verses] which you want
for the beginning, and which ought to be by persons of im-
portance and rank, can be removed if you yourself take a
little trouble to make them ; you can afterwards baptise
them, and put any name you like to them, fathering them
on Pr ester John of the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond,
who, to my knowledge, were said to have been famous poets :
and even if they were not, and any pedants or bachelors
should attack you and question the fact, never care two
maravedis for that, for even if they prove a lie against
you they cannot cut off the hand you wrote it with.
1 As to references in the margin to the books and authors
from whom you take the aphorisms and sayings you put into
your story, it is only contriving to fit in nicely any sentences
or scraps of Latin you may happen to have by heart, or at
any rate that will not give you much trouble to look up ;
so as, when you speak of freedom and captivity, to insert
Non bene pro toto libertas venditur anro ;
and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it ; *
or, if you allude to the power of death, to come in with —
Fallida mors sequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regunique turres.
1 .Esop, Fable of the Dog and the Wolf.
DON QUIXOTE.
If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our
ninny, go at once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can
do with a \vry small amount of research, and quote no less
than the words of God himself: E<IO autctn tJieo vobis :
ilili'jitr in i in irnx rcstrox. If you speak of evil thoughts,
turn to the Gospel : DC conic exeunt cogitationes males. If
of the fickleness of friends, there is Cato, who will give you
his distich :
Donee eris felix multos nuiuerabis ainicos,
Tenipora si fuerint imbila, solus eris.1
With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you
t'<>r a grammarian at all events, and that now-a-days is no
small honour and profit.
1 With regard to adding annotations at the end of the
book, you may safely do it in this way. If you mention
any giant in your book contrive that it shall be the giant
Goliath, and with this alone, which will cost you almost
nothing, you have a grand note, for you can put — The
i/innt (iolitix or (loliatlt -tnts « I'hilititine irhoin tin' shepherd
I hi ri<l alar bt) <L ?////////// xt<mc-nixt in the Terebinth- t'<iU<'//,
//x in I'i'hitfil in fl/f Honk of Kinfi* — in the chapter where you
find it written.
, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite
literatim' and cosmography, manage that the river Ta^-us
^liall be named in your story, and there you are at once
\\itli another famous annotation, setting forth — The rirer
TIHJHX mix 90 mlb-d after <i Kin;) of tfjmin : it htut //.s source
in xitrh iitt'l such H jiltirr anil J\tlls into tin1 occfin, Lixxitifj tl/c
Nc.t.- J5, j.. DO.
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 87
walls of the famous city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief
that it has golden sands, &c.T If you should have anything
to do with robbers, I will give you the story of Cacus, for I
have it by heart ; if with loose women, there is the Bishop
of Mondoiiedo, who will give you the loan of Lamia, Laida,
and Flora, any reference to whom will bring you great
credit ; 2 if with hard-hearted ones, Ovid will furnish you
with Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer
has Calypso, and Virgil Circe ; if with valiant captains,
Julius Caesar himself will lend you himself in his own
" Commentaries," and Plutarch will give you a thousand
Alexanders. If you should deal with love, with two ounces
you may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrew,
who will supply you to your heart's content ; 3 or if you
should not care to go to foreign countries you have at
home Fonseca's " Of the Love of God," in which is con-
densed all that you or the most imaginative mind can want
on the subject.4 In short, all you have to do is to manage
to quote these names, or refer to these stories I have
mentioned, in your own, and leave it to me to insert the
annotations and quotations, and I swear by all that's good 5
to fill your margins and use up four sheets at the end of
the book.
1 In the Index of Proper Names to Lope's Arcadia there is a description
of the Tagus in very nearly these words.
2 The Bishop of Mondofiedo was Antonio de Guevara, in whose Epistles
the story referred to appears. The introduction of the Bishop and the
' creditable reference ' is a touch after Swift's heart.
3 Author of the Dialoghi di Amore, a Portuguese Jew, who settled in
Spain, but was expelled and went to Naples in 1492.
4 Amor de Dios, by Cristobal de Fonseca, printed in 1594,
5 See Note C, p. 91.
88 /)O\ QT1XOTE.
>w let u ' those1 references to authors which
other hooks have, and you want for yours. The remedy
for tliis is very simple : You have only to look out for some
book that quotes them all, from A to Z as you say yourself,
and then insert the very same alphabet in your hook, and
though the imposition may he plain to see, because you
have so little need to borrow from them, that is no matter;
there will probably be some simple enough to believe that
you have made use of them all in this plain, artless story
of yours. At any rate, if it answers no other purpose, this
long catalogue of authors will serve to give a surprising look
< >f authority to your book. Besides, no one will trouble him-
self to verity whether you have followed them or whether you
have not, being no way concerned in it; especially as, if
I mistake not, this book of yours has no need of any one
of those things you say it wants, for it is, from beginning
t<> end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which
Aristotle never dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor
Cicero had any knowledge; nor do the niceties of truth
nor th<- observations of astrology come within the range of
•ncifiil vagaries; nor have geometrical measurements
or refutations of the arguments used in rhetoric anything
;<> do with it; nor does it mean to preach to anybody,
mixing up things human and divine, a sort of motley in
which no Christian understanding should dress itself. It
nly to avail itself of truth to nature in its composi-
tion, and the more perfect the imitation the better the
u'ill be. And as this piece of yours aims at nothing
than to destroy the authority and influence which
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 89
books of chivalry have in the world and with the public,
there is no need for you to go a-begging for aphorisms
from philosophers, precepts from Holy Scripture, fables
from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles from saints ;
but merely to take care that your style and diction run
musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and
well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to the best of
your power and as well as possible, and putting your ideas
intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity. Strive, too,
that in reading your story the melancholy may be moved
to laughter, and the merry made merrier still ; that the
simple shall not be wearied, that the judicious shall admire
the invention, that the grave shall not despise it, nor the
wise fail to praise it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the
•destruction of that ill-founded edifice of the books of
chivalry, hated by some and praised by many more ; for
if you succeed in this you will have achieved no small
success.'
In profound silence I listened to what my friend said,
and his observations made such an impression on me that,
without attempting to question them, I . admitted their
soundness, and out of them I determined to make this
Preface ; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt perceive my
friend's good sense, my good fortune in finding such an
adviser in such a time of need, and what thou hast gained
in receiving, without addition or alteration, the story of the
famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, who is held by all the
inhabitants of the district of the Campo de Montiel to have
been the chastest lover and the bravest knight that has for
9o DON QUIXOTE.
many years hem srm in that neighbourhood. I have no
to magnify the service I render tliee in making thee
acquainted with so renowned and honoured a knight, hut I
(1.. dr>iiv thy thanks for the acquaintance thou wilt make
with thr famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, to
my thinking. I have j^iven thee condensed all the squirely
drolleries ' that are scattered through the swarm of the
vain hooks of chivalry. And so — may God give thee
health, and not forget me. Yale.
1 Tln> iii'ucinxo was the ' droll ' of the Spanish stage. Cervantes re-
peatedly uses tin- word to describe Sancho, and, as here, alludes to his
Note A (page 84).
humour of this, and indeed of the greater part of the Preface,.
can hardly lie relished without a knowledge of the books of the day, but
;lv Lope dc Vega's, which in their original editions appeared generally
with an imposing display of complimentary sonnets and verses, as well as
of other adjuncts of the sort Cervantes laughs at. Lope's Isidro (1599) had
ten pieces of con iplhiu'ntary verse prefixed to it, and the Hermosura dc
« iK.it:>) had seven. Hartzenbusch remarks that Aristotle and Plato
are the first authors quoted by Lope in the Pcrcyrino en su Patria (1604).
Who the two or three obliging friends may have been is not easy to say.
niie\edo, who had just then taken his place in the front rank of the
i the day, was, no doubt, one; Espinel may have been another;
and Juure-ui nii-ht have been the third. Cervantes had not many friends
"I the <lay. His friendships lay rather among those of
••ration that was dying out when Don Quixote appeared.
Note li (page KIM.
The di-tich is not Cato's, but Ovid's; but Harf/cnhnsch points out
that there i.-; a distich of Cato's beginning ('inn fncrix //•//./• which Cervantes
"nay li; I, substituting the other afterwards as more
applicable. I.<>|>" de \ <-d name was Felix, and Hart/enliusch
thinks the quotation \\iis aimed at him. The Cato is. of course, Dionysius
itlioi- of the l)in(iclia dc
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
Note C (page 87).
'By all that 's good ' — ' Voto a tal '— one of the milder forms of assevera-
tion used as a substitute on occasions when the stronger 'Voto a Dios '
might seem uncalled for or irreverent ; an expletive of the same nature as^
' Egad ! ' ' Begad ! ' or the favourite feminine exclamation, ' Oh my ! ' ' By
all that 's good ' has, no doubt, the same origin. Of the same sort are, ' Voto
n Brios,' ' Voto a Rus,' ' Cuerpo de tal,' ' Vida de tal,' &c. The last two-
correspond to our ' Od's body,' ' Od's life.'
COMMENDATORY VERSES.
URGANDA THE UNKNOWN'-'
To THK BOOK OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
IF to be welcomed by the good,
0 Book ! thou make thy steady aim,
No empty chatterer will dare
To question or dispute thy claim.
But if perchance thou hast a mind
To win of idiots approbation.
Lost labour will be thy reward,
Though they '11 pretend appreciation.
They say a goodly shade he finds
Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree : :5
And such a one thy kindly star
In Bejar hath provided thee :
A royal tree whose spreading boughs
A show of princely fruit display ;
A tree that bears a noble Duke,
The Alexander of his day.4
1 See Note A, p. 102.
- Or more strictly 'the unrecognised;' a personage in Aniadis of Gaul
somewhat akin to Morgan la Fay and Vivien in the Arthur legend, though
the part she plays is more like that of Merlin. She derived her title from
the faculty which, like Merlin, she possessed of changing her form and
appearance at will. The verses are assigned to her probably because she
was the adviser of Aniadis. They form a kind of appendix to the author's
Preface.
" Prov. 15.
4 The Duke of Lejar, to whom the book was dedicated. The Zufiiga
«;4 DON- QUIXOTE.
Of a Mam-began gentleman
Thy purpose is to tell the story,
1 Mating how he lost his wits
OVr idle talcs of love and glory,
()!' ' ladies, arms, and cavaliers : ' '
A new Orlando Furioso —
Inn amorato , rather —who
Won Duleinea del Toboso.
Put no vain emblems on thy shield ;
All figures — that is bragging play.2
A modest dedication make,
And give no scoffer room to say,
1 What ! Alvaro de Lima here ?
Or is it Hannibal again?
Or does King Francis at Madrid
Once more of destiny complain ? ' 3
Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee
Deep erudition to bestow,
Or black Latino's gift of tongues,1
No Latin let thy pages show.
Ape. not philosophy or wit,
Lest one who cannot comprehend,
Make a. wry face at thee and ask,
' Why offer flowers to me, my friend ? '
family, ot which the Duke was the head, claimed descent from the roya
line of Navarre.
1 • Lrdonnr. i cavalieri, 1* arme, gli axnori ' — Orlando Furioao,i. 1. This
1-; our of many proofs that the Orlando of Ariosto was one of the sources
from which < Vrvantrs borrowed.
i.irtnre cards. The allusion to vain emblems on the
shield is a sly hit. at I, ope dr Ye^a, whose portrait in the A)r<i<lin,-.m<\ a^ain
in the Hiinfis (1*102), has underneath it a shield hearing nine castles sur-
by an orle with ten more.
U. p. 10-J.
.Juan Latino, a dl i-ducalfd m-^ro slave in the household of the Duke
VERSES. 95
Be not a meddler ; no affair
Of thine the life thy neighbours lead :
Be prudent ; oft the random jest
Eecoils upon the jester's head.
Thy constant labour let it be
To earn thyself an honest name,
For fooleries preserved in print
Are perpetuity of shame.
A further counsel bear in mind :
If that thy roof be made of glass.
It shows small wit to pick up stones
To pelt the people as they pass.
Win the attention of the wise,
And give the thinker food for thought ;
Whoso indites frivolities,
Will but by simpletons be sought.
AMADIS OF GAUL
To Dox QUIXOTE OF LA MAXCHA.
SONNET.
Thou that didst imitate that life of mine,1
When I in lonely sadness on the great
Eock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate,
In self-imposed penance there to pine ;
Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine
Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate
Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state
Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine ;
of Sesa, who gave him his freedom. He was for sixty years Professor of
Rhetoric and Latin at Granada, where he died in 1573.
1 In allusion to Don Quixote's penance in the Sierra Morena.
96 DON QUIXOTE.
Live them, of thine eternal glory sure.
So l<mg as on the round of the fourth sphere
Tin- bright Apollo shall his coursers steer,
In thy renown thou shalt remain secure,
Tliy country's name in story shall endure,
And thy sage author stand without a peer.
J)()X BELIANIS OF GEEECE »
To DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
SONNET.
In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed,
1 was the foremost knight of chivalry,
Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see ;
Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed ;
( iivat were my feats, eternal fame their meed ;
1 1 1 love I proved my truth and loyalty ;
The hugest giant was a dwarf for me ;
Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed.
My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned,
And even Chance, submitting to control,
(Ira sped by the forelock, yielded to my will.
Yet— though above yon horned moon enthroned
My fortune seems to sit — great Quixote, still
Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.
I". Note 2, p. 106.
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 97
THE LADY OEIANA l
To DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.
SONNET.
Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be !
It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so —
Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,
And London's town to that which shelters thee !
Oli. could mine but acquire that livery
Of countless charms thy mind and body show so !
Or him, now famous grown — thou mad'st him grow
Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see !
•Oh, could I be released from Amadis
By exercise of such coy chastity
As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss !
Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy ;
None would I envy, all would envy me,
And happiness be mine without alloy.
OANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OP GAUL,
To SANCHO PANZA, SQUIKE OF DON QUIXOTE.
SONNET.
All hail, illustrious man ! Fortune, when she
Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade,
Her care and tenderness of thee displayed,
Shaping thy course from misadventure free.
1 Oriana, the heroine of Ar.iadis of GauL Her castle Miraflores was
within two leagues of London. Shelton in his translation puts it at
Greenwich.
VOL. I. H '
98 DON QUIXOTE.
No longer now doth proud knight-errantry
;ii'd with scorn the sickle and the spade
Of towering arrogance less count is made
Tlisin of plain esquire-like simplicity.
I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name,
And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff
With comforts that thy providence proclaim.
Excellent Sancho ! hail to thee again !
To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain
Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.1
FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET,*
ON SANCHO PANZA AND ROCINANTE.
ox SANCHO.
I am the esquire Sancho Pan—
Who served Don Quixote of La Man— ;
But from his service I retreat — ,
Eesolved to pass my life discreet — ;
For Villa diego, called the Si — ,
Maintained that only in reti —
^'as found the secret of well-be—,
According to the ' Celesti — : ' 3
A book divine, except for sin —
I'.y speech too plain, in my opin— .
ON ROCINANTE.
I inn that Kocinante fa — ,
Great-grandson of great Habie — ,4
\Yho, nil for being lean and bon — ,
Had one Don Quixote for an own — ;
1 See Note C, p. 102. * See Note D, p. 102. 3 See Note K, p. 10:-J.
4 Uahicca, the famous charger of the Citl.
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 99
But if I matched him well in weak — ,
I never took short commons meek — ,
But kept myself in corn by steal — ,
A trick I learned from Lazaril — ,
When with a piece of straw so neat —
The blind man of his wine he cheat — -1
OKLANDO FURIOSO
To DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
SONNET.
If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none ; 2
Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer ;
Nor is there room for one when thou art near,
Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one !
Orlando, by Angelica undone,
Am I ; o'er distant seas condemned to steer,
And to Fame's altars as an offering bear
Valour respected by Oblivion.
I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame
And prowess rise above all rivalry,
Albeit both bereft of wits we go.
But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame
Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me :
Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.
1 An allusion to the charming little novel of Lazarillo de Tonnes, and the
trick by which the hero secured a share of his master's wine.
- See Note F, p. 103.
H 2 •
,oo DON QUIXOTE.
THE KNK1HT OF PHCEBUS l
To DON QUIXOTE OF LA MAXCHA.
MY sword was not to be compared with thine
IMui'bus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,
Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine
That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.
I scorned all empire, and that monarchy
The rosy east held out did I resign
For one glance of Claridiana's eye,
The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.
A miracle of constancy my love ;
And banished by her ruthless cruelty,
This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.
But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove,
For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name,
And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in tliee.
FKOM SOLISDAN2
To DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
SONNET.
Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true,
That cra/y brain of yours have quite upset,
Hut aught of base or mean hath never yet
Been charged by any in reproach to you.
Note (r, p. 103.
2 Solisdan is apparently a name invented l.y Cervantes, for no such
.inge figures in any known book of chivalry.
COMMENDATORY VERSES. ior
Your deeds are open proof in all men's view ;
For you went forth injustice to abate,
And for your pains sore drubbings did you get
From many a rascally and ruffian crew.
If the fair Dulcinea, your heart's queen,
Be unrelenting in her cruelty,
If still your woe be powerless to move her,
In such hard case your comfort let it be
That Saiicho was a sorry go-between :
A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover.
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN BABIECA AND EOCINANTE.
SONNET.
B. ' How comes it, Rocinante, you 're so lean ? '
II. ' I 'm underfed, with overwork I 'in worn.
B. ' But what becomes of all the hay and corn ?
E. ' My master give me none ; he 's much too mean,
B. ' Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween ;
'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn.'
E. ' He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born ;
' Why, he 's in love ; what 's plainer to be seen ? '
B. ' To be in love is folly ? ' — B. ' No great sense.'
B. 'You 're metaphysical.' — E. ' From want of food.
B. * Rail at the squire, then.' — E. ' Why, what 's the good ?
I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye,
But, squire or master, where 's the difference ?
They 're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante.
io2 DOX QUIXOTE.
X<ite A ( p<ttjc 93).
All translators, I think, except Shelton and Mr. Duflield, have entirely
liniinary pieces of verse, which, however, should be pre-
not for their poetical merits, which are of the slenderest sort, but
because, being burlesques on the pompous, extravagant, laudatory
usually prefixed to books in the time of Cervantes, they are in harmony
with the aim and purpose of the work, and also a fulfilment of the promise
held out in the Preface.
Note B (page 94).
This refers to the querulous and egotistic tone in which dedications
were often written. Alvaro de Luna was the Constable of Castile and
favourite of John II., beheaded at Valladolid in 1450. Francis I. of France
lit a prisoner at Madrid by Charles V. for a year after the battle of
Pavia. The last four lines of the stanza are almost verbatim from verses
by Fray Domingo de (in/man written as a gloss upon some lines carved by
the poet Fray Luis de Leon on the wall of his cell in Valladolid, where he
was imprisoned by the Inquisition.
Note (• (jHtf/r OK).
'Rustic kiss and cuff' — buzcorona— a boorish practical joke the poin
of which lay in inducing some simpleton to kiss the joker's hand, which
as he stoops gives him a cuff on the cheek. The application here is
not very obvious, for it is the person who does homage who receives the
It is not clear who is meant by the Spanish Ovid ; some say
Qtea himself; others, as Hart/.enbusch, Lope de Vega.
Note D
'Motley poet'-— Poeto cntrrrrnido. KntrtTi'nuln is properly 'mixed
fat and lean.' liould be. Commentators have been at some pains
>ct a meaning from these lines. The truth is they have none, and
were not meant to have any. If it were not profanity to apply the word to
anything coining from Cervantes, they might be called mere pi.
buffoonery, mere idle freaks of the author's pen. The verse in which they
are written is worthy of the matter. It is of the sort called in Spanish </<•
'•iurlnx, its peculiarity being that each line ends with a word the last
syllable of which has been lopped off. The invention has been attributed
, hut the honour is one which no admirer of his will be
solicitous to claim for him, and in fact, there are half a do/en specimens in
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 103
the Picara Justina, a book published if anything earlier than Don Quixote.
I have here imitated the tour de force as well as I could, an experiment never
before attempted and certainly not worth repeating. The ' Urganda ' verses
are written in the same fashion, but I did not feel bound to try the reader's
patience— or my own— by a more extended reproduction of the puerility.
Note E (page 98).
Celestina, or Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melibcca (1499), the first act
of which is generally attributed to Kodrigo Cota, the remaining nineteen being
by Fernando Bojas. There is no mention in itj^fJLYilladiego the Silent ; '
the name only appears in jlie proverbial saying about ' takingjhe breeches
of Villadiego,' i.e. beating a hasty retreat.
Note F (page 99).
The play upon the word ' Peer ' is justified by Orlando's rank as one of
the Twelve Peers. This sonnet is -pronounced ' truly unintelligible and
bad ' by Clemencin, and it is, it must be confessed, very feeble and obscure.
I have adopted a suggestion of Hartzenbusch's which makes somewhat better
sense of the concluding lines, but no emendation can do much. Nor are
the remaining sonnets much better ; there is some drollery in the dialogue
between Babieca and Bocinante, but the sonnets of the Knight of PJioebus
and Solisdan are weak. There was no particular call for Cervantes to be
funny, but if he thought otherwise it would have been just as well not to
leave the fun out.
Note G (page 100).
The Knight of Phoebus, or of the Sun — Caballcro del Febo, cspcjo de
Principes y Caballeros — a ponderous romance_by-Jlie45o-Xlrtunez de Cala-
horra and Marcos Martinez, in four parts, the first printed at Saragossa in
1562, the others at Alcala de Henares in 1580.
CHAPTEE I.
WHICH TBEATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE
FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
*» IN a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no-
desire to call to mind,1 there lived not long since one of
those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an
old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. |
An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most
nights, scraps on Saturdays,2 lentils on Fridays, and a
pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-
quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet
of fine clotk and velvet breecjies and shoes to match for
holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in
his best homespun. »|He had in his house a housekeeper
past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field
and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as
handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of fxurs-
was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare,
gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman.
They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for
here there is some difference of opinion among the authors
who write on the subject), although from reasonable con-
jectures it seems plain that he was called Quixana.j* This,
1 See Introduction, p. 33. - See Note A, p. 112.
106 DON QUIXOTE.
however, is of l)iit little importance to our tale ; it will be
enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the
telling of it.
You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman
whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year
round)4gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with
, sueli ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected
the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management
of his property ; and to such a pitch did his eageri
and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillage-
land to buy books of chivalry to read,|-and brought home
many of them as he could get. But of all there were
none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano
dr Silva's composition, for their lucidity of style and com-
plicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly
when in his reading lie came upon courtships and cartels,
where he often found passages like 'the ro^on of ilic nn-
<xo// trith trhidi nnj rc.asnn /* (UJlicicd mi ircafo'ns mil rcd^on
that iclth rcnxon- I murmur (it your beauty ; ' or again, ' the
Jii'/li hi'iimix, that of t/our dirinifii (Hrim-li/ fortify I/»H with
(li<- attira, ronlcr 1/011 dt-Kcrrluij <>f tin1 ilrwrt ifour ijmitni'xx
' deserves.11 Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman
I his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand
'' them and worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle
liiniM-lf could not have made out or extracted had he
a in for that special purpose. He was not
at all « ;isy about the wounds which Don Beliams2 i
M. P. 1 1:5.
by the Licenciate Jeronimo
17. It has been by some included in the Amadis scries, but
it i an independent romance.
CHAPTER I. 10*
arjd took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the
surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face
and body covered all over with seams and scars. He
commended, however, the author's way of ending his book
with the promise of that interminable adventure, and many
a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it
properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he would
have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too,
had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented
him.
£/ Many an argument did he have with the curate of his
/^village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza ') as to
which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or
Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, how-
ever, used to say that neither of them came up to the
Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was .any that could
•compare with him- it was Don Galaor, the brother of
Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was equal to
every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose
like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was not
a whit behind him. .(In short, he became so absorbed in
Uhis books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise,
and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them ; and
what with litMfc sleep and much reading his brains got so
/dry that he lost his wits./-. His fancy grew full of what he
used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels,
battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all
sorts of impossible nonsense -; and it so possessed his mind
1 Siguenza was one of the Univcrsidades mcnorcs, the degrees of which
were often laughed at by the Spanish humourists.
loS £>O.\' QTfXOTE.
tluit tin- whole fabric of invention and fancy IK- read of
, was true, that to him no history in the world had more
reality in it. He used to say the ('id liny ])iaz was a very
n\ knight, but that he was not to be compared with the
Knight of tlu' Burning Sword who with one back-stroke
cut in half two tierce and monstrous giants. He thought
more of Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he
slew Roland in spite of enchantments,1 availing himself of
the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antreus the son
<>f Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant
Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is
always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable
and well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of
Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying forth from
his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond
the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his
history says, was entirely of gold. And to have, a bout of
kicking at that traitor of a Gam-Ion he would have given his
housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain. -
\ In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the
ingest notion that over madman in this world hit upon,
and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as
well for the support of his own honour as for the service of
his country, that he should make a knight-errant of hiiii-
If, roaming the world over in full armour and on horse-
c, p. 1.1:;.
Melon, the arc-h-traitor of the Cliarlcm •!. In Spanish he
(';il;iloii, in Italian ;is (iano; hut. in this as in the cases of
. Maldwin, and others, I have thought it lies; name in the
form in which it. is hest known, and will he most readily rero;/ms.'.l, instead
'Ian, VaMovino
CHAPTER I. 109
back in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself
all that he had read of as being the usual practices of
knights- errant ; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing
himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he
was to reap eternal renown and fame. I • Already the poor
man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor
of Trebizond l at least ; and so, led away by the intense
enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself
forthwith to put his scheme into execution.
,\ The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that
had belonged -to his great-grandfather, and had been for
ages lying for gotten/ in a corner eaten with rust and covered
with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could,
but he perceived one great defect in ijb, that it had no closed
helmet, nothing but a simple morion.^ This deficiency,
however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of
half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion,
looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to
see if it was strong and fit to stand a x5ut, he drew his
sword and gave it a couple of slashes/the first of which
undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do.
The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces discon-
certed him somewhat, and to guard against that danger
he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until
he was satisfied with its strength ; and then, not caring to
try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted
it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.^
.jHe next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with
1 Like Reinaldos or Rinaldo, who came to be Emperor of Trebizond.
2 That is, a simple head-piece without either visor or beaver.
no DON QUIXOTE.
<|iiartos than a ivul } and more blemishes than the
steed nt' (ionela, that ' tantnm pi'llix ct oxsa fit it,' surpassed
in his eyes the nueephalus of Alexander or the Babieca
of the Cid.| Four days were spent in thinking what name
re himj-because (as lie said to himself) it was not right
that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with
such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive
name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he
had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he
then was ; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking
a new character, he should take a new name, and that it
should be a distinguished, and full-sounding one, befitting
tlie new order and calling he was about to follow. And so,
after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, un-
made, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory
and fancy, «\he decided upon calling him Iiocinante, a name,
to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his con-
dition ;is a hack before he became what he now was, the
first and foremost of all the hacks in the world.'2
'^Having got a name for his horsel»so much to his taste,
he was anxious to get one for himselfLand lie was eight
nore pondering over this point, tilliuit last he made up
i '
his mind to call himself Don Quixotc/ywhenre, as has been
1 An untranslatable pun on the word 'quarto,' which means a sand-
crack in a horse's hoof, as well as the coin equal to one-eighth of the real.
01- (ionnella. \va- a jester in the service of Borso, Duke of Ferrara
i I r.o I 170). A Look of tin- jests attributed to him was printed in l/Ws, the
went to Italy.
..ployed in labour, as distinguished from one kept
01 l"T-onal -illy; the word therefore mav
•Ante" is an old form of ' antes ' = ' before,'
whether in time or in o
3 Quixote— or, as it is now written, <thiijotc — meat > of armour
CHAPTER I. m
already said, the authors of this veracious history have
inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt
Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it.J Re-
collecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was not content
to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added
the name of his kingdom and country to make it famous,
and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight,
resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don
Quixote of La Manchaj'whereby, he considered, he described
accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in
taking his surname from it.
t|So then, his armour being furbished! iiis morion turned
i *
into a helmet; [his hack christened, and he himself con-
firmed, he came to the conclusion that nothing more was
needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with ; /J
for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without
leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul./ As he said to
himself, ' If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come
across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with
knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or
cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and
subdue him,, will it not be well to have some one I may
send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on
his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, sub-
missive voice say, "I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of
that protects the thigh (cuissau, cidsJi). Smollett's ' Sir Lancelot Greaves'
is a kind of parody on the name. Quixada and Quesada were both distin-
guished family names. The Governor of the Goletta, who was one of the
passengers on board the unfortunate Sol galley, was a Quesada ; and the
faithful major-domo of Charles V. and guardian of Don John of Austria
was a Quixada.
iia DON QUIXOTE.
the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat
by tin- never sui'ticiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La
Mum-lm, who has conimanded me to present myself before
your (I nice, that your Highness dispose of me at your
pleasure ? " Ol), how our good gentleman enjoyed tLc
delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of
.-nine one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes,
[in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl with
whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is
known, she never kney it nor gave a thought to the matter.
ame was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought
iit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts ; and after
some search for a name which should not be out of harmony
with her ownjuind should suggest and indicate that of a
princess and great ladyAe decided upon calling her Dulcinea
del Toboso -she being of El Toboso — a name, to his mind,
musical, uncommon ^and significant, like all those lie had
already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging
to him.
Note .1 ( ifi'jc 105).
national dish, theo//<7, of which the puchcro of Central and Northern
Spain is a poor relation, is a stew with beef, bacon, sausage, i-hick-pcas, and
cabbau" line constituents, and for ingredients any other meat or
ble that may be available. Then- is nothing exceptional in POM
Quixote's nl.ld being more a beef than a mutton one, for mutton is scarce in
Spain except in the mountain districts. Saf/iicoa (salad) is meat minced
with red peppers, onions, oil, and vinegar, and is in fact a sort of meat salad.
// (ftc'ln-anton, the title of the Don's Saturday dish, would be a
pii/./,l<> even to the majority of Spanish read) not for l'«
explanation. In thn cattle-feeding district* of Spain, the care •:
animals that came to an untimely end were converted into salt UK at, and
CHAPTER L 113
the parts unfit for that purpose were sold cheap under the name of duelos
y quebranios — 'sorrows and losses' (literally 'breakings')— and were held
to be sufficiently unlike meat to be eaten on days when flesh was forbidden,
among which in Castile Saturday was included in commemoration of the
battle of Navas de Tolosa. Any rendering of such a phrase must necessarily
be unsatisfactory, and in adopting ' scraps ' I have, as in the other cases,
merely gone on the principle of choosing the least of evils.
Note B (page 106).
The first passage quoted is from the Chronicle, of Don Floriscl de
Niquea, by Feliciano de Silva, the volumes of which appeared in 1532,
1536, and 1551, and form the tenth and eleventh books of the Amaclis
series. The second is from Olivante de Laura, by Torquemada (1564).
Clemencin points out that the first passage had been previously picked out
as a sample of the absurdity of the school, by Diego Hurtado de Mendoza.
Note C (page 108).
The Spanish tradition of the battle of Koncesvalles is, of course, at
variance with the Chanson de Roland, but it is somewhat nearer historical
truth, inasmuch as the slaughter of Roland ajaa the rearguard of Charle-
magne's army was effected not by Saracens,.Mit by the Basque mountaineers.
VOL. I.
ii4 DON QUIXOTE
CHAPTER II.
WHICH TREATS OP THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON
QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME.
THESE preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any
longer the execution of his design, urged on to it by the
thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing
what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress,
injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge.
So,^without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and
without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning
of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of
July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante^with
his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler ,4ook his lance,
and by tin: back door of the yard sallied forth upon the
plain in the highest contentmentVand satisfaction at seeing
with what rase he had made a beginning with his grand
purpose. -\V>\\i scarcely did he find himself upon the open
plain^when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough
to make him abandon the enterprise at the very outset.
*| It occurred to him that ho had not been dubbed a knight,
and that according to the law of chivalry he neither could
nor ou^ht to bear anus against any knight K and that CMH
if lie had bec'ii^, still he ought, as a novice knight, to v
CHAPTER II. 115
white armour,1 without a device upon the shield until by
his prowess he had earned one. '(These reflections made
him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than
any reasoning he made up his mind to have himself dubbed
a knight by the first one he came across/* following the
example of others in the same case, as he had read in the
books that brought him to this pass. As for white armour,
he resolved, on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was
whiter than an ermine ; and so comforting himself he pur-
sued his way, taking that which his horse chose, for in this
he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Thus setting out, our new-fledged2 adventurer paced
:along, talking to himself and saying, ' Who knows but that
in time to come, when the veracious history of my famous
deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to
\) set forth my first sally in the early morning, will do it after
this fashion ? " Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o'er-
the face of the. broad spacious earth the golden threads of
his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plum-
. age attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous
harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the
soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals
at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when
the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting
the lazy down, mounted his celebrated t steed Eocinante
and began to traverse the ancient and famous .Campo do
1 Properly ' blank ' armour, but Don Quixote takes the word in its
common sense of white.
- Flamante. Shelton translates ' burnished,' and Jervas ' flaming,' but
the secondary meaning of the word is ' new,' ' fresh,' ' unused.'
n6 DON QUIXOTE.
Montiel : " ' which in fact ho was actually traversing.1
' Happy tin ago. happy the time,' he continued, 'in which
shall IK- made known my deeds of fame, worthy to he
moulded in hrass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for
a memorial for ever. And thou, 0 sage magician,2 whoever
thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this
wondrdus history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good
Ilocinante, the constant companion of my ways and
wanderings.' Presently he broke out again, as if he were
tricken in earnest, ' 0 Princess Dulcinea, lady of this
captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive
me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy- banish .
me from the presence of thy beauty. 0 lady, deign to hold
in remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish
pines for love of thee.'
So lie went on stringing together these and other
absurdities, all in the style of those his books had taught
him, imitating their language as well as he could ; and all
the while he rode so slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly
and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his brains
if he had any. ^Nearly all day he travelled without anything
n-markable happening to him]* at which he was in despair,
for he was anxious to encounter some one at once upon
whom to try the might of his strong arm.
Writers there are who say the first adventure he met
with was that of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of
the windmills ; but what I have ascertained on this point,
and what 1 have found written in the annals of La Mandia,.
is that he was on the road all day, and*\towards nightfall
A, i'. 1±>. Note U, p. 122.
CHAPTER 21. 117
his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry,
when, looking all around to see if he could discover any
castle or shepherd's shanty where he might refresh himself
and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not far out of his
road an inn,Ji which was as welcome as a star guiding him
to the portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption ; and *
•quickening his pace he reached it just as night was setting in.
At the door were standing two young women, girls of the
district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some
•carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn ;
and as, happen what might to our adventurer, everything
he saw or imagined seemed to him to be and to happen
after the fashion of what he had read of, the moment he
saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its
four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forget-
ting the drawbridge and moat and all the belongings
usually ascribed to castles of the sort. «JTo this inn, which
to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short dis-
tance from it he checked Eocinaiite, hoping that some dwarf
would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of
trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the
castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, and that
Eocinaiite was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for
the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were
standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair
maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.
At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who
was going through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs /«
(for, without any apology, that is what they are called)
1 See Note C, p. 122.
nS DON QUIXOTE.
gave a blast of liis horn to bring them together, and forth-
with it seemed to Don Quixote to he what he was expecting,
tin- signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so
with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the innpand to
the ladies, who, set-ing a man of this sort approaching in
full armour and with lance and buckler, wrere turning in
dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear
liy their Might, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed his
dry, dusty visage,1 and with courteous bearing and gentle
voice addressed them, 'Your ladyships need not fly or fear
any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knight-
hood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to high--
born maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be.'
The girls were looking at him and straining their
make out the features which the clumsy visor obscured,
but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing
much out of their line, they could not restrain the.ir
laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say,.
' Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that
is great silliness; this, however, I say not
pain or anger you, for my desire is none other thai
rou.'
The incomprehensible language and the unpromi
valier only incre;ised the ladies' laui;!
his irritation, and matin's might have
C if at that momenfr|the landlord had not come
a very fat man, was a very peaceful one.
figure clad in a,nnoui|4hat did not
than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or
CHAPTER IL 119
corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their
manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in
awe of such a complicated armamentj|he thought it best
to speak him fairly, so he said, ' Seiior Caballero, if your
worship wants lodging,[. bating the bed (for there is not one
in the inn}|there is plenty of everything else here.' «/ Don
Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the
fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made
answer, ' Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for
' My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.' |«
The host fancied he called him Castellan because he
took him for a ' worthy of Castile,' l though he was in fact
an Andalusian, and one from the Strand of San Lucar, as
crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of tricks as a student or
a page. ' In that case,' said he,
' Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your sleep to watch alway ; 2
and if so,'|you may dismount and safely reckon upon any
quantity of sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth,
not to say for a single night.' A So saying, he advanced to
hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great
difficulty and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all
day), and then charged the host to take great care of his
horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in
1 Sano de Castillo, — a slang phrase from the Germania dialect for
a thief in disguise (ladron disimulado — Vocabulario 'de Germania de
Hidalgo). ' Castellano ' and 'alcaide' both mean governor of a castle or
fortress, Jbut the former means also a Castilian.
2 See Note E, p. 123.
120 DON QUIXOTE.
this world. The landlord eyed him over, but did not lind
him as good as Don Quixote saidj'nor even half as good;
and {putting him up in the stable, he returned to see what
illicit be wanted by his guestiwhom the damsels, who had
by this time made their peace with him, were now relieving
of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and
backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his
gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened
it with green ribbons, which, as there was no untying the
knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by
any means consent to, so he remained all the evening with
his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure tha&can be ima-
gined ; and while they were removing his armour, taking the
baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belong-
ing to tlu- castle, he said to them with great sprightliness :
1 Oh. never, surely, was there knight
So served by hand of (Lime,
As served was lie, Don Quixote hight,
When from his town he came ;
With maidens waiting on himself,
Princesses on his hack T —
— or liocinaiitc, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name,
and Don Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I
had no intention of declaring myself until my achieve-
meiils in your service and honour had made me known,
the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the
iven you the knowledge of my name
altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for
aro.ly of the Opening lines Of tin- ballad of ftfitirrlot of flu-
Thi-ii • . no doubt, the occurrence <>;
< in the: last line.
CHAPTER 22. 121
your ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the
might of my arm will show my desire to serve you.'
The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of thin
.sort, had nothing to say in reply :*/they only asked him if he
wanted anything to eat. ' I would gladly eat a bit of some-
thing,' said Don Quixote, ' for I feel it would come very
seasonably.'/. The day happened to be a Friday, and in the
whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they
call in Castile 'abadejo,' in Andalusia * bacallao,' and in some
places ' curadillo,' and in others ' troutlet ; ' so they asked him
if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there was no other
fish to give him. ' If there be troutlets enough,' said Don
Quixote, ' they will be the same thing as a trout ; for it is all
one to me whether I am given eight reals in small change or
a piece of eighty moreover, it maybe that these troutlets are
like vealj which is better, than beef, or kidr which is better
than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the
burden and pressure of arms cannot be borne without sup-
port to the inside.' -^ They laid a table for him at the door of
the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought him a
portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece
of bread as black and mouldy as his own armour.; but a
laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet
on and the beaver up^1 he could not with his own hands put
anything into his mouth unless some one else placed it there, |
and this service one of the ladies rendered him. ^But to give
1 The original has, la visera alzada, ' the visor up,' in which case Don
Quixote would have found no difficulty in feeding himself. Hartzenbusch
suggests babera, beaver, which I have adopted,, as it removes the difficulty,
and is consistent with what follows ; when the landlord ' poured wine into
him ' it must have been over the beaver, not under the visor.
DON QT/XOTE.
him anything to drink w;is impossible, or ..would have been
so had not tin- landlord bored a reed, and putting one end
in his mouth pomvd the wine into him through the other;
all which he bore with patience rather than sever the
ribbons of his helmet, r
AVhile this was goino- on there came up to the inn a sow-
i;vlder. who, as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or
live times, and therehy completely convinced Don Quixote
that he was in some famous castle, and that they were re-
i^aling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the
hread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the
castellan of the castle ; and consequently he held that his
enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. »|But still it
i him to think he had not been dubbed a knight,
for it was plain to him he could not lawfully en^a^e in any
adventure without receiving the order of knighthood./-
116).
The Campn de Monticl was ' famous ' as being the scene of the battle, in
'i which Pedro the Cruel was defeated by his brother Henry of
•npported by ]>u (hiesclin. The actual battle-field, however, lies
rahle distance to the south of Argamasilla, on the slope of the
• na, Deal tin- castle of Montiel in which Pedro took refuse.
116).
In the later p. chivalry, a sage or a magician or sonic such
!ii«-iit ly introduced as the original source of the history.
Note (' (/><></>• 117).
halt a dn/en varieties of inns each with its
the inn is almost always the vcnta, the
solitary 'in where travellers of all sorts stop to bait ; and it has
remained to this day much what Cervantes has described. The particular
'••at he had in his eye in this and the next chapter is said to be the
CHAPTER II. 123.
Venta de Qucsada, about 2^ leagues north of Manzanares, on the Madrid and
Seville road. (V. map.) The house itself was burned down about a century
ago, and has been rebuilt, but the yard at the back with its draw-well and
stone trough are said to remain as they were in his day.
Note D (page 118).
The commentators are somewhat exercised by the contradiction here.
If Don Quixote raised his visor and disclosed his visage, how was it that the
girls were unable ' to make out the features which the clumsy visor obscured ' ?
Cervantes probably was thinking of the make-shift pasteboard visor (mala,
visera, as he calls it), which could not be put up completely, and so kept
the face behind it in the shade. Hartzenbusch, however, believes the words
to.have been interpolated, and omits them.
Note E (page 119).
The lines quoted by Don Quixote and the host are, in the original :
' Mis arreos son las armas,
Mi descanso el pelear,
Mi cama, las duras penas,
Mi dormir, siempre velar.'
They occur first in the old, probably fourteenth century, ballad of Mariana en
un Castillo, and were afterwards adopted as the beginning of a serenade.
In England it would be a daring improbability to represent the landlord of
a roadside alehouse capping verses with his guest out of Chevy Chase or Sir
Andrew Barton, but in Spain familiarity with the old national ballad-poetry
and proverbs is an accomplishment that may, even to this day, be met with
in quarters quite as unpromising.
DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTEE III.
\\HKKr.IX IS KHLATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE
HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A KNIGHT.
HARASSED by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty
pothouse supper,1 and having finished it called the landlord,
and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his
knees before; him, saying, 'From this spot I rise not, valiant
knight, until your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one
that will redound to your praise and the benefit of the human
race.' The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing
a speech of this kind|«stood staring at him in bewilderment,
not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to rise,
but all to no purpose until he had'jagreed to grant the boon
demanded of him.. ' I looked for no less, my lord, from your
Jligli Magnificence,' replied Don Quixote, 'and I have to tell
you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted
is that you shall dub me knight .to-morrow morning, and that
1 o-i light 1 shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your
castle ;Uhua to-morrow, MS 1 have said, will be accomplished
what 1 so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam
through all the four quarters of the world seeking adven-
<>n behalf of those in distress, as is the. duty of
' Pothouse ' — vcntcril, i.e. such as only a vcnta. could produce.
CHAPTER 1IL
I25
chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose ambition
is directed to such deeds.'
v|The landlord, whop as has been mentioned; (was some-
thing of a wag, and had already some suspicion of his
guest's want of wits^was quite convinced of it on hearing
talk of this kind from him, and to make sport for the night
heJdetermined to fall in with his humour. .1 So he told him
he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view,/
and that such a motive was natural and becoming in
cavaliers as distinguished as he seemed and his gallant
bearing showed him to be ; and that he himself in his
younger days had followed the same honourable calling,
roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of the
world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the
Isles of Kiaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market
of Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Gra-
nada, the Strand of San Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the
Taverns of Toledo,1 and divers other quarters, where he
had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of
his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows,
ruining maids and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing
himself under the notice of almost every tribunal and
court of justice in Spain ; until at last he had retired to
this castle of his, where he was living upon his property
and upon that of others ; and where he received all knights-
errant, of whatever rank or condition they might be, all
for the great love he bore them and that they might share
their substance with him in return for his benevolence.
He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his there was
1 See Note A, p. 132.
126 DON QUIXOTE.
no chapel in which lie could watch his arinour,l*as it had
been pulled down in order to be rebuilt »\but that in a case
of necessity it illicit, lie knew, be watched anywhere, and
lit- illicit watch it that night in a courtyard of the castle,
and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies
might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight,)'
and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so.
lie asked if he had any money with him, to which Don
(Quixote replied that he had not a farthing,1 as in the
histories of knights-errant he had never read of any of
Ih (.-in carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he
was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, be-
cause in the author's opinion there was no need to mention
anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean
shirts, it was not to be supposed therefore that they did not
carry them, and he might regard it as certain and established
that all knights-errant (about whom there were so many
lull and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses
in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a
little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received.
For in those plains and deserts* where they engaged in
combat and came out wounded, it wras not always that there
•me one to cure them, unless indeed they had for a
friend magician to succour them at once by
i'.-lchiiig through the air upon a cloud some damsel or
dwarf with a vial of water of such virtue that by lasting
one drop of it they were cured of their hurts and wounds
in an instant and left as sound as if they had not received
.any damage whatever. .Hut in case this should not occur,
1 In the original, llanca, a coin \\orth about one-seventh of a farthing.
CHAPTER III. 127
the knights of old took care to see that their squires were
provided with money and other requisites, such as lint and
ointments for healing purposes ; and when it happened that
knights had no squires (which was rarely and seldom the
case) they themselves carried everything in cunning saddle-
bags that were hardly seen on the horse's croup, as if it
were something else of friore importance,1 because, unless
for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very
favourably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore
advised him (and, as his godson so soon to be, he might
even command him) never from that time forth to travel
without money and the usual requirements, and he would
find the advantage of them when he least expected it.
Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously,
and-jit was arranged forthwith that he should watch his
armour in a large yarctf«at one side of the inn ,-»|so, collecting
it all together, Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood
by the side of a well, and bracing his buckler on his arm
he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to march
up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his
march night began to fall. |t
The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about
the craze of his guest, the watching of the armour, and
the dubbing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder at
so strange a form of madness, they flocked to see it from a
distance, and observed with what composure he sometimes
1 The passage as it stands is sheer nonsense. Clemencin tries to make
sense of it by substituting ' less ' for ' more ; ' but even with that emendation
it remains incoherent. Probably what Cervantes meant to write and
possibly did write was — ' for that was another still more important matter,
because,' &c.
DON QUIXOTE.
d up ami down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed
armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so
long; and as the night closed in 'with a light from the
moon BO brilliant that it might vie with his that lent it,
thing the novice knight did was plainly seen by all.
I Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn
thought lit to water his team, and it was necessary to
remove J>on (Quixote's armour as it lay on the trough; but
> eing the other approach hailed him in a loud voice,
'0 thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay
hands on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever
girt on sword, have a care what thou dost ; touch it not unless
thou wouldst lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness.'
Tlu- carrier gave no heed to these wordsL(and he would have
done better to heed them if he had been heedful of his
health), buteeizing it by the straps flung the armour some
distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his
- to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon
hi> lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, 'Aid me, lady mine, in this
tlie first encounterUthat presents itself to this breast which
thou boldest in subjection ;%|let not thy favour and protection
fa.il me in this first' jeopardy ;' and, with these words and
others to the same purpose, dropping 'his buckler he lifted
his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow
on the carrier's bead that he stretched him on the ground ]'
-tunned that had he followed it up with a second
there would have been no need of a surgeon to cure him.
Thi.^ done, he picked ii]) his armour and returned to his beat
with tb' before.
Shortly ;ifter this, another, not knowing what had
CHAPTER III. 129
happened (for the carrier still lay senseless), came with the
same object of giving water to his mules, and was proceed-
ing to remove the armour in order to clear the trough, when
Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid from
anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more
lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second
carrier's head into pieces, made more than three of it, for
he laid it open in four.1 J;At the noise all the people of the
inn ran to the spot, and among them the landlord. Seeing
this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and with
his hand on his sword exclaimed, '0 Lady of Beauty,
strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for thee
to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight
on the brink of so mighty an adventure.' By this he felt
himself so inspirited that he would not have flinched if all
the carriers in the world had assailed him. The comrades
of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from
a distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened
himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit
the trough and leave his armour unprotected. The land-
lord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had already
told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would
not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder
shouted Don Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and
the lord of the castle, who allowed knights-errant to be
treated in this fashion, a villain and a low-born knight
whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would
call to account for his treachery. ' But of you/ he cried,
* base and vile rabble, I make no account ; fling, strike,
1 That is, inflicting two cuts that formed a cross.
VOL. I. K*
QUIXOTE.
on, do all ye can against mo. ye shall sec what the
reward of your folly and insolence will bo.' /This ho uttoivd
with so much spirit and boldness that h'> filled his assailants
with a terrible fear, and as much for this reason as at the
pei-MiaMon of the landlord they left off stoning him, and
he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the
same calmness and composure as before resumed the watch
over his armour.
•\JJut these freaks of his guest were not much to the
liking of the landlord, so he determined to cut matters
short and confer upon him at once the unlucky order of
knighthood before any further misadventure could occur;
so, going up to him, lip apologised for the rudeness which,
without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these
low people, who, however, had been well punished for their
audacity. ,|As he had already told him, he said, there was
no (-Impel in the castle, nor was it needed for what re-
mained to be done, for, as lie understood the ceremonial of
the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay in the
accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and that could be
administered in the middle of a field ;Und that he had now
done all that was needful as to watching the armour, for all
requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only,
while he had been more than four about it.vj ])on Quixote
believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to obey
him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch
as possible^' for, if In- were again attacked, and felt himself
to be H dul. bed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a,
soul alive in flic castle, except such as out of respect he
might spare at his bidding.
CHAPTER IIL 131
Y Thus warned and menaced,, the castellan forthwith
brought out a book in which he used to enter the straw
and barley he served out to the carriers, and, with a lad
carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels already men-
tioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade
him kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as
if he were repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of
his delivery he raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow
on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a smart slap on
the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth as if
he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed
-one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with
great self-possession and gravity,/* and not a little was
required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of
the ceremony ; but what they had already seen of the
novice knight's prowess kept their laughter within bounds.
On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him,
' May God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and
grant you success in battle.' Don Quixote asked her name
in order that he might from that time forward know to
whom he was beholden for the favour he had received, as
he meant to confer upon her some portion of the honour
he acquired by the might of his arm. She answered with
great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and that she
was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the
stalls of Sanchobienaya,1 and that wherever she might be
she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote
said in reply that she would do him a favour if thence-
1 An old. plaza in Toledo, so called probably from a family of the name
of Ben Haya ; or, as Pellicer suggests, from a corruption of Minaya.
K 2
DON QUIXOTE.
forward sin- assumed tin- ' Don' and called horsclf Dona
She promised she would, and then »l the other
buckled on his spur|« and with her followed almost the same
conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her
name, and she said it was La Molinera,1 and that she was
(lie daughter of a respectable miller of Antequera ; and of
her likewise Don Quixote requested that she would adopt
the ' Don' and call herself Dona Molinera, making offers to
her of further services and favours.
\teaving thusjpvith hot haste and spced^brought to a con-
clusion these never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote
'ii thorns until he saw himself on horseback sallying
forth in quest of adventures J* and saddling Eocinante at
once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he returned
thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him
in language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey
an idea of it or report it. *\The landlord, to get him out of
the innjfreplied with no less rhetoric though with shorter
words, and-\without calling upon him to pay the reckoning-
let him go with a Godspeed. |»
1 I.e. ' the Millcress.'
[Note A (page 125).
M'ntioned were, and some of them still are, haunts of
ibond, or, what would be called in Spain, the -picnro class.
The Curing-rounds of M;ila<^a was a place outside the town when1 fish was
dried; "f Kiaran ' was the slan^ name of a low suhurh of the
iroui/tas) of Seville was a district on the river side,
not far <1(: toros ; the Little Market of Segovia was in the
CHAPTER III. 133
hollow spanned by the great aqueduct on the south side of the town ; the
©livera of Valencia was a small plaza in the middle of the town ; the
' Rondilla of Granada ' was probably in the Albaycin quarter ; the ' Strand
of San Lucar ' and the ' Taverns of Toledo ' explain themselves sufficiently ;
and the ' Colt of Cordova ' was a district on the south side of the city, which
took its name from a horse in stone standing over a fountain in its centre.
As Fermin Caballero says in a queer little book called the Gcograpliical
Knowledge of Cervantes, it is clear that Cervantes knew by heart the ' Mapa
picaresco de Espafia.'
DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER IV.
OK WHAT H.MTKXED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HI) LK.KT
THE INN.
U)AV was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so
happy,^s<> gay, so exhilarated '(at finding himself dubbed
a knight ,\» that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths.
•iHowever, recalling the advice of his host as to the
n-quisitcs lie ought to carry with him, ^especially that
referring to money and shirts,ifie determined to go home
and provide himself with all, and also with a squireNfor
In' reckoned upon securing a farm-labourer,1 a neighbour
of his, a poor man with a family, but very well qualified for
the ol'tice of squire to a knight. ^ With this object he turned
his horse's head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus
iiinded ot his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he
hardly seemed to tread the earth. |-
Hi- had not gone far, when out of ;i thicket on his right
tli- d to come feeble cries as of some one in distr
Mild tin- instant he heard them he exclaimed, ' Thanks be
t«. heaven for the favour it accord.- me, that it so soon o!
an opportunity ot fulfilling the obligation I have under-
taken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. Tl.
A. j.. l \\\.
CHAPTER IV. 135
cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want of
help, and needing, my aid and protection ; ' and wheeling,
he turned Eocinante in the direction whence the cries
seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few paces into the
wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to
another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of
about nfteen years of age, fr^i wThom the cries came. Nor
were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging
him with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings
and commands, repeating, * Your mouth shut and your eyes
open ! ' while the youth made answer, ' I won't do it again,
master mine ; by God's passion I won't do it again, and
I'll take more care of the flock another time.'
Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry
voice, * Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail
one who cannot defend himself ; mount your steed and take
your lance ' (for there was a lance leaning against the oak
to which the mare was tied), ' and I will make you know
that you are behaving as a coward.' The farmer, seeing
before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance
over his head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer
meekly, * Sir Knight, this youth that I am chastising is my
servant, employed by me to watch a flock of sheep that I
have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose one every day,
and when I punish him for his carelessness and knavery he
says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the
wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies/
' Lies before me, base clown ! ' said Don Quixote. ' By
the sun that shines on us I have a mind to run you through
with this lance. Pay him at once without another word ; if
136 DON QUIXOTE.
not, by tin- (iod that rules us I will make nn cud of you,
and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly.'
The fanner hung his head, and without a word untied
rvant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his
master owed him.
He replied, nine months at sejen reals a month. Don
(Quixote added it up, found that it came to sixty-three reals,
and told the farmer to pay it down immediately, if he did
not want to die for it.
The trembling clcnyn replied that as he lived and by the
oath he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was
not so much ; for there were to be taken into account and
deducted three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real
for two blood-lettings when he was sick.
' All that is very well,' said Don Quixote ; ' but let the
>hoes and the blood-lettings stand as a set-off against the
blows you have given him without any cause; for if he,
spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have
damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood
from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when lie
was sound ; so on that score he owes you nothing*^
•The difficulty is, Sir Knight,1 that I have no money
let Andres come home with me, and I will pay him
all, real by real.'
' I go with him !' said the youth. ' Nay, (iod forbid!
efibr, not for the world; for once alone with me, he
would tlay me like a Saint Bartholomew.'
' He will do nothing of the kind,' said Don Quixote ;
4 1 have only to command, and In- will obey me : and as
15, v. 1 \\\.
CHAPTER IV. 137
»
lie has sworn to me by the order of knighthood which
he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the
payment.'
' Consider what you are saying, seiior,' said the youth ;
•* this master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received
:any order of knighthood ; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich,
of Quintanar.'
' That matters little,' replied Don Quixote ; * there may
he Haldudos knights ; l moreover j everyone is the son of
his works.' 2
' That is true,' said Andres ; ' but this master of mine
—of what works is he the son, when he refuses me the
wages of my sweat and labour ? '
* 1 do not refuse, brother Andres,' said the farmer ; ' be
good enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the
orders of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as
I have agreed, real by real, and perfumed.' 3
' For the perfumery I excuse you,' said Don Quixote ;
•' give it to him in reals, and I shall be satisfied ; and see
that you do as you have sworn ; if not, by the same oath I
swear to come back and hunt you out and punish you ; and
I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard.
And if you desire to know who it is lays this command
upon you, that you may be more firmly bound to obey it,
know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha,
the undoer of \vrongs and injustices ; and so, God be with
you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn
1 Halduclos*— wearers of long skirts. - Prov. 112.
3 ' Perfumed ' — a way of expressing completeness or perfection of
condition.
DON
under thnM penalties that have been already declared to
you.'
-aying, In- gave Piocinante the spur and was soon
out of reach. Tlie farmer followed him with his eyes, and
when he saw that he had eleared the wood and was no
longer in sight, lie turned to his hoy Andres, and said,
'Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe1 you,
as that undoer of wrongs has commanded me.'
' My oath on it,' said Andres, "your worship will be well
advised to obey the command of that good knight — may lie
live a thousand years — for, as he is a valiant and just
judge, liy lioque,1 if you do not pay me, he will come hack
and do as he said.'
'My oath on it, too,' said the farmer; 'hut as I have a
strong auction for you, I want to add to the debt in order
to add to the payment ; ' and seizing him by the arm, lie-
tied him up to the oak again, where he gave him such a
Hogging that he left him for dead.
'Now. Master Andres,' said the farmer, 'call on the
undoer of wrongs; you will find he won't undo that,
though I am not sure that I have quite done with you, for
1 have a good mind to Hay you alive as you feared.' But
at last lu- untied him, and gave him leave to go look for
his judge in order to put the sentence pronounced into
execution.
Andres went off rather down iifthe mouth, swearing he
would go to look for the valiant Don (Quixote of La
1 An • ii, (.1 which tln'i' .planatioii .
\vho or what lio<|iie \\iis. whether the San Ko<]iie who -a\e thr name to the
town near (iibraltar, or BOme Mam '.lit)-.
CHAPTER IV, 139
Mancha and tell him exactly what had happened, and that
all would have to be repaid him sevenfold ; but for all that,
he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing.
Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, andr
thoroughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he con-
sidered he had made a very happy and noble beginning with
his knighthood, he took the road towards his village in per-
fect self-content, saying in a low voice, ' Well mayest thou
this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, 0 Dulcinea
del Toboso, fairest of the fair ! since it has fallen to thy lot
to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure
a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La
Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received
the order of knighthood, and hath to-day righted the
greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice conceived
and cruelty perpetrated : who hath to-day plucked the rod
from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly
lashing that tender child.'
He1 now came to a road branching in four directions,
and immediately he [was reminded of those cross-roads
where knights-errant used to stop to consider which road
they should take. In imitation of them he halted for a
while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave
Kocinante his head, submitting his own will to that of his
hack, who followed out his first intention, which was to
make straight for his own stable. «|After he had gone about
two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party of people,
who, as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders,
on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of
them coming along under their suns-hades, with four
i4o DON
servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely
liad I)(»n (Quixote descried them when the fancy pos--
lu'in that this must be some new adventure; and to help
him to imitate as far as he could those passages1 h<-' had
read of in his books, here seemed to come one made on
purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a lofty
b.-aring and determination he fixed himself firmly in his
stirrups, get his lance ready, brought his buckler before his
breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road,
stood waiting the approach, of these knights- errant, for
such he now considered and held them to be; and when
they had come near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed
with a haughty gesture, 'All the world stand, unless all
the world confess that in all the world there is no maiden
fairer than the Km press of La Mancha, the peerless
1 hdcinea del Toboso.'
The traders halted at the sound of this languagemnd
the sight of the strange figure that uttered it, and from both
figure and language at once guessed the cra/e of their owner;
they wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object
of this confession that was demanded of them, undone of
tin in, \\lio was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-
I. said to him, ' Sir Knight, we do npt know who this
,u<Hid lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for, if she
Mich beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts Land
\\ithoiit any pressure Ve will confess the truthrthat is on
part required of us.'
A4 If I were to show her to you,' replied Don Quixote,
"! the hook, but ' arms like thai, of Sucro dc
in the ivi^'n of John II.
CHAPTER IV. 141
' what merit would you have in confessing a truth so mani-
fest ? The essential point is that without seeing her you
must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend it ;y« else ye
have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble
that ye are ; and come ye on, one by one as the order of
knighthood requires, or all together as is the custom and
vile usage of your breed, here do I bide and await you,
relying on the justice of the cause I maintain.'
-I* Sir Knight,' replied the trader, ' I entreat your
worship in the name of this present company of princes,./-
that, to save us from charging our consciences with the
confession of a thing we have never seen or heard of, and
one moreover so much to the prejudice of the Empresses
and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, */your
\vorship will be pleased to show us some portrait of this
lady j ^though it be no bigger than a grain of *wheat ; for by
the thread one gets at the ball,3 and in this way we shall
be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and pleased ;
nayJl believe we are already so far agreed with you that
even though her portrait should show her blind of one eye, /•
and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, *Kve
would nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her
favour that you desire.'
' She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,'»paid Don
Quixote, burning with rage, | * nothing of the kind, I say,
only ambergris and civet in cotton ;4.(nor is she one-
eyed U or humpbacked, but straighter than a Guadarrama
1 See Note C, p. 143. 2 See Note D, p. 143.
3 Prov. 114. The ball, i.e. that on which it is wound.
4 Civet was the perfume most in request at the time, and was imported
packed in cotton.
i42 DON QUIXOTE.
spindle : Mbut ye must pay for tin- blasphemy yo have
uttered against beauty like that of my lady.'
And so saying, lui charged with levelled lance against
the one who had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that,
if hick had not contrived that Eocinante should stumble
midway and come down, it would have gone hard with the
rash trader. J>o\vn went Eocinante, and over went his
master, rolling along the ground for some distance^ and
when he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he
with lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old
armour ; and all the while he was struggling to get up he
kept saying, • Fly not, cowards and caitiffs ! stay, for not by
my fault, but my horse's, am I stretched here.'
A One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have
had much good nature in him L hear ing the poor prostrate
man blustering in this style, was unable to refrain from
giving him an answer on his ribs ; and Doming up to him
i/ed his lance, and having broken it in pieces, with
one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that,
notwithstanding and in spite of his armour, he milled him
like a measure of wheat. |- His masters called out not to
Jay on so hard and to 1'eave him alone, but the muleteer's
blood was ii}), and lie did not care to drop the game until
he had vented the rest of fiis wrath, and gathering up the
remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a dis-
charge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the
.storm of sticks that rained on him never ceased threaten-
ing heaven, and earth, and the brigands, for such they
seemed to him. *\At last the muleteer was tired, and the
1 Bee Nut.- !•:. p. i H.
CHAPTER IV. 143
traders continued their journey/' taking with them matter
for talk ahout the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He
when he found himself alone made another effort to rise ;
but if he was unable when whole and sound, how was he
to rise after having been thrashed and well-nigh knocked
to pieces ? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it
seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant's
mishap, and entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse.
However, battered in body as he was, to rise was beyond
his power.
r
Note A (page 134).
Labrador, the word used here to describe the status of S^ancho, means,
generally, a tiller of the soil, and includes farmers employing labourers,
like Juan Haldudo the Rich, who is so described lower down, as well as
those who tilled their land themselves or worked for others.- Sancho was
one of the latter class, as appears from a remark of his own in the Second
Part.
'Note B (page 136).
Cervantes now and then in dialogue does not specify the speaker, but
the omissions are so rare that they are probably oversights, and I have
generally supplied them.
Note C (page 141).
It is strange that this passage should have escaped the notice of those
ingenious critics whose mania it is to hunt for hidden meanings in Don
Quixote. With a moderate amount of acumen it ought to be easy to
extract from these words a manifest ' covert attack ' on Church, Faith, and
Dogma.
Note D (page 141).
The Alcarria is a bare, thinly populated district, in the upper valley
of the Tagus, stretching from Guadalajara to the confines of Aragon.
Estremadura is the most backward of all the provinces of Spain. In
M4 &ON QUIXOTE.
ito the rank of empires, the waggish trader fall*
in with the •
Note I', i nitfi- 11.!'.
huso ' strai^'hter than a spindle ' -is a popular
. The addition of ' Guadarrania ' ('Innem-in
explain t (jiiantities of the beech
\\ood that • iiiia Sirrra. l-'crinin Caliallcro (Pcricla
ds that (}}<• '- to tlit.- pine ' .
::idarraina Pass.
CHAPTER V. 145
CHAPTEE V.
IN WHICH THE NAEEATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT S MIS
IS CONTINUED.
FINDING, then, that in fact he could not move, he be-
thought himself of having recourse to his usual remedy,
which was to think of some passage in his books, and his
craze brought to his mind t/hat about Baldwin and the
Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on
the mountain side,1 a story known by heart by the children,
not forgotten by the young men, and lauded and even be-
lieved by the old folk ; and for all that not a whit truer
than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him to
fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making
a show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground
and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the
wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered :
Where art thou, lady mine, that them
My sorrow dost not rue ?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine,
Or else thou art untrue.
And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:
0 noble Marquis of Mantua,
My Uncle and liege lord !
1 See Note A, p. 151.
VOL. I.
DON QUIXOTE.
v| A- chance would have it|»when he had got to this lino
,|there happened to come l.y a peasant from his own village,
a neighbour of liis, who had been with a load of wheat to
tlic mill, and hi-, seeing the man stretched there, came up to
himLind a>ked him who he was and what was the matter
with him that ho complained so dolefully.
I)on (Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the
Marquis of Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he
made was to go on with his ballad, in which he told the
tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the Emperor's
Min and his wife, all exactly as the ballad sings it.
The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsenseAand
relieving him of the visor J» already battered to pieces by
blows, he wiped his faces which was covered with dust, and
soon as he had done so '[he recognised him^and said,
' Serior Don Quixada ' (for so he appears to have been called
when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a
quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), 'who has
brought your worship to this pass?' But to all questions
the other only went on with his ballad.
ing this, the good man removed as well as he could
his breastplate and baekpiece to see if he had any wound,
but he could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. *| He
then contrived to raise him from the ground, and with no
little difficulty hoisted him upon his assj* which seemed to
him to be the. easiest mount for him; andMcollecting the
arms,yeven to the splinters of the lance^he tied them on
llorinante, and leading him by the bridle and the ass by the
halter he took the road for the village! very sad to hear
what absurd stuff I >on (Quixote wa^ talking. Nor was Don
CHAPTER V. 147
Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could
not sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent
up sighs to heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to
ask what ailed him. And it could have been only the devil
himself that put into his head tales to rnfttch his own adven-
tures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself
of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera,
Piodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away
to his castle ; so that when the peasant again asked him how
he was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same
words and phrases that the captive Abencerrage gave to
Podrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the
'Diana ' of Jorge de Montemayor ! where it is written, apply-
ing it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along
cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of
nonsense ; from which, however, he came to the conclusion
that his neighbour was mad, and so made all haste to reach
the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of
*
Don Quixote's ; who, at the end of it, said, ' Seilor Don
Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair
Xarifa I have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del
Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing, and will do the
most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world have been
.seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.'
To this the peasant answered, ' Seiior— sinner that I
am !— cannot your worship see that I am not Don Kodrigo
de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro
Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is neither
1 See Note B, p. 151.
L 2
DON QUIXOTE.
Baldwin nor Abindarrae/, but the worthy gentleman Serior
Qnixada?'
'I know who [ am,' replied Pon (Quixote, 'ami I know
that I may be not only those I have named, but all the
Twelve IVrrs of I'1 ranee and even all the Xine Worthies,
Min-e my achievements surpass all that they have done all
•her and each of them on his own account.'
"\Vith this talk and more of the same kind^they reached
the village jti>t as night was beginning to' fall, but the
tnt waited until it was a little later that the belaboured
gentleman might not be seen riding in such a miserable
trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time he
entered the village and went to Don Quixote's housej, which
be found all in confusion, amL\there were the curate and the
village barber, who were great friends of Don Quixote, and
his housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voice. ' What
your worship think can have befallen my master,
senor lieeneiate IVro IVre/ ? ' for so the curate was
called; *i: days now since anything has been seen
of him, or the hack)- or the buckler, lance, or armour.
•iblr me ! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that
born to die, thjit-jthese accursed books of chivalry he
01 into the way of reading so constantly, have
.11 ; for now I remember having often heard
him saying to him-elf that he would turn knight-errant
and go all over the world in quest of adventures.|c' To the
devil and Barabbas with such books, that have brought to
ruin in this way the iinest understanding there was in all
La Mancha ! '
•\The niece >aid the same, and, indeed, more: ' You must
CHAPTER V. 149
know, Master Nicholas ' — for that was the name of the
barber — ' it was often my uncle's way to stay two days
and nights together poring over these unholy books of mis-
ventures, after which he would fling the book away and
snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls ; and when
he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like
four towers ; and the sweat that flowed from him when he
was weary he said was the blood of the wounds he had re-
ceived in battle ; and then he would drink a great jug of
cold water and become calm and quiet Asaying that this water
was a most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great
magician and friend of his, had brought him. '(But I take
all the blame upon myself for never having told your wor-
ships of my uncle's vagaries/ that you mighty* put a stop to
them before things had come to this pass, and»|burn all
these accursed booksf»-for he has a great number — that
richly deserve to be burned like heretics/
.('So say I too,' said the curate, 'and by my faith to-
morrow shall not pass without ^public judgment upon
them, and mayjthey be condemned to the flames flest they
lead those • that read them to behave as my good friend
seems to have behaved.'
S|A11 this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at
last what was the matter with his neighbour, so he began
calling aloud, ' Open, your worships]. to Seilor Baldwin and
to Seilor the Marquis of Mantuanwho comes badly wounded, j
and to Seiior Abindarraez, .the Moor, whom the valiant
Kodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.'.
.1 At these words they all hurried out/ » and when they re-
cognised their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet
i5o DON QUIXOTE.
•:nted from tlic ass because he could not,'(they ran to
embrace him. l»
•V Hold ! ' >aid he, ' for I tun badly wounded through my
*B fault: carry me to bed, and if possible send for
the wise I'rganda to cure a**hseu-fcu my wounds.' I*
: plague on it!' cried the housekeeper at
this: 'did not my heart tell the truth as to which foot
my master went lame of t »|To bed with your worship at
once, and we will contrive to cure you here without fetch-
ing that Hurgada.j* A curse I say once more, and a
hundivd times more, on those books of chivalry that have
brought your worship to such a pa
v| They carried him to bed at once, and after searching
for his wounds could find none, but he said they were all
bruise.- from having had a severe fall with his horse Roci-
nante when in combat with ten giants, the biggest and the
boldest to br found on earth./,
-aid the curate, 'are there giants in the
danc< •:' I5y the sign of the Cross L will burn them to-
morrow before the day is over.'
»\ They put a linst of ijiiotions to Don Quixote, but his
only answer to all was — i^ive him something to eat, and leave
him to sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did
j| the curate questioned the peasant at great length as
to how lie bad found Don (Quixote. He told him allpind the
he bad talked when found and on the way home,
all Which made the licenciate the more eager to do what he
did tbe next day, which wa- to summon his friend the
i Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote's
house.. L
CHAPTER V. 15 r
Note A (page 145).
The subject of the old ballad — De Mantua salio el Marques (Duran's
Eomancero General, No. 355) ; a chanson de gcstc, indeed, rather than a
ballad, as it runs to something over 800 lines. Pellicer wrongly assigns it to
Geronimo Trevifio, a sixteenth century author. It is in the Antwerp Can-
cionero of 1550 and the Saragossa Silva of the same date.
Note B (page 147).
From the words used by Cervantes he seems to have known or suspected
that Montemayor was not the author of the romantic story of Abindarraez
and Xarifa. It was inserted in the second edition of the Diana, the year
of the author's death, and it had previously appeared as a separate novel
at Toledo.
DON QUIXOTE.
vi.
OF THK DIVERTING AM) HI 1'OKTANT SCRUTINY WHICH TIIK CUBATB
\NI) THK ItAKHKK MAHK IX Till-: UHKAKY OF OIK [NGENIOUS
i LI-:: MAN.
UK was still sleeping; soothe curate asked l the niece for
the keys of the room where the books, the authors of all
tlte mischief, were, and right willingly she gave them.
They all went in, the housekeeper with them, and found
more than a hundred volumes of big hooks very well bound,
and some other small ones.'2 |. The moment the house-
v them she turned about and ran out of the
room, and came hack immediately with a saucer of holy
and a sprinkler, saying, ' Here, your worship, sefior
licenciate, sprinkle this room ; don't leave any magician
of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in
ige lor our design of banishing them from the world.1
The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licenciate
laugh, and^he directed the barber to give him the books
one by oi: \hat they were about, as there might he
BOme to be found among them that did not deserve the
penalty of i'nv. \»
'No,' -aid the niece, 'there is no reason for showing
CHAPTER VL 153
mercy to any of them ; they have every one of them done
mischief ; better fling them out of the window into the
court and make a pile of them and set fire to them ; or else
carry them into the yard, and there a bonfire can be made
without the smoke giving any annoyance.' l The house-
keeper said the same, so eager were they both for the
slaughter of those innocents, but the curate would not
agree to it without first reading at any rate the titles.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was
the four books of ' Amadis of Gaul.' ' This seems a mys-
terious thing,' said the curate, ' for, as I have heard said,
this was the first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and
from this all the others derive their birth and origin ; 2 so
it seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it to
the flames as the founder of so vile a sect.'
' Nay, sir,' said the barber, ' I, too, have heard say that
this is the best of all the books of this kind that have been
written, and so, as something singular in its line, it ought
to be pardoned.'
' True,' said the curate ; ' and for that reason let its
life be spared for the present. Let us see that other which
is next to it.'
' It is,' said the barber, ' the " Sergas de Esplandian,
the lawful son of Amadis of Gaul." ' 3
' Then verily,' said the curate, ' the merit of the father
must not l)e put down to the account of the son. Take it,
mistress housekeeper ; open the window and fling it into
1 The court the niece speaks of, was the patio or open space in the
middle of the house ; the corral or yard was on the outside.
- See Note C, p. 103. 3 See Note D, p. 163.
•54
DON QL'I\(
ml and lay the foundation of the pile for the bonfire
we art' to make.'
Tin- housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the
worthy • Ksplandian ' went flying into the yard to await
\\ith all patience the iire that was in store for him.
• 1'rocecd.' said the curate.
• This that comes next,' said the harher, 'is " Amadis of
," ' and, indtcd, 1 believe all those on this side are of
the same Amadis lineage.'
' Then to the yard with the whole of them,' said the curate:
'for to have the burning of (L)ueen Pintiquinicstra, and
the shepherd Darinel and his eclogues, and the bedevilled
and involved discourses of his author, I would burn with
them the lather who begot me if he were going about in
the guise of a knight-errant.'
• I am of the same mind/ said the barber.
• And so am I,' added the niece.
• In that case,' said the housekeeper, 'here, into the yard
with them ! '
They were handed to her, and as there were many of
them, she spared herself the staircase, and Hung them down
out of the window.
• Who i.- tluit tub then-?' said the curaie.
• This,1 said the barber, ' is " Don Olivaiite de Laura.'" 2
'The author of that hook,' said the curate, 'was the
that wrote "The Garden of Flowers," and truly then
is no deciding which of the two books is the more truthful,
or, to put il better, the Less King: all I can say is, send
this one int» tin- yard for a Daggering fool.'
I •'•:'-. Notr !•'. p. IT,:;.
CHAPTER VI. 155
' This that follows is " Florismarte of Hircania," ' said
the barber.1
' Seiior Florismarte here ? ' said the curate ; ' then by my
faith he must take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of
his marvellous birth and visionary adventures, for the
stiffness and dryness of his style deserve nothing else;
into the yard with him and the other, mistress house-
keeper.'
'With all my heart, seiior,' said she, and executed the
order with great delight.
' This,' said the barber, ' is " The Knight Platir." ' -
' An old book that,' said the curate, ' but I find no
reason for clemency in it ; send it after the others without
appeal ; ' which was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled,
' The Knight of the Cross.'
' For the sake of the holy name this book has,' said
the curate, ' its ignorance might be excused ; but then,
they say, "behind the cross there 's the devl'; " to the fire
with it.' 3
Taking down another book, the barber said, ' This is
" The Mirror of Chivalry." ' 4
' I know his worship,' said the curate ; ' that is where
Seiior Reinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and
comrades, greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve
Peers of France with the veracious historian Turpin ;
1 The correct title is Historia del muy Animoso y Esforzado Principe
Fdixmarte dc Hircania, but the hero is also called Florismarte. It was by
Melchor Ortega de Ubeda, and appeared in 1556.
2 See Note G, p. 164. s See Note H, p. 164.
4 See Note I, p. 164.
D0.\ QUIXOTE.
however, I am not for condemning them to more lluin
perpetual banishment, because, at any rate, they have sonic
sliaiv in the invention of tin.1 famous Matleo Boiardo, whence
too the (.'liristian port Ludovico Ariosto wove bis web, to
whom, if I find him here, and speaking any lan^ua^c but
liis own, I sliall show no respect whatever ; but if he speaks
his own tongue I will put him upon my head.' '
'Well, 1 have him in Italian,' said the barber, 'but L
do not understand him.'
• Nor would it be well that you should understand him,'
said the curate. ' and on that score we nii^ht have excused
aptain- if he had not brought him into Spain and
turned him into Castilian. Jle robbed him of a <j;reat deal
of his natural force, and so do all those who try to turn
written in verse into another language, for, with all
the pains they take and all the cleverness they show, they
can reach the level of the originals as they were
produced. In short, 1 say that this book, and all that
may be found treating of those French affairs, should be
thrown into or deposited in some dry well, until after more
cmiMderation it is settled what is to be done with them;
iting always one ".Bernardo del Carpio " that is L>T)in^
about, and anotln-r called " Roncesvallea ; " for tin
they conn- into my hands, shall pass into those of the
,nid from hers into the lire without any
To all this the barber #ive his assent, and looked upon
ri^ht and proper, beini;' persuaded that the curate was
I mode of sliowinu respect, for ;i ilociniicnt.
K. ].. ir.j. •' S.T Note I;, p. n;;,.
CHAPTER VI. 157
80 staunch to the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would
not for the world say anything opposed to them. Opening
another book he saw it was " Palmerin de Oliva," and beside
it was another called " Palmerin of England," seeing which
the licenciate said, ' Let the Olive be made firewood of at
once and burned until no ashes even are left ; and let that
Palm of England be kept and preserved as a thing that
stands alone, and let such another case be made for it as
that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius
and set aside for the safe keeping of the works of the
poet Homer. This book, gossip, is of authority for two
reasons, first because it is very good, and secondly because
it is said to have been written by a wise and witty king of
Portugal.1 All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda 2
are excellent and of admirable contrivance, and the language
is polished and clear, studying and observing the style
befitting the speaker with propriety and judgment. So
then, provided it seems good to you, Master Nicholas, I say
let this and " Amadis of Gaul " be remitted the penalty of
fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without further
question or query.'
' Nay, gossip,' said the barber, ' for this that I have here
is the famous " Don Belianis/' ' 3
' Well,' said the curate, ' that and the second, third,
and fourth parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to
purge their excess of bile, and they must be cleared of all
1 See Note M, p. 165.
- Miraguarda is not the name of the Castle, but of the lady who lived in
it, and whose charms were the cause of the adventures.
3 Bclianis de Grecia, already mentioned in the first chapter as one of
Don Quixote's special studies.
DON QUIXOTE.
that stuff about the Castle of Fame and other greater affec-
tations, to which end let them he allowed the over-seas
term.1 and, according as they mend, so shall mercy or
justice he meted out to them ; and in the mean time,
go->ip, do you keep them in your house and let no one
read them/
• AYitli all my heart,' said the barber; and not caring
to tire himself with reading more books of chivalry, he
told the housekeeper to take all the big ones and throw
them into the yard. It was not said to one dull or deaf,
hut to one who enjoyed burning them more than weaving
the broadest and i'mest web that could be; and seizing
about eight at a time, she tiling them out of the window.
In carrying so many together she let one fall at the
i the barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it
and found it said, ' History of the Famous Knight,
Tirante el .Blanco.'
• (iod bless me ! ' said the curate with a shout, ' " Tirante
el Blanco" hen- ! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I
have found a treasury of enjoyment and a mine of recrea-
tion. Hen- is Don Kyrieleison of Mdhtalvan, a valiant
knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the
knight Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought
with the mast iff, and the witticisms of the damsel IMaeer-
<1< mi\ ida, and the loves and wiles of the widow Iieposada,
and the empress in love with the squire Hipolito — in
truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the best book in the
1 '[}>• ! ' was the allowance of time granted in the .
: . when sued or indicted, to enable them to appear
.hy judgment should not he ^'iven against them.
CHAPTER VI. 159
world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds,
and make their wills before dying, and a great deal more of
which there is nothing in all the other books. Neverthe-
less, I say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing such
fooleries, deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take it
home with you and read it, and you will see that what I
have said is true.' l
' As you will,' said the barber ; * but what are we to do
with these little books that are left ? '
' These must be, not chivalry, but poetry,' said the
curate ; and opening one he saw it was the ' Diana ' of
Jorge de Montemayor, and, supposing all the others to be
of the same sort, ' these,' he said, * do not deserve to be
burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do the
mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of
entertainment that can hurt no one.'
' Ah, seiior ! ' said the niece, ' your worship had better
order these to be burned as well as the others ; for it would
be 110 wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder,
my uncle, by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd
and range the woods and fields singing and piping; or,
what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is
an incurable and infectious malady.'
' The damsel is right,' said the curate, ' and it will be
well to put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our
friend's way. To begin, then, with the " Diana " of Monte-
mayor. I am of opinion it should not be burned, but that
it should be cleared of all that about the sage Felicia and
the magic water, and of almost all the longer pieces of
1 See Note N, p. 165.
T6o DON QUIXOTE.
: let it keep, and welcome, its prose mid the honour
of being the lirst of l>ooks of the kind.'
' This that comes next/ said the harher, ' is the " Diana."
entitled the " Second Part, hy the Salamancan," and this
other has the same title, and its author is Gil Polo.'
• As for that of the Salainancan,' replied the curate,
' let it #o to swell the numher of the condemned in the
yard, and let (iil Polo's he preserved as if it came from
Apollo himself i1 hut get on, gossip, and make haste, for it
is growing late."
'This hook," said the harher, opening another, 'is the
ten 1 looks of the " Fortune of Love," written hy Antonio cle
Lofrasn, a Sardinian poet.'
' l.y the orders I have received,' said the curate, ' since;
Apollo has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muse>.
and poets have been poets, so droll and absurd a book as
this has never been written, and in its way it is the best
and the most singular of all of this species that have as
yet appeared, and he who has not read i; may be sure lie
has never read what is delightful, (live it here, gossip, for
1 make more account of having found it than if they had
given me a cassock of Florence stuff.'2
He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the
barber went on. 'These that come next are "The Shepherd
of Iberia," "The Nymphs of Henares," and "The En-
lightenment of Jealousy." ' 3
'Then all we have to do,' said the (-.unite, 'is to hand
them o\er to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask
me not why, or we shall never have done.'
0, p. H1,.",. Note I', ]). ir.r.. :l s<-<- Nutr (), p. jr.u.
CHAPTER VI. 161
' This next is the " Pastor de Filida." '
' No Pastor that,' said the curate, ' but a highly polished
courtier ; let it be preserved as a precious jewel.' l
' This large one here,' said the barber, ' is called " The
Treasury of various Poems." '
' If there were not so many of them,' said the curate,
* they would be more relished : this book must be weeded
and cleansed of certain vulgarities which it has with its ex-
cellences ; let it be preserved because the author is a friend
of mine, and out of respect for othejxraore heroic and loftier
works that he has written.^-""'
'This,' continued the barber, 'is the " Cancionero " of
Lopez de Maldonado.' 3
• The author of that book, too,' said the curate, ' is a
great friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth
are the admiration of all who hear them, for such is the
sweetness of his voice that he enchants when he chants
them : it gives rather too much of its eclogues, but what
is good was never yet plentiful : 4 let it be kept with those
that have been set apart. But what book is that next it '? '
4 The " Galatea " of Miguel de Cervantes,' said the
barber.
' That Cervantes has been for many years a great
friend of mine, and to my knowledge he has had more
experience in reverses than in verses. His book has some
1 See Note E, p. 166.
'-' Tcsoro de varias Poesias, compuesto por- Pedro de Padilla (Madrid,
1580). The author is one of those praised by Cervantes in the ' Canto de
Caliope ' in the Galatea.
3 Lopez de Maldonado, whose Cancionero appeared at Madrid in 1580,
is another of the poets praised in the Galatea.
4 Prov. 26.
VOL. I. . M
162 DON QUIXOTE.
good invention in it, it presents ns with something l>ut
1 >rings nothing to a conclusion : we must wait for the
Second Part it promises : perhaps with amendment it may
succeed in winning the full measure of grace that is now
denied it ; and in the mean time do you, sefior gossip,
keep it shut up in your own quarters.' l
' Very good,' said the barber ; ' and here come three
together, the " Araucana " of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the
"Austriada" of Juan Rufo, Justice of Cordova, and the
" Montserrate " of Christobal de Virues, the Yalencian
poet.' -
1 These three books,' said the curate, ' are the best
that have been written in Castilian in heroic verse, and
they may compare with the most famous of Italy ; let
them be preserved as the richest treasures of poetry that
Spain pn
The curate was tired and would not look into any more
books, and so he decided that, ' contents uncertified,' all
the rest should be burned; but just then the barber held
open one, called ' The Tears of Angelica.'
'I should have, shed tears myself,' said the curate when
he heard the title, 'had I ordered that book to be burned,
for its author was one of the famous poets of the world,
not to say of Spain, and was very happy in the translation
of some of Ovid's fables.'3
s, p. u;r,. - B . p. n;r,. :i s<>« Note r, p. 1157.
CHAPTER VI. 163
Note A (page 152).
In the original the passage runs : ' Who was even still sleeping. He
asked the niece for the keys,' &c. It is a minor instance of Cervantes' dis-
regard of the ordinary laws of composition, and also a proof that at this
stage of the work he had not originally contemplated a division into
chapters.
Note B (page 152).
The romances of chivalry were, with not more than two or three excep-
tions, produced in the folio form, while the books of poetry, the pastorals,
the cancioneros, and romanceros, were either in small quarto or much more
commonly in small octavo corresponding in size with our duodecimo.
Note C (page 153).
The curate was quite correct in his idea that Amadis of Gaul was the
parent of the chivalry literature, but not in his statement that it was the
first book of the kind printed in Spain, for it is not likely it was printed
before Tirant lo Blanch, Oliveros -de Castilla, or the Carcel de Amor. The
earliest known edition was printed in Borne in 1519, but there can be no
doubt that this is a reprint of a Spanish edition, of perhaps even an earlier
date than 1510, which has been given as that of the first edition.
Note D (page 153).
Las Sergas (i.e. las epya — the achievements) de Esplandian (1521)
forms the fifth book of the Amadis Series, and is the composition of
Montalvo himself, as is also, apparently, the fourth book of Amadis of
Gaul. He only claims to have edited the first three.
Note E (page 154).
Amadis of Greece, by Feliciano de Silva (1535), forms the ninth book of
the Amadis Series. Pintiquiniestra was Queen of Sobradisa, and Darinel
was a shepherd and wrestler of Alexandria. The Spanish romances of ' the
lineage of Amadis ' are twelve in number, and there are besides doubtful
members of the family in Italian and French.
Note F (page 154).
Olivante de Laura, by Antonio de Torquemada, appeared first at Barcelona
in 1564. Gayangos suggests that Cervantes must have been thinking of a
M 2
1 64 DON QUIXOTE.
later quarto or octavo edition, for the original folio is not so exceptionally
stout as the description in the text implies. The Garden of Flowers (1575),
a treatise of wonders natural and supernatural, was translated into English
in K.no as Tin- S/Htnixh Manilrrilh; a title which may seem to justify the
curate's criticism ; but it does not come with a good grace from Cervantes,
who made free use of the book in the First Part of Persilcs and Sigismunda,
and in the Second Part of Don Quixote. The book is really an entertain-
ing one.
Note (i ( p«<jc 155).
Platir is the fourth book of the Palmerin Series. The hero is the son
of Primaleon, and grandson of Palmerin de Oliva. Its author is unknown.
It appeared first in
Note H (page 155).
The Knight of the Cross appeared in two parts : the first, under the title
of Li'iiolt'ino, by an unknown author, in 1543; the second, with the achieve-
ments of Lcandro cl Bel, the son of Lepolemo, by Pedro de Luxan, in 15(18.
' r.eliiud the Cross,' A:c., Prov. 75, was evidently a favourite proverb with
;!es.
Note I (page 155 1.
The Mirror of Cliivalnj Mx/n-jodc < 'ulmUcr'tax was published at Seville
in four parts, 15:*:-} -50. Next to the history of Charlemagne and the Twelve
it was the most popular of the Carlovingian series of romances.
« (lit able to Cervantes as a critic that he should have mentioned
I'oiardo as he does, at a time when it was the fashion to regard the Orlando
liiiifiiiiorato as a rude and semibarbarous production, only endurable in the
rifdcinicnto of Ludovico Domenichi.
Note K (page 150).
(ieronimo Jimenez de Urrea, whose translation of Ariosto into Spanish
i printed at Antwerp in 1.'. i'.l. This is not the only passage in which
Cervai;: ist translation. In chapter Ixii. of the Second Part
his objection still ni" and there extends it to translation
8. And yet of all great writers there is not one who is under such
obligations totrai: ites. The influence of Homer and Virgil
would be scarcely less than it is if they had never been translated; Shake-
iiid Milton wrote in a language destined to become the most widely
read on the face of the globe, and no reader of any culture i ..... ds an inter-
preter for Moliere or Le Sage. Jiut how would (Vnanles ha\e fared in tin-
world if, according to his own principles, he had heen confined to his
native Castilian ?
CHAPTER VI. 165
Note L (page 156).
The condemned books are the History of the Deeds of Bernardo del
Carpio, by Augustin Alonso of Salamanca (Toledo, 1585) ; and the Famous
Battle of Roncesvalles, by Francisco Garrido de Villena (Valencia, 1555).
Note M (page 157).
Palmerin de Oliva, the founder of the Palmerin Series of Romances,
was first printed at Salamanca in 1511. It is said to have been written by
a lady of Augustobriga (i.e. Burgos, according to some, but more probably
Ciudad Eodrigo), but nothing certain is known of the author. Palmerin
de Inglaterra, like Amadis, was until lately supposed to be, as Cervantes
supposed it, of Portuguese origin ; but the question was settled a few years
ago by Vicente Salva, who discovered a Toledo edition of 1547, twenty years
earlier than the Portuguese edition on which the claims of Francisco de
Moraes, or of John II., rested. An acrostic gives the name of the author,
Luis Hurtado.
Note N (page 159).
Tirante el Blanco is the title of the translation into Castilian of the
romance of Tirant lo Blanch, first published in Valencian at Valencia in
1490. Joanot Martorell, who is said to have translated it from English
into Portuguese and thence into Valencian, was no doubt the author. Only
three copies are known to exist, one in the University at Valencia, another
in the College of the Sapienza in Eome, and the third in the British
Museum. The Castilian version appeared at Valladolid in 1511. Don
Pascual de Gayangos is in doubt whether the curate's eulogy is to be taken
as ironical or serious, but rather inclines to the belief that Cervantes
meant to praise the book. It would be rash to differ with such an
authority, otherwise I should say that the laudation is rather too boister-
ously expressed and too like the extravagant eulogy of Lo Frasso farther
on, to be sincerely meant.
Note 0 (page 160).
Los Sicte Libros de la Diana de Jorge de Montemayor. Impreso en Valen-
cia, 4to. The first edition is undated, but from the dedication appears to have
been printed in the author's lifetime. He died in 1561, in which year the
second edition, with additions, appeared. (V. note 2, chap, v.) The Diana
was the first and best of the Spanish pastoral romances, the taste for
which was created by Sannazaro's Arcadia. The Salamancan was Alonso
Perez, who published a continuation of the Diana at Alcala de Henares
in 1564, but Gil Polo's, printed the same year at Valencia, has been gene-
rally preferred. The pun on Polo and Apolo is not so obvious in English
1 66 DON QUIXOTE.
An excellent English translation of all three by Bartholomew Yon-,' was
published in 1598.
Note P (page 160).
The Fort unacV Amor, por Antonio de lo Frasso, Mililar, Sardo, appeared
at Barcelona in 1573. In the Viage del Parnaso Cervantes treats the
book in the same bantering strain, which misled Pedro de Pineda, one of
tin- editors of Lord Carteret's Quixote, and induced him to bring out a
new edition in 1740. The book is an utterly worthless one, and highly
prized by collectors.
Note Q (page 160).
The books here referred to are the Pastor de Iberia, by Bernardo de la
Vega (Seville, 1591) ; the Nimplias y Pastorcs de Henares, by Bernardo
Gonzalez de Bovadilla (Alcala de Henares, 1587); and the Desengano de
Zelos, by Bartolme Lopez de Enciso (Madrid, 1586).
Note R (page 161).
The Pastor de Filida (Madrid, 1582), one of the best of the pastorals,
was by Luis Galvez de Montalvo of Guadalajara, a retainer of the great
Mendoza family, and apparently an intimate personal friend of Cervantes,
who, under the name of Tirsi, is referred to in the pastoral as a cZam.s/wo
• worthy of being mentioned with Ercilla. Montalvo, in return, is
introduced under the name of Siralvo into the Galatea of Cervantes, to
which he contributed a complimentary sonnet.
Note S (page 162).
The play upon words in the original is ' more versed in misfortunes
than in verses.' This introduction of himself and his forgotten pastoral is
Cervantes all over in its tone of playful stoicism with a certain quiet seit-
assertion. It shows, moreover, pretty clearly, that until Don Quixote had
made the author's name known, the Galatea had remained unnoticed.
Nutr T iJHl'/r Utt).
These three are examples of Spanish epic poetry. The Aranrdiin of
Ercilla (Madrid, ir.r.'.i. 157H, IttW) is, next to the Poem of the Old, the best
effort in that direction in the language. The Auxtriatld, which appeared
first at Madrid in IfiSl, deals with the life and achievements of Don John
of Austria, but it was probably the memory of Lepanto rather than the
of the pocin that made Cervantes give it a place here. The
Montscrratc of the dramatist Virues (Madrid, 15HS) had for its subject the
CHAPTER VI. 167
repulsive Oriental legend which became popular in Spain with Garin the
hermit of Monserrat for its hero, and which M. G. Lewis made the founda-
tion of his famous romance, The Monk.
Note U (page 162).
The anticlimax here almost equals that famous one of Waller's :
4 Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath received our yoke.'
The book referred to was entitled simply the Angelica by Luis Barahona
de Soto (Madrid, 1586). In his praise of this poem we have one more
instance of Cervantes' loyalty to a friend getting the better of his critical
judgment.
DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER VII.
01 THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE
OF LA MANCHA.
AT this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, ' Here,
lu TI-, valiant knights ! here is need for you to put forth the
might of your strong arms, for they of the Court are
gaining the mastery in the tourney ! ! Called away by this
noise and outcry, they proceeded no farther with the scrutiny
of the remaining books, and so it is thought that ' The
Carolea.' 'The Lion of Spain,' and 'The Deeds of the
Kniperor,' written by Don Luis de Avila, went to the fire
11 and unheard; for no doubt they were among those
that remained, and perhaps if the curate had seen them
they would not have undergone so severe a sentence.1
When they reached Don Quixote he was already out
of bed, and was still shouting and raving, and slashing
and cutting all round, as wide awake as if he had never
slept.
They closed with him and by force got him back to bed,
and when he had become a little calm, addressing the
curaf. ;-l to him, 'Of a truth, Senor Archbishop
Turpin,'-' it i> a great disgrace for us who call om^ehvs the
Twelve T« nvlessly to allow the knights of the Court
A, i>. 17"». ' - See Note U, p. 175.
CHAPTER VII. 169
to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers
having carried off the honour on the three former days.'
( Hush, gossip,' said the curate ; ' please God, the luck
may turn, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow ; l
for the present let your worship have a care of your health,
for it seems to me that you are over- fatigued, if not badly
wounded.'
* Wounded no,' said Don Quixote, ' but bruised and
battered no doubt, for that bastard Don Roland has cud-
gelled me with the trunk of an oak tree, and all for envy,,
because he sees that I alone rival him in his achievements.
«-/* But I should not call myself Reinaldos of Montalvan did
he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as
soon as I rise from this bed. For_.the present let them
bring me something to eat, for that, I feel, is what will
be more to my purpose, and leave it to me to avenge
myself.'.
They did as he washed ; they gave him something to
eat, and once more he fell asleep, leaving them marvelling
at his madness.
»| That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the
/, books that were in the yard and in the whole house t and
some must have been consumed that deserved preservation
•in everlasting archives, but their fate and the laziness of
the examiner did not permit 'it, and so in them was veri-
fied the proverb that sometimes the innocent suffer for the
guilty.2
.\ One of the remedies which the curate and the barber
immediately applied to their friend's disorder was to wall
1 Prov. 188. - Prov. 165.
i7o DON QUIXOTE.
up and plaster tin- room where the books werej£0 that when
lie got up he should not find them (possibly the cause being
ttoved, the i -flirt might cease), and they might say that a
magician had carried them off, room and all ; and this was
done with all despatch. \p"wo days later Don Quixote
got up, and the first thing he did was to go and look at
his books, and not finding the room where he had left it,
he wandered from side to side looking for it. ), He came to
the place where the door used to be, and tried it with his
1 lands, and turned and twisted his eyes in every direction
without saying a word ; but tjafter a good while he asked
his housekeeper whereabouts was the room that held his
books.
The housekeeper,|«who had been already well instructed
in what she was to answer \ said, 'What room or what
nothing is it that your worship is looking for ? There are
neither room nor books in this house now, for the devil
himself has carried all away.'
' It was not the devil,' said the niece, ' but a magician
wh<» rame on a cloud one night after the day your worship
left this, and dismounting from a serpent that he rode he
entered the room, and what he did there I know not, but
after a little while lie made off, flying through the roof, and
left the house full of smoke ; and when we went to
what lie had done we saw neither book nor room : but we
remember very well, the housekeeper and I, that on leaving,
the old villain said in a lotul voice that, for a private grudge
lie owed tlie owner of the hooks and the room, he had done
mischief in that house that would be discovered hy-and-
by : helsaid too that his name was the Sage Mufiafnn.'
CHAPTER VII. 171
' He must have said Friston,'1 said Don Quixote.
' I don't know whether he called himself Friston or
Friton,' said the housekeeper, ' I only know that his name
•ended with " ton." ' /'
1 So it does,' said Don Quixote, ' and he is a sage
magician, a great enemy of mine, who has a spite against
me because he knows by his arts and lore that in process
of time I am to engage in single combat with a knight
whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and he will
be unable to prevent it ; and for this reason he endeavours
to do me all the ill turns that he can ; but I promise him it
will be hard for him to oppose or avoid what is decreed by
Heaven.'
' Who doubts that ? ' said the niece ; ' but, uncle, who
mixes you up in these quarrels ? Would it not be better to
remain at peace in your own house instead of roaming the
world looking for better bread than ever came of wheat,2
never reflecting that many go for wool and come back
shorn ? ' 3
* Oh, niece of mine,' replied Don Quixote, ' how much
astray art thou in thy reckoning : ere they shear me I
shall have plucked away and stripped off the beards of
all who would dare to touch only the tip of a hair of
1 Friston, a magician, the reputed author of Belianis de Grcc'm.
2 Prov. 171. Buscar pan de trastrigo: there is some difference of
opinion as to the meaning of trnstrigo, but it seems on the whole more
probable that it n^eans wheat of such superlative quality as to be unattain-
able ; at any rate, the proverb is used in reference to seeking things that are
out of reach.
3 Prov. 124. A very eld proverb, as old at least as the poem of
Fernan Gonzalez.
I72 DON QUIXOTE.
The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as
they saw that his anger was kindling.
In short, then,4he remained at home fifteen days very
quietly [without showing any signs of a desire to take up
with his former delusions, and'| during this time he held
lively discussions with his two gossips, the curate and the
barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant
were what the world stood most in need ofJYind that in him
was to he accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The
curate sometimes contradicted him, sometimes agreed with
him, for if he had not observed this precaution he would
have heen nimble to bring him to reasons
\ Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer,
a neighbour of his, an honest man)* (if indeed that title
can be given to him who is poor),.lbut with very little
wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over, and
with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown
made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as
mire. j)(»n Quixote, among other things, told him he
ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because any
moment an adventure might oc.ciir that might win an
Islandjp the twinkling of an eye^and leave him governor of
it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panxa (for so
the labourer was called) left wife and children,' and engaged
himself as esquire to his neighbour. Don Quixote next set
about getting some money ;)• and selling one tiling and
pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every <
,\h< ether a fair sum. He provided himself with a
buckler, which he begged as a loan from a friend,\<ond,
tni-ing bis battered helmet as best lie couldv^ he warned
CHAPTER VII. 173
his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out,
that he might provide himself withflwhat he thought most
needful. Above all, he charged him to takeyalforjas /iwith
him. »|The other said he would, and that he meant to take
also a very good ass he had, as he was not much given to
going on foot, r About the ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little,
trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant
taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no
instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however,
he determined to take him, intending to furnish him with
a more honourable mount when a chance of it presented
itself, by appropriating the horse of the first discourteous
knight he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts
and such other things as he could, according to the advice
the host had given him ; ip.ll which being settled and done,
without taking leave, Sancho Panza of his wife and children,
or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and niece, they sallied
forth unseen by anybody from the village one night, and
made such good way in the course of it that by daylight
they held themselves safe from discovery, even should
search be made for them. /.
Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch with his alforjas
and bota,2 and longing to see himself soon governor of the
island his master had promised him. Don Quixote decided
upon taking the same route and road he had taken on
his first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel, which
1 Alforjas — a sort of double wallet serving for saddle-bags, but more
frequently carried slung across the shoulder.
2 The bota is the leathern wine-bag which is as much a part of the
Spanish wayfarer's paraphernalia as the alforjas. It cannot, of course, be
properly translated ' bottle.'
174 DON QUIXOTE.
he travelled with less discomfort than on the last occasion,
for, as it WJLS early morning and the rays of the sun fell
on them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.
And now said Sanclio Panza to bis master, 'Your
worship will take care, Seiior Knight-errant, not to forget
about the island yon have promised me, for be it ever so-
big I'll he equal to governing it.'
To which Don Quixote replied, ' Thou must know, friend
Sancho Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue
with the knights-errant of old to make their squires
governors of the islands or kingdoms they won,1 and I am
determined that there shall be no failure on my part in so
liberal a ciistonT; on the contrary, I mean to improve upon
it, for they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently, waited
until their squires were old, and then when they had had
enough of service and hard days and worse nights, they
gave them some title or other, of count, or at the most
marquis, of some valley or province more or less; but if
thoti livest and 1 live, it may well be that before six days
are over, I may have won some kingdom. that has others
dependent upon it, which will be ju*t the thing to enable
to be crowned king of one of them.. Nor needst thou
count tli is wonderful, for things and chances fall to the
lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected
I might easily give thee even more than I promise
1 In Ilia- iid Sanclio Tan/a, 'if I should become
a king by one of those miracles your worship speal
1 Anwlis, for ii. .-^nirr (iiindalin xovornoi1 of the Insula
CHAPTER VIL 175
even Juana Gutierrez, my old woman,1 would come to be
queen and my children infantes.'
* Well, who doubts it ? ' said Don Quixote.
' I doubt it,' replied Sancho Panza, ' because for my
part I am persuaded that though God should shower down
kingdoms upon earth, not one of them would fit the head
of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, senor, she is not
worth two maravedis for a queen ; countess will fit her
better, and that only with God's help.'
' Leave it to God, Sancho,' returned Don Quixote, ' for
he will give her what suits her best ; but do not undervalue
thyself so much as to come to be content with anything
less than being governor of a province.'
' I will not, senor, ' answered Sancho, ' especially as I
have a man of such quality for a master in your worship,,
who will be able to give me all that will be suitable for me
and that I can bear.'
1 mi oislo, a sort of pet-name for a wife in old Spanish among the
lower orders :
' Acuerda de su oislo
Mirando en pobre casa.'
Note A (page 168).
The books referred to are the Caroled of Geronimo Sempere (1560),
which deals with the victories of Charles V. •; the Leon de Espana, by Pedro
de la Vezilla, a poem on the history of the city of Leon ; and, probably,
the Carlo Famoso of Louis Zapata, for there" is no book known with the
title of The Deeds of the Emperor, and the work of Avila is simply a prose
commentary on the wars against the Protestants of Germany.
Note B (page 168).
Turpin (or Tilpin), Charlemagne's chaplain, and Archbishop of Kheims r
according to the Clianson de Roland, one of those slain at Eoncesvalles ;
but also claimed as author of the Chronicle of Charlemagne, which, how-
ever, was probably not composed before the end of the eleventh or beginning
of the twelfth century. He died in the year of the Eoncesvalles rout, 778.
7r, DON QUIXOTE,
CHAPTER VIII.
OF THF. C.OOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE
HAL) IX THK TKKRIF.LE AND UNDREAMT-OF AWKNTUUi; OF
THF, \\ INDMILLS, WITH OTHER- OCCURRF, XCI -:s \\OKTHY TO BE
FITLY KKCOKDF.D.
AT this point they came in sight of thirty or forty wind-
mills that there are on that plain,1 and as soon as Don
(Quixote saw them he said to his squire, * Fortune is
arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped
our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Pan/a,
where thirty or more monstrous giants present them-
selves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle. and slay,
and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes ;
for this is righteous warfare, and it is (Jod's good service to
l» so evil a breed from off the face' of the earth.'
'AYhiit giants?' said Sancho Tan/a.
' Those thou seest there,' answered his master, ' with the
long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long.'
'Look, your worship,' said Sancho; ' what we see there
an- not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their
arms an- the sails that turned by the wind" mak- {he
millstone go/
1 Tl:> windmills had : up, and owed, their
tin; failure of • in llic /aiicarn, an affluent of tli
(iiuidiana, about thirty years licforc l><nt ijiii.raf,- was written. They are
ed over the plfcin between Alea/arde S. .Juan and Yillaliart;i. ( 1'. map.)
CHAPTER VIII. 177
' It is easy to see,' replied Don Quixote, ' that thou art
not used to this business of adventures ; those are giants ;
and if thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and he-
take thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce and
unequal combat.'
So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Eocinante,
heedless of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him,
warning him that most certainly they were windmills and
not giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so
positive they were giants that he neither heard the« cries of
Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they wereibut
made at them shouting, ' Fly not, cowards and vile beings,
for it is a single knight that attacks you.'
^ A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great
sails began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed,
' Though ye nourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye
have to reckon with me.'
So saying, and commending himself with all his heart
to his lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such
a peril, with lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he
charged at Rocinante's fullest gallop and fell upon the first
mill that stood in front of him ; but as he drove his lance-
point into the sail the wind whirled it round with such force
that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse
and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a sorry
condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his
ass could go, and when he came up found him unable j:o
move,|«with such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.
,|* God bless me ! ' said Sancho, ' did I not tell your
worship to mind what you were about, for they were only
VOL. i. • N
i78 DON QUIXOTE.
windmills vfand no one could have made any mistake about it
but one who had something of the same kind in his head.'
,\'Hush, friend Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'the
fortunes of war more than any other are liable to frequent
fluctuations ; and moreover 1 think, and it is the truth, that
that same sage Fristonwho carried off my study and books,
has turned these giants into mills in order to rob me of the
glory of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears
me ; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little
against my good sword.'
' God order it as he may,' said Sancho Panza, and helping
him to rise got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder
was half out ; and then, discussing the late adventure, they
followed the road to Puerto Lapice,|,for there, said Don
Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in abundance
and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare.1 For all that,
he was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so
to his squire, he added, ' I remember having read how a
Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas by name, having
broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous
bough or branch, and with it did such things that day, and
pounded so many Moors, that he got the surname of
Machuca,- and he and his descendants from that day forth
were called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this because
from the first oak3 I see 1 mean to rend such another
1 I'. • «>n tin- threat hi.<j,h road from Madrid to Seville.
Mtn iiiarli/t. linear, 'to pound.' Tin- feat referred to by
l)on (Quixote \viis performed at the sie^e of Jerex under Alfonso X. in 1'2(H,
and is the subjeet of a spirited ballad which Loekhart has treated with even
more than hi • dom.
:l In the ballad it is an olive tree, but the olive does not flourish in La
CHAPTER VI II. 179
branch, large and stout like that, with which I am deter-
mined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest
deem thyself very fortunate in being found worthy to come
and see them, and be an eye-witness of things that will
with difficulty be believed.'
* Be that as God will,' said Sancho, ' I believe it all as
your worship sa^s it ; but straighten yourself a little, for
you seem all on one side, may be from the shaking of the
fall.'
' That is the truth,' said Don Quixote, ' and if I make
no complaint of the pain it is because knights-errant are
not permitted to complain of any wound, even though their
bowels be coming out through it.'
1 If so,' said Sancho, ' I have nothing to say ; but God
knows I would rather your worship complained when any-
thing ailed you. For my part, I confess I must complain
however small the ache may be; unless indeed this rule
about not complaining extends to the squires of knights-
arrant also.'
Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's
simplicity, and he assured him he might complain when-
ever and however he chose, just as he liked, for, so far, he
had never read of anything to the contrary in .the order of
knighthood.
Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which
his master answered that he wanted nothing himself just
then, but that lie might eat when he had a mind. With
this permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he
Mancha, so Don Quixote substitutes oak, cncina or roblc, the former, the
evergreen, being rather the more common in Spain.
i So DOX QUIXOTE.
could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas what he
had stowed away in them, la- jogged along behind liis master
munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a
pull at the bota with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in
Malaga might have envied; and while he went on in this-
way, gulping down draught after draught, he never gave a
tl long] it t(» any of the promises his master had made him.
nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation
going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they
might be. >| Finally they passed the night among some
trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch
rve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the
In ad he had removed from the broken one.p All that
night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea,
in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how
many a night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie
sleepless supported by the memory of their mistr.
Not so did Sam-bo Pan/a spend it, for having his stomach
full of something stronger than chicory water he mack' but
one sleep of it, and, if his master had not called him, neither
t tin- sun beating on his face; nor all the cheery
of the birds welcoming the approach of day would
had power to waken him. On getting up he tried the
hota and found it sonie\vbat less full than the night before,
which grieved bis heart because they did not seem to be on
the way to remedy the deficiency readily. • Don Quixote did
ire to bre;ik hi- last, for, as has been already said,
iiiined himself to savoury recollections for nourish-
ment.
x\ They returned to the road they had set out with,
CHAPTER VIII. 181
leading to Puerto Lapice, and at three in the afternoon
they came in sight of it. |v *|Here, brother Sancho Panza,'
said Don Quixote when he saw it, 'we may plunge our
hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures ; but
observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger
in the world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in my
defencejiunless indeed thou perceivest that those who assail
me are rabble or base folk; for in that case thou mayest
very properly aid me ; but if they be knights it is on no
account permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knight-
hood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight.'
4 Most certainly, seiioiy replied Sancho, 'your worship
shall be fully obeyed in this matter p all the more as of
myself I am peaceful and no friend to mixing in strife and
quarrels : it is true that as regards the defence of my own
person 1 shall not give much heed to those laws, for laws
human and divine allow each one to defend himself against
any assailant whatever.'
* That I grant,' said Don Quixote, ' but in this matter
of aiding me against knights thou must put a restraint
upon thy natural impetuosity.'
' I will do so, I promise you,' answered Sancho, ' and I
will keep this precept as carefully as Sunday.'
,\ While they were thus talking there appeared on the
road two friars of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on
two dromedaries!* for not less tall were the two mules they
rode on. They wore travelling spectacles and carried
sunshades; and-) behind them came a coach attended by
four or five persons on horseback, and two muleteers on
foot. In the coach there was, as afterwards appeared, a
DON QUIXOTE.
l'i>cay hidy on her way to Seville j*where her husband was
about to takr passant' for the Indies with an appointment
of high honour, ^j The friars, though going tin- same road,
were not in her company : but the moment Don Quixote
perceived them lie said to his squire, ' Either I am mistaken,
or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has
e*<*r been seen, for those black bodies we see there must be,
and doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off some
stolen princess in that coach, and kvith all my might I
must undo this wrong.'
* This will be worse than the windmills/ said Sancho.
* Look, seiior ; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the
coach plainly belongs to some travellers {'mind, I tell you to
?
mind well what you are about and don't let the devil mis-
lead you.'
»j'I have told thee already, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote,
' that on the subject of adventures thou knowest little.
AVhat I say is the truth, as thou shalt see presently.'
So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle
of the road along which the friars were comingi«aiid as
soon as lie thought they had come near enough to hear
what lie said,x\lie cried aloud, 'Devilish and unnatural
beings, release instantly the highborn princesses whom you
an carrying off by force in this coach, else prepare to
meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your evil
•
Tin- (Via is drew rein and stood wondering at the
appearance of Don Quixote as well as at his words, to
which they replied, ' Sefior Caballero. we are not devilish
or unnatural, hut two brothers of St. Benedict^* following
CHAPTER VIII. 183
our road, nor do we know whether or not there are any
captive princesses coming in this coach.'
I 'No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,'
said Don Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he
spurred Eocinante and with levelled lance charged the first
friar with such fury and determination, that, if the friar
had not flung himself off the mule, he wrould have brought
him to the ground against his will 41 and sore wounded, if
not killed outright. \JThe second brother, seeing how his
comrade was treated/! drove his heels into his castle of a
mule and* I made off across the country faster than the
wind.
Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground,/1
dismounting briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and
began to strip off his gown. At that instant the friars'
muleteers came up and asked what he was stripping him
for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him lawfully
as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won.
The muleteers, who had no idea of a joke/and did not under-
stand all this about battles and spoils, seeing that Don
Quixote was some distance off talking to the travellers in
the coach, «| fell upon Sancho,) 'knocked him down, and
leaving hardly a hair in his beardj belaboured him with
kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless
on the ground ;}* and without any more delay i (helped the
friar to mount, whoji trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon
as he found himself in the saddle, spurred after his
companion,! » who was standing at a distance looking on,
watching the result of the onslaught ;.|then, not caring to
wait for the end of the affair just begun, they pursued their
i84 DON QUIXOTE.
jdnrneyf making more crosses than if they had the devil
after them.
x\Don Quixote was,\-as lias been 8aid,.^speaking to the
lady in the coach: 'Your beauty, lady mine,' said he,
'may now dispose of your person as may be most in
accordance with your pleasure]' for the pride of your
ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this strong
arm of mine ; and lest you should be pining to know the
name of your deliverer, know that^jE am called Don Quixote
of La Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive
to the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso :
and in return for the service you have received of me I
ask no more than that you should return to El Toboso,
and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and
tell her what 1 have done to set you free.'
One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a
icayanltwae listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and,
J perceiving that he would not allow the coach to go on[*but
was saying it must return at once to El Toboso, he made
at him, and seizing his lance *| addressed him in bad
<.'astiliaiy«and worse Hiscayan ' after this fashion, \ r.egmie,
calmllero, and iJl go with thee ; by the God that made me,
unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art here a
Biscayan.'
l>on Quixote understood him quite well, and answered
him very quietly, • If thou wert a knight, as thou art none,
J should have already chastised thy folly and rashi
miserable creature.' To which the Uiscayan returned, ' L
A, p. is?.
CHAPTER VIII. 185
no gentleman ! l — I swear to God tbou liest as I am
Christian : if thou droppest lance and drawest sword, soon
shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the cat,: 2
Biscayan on land, hidalgo, at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and
look, if thou sayest otherwise thou liest. '•
""You will see presently,' said Agrajes,"'3 replied
Don Quixote; and throwing his lance on the ground he
drew his sword, braced his buckler on his arm, and
attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life. /«
The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he
wished to dismount from his mule, in which, being one of
those sorry ones let out forJnre, he had no confidence^ (had
no choice but to draw his sword ; it was lucky for him, how-
ever, that he was near the coach, from which he was able
to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield ; and then
they went at one another as if they had been, two mortal
enemies. jtThe others strove to make peace between them,-
but could not, for the Biscayan declared in his disjointed
phrase that if they dkj/not let him finish his battle he
would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to prevent
him. The lady in the coach, amazed arid terrified at what
she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and
set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of
which the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on
the shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given to
1 Caballero means 'gentleman' as well as knight, and the peppery
Biscayan assumes that Don Quixote has used the word in the former sense.
- Quien ha dc. llevar el gato al agua ? (Prov. 102.) ' Who will carry
the cat to the water? ' is a proverbial way of indicating an apparently in-
superable difficulty. Between rage and ignorance the Biscayan, it will be
seen, inverts the phrase.
3 See Note B, p. 187.
1 86 DON QUIXOTE.
one without armour, would have cleft him to the waist.
Don (Quixote, feeling tin- weight of this prodigious blow,
cried aloud, saying, ' 0 lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of
beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in ful-
filling his obligations to your beauty, finds himself in this
extreme- peril.' To say this, to lift his sword, to shelter
himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan
was the work of an instant, determined as he was to*
venture all upon a single blow. / The Biscayan, seeing him
come on in this way, was convinced of his courage by his
spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he
waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion,
being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his
mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of
game, could not stir a step.
On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the
wary Biseayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention
of splitting him in half, while on his side the IHscayan
waited for him sword in hand, and under the protection of
his cushion ; and all present stood trembling, waiting in
suspense the result of blows such as threatened to fall, and
the lady in the coach and the rest of her following were
making a thousand vows and offerings to all the images
and >hrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire
and all of them from this great peril in which they found
themselves. Hut it spoils all, that at this point and crisis
the author of the history leaves this battle impending,1
giving as excuse that lie could iind nothing more written
about these achievements of Don Quixote than what has
(', >. 1*7.
hftp
CHAPTER VIII. 187
been already set forth. It is true the second author of this
work was unwilling to believe that a history so curious
could have been allowed to fall under the sentence of
oblivion, or that the wits of La Mancha could have been
so undiscerning as not to preserve in their archives or
registries some documents referring to this famous knight ;
and this being his persuasion, he did not despair of finding
the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven
favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in
the Second Part.1
1 See Note D, p. 187.
Note A (page 184).
In the humorous tract The Book of all Things, and many more, Quevedo
mentions as the chief characteristic of the Biscayan dialect that it changes
the first person of the verb into the second. This may be observed in the
specimen given here : another example of Biscayan will be found in Cer-
vantes' interlude of the Viscaino Fingido.
Note B (page 185).
Agrajes was the cousin and companion of Amadis of Gaul. The phrase
quoted above (Prov. 4) became a popular one, and is introduced as such
among others of the same sort by Quevedo in the vision of the Visita de
los 'Chistes. It is hard to say why it should have been fixed on Agrajes, who
does not seem t.o use it as often as others, Amadis himself for instance.
Note C (page 186). ;
The abrupt suspension of the narrative and the reason assigned are in
imitation of devices of the chivalry-romance writers. Montalvo, for instance,
breaks off in the ninety-eighth chapter of Esplandian, and in the next gives
an account of the discovery of the sequel, very much as Cervantes has clone
here and in the next chapter.
Note D (page 187).
Cervantes divided his first volume of Don Quixote into four parts,
possibly in imitation of the four books of the Amadis of Montalvo; but the
chapters were numbered without regard to this division, which he also
ignored in 1615, when he called his new volume ' Second ' instead of ' Fifth '
Part.
tSS /)O.V QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER IX,
IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TEKEIFIC BATTLE
BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MAN-
CHEGAN.
IN the First Part of this history we left the valiant Bis-
cay an and the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords
uplifted, ready to deliver two such furious slashing blows
that if they had fallen full and fair they would at least have
split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and laid them
open like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point
tlu' delightful history came to a stop and stood cut short
without any intimation from the author where what was
missing was to be found.
This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure de-
rived from having read such a small portion turned to
vexation at the thought of the poor chance that presented
of finding the large part that, so it seemed to me, was
missing of such an interesting tale. It appeared to me to
thing impossible and contrary to all precedent that
so good n knight should have been without some sage to
undertake the task of writing his marvellous achievements ;
a thing that was never wanting toMny of (hose knights-
errant who, they say, went after adventures; for every one
of them had one or two sages as' if made on pur]
not only recorded their deeds but described
CHAPTER IX. 189
trifling thoughts and follies, however secret they might be ;
and such a good knight could not have been so unfortunate
as not to have what Platir and others like him had in abun-
dance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that
such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated,
and I laid the blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer
of all things, that had either concealed or consumed it.
On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among
his books there had been found such modern ones as ' The
Enlightenment of Jealousy ' and the ' Nymphs and Shep-
herds of Henares,' his story must likewise' be modern, and
that though it might not be written, it might exist in the
memory of the people of his village and of those in the
neighbourhood. This reflection kept me perplexed and
longing to know really and truly the whole life and won-
drous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote of La
Mancha, light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the
first that in our age and in these so evil days devoted
himself to the labour and exercise of the arms of knight-
errantry, righting wrongs, succouring widows, and protect-
ing damsels of that sort that used-to ride about, whip,
in hand,1 on their palfreys, with all their virginity about •
them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley — for,
if it were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and
hatchet, or monstrous giairt, that forced them, there were in
days of yore damsels that at the end of eighty years, in all
which time they had never slept a day under a roof, went
to their graves as much maids as the mothers that bore
them. I say, then, that in these and other respects our
1 See Note A, p. 195.
i9o . DOX QUIXOT&.
gallant Don Quixote is worthy <>t' everlasting and notable
praise, imr should it be \vithheld even from me for the labour
and pains spent in searching for the conclusion of this
delightful history ; though I know well that it" Heaven,
chance, and good fortune had not helped me, the world
would have remained deprived of an entertainment and
pleasure that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy
him who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it
occurred in this way.
One day, as I was in the Alcana ' of Toledo, a boy came
up to sell some pamphlets and old papers to" a silk ni-
and, as I am fond of reading even the very scraps of paper
in the streets, led by this natural bent of mine I took up
one of the pamphlets the boy had for sale, and saw that it
was in characters which I recognised as Arabic, and, as
I was unable to read them though I could recognise them,
I looked about to see if there were any Spanish-speaking
\Iorisco at hand to read them forme; nor was then- any
great difficulty in finding such an interpreter, for even had
! sought one for an older and better language - I should have
found him. In short, chance provided me with one, who
when I told him what 1 wanted and put the book into his
hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a little in
it began to laugh. I asked him what he was laughing at,
and he replied that it was at something the book had written
in the margin by way of a note. 1 bade him tell it to
me : and he still laughing said, ' In the margin, as I told
you, this is written : 1" 77//-s Dnlrun-a <lrl 'Tnbnxo .so often.
1 .lien a (i, a market-place in Tnl< •<!<• in the neighbourhood of the rat lied ml.
• [.e.
CHAPTER IX. 191
f
icntioned in this history had, they say, the best hand of <u/i/
•oman in all La Claudia for saltiiuj pi<is.*' '
When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck
with surprise and amazement, for it occurred to me at
once that these pamphlets contained the history of Don
Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the begin-
ning, and doing so, turning the Arabic ^off hand into Cas-
tilian, he told me it meant, ' History of Don Quixote of La
Manchn, written hi/ del Hamet BenengeU,1 tin Arah historian.'
It required great caution to hide the joy I felt when the
title of the book reached my ears, and snatching it from the
silk mercer, I bought all the papers and pamphlets from
the boy for half a real ; and if he had had his wits about
him and had known how eager I was for them, he might
have safely calculated on making more than six reals by the
bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the
cloister of the cathedral, and begged him to turn all these
pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian
tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offer*
ing him whatever payment he pleased. He was satisfied
with two arrobas of raisins and two bushels of wheat, and
promised to translate them faithfully and with all despatch ;
but to make the matter more easy, and not to let such a
precious find out of my hands, I took him to my house,
where in little more than a month and a half he translated
the whole just as it is set down here.
1 J. A. Conde suggested that Ben Engeli — ' son of the stag '—is the
Arabic equivalent of the name ' Cervantes, '^he root of which he assumed
to be ciervo. Cervantes may, of course, have intended what Conde
attributes to him, but the name in reality has nothing to do with ciervo,
and comes from Servando. (V. Introduction, p. 1C).)
192 DON QUIXOTE.
In tlu- first pamphlet thr battle between Don Quixote
and tlu- Hiscayan was drawn to the very life, they planted
in the same attitude as the history describes, their swords
raised, and the one protected by his buckler, the other by
liis cushion, and the Biscayan's mule so true to nature that
it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot off. The
JHscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, ' Don
Sdnclio ill" A.:iH'itit(,' which no doubt must have been his
name ; and at the feet of Eocinante was another that
said, ' Don (Jnlroti'.' Eocinante was marvellously por-
trayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so much
backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he showed
plainly with what judgment and propriety the name of
Eocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was
Sancho Tan/a holding the halter of his ass, at whose feet
\\as another label that said, ' Sancho Zancas,' and accord-
ing to the- picture, lie must have had a big belly, a short
body, and long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the
names of Pan/a and Zancas were given him, for by these
two surnames the history several times calls him.1 Some
other trifling particulars might be mentioned, but they art-
all of slight importance and have nothing to do with the
true relation of the history: and no history can be bad so
long as.it is true.
If against the present one any objection be raised on
the score of its truth, it; can only be that its author was an
paunch :' -shanks;' hut in spite of \vhat
\ve hear Ion-,' shanks, for which the
"ii <lillicult In realise ;i Ion;
;io.
CHAPTER IX.
193
Arab, as lying is a very common propensity with those of
that nation ; though, as they are such enemies of ours, it
is conceivable that there were omissions rather than addi-
tions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion ;
for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in
praise of so worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately
to pass it over in silence ; which is ill done and worse con-
trived, for it is the business and duty of historians to be
exact, truthful, and wholly free from passion, a<nd neither
interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make them swerve
from the path of truth, whose mother is history,1 rival of
time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example
and counsel for the present, and warning for the future.
In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the
pleasantest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I
maintain it is the fault of its hound of an author and not
the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part,
according to the translation, began in this way :
With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it
seemed as though the two valiant and wrathful combatants
stood threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with such
resolution and determination did they bear, themselves.
1 The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a blowjiwhich
was delivered with such force and fury that had not the
sword turned in its course, that single stroke would have
sufficed to put an end to the bitter struggle and to all the
adventures of our knight; but that good fortune which
1 A curious instance of the carelessness with which Cervantes wrote and
4 corrected, if, indeed, he corrected at all : of course he meant the opposite of
what he said—that truth was the mother of history.
VOL. I. O
i94 DON QUIXOTE.
reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword of
his adversary, so that,,) although it smote him upon the
left shoulder, it did him no more harm than to strip all
that side of its armour, carrying away a great part of his
helmet with half of his earjtill which with fearful ruin fell
to the ground, 4leaving him in a sorry plight.
Good God ! Who is there that could properly describe
the rage that filled the heart of our Manchegan when he
s i w himself dealt with in this fashion? All that can be
said is, it was such that he again raised himself in his
stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with both
hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury,
smiting him full over the cushion and over the head,, that ,
--even so good a shield proving useless — as if a mountain
had fallen on him}|he began to bleed from nose, mouth, and
earsjfeeling as if about to fall backwards from his mule, as
no doubt he would have done had he not flung his arms
about its neck ; at the same time, however, he slipped his
Feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and
the mule, taking fright at the terrible blow, made off across
the plain, and with a few plunges flung its master to the
groin id. Don (Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and,
when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great
briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of his
sword to his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut
his head off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that lie was
unable to answer a word, and it would have gone hard with
himj'so blind was Don Quixote,Ahad not the ladies in the
coach, who had hitherto been watching the combat in great
terror, hastened to where he stood^and implored him with
CHAPTER IX. i95
earnest entreaties to grant them the great grace and favour
of sparing their squire's life ; to which Don Quixote replied
with much gravity and dignity, * In truth, fair ladies, I am
well content to do what ye ask of me ; hut it must be
on one condition and understanding, which, is that this
knight promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and
on my part present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea,
/
that she deal with him as shall he most pleasing to her.'
The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing
Don Quixote's demand or asking who Dulcinea might he,
promised that their squire should do all that had been
commanded on his part.
' Then, on the faith of that promise,' said Don Quixote,
* I shall do him no further harmJLthough he well deserves it
of me.'
Note A (page 189).
Instead of azotes (whips) Clemencin suggests azores (hawks), and
refers to chapter xxx. Part II., where a hawk in hand is especially mentioned
as the usual accompaniment of a noble lady on horseback.
o 2
i96 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTEE X.
OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON
QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO PAN/A.
Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for
the handling of the friars' muleteers, and stood watching
the battle of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to God
in his heart that it might be his will to grant him the
victory, and that he might thereby win some island to
make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing,
therefore, that the struggle was now over, and that his
master was returning to mount Bocinante, he approached
to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could mount, he
went on his knees before him, and taking his hand, kissed
ing, 'May it please your worship, Serior Don Quixote,
to give me the government of that island which lias been
won in this hard iight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in
sufficient force to be aide to govern it as much and as well
as anyone in the world who has ever governed islands/
To which Don Quixote replied, ' Thou must take notice,
brother Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are
not adventures of islands, but of cross-roads, in which
nothing is got except a broken head or an ear the less:
have patience, tor adventures will present themselves from
CHAPTER X.
197
which I may make you, not only a governor, but something
more.'
Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his
hand and the skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount
Eocinante, and mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow
his master, who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or
saying anything further to the ladies belonging to the coach,
turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed
him at his ass's best trot, but Eocinante stepped out so
that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced to call to
his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in
Eocinante until his weary squire came up, who on reaching
him said, ' It seems to me, seiior, it would be prudent in us
to go and take refuge in some church, for, seeing how
mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it will be
no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy
Brotherhood l and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before
we come out of gaol we shall have to sweat for it.'
' Peace,' said Don Quixote ; ' where hast thou ever seen
or heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a
court of justice, however many homicides he may have
committed ? '
' I know nothing about omecils,' 2 answered Sancho, * nor
in my life have had anything to do with one; I only
know that the Holy Brotherhood looks after those who
1 The Santa Hermandad, a tribunal established in the thirteenth
century, but revived in the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, with summary
jurisdiction over offenders against life and property on the highways and
outside of the municipal boundaries.
2 Omecillo or liomecillo was an old form of the word homecidio, but
in popular parlance it meant the fine imposed in default of appearance to
answer a charge of assault and battery.
i98 DON QUIXOTE
light in the fields, and in that other matter I do not
meddle.1
' Then thou needs t have no uneasiness, my friend,' said
Don Quixote, ' for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the
Chaldeans, much more out of those of the Brotherhood.
But tell me, as thou livest, hast thou seen a more valiant
knight than I in all the known world; hast thou read in
history of any who has or had higher mettle in attack, more
spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill
in overthrowing?'
' The truth is,' answered Sancho, ' that I have never
IT ad any history, for I can neither read nor write, but what
1 will venture to bet is that a more daring master than your
worship I have never served in all the days of my life, and
(lod grant that this daring be not paid for where I have
said : what I beg of your worship is to dress your wound,
for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I have
here SOUK- lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas.'
' All that might be well dispensed with,' said Don Quixote1,
'if I had remembered to make a vial of the balsam of
Fierabras,' for time and medicine are saved by one single
drop.'
'What vial and what balsam is that?' said Sancho
Pan/a.
'It is a balsim,' answered Don Quixote, 'the receipt of
which I have in my memory, with which one need have no
fear of death, or dread dying of any wound; and so when
1 make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to do when
s, i.e. /•'/>/• t'i l>ra$=-- ' Ann-strong,' a giant in Nicola
Tiamontc's history of Cluirlriiiaj/iic ;ind tin- I
CHAPTER X. 199
in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through
the middle of the body — as is wont to happen frequently—
but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to
place that portion of the body which shall have fallen to
the ground upon the other half which remains in the
saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then
thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsam
I have mentioned, and thou shalt see me become sounder
than an apple.'
' If that be so,' said Panza, ' I renounce henceforth the
government of the promised island, and desire nothing
more in payment of my many and faithful services than
that your worship give me the receipt of this supreme
liquor/for. -I am-persuaded it will be worth more than two
reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass the
rest of my life in ease and honour /but it remains to be
told if it costs much to make it.'
* With less than three reals six quarts l of it may be
made,' said Don Quixote.
' Sinner that I am ! ' said Sancho, ' then why does
your worship put off making it and teaching it to me ? '
' Peace, friend,' answered Don Quixote ; ' greater secrets
I mean to teach thee and greater favours to bestow upon
thee ; and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my
ear pains me more than I could wish.'
Sancho took out some lint ,and ointment from the
alforjas ; but when Don Quixote came to see his' helmet
shattered, he was like to lose his senses, and clapping his
hand upon his sword and raising his eyes to heaven, he
1 In the original, tres azumbres.
200 DON QUIXOTE.
said, ' I swear by the Creator of all things and the four
Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis
of Mantua did when he swore to avenge the death of
his nephew Baldwin (and that was not to eat hread from
a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other points which,
though I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant as
expressed), until I take complete vengeance upon him who
has committed such an offence against me.'
Hearing this, Sancho said to him, ' Your worship should
bear in mind, Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has
done what was commanded him in going to present himself
before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done all
that he was bound to do, and does not deserve further
punishment unless he commits some new offence.'
* Thou hast said well and hit the point,' answered Don
Quixote; 'and so I recall the oath in so far as relates to
taking fresh vengeance on him, but I make and confirm it
anew to lead the life I have said until such time as I take
by force from some knight another helmet such as this and
as good ; and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke
with straw in doini;- so, for I have one to imitate in the
matter, since 11 ie very same thing to a hair happened in
the case of Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacripante so
dear.' »
' Senor,' replied Sancho, ' let your worship send all such
oaths to the devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation
and prejudicial to the conscience; just tell me now, if for
1 Mambrino, a Moorish king in the Orlaiulo of Boiardo, whose enchanted
hflmct was won by Kinuldo. It \vas Diinlinol, however, not Sacripante, to
•whom it cost so dear. (V. Ariosto, c. xviii., st. 151.)
CHAPTER X. 201
several days to come we fall in with no man armed with
a helmet, what are we to do ? Is the oath to be observed
in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will
be to sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and
a thousand other mortifications contained in the oath of
that old fool the Marquis of Mantua, which your wrorship
is now wanting to revive ? Let your worship observe that
there are no men irf armour travelling on any of these
roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who not only do not
wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them all
their lives.'
' Thou art wrong there,' said Don Quixote, ' for we shall
not have been two hours among these cross-roads before
we see more men in armour than came to Albraca to win
the fair Angelica.' 1
' Enough,' said Sancho ; ' so be it then, and God grant
us success, and that the time for winning that island which
is costing me so dear may soon come, and then let me
die.'
1 1 have already told thee, Sancho,' said Don Quixote,
' not to give thyself any uneasiness on that score ; for if an
island should fail, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of
Sobradisa, which will fit thee as a ring fits the finger, and
all the more that being on terra fir ma thou wilt all the
better enjoy thyself. But let us leave that to its own time;
see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those alforjas,
because we must presently go in quest of some castle where
we may lodge to-night and make the balsam I told thee of,
1 Albraca, a stronghold of Galafron, King of Cathay and father of
Angelica. The siege is one of the incidents in the Orlatulo of Boiardo.
202 DON QUIXOTE.
for I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me great
pain.'
' I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few
scraps of bread,' s<lid Sancho, 'hut they are not victuals fit
for a valiant knight like your worship.'
'How little thou knowest about it,' answered Don
Quixote : * I would have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the
glory of knights-errant to go without eating for a month,
and even when they do eat, that it should be of what comes
first to hand ; and this would have been clear to thee hadst
thou read as many histories as I have, for, though they are
very many, among them all I have found no mention made
of knights-errant eating, unless by accident or at some
sumptuous banquets prepared for them, and the rest of the
time they passed in dalliance. And though it is plain they
could not do without eating and performing all the other
natural functions, because, in fact, they were men like our-
selves, it is plain too that, wandering as they did the most
part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a
cook, their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as
those thou dost now offer me; so that, friend Sancho, let
not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to
make a new world or pervert knight-errantry.'1
'Pardon me, your worship,' said Sancho, 'for, as I
cannot read or write, as I said just now, I neither know
nor comprehend the rules of the profession of chivalry :
lienct forward I will stock the alforjas with every kind of
dry fruit for your worship, as you are a knight; and for
1 Literally, take knight-errantry off itshin
CHAPTER X. 203
myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry
and other things more substantial.'
' I do not say, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, ' that it is
imperative on knights -err ant not to eat anything else but
the fruits thou speakest of ; only that their more usual diet
must be those, and certain herbs they found in the fields
which they knew and I know too.'
' A good thing it is,' answered Sancho, ' to know those
herbs, for to my thinking it will be needful some day to put
that knowledge into practice.'
And here taking out what he said he had brought,
the pair made their repast peaceably and sociably. But
anxious to find quarters for the night, they with all de-
spatch made an end of their poor dry fare, mounted at
once, and made haste to reach some habitation before night
set in ; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their
object failed them close by the huts of some goatherds, so
they determined to pass the night there, and it was as much
to Sancho's discontent not to have reached a house, as it
was to his master's satisfaction to sleep under the open
heaven, for he fancied that each time this happened to him
he performed an act of ownership that helped to prove his
chivalry.
204 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER XI.
OF WHAT I'.KFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS.
UK was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho,
haying as best he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew
towards the fragrance that came from some pieces of salted
goat simmering in a pot on the lire ; and though he would
ha\v liked at once to try if they were ready to be trans-
ferred from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from
doing so as the goatherds removed them from the fire, and
laying sheepskins on the ground, quickly spread their rude
table, and with signs of hearty good- will invited them both
to share what they had. Round the skins six of the men
belonging to the fold seated themselves, having first with
rough politeness pressed Don Quixote to take a seat upon
a trough which they placed for him upside down. Don
Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to
the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him
standing, his master said to him, ' That thou mayest see,
Sanrho, tbe gnnd that knight-errantry contains in itself,
and how those who fill any office in it are on the high road
to lie speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, 1 desire
that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the company
of these worthy people, and that thou be one with me who
CHAPTER XL 205
am thy master and natural lord, and that thou eat from my
plate and drink from whatever I drink from ; for the same
may be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels all.'
' Great thanks,' said Sancho, ' but I may tell your wor-
ship that provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well,
or better, standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of
an emperor. And indeed, if the truth is to be told, what
I eat in my corner without form or fuss has much more
relish for me, even though it be bread and onions, than the
turkeys of those other tables where I am forced to chew
slowly, drink little, wipe my mouth every minute, and can-
not sneeze or cough if I want or do other things that are
the privileges of liberty and solitude. I So, seiior, as for
these honours which your worship would put upon me as
a servant and follower of knight-errantry (which I am,
being your worship's squire), exchange them for other
things which may be of more use and advantage to me ;
for these, though I fully acknowledge them as received,
I renounce from this moment to the end of the world.'
' For all that,' said Don Quixote, ' thou must seat thy-
self, because him who humbleth himself God exalteth ; '
and seizing him by the arm he forced him to sit down
beside himself.
The goatherds did not understand this jargon about
squires and knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in
silence and stare at their guests, who with great elegance
and appetite were stowing away pieces as big as one's fist.
The course of meat finished, they spread upon the sheep-
skins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they
put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made
206 DON QUIXOTE,
of mortar. All this while the horn was not idle, for it
went round so constantly, now full, now empty, like the
bucket of a water- wheel,1 that it soon drained one of the
two wine-skins that were in sight. When Don Quixote had
quite appeased his appetite he took up a handful of the
acorns, and contemplating them attentively delivered him-
self somewhat in this fashion : 2
'Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients
gave the name of golden, not because in that fortunate1 age
the gold so coveted in this our iron one was gained without
toil, but because they that lived in it knew not the two
words " mine " and " thine " ! In that blessed age all things
were in common ; to win the daily food no labour was
required of any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it
from the sturdy oaks that stood generously inviting him
with their sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and running
brooks yielded their savoury3 limpid waters in noble
abundance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed their
republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the tr<
offering without usance the plenteous produce of their
fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, un-
enforced save of their own courtesy, shed the broad light
bark that served at lirst to roof the houses supported by
rude stakes, a protection against the inclemency of heaven
alone. Then all was peace, all friendship, all concord; as
yet the dull share of the crooked plough had not dared to
rend and pierce the lender bowels of our first mother thai.
1 'Water-wheel '—noria a machine used for irrigation in Spain, )>y
which the water is raised in pots or buckets attached to the circumfen
of a large wheel.
e Note A, p. 21.".. 3 See Note B, p. 21JJ.
CHAPTER XL 207
without compulsion yielded from every portion of her
broad fertile bosom all that could satisfy, sustain, and
delight the children that then possessed her. Then was it
that the innocent and fair young shepherdesses roamed
from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing locks, and no
more garments than were needful modestly to cover what
modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their
ornaments like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian
purple, and silk tortured in endless fashions, but the
wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy, wherewith
they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court
dames with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle
curiosity has taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the
heart clothed themselves simply and naturally l as the heart
conceived them, nor sought to commend themselves by
forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice
had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity. Justice
held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts
of favour and of interest, that now so much impair, pervert,
and beset her. Arbitrary law had not yet established
itself in the mind of the judge, for then there was no
cause to judge and no one to be judged. Maidens and
modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and
unattended, without fear of insult from lawlessness or
libertine assault, and if they were undone it was of their
own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful age of
ours not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like
that of Crete conceal and surround her; even there the
pestilence of gallantry will make its way to them through
1 See Note C, p. 213.
2o8 DON QUIXOTE,
chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed importunity,
and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defence
of these, as time advanced and wickedness increased, the
order of knights- errant was instituted, to defend maidens,
to protect widows, and to succour the orphans and the
needy. To this order I belong, brother goatherds, to whom
I return thanks for the hospitality and kindly welcome ye
offer me and my squire ; for though by natural law all
living are bound to show favour to knights-errant, yet,
seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have wel-
comed and feasted me, it is right that with all the good-
will in my power I should thank you for yours.' K
All this long harangue (which might very well have
hern spared) our knight delivered because the acorns they
gave him reminded him of the golden age; and the whim
sei/ed him to address all this unnecessary argument to
the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement
without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his
peace and ate acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second
wine-skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to keep
the wine cool.
Don Quixote was longer in talking than in finishing his
supper, at the end of wliicli one of the goatherds said,
' That your worship, senor knight-errant, may say with
more truth that we show you hospitality with ready good-
will, we will give you amusement and pleasure by making
one of our comrades sing: he will be here before long, and
a very intelligent youth and deep in love, and what
is nioiv In- can read and write and play on the rebeck l to
perfection.1
1 In the Spanish, raid, a small three-stringed lute of Moorish origin.
CHAPTER XL 209
The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes
of the rebeck reached their ears ; and shortly after, the
player came up, a very good-looking young man of about
two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him if he had
supped, and on his replying that he had, he who had
already made the offer said to him, ' In that case, Antonio,
thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of singing a little,
that the gentleman, our guest here, may see that even in
the mountains and woods there are musicians : we have
told him of thy accomplishments, and we want thee to
show them and prove that we say true ; so, as thou livest,
pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy love that thy
uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much
liked in the town.'
' With all my heart,' said the young man, and without
waiting for any more pressing he seated himself on the
trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently
began with right good grace to sing to these words.
ANTONIO'S BALLAD. '
Thou dost love me well, Olalla ;
Well I know it, even though
Love's mute tongues, thine eyes, have never
By their glances told me so.
For I know my love thou knowest,
Therefore thine to claim I dare :
Once it ceases to be secret,
Love need never feel despair.
1 See Note D, p. 213.
VOL. I.
2io DON QUIXOTE.
True it is, Olalla, sometimes
Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness,
And thy snowy bosom stone.
Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
And thy fickle fits between,
Hope is there — at least the border
Of her garment may be seen.
Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,
And to faith in thee I hold ;
Kindness cannot make it stronger,
Coldness cannot make it cold.
If it be that love is gentle,
In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
To the hope of winning thee.
If it be that in devotion
Lies a power hearts to move,
That which every day I show thee,
Helpful to my suit should prove.
Many a time thou must have noticed —
If to notice thou dost care —
How I go about on Monday
Dressed in all my Sunday wear.
Love's eyes love to look on brightness ;
Love loves what is gaily drest ;
Sunday, Monday, all I care is
Thou shouldst see me in my best.
CHAPTER XL 211
No account I make of dances,
Or of strains that pleased tliee so,
Keeping thee awake from midnight
Till the cocks began to crow ;
Or of how I roundly swore it
That there 's none so fair as thou ;
True it is, but as I said it,
By the girls I 'm hated now.
For Teresa of the hillside
At my praise of thee was sore ;
Said, ' You think you love an angel ;
It 's a monkey you adore ;
4 Caught by all her glittering trinkets,
And her borrowed braids of hair,
And a host of made-up beauties
That would Love himself ensnare.'
'T was a lie, and so I told her, ,
And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it ;
And what followed thou hast heard.
Mine is no high-flown affection,
Mine no passion par amours —
As they call it — what I offer
Is an honest love, and pure.
Cunning cords l the holy Church has,
Cords of softest silk they be ;
Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear ;
Mine will follow, thou wilt see.
1 Coyundas, the cords or thongs by which the horns of the draught oxen
are bound to the yoke.
v 2.
212 DON QUIXOTE.
Klse — and once for all I swear it
P>y the saint of most renown —
If I ever quit the mountains,
'Twill be in a friar's gown.
Hero the goatherd brought his song to an end, and
though Don Quixote entreated him to sing more, Sancho
had no mind that way, being more inclined for sleep
than for listening to songs ; so said he to his master,
* Your worship will do well to settle at once where you
mean to pass the night, for the labour these good men are
at all day does not allow them to spend the night in
singing.'
' I understand thee, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote ; * I
perceive clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand
compensation in sleep rather than in music.'
1 It's sweet to us all, blessed be God,' said Sancho.
' I do not deny it,' replied Don Quixote ; * but settle
If where thou wilt; those of my calling are more be-
comingly employed in watching than in sleeping ; still it
would be as well if thou wert to dress this ear for me
sixain, for it is giving me more pain than it need.'
Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherd*
j; the wound told him not to be uneasy, as he would
apply a remedy with which it would be soon healed ; and
gathering some leaves of rosemary, of which there was a,
great quantity there, lie chewed them and mixed them with
a little salt, and applying them to the ear he secured them
firmly with a bandage, assuring him that no other treat-
ment would be required, and so it proved.
CHAP2ER XL 213
Note A (page 206).
The eulogy of the golden age is one of the loci classici of Don Quixote
quoted in every Spanish anthology ; the reader, however, must not judge of
it by translation, which cannot give the stately roll and flow of the original
Castilian.
Note B (page 206).
Water is almost worshipped in thirsty Spain, and many a complimentary
epithet bestowed upon it that sounds odd under moister skies : agua muy
yica — < very rich water ' — is a common encomium from a Spaniard after a
hearty pull at the alcarraza.
Note C (page 207).
Clemencin and Hartzenbusch, why I know not, object to se dccoraban,
the reading of the original editions, and the latter substitutes se declaraban.
I venture to think the original reading admits of the interpretation I have
given.
Note D (page 209).
Antonio's ballad is in imitation of a species of popular poetry that
occupies nearly as large a space as the romantic and historical ballads in
the old romanceros. These gay, na'ive, simple lays of peasant life and love are
as thoroughly national and peculiar to Spain as the historical ballads them-
selves, and in every way present a striking contrast to the artificial pastoral
sonnets and canciones of Italian importation. The imitation of this kind of
poetry was a favourite pastime with the poets of the Spanish Augustan age,
and strange to say the poet who showed the lightest touch and brightest
fancy in these compositions, and caught most happily the simplicity and
freshness of the originals, was Gongora, whose name is generally associated
with poetry the exact opposite of this in every particular. Cervantes
apparently valued himself more upon his sonnets and artificial verses ; a
preference regretted, I imagine, by most of his readers. This ballad has
been hardly treated by the translators. The language and measures
used by Shelton and Jervas are about as well adapted to represent a
Spanish popular lyric as a dray-horse to draw a pony-chaise. The measure
of the original is the ordinary ballad measure, an eight-syllable trochaic,
with the assonant rhyme in the second and fourth lines. The latter pecu-
liarity I have made no attempt to imitate here, but examples of it will be
found farther on.
2i4 -JW-V QriXOTE.
CHAPTER XII.
OF WHAT A GOATHEED RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE.
JUST then another young man, one of those who fetched
their provisions from the village, came up and said, ' Do
you know what is going on in the village, comrades ? '
' How could we know it ? ' replied one of them.
' Well, then, you must know,' continued the young
man, ' this morning that famous student-shepherd called
Clirysostom died, and it is rumoured that he died of love
for that devil of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo the
Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress of
a shepherdess.'
' You mean Marcela ? ' said one.
'Her I mean,' answered tin- goatherd ; 'and the best of
it is, he has directed in his will that he is to be buried in
the fields like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock whe.ro
the Cork-tree spring is, hecause, as the story goes (and
they say lie himself said so), that was the place where he
a\v her. And he lias also left other directions which
the clergy of the village say should not and must not be
d In -ca use 11 icy savour of paganism. To all which
his great friend Ainhrnsin the student, lie who, like him,
also went dr< 0 shepherd, replies that everything
CHAPTER XII.
215
must be done without any omission according to the
directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is
all in commotion ; however, report says that, after all, what
Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be
done, and to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great
ceremony where I said. I am sure it will be something
worth seeing ; at least I will not fail to go and see it even if
I knew I should not return to the village to-morrow.'
' We will do the same,' answered the goatherds, ' and
cast lots to see who must stay to mind the goats of all.'
* Thou sayest well, Pedro,' said one, ' though there will
be no need of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for
all ; and don't suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in
me ; it is that the splinter that ran into ray foot the other
day will not let me walk.'
' For all that, we thank thee,' answered Pedro.
Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man
was and who the shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that
all he knew \vas that the dead man was a wealthy gentleman
belonging to a village in those mountains, who had been a
student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which
he returned to his village with the reputation of being
very learned and deeply read. Above all, they said, he was
learned in the science of the stars and of what went on
yonder in the heavens and the sun and the moon, for he
told us of the cris of the sun and moon to the exact
time.'
' Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of
those two luminaries,' said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not
troubling himself with trifles, went on with his story,
.\' (jr/XOTE.
saying, ' Also he foretold when the year was going to be one
of abundance or estility.'
* Sterility, you mean, friend,' said Don Quixote.
' Sterility or estility,' answered Pedro, ' it is all the
samu in the end. And I can tell you that by this his father
and friends who believed him grew very rich because they
did as he advised them, bidding them "sow barley this
year, not wheat ; this year you may sow pulse l and not
barley ; the next there will be a full oil crop, and the three
following not a drop will be got." :
' That science is called astrology,' said Don Quixote.
' I do not know what it is called,' replied Pedro, * but I
know that he knew all this and more besides. But, to
make an end, not many months had passed after he re-
turned from Salamanca, when one day he appeared dressed
as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having put off
the long gown he wore as a scholar ; and at the same time
his great friend, Ambrosio by name, who had been his com-
panion in his studies, took to the shepherd's dress with him.
I forgot to say that Chrysostom who is dead was a great
man for writing verses, so much so that he made carols for
Christmas Eve, and plays2 for Corpus Christi which the
young men of our village acted, and all said they were
excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars so
unexpectedly appearing in shepherds' dress they were lost
in wonder, and could not jjjucss what had led them to
make so extraordinary a change. About this time the
1 ' Pulse ' — aarbanzos, or chick-peas, one of the invariable constituents
of the olla or pueliero, and therefore an important crop in Spain.
2 ' Plays '—autos, religious allegorical dramas.
CHAPTER XII. 217
father of our Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a
large amount of property in chattels as well as in land, no
small number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of
money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute
owner, and indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was
a very good comrade, and kind-hearted, and a friend of
worthy folk, and had a countenance like a benediction.
Presently it came to be known that he had changed his
dress with no other object than to wander about these
wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a
while ago, with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen
in love. And I must tell you now, for it is well you
should know it, who this girl is ; perhaps, and even without
any perhaps, you will not have heard anything like it all
the days of your life, though you should live more years
than sarna.' 1
' Say Sara,' said Don Quixote, unable to endure the
goatherd's confusion of words.
' The sarna lives long enough,' answered Pedro ; ' and if,
seiior, you must go finding fault with words at every step,
we shall not make an end of it this twelvemonth.'
' Pardon me, friend,' said Don Quixote ; ' but, as there
is such a difference between sarna and Sara, I told you of
it ; however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives
longer than Sara : so continue your story, and I will not
object any more to anything.'
' I say then, my dear sir,' said the goatherd, ' that in
our village there was a farmer even richer than the father
of Chrysostom, who was named Guillermo, and upon whom
1 See Note A, p. 222.
2i8 DON QUIXOTE.
God bestowed, over and above great wealth, a daughter at
whose birth her mother died, the most respected wroman
there was in this neighbourhood ; I fancy I can see her now
with that countenance which had the sun on one side and
the moon on the other ; and moreover active, and kind to
the poor, for which I trust that at the present moment her
soul is in bliss with God in the other world. Her husband
Guillermo died of grief at the death of so good a wife,
leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the care;
of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village.
The girl grew up with such beauty that it reminded us of her
mother's, which was very great, and yet it was thought that
the daughter's would exceed it ; and so when she reached
the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld her but
blessed God that had made her so beautiful, and the greater
number were in love with her past redemption. Her uncle
kept her in great seclusion and retirement, but for all that
the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as well for it
as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited, and
importuned, to give her in marriage not only by those of
our town but of those many leagues round, and by the
persons of highest quality in them. But he, being a good
Christian man, though he desired to give her in marriage
at once, seeing her to be old enough, was unwilling to do
so without her consent, not that he bad any eye to the
gain and profit which the custody of the girl's property
brought him while he put off her marriage; and, faith,
this was said in praise of the good priest in moiv than one
set in the town. For 1 would have you know, Sir Errant,
that in these little villages everything is talked about
CHAPTER XII. 219
and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am, that
the priest must be over and above good who forces his
parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages.'
' That is the truth,' said Don Quixote ; * but go on, for
the story is very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very
good grace.'
' May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,' said
Pedro; 'that is the one to have. To proceed: you
must know that though the uncle put before his niece and
described to her the qualities of each one in particular of
the many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to
marry and make a choice according to her owrn taste, she
never gave any other answer than that she had no desire to
marry just yet, and that being so young she did not think
herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At these, to all
appearance, reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle
ceased to urge her, and waited till she was somewhat more
advanced in age and could mate herself to her own liking.
For, said he— and he said quite right — parents are not to
settle children in life against their will. But when one
least looked for it, lo and behold ! one day the demure
Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and,
in spite of her uncle and all those of the town that
strove to dissuade her, took to going a-field with the other
shepherd-lasses of the village, and tending her own flock.
And so, since she appeared in public, and her beauty came
to be seen openly, I could not well tell you how many rich
youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume
of Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her.
One of these, as has been already said, was our deceased
220 DON QUIXOTE.
friend, of whom they say tluit he did not love but adore
IHT. JUit you must not suppose, because Marcela chose a
life of such liberty and independence, and of so little or
rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even
the semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and
modesty ; on the contrary, such and so great is the vigilance
with which she watches over her honour, that of all those
that court and woo her not one has boasted, or can with
truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small
of obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid
or shun the society and conversation of the shepherds, and
treats them courteously and kindly, should any one of
them come to declare his intention to her, though it be one
as proper and holy as that of matrimony, she flings him
from her like a catapult. And with this kind of disposition
she does more harm in this country than if the plague
had got into it, for her affability and her beauty draw on
the hearts of those that associate with her to love her and
to court her, but her scorn and her frankness l bring them to
the brink of despair ; and so they know not what to say
to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, and
other names of the same sort which well describe the nature
of her character; and if you should remain here any time,
.-(•nor, you would hear these hills and valleys resounding
with tin' laments of the rejected ones who pursue her. Not
far from this there is a spot where, there are a couple of do/en
of tall beeches, and there is not one of them but has carved
and written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, and
more properly 'undeceiving,' but there is
riivalrnt \vonl in Kn^lish.
CHAPTER XII. 221
above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her
lover would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved
that of all human beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing,
there another is lamenting ; there love songs are heard, here
despairing elegies. One will pass all the hours of the night
seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without
having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the
morning bemused and bereft of sense ; and another without
relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand
in the full heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his
appeal to the compassionate heavens, and over one and the
other, over these and all, the beautiful Marcela triumphs
free and careless. And all of us that know her are wait-
ing to see what her pride will come to, and who is to be
the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so
formidable and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme.
All that I have told you being such well-established truth,
I am persuaded that what they say of the cause of Chrysos-
tom's death, as our lad told us, is the same. And so I advise
you, seiior, fail not to be present to-morrow at his burial,
which will be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many
friends, and it is not half a league from this place to where
he directed he should be buried.'
' I will make a point of it,' said Don Quixote, ' and I
thank you for the pleasure you have given me by relating
so interesting a tale.'
'Oh,' said the goatherd, ' I do not know even the half
of what has happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps
to-morrow we may fall in with some shepherd on the road
who can tell us ; and now it will be well for you to go and
DON QUIXOTE.
sleep under cover, for the night air may hurt your wound,
though with the remedy I have applied to you there is no
fear of an untoward result.'
Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd's loquacity
at the devil,1 on his part hegged his master to go into
Pedro's hut to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest of
the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of
the lovers of Marcda. Sancho Panza settled himself be-
tween Bocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover
who had been discarded, but like a man who had been
soundly kicked.
1 Sec Note B, p. 222.
Note A (page 217).
Mas vie jo qnc. sarnn — (Prov. 250) 'older than itch' — is. a very old
popular phrase. Don Quixote, either not knowing it or else not recognising
it in the form in which Pedro puts it, supposes him to mean Sarah the wife
of Abraham. Though Cervantes tries to observe dramatic propriety by
making Pedro blunder, in the end he puts into his mouth language as fine
and words as long as Don Quixote's.
Note 11 ( [xt'jc Ii22).
Perhaps the reader will think Sancho had some justification ; an epidemic
of verbosity, indeed, rages round the corpse of the unhappy Chrysostom ; but
it must be remembered verbosity was then rampant in literature and espe-
cially in Spanish literature, as all who know Guzman dc Alfa racing The
I'unrti Jnstina, Man-on <lc. Ohrci/un, and books of the same sort, will own ;
and if Cervantes did not wholly escape it, his fits of it were only occasional.
CHAPTER XIII. 223
CHAPTEE XIII.
IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHEEDESS MARCELA,
WITH OTHER INCIDENTS.
BUT hardly had day begun to show itself through the bal-
conies of the east, when five of the six goatherds came to
rouse Don Quixote and tell him that if he was still of a
mind to go and see the famous burial of Chrysostom they
would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired no-
thing better, rose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel
at once, which he did with all despatch, and with the same
they all set out forthwith. They had not gone a quarter
of a league when at the meeting of two paths they saw
coming towards them some six shepherds dressed in black
sheepskins and with their heads crowned with garlands of
cypress and bitter oleander. Each of them carried a stout
holly staff in his hand, and along with them there came two
men of quality on horseback in handsome travelling dress,
with three servants on foot accompanying them. Cour-
teous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and inquiring
one of the other which way each party was going, they
learned that all were bound for the scene of the burial, so
they went on all together.
224 DON QUIXOTE.
One of those on horseback addressing his companion
said to him, ' It seems to me, Seiior Yivaldo, that we may
reckon as well spent the delay we shall incur in seeing this
remarkable funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be judg-
ing by the strange things these shepherds have told us, of
both the dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess/
* So I think too,' replied Yivaldo, 'and I would delay
not to say a day, but four, for the sake of seeing it.'
Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of
Marcela and Chrysostom. The traveller answered that
-time morning they had met these shepherds, and
seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they had
asked them the reason of their appearing in such a guise ;
which one of them gave, describing the strange behaviour
and beauty of a shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves
of many who courted her, together with the death of that
Chrysostom to whose burial they were going. In short, he
repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote.
This conversation dropped, and another was commenced
by him who was called Yivaldo asking Don Quixote what
was the reason that led him to go armed in that fashion in
a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied,
' The pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit me to
go in any oilier fashion ; easy life, enjoyment, and repose
were invented for soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms,
were invented and made for those alone whom the world
calls knight-errants, of whom I, though unworthy, am the
least of all.'
The instant they heard this all set him down as mad,
and the better to settle the point and discover what kind of
CHAPTER XIIL 225
madness his was, Vivaldo proceeded to ask him what
knights-errant meant.
* Have not your worships,' replied Don Quixote, ' read
the annals and histories of England, in which are recorded
the famous deeds of King Arthur, whom we in our popular
Castilian invariably call King Artus, with regard to whom it
is an ancient tradition, and commonly received all over that
kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but
was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process
of time he is to return to reign and recover his kingdom
and sceptre; for which reason it cannot be proved that
from that time to this any Englishman ever killed a raven ?
Well, then, in the time of this good king that famous order
of chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table was insti-
tuted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the Lake with
the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related,
the go-between and confidante therein being the highly
honourable dame Quintailona, whence came that ballad so
well known and widely spread in our Spain—
O never surely was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lancelot hight
When he from Britain came — l
with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements
in love and war. Handed down from that time, then, this
order of chivalry went on extending and spreading itself
over many and various parts of the world; and in it,
famous and renowned for their deeds, were the might}?"
Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the
1 See Note A, p. 235.
VOL. I. Q
226 nON QUIXOTE.
fifth generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania,
and the never sufficiently praised Tirante el Jilanco, and
in our own days almost we have seen and heard and talked
with the invineihle knight Don Belianis of Greece. This,
then, sirs, is to IK- a knight-errant, and what I have spoken
of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I have already
said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and what
the aforesaid knights professed that same do I profess, and
so I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking adventures,
resolved in soul to oppose my arm and person to the most
perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of the weak and
needy.'
By these words of his the travellers were ahle to satisfy
themselves of Don Quixote's heing out of his senses and of
the form of madness that overmastered him, at which they
felt the same astonishment that all felt on first becoming
acquainted with it ; and Yivaldo, who was a person of great
shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to he-
guile the short journey which they said was required to
reach the mountain, the scene of the burial, sought to give
him an opportunity of going on with his absurdities. So
he said to him, ' It seems to me, Seiior Knight-errant, that
your worship has made choice of one of the most austere
professions in the world, and I imagine oven that of the
Carthusian monks is not so austere.'
'As austere it may perhaps In-,' replied our Don Quixote,
' but so necessary for the world I am very much inclined
to dnubt. For, if tin- truth is to lie told, the soldier who
executes what his captain order.- does no less than the
captain himself who gives the order. My meaning is, that
CHAPTER XI I L 227
churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the wel-
fare of the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into
effect what they pray for, defending it with the might of
our arms and the edge of our swords, not under shelter but
in the open air, a target for the intolerable rays of the sun
in summer and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we
God's ministers on earth and the arms by which his justice
is done therein. And as the business of war and all that
relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted without
exceeding great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that
those who make it their profession have undoubtedly more
labour than those who in tranquil peace and quiet are
engaged in praying to God to help the weak. I do not
mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts, that the
knight-errant's calling is as good as that of the monk in
his cell ; I would merely infer from what I endure myself
that it is beyond a doubt a more laborious and a more
belaboured one, a hungrier and thirstier, a wretcheder,.
raggeder, and lousier ; for there is no reason to doubt that
the knights- errant of yore endured much hardship in
the course of their lives. And if some of them by the
might of their arms did rise to be emperors, in faith it
cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat; and if
those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and
sages to help them they would have been completely baulked
in their ambition and disappointed in their hopes.'
'That is my own opinion,' replied the traveller; 'but
one thing among many others seems to me very wrong in
knights-errant, and that is that when they find themselves
about to engage in some mighty and perilous adventure in
Q 2
228 DON QUIXOTE.
which there is manifest danger of losing their lives, they
never at tin- moment of engaging in it think of com-
mending themselves to God, as is the duty of every good
Christian in like peril; instead of which they commend
themselves to their ladies with as much heartiness and
ion as if these were their gods, a thing which seems
to me to savour somewhat of heathenism.'
' Sir,' answered Don Quixote, ' that cannot be on any
account omitted, and the knight-errant would be disgraced
who acted otherwise : for it is usual and customary in
knight-errantry that the knight-errant who on engaging
in any great feat of arms has his lady before him, should
turn his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as though
with them entreating her to favour and protect him in the
hazardous venture he is about to undertake, and even
though no one hear him, he is bound to say certain words
hi 'tween his teeth, commending himself to her with all his
heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the
histories. Nor is it to be supposed from this that they are
to omit commending themselves to God, for there will be
time and opportunity for doing so while they are engaged
in their task.'
'For all that,' answered the traveller, 'I feel some
doubt still, because often I have read how words will arise
• •ii two knights-errant, and from one thing to another
it comes about that their anger kindles and they wheel
their horses round and take a good stretch of field, and
then without any more ado at the top of their speed they
come to the charge, and in mid-career they commend
themselves to their ladies ; and what commonly comes of
CHAPTER XIII. 229
the encounter is that one falls over the haunches of his
horse pierced through and through by his antagonist's
lance, and as for the other, it is only by holding on to the
mane of his horse that he can help falling to the ground ;
but I know not how the dead man had time to commend
himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this ;
it would have been better if those words which he spent in
commending himself to his lady in the midst of his career
had been devoted to his duty and obligation as a Christian.
Moreover, it is my belief that all knights-errant have not
ladies to commend themselves to, for they are not all in love/
' That is impossible,' said Don Quixote : ' I say it is
impossible that there could be a knight-errant without a
lady, because to such it is as natural and proper to be in
love as to the heavens to have stars : most certainly no
history has been seen in which there is to be found a
knight-errant without an amour, and for the simple reason
that without one he would be held no legitimate knight
but a bastard, and one who had gained entrance into the
stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the door, but
over the wall like a thief and a robber.'
* Nevertheless,' said the traveller, ' if I remember rightly,
I think I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the
valiant Amaclis of Gaul, never had any special lady to
whom he might commend himself, and yet he was not the
less esteemed, and was a very stout and famous knight.'
To which our Don Quixote made answer, ' Sir, one
solitary swallow does not make summer ; l moreover, I
know that that knight was in secret very deeply in love ;
1 Prov. 106.
2 30 DON QUIXOTE.
besides which, that way of falling in love with all that took
his t'aiu-y was a natural propensity which he could not
control. But, in short, it is very manifest that he had one
alone whom he made mistress of his will, to whom he
commended himself very frequently and very secretly, for
he prided himself on being a reticent knight.'
' Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should
be in love,' said the traveller, 'it may be fairly supposed
that your worship is so, as you are of the order ; and if you
<lo not pride yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I
entreat you as earnestly as I can, in the name of all this
company and in my own, to inform us of the name,
country, rank, and beauty of your lady, for she will esteem
herself fortunate if all the world knows that she is loved
and served by such a knight as your worship seems to be.'
At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, ' I can-
not say positively whether my swreet enemy is pleased or not
that the world should know I serve her ; I can only say in
answer to what has been so courteously asked of me, that
In T name is Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of
La Ma IK- ha, her rank must be at least that of a princess,
since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty super-
human, since all the impossible and fanciful attributes of
beauty which tin- pm-ts apply to their ladies are verified in
IKT ; for her hairs arc gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her
eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her
lips coral, her teefli pearls, hi r neck alabaster, her bosom
marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and what
modesty conceals from sight such, [ think and imagine, as
rational reflection can <»nly extol, not compare.'
CHAPTER XI I L 231
' We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,'
said Vivaldo.
To which Don Quixote replied, ' She is not of the
ancient Eoman Curtii, Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern
Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the Moncadas or Eequesenes of
Catalonia, nor yet of the Kehellas or Villanovas of Valencia ;
Palafoxes, Nuzas, Eocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones,
Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon ; Cerdas, Manriques,
Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile ; Alencastros, Pallas, or
Meneses of Portugal ; hut she is of those of El Tohoso of
La Mancha, a lineage that, though modern, may furnish a
source of gentle blood for the most illustrious families of
the ages that are to come, and this let none dispute with
me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at the foot of
the trophy of Orlando's arms, saying,
Tliese let none move
"Who clareth not his might with Roland prove.' l
1 Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo,' 2 said
the traveller, ' I will not venture to compare it with that of
El Toboso of La Mancha, though, to tell the truth, no such
surname has until now ever reached my ears.'
' What ! ' said Don Quixote, ' has that never reached
them ? '
The rest of the party went along listening with great
attention to the conversation of the pair, and even the very
goatherds and shepherds perceived how exceedingly out
of his wits our Don Quixote was. Sancho Panza alone
thought that what his master said was the truth, knowing
who he was and having known him from his birth ; and all
1 See Note B, p. 235. 2 See Note C, p. 236.
232 DON QUIXOTE.
that ho fi'It any difficulty in believing was tliat about the
fair Dulcinea del Toboso, because neither any such name
nor any such princess had ever come to his knowledge
though he lived so dose to El Toboso.1 They were going
along conversing in this way, when they saw descending a
gap between two high mountains2 some twenty shepherds,
all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with
garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of them
of yew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carrying
a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and branches,
on seeing which one of the goatherds said, 'Those who
come there are the bearers of Chrysostom's body, and the
foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered them
to bury him.' They therefore made haste to reach the
spot, and did so by the time those who came had laid the
birr upon the ground, and four of them with sharp pick-
were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock.
They greeted each other courteously, and then Don Quixote
and those who accompanied him turned to examine the
bier, and on it, covered with Mowers, they saw a dead body
in the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one thirty
and showing even in death that in life he
had been of comely features and gallant bearing. Around
him on the bier itself were laid some books, and several
papers oprii and folded ; and those who were looking on as
well as those who were opening Ihe grave and all the others
\\lio were there preserved a strange silence, until one of
who had borne the body said to another, 'Observe
carefully, Ambrosio, if this is the place Chrysostom spoke
Nnt.; D, p. 2:;i;. Note i-:, i>. -j:jr>.
CHAPTER XIII. 233
of, since you are anxious that what he directed in his will
should be so strictly complied with.'
* This is the place,' answered Ambrosio, ' for in it many
a time did my poor friend tell me the story of his hard
fortune. Here it was, he told me, that he saw for the first
time that mortal enemy of the human race, and here, too,
for the first time he declared to her his passion, as honour-
able as it was devoted, and here it was that at last Marcela
ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the
tragedy of his wretched life to a close ; here, in memory of
misfortunes so great, he desired to be laid in the bowels of
eternal oblivion.' l Then turning to Don Quixote and the
travellers he went on to say, ' That body, sirs, on which
you are looking with compassionate eyes, was the abode of
a soul on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its riches.
That is the body of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in
wit, unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle bear-
ing, a phoenix in friendship, generous without limit, grave
without arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in short,
first in all that constitutes goodness and second to none in
all that makes up misfortune. He loved deeply, he was
hated ; he adored, he was scorned ; he wooed a wild beast,
he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to
the wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was
made the prey of death in the mid-course of life, cut short
by a shepherdess whom he sought to immortalise in the
memory of mankind, as these papers which you see could
fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign them to
the fire after having consigned his body to the earth.'
1 See Note F, p. 236.
234 DON QUIXOTE.
' You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly
than their owner himself,' said Vivaldo, 'for it is neither
right nor proper to do the will of one who enjoins what is
wholly unreasonable ; it would not have been reasonable in
Augustus Caesar had lie permitted the directions left by
the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into effect.
So that, Seilor Ambrosio, while you consign your friend's
body to the earth, you should not consign his writings to
oblivion, for if he gave the order in bitterness of heart, it is
not right that you should irrationally obey it. On the
contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the cruelty
of Marcela live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages to
come to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger :
for I and all of us who have come here know already the
story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend,
and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of his
death, and the directions he gave at the close of his life ;
from which sad story may be gathered how great was the
cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty
of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those
who pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to
their eyes. Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom
and that he was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and
pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and see
with our eyes that which when heard of had so moved our
compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and
our desire to pro\v it if we might by condolence, we beg of
you, excellent Ambrosio, or at least I on my own account
entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you allow
me to carry away some of them.'
CHAPTER XIII. 235
And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he
stretched out his hand and took up some of those that were
nearest to him ; seeing which Ambrosio said, ' Out of
courtesy, seiior, I will grant your request as to those you
have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from
burning the remainder.'
Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers con-
tained, opened one of them at once, and saw that its title
was ' Lay of Despair.'
Ambrosio hearing it said, * That is the last paper the
unhappy man wrote ; and that you may see, seiior, to what
an end his misfortunes brought him, read it so that you
may be heard, for you will have time enough for that while
we are waiting for the grave to be dug.'
*I will do so very willingly,' said Vivaldo; and as all
the bystanders were equally eager they gathered round
him, and he, reading in a loud voice, fou-nd that it ran as
follows.
Note A (page 225).
The ballad (Cancionero de Romances, Antwerp, s.a., and Duran,
No. 352) is that parodied by Don Quixote in chap. ii. ' Britain ' is, of
course, Brittany ; Lancelot's father, King Ban, was a Breton. The idea of
the ' go-between ' is derived from an Italian source, but the name Quintauona
is Spanish ; it means simply an old woman, one who has a quintal, or
hundredweight, of years on her back. The transformation of Arthur into a
raven is also a Southern addition to the Arthurian legend. Cervantes
ridicules the story in Persiles and Sigismunda.
Note B (page 231).
' Nessun la mova
Che star non possa con Orlando prova.'
Orlando Furioso, xxiv. 57.
But Zerbino's inscription was simply ' Armatura d' Orlando Paladino,' and
the quotation is merely the poet's gloss upon it.
236 DON QUIXOTE.
Note C (page 231).
Cachopin, or Gaohupin, a word of Indian origin, and applied to Spaniards,
living in or returned from the Indies. Laredo is a seaport close to Santander,
where also the Cachopins were numerous, as appears from a quaint inscrip-
tion on one of the houses quoted by Bowie.
Note D (page 232).
Hartzenbusch in his anxiety for precision alters this, as he considers that
El Toboso, being about seven leagues from Argamasilla, cannot be properly
described as ' near ' it.
Note E (pageV&Z).
It is hardly necessary to observe that these high mountains in the
neighbourhood of Argamasilla are purely imaginary. The nearest that
could by any stretch of courtesy be called high would be those of the Toledo
Sierra some sixty or seventy miles distant.
Note F (page 233).
This is one of the passages selected by Biedermann as specimens of
blunders made by Cervantes, but by en, itionoria Cervantes does not mean
to ' commemorate,' but rather to ' mark ' or ' signalise.'
CHAPTER XIV. 237
CHAPTEK XIV.
WHEREIN AKE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD
SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED
FOR.1
THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM*
SINCE tliou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
1 There is here a play upon the words dcscspcrados, ' despairing,' and
no esperados, ' not looked for : ' many of the headings to the chapters
contain some verbal conceit of this kind.
2 The ' Lay of Chrysostom ' must not be judged of by a translation. The
original is not so much a piece of poetry, as a fantasia in rhyme and an
experiment in versification. Whether Italian or Spanish, the canzone or
cancion is from its style hard to translate into our matter-of-fact English,
but the difficulty here is increased by the peculiarly complex stanza and
intricate system of interlaced rhymes which Cervantes adopted, as well as
by the inimitable rhythm and harmony of the lines. One peculiarity,
borrowed, it may be, from Garcilaso, is that of a line with a medial rhyme
to the termination of the preceding line, which produces a cadence that falls
upon the ear like that of waves upon a distant shore. It might be possible
to imitate the arrangement of rhymes, but to imitate the effect or reproduce
the melody in our consonantal language would be an utter impossibility.
238 DON QUIXOTE.
Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness,
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.
The lion's roar, the fierce wolfs savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,
The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,1
The envied owl's sad note,2 the wail of woe
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,
Commingled in one sound, confusing sense,
Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.
No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis ; 3 to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,
And by a lifeless tongue in living words ;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls ;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.
1 ' And the hoarse sobbing of the widowed dove.'
Dnuniiiond of llaivthonidcn.
2 The owl was the only bird that witnessed I he Crucifixion, and it became
for that reason an object ot envy to the other birds, so much so that it can-
not appear in the daytime without bein- persecuted.
tis — i.e. the Guadalquivir.
CHAPTER XIV. 239
Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true ;
And deadly is the force of jealousy :
Long absence makes of life a dreary void ;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot ;
And death, inevitable, waits in all.
But I, by some strange miracle, live on
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain ;
Backed by suspicion as by certainty ;
Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom ;
Nor do I look for it in my despair ;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe,
All hope do I abjure for evermore.
Can there be hope where fear is ? Were it well,
When far more certain are the grounds of fear ?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears ?
Who would not give free access to distrust,
Seeing disdain unveiled, and — bitter change ! —
All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie ?
Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,
Oh, Jealousy ! put chains upon these hands,
And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.
But, woe is me ! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you.
And now I die, and since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I '11 fondly cling.
1 '11 say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most' free is that most bound
240 DON QUIXOTE.
In thraldom to tin.1 ancient tyrant Love.
I '11 say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind,
And that her coldness is hut my desert,
And that hy virtue of the pain he sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain,
I '11 give this soul and body to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.
Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey ;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee ! well I know
Thy glory gains hy my untimely end.
And now it is the time ; from Hell's abyss
Conic thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Hciiving the cruel stone, come Tityus
Yvith vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil ;
And all into this breast transfer their pains,
And lit' such tribute to despair he due)
Cluint in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,
And all the monstrous progeny of hell,
C PI AFTER XIV. 241
The doleful concert join : a lover dead
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.
Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart : my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth ;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.
\
The ' Lay of Chrysostom ' met with the approbation of
the listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him
to agree with what he had heard of Marcela's reserve and
propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of jealousy,
suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the good
name and fame of Marcela ; to which Ambrosio replied
as one who knew well his friend's most secret thoughts,
' Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell you that when
the unhappy man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela,
from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to try if
absence would act with him as it is wont ; and as everything
•%
distresses and every fear haunts the banished lover, so
imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if they were
true, tormented Chrysostom ; and thus the truth of what
report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken,
and with her envy itself should not and cannot find any
fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very
scornful.'
' That is true,' said Yivaldo ; and as he was about to read
another paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he
was stopped by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that
unexpectedly presented itself to their eyes ; for on the
summit of the rock where they were digging the grave
VOL. I. R
242 DON QUIXOTE.
there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so heautiful that
her heauty exceeded its reputation. Those who had never
till then beheld her gazed upon her in wonder and silence,
and those who were accustomed to see her were not less
amazed than those who had never seen her before. But the
instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest
indignation, ' Art thou come, cruel basilisk of these moun-
tains, to see if haply in thy presence blood will flow from
the wounds of this wretched being thy cruelty has robbed of
life ; or is it to exult over the cruel work of thy humours
that thou art come ; or like another pitiless Nero to look
down from that height upon the ruin of thy Rome in ashes ;
or in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as
the ungrateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquin's ? l
Tell us quickly for what thou art come, or what it is thou
wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostoni
never failed to obey thee in life, I will make all these who
call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be dead.'
' I come not, Ambrosio, for any of the purposes thou
hast named,' replied Marcela, ' but to defend myself and to
prove how unreasonable are all those who blame me for
their sorrow and for Chrysostom's death ; and therefore I
ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for
it will not take much time or many words to bring the truth
home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you
say, beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves
my beauty leads you to love me ; and for the love you show
1 It was the corpse of Servius Tullius that was so treated by his daughter
Tnllia, the wife of Tarquin.but Cervantes followed an old ballad in the Flor
de Enamorados, which has, Tullia liija de Tarquino.
CHAPTER XIV. 243
me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you.
By that natural understanding which God has given me I
know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot
see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved for
its beauty is bound to love that which loves it ; besides, it
may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may
be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to
say, " I love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must
love me though I be ugly." But supposing the beauty
equal on both sides, it does not follow that the inclinations
must be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that
excites love, some but pleasing the eye without winning the
affection ; and if every sort of beauty excited love and won
the heart,\the will would wander vaguely to and fro unable
to make choice of any ; for as there is an infinity of
beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclinations,
and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must
be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe
it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force,
for no other reason but that you say you love me ? Nay —
tell me — had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me
beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not
loving me ? Moreover, you must remember that the beauty
I possess was no choice of mine, for, be it what it may,
Heaven of its bounty gave it me without my asking or
choosing it ; and as the viper, though it kills with it, does
not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, a/s it is a
gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach for being
beautiful ; for beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a
distance or a sharp sword ; the one does not burn, the other
R 2
244 VON QUIXOTE.
does not cut, those who do not come too near. Honour and
virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the
body, though it bo so, has no right to pass for beautiful;
but if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a
grace and charm to mind and body, why should she who is
loved for her beauty part with it to gratify one who for his
pleasure alone strives with all his might and energy to rob
her of it? I was born free, and that I might livo in
freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the troos of
the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks
are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known
my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword
laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting
thorn see me, I have by words undeceived, and if their
longings live on hope— and I have given none to Chrysostom
or to any other — it cannot justly be said that the death of
any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than
my cruelty that killed him ; and if it bo made a charge
against me that his wishes were honourable, and that
therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer that when
on this very spot where now his grave is made1 ho declared
to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to
live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should
enjoy the fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my
beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose to persist
against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it
that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation ? If T
had encouraged him, 1 should bo false ;j if I had gratified
him, T should have m-tod against my own better resolution
and purpose, lie was persistent in spite of warning, he
CHAPTER XIV. 245
despaired without being hated. Bethink you now if it be
reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge.
Let him who lias been deceived complain, let him give way
to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him
natter himself whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I
shall receive ; but let not him call me cruel or homicide to
whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no decep-
tion, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been
so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and
to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general
declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own account,
and let it be understood from this time forth that if anyone
dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she
who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and
candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who
calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something
noxious and evil ; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold
his service ; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaint-
ance ; who calls me cruel, pursue me not ; for this wild
beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being
has no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them.
If Chrysostom's impatience and violent passion killed him,
why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be
blamed ? If I preserve my purity in the society of the
trees, why should he who would have me preserve it among
men, seek to rob me of it ? I have, as you know, wealth of
my own, and I covet not that of others ; my taste is for
freedom, and I have no relish for constraint ; I neither love
nor hate anyone ; I do not deceive this one or court that,
or trifle with one or play with another. The modest
246 DON QUIXOTE.
converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the
care of my goats are my recreations; my desires are
l)ounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander
hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps-
by which the soul travels to its primeval abode.'
With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she
turned and passed into the thickest part of a wood that
was hard by, leaving all who were there lost in admiration
as much of her good sense as of her beauty. Some — those
wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her bright
eyes — made as though they would follow her, heedless of the
frank declaration they had heard ; seeing which, and deem-
ing this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in
aid of distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on
the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a loud and distinct
voice :
' Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to
follow the beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my
fierce indignation. She has shown by clear and satisfactory
arguments that little or no fault is to be found with her for
the death of Chrysostom, and also how far she is from
yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which
reason, instead of being followed ;nid persecuted, she should
in justice be honoured and esteemed by all the good people
of the world, for she shows that she is the only woman in
it that holds to such a virtuous resolution.'
"Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote,
or because Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their
good friend, none of the shepherds moved or stirred from
the spot until, having finished the grave and burned Chry-
CHAPTER XIV. 247
sostom's papers, they laid his body in it, not without many
tears from those who stood by. They closed the grave
with a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Antonio
said he meant to have prepared, with an epitaph which was.
to be to this effect :
Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies ;
In life he was a shepherd swain,
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,
Was she that drove him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tjTanny.
They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers
and branches, and all expressing their condolence with his
friend Ambrosio, took their leave. Vivaldo and his com-
panion did the same ; and Don Quixote bade farewell to
his hosts and to the travellers, who pressed him to come
with them to Seville, as being such a convenient place for
finding adventures, for they presented themselves in every
street and round every corner oftener than anywhere else.
Don Quixote thanked them for their advice and for the
disposition they showed to do him a favour, and said that
for the present he would not, and must not go to Seville
until he had cleared all these mountains of highwaymen
and robbers, of whom report said they were full. Seeing
his good intention, the travellers were unwilling to press
him further, and once more bidding him farewell, they left
him and pursued their journey, in the course of which they
did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostom
248 DON QUIXOTE.
as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He, on his part,
resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and
make offer to her of all the service he could render her ;
but things did not fall out with him as he expected, accord-
ing to what is related in the course of this veracious history,
of which the Second Part ends here.
CHAPTER XV 249
CHAPTEE XV.
IN WHICH IS BELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT
DON QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH
CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS.
THE sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates that as soon as Don
Quixote took leave of his hosts and all who had been pre-
sent at the burial of Chrysostom, he and his squire passed
into the same wood which they had seen the shepherdess
Marcela enter, and after having wandered for more than
two hours in all directions in search of her without finding
her, they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender
grass, beside which ran a pleasant cool stream that invited
and compelled them to pass there the hours of the noontide
heat, which by this time was beginning to come on oppres-
sively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and turning
Eocinante and the ass loose to feed on the grass that was
there in abundance, they ransacked the alforjas, and with-
out any ceremony very peacefully and sociably master and
man made their repast on what they found in them. San-
cho had not thought it worth while to hobble Eocinante,
feeling sure, from what he knew of his staidness and free-
dom from incontinence, that all the mares in the Cordova
pastures would not lead him into an impropriety. Chance,
however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordained
25o DON QUIXOTE.
it that feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician
ponies belonging to certain Yanguesan ] carriers, whose way
it is to take their midday rest with their teams in places
and spots where grass and water abound ; and that where
Don Quixote chanced to be suited the Yanguesans' purpose
very well. It so happened, then, that Kocinante took a
fancy to disport himself with their ladyships the ponies,
and abandoning his usual gait and demeanour as he
scented them, he, without asking leave of his master, got
up a briskish little trot and hastened to make known his
wishes to them ; they, however, it seemed, preferred their
pasture to him, and received him with their heels and
teeth to such effect that they soon broke his girths and
left him naked without a saddle to cover him ; but what
must have been worse to him was that the carriers, seeing
the violence he was offering to their mares, came running
up armed with stakes,2 and so belaboured him that they
brought him sorely battered to the ground.
By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had wit-
nessed the drubbing of Eocinante, came up panting, and said
Don Quixote to Sancho, ' So far as I can see, friend Sancho,
these are not knights but base folk of low birth: I mention
it because thou canst lawfully aid me in taking due ven-
geance for the insult offered to Eocinante before our eyes.'
' "What tlic devil vengeance can \ve take,' answered
Sancho, ' if they are more than twenty, and we no more
than two, or, indeed, perhaps not more than one and a
half?'
1 I.e. of Y. listrict in the north of Old Castile, near Logrofio.
'I 1 iy the carriers in loading their beasts to prop up the pack on one
side while they are adjusting the balance on the other.
CHAPTER XV. 251
' I count for a hundred,' replied Don Quixote, and with-
out more words he drew his sword and attacked the
Yanguesans, and incited and impelled by the example of
his master, Sancho did the same ; and to begin with, Don
Quixote delivered a slash at one of them that laid open the
leather jerkin he wore, together with a great portion of his
shoulder. The Yanguesans, seeing themselves assaulted
by only two men while they were so many, betook them-
selves to their stakes, and driving the two into the middle
they began to lay on with great zeal and energy ; in fact,
at the second blow they brought Sancho to the ground, and
Don Quixote fared the same way, all his skill and high
mettle availing him nothing, and fate willed it that he
should fall at the feet of Eocinante, who had not yet risen ;
whereby it may be seen how7 furiously stakes can pound in
angry boorish hands.1 Then, seeing the mischief they had
done, the Yanguesans with all the haste they could loaded
their team and pursued their journey, leaving the two
adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.
Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself
close to his master he called to him in a weak and doleful
voice, ' Seiior Don Quixote, ah, Senor Don Quixote ! '
' What wouldst thou, brother Sancho ? ' answered Don
Quixote in the same feeble suffering tone as Sancho.
' I would like, if it were possible,' answered Sancho
Panza, ' your worship to give me a couple of sups of that
potion of the fiery Blas,2( if it be that you have any to
1 An allusion probably to the story of Diego Perez de Vargas, ' the
pounder.' (F. chapter viii.)
2 Sancho's blunder in the name of Fierabras is droller in the original,,
as he says, delfeo Bias, ' of the ugly Bias.'
25 2 DON QUIXOTE.
hand there ; perhaps it will serve for broken bones as well
as for wounds.'
' If I only had it here, wretch that I ani, what more
should we want ? ' said Don Quixote ; ' but I swear to thee,
Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, ere two days
are over, unless fortune orders otherwise, I mean to have
it in my possession, or my hand will have lost its cunning.'
'But in how many does your worship think we shall
have the use of our feet ? ' answered Sancho Panza.
' For myself I must say I cannot guess how many,' said
the battered knight Don Quixote ; ' but I take all the blame
upon myself, for I had no business to put hand to sword
against men who were not dubbed knights like myself, and
so I believe that in punishment for having transgressed
the laws of chivalry the God of battles has permitted this
chastisement to be administered to me ; for which reason,
brother Sancho, it is well thou shouldst receive a hint on the
matter which I am now about to mention to thee, for it is of
much importance to the welfare of both of us. It is that
when thou shalt see rabble of this sort offering us insult
thou art not to wait till I draw sword against them, for I
shall not do so at all; but do thou draw sword and chastise
them to thy heart's content, and if any knights come to
their aid and defence I will take care to defend thee and
assail them with all my might; and thou hast already seen
by a thousand signs and proofs what the might of this strong
arm of mine is equal to' — so uplifted had the poor gentle-
man become through the victory over the stout J5iscayan.
But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master's
admonition as to let it pass without saying in reply, ' Serior,
CHAPTER XV. 253
I am a man of peace, meek and quiet, and I can put up
with any affront because I have a wife and children to
support and bring up ; so let it be likewise a hint to your
worship, as it. cannot be a mandate, that on no account
will I draw sword either against clown or against knight,
and that here before God I forgive all the insults that have
been offered me or may be offered me, whether they have
been, are, or shall be offered me by high or low, rich or
poor, noble or commoner, not excepting any rank or con-
dition whatsoever.'
To all which his master said in reply, ' I wish I had
breath enough to speak somewhat easily, and that the pain
I feel on this side would abate so as to let me explain to
thee, Panza, the mistake thou makest. Come now7, sinner,
suppose the wind of fortune, hitherto so adverse, should
turn in our favour, filling the sails of our desires so that
safely and without impediment we put into port in some one
of those islands I have promised thee, how would it be with
thee if on winning it I made thee lord of it ? Why, thou wilt
make it well-nigh impossible through not being a knight nor
having any desire to be one, nor possessing the courage nor
the will to avenge insults or defend thy lordship ; for thou
must know that in newly conquered kingdoms and provinces
the minds of the inhabitants are never so quiet nor so well
disposed to the new lord that there is no fear of their
making some move to change matters once more, and try,
as they say, what chance may do for them ; so it is essential
that the new possessor should have good sense to enable
him to govern, and valour to attack and defend himself,
wrhatever may befall him.'
254 DON QUIXOTE.
1 In what has now befallen us,' answered Sanelio, 'I'd
have been well pleased to have that good sense and that
valour your worship speaks of, but I swear on the faith of
a poor man I am more fit for plasters than for arguments.
See if your worship can get up, and let us help Eocinante,
though he does not deserve it, for he was the main cause of
all this thrashing. I never thought it of Eocinante, for I
took him to be a virtuous person and as quiet as myself.
After all, they say right that it takes a long time to come
to know people, and that there is nothing sure in this life.
Who would have said that, after such mighty slashes as
your worship gave that unlucky knight-errant, there was
coming, travelling post and at the very heels of them, such
a great storm of sticks as has fallen upon our shoulders '? '
' And yet thine, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, * ought
to be used to such squalls ; but mine, reared in soft cloth
and fine linen, it is plain they must feel more keenly the
pain of this mishap, and if it were not that I imagine —
why do I say imagine ?— know of a certainty that all these
annoyances are very necessary accompaniments of the
calling of arms, I would lay me down here to die of pure
vexation.'
To this the squire replied, ' Sen or, as these mishaps are
what one reaps of chivalry, tell me if they happen very
often, or if they have their own fixed times for coming to
pass ; because it seems to me that after two harvests we
shall be no good for the third, unless God in his infinite
mercy helps us.'
' Know, friend Sancho,' answered Don Quixote, ' that
the life of knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers
CHAPTER XV.
255
and reverses, and neither more nor less is it within im-
mediate possibility for knights-errant to become kings and
emperors, as experience has shown in the case of many
different knights with whose histories I am thorougtly
acquainted ; and I could tell thee now, if the pain would
let me, of some who simply by might of arm have risen
to the high stations I have mentioned; and those same,
both before and after, experienced divers misfortunes and
miseries ; for the valiant Amadis of Gaul found himself in
the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the magician,
who, it is positively asserted, holding him captive, gave him
more than two hundred lashes with the reins of his horse
while tied to one of the pillars of a court ; l and moreover
there is a certain recondite author of no small authority
who says that the Knight of Pho3bus, being caught in a
certain pitfall which opened under his feet in a certain
castle, on falling found himself bound hand and foot in a
deep pit underground, where they administered to him
one of those things they call clysters, of sand and snow-
water, that well-nigh finished him ; and if he had not
been succoured in that sore extremity by a sage, a great
friend of his, it would have gone very hard with the poor
knight ; so I may well suffer in company with such worthy
folk, for greater were the indignities which they had to
suffer than those which we suffer. For I would have thee
know, Sancho, that wounds caused by any instruments
which happen by chance to be in hand inflict no indignity,
and this is laid down in the law of the duel in express
words : if, for instance, the cobbler strikes another with
1 There is no account of any such flogging in the Amadis.
256 nay QUIXOTE.
the last which lu- lias in liis hand, though it he in fact M
piece of wood, it cannot he said for that reason that lie
whom he struck with it has been cudgelled. I say this lest
thou shouldst imagine that because we have been drubbed
in this affray we have therefore suffered any indignity ;
for the arms those men carried, with which they pounded
us, were nothing more than their stakes, and not one
of them, so far as I remember, carried rapier, sword, or
dagger.'
'They gave me no time to see that much,' answered
Sancho, ' for hardly had I laid hand on my tizona l when
they signed the cross on my shoulders with their sticks in
such style that they took the sight out of my eyes and the
strength out of my feet, stretching me where I now lie, and
where thinking of whether all those stake- strokes were an
indignity or not gives me no uneasiness, which the pain of
the blows does, for they will remain as deeply impressed on
my memory as on my shoulders.'
1 For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza,' said Don
Quixote, ' that there is no recollection which time does not
put an end to, and no pain which death does not remove.'
'And what greater misfortune can there be,' replied
Panza, ' than the one that waits for time to put an end to it
and death to remove it ? If our mishap were one of those,'
that are cured with a couple of plasters, it would not be so
bad; but I am beginning to think that all the plasters in
a hospital almost won't be enough to put us right.'
1 Tizon was the name of one of the Cid's two famous swords ; the word
was altered into Tizona to suit the trochaic rhythm of the ballads. It means
simply ' brand.'
CHAPTER XV. 257
' No more of that : pluck strength out of weakness,
Sancho, as I mean to do,' returned Don Quixote, ' and "
us see how Eocinante is, for it seems to me that
least share of this mishap has fallen to the IP*
beast.'
'There is nothing wonderful in 1V^t vepli*
1 since he is a knight-errant too ; what 1 wonder at is mat
my beast should have come off scot-free where we come
out scotched.' l
'Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in
order to bring relief to it,' said Don Quixote ; ' I say so
because this little beast may now supply the want of
Eocinante, carrying me hence to some castle where I may
be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold
it any dishonour to be so mounted, for I remember having
read how the good old Silenus, the tutor and instructor of
the gay god of laughter, when he entered the city of the
hundred gates,2 went very contentedly mounted on a hand-
some ass.'
' It may be true that he went mounted as your wor-
ship says,' answered Sancho, 'but there is a great differ-
ence between going mounted and going slung like a sack of
manure.
' 3
•j To which Don Quixote replied, ' Wounds received in
battle confer honour instead of taking it away ; and so,,
1 See Note A, p. 259.
2 Thebes ; but that of the hundred gates was the Egyptian, not the-
Boeotian Thebes, which is the one here referred to.
3 The grave drollery of Sancho's matter-of-fact reply is lost in transla-
tion, inasmuch as in Spanish 'to go mounted' — ir caballero — implies also-
4 to go like a gentleman.'
VOL. I. S
258 DON QUIXOTE.
friend Pan/a, say no more, but, as I told thee before, get
up as well as thou canst and put me on top of thy beast in
whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere
night come on and surprise us in these wilds.'
'And yet I have heard your worship say,' observed
Panza, 'that it is very meet for knights-errant to sleep in
wastes and deserts the best part of the year, and that they
•esteem it very good fortune.'
' That is,' said Don Quixote, ' when they cannot help it,
or when they are in love ; and so true is this that there
have been knights who have remained two years on rocks,
in sunshine and shade and all the inclemencies of heaven,
without their ladies knowing anything of it ; and one of
these was Amadis when, under the name of Beltenebros, he
took up his abode on the Peiia Pobre for — I know not if it
was eight years or eight months, for I am not very sure of
the reckoning ; at any rate he stayed there doing penance
for I know not what pique the Princess Oriana had against
him ; but no more of this now, Sancho, and make haste
before some other mishap like Piocinante's befalls the ass.'
'The very devil would be in it in that case,' said
Sancho ; and letting off thirty ' ohs,' and sixty sighs, and
a hundred and twenty maledictions and execrations on
whomsoever it was that had brought him there, he raised
himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow without
power to bring himself upright, but with all his pains In-
saddled his ass, who too had gone astray somewhat, yield-
ing to the excessive licence of the day; he next raised up
Rocinante, and as for him, had lie possessed a tongue to
complain with, most assuredly neither Sancho nor his master
CHAPTER XV. 259
-would have been behind him.1 To be brief, Sancho fixed
, Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinahte with a leading
rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded more
or less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high
road might be ; and, as chance was conducting their affairs
for them from good to better, he had not gone a short
league when the road came in sight, and on it he perceived
an inn, which to his annoyance and to the delight of Don
Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it
was an inn, and his master that it was not one, but a
castle, and the dispute lasted so long that before the point
was settled they had time to reach it, and into it Sancho
entered with all his team ~ without any further controversy.
1 This is another example of the loose construction and confusion into
which Cervantes fell at times. Of course he meant to say that Rocinante
would not have been behind them in complaining.
2 See Note B, p. 25<).
Note A (page 257).
In this characteristic comment of Sancho's, Hartzenbusch corrects
caballcro andante — ' knight-errant ' — into caballerla andante — ' horse-
errant ' (entirely overlooking the tambien — 'too'), and with profound
gravity reminds us that Rocinante is a horse. Mr. J. P. Collier's ' old cor-
rector ' in the 1632 folio Shakespeare could hardly do worse than this.
The play upon the words sin costas and sin costillas cannot be rendered
literally; sin costillas--' without ribs' — means also in popular parlance
bankrupt, ' cleaned out.'
Note B (page 259).
The entrance of a Spanish venta or posada is almost always a wide gate-
way through which both man and beast enter to their respective quarters.
The high road — camino real -—was the Madrid and Seville road, and on it,
or some little distance one side or the other of it, all the adventures of the
First Part are supposed to take place. From its distance from the Sierra
Morena this venta would be somewhere near Valdepenas, in the great
wine-growing district. The scene of the release of the galley slaves in
chapter xxii. would be near Almuradiel. (V. map.)
s 2
260 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER XVI.
OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IX
THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE.
THE innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the assr
asked Sancho what was amiss with him. Sancho answered
that it wras nothing, only that he had fallen down from a
rock and had his ribs a little bruised. The innkeeper had a
wife whose disposition was not such as those of her calling
commonly have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and
felt for the sufferings of her neighbours, so she at once set
about tending Don Quixote, and made her young daughter,
a very comely girl, help her in taking care of her guest.
There was besides in the inn, as servant, an Asturian
lass with a broad face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one
eye and not very sound in the other. The elegance of her
shape, to be sure, made up for all her defects; she did not
measure seven palms from head to foot, and her shoulders,
which over-weighted her somewhat, made her contemplate
the ground more than she liked. This graceful lass, then,
helped the young girl, and the two made up a very bad bed f< >r
Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs of having
formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which
there was also quartered a carrier wl lose lied was placed a
little beyond our Don Quixote's, and, though only made of
CHAPTER XVI. 261
the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much the
advantage of it, as Don Quixote's consisted simply of four
rough boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that
for thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets
which, were they not seen through the rents to be wool,
would to the touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two
sheets made of buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads
of which anyone that chose might have counted without
missing one in the reckoning.
On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and
the hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters
from top to toe, while Maritornes — for that was the name of
the Asturian — held the light for them, and while plastering
him, the hostess, observing how full of wheals Don Quixote
was in some places, remarked that this had more the look
of blows than of a fall.
It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had
many points and projections, and that each of them had
left its mark. ' Pray, seiiora,' he added, ' manage to save
some tow, as there will be no want of some one to use it, for
my loins too are rather sore.'
' Then you must have fallen too,' said the hostess.
' I did not fall,' said Sancho Panza, ' but from the shock
I got at seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel
as if I had had a thousand thwacks.'
' That may well be,' said the young girl, ' for it has
many a time happened to me to dream that I was falling
down from a tower and never coming to the ground, and
when I awoke from the dream to find myself as weak and
.shaken as if I had really fallen.'
262 DON QUIXOTE,
' There is the point, seiiora,' replied Sancho Panza,
' that I without dreaming at all, hut being more awake than
1 am now, find myself with scarcely less wheals than my
master, Don Quixote.'
'How is the gentleman called?' asked Maritornes the
Asturian.
'Don Quixote of La Mancha,' answered Sancho Panza,
' and he is a knight-adventurer, and one of the best and
stoutest that have been seen in the world this long time
past.'
' What is a knight-adventurer ? ' said the lass.
' Are you so new in the world as not to know ? *
answered Sancho Panza. 'Well, then, you must know,
sister, that a knight-adventurer is a thing that in two words
is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day the most
miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will
have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire.'
' Then how is it,' said the hostess, ' that, belonging to
so good a master as this, you have not, to judge by appear-
ances, even so much as a county ? '
' It is too soon yet,' answered Sancho, ' for we have only
been a month going in quest of adventures, and so far we
have met with nothing that can be called one, for it will
happen that when one thing is looked for another thing is
found ; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of this
wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would
not change my hopes for tlie best title in Spain.'
To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very
attentively, and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and
taking the hostess by the hand he said to her, ' Helieve me.
CHAPTER XVI. 263
4
fair lady, you may call yourself fortunate in having in this
castle of yours sheltered my person, which is such that if
I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is commonly
said, that self-praise debaseth ; l but my squire will inform
you who I am. I only tell you that I. shall preserve for
ever inscribed on my memory the service you have rendered
me in order to tender you my gratitude while life shall last
me ; and would to Heaven love held me not so enthralled
and subject to its laws and to the eyes of that fair ingrate
whom I name between my teeth, but that those of this
lovely damsel might be the masters of my liberty.'
The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes
listened in bewilderment to the words of the knight -err ant,
for they understood about as much of them as if he had
been talking Greek, though they could perceive they were
all meant for expressions of good-will and blandishments ;
and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they
stared at him and wondered to themselves, for he seemed
to them a man of a different sort from those they were used
to, and thanking him in pot-house phrase for his civility
they left him, while the Asturian gave her attention to
Sancho, who needed it no less than his master.
The carrier had made an arrangement with her for
recreation that night, and she had given him her word that
when the guests were quiet and the family asleep she would
come in search of him and meet his wishes unreservedly.
And it is said of this good lass that she never made
promises of the kind without fulfilling them, even though
she made them in a forest and without any witness
1 Prov. 6.
264 DON QUIXOTE.
present, for she plumed herself greatly on being a lady
and held it no disgrace to be in such an employment as
servant in an inn, because, she said, misfortunes and ill-
luck had brought her to that position. The hard, narrow,
wretched, rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the
middle of this star-lit stable,1 and close beside it Sancho
made his, which merely consisted of a rush mat and a
blanket that looked as if it was of threadbare canvas
rather than of wool. Next to these two beds was that
of the carrier, made up, as has been said, of the pack-
saddles and all the trappings of the two best mules he had,
though there were twelve of them, sleek, plump, and in
prime condition, for he was one of the rich carriers of
Arevalo, according to the author of this history, who par-
ticularly mentions this carrier because he knew him very
well, and they even say was in some degree a relation of
his ; 2 besides which Cid Hamet Benengeli was a historian
of great research and accuracy in all things, as is very evi-
dent since he would not pass over in silence those that have
been already mentioned, however trifling and insignificant
they might be, an example that might be followed by those
grave historians who relate transactions so curtly and
briefly that we hardly get a taste of them, all the substance
of the work being left in the ink-bottle from carelessness,
perverseness, or ignorance. A thousand blessings on the
author of 'Tablantr <le Uicamonte' and that of the other
serins 1o have ]>u//,led most of the translators. Shelton
omits it, and Jervas renders it ' illustrious.'
2 The carrier In llioei points out, waB extensively followed by
the Moriscoes, as it afforded them an excuse for absenting themselves from
CHAPTER XVI. 265
book in which the deeds of the Conde Tomillas are re-
counted ; with what minuteness they describe everything ! l
To proceed, then : after having paid a visit to his team
and given them their second feed, the carrier stretched him-
self on his pack-saddles and lay waiting for his conscientious
Maritornes. Sancho was by this time plastered and had
lain down, and though he strove to sleep the pain of his
ribs would not let him, while Don Quixote with the pain of
his had his eyes as wide open as a hare's. The inn was all in
silence, and in the whole of it there was no light except that
given by a lantern that hung burning in the middle of the
gateway. This strange stillness, and the thoughts, always
present to our knight's mind, of the incidents described at
every turn in the books that were the cause of his mis-
fortune, conjured up to his imagination as extraordinary a
delusion as can well be conceived, which was that he fancied
himself to have reached a famous castle (for, as has been
said, all the inns he lodged in were castles to his eyes), and
that the daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of the lord
of the castle, and that she, won by his high-bred bearing,
had fallen in love with him, and had promised to come to
his bed for a while that night without the knowledge of her
parents ; and holding all this fantasy that he had con-
structed as solid fact, he began to feel uneasy and to consider
the perilous risk which his virtue was about to encounter,
and he resolved in his heart to commit no treason to his
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though the queen Guinevere
1 Cr6nica de Tablante de Ricmaontc, a romance of uncertain date and
• origin, based upon the Arthurian legend. The Conde Tomillas was a per-
sonage at the Court of Charlemagne mentioned in the Montesinos ballads,
but no book of his deeds is known.
266 DON QUIXOTE.
herself and the dame Quintaiiona should present them-
selves before him.
While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the
time and the hour — an unlucky one for him — arrived for
the Asturian to come, who in her smock, with hare feet
and her hair gathered into a fustian coif, with noiseless
and cautious steps entered the chamber where the three
were quartered, in quest of the carrier ; hut scarcely had
she gained the door when Don Quixote perceived her, and
sitting up in his bed in spite of his plasters and the pain of
his ribs, he stretched out his arms to receive his beauteous
damsel. The Asturian, who went all doubled up and in
silence with her hands before her feeling for her lover,
encountered the arms of Don Quixote, wrho grasped her
tightly by the wrist, and drawing her towards him, while
she dared not utter a word, made her sit down on the bed.
He then felt her smock, and although it was of sackcloth
it appeared to him to be of the finest and softest silk : on
her wrists she wore some glass beads, but to him they had
the sheen of precious Orient pearls : her hair, which in
some measure resembled a horse's mane, he rated as
threads of the brightest gold of Araby, whose refulgence
dimmed the sun himself: her breath, which no doubt
smelt of yesterday's stale salad, seemed to him to diffuse a
sweet aromatic fragrance from her mouth; and, in short,
he drew her portrait in his imagination with the same
features and in the same style as that which he had seen
in his books of the oilier princess who, smitten by love,
came with all the adornments thai are here set down, to
see the sorely wounded knight ; and so great was the poor
CHAPTER XVI. 267
gentleman's blindness that neither touch, nor smell, nor
anything else about the good lass that would have made
any but a carrier vomit, were enough to undeceive him ;
on the contrary, he was persuaded he had the goddess of
beauty in his arms, and holding her firmly in his grasp he
went on to say in a low, tender voice, * Would that I found
myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position to repay such
a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great
beauty, have granted me ; but fortune, which is never
weary of persecuting the good, has chosen to place me
upon this bed, where I lie so bruised and broken that
though my inclination would gladly comply with yours it
is impossible ; besides, to this impossibility another yet
greater is to be added, which is the faith that I have
pledged to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole lady of
my most secret thoughts ; and were it not that this stood
in the way I should not be so insensible a knight as to
miss the happy opportunity which your great goodness has
offered me.'
Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself
held so fast by Don Quixote, and not understanding or
heeding the words he addressed to her, she strove without
speaking to free herself. The worthy carrier, whose
unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his doxy
the moment she entered the door, and was listening
attentively to all Don Quixote said; and jealous that
the Asturian should have broken her word with him
for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote's bed and
stood still to see what would come of this talk which
he could not understand; but when he perceived the
268 nON QUIXOTE.
weiu-h struggling to get free and Don Quixote striving to
hold her, not relishing the joke he raised his arm and
delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the
amorous knight that he bathed all his mouth in blood, and
not content with this he mounted on his ribs and with his
feet tramped all over them at a pace rather smarter than
a trot. The bed, which was somewhat crazy and not very
firm on its feet, unable to bear the additional weight of the
carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of
this the innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it
must be some brawl of Maritornes', because after calling
loudly to her he got no answer. With this suspicion he
got up, and lighting a lamp hastened to the quarter where
he had heard the disturbance. The wench, seeing that her
master wras coming and knowing that his temper was
terrible, frightened and panic-stricken made for the bed of
Sancho Panza, who still slept,1 and crouching upon it made
a ball of herself.
The innkeeper came in exclaiming, * Where art thou,
strumpet ? Of course this is some of thy work.' At this
Sancho awoke, and feeling this mass almost on top of him
fancied he had the nightmare and began to distribute
fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share fell upon
Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain and flinging modesty
aside, paid back so many in return to Sancho that she
\\oke him up in spite of himself. He then, finding himself
so handled, by whom he knew not, raising himself up a,s
well as he could, grappled with Maritornes, and lie and she
between them began the bitterest and drollest scrimmage
1 We were told just before that Sancho was unable
CHAPTER XVI. 269
iii the world. The carrier, however, perceiving by the
light of the innkeeper's candle how it fared with his lady-
love, quitting Don Quixote, ran to bring her the help she
needed ; and the innkeeper did the same but with a different
intention, for his was to chastise the lass, as he believed that
beyond a doubt she alone was the cause of all the harmony.
And so, as the saying is, cat to rat, rat to rope, rope to stick,
the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the lass, she him, and
the innkeeper her, and all worked away so briskly that they
did not give themselves a moment's rest ; and the best of
it was that the innkeeper's lamp went out, and as they
were left in the dark they all laid on one upon the other
in a mass so unmercifully that there was not a sound spot
left where a hand could light.
It so happened that there was lodging that night in the
inn an officer of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood
of Toledo, who, also hearing the extraordinary noise of the
conflict, seized his staff and the tin case with his warrants,
and made his way in the dark into the room crying, ' Hold !
in the name of this Jurisdiction ! Hold ! in the name of the
Holy Brotherhood ! ' The first that he came upon was the
pummelled Don Quixote, who lay stretched senseless on his
back upon his broken-down bed, and, his hand falling on the
beard as he felt about, he continued to cry, ' Help for the
Jurisdiction ! ' but perceiving that he whom he had laid
hold of did not move or stir, he concluded that he was dead
and that those in the room were his murderers, and with
this suspicion he raised his voice still higher, calling out,
* Shut the inn gate ; see that no one goes out ; they have
killed a man here ! ' This cry startled them all, and each
27o DO.\ QUIXOTE.
dropped the contest at the point at which the voice read KM!
him. The innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to
his pack-saddles, the lass to her crib ; the unlucky Don
Quixote and Sancho alone were unable to move from where
they were. The officer on this let go Don Quixote's beard,
and wont out to look for a light to search for and appre-
hend the culprits ; but not finding one, as the innkeeper had
purposely extinguished the lantern on retreating to his
room, he was compelled to have recourse to the hearth,
where after much time and trouble he lit another lamp.
CHAPTER XVII. 27r
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMEEABLE TROUBLES WHICH
THE BEAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIEE SANCHO
PANZA ENDUEED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MISFORTUNE
HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE.
BY this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon ;
and in the same tone of voice in which he had called to his
squire the day before when he lay stretched ' in the vale of
the stakes,'1 he began calling to him now, ' Sancho, my
friend, art thou asleep ? sleepest thou, friend Sancho ? '
' How can I sleep, curses on it ! ' returned Sancho dis-
contentedly and bitterly, ' when it is plain that all the
devils have been at me this night ? '
' Thou mayest well believe that,' answered Don Quixote,
•' because, either I know little, or this castle is enchanted,
for thou must know — but this that I am now about to
tell thee thou must swear to keep secret until after my
death.'
'I swear it,' answered Sancho.
1 1 say so/ continued Don Quixote, ' because I hate
taking away anyone's good name.'
'I say,' repeated Sancho, Sthat I swear to hold my
1 The words quoted are the beginning of one of the Cid ballads, ' Por el
val de las cstacas.'
272 DON QUIXOTE.
tongue about it till the end of your worship's days, and
God grant I may bo able to let it out to-morrow.'
' Do T do thee such injuries, Sancho,' said Don Quixote,
' that thou wouldst see me dead so soon ? '
' It is not for that,' replied Sancho, ' but because I hate
keeping things long, and I don't want them to grow rotten
with me from over-keeping/
' At any rate,' said Don Quixote, ' I have more con-
fidence in thy affection and good nature ; and so I would
have thee know that this night there befell me one of the
strangest adventures that I could describe, and to relate it
to thee briefly thou must know that a little while ago the
daughter of the lord of this castle caniQ to me, and that
she is the most elegant and beautiful damsel that could be
found in the wide world. What I could tell thee of the
charms of her pcrsonj of her lively wit! of other secret
matters which, to preserve the fealty I owe to my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass over unnoticed and in
silence ! I will only tell thee that, either fate being envious
of so great a boon placed in my hands by good fortune, or
perhaps (and this is more probable) this castle being, as I
have already said, enchanted, at the time when I was en-
gaged in the sweetest and most amorous discourse with her,
there came, without my seeing or knowing whence it came,
a hand attached to some, arm of some huge giant, that
planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have them all bathed
in blood, and then pummelled me in such a way that I am
in a worse plight than yesterday when the carriers, on
account of Rocinante's misbehaviour, inflicted on us the
injury thou knowest of; whence I conjecture that then-
CHAPTER XVII. 273
must be some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of
this damsel's beauty, and that it is not for me.'
' Nor for me either,' said Sancho, ' for more than four
hundred Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of
the stakes was cakes and fancy-bread to it. But tell me,
seiior, what do you call this excellent and rare adventure
that has left us as we are left now ? Though your worship
was not so badly off, having in your arms that incomparable
beauty you spoke of; but I, what did I have, except the
heaviest whacks I think I had in all my life ? Unlucky me
and the mother that bore me ! for I am not a knight-errant
and never expect to be one, and of all the mishaps, the
greater part falls to my share.'
' Then thou hast been thrashed too ? ' said Don Quixote.
' Didn't I say so ? worse luck to my line ! ' said Sancho.
' Be not distressed, friend,' said Don Quixote, ' for I
will now make the precious balsam with which we shall
cure ourselves in the twinkling of an eye.'
By this time the officer had succeeded in lighting the
lamp, and came in to see the man that he thought had
been killed; and as Sancho caught sight of him at the
door, seeing him coming in his shirt, with a cloth on his
head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very forbidding coun-
tenance, he said to his master, ' Seiior, can it be that this is
the enchanted Moor coming back to give us more castiga-
tion if there be anything still left in the ink-bottle ? '
* It cannot be the Moor,' answered Don Quixote, ' for
those under enchantment do not let themselves be seen by
anyone.'
' If they don't let themselves be seen, they let them-
VOL. I. T
274 DON QUIXOTE.
selves be felt,' said Sancho ; ' if not, let my shoulders speak
to the point.'
'Mine could speak too,' said Don Quixote, 'but that is
not a sufficient reason for believing that what we see is the
enchanted Moor.'
The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such
a peaceful conversation, stood amazed ; though Don Quixote,
to be sure, still lay on his back unable to move from pure
pummelling and plasters. The officer turned to him and
said, * Well, how goes it, good man ? '
' I would speak more politely if I were you,' replied Don
Quixote ; ' is it the way of this country to address knights-
errant in that style, you booby ? '
The officer finding himself so disrespectfully treated by
such a sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising
the lamp full of oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on
the head that he gave him a badly broken pate ; then, all being
in darkness, he went out, and Sancho Panza said, ' That is
certainly the enchanted Moor, senor, and he keeps the trea-
sure for others, and for us only the cuffs and lamp-whacks.'
'That is the truth,' answered Don Quixote, ' and tlieiv
is no use in troubling oneself about these matters of en-
chantment or being angry or vexed at them, for as they
are invisible and visionary we shall find no one on whom
to avenge ourselves, do what we may ; rise, Sancho, if thou
canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to
give me a little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the
salutiferous balsam, for indeed I believe 1 have great need
of it now, because I am losing much. blood from the wound
that phantom gave.- UK-.'
CHAPTER XVII. 275
Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and
went after the innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the
officer, who was looking to see what had become of his
enemy, he said to him, ' Seiior, whoever you are, do us the
favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt,
-and wine, for it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-
arrant on earth, who lies on yonder bed sorely wounded by
the hands of the enchanted Moor that is in this inn.'
When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took
him for a man out of his senses, and as day was now
beginning to break, he opened the inn gate, and calling the
host, he told him what this good man wanted. The host
furnished him with what he required, and Sancho brought
it to Don Quixote, who, with his hand to his head, was
bewailing the pain of the blow of the lamp, which had done
him no more harm than raising a couple of rather large
lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the sweat that
flowed from him in his sufferings during the late storm.
To be brief, he took the materials, of which he made a
compound, mixing them all and boiling them a good while
until it seemed to him they hacl come to perfection^ He
then asked for some vial to pour it into, and as there was
not one in the inn, he decided on putting it into -a tin oil-
bottle or flask of which the host made him a free gift ;
and over the flask he repeated more than eighty pater-
nosters and as many more ave-marias, salves, and credos,
accompanying each word with a cross by way of benedic-
tion, at all which there were present Sancho, the innkeeper,
and the officer ; for the carrier was now peacefully engaged
in attending to the comfort of his mules.
T 2
276 DON QUIXOTE.
This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial
himself, on the spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam,
as lie considered^ it, and so he drank near a quart of what
could not be put into the flask and remained in the pipkin'
in which it had been boiled; but scarcely had he done
drinking when he began to vomit in such a way that
nothing was left in his stomach, and with the pangs and
spasms of vomiting he broke into a profuse sweat, on
account of which he bade them cover him up and leave
him alone. They did so, and he lay sleeping more than
three hours, at the end of which he awoke and felt very
great bodily relief and so much ease from his bruises that
he thought himself quite cured, and verily believed lie had
hit upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this
remedy he might thenceforward, without any fear, face
any kind of destruction, battle, or combat, however peril-
ous it might be.
Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of
his master as miraculous, begged him to give1 him what
was left in the pipkin, which was no small quantity. Don
Quixote consented, and he, taking it with both hands, in
good faith and with a better will, gulped down and
drained off very little less than his master. But the fact-
is, that the stomach of poor Sanclm was of necessity not
so delicate as that of his master, and so, before vomiting,
he was seized with such gripings and retchings, and such
sweats and faintness, that verily and truly he believed bis
last hour had come, and finding himself so racked and
tormented he cursed the balsam and the thief that had
given it to him.
CHAPTER XVII. 277
Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, ' It is my
belief, Sancho, that this mischief comes of thy not being
dubbed a knight, for I am persuaded this liquor cannot be
good for those who are not so.'
( If your worship knew that,' returned Sancho — ' woe
betide me and all my kindred ! — why did you let me
taste it ? '
At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor
squire began to discharge both ways at such a rate that
the rush mat on which he had thrown himself and the
canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for nothing
afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such par-
oxysms and convulsions that not only he himself but all
present thought his end had come. This tempest and
tribulation lasted about two hours, at the end of which he
was left, not like his master, but so weak and exhausted
that he could not stand. /TDon Quixote, however, who, as
has been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to
take his departure at once in quest of adventures, as it
seemed to him that all the time he loitered there was a
fraud upon the world and those in it who stood in need of
his help and protection, all the more when he had the
security and confidence his balsam afforded him ; and so,
urged by this impulse, he saddled Eocinante himself and
put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom likewise he
helped to dress and mount the ass; after which he mounted
his horse and turning to^a corner of the inn he laid hold
of a pike that stood there, to serve him by way of a lance.
All that were in the inn, who were more than twenty
persons, stood watching him; the inn-keeper's daughter
278 DON QUIXOTE.
was likewise observing him, and he too never took his
eyes off her, and from time to time fetched a sigh that he
seemed to pluck up from the depths of his bowels; but
they all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his
ribs ; at any rate ttiey who had seen him plastered the night
before thought so.
As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the
inn, he called to the host and said in a very grave and
measured voice, ' Many and great are the favours, Seiior
Alcaide, that I have received in this castle of yours, and I
remain under the deepest obligation to be grateful to you
for them all the days of my life ; if I can repay them in
avenging you of any arrogant foe who may have wronged
you, know that my calling is no other than to aid the weak,
.— •» — ^
to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to chastise perfidy.
Search your memory, and if you find anything of this
kind you need only tell me of it, and I promise you by the
order of knighthood which I have received to procure you
satisfaction and reparation to the utmost of your desire.'
The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness.
1 Sir Knight, I do not want your worship to avenge me of
any wrong, because when any is done me I can take what
vengeance seems good to me; the only thing I want is
that you pay me the score that you have run up in Hie inn
last night, as well for the straw and barley for your two-
beasts, as for supper and beds.'
'Then tliis is an inn ?' said Don (Quixote.
'And a very respectable one,1 said the innkeeper.
' I have been under a mistake all this time,' answered
Don Quixote, ' for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a.
CHAPTER XVII. 279
bad one ; but since it appears that it is not a castle but an
inn, all that can be done now is that you should excuse the
payment, for I cannot contravene the rule of knights -
errant, of whom I know as a fact (and up to the present I
have read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for
lodging or anything else in the inn where they might be ; 1
for any hospitality that might be offered them is their due
by law and right in return for the insufferable toil they
endure in seeking adventures by night and by day, in
summer and in winter, on foot and on horseback, in hunger
and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the inclemencies of
heaven and all the hardships of earth.'
' I have little to do with that,' replied the innkeeper ;
' pay me what you owe me, and let us have no more talk or
chivalry, for all I care about is to get to my money.'
' You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper,' said Don Quixote,
and putting spurs to Eocinante and bringing his pike to
the slope he rode out of the inn before anyone could stop
him, and pushed on some distance without looking to see if
his squire was following him.
The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him
ran to get payment of Sancho, who said that as his master
would not pay neither would he, because, being as he was
squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and reason held
good for him as for his master with regard to not paying
anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper
waxed very wroth, and threatened if he did not pay to
compel him in a way that he would not like. To which
1 Nevertheless Orlando in the Morgante Maggiore is called upon to leave
his horse in pledge for his reckoning. Morg. Magg. c. xxi. st. 129.
2 So DON QUIXOTE.
Sancho made answer that by the law of chivalry his master
had received he would not pay a rap,1 though it cost him
his life ; for the excellent and ancient usage of knights-
errant was not going to be violated by him, nor should the
squires of such as were yet to come into the world ever
complain of him or reproach him with breaking so just a law.
The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it
that among the company in the inn there were four wrool-
carders from Segovia, three needle-makers from the Colt of
Cordova, and two lodgers from the Fair of Seville,2 lively
fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and playful, who,
almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse,
made up to Sancho and dismounted him from his ass, while
one of them went in for the blanket of the host's bed ; but
on flinging him into it they looked up, and seeing that the
ceiling was somewhat lower than what they required for
their work, they decided upon going out into the yard,
which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho
in the middle of the blanket, they began to make ^sport with
him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide.3 The cries
of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they
reached the ears of his master, who, halting to listen
attentively, was persuaded that some new adventure was
coming, until he clearly perceived that it was his squire
who uttered them. Wheeling about he came up to the
inn with a laborious gallop, and finding it shut went round
it to see if he could find some way of pelting in ; but
1 Cornado, a coin of infinitesimal value, about one-sixth of a inaravedi.
2 The ' Fair ' was a low quarter in Seville.
3 See Note A, p. 282.
CHAPTER XVII. 281
as soon as he came to the wall of the yard, which was not
very high, he discovered the game that was being played
with his squire. He saw him rising and falling in the air
with such grace and nimbleness that, had his rage allowed
him, it is my belief he would have laughed. He tried to
climb from his horse on to the top of the wall, but he was
so bruised and battered that he could not even dismount ;
and so from the back of his horse he began to utter such
maledictions and objurgations against those who were
blanketing Sancho as it would be impossible to write
down accurately : they, however, did not stay their laughter
or their work for this, nor. did the flying Sancho cease
his lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with
entreaties, but all to little purpose, or none at all, until
from pure weariness they left off. They then brought
him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they put
his jacket round him ; and the compassionate Maritornes,
seeing him so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him
with a jug of water, and that it might be all the cooler
she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, and as , he
was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the cries of
his master exclaiming, ' Sancho, my son, drink not water ;
drink it not, my son, for it will kill thee ; see, here I have
the blessed balsam (and he held up the flask of liquor),
and with drinking two drops of it thou wilt certainly be
restored.'
At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in
a still louder voice said, ' Can it be your worship has for-
gotten that I am not a knight, or do you want me to end
by vomiting up what bowels I have left after last night ?
282 DON QUIXOTE.
Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils, and leave
me to myself ! ' and at one and the same instant he left off
talking and began drinking; but as at the first sup he
perceived it was water he did not care to go on with it, and
begged Maritornes to fetch him some wine, which she did
with right good will, and paid for it with her own money ;
for indeed they say of her that, though she was in that
line of life, there was some faint and distant resemblance
to a Christian about her. When Sancho had done drink-
ing he dug his heels into his ass, and the gate of the inn
being thrown open he passed out very well pleased at
having paid nothing and carried his point, though it had
been at the expense of his usual sureties, his shoulders.
It is true that the innkeeper detained his alforjas in payment
of what was owing to him, but Sancho took his departure
in such a flurry that he never missed them. The innkeeper, .
as soon as he saw him off, wanted to bar the gate close, but
the blanketers wrould not agree to it, for they were fellows
who would not have cared two farthings for Don Quixote,
even had he been really one of the knights-errant of the
Round Table-.
Note A (page 280).
'The roomc was high-roofed and fitted for their purpose. . . . They
began to blanket me and to toss me up in the air as they used to doe to
at Shrovetide.' Airman's < !ii.:i/uin dc AlfortirJii', I't. I. Bk. III. c. i.
Mabl.r's translation). As the Fir>t I 'art of (iuzinan was published
in J.V.i'.i, it may b; ted the scene to Cervantes.
CHAPTER XVIII. 285
CHAPTEK XVIII.
IN WHICH IS BELATED THE DISCOUESE SANCHO PANZA HELD-
WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING.
SANCHO reached his master so limp and faint that he could
not urge on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state
he was in he said, ' I have now come to the conclusion,
good Sancho, that this castle 01: 4nn is beyond a doubt
enchanted, because- those who have so atrociously diverted
themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or
beings of another world?, and I hold this confirmed by
having noticed that when I was by the wall of the yard
witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, it was o'ut of my
power to mount upon it, nor could I even dismount from
Bocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted ; for
I swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I had
been able to climb up or dismount, I would have avenged
thee in such a way that those braggart thieves would have
remembered their freak for ever, even though in so doing
I knew tha,t I contravened the laws of chivalry/ which, as I
have often told thee, do not permit a knight to lay hands
on him who is not one, save in case of urgent and great
necessity in defence of his own life and person.'
'I would have avenged myself too if I could,' said
284 DON QUIXOTE.
Sancho, 'whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I
could not; though for my part I am persuaded those who
amused themselves with me were not phantoms or en-
chanted men, as your worship says, but men of nesh and
bone like ourselves ; and they all had their names, for I heard
them name them when they were tossing me, and one was
called Pedro Martinez, and another Tenorio Hernandez,
and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan Paloineque
the Left-handed ; so that, seilor, your not being able to leap
over the wall of the yard or dismount from your horse
came of something else besides enchantments : and what I
make out clearly from all this is, that these adventures we
go seeking will in the end lead us into such misadventures
that we shall not know which is our right foot ; and that
the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, would
be for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, and
attend to our business, and give over wandering from Zeca
to Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is.' l
' How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,'
replied Don Quixote ; ' hold thy peace and have patience ;
the day will come when thou shalt see with thine own
eyes wrhat an honourable thing it is to wander in the
pursuit of this calling: nay, tell me, what greater pleasure
can there he in the world, or what delight can equal that
of winning a battle, and triumphing over one's enemy :'
None, beyond all doubt.'
'Very likely,' answered Sancho, 'though 1 do not
know it; all I know is that since we have been knights-
arrant, or since your worship has been one (for I have no
1 See Note A, p. 207.
CHAPTER XVII I. 285
right to reckon myself one of so honourable a number), we
have never won any battle except the one with the Biscay an,
and even out of that your worship came with half an ear >
and half a helmet the less ; and from that till now it has
been all cudgellings and more cudgellings, cuffs and more-
cuffs, I getting the blanketing over and above, and falling
in with enchanted persons on whom I cannot avenge
myself so as to know what the delight, as your worship
calls it, of conquering an enemy is like.'
' That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee,
Sancho,' replied Don Quixote ; ' but henceforward I will
endeavour to have at hand some sword made by such craft j
that no kind of enchantments can take effect upon him/
who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may
procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was
called " The Knight of the Burning Sword," l which was
one of the best swords that ever knight in the world pos-
sessed, for, besides having the said virtue, it cut like a razor,
and there was no armour, however strong and enchanted
it might be, that could resist it.'
' Such is my luck,' said Sancho, ' that even if that
happened and 5rour worship found some such sword, it
would, like the balsam, turn out serviceable and good for
dubbed knights only, and as for the squires, they might
sup sorrow.'
' Fear not that, Sancho,' said Don Quixote : ' Heaven
will deal better by thee.'
Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going
along, when, on the road they were following, Don Quixote
1 Amadis of Greece, not Amadis of Gaul.
286 DON QUIXOTE.
perceived approaching thorn a large and thick cloud of
dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and said, ' This
is the day, 0 Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my
fortune is reserving for me ; this, I say, is the day on
which as much as on any other shall be displayed the.
might of my arm, and on which I shall do deeds that shall
remain written in the book of fame for all ages to come.
Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises yonder ? Well,
then, all that is churned up 1 by a vast army composed of
various and countless nations that comes marching there.'
' According to that there must be two,' said Sancho,
* for on this opposite side also there rises just such another
-cloud of dust.'
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true,
and rejoicing exceedingly, he concluded that they were two
armies about to engage and encounter in the midst of that
broad plain ; for at all times and seasons his fancy was full
of the battles, enchantments, adventures, crazy feats, loves,
and defiances that are recorded in the books of chivalry,
and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to
such things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised
by two great droves of sheep coming along the sann road in
opposite directions, which, because of the dust, did not become
visible until they drew near, but Don Quixote asserted so
positively that they were armies that Sancho was led to
believe it and say, 'Well, and what are we to do, seilor ? '
'What?' said Don Quixote: 'give aid and assistance
to the weak and those who need it ; and thou must know,
1 The .word in the original is cuajada — ' curdled ' — which Clemcncin
objects to as obscure, and would replace by causada— 'caused.'
CHAPTER XVIII. 287
Sancho, that this which comes opposite to us is conducted
and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the
great isle of Trapobana ; this other that marches behind
me is that of his enemy the king of the Garamantas,
Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, for he always goes into battle
with his right arm bare.' l
1 But why are these two lords such enemies ? ' asked
Sancho.
' They are at enmity,' replied Don Quixote, ' because
this Alifanfaron is a furious pagan and is in love with the
daughter of Pentapolin, who is a very beautiful and more-
over gracious lady, and a Christian, and her father is
unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he
first abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet,
and adopts his own.'
' By my beard,' said Sancho, ' but Pentapolin does
quite right, and I will help him as much as I can.'
' In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,' said
Don Quixote ; * for to engage in battles of this sort it is not '
requisite to be a dubbed knight.'
' That I can well understand,' answered Sancho ; ' but
"where shall we put this ass where we may be sure to find
him after the fray is over ? for I believe it has not been the
•custom so far to go into battle on a beast of this kind.'
' That is true,' said Don Quixote, ' and what you had
best do with him is to leave him to take his chance whether
he be lost or not, for the horses we shall have when we
come out victors will be so many that even Bocinante will
1 Suero de Quiuones, the hero of the Paso honroso at the bridge of Orbigo
in 1434, used to fight against the Moors with his right arm bare.
288 DON QUIXOTE.
run a risk of being chunked for another. But attend to
me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of
the chief knights who accompany these two armies ; and
that thou mayest the better see and mark, let us withdraw
t > that hillock which rises yonder, whence both armies may
be seen.'
They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground
from which the two droves that Don Quixote made armies
of might have been plainly seen if the clouds of dust they
raised had not obscured them and blinded the sight ;
nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see
and what did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice :
' That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour,
who bears upon his shield a lion crowned crouching at the
feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver
Bridge ; that one in armour with flowers of gold, who bears
on his shield three crowns argent on an azure field, is the
dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that other
of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever daunt!
Brand abarbar an de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who
for armour wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a
gate which, according to tradition, is one of those of the
temple that Samson brought to the ground when by his
death he revenged himself upon his enemies; but turn
thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and
in the van of this other army the ever victorious and never
vanquished Timonel of Careajona, prince of New Biscay,
who comes in armour with arms quartered a/ure, vert,
argent, and or, and bears on his shield a cat or on a field
tawny with a. motto which says Mian, which is the beginni
CHAPTER XVIII. 2*9
of the name of his lady, who according to report is the
peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeiiiquen of the
Algarve ; the other, who burdens and presses the loins of
that powerful charger and bears arms white as snow and a
shield blank and without any device, is a novice knight, a
Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of the
baronies of Utrique ; that other, who with iron-shod heels
strikes the flanks of that nimble party-coloured zebra, and
for arms bears azure cups, is the mighty duke of Nervia,
Espartafilardo del Bosque, who bears for device on his
shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that
says, " Rastrea mi suerte" ' l And so he went on naming
a number of knights of one squadron or the other out of
his imagination, and to all he assigned off-hand their arms,,
colours, devices, and mottoes, carried away by the illusions
of his unheard-of craze ; and without a pause, he con-
tinued, * People of divers nations compose this squadron in
front ; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the
famous Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian.
plains, those that sift the pure fine gold of Arabia Felix,,
those that enjoy the famed cool banks of the crystal
Thermodon, those that in many and various ways divert
the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless
in their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the
Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs
that ever shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as-
1 Rastrcar means properly to track by following the footprints, and
hence to keep close to the ground ; the motto, therefore, is probably meant
to have a double signification, either ' in Fortune's footsteps ' or ' my fortune-
creeps on the ground,' in allusion to the asparagus, which is a low-growing
plant.
VOL. I. U
290 DON QUIXOTE.
they are fair, the Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an
infinity of other nations whose features I recognise and
descry, though I cannot recall their names. In this other
squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams
of the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their
countenances with the water of the ever rich and golden
Tagus, those that rejoice in the fertilising flow of the divine
Genii, those that roam the Tartesian plains 1 abounding
in pasture, those that take their pleasure in the elysian
meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans crowned with
ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of the
Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for
its gentle current, those that feed their herds along the
spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for its
hidden course,2 those that tremble with the cold of the pine-
dad Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine ;
in a word, as many as all Europe includes and contains.'
Good God ! what a number of countries and nations lie
named! giving to each its proper attributes with marvellous
readiness; brimful and saturated with what he had read in
his lying books ! Saucho Panza hung upon his words
without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if lie
could see the knights and giants his master was describing,
and as he could not make out one of them lie said to him,
' Seiior, devil take it if there's a sign of any man you talk
of, knight or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it's all en-
chantment, like the phantoms last night.'
1 From Tartessus, a city of Betica, supposed to have been situated
somewhere in the neighbourhood of Tarifa.
* In part of its course through La Mancha the Guadiana flows under-
ground.
CHAPTER XVIII. 291
' How canst thou say that ! ' answered Don Quixote ;
•* dost thou not hear the neighing of the steeds, the braying
of the trumpets, the roll of the drums ? '
' I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,'
said Sancho ; which was true, for by this time the two
flocks had come close.
' The fear thou art in, Sancho,' said Don Quixote,
' prevents thee from seeing or hearing correctly, for one
of the effects of fear is to derange the senses and make
things appear different from what they are; if thou
art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to
myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to
which I shall give my aid; ' and so saying he gave Eocinantc
the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot down tin-
slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying,
•' Come back, Sefior Don Quixote ; I vow to God they are
sheep and ewes you are charging ! Come back ! Unlucky the
father that begot me ! what madness is this ! Look, theru
is no giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields
quartered or whole, nor cups azure or bedevilled. What are
you about ? Sinner that I am before God ! ' But not for
all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back ; on the con-
trary he went on shouting out, ' Ho, knights, ye who follow
and fight under the banners of the valiant emperor Pen-
tapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me all ; ye shall see how
easily I shall give him his revenge over his enemy Ali-
fanfaron of Trapobana.'
So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of
ewes, and began spearing them with as much spirit and
intrepidity as if he were transfixing mortal enemies in
29 2 DON QUIXOTE.
earnest. The shepherds and drovers accompanying the-
flock shouted to him to desist; but seeing it was no use,
they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with
stones as big as one's fist. Don Quixote gave no hoed to
the stones, but, letting drive right and left, kept saying,
' Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron ? Come before me ; I
am a single knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand
to hand, and make thee yield thy life a penalty for the,
wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta.'
Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that struck
him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body.
Feeling himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or
badly wounded for certain, and recollecting his liquor he
drew out his flask, and putting it to his mouth began to
pour the contents into his stomach ; but ore- he had
succeeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough,
there came another almond which struck him on the hand
and on the flask so fairly that it smashed it to pirco,
knocking three or four tooth and grinders out of his mouth
in its course, and sorely crushing two fingers of his hand.
Such was the force of the first blow and of tin- st-cond,
that the poor knight in spite of himself came down back-
wards off his horse. The shepherds came up, and felt sure
they had killed him ; so in all haste they collected their
flock together, took up the dead boasts, of which there were
more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascertain
anything further.
All this time Sanclio stood on the hill watching the
crazy feats his master was performing, and tearing his
beard and cursing the hour and the occasion when fortune
CHAPTER XVIII. 293
had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then,
brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken
themselves off, he came down the hill and ran to him and
found him in very bad case, though not unconscious ;
and said he, ' Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don
Quixote ; and that what you were going to attack were not
armies but droves of sheep ? '
' That's how that thief of a sage,1 my enemy, can
alter and falsify things,' answered Don Quixote; 'thou
must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for those
of his sort to make us take what form they choose ; and
this malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the
glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the
squadrons of the enemy into droves of sheep. At any
rate, do this much, I beg of thee, Sancho, to undeceive
thyself, and see that what I say is true ; mount thy ass
and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when
they have gone some little distance from this they will
return to their original shape and, ceasing to be sheep,
become men in all respects as I described them to thee
at first. But go not just yet, for I want thy help and
assistance ; come hither and see how many of my teeth
and grinders are missing, for Pfeel as if there was not one
left in my mouth.'
Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes
into his mouth; now just at that moment the balsam
had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote, so, at the
very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth,
he discharged all its contents with more force than a
1 See chapter vii.
294 DON QUIXOTE.
musket, and full into the beard of the compassionate
squire.
' Holy Mary ! ' cried Sancho, ' what is this that has
happened me? Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded,
as he vomits blood from the mouth : ' but considering the \J
matter a little more closely he perceived by the colour, taste,
and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the
flask which he had seen him drink ; and he was taken with
such a loathing that his stomach turned, and he vomited
up his inside over his very master, and both were left in a
precious state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something
wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his master, out of
his alforjas ; but not finding them, he well-nigh took leave
of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart
resolved to quit his master and return home, even though
he forfeited the wrages of his service and all hopes of the
government of the promised island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his
mouth to keep his teeth from falling out altogether, with
the other he laid hold of the bridle of Eocinante, who had
never stirred from his master's side — so loyal and well-
behaved was he— and betook himself to where the squire
stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek,
like one in deep dejection. Seeing him in this mood,
looking so sad, Don Quixote said to him, 'Bear in
mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another,
unless h" does more than another ; all these tempests that
fall upon us are signs that fail1 \\eather is coming shortly,
and that things will go well with us, for it is impossible
for good or evil to last for ever; and hence it follows that
.
CHAPTER XV11L 295
the evil having lasted long, the good must be now nigh at
hand ; so thou must not distress thyself at the misfor-
tunes which happen to me, since thou hast no share in
them.'
' How have I not ? ' replied Sancho ; ' was he whom they
blanketed yesterday perchance any other than my father's-
son ? and the alforjas that are missing to-day with all my
treasures, did they belong to any other but myself? '
' What ! are the alforjas missing, Sancho ? ' said Don
Quixote.
' Yes, they are missing,' answered Sancho.
* In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,' replied
Don Quixote.
' It would be so,' answered Sancho, ' if there were none
of the herbs your worship says you know in these meadows ,r
those with which knights-errant as Unlucky as your worship
are wont to supply such-like shortcomings.'
' For all that,' answered Don Quixote, * I would rather
have just now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of
;»ilchards' heads, than all the herbs described by Dioscorides,
ven with Doctor Laguna's notesj_ Nevertheless, Sancho
he Good, mount thy beast and come along with me, for
jod, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more
especially when we are so active in his service as we are),
since he fails not the midges of the air, nor the grubs of the
earth, nor the tadpoles of the water, and is so merciful that
he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and
sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.'
1 Dr. Andres Laguna, who translated Dioscoritles into Spanish with
copious notes in 1570.
296 DON QUIXOTE.
' Your worship would make a better preacher than
knight-errant,' said Sancho.
' Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything,
Sancho,' said Don Quixote ; ' for there were knights-errant
in former times as well qualified to deliver a sermon or dis-
course in the middle of a highway, as if they had graduated
in the University of Paris ; whereby we may see that the
lance has never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.' l
* Well, be it as your worship says,' replied Sancho ;
* let us be off now and find some place of shelter for the
night, and God grant it may be somewhere where there
are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor en-
chanted Moors ; for if there are, may the devil take the
whole concern.'
' Ask that of God, my son,' said Don Quixote ; ' and do
thou lead on where thou wilt, for this time I leave our
lodging to thy choice : but reach me here thy hand, and feel
with thy finger, and find out how many of my teeth and
grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw,
for it is there I feel the pain.'
Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him,
' How many grinders used your worship have on this
side ? '
Tour,' replied Don Quixote, ' besides the back-tooth, all
whole and quite sound.'
' Mind what you are saying, seiiqr,' said Sancho.
' I say four, if not five,' answered Don Quixote, ' for
never in my life have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor
1ms any fallen out or been destroyed by any decay or rheum.'
1 Prov. 1'2;-,.
CHAPTER XVIIL 297
' Well, then,' said Sancho, ' in this lower side your
worship has no more than two grinders and a half, and in
the upper neither a half nor any at all, for it is all as
smooth as the palm of my hand.'
' Luckless that I am ! ' said Don Quixote, hearing the
sad news his squire gave him ; ' I had rather they had
despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the sword-arm;
for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a mill
without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized
than a diamond ; hut we who profess the austere order of
chivalry are liable to all this. Mount, friend, and lead the
way, and I will follow thee at whatever pace thou wilt.' ^
Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direc-
tion in which he thought he might find refuge without quit-
ting the high road, which was there very much frequented.
As they went along, then, at a slow pace — for the pain in Don
Quixote's jaws kept him uneasy and ill-disposed for speed—
Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him by talk of
some kind, and among the things he said to him was that
which will be told in the following chapter.
Note A (page 284).
Proverbial expression (47) — 'Andar de Ceca en Meca y de zoca en
colodra ' —somewhat like our phrase, ' from post( to pillar.' The Ceca
(properly a mint or a shrine) was the name given to part of jthe Great
Mosque of Cordova, once second to Mecca only as a resort of pilgrims.
Zoca properly means a wooden shoe, but here a vessel hollowed out of wood.
29S DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTEE XIX.
OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS
MASTER, AND OF THE ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH
A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE OCCUR-
RENCES.
' IT seems to me, senor, that all these mishaps that have
befallen us of late have been without any doubt a punish-
ment for the offence committed by your worship against the
order of chivalry in not keeping the oath you made not
to eat bread off a table-cloth or embrace the queen, and all
the rest of it that your worship swore to observe until you
had taken that helmet of Malandrino's, or whatever the
Moor is called, for I do not very well remember.'
* Thou art very right, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, ' but
to tell the truth, it had escaped my memory ; and like-
wise thou mayest rely upon it that the affair of the blanket
happened to thee because of thy fault in not reminding me
of it in time; but I will make amends, for there are ways
of compounding for everything in the order of chivalry.'
' AVhy ! have I taken an oath of some sort, then ? ' said
Sancho.
* It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath/
said Don Quixote ; ' suffice it that I see thou art not quite
CHAPTER XIX.
299
clear of complicity; and whether or no, it will not be ill
done to provide ourselves with a remedy.'
* In that case,' said Sancho, ' mind that your worship
does not forget this as you did the oath; perhaps the
phantoms m.*iy take it into their heads to amuse themselves
once more with me ; or even with your worship if they see
you so obstinate.'
While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook
them on the road before they had reached or discovered any
place of shelter ; and what made it still worse was that they
ng of hunger, for with the loss of the alforjas they
their entire larder and commissariat ; and to com-
plete the misfortune they met with an adventure which
without any invention had really the appearance of one.
It so happened that the night closed in somewhat darkly,
but for all that they pushed on, Sancho feeling sure that as
the road was the king's highway l they might reasonably
expect to find some inn within a league or two. Going
along, then, in this way, the night dark, the squire hungry,
the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards them on the
road they were travelling a great number of lights which
looked exactly like stars in motion. Sancho was taken/
aback at the sight of them, nor did Don Quixote altogether
relish them : the one pulled up his ass by the halter, the
other his hack by the bridle, and they stood still, watching
anxiously to see what all this would turn out to be, and
found that the lights were approaching them, and the nearer
they came the greater they seemed, at which spectacle
1 Canino real — one of the main roads connecting the provinces or chief
cities with the capital.
300 DON QUIXOTE.
Sancho began to shake like a man dosed with mercury, and
Don Quixote's hair stood on end ; he, however, plucking up
spirit a little, said, ' This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most
mighty and perilous adventure, in which it will be needful
for me to put forth all my valour and resolution.'
' Unlucky me ! ' answered Sancho ; ' if this adventure
happens to be one of phantoms, as I am beginning to think
it is, where shall I find the ribs to bear it ? '
' Be they phantoms ever so much,' said Don Quixote, ' I
will not permit them to touch a thread of thy garments ;
for if they played tricks with thee the time before, it was
because I was unable to leap the walls of the yard ; but now
we are on a wide plain, where I shall be able to wield my
sword as I please.'
' And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the
last time,' said Sancho, ' what difference will it make being
on the open plain or not ? '
'For all that,' replied Don Quixote, 'I entreat thee,
Sancho, to keep a good heart, for experience will tell thee
what mine is.'
* I will, please God,' answered Sancho, and the two re-
tiring to one side of the road set themselves to observe
-closely what all these moving lights might be ; and very
.soon afterwards they made out some twenty encamisados,1
all on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands, the
awe-inspiring aspect of whom completely extinguished the
courage of Sancho, who began to chatter with his teeth like
1 Maskers wearing shirts (cainisas) over their clothes, who inarched in
procession carrying torches on festival nights. As there is no English
translation of the word, it is better to give the Spanish instead of some
roundabout descriptive pin
CHAPTER XIX. 301
one in the cold fit of an ague ; and his heart sank and his
teeth chattered still more when they perceived distinctly
that behind them there came a litter covered over with
black and followed by six more mounted figures in mourning
down to the very feet of their mules — for they could perceive
plainly they were not horses by the easy pace at which they
went. And as the encamisados came along they muttered to
themselves in a low plaintive tone. This strange spectacle
at such an hour and in such a solitary place was quite
enough to strike terror into Sancho's heart, and even into
his master's ; and (save in Don Quixote's case) did so, for all
Sancho's resolution had now broken down. It was just the
opposite with his master, whose imagination immediately
conjured up all this to him vividly as one of the adventures
of his books. He took it into his head that the litter was
a bier on which was borne some sorely wounded or slain
knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved for him alone ;
and without any further reasoning he laid his lance in rest,
fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with gallant spirit
and bearing took up his position in the middle of the road
where the encamisados must of necessity pass ; and as soon
as he saw them near at hand he raised his voice and said,
* Halt, knights, whosoever ye may be, and render me account
of who ye are, whence ye come, what it is ye carry upon
that bier, for, to judge by appearances, either ye have done
some wrong or some wrong has been done to you, and it is
fitting and necessary that I should know, either that I may
chastise you for the evil ye have done, or else that I may
avenge you for the injury that has been inflicted upon
you.'
302 DON QUIXOTE.
' We are in haste,' answered one of the encamisados,
* and the inn is far off, and we cannot stop to render you
such an account as, you demand ; ' and spurring his mule
he moved on.
Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and
seizing the mule by the bridle he said, ' Halt, and be more
mannerly, and render an account of what I have asked of
you ; else, take my defiance to combat, all of you.'
The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle
being seized that rearing up she flung her rider to the
ground over her haunches. An attendant who was on foot,
seeing the encamisado fall, began to abuse Don Quixote, who
now moved to anger, without anymore ado, laying his lance
in rest charged one of the men in mourning and brought
him badly wounded to the ground, and as he wheeled round
upon the others the agility with which he attacked and
routed them was a sight to see, for it seemed just as if
wings had that instant grown upon Kocinante, so lightly and
proudly did he bear himself. The encamisados were all
timid folk and unarmed, so they speedily made their escape
from the fray and set off at a run across the plain with
their lighted torches, looking exactly like maskers running
on some gala or festival night. The mourners, too, en-
veloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were unable
to bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself
Don Quixote belaboured them all and drove; them off
against their will, for they all thought it was no man
but a devil from hell come to carry away the dead body
they had in the litter.
Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity
CHAPTER XIX.
3°3
of his lord, and said to himself. ' Clearly this master of
mine is as bold and valiant as he says he is.'
A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man
whom the mule had thrown, by the light of which Don
Quixote perceived him, and coming up to him he presented
the point of the lance to his face, calling on him to yield
himself prisoner, or else he would kill him ; to which the
prostrate man replied, * I am prisoner enough as it is ;
I cannot stir, for one of my legs is broken : I entreat you,
if you be a Christian gentleman, not to kill me, which will
be committing grave sacrilege, for I am a licentiate and I
hold first orders.'
' Then what the devil brought you here, being a church-
man ? ' said Don Quixote.
' What, senor '? ' said the other. ' My bad luck.'
' Then still worse awaits you,' said Don Quixote, ' if you
do not satisfy me as to all I asked you at first.'
' You shall be soon satisfied,' said the licentiate ; ' you
must know, then, that though just now I said I was a licen-
tiate, I am only a bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez ;
I am a native of Alcobendas, I come from the city of Baeza
with eleven others, priests, the same who fled with the
torches, and we are going to the city of Segovia accom-
panying a dead body which is in that litter, and is that of
a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was interred ;
and now, as I said, we are taking his bones to their burial-
place, which is in Segovia, where he was born.'
' And who killed him ? ' asked Don Quixote.
'God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,'
answered the bachelor.
3o4 DON QUIXOTE.
' In that case,' said Don Quixote, ' the Lord has relieved
me of the task of avenging his death had any other slain
him ; but, he who slew him having slain him, there is
nothing for it but to be silent, and shrug one's shoulders ;
I should do the same were he to slay myself : and I would
have your reverence know that I am a knight of La
Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and it is my business and
calling to roam the world righting wrongs and redressing
injuries.'
' I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be,'
said the bachelor, ' for from straight you have made me
crooked,1 leaving me with a broken leg that will never see
itself straight again all the days of its life ; and the injury
you have redressed in my case has been to leave me injured
in such a way that I shall remain injured for ever ; and the
height of misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in
search of adventures/
' Things do not all happen in the same way,' answered
Don Quixote ; ' it all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lope/, of
your going, as you did, by night, dressed in those surplices,
with lighted torches, praying, covered with mourning, so
that naturally you looked like something evil and of the
other world ; and so I could not avoid doing my duty
in attacking you, and I should have attacked you even had
I known positively that you were the very devils of hell, for
such I certainly believed and took you to be.' 2
'As my fate lias so willed it,' said the bachelor, ' I en-
1 A quibble on the words ilcm-ho and ttii'rto, \\liicli mean ' straight '
and ' crooked,' as well as ' right ' and. ' wron«r.'
2 See Note A, p. :5()s.
CHAPTER XIX. 3o5
treat you, sir knight- errant, whose errand has been such an
evil one for me, to help me to get from under this mule that
holds one of my legs caught between the stirrup and the
saddle/
' I would have talked on till to-morrow,' said Don
Quixote ; * how long were you going to wait before telling
me of your distress ? '
He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind
to come, as he was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter
mule, well laden with provender, which these worthy gentle-
men had brought with them. Sancho made a bag of his
coat, and, getting together as much as he could, and as
the mule's sack would hold, he loaded his beast, and then
hastened to obey his master's call, and helped him to re-
move the bachelor from under the mule ; then putting him
on her back he gave him the torch, and Don Quixote bade
him follow the track of his companions, and beg pardon
of them on his part for the wrong which he could not help
doing them.
And said Sancho, ' If by chance these gentlemen should
want to know who was the hero that served them so, your
worship may tell them that he is the famous Don Quixote of
La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Eueful
Countenance.' l
The bachelor then took his departure. I forgot to
mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote,
' Eemember that you stand excommunicated for having laid
violent hands on a holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente
dialolo.'
1 See Note B, p. 309.
VOL. I. X
306 DON QUIXOTE.
' I do not understand that Latin,' answered Doiir
Quixote, 'but I know well I did not lay hands, only tins
pike • besides, I did not think I was committing an assault
upon priests or things of the Church, which, like a Catholic
and faithful Christian as I am, I respect and revere, but
upon phantoms and spectres of the other world; but even
so, I remember how it fared with Cid Buy Diaz when lie
broke the chair of the ambassador of that king before his
Holiness the Pope, who excommunicated him for the same ;
and yet the good Roderick of Bivar bore himself that day
like a very noble and valiant knight.' l
On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has
been said, without making any reply ; and Don Quixote
asked Sancho what had induced him to call him the
' Knight of the Rueful Countenance ' more then than at
any other time.
' I will tell you,' answered Sancho ; ' it was because I
have been looking at you for some time by the light of the
torch held by that unfortunate, and verily your worship
has got of late the most ill-favoured countenance I ever
saw : it must be either owing to the fatigue of this combat,
or else to the wrant of teeth and grinders.'
'It is not that,' replied Don Quixote, 'but because the
sage wliose duty it will be to write the history of my
achievements must have thought it proper that I should
take some distinctive name as all knights of yore did ; one
being "He of the Burning Sword," another "He of the
1 Referring to the apocryphal legend which forms the subject of UK-
ballad, ' A concilia dcntro en Roma.' Among Lockhart's ballads tin
lively version of it.
CHAPTER XIX. 307
Unicorn," this one " He of the Damsels," that " He of the
Phoenix," another " The Knight of the Griffin," and another
" He of the Death," and by these names and designations
they were known all the world round ; and so I say that the
sage aforesaid must have put it into your mouth and mind
just now to call me " The Knight of the Eueful Counte-
nance," as I intend to call myself from this day forward ;
and that the said name may fit me better, I mean, when
the opportunity offers, to have a very rueful countenance
painted on my shield.'
' There is no occasion, senor, for wasting time or money
on making that countenance,' said Sancho ; ' for all that
need be done is for your worship to show your own, face to
face, to those who look at you, and without anything more,
either image or shield, they will call you "Him of the
Eueful Countenance ; " and believe me I am telling you
the truth, for I assure you, senor (and in good part be it
said), hunger and the loss of your grinders have given you
such an ill-favoured face that, as I say, the rueful picture
may be very well spared.'
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho' s pleasantry ; neverthe-
less he resolved to call himself by that name, and have his
shield or buckler painted as he had devised.
Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the
body in the litter were bones or not, but Sancho would
not have it, saying, ' Senor, you have ended this perilous
adventure more safely for yourself than any of those I have
seen : perhaps these people, though beaten and routed, may
bethink themselves that it is a single man that has beaten
them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart
x 2
3o8 DON QUIXOTE.
and come in search of us and give us trouble enough. The
ass is in proper trim, the mountains are near at hand, hunger
presses, we have nothing more to do but make good our
retreat, and, as the saying is, let the dead go to the grave
and the living to the loaf ; ' ] and driving his ass before him
he begged his master to follow, who, feeling that Sancho was
right, did so without replying ; and after proceeding some
little distance between two hills they found themselves in a
wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and Sancho
unloaded his beast, and stretched upon the green grass,
with hunger for sauce, they breakfasted, dined, lunched,
and supped all at once, satisfying their appetites with
more than one store of cold meat which the dead man's
clerical gentlemen (who seldom put themselves on short
allowance) had brought with them on their sumpter mule.
But another piece of ill-luck befell them, which Sain -ho
held the worst of all, and that was that they had no wine
to drink, nor even water to moisten their lips ; and as thirst
tormented them, Sancho, observing that the meadow where
they were was full of green and tender grass, said what
will be told in the following chapter.
' Prov. 147.
Note A (page 304).
The original has ' for such I always believed,' cVc., which is an obvious
slip, either of the pen or of the press. It cannot be that Cervantes intended
a side blow at ecclesiastics, for ho expressly disc-hums uny such intention,
and the ' you ' clearly refers to these particular processionists alone.
CHAPTER XIX. 309
Note B (page 305).
It has been frequently objected that figura does not mean the face or
countenance, but the whole figure ; but no matter what dictionaries may
say, it is plain from what follows that Sancho applies the word here to his
master's face, made haggard by short commons and loss of teeth, and uses
it as synonymous with caret ; and that Don Quixote himself never could
have contemplated painting a full-length on his shield, but merely a face.
As a matter of fact, however, the dictionaries do not support the objection.
The two best, that of the Academy and of Vicente Salva, explain figura as
the 'external form of a body,' and add that it is commonly used for the
face alone, por solo el rostra.
310 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTEE XX.
OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OP ADVENTURE WHICH
WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA
MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY
ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD.
* IT cannot be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that
there must be hard by some spring or brook to give it
moisture, so it would be well done to move a little farther
on, that we may find some place where we may quench
this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a doubt is
more distressing than hunger.'
The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading
Eocinante by the bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter,
after he had packed away upon him the remains of the
supper, they advanced up the meadow feeling their way, for
the darkness of the night made it impossible to see anything ;
but they had not gone two hundred paces when n loud noise
of water, as if falling from great high rocks, struck their ears.
The sound cheered them greatly ; but halting to make out by
listening from what quarter it came they heard unseasonably
another noise which spoiled l the satisfaction the sound of the
water gave them, especially for Sancho, who was by nature
timid and faint-hearted ; they heard, I say, strokes falling
1 Literally, ' watered the satisfaction.'
CHAPTER XX. 3n
with a measured beat, and a certain rattling of iron and
chains that, together with the furious din of the water,
would have struck terror into any heart but Don Quixote's.
The night was, as has been said, dark, and they had
happened to reach a spot in among some tall trees, whose
leaves stirred by a gentle breeze made a low ominous
sound ; so that, what with the solitude, the place, the dark-
ness, the noise of the water, and the rustling of the leaves,
everything inspired awe and dread ; more especially as they
perceived that the strokes did not cease, nor the wind
lull, nor morning approach ; to all which might be added
their ignorance as to where they were. But Don Quixote,
supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on Eocinante, and
bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his pike to the
.slope, and said, ' Friend Sancho, know that I by Heaven's
will have been born in this our iron age to revive in it
the age of gold, or the golden as it is called ; I am he
for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds
are reserved ; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the
Knights of the Bound Table, the Twelve of France and
the Nine Worthies ; and he who is to consign to oblivion
the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes and Tirantes, the
Phoebuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of famous
knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in
which I live such exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as
shall obscure their brightest deeds. Thou dost mark well,
faithful and trusty squire, the gloom of this night, its
strange silence, the dull confused murmur of those trees,
the awful sound of that water in quest of which we came,
that seems as though it were precipitating and dashing itself
3i2 DON QUIXOTE.
down from the lofty mountains of the moon, and that in-
cessant hammering that wounds and pains our ears; which
things all together and each of itself are enough to instil
fear, dread, and dismay into the hreast of Mars himself,
much more into one not used to hazards and adventure's of
the kind. Well, then, all this that I put hefore thee is hut
an incentive and stimulant to my spirit, making my heart
burst in my bosom through eagerness to engage in this
adventure, arduous as it promises to be; therefore tighten
Eocinante's girths a little, and God be with thee ; wait for
me here three days and no more, and if in that time I come
not back, thou canst return to our village, and thence, to
do me a favour and a service, thou wilt go to El Toboso,
wrhere thou shalt say to my incomparable lady Dulcinea
that her captive knight hath died in attempting things that
might make him worthy of being called hers.'
When Sancho heard his master's words he began to
weep in the most pathetic way, saying, ' Seiior, I know
not why your worship wants to attempt this so dreadful
adventure ; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can
easily turn about and take ourselves out of danger, even if we
don't drink for three days to come ; and as there is no one
to see us, all the less will there be anyone to set us down as
cowai'ds; besides, I have many a time heard the curate of
our village, whom your worship knows well, preach that he
who seeks danger perishes in it;1 so it is not right to tempt
God by trying so tremendous a feat from which there
can be no escape save by a miracle, and Heaven has per-
formed enough of them for your worship in delivering you
1 Prov. 179.
CHAPTER XX. 313
from being blanketed as I was, and bringing you out
victorious and safe and sound from among all those enemies
that were with the dead man ; and if all this does not move
or soften that hard heart, let this thought and reflection
move it, that you will have hardly quitted this spot when
from pure fear I shall yield my soul up to anyone that
will take it. I left home and wife and children to come
and serve your wrorship, trusting to do better and not
worse; but, as covetousness bursts the bag,1 it has rent
my hopes asunder, for just as I had them highest about
getting that wretched unlucky island your worship has so
often promised me, I see that instead and in lieu of it you
mean to desert me now in a place so far from human reach :
for God's sake, master mine, deal not so unjustly by me,
and if your worship will not entirely give up attempting
this feat, at least put it off till morning, for by what the lore
I learned when I was a shepherd tells me it cannot want
three hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn is
overhead and makes midnight in the line of the left arm.' 2
' How canst thou see, Sancho,' said, Don Quixote,
' where it makes that line, or where the mouth or head is
that thou talkest of, when the night is so dark that there
is not a star to be seen in the whole heaven ? '
1 That's true,' said Sancho, * but fear has sharp eyes, and
sees things underground, much more above in the heavens ;
besides, there is good reason to show that it now wants but
little of day.'
' Let it want what it may,' replied Don Quixote, ' it
shall not be said of me now or at any time that tears or
1 Prov. 50. 2 See Note A, p. 328.
3i4 DON QUIXOTE.
entreaties turned me aside from doing what was in accord-
ance with knightly usage ; and_so I beg of thee, Sancho^ta-
hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart to
undertake now this so unexampled and terrible adventure,
will take care to watch over my safety and console thy
sorrow; what thou hast to do is to tighten Bocinante'a
girths well, and wait here, for I shall come hack shortly,
alive or dead.'
Sancho perceiving it his master's final resolve, and how
little his tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him,
determined to have recourse to his own ingenuity and
compel him if he could to wait till daylight ; and so, while
tightening the girths of the horse, he quietly and without
being felt, tied both Eocinante's fore-legs, so that when
Don Quixote strove to go he was unable as the horse could
-only move by jumps. Seeing the success of his trick,
Sancho Panza said, ' See there, seiior ! Heaven, moved by
my tears and prayers, has so ordered it that Eocinante
cannot stir ; and if you will be obstinate, and spur and
strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as they
say, against the pricks.'
Don Quixote at this grew- desperate, but the more he
drove his heels into the horse, the less he stirred him ; and
not having any suspicion of the tying, he was fain to resign
himself and wait till daybreak or until Eocinante could
move, firmly persuaded that all this came of something
other than Sancho's ingenuity. So he said to him, 'As it
is so, Sancho, and as liocinante cannot move, I am content
to wait till dawn smiles upon us, even though I weep while
it delays its coming.'
CHAPTER XX. 315
' There is no need to weep,' answered Sancho, ' for I
will amuse your worship by telling stories from this till
daylight, unless indeed you like to dismount and . lie down
to sleep a little on the green grass after the fashion of
knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day comes and the
moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary adventure
you are looking forward to.'
' What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping
for?' said Don Quixote. 'Am I, thinkest thou, one of
those knights that take their rest in the presence of
danger ? Sleep thou who art born to sleep, or do as thou
wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent with my
character.'
'Be not angry, master mine,' replied Sancho, 'I did
not mean to say that ; ' and coming close to him he laid
one hand on the pommel of the saddle and the other on
the cantle so that he held his master's left thigh in his
embrace, not daring to separate a finger's length from him ;
so much afraid was he of the strokes which still resounded
with a regular beat. Don Quixote bade him tell some story
to amuse him as he had proposed, to which Sancho replied
that he would if his dread of what he heard would let him ;
' Still,' said he, ' I will strive to tell a story which, if I can
manage to relate it, and it escapes me not, is the best of
stories, and let your worship give me your attention, for
here I begin. What was, was ; l and may the good that is
to come be for all, and the evil for him who goes to look
for it — your worship must know that the beginning the
old folk used to put to their tales was not just as each
1 Prov. 96.
316 DON QUIXOTE.
one pleased ; it was a maxim of Cato Zonzorino ' the
Roman that says "the evil for him that goes to look for
it," and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to
finger, to show that your worship should keep quiet and not
go looking for evil in any quarter, and that we should go
back by some other road, since nobody forces us to follow
this in which so many terrors affright us.'
' Go on with thy story, Sancho,' said Don Quixote,
' and leave the choice of our road to my care.'
' I say then,' continued Sancho, ' that in a village of
Estremadura there was a goat-shepherd — that is to say,
one who tended goats — which shepherd or goatherd, as my
story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz was in
love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess
called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this
rich grazier —
' If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho,' said
Don Quixote, ' repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou
wilt not have done these two days ; go straight on with it,
and tell it like a reasonable man, or else say nothing.'
' Tales are always told in my country in the very way I
am telling this,' answered Sancho, ' and I cannot tell it in
any other, nor is it right of your worship to ask me to make
new customs.'
1 Tell it as thou wilt,' replied Don Quixote ; ' and
as fate will have it that I cannot help listening to tine,
go on.'
' And so, lord of my soul,' continued Sancho, ' as I have
1 I.e. Caton Censorino — Cato the Censor ; but Sancho's impression was
that the name was derived from zonzo, ' stupid,' or zonzorrion, ' a block-
head.'
CHAPTER XX. 317
said, this shepherd was in love with Torralva the shep-
herdess, who was a wild buxom lass with something of the
look of a man about her, for she had little moustaches ; I
fancy I see her now.'
' Then you knew her ? ' said Don Quixote.
' I did not know her,' said Sancho, ' but he who told me
the story said it was so true and certain that when I told
it to another I might safely declare and swear I had seen
it all myself. And so in course of time, the devil, who
never sleeps and puts everything in confusion, contrived
that the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned
into hatred and ill-will, and the reason, according to evil
tongues, was some little jealousy she caused him that
crossed the line and trespassed on forbidden ground ; l and
so much did the shepherd hate her from that time forward
that, in order to escape from her, he determined to quit the
country and go where he should never set eyes on her again.
Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope, was
immediately smitten with love for him, though she had
never loved him before.'
' That is the natural way of women,' said Don Quixote,
' to scorn the one that loves them, and love the one that
hates them : go on, Sancho.'
' It came to pass,' said Sancho, ' that the shepherd carried
out his intention, and driving his goats before him took his
way across the plains of Estremadura to pass over into the
Kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, who knew of it, went
after him, and on foot and barefoot followed him at a dis-
tance, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand and a scrip round
her neck, in which she carried, it is said, a bit of looking-
1 Prov. 198.
3i8 DON QUIXOTE.
glass, and a piece of a comb and some little pot or other of
paint for her face ; but let her carry what she did, I am not
going to trouble myself to prove it ; all I say is, that the
shepherd, they say, came with his flock to cross over the
river Guadiaiia, which was at that time swollen and almost
overflowing its banks, and at the spot he came to there was
neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or his flock
to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he per-
ceived that Torralva was approaching and would give him
great annoyance with her tears and entreaties ; however, he
went looking about so closely that he discovered a fisherman
who had alongside of him a boat so small that it could only
hold one person and one goat ; but for all that he spoke to him
and agreed with him to carry himself and his three hundred
goats across. The fisherman got into the boat and carried
one goat over ; he came back and carried another over ; he
came back again, and again brought over another — let your
worship keep count of the goats the fisherman is taking
across, for if one escapes the memory there will be an end
of the story, and it will be impossible to tell another word of
it. To proceed, I must tell you the landing place on the
other side was miry and slippery, and the fisherman lost a
great deal of time in going and coming ; still he returned
for another goat, and another, and another.'
' Take it for granted he brought them all across,' said
Don Quixote, ' and don't keep going and coming in this way,
or thou wilt not make an end of bringing them over this
twelvemonth.'
' How many have gone across so far ? ' said Sancho.
' How the devil do I know ? ' replied Don Quixote.
CHAPTER XX. 3i9
' There it is,' said Sancho, 'what I told you, that you
must keep a good count; well then, by God, there is an end
of the story, for there is no going any farther.'
' How can that be ? ' said Don Quixote ; ' is it so essential
to the story to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed
over, that if there be a mistake of one in the reckoning,
thou canst not go on with it ? '
'No, seiior, not a bit,' replied Sancho; 'for when I
asked your worship to tell me how many goats had crossed,
and you answered you did not know, at that very instant
all I had to say passed away out of my memory, and,
faith, there was much virtue in it, and entertainment.'
' So, then,' said Don Quixote, ' the story has come to an
end ? '
* As much as my mother has,' said Sancho.
' In truth,' said Don Quixote, ' thou hast told one of the
rarest stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world
could have imagined, and such a way of telling it and end-
ing it was never seen nor will be in a lifetime ; though I
expected nothing else from thy excellent understanding.
But I do not wonder, for perhaps those ceaseless strokes-
may have confused thy wits.'
' All that may be,' replied Sancho, ' but I know that as
to my story, all that can be said is that it ends there where
the mistake in the count of the passage of the goats l begins.'
'Let it end where it will, well and good,' said Don
Quixote, ' and let us see if Eocinante can go ; ' and again
he spurred him, and again Eocinante made jumps and
remained where he was, so well tied was he.
1 See Note B, p. 328.
320 DON QUIXOTE.
Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that
was now approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative
at supper, or that it was only natural (as is most likely),
Sancho felt a desire to do what no one could do for him ; hut
so great was the fear that had penetrated his heart, he dared
not separate himself from his master hy so much as the
hlack of his nail ; to escape doing what he wanted was,
however, also impossible ; so what he did for peace' sake was
to remove his right hand, which held the back of the saddle,
and with it to untie gently and silently the running string
which alone held up his breeches, so that on loosening it
they at once fell down round his feet like fetters; he then
raised his shirt as well as he could and bared his hind
quarters, no slim ones. But, this accomplished, which In-
fancied was all he had to do to get out of this terrible strait
and embarrassment, another still greater difficulty pre-
sented itself, for it seemed to him impossible to relieve him-
self without making some noise, and he ground his teetli and
squeezed his shoulders together, holding his breath as much
as he could ; but in spite of his precautions he was unlucky
enough after all to make a little noise, very different from
that which was causing him so much fear.
Don Quixote, hearing it, said, 'What noise is that.
Sancho ? '
' I don't know, seiior,' said he; ' it must lie something
new, for adventures and misadventures never begin with a
trifle.' Once more he tried his luck, and suceeede.l so well,
that without any further noise or disturbance he found
himself relieved of the burden that had given him so much
-discomfort. But as Don Quixote's sense •>!' smell was as
CHAPTER XX. 321
;acute as his hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked
with him that the fumes rose almost in a straight line, it
could not be but that some should reach his nose, and as
soon as they did he came to its relief by compressing it
between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffling tone,
' Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great fear.'
' I am,' answered Sancho ; ' but how does your worship
perceive it now more than ever ? '
' Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and
not of ambergris,' answered Don Quixote.
'Very likely,' said Sancho, 'but that's not my fault,
but your worship's, for leading me about at unseasonable
hours and at such unwonted paces.'
' Then go back three or four, my friend,' said Don
Quixote, all the time with his fingers to his nose ; ' and for
the future pay more attention to thy person and to what
thou owest to mine ; for it is my great familiarity with thee
that has bred this contempt.'
' I'll bet,' replied Sancho, * that your worship thinks I
have done something I ought not with my person.'
' It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho,' returned
Don Quixote.
With this and other talk of the same sort master and
man passed the night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak
was coming on apace, very cautiously untied Eocinante and
tied up his breeches. As soon as Eocinante found himself
, free, though by nature he was not at all mettlesome, he
seemed to feel lively and began pawing— for as to caper-
ing, begging his pardon, he knew not what it meant.
Don Quixote, then, observing that Eocinante could move,
VOL. i. Y
322 DON QUIXOTE.
took it as a good sign and a signal that lie1 should
attempt the dread adventure. Hv this time day had fully
broken and everything showed distinctly, and Don Quixote
saw that he was among some tall trees, chestnuts, which
cast a very deep shade ; he perceived likewise that the
sound of the strokes did not cease, but could not discover
what caused it, and so without any further delay he let
Eocinante feel the spur, and once more taking leave of
Sancho, he told him to wait for him there three days
at most, as he had said before, and if he should not
have returned by that time, he might feel sure it had
been God's will that he should end his days in that
perilous adventure. He again repeated the message and
commission with which he was to go on his behalf to his
lady Dulcinea, and said he was not to be uneasy as to the
payment of his services, for before leaving home he had
made his will, in which he would find himself fully recom-
pensed in the matter of wages in due proportion to the
time he had served ; but if God delivered him safe, sound,
and unhurt out of that danger, he might look upon the
promised island as much more than certain. Sancho began
to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting words of his
good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final
issue and end of the business. From these tears and this
honourable resolve of Sancho Panza's the author of this
history infers that he must have been of good birth and at
least an old Christian ; ] and the feeling he displayed touched
his master somewhat, hut not so much as to make him
1 An ' old Christian ' was one \\lio had no truce of Moorish blood in his
!; is somewhat inconsistent in the mouth of Cid J linnet
Benengeli.
CHAPTER XX. 323
show any weakness ; on the contrary, hiding what he felt
as well as he could, he began to move towards that quarter
whence the sound of the water and of the strokes seemed
to come.
Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as
his custom was, his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity
or adversity; and advancing some distance through the
shady chestnut trees they came upon a little meadow at
the foot of some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of
water flung itself. At the foot of the rocks were some
rudely constructed houses looking more like ruins than
houses, from among which came, they perceived, the din
and clatter of blows, which still continued without inter-
mission. Eocinante took fright at the noise of the water
and of the blows, but quieting him JDonJ^uixoie advanced
step by step towards the houses, commending himself with
all his heart to his lady, imploring her support in that
dread pass and enterprise, and on the way commending
himself to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho, who never
quitted his side, stretched his neck as far as he could and
peered between the legs of Eocinante to see if he could now
discover what it was that caused him such fear and appre-
hension. They went it might be a hundred paces farther,
when on turning a corner the true cause, beyond the possi-
bility of any mistake, of that dread-sounding and to them
awe-inspiring noise that had kept them all the night in
such fear and perplexity, appeared plain and obvious ; and
it was (if, reader, thou art not disgusted and disappointed)
six fulling hammers which by their alternate strokes made
all the din.
T 2
324 DON QUIXOTE.
When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck
dumb and rigid from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him
and saw him with his head bent down upon his breast in
manifest mortification : and Don Quixote glanced at Sancho
and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full
of laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in
spite of his vexation he could not help laughing at the sight
of him ; and when Sancho saw his master begin he let go
so heartily that he had to hold his sides with both hands to
keep himself from bursting with laughter. Four times he
stopped, and as many times did his laughter break out
afresh with the same violence as at first, whereat Don
Quixote grew furious, above all when he heard him say mock-
ingly, 'Thou must know, friend Sancho, that of Heaven's
will I was born in this our iron age to revive in it the
golden or age of gold ; I am he for whom are reserved
perils, mighty achievements, valiant deeds ; ' and here he
went on repeating all or most of the words that Don
Quixote uttered the first time they heard the awful strokes.
Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him
into ridicule, was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up
his pike and smote him two such blows that if, instead of
catching them on his shoulders, he had caught them on
his head, there would have been no wages to pay, unless
indeed to his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting
an awkward return in earnest for his jest, and fearing his
master might carry it still further, said to him very humbly,
* Calm yourself, sir, for by God I am only joking.'
'"Well, then, if you are joking 1 am not/ replied Don
CHAPTER XX. 325
Quixote. * Look here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead
of being fulling hammers, had been some perilous adventure,
have I not, think you, shown the courage required for the
attempt and achievement ? Am I, perchance, being, as I am,
a gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and
tell whether they come from fulling mills or not ; and that,
when perhaps, as is the case, I have never in my life seen
any as you have, low boor as you are, that have been born
and bred among them ? But turn me these six hammers
into six giants, and bring them to beard me, one by one or
all together, and if I do not knock them head over heels,
then make what mockery you like of me.'
' No more of that, serlor,' returned Sancho ; ' I own I
went a little too far with the joke. But tell me, your
worship, now that peace is made between us (and may God
bring you out of all the adventures that may befall you
as safe and sound as he has brought you out of this one),
was it not a thing to laugh at, and is it not a good story,
the great fear we were in ? — at least that I was in ; for as
to your worship I see now that you neither know nor
understand what either fear or dismay is.'
' I do not deny,' said Don Quixote, * that what happened
to us may be worth laughing at, but it is not worth
making a story about, for it is not everyone that is shrewd
enough to hit the right point of a thing.'
'At any rate,' said Sancho, 'your worship knew how
to hit the right point with your pike, aiming at my head
and hitting me on the shoulders, thanks be to God and my
own smartness in dodging it. But let that pass ; all will
326 DON QUIXOTE.
come out in the scouring ; l for I have heard say ' he loves
thee well that makes thee weep ; ' 2 and moreover that it is
the way with great lords after any hard words they give a
servant to give him a pair of breeches ; though I do not
know what they give after blows, unless it be that knights-
errant after blows give islands, or kingdoms on the main-
land.'
' It may be on the dice,' said Don Quixote, ' that all
thou sayest will come true ; overlook the past, for thou art
shrewd enough to know that our first movements are not
in our own control ; and one thing for the future bear in
mind, that thou curb and restrain thy loquacity in. mv
company ; for in all the books of chivalry that I have read,
and they are innumerable, I never met with a squire who
talked so much to his lord as thou dost to thine ; and in
fact I feel it to be a great fault of thine and of mine : of
thine, that thou hast so little respect for me ; of mine, that
I do not make myself more respected. There was Gandalin,
the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that was Count of the Insula
Firme,3 and we read of him that he always addressed his
lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and
his body bent double, more tnrtincnco. And then, what shall
we say of Gasabal, the squire of Galaor, who was so silent
that in order to indicate to us the greatness of his mar-
vellous taciturnity his name is only once mentioned in the
whole of that history, as long as it is truthful ? 4 .From all
I have said thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there must be ;i
difference between master and man, between lord and
1 Prov. 53. 2 Prov. 130.
3 The ' Insula Firme ' was apparently part of Brittany.
4 See Note C, p. 328.
CHAPTER XX. 327
lackey, between knight and squire : so that from this day
forward in our intercourse we must observe more respect
and take less liberties, for in whatever way I may be pro-
voked with you it will be bad for the pitcher.1 The favours
and benefits that I have promised you will come in due
time, and if they do not your wages at least will not be lost,
as I have already told you.'
' All that your worship says is very well,' said Sancho,
* but I should like to know (in case the time of favours should
not come, and it might be necessary to fall back upon wages)
how much did the squire of a knight-errant get in those
days, and did they agree by the month, or by the day like
bricklayers ? '
'I do not believe,' replied Don Quixote, 'that such
squires were ever on wages, but were dependent on favour ;
and if I have now mentioned thine in the sealed will I have
left at home, it was with a view to what may happen ; for as
yet I know not how chivalry will turn out in these wretched
times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to suffer for trifles
in the other world ; for I would have thee know, Sancho,
that in this there is no condition more hazardous than that
of adventurers.'
' That is true,' said Sancho, ' since the mere noise of the
hammers of a fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart
of such a valiant errant adventurer as your worship ; but
you may be sure I will not open my lips henceforward to
make light of anything of your worship's, but only to honour
you as my master and natural lord.'
1 Prov. 34. In full it is, ' Whether the pitcher hits the stone, or the
.stone the pitcher, it's bad for the pitcher.'
328 DON QUIXOTE.
' By so doing/ replied Don Quixote1, ' shalt thou live long
on the face of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to
be respected as though they wci-e parents.'
Note A (page 813).
The Horn Sancho refers to is the constellation of Ursa Minor, which has
somewhat the shape of a curved hunting horn, and the hour was calculated
by extending the arms horizontally so as to represent a cross, the time being
indicated by the relative position of the Horn to the arms.
Note B (page BID).
The story of the passage of the goats is a very old one. It is the 30th
of the Cento Novelle Antichc, into which it was imported, no doubt, from
the Latin of the Aragonese Jew, Pedro Alfonso. There is a Prove^al tale
to the same effect ; but the original was probably Oriental.
Note C (page 326).
The llev. John Bowie, the learned editor and annotator of Don Qui.ron-.
was painstaking enough to verify this statement. It shows how closely
Cervantes must have at one time read the Awadis.
CHAPTER XXL 329
CHAPTEK XXI.
WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE
OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS
THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT.
IT now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into
the fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such a disgust
to them on account of the late joke that he would not enter
them on any account ; _so_ turning aside to the ri^lit they
came upon another road, different from that which they had
taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don Quixote
perceived a man on horseback who wore on his head some-
thing that shone like gold, and the moment he saw him
he turned to Sancho and said, * I think, Sancho, there
is no proverb that is not true, all being maxims drawn
from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences, espe-
cially that one that says, "Where one door shuts, another
opens." l ^ I say so because if last night fortune shut the
door of the adventure we were looking for against us, cheat-
ing us with the fulling mills, it now opens wide another one
for another better and more certain adventure, and if I do
not contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I can-
not lay if to my ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness
1 Prov. 194.
330 DON QUIXOTE,
of the night. I say this because, if I mistake not, there
comes towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of
Mambrino, concerning which I took the oath thou remem-
berest.'
\j
' Mind what you say, your worship, and still more
what you do,' said Sancho, ' for I don't want any more
fulling mills to finish off fulling and knocking our senses
out.'
'The devil take thee, man,' said Don Quixote; 'what
has a helmet to do with fulling mills ? '
' I don't know,' replied Sancho, ' but, faith, if I might
speak as I used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your
worship would see you were mistaken in what you say.'
' How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving
traitor ? ' returned Don Quixote ; ' tell me, seest thou not
yonder knight coming towards us on a dappled grey steed,
who has upon his head a helmet of gold ? '
' What I see and make out,' answered Sancho, ' is only
a man on a grey ass like my own, who has something that
shines on his head.'
' Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino,' said Don
Quixote ; ' stand to_one side andja&ye me alone with him ;
thou shalt see how, without saying a word, to save time, I
shall bring this adventure to ah issue and possess myself of
tlic helmet i have so longed for.'
'I will take care to stand aside,' said Sancho; 'but (lod
grant, I say once more, that it may be marjoram and not
fulling mills.' l
' I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention
1 See Note A, p. 345.
CHAPTER XXL 331
•
those fulling mills to me again,' said Don Quixote, 'or I
vow — and I say no more — I'll full the soul out of you.1
Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should
carry out the vow he had hurled like a bowl at him.
The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and
knight that Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbour-
hood there were two villages, one of them so small that it
had neither apothecary's shop nor barber, which the other
that was close to it had, so the barber of the larger served
the smaller, and in it there was a sick man who required to
be bled and another man who wanted to be shaved, and on
this errand the barber was going, carrying with him a brass
basin ; but as luck would have it, as he was on the way it
began to rain, and riot to spoil his hat, which probably was
a new one, he put the basin on his head, and being clean
it glittered at half a league's distance. He rode upon a
grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it seem
to Don Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a knight and\
a golden helmet ; for everything he saw he made to fall in
with his crazy chivalry and ill-errant l notions ; and when
he saw the poor knight draw near, without entering into
any parley with him, at Eocinante's top speed he bore down
upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to'
run him through and through, and as he reached him,s
without checking the fury of his charge, he cried to him, ,
•'Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own
accord that which is so reasonably my due.'
The barber, who without any expectation or apprehenf-
,sion of it saw this^ apparition coming down upon him, had
1 Mai-andante, meaning also ' unlucky.'
332 DON QUIXOTE.
I no other way of saving himself from the stroke of the lance
l)iit to let himself fall off his ass; and no sooner had he
touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than a
jeer and sped away across the plain faster than the wind.
He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote
contented himself, saying that the pagan had shown his dis-
cretion and imitated the beaver, which finding itself pressed
by the hunters bites and cuts off with its teeth that for
which, by its natural instinct, it knows it is pursued ,
He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it
in his hands said, ' By God the basin is a good one, and
worth a real of eight l if it is worth a maravedi,' and
handed it to his master, who immediately put it on his
head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search
of the visor, and not finding it he said, 'Clearly the pagan
to whose measure this famous head-piece was first forged
must have had a very large head ; but the worst of it is
half of it is wanting.'
When Sancho heard him call the basin a head-piece he
was unable to restrain his laughter, but remembering his
master's wrath he checked himself in the midst of it.
' What art thou laughing at, Sancho ? ' said J)on
Quixote.
'I am laughing,' said he, 'to think of the great head
the pagan must have had who owned this helmet, for it
looks exactly like a regular barber's basin.'
'Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?' said Don
Quixote; 'that this wonderful piece of this enchanted
helmet must by some strange accident have come into the
1 The eight-real piece = about Is. 8d.
CHAPTER XXL 333
hands of some one who was unable to recognise or realise
its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it
to be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half
for the sake of what it might be worth, and of the other v
made this which is like a barber's basin as thou sayest ; but
be it as it may, to me who recognise it, its transformation
makes no difference^ojLl will set it to rights at the first
village where there is a blacksmith, and in such style that -
that helmet the god of smithies forged for the god of battles
shall not surpass it or even come up to it ; and in the mean- '
time I will wear it as well as I can, for something is better
than nothing ; l all the more as it will be quite enough to A
protect me from any chance blow of a stone.'
'That is,' said Sancho, 'if it is not shot with a sling
as they were in the battle of the two armies, when they
signed the cross on your worship's grinders and smashed
the flask with that blessed draught that made me vomit
my bowels up.'
' It does not grieve me much to have lost it,' said Don
Quixote, ' for thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt
in my memory.'
' So have I,' answered Sancho, ' but if ever I make it,
or try it again as long as I live, may this be my last hour ;'
moreover, I have no intention of putting myself in the way
of wanting it, for I mean, with all my five senses, to keep
myself from being wounded or from wounding anyone : as
to being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to
prevent mishaps of that sort, and if they come there is-
nothing for it but to squeeze our shoulders together, hold
1 Prov. 10.
334 DON QUIXOTE.
our breath, shut our eyes, and let ourselves go where luck
and the blanket may send us.'
' Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,' said Don Quixote
on hearing this, ' for once an injury has been done thee
thou never forgettest it : but know that it is the part of
noble and generous hearts not to attach importance to
trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken rib,
what cracked head, that thou canst not forget that jest ?
For jest and sport it was, properly regarded, and had I not
seen it in that light I would have returned and done more
mischief in revenging thee than the Greeks did for the rape
of Helen, wrho, if she were alive now, or if my Dulcinea
had lived then, might depend upon it she would not be so
famous for her beauty as she is ; ' and here he heaved a
sigh and sent it aloft ; and said Sancho, ' Let it pass for a
jest as it cannot be revenged in earnest, but I know what
sort of jest and earnest it was, and I know7 it will never be
rubbed out of my memory any more than off my shoulders.
But putting that aside, will your worship tell me what are
we to do with this dapple-grey steed that looks like a
grey ass, which that Martino ! that your worship overthrew
has left deserted here ? for, from the wray he took to his
1 MM >ls and bolted, he is not likely ever to come back for it ;
and by my beard but the grey is a good one.'
' I have never been in the habit,' said Don Quixote, 'of
taking spoil of those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice
of chivalry to take away their horses and leave them to go
on foot, unless indeed it be that the victor have lost his own
in the combat, in which case it is lawful to take that of the
1 A blunder of Sancho's for Mambrino.
CHAPTER XXL
335
vanquished as a thing won in lawful war ; therefore, Sancho,
leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be ;
for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back
for it.'
' God knows I should like to take it,' returned Sancho,
' or at least to change it for 1113- own, which does not seem
to me as good a one : verily the laws of chivalry are strict,
since they cannot be stretched to let one ass be changed for
another ; I should like to know if I might at least change
trappings/
' On that head I am not quite certain,' answered Don
Quixote, 'and the matter being doubtful, pending better
information, I say thou mayest change them, if so be thou
hast urgent need of them.'
' So urgent is it,' answered Sancho, ' that if they were
for my own person I could not want them more ; ' and
forthwith, fortified by this licence, he effected the mutatw
('{(jyiarum,1 and rigged out his beast to the ninety-nines,
making quite another thing of it. This done, they broke
their fast on the remains of the spoils of war plundered
from the sumpter mule, and drank of the brook that flowed
from the fulling mills, without casting a look in that direc-
tion, in such loathing did they hold them for the alarm
they had caused them ; and, all anger and gloom removed,
they mounted and, without taking any fixed road (not to-
fix upon any being the proper thing for true knights-errant),
they set out, guided by Rocinante's will, which carried
1 The mutatio capparum was the change of hoods authorised by the
Koman ceremonial, when the cardinals exchanged the fur-lined hoods worn
in winter for lighter ones of silk. There is a certain audacity of humour
in the application of the phrase here.
336 DON QUIXOTE.
along with it that of his master, not to say that of th«
which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and
sociably; nevertheless they returned to the high road, and
pursued it at a venture without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to
his master, ' Seiior, would your worship give me leave to
speak a little to you ? For since you laid that hard injunc-
tion of silence on me several things have gone to rot in my
stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of my tongue
that I don't want to be spoiled.'
'Say on, Sancho/ said Don Quixote, 'and be brief in
thy discourse, for there is no pleasure in one that is long/
' Well then, seiior,' returned Sancho, ' I say that for
some days past I have been considering how little is got or
gained by going in search of these adventures that your
worship seeks in these wilds and cross-roads, where, even if
the most perilous are victoriously achieved, there is no one
to see or know of them, and so they must be left untold for
ever, to the loss of your worship's object and the credit
they deserve ; therefore it seems to me it would be better
(saving your worship's 1 tetter judgment) if we were to go
and serve some emperor or other great prince who may
have some war on hand, in whose service your worship
may prove the worth of your person, your great might, and
greater understanding, on perceiving \yhich the lord in
whose service we may lie will perforce have to reward us.
each according to his merits; and there you will not be
at a loss for some one to set down your achievements in
writing so as to preserve their memory for ever. Of my
own T say nothing, as they will ngt go beyond squirely
CHAPTER XXL
337
limits, though I make hold to say that, if it he the practice
in chivalry to write the achievements of squires, I think
mine must not he left out.'
* Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho,' answered Don
Quixote, * hut hefore that point is reached it is requisite to
roam the world, as it were on probation, seeking adventures,
in order that, by achieving some, name and fame may be
acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the court of
some great monarch the knight may be already known by
his deeds, and that the boys, the instant they see him
enter the gate of the city, may all follow him and sur-
round him, crying, "This is the Knight of the Sun"-
or the Serpent, or any other title under which he may
have achieved great deeds. "This," they will say, "is he*
who vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabrund
of mighty strength ; he who delivered the great Mameluke
of Persia out of the long enchantment under which he had
been for almost nine hundred years." l So from one to
another they will go proclaiming his achievements ; and
presently- at the tumult of the boys and the others, the king
of that kingdom will appear at the windows of his royal
palace, and as soon as he beholds the knight, recognising-
him by his arms and the device on his shield, he will as a
matter of course say, "What ho ! Forth all ye, the knights
of my court, to receive the flower of chivalry who cometh
hither ! " At which command all will issue forth, and he
himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace
him closely, and salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and
will then lead him to the queen's chamber, where the
» See Note B, p. 345.
VOL. I. Z
M
338 DON QUIXOTE.
knight will find her with the princess her daughter, who
will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished damsels
that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in
the known world. Straightway it will come to pass that
she will fix her eyes upon the knight and he his upon her,
and each will seem to the other something more divine
than human, and, without knowing how or why, they will
be taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and
sorely distressed in their hearts not to -see any way of
making their pains and sufferings known by speech. Thence
they will lead him, no doubt, to some richly adorned
chamber of the palace, where, having removed his armour,
they will bring him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to
robe himself, and if he looked noble in his armour he will
look still more so in a doublet. When night comes he will
sup with the king, queen, and princess ; and all the time
he will never take his eyes off her, stealing stealthy glances,
unnoticed by those present, and she will do the same, and
with equal cautiousness, being, as I have said, a damsel of
great discretion. The tables being removed, suddenly through
the door of the hall there will enter a hideous and diminutive
dwarf followed by a fair dame, between two giants, who
comes with a certain adventure, the work of an ancient
sag<i ; and he who shall achieve it shall be deemed the best
knight in the world.1 The king will then command all
those present to essay it, and none will bring it to an end
and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the great en-
hancement of his fame, wlim-ut (lie princess will be over-
joyed and will esteem herself happy and fortunate in having
' See Note C, p. ."If,.
CHAPTER XXI. 339
fixed and placed her thoughts so high. And the best of it is
that this king, or prince, or whatever he is, is engaged in a
very bitter war with another as powerful as himself, and the
stranger knight, after having been some days at his court,
requests leave from him to go and serve him in the said
war. The king will grant it very readily, and the
knight will courteously kiss his hands for the favour done
to him ; and that night he will take leave of his lady, the
princess at the grating of the chamber where she sleeps,
which looks upon a garden, and at which he has already
many times conversed with her, the go-between and confi-
dante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by the
princess. He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will
fetch water, he will be distressed because morning ap-
proaches, and for the honour of his lady he would not that
they were discovered ; at last the princess will come to her-
self and will present her white hands through the grating
to the knight, who will kiss them a thousand and a thousand
times, bathing them with his tears. It will be arranged
between them how they are to inform each other of their
good or evil fortunes, and the princess will entreat him to
make his absence as short as possible, which he will promise
to do with many oaths.; once more he kisses her hands, and
takes his leave in such grief that he is well-nigh ready to
die. He betakes him thence to his chamber, flings himself
on his bed, cannot sleep for sorrow at parting, rises early
in the morning, goes to take leave of the king, queen, and
princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair, it^s told him
that the princess is indisposed and cannot receive a visit ;
the knight thinks it is .from grief at his departure, his
z 2
340 DON QUIXOTE.
heart is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from
showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes till,
goes to tell her mistress, who listens with tears and saya
that one of her greatest distresses is not knowing who this
knight is, and whether he is of kingly lineage or not ; the
damsel assures her that so much courtesy, gentleness, and
gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not exist
in any save one who was royal and illustrious^ her anxiety
is thus relieved, and she strives to be of good cheer lest she
should excite suspicion in her parents, and at the end of
two days she appears in public. Meanwhile the knight has
taken his departure; he fights in the war, conquers the
king's enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many battles,
returns to the court, sees his lady where he was wont to
see her, and it is agreed that he shall demand her in
marriage of her parents as the reward of his services ; the
king is unwilling to give her, as he knows not who he is,
but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other
way it may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and her
father comes to regard it as very good fortun&j for it so
happens that this knight is proved to be the son of a valiant
king of some kingdom, I know not what, for I fancy it is
not likely to be on the map ; the father dies, the princess
inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. And
here comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his
squire and all who have aided him in rising to so exalted a,
rank. He marries his squire to a damsel of the princess's,
who will be, no doubt, the one who was confidante in their
ainour, and is daughter of a very great duke.'
' That's what I want, and no mistake about it ! ' said
CHAPTER XXL 34 T
•Sancho. ' That's what I'm waiting for ; for all this, word
for word, is in store for your worship under the title of The
Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'
' Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote,
•' for in the same manner, and by the same steps as I have
described here, knights-errant rise and have risen to be
kings and emperors ; all we want now is to find out what
king, Christian or pagan, is at war and has a beautiful
daughter ; but there will be time enough to think of that,
for, as I have told thee, fame must be won in other quarters
before repairing to the court. There is another thing, too,
that is wanting ; for supposing we find a king who is at war
and has a beautiful daughter, and that I have won incredi-
ble fame throughout the universe, I know not how it can be
made out that I am of royal lineage, or even second cousin to
.an emperor ; for the king will not be willing to give me his
daughter in marriage unless he is first thoroughly satisfied
on this point, however much my famous deeds may deserve
it ; so that by this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm
has fairly earned. True it is I am a gentleman of a known
house, of estate and property, and entitled to the five hun-
dred sueldos mulct ; l and it may be that the sage who shall
write my history will so clear up my ancestry and pedigree
that I may find myself fifth or sixth in descent from a
king ; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that there are
two kinds of lineages in the world ; some there be tracing
and deriving their descent from kings and princes, whom
time has reduced little by little until they end in a point
like a pyramid upside down ; and others who spring from
1 See Note D, p. 345.
342 DON QUIXOTE.
the common herd and go on rising step by step until they
come to be great lords ; so that the difference is that the
one were what they no longer are, and the others are what
they formerly were not. And I may be of such that after in-
vestigation my origin may prove great and famous, with
which the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be
satisfied ; and should he not be, the princess will so love
me that even though she well knew me to be the son of a
water-carrier, she will take me for her lord and husband in
spite of her father ; if not, then it comes to seizing lit r
and carrying her off where I please ; for time or death will
put an end to the wrath of her parents.'
' It comes to this, too,' said Sancho, ' what some
naughty people say, "Never ask as a favour what thou
canst take by force ; " l though it would fit better to say,
" A clear escape is better than good men's prayers." 2 I say
so because if my lord the king, your worship's father-in-
law, will not condescend to give you my lady the princess,
there is nothing for it but, as your worship says, to sei/e
her and transport her. But the mischief is that until peace
is made and you come into the peaceful enjoyment of your
kingdom, the poorjjsquire is famishing as far as rewards go,
unless it be that the confidante damsel that is to be his wife
comes with the princess, and that with her he tides over his
bad luck until Heaven otherwise orders things ; for his
master, I suppose, may as well give her to him at once for
a lawful wife.'
'Nobody can object to that,' said Don Quixote.
'Then since that maybe,' said Sancho, ' there is n<>-
1 Prov. 107. '-' SOP Note H, p. :Jir>.
CHAPTER XXL 345
thing for it but to commend ourselves to God, and let for-
tune take what course it will.'
* God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants/
said Don Quixote, ' and mean be he who makes himself
mean.' 1
* In God's name let him be so,' said Sancho ; ' I
am an old Christian, and to fit me for a count that's
enough.' 2
* And more than enough for thee,' said Don Quixote ;
* and even wert thou not, it would make no difference,
because I being the king can easily give thee nobility with-
out purchase or service rendered by thee, for when I make
thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman ; and they
may say what they will, but by my faith they will have
to call thee " your lordship," whether they like it or
not.'
' Not a doubt of it ; and I'll know how to support the
tittle,' said Sancho.
* Title thou shouldst say, not tittle,' said his master.
' So be it/ answered Sancho, ' I say I will know how to
behave, for once in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood,
and the beadle's gown sat so well on me that all said I
looked as if I was fit to be steward of the same brother-
hood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke's robe on
my back, or dress myself in gold and pearls like a foreign
count ? I believe they will come a hundred leagues to see
me.'
' Thou wilt look well/ said Don Quixote, ' but thou
must shave thy beard often, for thou hast it so thick and
1 Prov. 210. 2 Prov. 61. V. note, p. 322.
344 DON QUIXOTE.
rough and unkempt, that if thou dost not shave it every
second day at least, they will see what thou art at the
distance of a musket shot/
' What more will it he,' said Sancho, ' than having a
barber, and keeping him at wages in the house ? and even
if it be necessary, I will make him go behind me like a
nobleman's equerry.'
' Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries
behind them ? ' asked Don Quixote.
' I will tell you,' answered Sancho. ' Years ago I was
for a month at the capital,1 and there I saw taking the air
a very small gentleman who they said was a very great
man,2 and a man following him on horseback in every turn
he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man
did not join the other man, instead of always going behind
him ; they answered me that he was his equerry, and that
it was the custom with nobles to have such persons behind
them, and ever since then I know it, for I have never for-
gotten it.'
' Thou art right,' said Don Quixote, ' and in the same way
thou mayest carry thy barber with thee, for customs did
not come into use all together, nor were they all invented
at once, and thou mayest be the first count to have a barber
to follow him ; and, indeed, shaving one's beard is a greater
trust than saddling one's horse.'
' Let the barber business be my look-out,' said Sancho ;
1 Literally ' at the Court '— la Corte.
2 No doubt Pedro Tellez Giron, third Duke of Osuna, afterwards Viceroy
in Sicily and Naples ; ' a little man, but of great fame and fortunes,'
as Howell, writing twenty years later, calls him.
CHAPTER XXL 345
< ami your worship's be it to strive to become a king, and
make me a count.'
' So it shall be,' answered Don Quixote, and raising his
eyes he saw what will be told in the following chapter.
Note A (page 380).
Prov. 160. In full, ' Plegue a Dios que oregano sea, y no se nos vuelva
Icaravda.'— ' Pray God it may prove wild marjoram, and not turn out carra-
way on us.' Shelton and Jervas not knowing the proverb have mistranslated
the passage ; the latter shirks the difficulty, and the former translates oregano
' a purchase of gold.'
Note B (page 337).
Cervantes gives here an admirable epitome, and without any extravagant
caricature, of a typical romance of chivalry. For every incident there is
ample authority in the romances.
Note C (page 338).
Hartzenbusch, considering ' adventure ' unintelligible, would substitute
' enigma ' or ' prophecy ' for it ; and ' explain ' for ' achieve ; ' but absolute
consistency in a burlesque passage like this is scarcely worth insisting upon.
Note D (page 341).
A 'hidalgo de devengar quinientos sueldos,' was one who by the ancient
fueros of Castile had a right to recover 500 sueldos for an injury to person
or property. This is the common explanation ; Huarte, in the Examen de
Infjcnios, says it means the descendant of one who enjoyed a grant of 500
sueldos for distinguished services in the field. The sueldo was an old coin
varying in value from a halfpenny to three-halfpence.
Note E (page 342).
Prov. 212. ' Mas vale salto de mata que ruego de hombres buenos.'
Mata is here an old equivalent of matanza = ' slaughter ; ' in modern
Spanish the word means a bush or hedge, in consequence of which the
proverb is generally misunderstood and mistranslated.
346 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTER XXII.
OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UN-
FORTUNATES WHO AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED
WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO.
CID HAMET BENENGELT, the Arab and Manchegan author,
relates in this most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful,
and original history that after the discussion between the
famous Don Quixote of La Manclia and his squire Sancho
Panza which is set down at the end of chapter twenty-one,
Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road
he was following some dozen men on foot strung together by
the neck, like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with
manacles on their hands. With them there came also two
men on horseback and two on foot ; those on horseback with
wheel- lock muskets, those on foot with javelins and swords,
and as soon as Sancho saw them he said, ' That is a chain
of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force of the
king's orders.'
' How by force ? ' asked Don Quixote ; ' is it possible that
the king uses force against anyone ? '
'I do not say that,' answered Sancho, * but that these
are people condemned for their crimes to serve by force in
the king's galleys.'
v
CHAPTER XXII. 347
' In fact,' replied Don Quixote, ' however it may be,
these people are going where they are taking them by force,
and not of their own will.'
' Just so,' said Sancho.
' Then if so,' said Don Quixote, '-here is a case for the
exercise of my office, to put down force and to succour and
help the wretched.'
* Recollect, your worship,' said Sancho, ' Justice, which
is the king himself, is not using force or doing wrong to
such persons, but punishing them for their crimes.'
The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up,
and Don Quixote in very courteous language asked those
who were in custody of it to be good enough to tell him the
reason or reasons for which they were conducting these
people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback
answered that they were galley slaves belonging to his
majesty, that they were going to the galleys, and that was
all that was to be said and all he had any business to know.
'Nevertheless,' replied Don Quixote, 'I should like to
know from each of them separately the reason of his mis-
fortune ; ' to this he added more to the same effect to induce
them to tell him what he wanted so civilly that the other
mounted guard said to him, * Though we have here the
register and certificate of the sentence of every one of these
wretches, this is no time to take them out or read them ;
come and ask themselves ; they can tell if they choose,
and they will, for these fellows take a pleasure in doing and
talking about rascalities.'
With this permission, which Don Quixote would have
taken even had they not granted it, he approached the chain
348 DON QUIXOTE.
and asked the first for what offences he was now in such a
sorry case.
He made answer that it was for being a lover.
* For that only ? ' replied Don Quixote ; * why, if for
being lovers they send people to the galleys I might have
been rowing in them long ago.'
' The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of,
said the galley slave; 'mine was that I loved a washer-
woman's basket of clean linen so well, and held it so close
in my embrace, that if the arm of the law had not forced
it from me, I should never have let it go of my own will to
this moment ; I was caught in the act, there was no occa-
sion for torture, the case was settled, they treated me to a
hundred lashes on the back, and three years of gnrapas
besides, and that was the end of it.'
' What are gurapas ? ' asked Don Quixote.
' Gurapas are galleys,' l answered the galley slave, who
was a young man of about four-and-twenty, and said he was
a native of Piedrahita.
Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who
made no reply, so downcast and melancholy was he ; but the
first answered for him, and said, ' He, sir, goes as a canary,
I mean as a musician and a singer.'
' What ! ' said Don Quixote, ' for being musicians and
singers do people go to the galleys too ? '
' Yes, sir,' answered the galley slave, ' for there is nothing
worse than singing under suffering.'
' On the contrary, I have heard say,' said Don Quixote,
' that he who sings scares away his woes.' 2
1 See Note A, p. 'Ml. * Prov. 32.
CHAPTER XXII. 349
' Here it is the reverse,' said the galley slave ; * for he
who sings once weeps all his life.'
' I do not understand it,' said Don Quixote ; but one of
the guards said to him, ' Sir, to sing under suffering means
with the non sancta fraternity to confess under torture ; they
put this sinner to the torture and he confessed his crime,
which was being a cuatrero, that is a cattle-stealer, and on
his confession they sentenced him to six years in the galleys,
besides two hundred lashes that he has already had on the
back ; and he is always dejected and downcast because the
other thieves that were left behind and that march here ill-
treat, and snub, and jeer, and despise him for confessing
and not having spirit enough to say nay; for, say they,
" nay " has no more letters in it than " yea," l and a culprit
is well off when life or death with him depends on his own
tongue and not on that of witnesses or evidence ; and to my
thinking they are not very far out.'
' And I think so too,' answered Don Quixote ; then passing
to the third he asked him what he had asked the others,
the man answered very readily and unconcernedly, * I
am going for five years to their ladyships the gurapas for
the want of ten ducats.'
' I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that
trouble,' said Don Quixote.
* That,' said the galley slave, ' is like a man having
money at sea when he is dying of hunger and has no way
of buying what he wants ; I say so because if at the
right time I had had those twenty ducats that your worship
now offers me, I would have greased the notary's pen and
1 Prov. 126.
350 DON QUIXOTE.
freshened up the attorney's wit with them, so that to-day I
should be in the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at
Toledo, and not on this road coupled like a greyhound. But
God is great ; patience — there, that's enough of it.'
Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable
nspect with a white beard falling below his breast, who on
hearing himself asked the reason of his being there began
to weep without answering a word, but the fifth acted as his
tongue and said, ' This worthy man is going to the galleys
for four years, after having gone the rounds in the robe of
ceremony and on horseback.' !
' That means,' said Sancho Panza, ( as I take it, to have
"been exposed to shame in public.'
1 Just so/ replied the galley slave, 'and the offence for
which they gave him that punishment was having been an
oar-broker, nay body-broker; I mean, in short, that this
gentleman goes as a pimp, and for having besides a certain
touch of the sorcerer about him.'
'If that touch had not been thrown in,' said Don
Quixote, ' he would not deserve, for mere pimping, to row in
the galleys, but rather to command and be admiral of them ;
for the office of pimp is no ordinary one, being the office of
persons of discretion, one very necessary in a well -ordered
state, and only to be exercised by persons of good birth ; nay,
tin-re ought to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in
other offices, and a fixed and recognised number, as with the
brokers on change; in this way many of the evils would
be avoided which are caused by this office and calling being
1 Malefactors were commonly whipped in this way, and the ceremony is
frequently alluded to in the J'icfircsfjuc novels.
CHAPTER XXI T. 351
in the hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as women
more or less silly, and pages and jesters of little standing
and experience, who on the most urgent occasions, and when
ingenuity of contrivance is needed, let the crumbs freeze on
the way to their mouths,1 and know not which is their right
hand. I would go farther, and give reasons to show that it
is advisable to choose those who are to hold so necessary an
office in the state, but this is not the fit place for it ; some
day I will expound the matter to some one able to see to and
rectify it ; all I say now is, that the additional fact of his
being a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave me to see
these white hairs and this venerable countenance in so pain-
ful a position on account of his being a pimp ; though I
know well there are no sorceries in the world that can move
or compel the will as some simple folk fancy, for our will is
free, nor is there herb or charm that can force it. All that
certain silly women and quacks do is to turn men mad with
potions and poisons, pretending that they have power to cause
love, for, as I say, it is an impossibility to compel the will.'
'It is true,' said the good old man, 'and indeed, sir, as
far as the charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty ; as to
that of being a pimp I cannot deny it ; but I never thought
I was doing any harm by it, for my only object was that
all the world should enjoy itself and live in peace and
quiet, without quarrels or troubles ; but my good intentions
were unavailing to save me from going where I never expect
to come back from, with this weight of years upon me and
a urinary ailment that never gives me a moment's ease ; '
and again he fell to weeping as before, and such compassion
1 Prov. 186.
352 DON QUIXOTE.
did Sancho feel for him that he took out a real of four from
his bosom and gave it to him in alms.
Don Quixote went on and asked another what his
crime was, and the man answered with no less but rather
much more sprightliness than the last one, ' I am here be-
cause I carried the joke too far with a couple of cousins of
mine, and with a couple of other cousins who were none of
mine ; in short, I carried the joke so far with them all that
it ended in such a complicated increase of kindred that no
accountant could make it clear : it was all proved against
me, I got no favour, I had no money, I was near having
my neck stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for six
years, I accepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault ;
I am a young man ; let life only last, and with that all will
come right. If you, sir, have anything wherewith to help the
poor, God will repay it to you in heaven, and we on earth
will take care in our petitions to him to pray for the life
and health of your worship, that they may be as long and
as good as your amiable appearance deserves.' This one
was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he
a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.
Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very
personable fellow, except that when he looked his eyes
turned in a little one towards the other. He was bound
differently from the rest, for he had to his leg a chain so
long that it was wound all round his body, and two rings
on his neck, one attached to the chain, the other to what
they call a ' keep-friend ' or * friend's foot,' from which hung
two irons reaching to his waist with two manacles fixed to
them in which his hands were secured by a big padlock, so
CHAPTER XXII. 353
that he could neither raise his hands to his mouth nor lower
his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this man
carried so many more chains than the others. The guard
replied that it was because he alone had committed more
crimes than all the rest put together, and was so daring
and such a villain, that though they marched him in that
fashion they did not feel sure of him, but were in dread of
his making his escape.
' What crimes can he have committed,' said Don
Quixote, ' if they have not deserved a heavier punishment
than being sent to the galleys ? '
He goes for ten years,' replied the guard, ' which is the
same thing as civil death, and all that need be said is that
this good fellow is the famous Gines de Pasamonte, other-
wise called Ginesillo de Parapilla.'
' Gently, seiior commissary,' said the galley slave at
this, ' let us have no fixing of names or surnames ; my
name is Gines, not Ginesillo, and my family name is
Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you say ; let each one mind
his own business, and he will be doing enough.'
' Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra
measure,' replied the commissary, ' if you don't want me to
make you hold your tongue in spite of your teeth.'
' It is easy to see,' returned the galley slave, ' that man
goes as God pleases,1 but some one shall know some day
whether I am called Ginesillo de Parapilla or not.'
' Don't they call you so, you liar ? ' said the guard.
' They do,' returned Gines, ' but I will make them give
over calling me so with a vengeance ; where, I won't say.
1 Prov. 79.
VOL. I. A A
354 DON QUIXOTE.
If you, sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once,,
and God speed you, for you are becoming tires* tine with all
this inquisitiveness about the lives of others ; if you want to
know about mine, let me tell you I am Gines de Pasamonte,
whose life is written by these fingers.'
'He says true,' said the commissary, 'for he has himself
written his story as grand as you please, and has left the
book in the prison in pawn for two hundred reals.'
'And I mean to take it out of pawn,' said Gines,
' though it were in for two hundred ducats.'
' Is it so good ? ' said Don Quixote.
' So good is it,' replied Gines, ' that a fig for " Lazarillo
de Tonnes," and all of that kind that have been written, or
shall be written,1 compared with it : all I will say about it
is that it deals with facts, and facts so neat and diverting
that no lies could match them.'
' And how is the book entitled ? ' asked Don Quixote.
' The " Life of Gines de Pasamonte,"' replied the subject
of it.
' And is it finished ? ' asked Don Quixote.
* How can it be finished,' said the other, ' when my life
is not yet finished ? All that is written is from my birth
down to the point when they sent me to the galleys this last
time.'
' Then you have been there before ? ' said Don Quixote.
' In the service of God and the king I have been there for
four years before now, and I know by this time what the bis-
cuit and courbasb are like,' replied Gines ; ' and it is no great
grievance to me to go back to them, for there I shall have
' See Note B, p. :»51.
CHAPTER XXII.
355
time to finish my book ; I have still many things left to
say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than enough
leisure ; though I do not want much for what I have to
write, for I have it by heart.'
* You seem a clever fellow,' said Don Quixote.
' And an unfortunate one,' replied Gines, ' for mis-
fortune always persecutes wit.'
* It persecutes rogues,' said the commissary.
' I told you already to go gently, master commissary/
said Pasamonte ; ' their lordships yonder never gave you
that staff to ill-treat us wretches here, but to conduct and
take us where his majesty orders you ; if not, by the life of
— never mind — ; it may be that some day the stains made in
the inn will come out in the scouring ; l let everyone hold
his tongue and behave well and speak better ; and now let
us march on, for we have had quite enough of this enter-
tainment.'
The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in
return for his threats, but Don Quixote came between them,
and begged him not to ill-use him, as it was not too much
to allow one who had his hands tied to have his tongue a
trifle free ; and turning to the whole chain of them he said,
•' From all you have told me, dear brethren, I make out
clearly that though they have punished you for your faults,
the punishments you are about to endure do not give
you much pleasure, and that you go to them very much
against the grain and against your will, and that per-
haps this one's want of courage under torture, that one's
want of money, the other's want of advocacy, and lastly
1 See Note C, p. 361.
A A 2
356 DON QUIXOTE.
the perverted judgment of the judge may have been the
cause of your ruin and of your failure to obtain the justice
YOU had on your side. All which presents itself now to my
mind, urging, persuading, and even compelling me to de-
monstrate in your case the purpose for which Heaven sent
me into the world and caused me to make profession of the
order of chivalry to which I belong, and the vow I took
therein to give aid to those in need and under the oppression
of the strong. But as I know that it is a mark of prudence
not to do by foul means what may be done by fair, I will
ask these gentlemen, the guards and commissary, to be so
good as to release you and let you go in peace, as there will
be no lack of others to serve the king under more favour-
able circumstances ; for it seems to me a hard case to make
slaves of those whom God and nature have made free.
Moreover, sirs of the guard,' added Don Quixote, 'these
poor fellows have done nothing to you ; let each answer for
his own sins yonder ; there is a God in heaven who will not
forget to punish the wicked or reward the good ; and it is
not fitting that honest men should be the instruments of
\ punishment to others, they being therein no way concerned.
This request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you
comply with it, I may have reason for thanking you ; and,
if you will not voluntarily, this lance and sword together
with the might of my arm shall compel you to comply with
it by force.'
1 Nice nonsense ! ' said the commissary ; ' a fine piece of
pleasantry he has come out with at last ! He wants us to let
the king's prisoners go, as if we had any authority to rel<
them, or he to order us to do so ! Go your waj^fiii^ and
CHAPTER XXII. 357
good luck to you ; put that basin straight that you've got 011
your head, and don't go looking for three feet on a cat.' l
' 'Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal,' replied Don
Quixote, and acting on the word he fell upon him so suddenly
that without giving him time to defend himself he brought
him to the ground sorely wounded with a lance-thrust ; and
lucky it was for him that it was the one that had the
musket. The other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed
at this unexpected event, but recovering presence of mind,
those on horseback 2 seized their swords, and those on foot
their javelins, and attacked Don Quixote, who was waiting
for them with great calmness ; and no doubt it would have
gone badly with him if the galley slaves seeing the chance
before them of liberating themselves had not effected it
by contriving to break the chain on which they were strung.
Such was the confusion, that the guards, now rushing at
the galley slaves who were breaking loose, now to attack
Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did nothing at all
that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping
hand to release Gines de Pasamonte, who was the first to
leap forth upon the plain free and unfettered, and who,
attacking the prostrate commissary, took from him his
sword and the musket, with which, aiming at one and
levelling at another, he, without ever discharging it, drove
every one of the guards off the field, for they took to flight,
as well to escape Pasamonte's musket, as the showers of
stones the now released galley slaves were raining upon
1 Prov. 103. Of course it should be ' five ; ' and the proverb is so given
by Blasco de Garay.
2 At the beginning of the chapter we were told there were only two on
horseback, and that both of them had muskets.
358 DON QUIXOTE.
them. Sancho was greatly grieved at the affair, because
lie anticipated that those who had fled would report the
matter to the Holy Brotherhood, who at the summons
of the alarm-hell would at once sally forth in quest of the
offenders; and he said so to his master, and entreated
him to leave the place at once, and go into hiding in the
sierra that was close by.
' That is all very well,' said Don Quixote, ' but I know
what must be done now ; ' and calling together all the
galley slaves, who were now running riot, and had stripped
the commissary to the skin, he collected them round him
to hear what he had to say, and addressed them as follows :
* To be grateful for benefits received is the part of persons
of good birth, and one of the sins most offensive to God is
ingratitude ; I say so because, sirs, ye have already seen
by manifest proof the benefit ye have received of me ; in
return for which I desire, and it is my good pleasure
that, laden with that chain which I have taken off your
necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of El
Toboso, and there present yourselves before the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of
the Rueful Countenance, sends to commend himself to her ;
and that ye recount to her in full detail all the particulars
of this notable adventure, up to the recovery of your
longed-for liberty ; and this done ye may go where ye will,
and good fortune attend you.'
Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, savin,-;, ' That
which you, sir, our deliverer, demand of us, is of all im-
possibilities the most impossible to comply with, because wo
cannot go together along the roads, but only singly and
CHAPTER XX I L 359
separate, and each one his own way, endeavouring to hide
ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape the Holy
Brotherhood, which, no doubt, will come out in search of
us. What your worship may do, and fairly do, is to
change this service and tribute as regards the lady
Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity of ave-marias
and credos which we will say for your worship's inten-
tion,1 and this is a condition that can be complied with by
night as well as by day, running or resting, in peace or
in war ; but to imagine that we are going now to return to
the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean to take up our chain and
set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that it is now night,
though it is not yet ten in the morning, and to ask this of
us is like asking pears of the elm tree.' 2
' Then by all that's good,' said Don Quixote (now stirred
to wrath), 'Don son of a bitch, Don G-inesillo de Paropillo,
or whatever your name is, you will have to go yourself
alone, with your tail between your legs and the whole chain
on your back.'
Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this
time thoroughly convinced that Don Quixote was not quite
right in his head as he had committed such a vagary as
trying to set them free), finding himself abused in this
fashion, gave the wink to his companions, and falling back
they began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate
that he was quite unable to protect himself with his buckler,
and poor Rocinante no more heeded the spur than if he had
been made of brass. Sancho planted himself behind his
1 To pray for ' the intention ' of another is a proof of devotional sym-
pathy. 2 proVi 130.
360 DON QUIXOTE.
ass, and with him sheltered himself from the hailstorm
that poured on hoth of them. Don Quixote was unable to
shield himself so well but that more pebbles than I coulcl
count struck him full on the body with such force that they
brought him to the ground ; and the instant he fell the
student pounced upon him, snatched the basin from his
head, and with it struck three or four blows on his
shoulders, and as many more on the ground knocking it
almost to pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket
that he wore over his armour, and they would have
stripped off his stockings if his greaves had not prevented
them. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving him in
his shirt-sleeves ; and dividing among themselves the re-
maining spoils of the battle, they went each one his own
way, more solicitous about keeping clear of the Holy
Brotherhood they dreaded, than about burdening thorn-
selves with the chain, or going to present themselves before
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Eocinante,
Sancho and Don Quixote, were all that were left upon the
spot ; the ass with drooping head, serious, shaking his ears
from time to time as if he thought the storm of stones
that assailed them was not yet over ; Kocinante stretched
beside his master, for he too had been brought to the
ground by a stone ; Sancho stripped, and trembling with
fear of the Holy Brotherhood ; and Don Quixote fuming to
find himself so served by the very persons for whom he had
done so much.
CHAPTER XXII. 361
Note A (page 348).
Gurapas, a word from the ' Germania ' or rogue's dialect, of which there
are many specimens in this chapter and scattered through Don Quixote.
Indeed, Juan Hidalgo's Vocabulario of the Germania tongue is absolutely
necessary to anyone reading the book in the original.
Note B (page 354).
At the time Cervantes was writing the only book of the kind (i.e. pica-
resque fiction) that had appeared besides Lazarillo de Tormes was Aleman's
Guzman deAlfaraclie, at which, it has been suggested, this passage is aimed.
Note C (page 355).
Prov. 53. Clemencin thinks there is an allusion here to Aleman's
Guzman de Alfarache,fhe hero of which is sent to the galleys like Gines de
Pasamonte, and at an inn on the road ingratiates himself with the com-
missary by presenting him with a pig he had stolen. But Clemencin forgot
that this incident occurs in the Second Part of Guzman, which was not
published till after Don Quixote.
362 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTEE XXIII.
OK WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIEEEA MOHENA, WHICH
WAS ONE OF THE BAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS
YKKACIOUS HISTORY.
SEEING himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his
squire, * I have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do
good to hoors is to throw water into the sea.1 If I had
believed thy words, I should have avoided this trouble ; but
it is done now, it is only to have patience and take warning
from this for the future.
' Your worship will take warning as much as I am a
Turk,' returned Sancho ; ' but, as you say this mischief
might have been avoided if you had believed me, believe
me now, and a still greater one will be avoided ; for I tell
you chivalry is of no account with the Holy Brotherhood,
and they don't care two maravedis for all the knights-errant
in the world ; and I can tell you I fancy I hear their arrows
whistling past my cars this minute.'
'Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho,' said Don Qui-
xote, 'but lest thou shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I
never do as thou dost advisr, this once I will take thy
advice, and withdraw out of reach of that fury thou so
dnadest; but it must be on one condition, that never, in
' Prov. 240.
CHAPTER XXIII. 363
life or in death, thou art to say to anyone that I retired or
withdrew from this danger out of fear, but only in com-
pliance with thy entreaties; for if thou sayest otherwise
thou wilt lie therein, and from this time to that, and from
that to this, I give thee the lie, and say thou liest and wilt
lie every time thou thinkest or sayest it ; and answer me
not again ; for at the mere thought that I am withdrawing
or retiring from any danger, above all from this, which does
seem to carry some little shadow of fear with it, I am ready
to take my stand here and await alone, not only that Holy
Brotherhood you talk of and dread, but the brothers of the
twelve tribes of Israel, and the Seven Maccabees, and
Castor and Pollux, and all the brothers and brotherhoods
in the world.'
' Seiior,' replied Sancho, ' to retire is not to flee, and
there is no wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope,
and it is the part of wise men to preserve themselves to-day
for to-morrow, and not risk all in one day ; and let me tell
you, though I am a clown and a boor, I have got some notion
of what they call safe conduct : so repent not of having taken
my advice, but mount Eocinante if you can, and if not I will
help you ; and follow me, for my mother-wit tells me we have
more need of legs than hands just now.'
Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho
leading the way on his ass, they entered the side of the
Sierra Morena, which was close by, as it was Sancho's
design to cross it entirely and come out again at El Viso or
Almodovar del Campo,1 and hide for some days among its
crags so as to escape the search of the Brotherhood should
1 See Note A, p. 378.
364 DON QUIXOTE.
they conn- to look for them. He was encouraged in this by
pereeiving that the stock of provisions carried by the ass
had conn- safe out of the fray with the galley slaves, a cir-
cumstance that he regarded as a miracle, seeing how they
pillaged and ransacked.
That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra
Morena, where it seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the
night and even some days, at least as many as the stores
he carried might last, and so they encamped between two
rocks and among some cork trees ; but fatal destiny, which,
according to the opinion of those who have not the light of
the true faith, directs, arranges, and settles everything in its
own way, so ordered it that Gines de Pasamonte, the famous
knave and thief who by the virtue and madness of Don
Quixote had been released from the chain, driven by fear
of the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good reason to
dread, resolved to take hiding in the mountains; and his
fate and fear led him to the same spot to which Don
Quixote and Sancho Tan/a had been led by theirs, just
in time to recognise them and leave them to fall asleep :
and as the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity
leads to wrong-doing, and immediate1- advantage overcomes
all considerations of the future, Gines^ who was neither
grateful nor well-principled, made up his mind to steal
Sancho hin/a's ass, not troubling himself about Eocinante,
being a pri/.e thai was no ^»o<l cither to pledge or sell.
"While Sancho slept lie stole his ass, and before day dawned
he was far out of reorh.
Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the
earth but sadness to Sancho Pan/a, for he found that his
CHAPTER XXIII. 365
Dapple l was missing, and seeing himself bereft of him he
began the saddest and most doleful lament in the world, so
loud that Don Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard
him saying, ' 0 son of my bowels, born in my very house,
my children's plaything, my wife's joy, the envy of my
neighbours, relief of my burdens, and, lastly, half supporter
of myself, for with the six-and-twenty maravedis thou didst
earn me daily I met half my charges.'
Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the
cause, consoled Sancho with the best arguments he could,
entreating him to be patient, and promising to give him a
letter of exchange ordering three out of five ass-colts 2 that
he had at home to be given to him. Sancho took comfort
at this, dried his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned
thanks for the kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on
his part was rejoiced to the heart on entering the mountains,
as they seemed to him to be just the place for the adventures
he was in quest of. They brought back to his memory the
marvellous adventures that had befallen knights-errant in
like solitudes and wilds, and he went along reflecting on
these things, so absorbed and carried away by them that
he had no thought for anything else. Nor had Sancho any
other care (now that he fancied he was travelling in a safe
quarter) than to satisfy his appetite with such remains as
were left of the clerical spoils, and so he marched behind
his master laden with what Dapple used to carry, emptying
the sack and packing his paunch, and so long as he could
1 See Note B, p. 378.
2 Pollinos, 'ass-colts,' has evidently been omitted here in the original,
and I have therefore supplied it.
366 DON QUIXOTE.
go that way, lie would not have given a farthing to meet
with another adventure1.
While so engaged lie raised his eyes and saw that his
master had halted, and was trying with the point of his
pike to lift some bulky object that lay upon the ground, on
which lie hastened to join him and help him if it were
needful, and reached him just as with the point of the pike
he was raising a saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half
or rather wholly rotten and torn ; but so heavy were they
that Sancho had to help to take them up, and his master
directed him to see what the valise contained. Sancho did
so with great alacrity, and though the valise was secured by
a chain and padlock, from its torn and rotten condition he
was able to see its contents, which were four shirts of fine
holland, and other articles of linen no less curious than
clean; and in a handkerchief he found a good lot of gold
crowns, and as soon as he saw them he exclaimed, 'Blessed
be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is good for
something!' Searching further he found a little memo-
randum book richly bound ; this Don Quixote asked of him,
telling him to take the money and keep it for himself.
Sancho kissed his hands for the favour, and cleared the
valise of its linen, which he stowed away in the provision
sack. Considering the whole matter, Don Quixote observed,
4 It seems to me, Sancho — and it is impossible it can be
nther\\isi'-— that some strayed traveller must have crossed
this sierra and been attacked and slain by footpads, who
bn night him to this remote spot to bury him.'
' That cannot be,' answered Sancho, ' because if they had
been robbers they would not have left this money.'
CHAPTER XXIII. 367
' Thou art right,' said Don Quixote, ' and I cannot guess
or explain what this may mean ; but stay ; let us see if in
this memorandum book there is anything written by which
we may be able to trace out or discover what we want to
know.'
He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written
roughly but in a very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading
it aloud that Sancho might hear it, he found that it ran a&
follows :
SONNET.
Or Love is lacking in intelligence,
Or to the height of cruelty attains,
Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a God, it follows thence
That he knows all, and certain it remains
No God loves cruelty ; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments ?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name ;
Such evil with such goodness cannot live ;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,
I only know it is my fate to die.
To him who knows not whence his malady
A miracle alone a cure can give.1
* There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme,' said
Sancho, ' unless by that clue there's in it, one may draw
out the ball of the whole matter.' 2
' What clue is there ? ' said Don Quixote.
1 See Note C, p. 379. 2 See Note D, p. 379.
368 DON QUIXOTE.
'I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it,' said
Sancho.
'I only saidChloe,' replied Don Quixote; 'and that, no
doubt, is the name of the lady of whom the author of the
sonnet complains ; and, faith, he must be a tolerable poet,
or I know little of the craft.'
' Then your worship understands rhyming too ? ' said
Sancho.
' And better than thou thinkest,' replied Don Quixote,
' as thou shalt see when thou earnest a letter written in
verse from beginning to end to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
for I would have thee know, Sancho, that all or most of the
knights-errant in days of yore were great troubadours and
great musicians, for both of these accomplishments, or more
properly speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of lovers-
ernmt : true it is that the verses of the knights of old have
more spirit than neatness in them.'
* Bead more, your worship,' said Sancho, ' and you will
find something that will enlighten us.'
Don Quixote turned the page and said, 'This is prose
and seems to be a letter.'
' A correspondence letter, senor ? ' asked Sancho.
' From the beginning it seems to be a love-letter,' replied
Don Quixote.
' Then let your worship read it aloud,' said Sancho, ' for
I am very fond of these love matters.'
' AVith all my heart,' said Don Quixote, and reading it
aloud as Sancho had requested him, he found it ran thus :
7V/// false promise and mi/ mire, misfortune carry me t<> <i
}>l<ic<; ic lie. tic c. tin1 ncir* of in)/ death, trill reach ihi) earn before
CHAPTER XXIIL 369
the w'ords of my complaint. Ungrateful one, thou hast rejected
me for one more wealthy, but not more worthy ; but if virtue
were esteemed wealth I should neither envy the fortunes of
others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy beauty
raised up thy deeds have laid low ; by it I believed thee to be
an angel, by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be ivith
thee who hast sent war to me, and Hear en grant that the deceit
of thy husband be ever hidden from thee, so that thou repent not
of ivhat thou hast done, and I reap not a revenge I ivould not
have.
When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said,
' There is less to be gathered from this than from the verses,
except that he who wrote it is some rejected lover ; ' and
turning over nearly all the pages of the hook he found more
verses and letters, some of which he could read, while others
he could not: but they were all made up of complaints,
laments, misgivings, desires and aversions, favours and
rejections, some rapturous, some doleful. While Don
Quixote examined the book, Sancho examined the valise, not
leaving a corner in the whole of it or in the pad that he did
not search, peer into, and explore, or seam that he did not
rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick to pieces, lest any-
thing should escape for want of care and pains ; so keen was
the covetousness excited in him by the discovery of the
crowns, which amounted to near a hundred ; and though he
found no more booty, he held the blanket flights, balsam
vomits, stake benedictions, carriers' fisticuffs, missing
alforjas, stolen coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and weari-
ness he had endured in the service of his good master,
cheap at the price ; as he considered himself more than fully
VOL. i. BE
370 • DON QUIXOTE.
indemnified for all by the payment he received in the gift of
the treasure-trove.
^* The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very
anxious to find out who the owner of the valise could be,
conjecturing from the sonnet and letter, from the money in
gold, and from the fineness of the shirts, that he must be
some lover of distinction whom the scorn and cruelty of his
lady had driven to some desperate course ; but as in that
uninhabited and rugged spot there was no one to be seen of
whom he could inquire, he saw nothing else for it but to push
on taking whatever road Rocinante chose —which was where
he could make his way — firmly persuaded that among these
wilds he could not fail to meet some rare adventure. As
he went along, then, occupied with these thoughts, he per-
ceived on the summit of a height that rose before their eyes
a man who went springing from rock to rock and from
tussock to tussock with marvellous agility. As well as he
could make out he was unclad, with a thick black beard, long
tangled hair, and bare legs and feet, his thighs were covered
by breeches apparently of tawny velvet but so ragged that
they showed his skin in several places. He was bareheaded,
and notwithstanding the swiftness with which lie passed as
has been described, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance
observed and noted all these trifles, and though he made
the attempt, he was unable to follow him, for it was not
granted to the feebleness of Rocinante to make way over
such rough ground, he being, moreover, slow-paced and
sluggish by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the con-
clusion that this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of
the valise, and made up his mind to go in search of him.
CHAPTER XXIII. 371
even though he should have to wander a year in those
mountains before he found him, and so he directed Sancho'
to take a short cut over one side of the mountain, while he
himself went by the other, and perhaps by this means they
might light upon this man who had passed so quickly out
of their sight.
' I could not do that,' said Sancho, ' for when I separate
from your worship fear at once lays hold of me, and
assails me with all sorts of panics and fancies ; and let
what I now say be a notice that from this time forth I am
not going to stir a finger's length from your presence.'
'It shall be so,' said he of the Kueful Countenance,,
' and I am very glad that thou art willing to rely on my
courage, which will never fail thee, even though the soul in
thy body fail thee ; so come on now behind me slowly as,
well as thou canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes ; let us
make the circuit of this ridge ; perhaps we shall light upon
this man that we saw, who no doubt is no other than the
owner of what we found.'
To which Sancho made answer, ' Far better would it be
not to look for him, for if we find him, and he happens to-
be the owner of the money, it is plain I must restore it ; it
would be better, therefore, that without taking this needless,
trouble, I should keep possession of it until in some other-
less meddlesome and officious way the real owner may be
discovered ; and perhaps that will be when I shall have
spent it, and then the king will hold me harmless.'
* Thou art wrong there, Sancho,' said Don Quixote,.
' for now that we have a suspicion who the owner is, and
have him almost before us, we are bound to seek him and
B B 2
372 DON QUIXOTE
make restitution ; and if we do not seek him, the strong
suspicion we have as to his being the owner makes us as
guilty as if he wrere so ; and so, friend Sancho, let not our
search for him give thee any uneasiness, for if we find him
it will relieve mine.'
And so saying he gave Eocinante the spur, and Sancho
followed him on foot and loaded, thanks to Ginesillo de
Pasamonte, and after having partly made the circuit of the
mountain they found lying in a ravine, dead and half
devoured by dogs and pecked by crows, a mule saddled and
bridled, all which still further strengthened their suspicion
that he who had fled was the owner -of the mule and the
saddle-pad.
As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that
of a shepherd watching his flock, and suddenly on their
left there appeared a great number of goats, and behind
them on the summit of the mountain the goatherd in
charge of them, a man advanced in years. Don Quixote
called aloud to him and begged him to come down to where
they stood. He shouted in return, asking what had brought
them to that spot, seldom or never trodden except by the
feet of goats, or of the wolves and other wild beasts that
roamed around. Sancho in return bade him come down,
and they would explain all to him.
The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where
Don Quixote stood, he said, ' I will wager you are looking
at that hack mule that lies dead in the hollow there, and,
faith, it has been lying there now these six months ; tell
me, have you come upon its master about here ? '
' We have come upon nobody,' answered Don Quixote,
CHAPTER XXIII. 373
'nor on anything except a saddle-pad and a little valise
that we found not far from this.'
' I found it too,' said the goatherd, ' but I would not lift
it nor go near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged
with theft, for the devil is crafty, and things rise up under
one's feet to make one stumble and fall without knowing
why or wherefore.'
'That's exactly what I say,' said Sancho; 'I found it
too, and I would not go within a stone's throw of it ; there
I left it, and there it lies just as it was, for I don't want a
dog with a bell.' 1
' Tell me, good man,' said Don Quixote, ' do you know
who is the owner of this property ? '
1 All I can tell you,' said the goatherd, ' is that about
six months ago, more or less, there arrived at a shepherd's
hut three leagues, perhaps, away from this, a youth of well-
bred appearance and manners, mounted on that same mule
which lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and
valise which you say you found and did not touch. He
asked us what part of this sierra was the most rugged and
retired ; we told him that it was where we now are ; and so
in truth it is, for if you push on half a league farther, per-
haps you will not be able to find your way out ; and I am
wondering how you have managed to come here, for there
is no road or path that leads to this spot. I say, then,
that on hearing our answer the youth turned about and
made for the place we pointed out to him, leaving us all
charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his question
1 Prov. 182— meaning, I don't want a thing that has any inconvenience
attached to it.
374 DON QUIXOTE.
and the haste with which we saw him depart in the direction
of the sierra; and after that we saw him no more, until
some clays afterwards he crossed the path of one of our
shepherds, and without saying a word to him, came up to
him and gave him several cuffs and kicks, and then turned
to the ass with our provisions and took all the bread and
cheese it carried, and having done this made off back again
into the sierra with extraordinary swiftness. When some
of us goatherds learned this we went in search of him for
about two days through the most remote portion of this
sierra, at the end of which we found him lodged in the
hollow of a large thick cork tree. He came out to meet us
with great gentleness, with his dress now torn and his face
so disfigured and burned by the sun, that we hardly recog-
nised him but that his clothes, though torn, convinced us,
from the recollection we had of them, that he was the per-
son we were looking for. He saluted us courteously, and in
a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at seeing
him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon him
in order that he might work out a penance which for his
many sins had been imposed upon him. We asked him to
tell us who he was, but we were never able to find out from
him : we begged of him too, when he was in want of food,
which he could not do without, to tell us where we should
find him, as we would bring it to him with all good-will and
readiness ; or if this were not to his taste, at least to come
and ask it of us and not take it by force from the shepherds.
He thanked us for the offer, bogged pardon for the late
assault, and promised for the future to ask it in God's name
without offering violence to anybody. As for fixed abode,
CHAPTER XXIII. 375
he said he had no other than that which chance offered
wherever night might overtake him ; and his words ended
in an outburst of weeping so bitter that we who listened to
him must have been very stones had we not joined him in
it, comparing what we saw of him the first time with what
we saw now ; for, as I said, he was a graceful and gracious
youth, and in his courteous and polished language showed
himself to be of good birth and courtly breeding, and rus-
tics as we were that listened to him, even to our rusticity his
gentle bearing sufficed to make it plain. But in the midst
of his conversation he stopped and became silent, keeping
his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time, during which
we stood still waiting anxiously to see what would come
of this abstraction ; and with no little pity, for from his
behaviour, now staring at the ground with fixed gaze and
eyes wide open without moving an eyelid, again closing
them, compressing his lips and raising his eyebrows, we
could perceive plainly that a fit of madness of some kind
had come upon him ; and before long he showed that what
we imagined was the truth, for he arose in a fury from the
ground where he had thrown himself, and attacked the first
he found near him with such rage and fierceness that if we
had not dragged him off him, he would have beaten or
bitten him to death, all the while exclaiming, ' Oh faithless
Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay the penalty of the
wrong thou hast done me ; these hands shall tear out that
heart of thine, abode and dwelling of all iniquity, but of
deceit and fraud above all ; ' and to these he added other
words all in effect upbraiding this Fernando and charging
him with treachery and faithlessness. We forced him to
376 DON QUIXOTE.
release his hold with no little difficulty, and without another
word he left us, and rushing off plunged in among these
brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible for us to
follow him ; from this we suppose that madness comes upon
him from time to time, and that some one called Fernando
must have done him a wrong of a grievous nature such as
the condition to which it had brought him seemed to show.
All this has been since then confirmed on those occasions,
and they have been many, on which he has crossed our
path, at one time to beg the shepherds to give him some of
the food they carry, at another to take it from them by force ;
for when there is a fit of madness upon him, even though
the shepherds offer it freely, he will not accept it but snatches
it from them by dint of blows ; but when he is in his senses
he begs it for the love of God, courteously and civilly, and
receives it with many thanks and not a few tears. And to
tell you the truth, sirs,' continued the goatherd, 'it was
yesterday that we resolved, I and four of the lads, two of
them our servants, and the other two friends of mine, to go
in search of him until we find him, and when we do to take
him, whether by force or of his own consent, to the town of
Almodovar, which is eight leagues from this, and there strive
to cure him (if indeed his malady admits of a cure), or
learn when he is in his senses who he is, and if he has rela-
to whom we may give notice of his misfortune. This,
sirs, is all I can say in answer to what you have asked me ;
and be sure that the owner of the artieles you found is lie
whom you saw pass by with such ninibleness and so naked.'
For Don Quixote had already described how lie had seen the
man go bounding along the mountain side, and he was now
CHAPTER XXI 12. 377
filled with amazement at what he heard from the goatherd,
and more eager than ever to discover who the unhappy
madman was ; and in his heart he resolved, as he had done
before, to search for him all over the mountain, not leaving
a corner or cave unexamined until he had found him. But
chance arranged matters better than he expected or hoped,
for at that very moment, in a gorge on the mountain that
opened where they stood, the youth he wished to find made
his appearance, coming along talking to himself in a way that
would have been unintelligible near at hand, much more at a
distance. His garb was what has been described, save that as
he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet
which he wore was amber-scented,1 from which he concluded
that one who wore such garments could not be of very low
rank. Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh
and hoarse voice but with great courtesy. Don Quixote re-
turned his salutation with equal politeness, and dismounting
from Eocinante advanced with well-bred bearing and grace to
embrace him, and held him for some time close in his arms
as if he had known him for a long time. The other, whom
we may call the Eagged One of the Sorry Countenance, as
Don Quixote was of the Eueful, after submitting to the
embrace pushed him back a little and, placing his hands
on Don Quixote's shoulders, stood gazing at him as if
seeking to see whether he knew him, not less amazed,
perhaps, at the sight of the face, figure, and armour of
Don Quixote than Don Quixote was at the sight of him.
To be brief, the first to speak after embracing was the
Eagged One, and he said what will be told farther on.
1 See Note E, p. 379.
378 DON QUIXOTE.
Note A (jKtf/>- :;(•:{).
These are towns of La Mancha, though from the wording of the pa
it might 1»- supposed that they hiy on the other, the Andalusian, side of the
Sierra Morena, It is signiiicant that Cervantes always speaks of ' entering '
and ' coming out of the Sierra Morena, never of ascending or descending
it ; and, in fact, on the north side the Sierra rises but little above the
level of the great Castilian plateau, and the road enters the gorge of
Despeilaperros, and reaches the Andalusian slope with comparatively little
ascent.
Note B (page 365).
' Dapple,' as I have said elsewhere, is not a correct translation of
nicio, but it has by long usage acquired a prescriptive right to remain
the name of Sancho's ass. Eucio is properly a light or silvery grey, as
pardo is a dark or iron grey.
This passage — beginning at ' That night they reached the very heart,
&c.,' and ending with ' returned thanks for the kindness shown him by Don
Quixote '-does not appear in the first edition, in which there is no allusion
to the loss of the ass until the middle of chapter xxv., where, without any
explanation of how it happened, Cervantes speaks of Dapple as having been
lost. When the second edition was in the press, an attempt was made to
remedy the oversight, and the printer, apparently proprio uiotu, supplied
this passage. Chapter xxx., where Don Quixote laments the loss of his
'good sword,' suggested Gines de Pasamonte as the thief, and chapter xxv.
the promise of the ass-colts; but in such a bungling manner was the cor-
rection made that the references to the ass as if still in Sancho's possession
(nine or ten in number) were left unaltered, though the first of them occurs
only four or five lines after the inserted passage. In the third edition of
1608 some of these inconsistencies were removed, and in the Second Part
Cervantes refers to the matter, and charges the printer with the blunder.
What he originally intended, no doubt, was to supplement the burlesque of
the penance of Amadis by a burlesque of Brunello's theft of Sacripante's
horse and Marfisa's sword at the siege, of Albracca, as described by lioiardo
and Ariosto ; and it was very possibly an after-thought written on a loose
leaf and so mislaid or lost ///. li'tumitu. The inserted pa irly not
his, us it is completely ignored by him in chapters iii., iv., and xxvii. of
Part II., and is inconsistent with the account of the affair which lie gives
there. Hart/.enlmsch removes the passage to what he conceives to lie its
proper place in chapter xxv., but. it is hardly worth while, perhaps, to alter
the familiar arrangement of the text. See notes on chapters xxx.; and
iii. iv. and xxvii. Part II.
CHAPTER XXIII. 379
Note C (page 367).
This sonnet Cervantes afterwards inserted in his comedy of the Casa
dc, los Zelos, a proof that he himself had as good an opinion of it as Don
Quixote ; though Clemencin says, and not without some reason, that ' it
is no great things ' — ' 710 vale gran cosa.'
Note D (page 367).
A reference to the proverb, For el liilo se saca el ovillo — ' by the thread
•(or clue) the ball is drawn out.' In the sonnet the lady's name is Fili,
which Sancho mistakes for liilo or filo. The substitution of ' Chloe ' by
which the play on the words may be imitated is a happy idea of Jervas's
which has been generally adopted by subsequent translators without any
acknowledgment.
Note E (page 377).
This is the explanation commonly given of the phrase de ambar, and
it is true that scented doublets were in fashion in the sixteenth century ;
but it seems somewhat improbable that a tattered doublet which had been
for six months exposed to all weathers would have retained sufficient per-
fume to be detected.
380 DON QUIXOTE.
CHAPTEE XXIV.
IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA
MOBENA.
THE history relates that it was with the greatest attention
Don Quixote listened to the ill-starred knight of the Sierra,
who began by saying, ' Of a surety, senor, whoever you are,
for I know you not, I thank you for the proofs of kindness
and courtesy you have shown me, and would I were in a
condition to requite with something more than good-will
that which you have displayed towards me in the cordial
reception you have given me ; but my fate does not afford
me any other means of returning kindnesses done me save
the hearty desire to repay them.'
' Mine,' replied Don Quixote, ' is to be of service to you,
so much so that I had resolved not to quit these mountains
until I had found you, and learned of you whether there is
any kind of relief to be found for that sorrow under which
from the strangeness of your life you seem to labour ; and
to search for you with all possible diligence, if search had
been necessary. And if your misfortune should prove to
be one of those that refuse admission to any sort of con-
solation, it was my purpose to join you in lamenting and
mourning over it, so far as I could ; for it is still some com-
CHAPTER XXIV, 381
fort in misfortune to find one who can feel for it. And if my
good intentions deserve to be acknowledged with any kind of
courtesy, I entreat you, seiior, by that which I perceive you
possess in so high a degree, and likewise conjure you by
whatever you love or have loved best in life, to tell me who
you are and the cause that has brought you to live or die in
these solitudes like a brute beast, dwelling among them in
a manner so foreign to your condition as your garb and
appearance show. And I swear,' added Don Quixote, ' by
the order of knighthood which I, though unworthy and
a sinner, have received, and by my vocation of knight-
errant, if you gratify me in this, to serve you with all the
zeal my calling demands of me, either in relieving your
misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining you in
lamenting it as I promised to do.'
The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Eueful
Countenance talk in this strain, did nothing but stare at
him, and stare at him again, and again survey him from
head to foot ; and when he had thoroughly examined him,
he said to him, ' If you have anything to give me to eat,
for God's sake give it me, and after I have eaten I will do
all you ask in acknowledgment of the good-will you have
displayed towards me.'
Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his
pouch, furnished the Ragged One with the means of ap-
peasing his hunger, and what they gave him he ate like a
half-witted being, so hastily that he took no time between
mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing ; and while he
ate neither he nor they who observed him uttered a word.
As soon as he had done he made signs to them to follow
382 DON QUIXOTE.
him, which they did, and he led them to a green plot
which lay a little farther off round the corner of a rock.
On reaching it he stretched himself upon the grass, and
the others did the same, all keeping silence, until the
Eagged One, settling himself in his place, said, ' If it is
your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the
surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise
not to break the thread of my sad story with any question
or other interruption, for the instant you do so the tale
I tell will come to an end.'
These wrords of the Eagged One reminded Don Quixote
of the tale his squire had told him, when he failed to
keep count of the goats that had crossed the river and
the story remained unfinished ; but to return to the
Eagged One, he went on to say, ' I give you this warning
because I wish to pass briefly over the story of my
misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves
to add fresh ones, and the less you question me the
sooner shall I make an end of the recital, though I si in 11
not omit to relate anything of importance in order fully
to satisfy your curiosity.'
Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the
others, and with this assurance he began as follows :
My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of
this Andalusia,1 my family noble, my parents rich, my misfor-
tune so great that my parents must have wept and my family
grieved over it without being able by their wealth to lighten it ;
for the gifts of fortune can do little to relieve reverses sent 1>\
Heaven. In that same country there was a heaven in wliicli
1 Sec Note A, p. :!'.)(>.
CHAPTER XXIV. 383.
love had placed all the glory I could desire ; such was the
beauty of Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich as I, but of
happier fortunes, and of less firmness than was due to so worthy
a passion as mine. This Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and
adored from my earliest and tenderest years, and she loved me
in all the innocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents
were aware of our feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them,
for they saw clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last
to a marriage between us, a thing that seemed almost pre-
arranged by the equality of our families and wealth. We grew
up, and with our growth grew the love between us, so that the
father of Luscinda felt bound for propriety' sake to refuse me
admission to his house, in this perhaps imitating the parents of
that Thisbe so celebrated by the poets, and this refusal but added
love to love and flame to flame ; for though they enforced silence
upon our tongues they could not impose it upon our pens, which
can make known the heart's secrets to a loved one more freely
than tongues ; for many a time the presence of the object of love
shakes the firmest will and strikes dumb the boldest tongue. Ah
heavens ! how many letters did I write her, and how many dainty
modest replies did I receive ! how many ditties and love-songs
did I compose in which my heart declared and made known its
feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in its recollections-
and dallied with its desires ! At length growing impatient and
feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I resolved
to put into execution and carry out what seemed to me the best
mode of winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of
her father for my lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer
was that he thanked me for the disposition I showed to do honour
to him and to regard myself as honoured by the bestowal of his
treasure ; but that as my father was alive it was his by right to
make this demand, for if it were not in accordance with his full
will and pleasure, Luscinda was not to be taken or given by stealth.
I thanked him for his kindness, reflecting that there was reason
in what he said, and that my father would assent to it as soon as
I should tell him, and with that view I went the very same
384 DON QUIXOTE.
instant to let him know what my desires were. When I entered
the room where he was I found him with an open letter in his
hand, which, before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying,
' By this letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke
Bicardo has to serve thee.' This Duke Bicardo, as you, sirs,
probably know already, is a grandee l of Spain who has his seat
in the best part of this Andalusia. I took and read the letter,
which was couched in terms so flattering that even I myself felt it
would be wrong in my father not to comply with the request the
duke made in it, which was that he would send me immediately
to him, as he wished me to become the companion, not servant,
of his eldest son, and would take upon himself the charge of
placing me in a position corresponding to the esteem in which
he held me. On reading the letter my voice failed me, and still
more when I heard my father say, ' Two days hence thou wilt
depart, Cardenio, in accordance with the duke's wish, and give
thanks to God who is opening a road to thee by which thou
mayest attain what I know thou dost deserve ; ' and to these
words he added others of fatherly counsel. The time for my
departure arrived ; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all
that had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him to
allow some delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I
should see what the Duke Bicardo sought of me : he gave me
the promise, and she confirmed it with vows and swoonings un-
numbered. Finally, I presented myself to the duke, and was
received and treated by him so kindly that very soon envy began
to do its work, the old servants growing envious of me, and re-
garding UK; duke's inclination to show me favour as an injury to
themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave the greatest
pleasure was the duke's second son, Fernando byname, a gjilhmt
youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very
soon made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by
everybody ; for though the elder was attached to me, and showed
me kindness, he did not carry his affectionate treatment to the
Enpana—one enjoying the privilege of remaining COM TCI I
in the presence of the sovereign.
CHAPTER XXIV. 385
same length as Don Fernando. It so happened, then, that as
between friends no secret remains unshared, and as the intimacy
I enjoyed with Don Fernando had grown into friendship, he made
all his thoughts known to me, and in particular a love affair
which troubled his mind a little. He was deeply in love with a
peasant girl, a vassal of his father's, the daughter of wealthy
parents, and herself so beautiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous,
that 110 one who knew her was able to decide in which of these
respects she was most highly gifted or most excelled. The
attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of Don Fernando
to such a point that, in order to gain his object ami overcome her
virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to her to
become her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to
attempt an impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship,
I strove by the best arguments and the most forcible examples I
could think of to restrain and dissuade him from such a course ;
but perceiving I produced no effect I resolved to make the Duke
Bicardo, his father, acquainted with the matter ; but Don
Fernando, being sharp-witted and shrewd, foresaw and appre-
hended this, perceiving that by my duty as a good servant I was
bound not to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to the
honour of my lord the duke ; and so, to mislead and deceive me,
he told me he could find no better way of effacing from his
mind the beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting him-
self for some months, and that he wished the absence to be
effected by our going, both of us, to my father's house under the
pretence, which he would make to the duke, of going to see and
buy some fine horses that there were in my city, which produces
the best in the world.1 When I heard him say so, even if his
resolution had not been so good a one I should have hailed it
as one of the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my
affection, seeing what a favourable chance and opportunity it
offered me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this thought
and wish I commended his idea and encouraged his design,
advising him to put it into execution as quickly as possible, as,
1 Cordova was famed for its horses.
VOL. I. C C
386 DON QUIXOTE.
in truth, absence produced its effect in spite of the most de-op ly
rooted feelings. But, as afterwards appeared, when he said this
to me he had already enjoyed the peasant girl under the title of
husband, and was waiting for an opportunity of making it known
with safety to himself, being in dread of what his father the duke
would do when he came to know of his folly. It happened, then,
that as with young men love is for the most part nothing more
than appetite, which, as its final object is enjoyment, comes to an
end on obtaining it, and that which seemed to be love takes to
night, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by nature, which fixes no
limit to true love l — what I mean is that after Don Fernando had
enjoyed this peasant girl his passion subsided and his eagerness
cooled, and if at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in order
to cure his love, he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid
keeping his promise.
The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accomp;in\
him ; we arrived at my city, and my father gave him the recep-
tion due to his rank ; I saw Luscinda without delay, and, though
it had not been dead or deadened, my love gathered fresh life.
To my sorrow I told the story of it to Don Fernando, for I
thought that in virtue of the great friendship he bore me I
was bound to conceal nothing from him. I extolled her beauty,
her gaiety, her wit, so warmly, that my praises excited in him a
desire to see a damsel adorned by such attractions. To my mis-
fortune I yielded to it, showing her to him one night by the light
of a taper at a window where we used to talk to one another.
As she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she drove all the
beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection; speech
failed him, his head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the end
love-smitten, as you will see in the course of the story of my
misfortune ; and to inflame still further his passion, which he
hid from me and revealed to Heaven alone, it so happened that.
one day he found a note of hers entreating me to demand her of
her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest, and so tender, that
1 This is an example of the clumsy manner in which Cervantes often
constructed his sentences, be^innin;.; them in one \\ay and ending them in
another.
CHAPTER XXIV. 387
on reading it lie told me that in Luscinda alone were combined all
the charms of beauty and understanding that were distributed
among all the other women in the world. It is true, and I own
it now, that though I knew what good cause Don Fernando had to
praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to hear these praises from
his mouth, and I began to fear, and with reason to feel distrust
of him, for there was no moment when he was not ready to talk
of Luscinda, and he would start the subject himself even though
he dragged it in unseasonably, a circumstance that aroused in me
a certain amount of jealousy ; not that I feared any change in
the constancy or faith of Luscinda ; but still my fate led me to
forebode wrhat she assured me against. Don Fernando contrived
always to read the letters I sent to Luscinda and her answers to
me, under the pretence that he enjoyed the wit and sense of both.
It so happened, then, that Luscinda having begged of me a book of
chivalry to read, one that she was very fond of, ' Amadis of Gaul —
Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry men-
tioned, than he said, 'Had your worship told me at the
beginning of your story that the Lady Luscinda was fond
of books of chivalry, no other laudation would have been
requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her under-
standing, for it could not have been of the excellence you
describe had a taste for such delightful reading been want-
ing ; so, as far as I am concerned, you need waste no more
words in describing her beauty, worth, and intelligence ;
for, on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare her
to be the most beautiful and the most intelligent woman in
the world ; and I wish your worship had, along with Amadis
of Gaul, sent her the worthy Don Eugel of Greece, for I
know the Lady Luscinda would greatly relish Daraida and
Garaya, and the shrewd sayings of the shepherd Darin el,
and the admirable verses of his bucolics, sung and delivered
by him with such sprightliness, wit, and ease ; but a time
QUIXOTE.
may come when this omission can be remedied, and to
rectify it nothing more is needed than for your worship to
good as to come with 11113 to my village, for there I
can give you more than three hundred hooks which are the
delight of my soul and the entertainment of my life; —
though it occurs to me that I have not got one of them now,
thanks to the spite of wicked and envious enchanters ; — but.
pardon me for having broken the promise we made not to
interrupt your discourse ; for when I hear chivalry or
knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about
them than the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or
those of the moon moisture ; pardon me, therefore, and pro-
ceed, for that is more to the purpose now.'
While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed
his head to fall upon his breast, and seemed plunged in
deep thought ; and though twice Don Quixote bade him go
on with his story, he neither looked up nor uttered a word
in reply ; but after some time he raised his head and said,
' I cannot get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the world
remove it, or make me think otherwise, — and he would be a
blockhead who would hold or believe anything else than that
that arrant knave Master Elisabad made free with Queen
Madasima.'
'That is not true, by all that's good,' said Don Quixote
in high wrath, turning upon him angrily, as his way was ;
'and it is a very great slander, or rather villany. Queen
Madasima was a very illustrious lady, and it is not to lie
supposed that so exalted a princess would have made free
with a quack; and whoever maintains the contrary lies like
a great scoundrel, and 1 will give him to know it. on foot or
CHAPTER XXIV. 389
on horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or as
he likes best.'
Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad lit
having now come upon him, he had no disposition to go on
with his story, nor would Don Quixote have listened to it, so
much had what he had heard about Madasima disgusted
him. Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she were in
earnest his veritable born lady ; to such a pass had his
unholy books brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I
said, now mad, when he heard himself given the lie, and
called a scoundrel and other insulting names, not relishing
the jest, snatched up a stone that he found near him, and
with it delivered such a blow on Don Quixote's breast that
he laid him on his back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master
treated in this fashion, attacked the madman with his
closed fist ; but the Eagged One received him in such a way
that with a blow of his fist he stretched him at his feet,
and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to his own
satisfaction ; the goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared
the same fate ; and having beaten and pummelled them
all he left them and quietly withdrew to his hiding-place
on the mountain. Sancho rose, and with the rage he felt
at finding himself so belaboured without deserving it, ran
to take vengeance on the goatherd, accusing him of not
giving them warning that this man was at times taken with
a mad fit, for if they had known it they would have been
on their guard to protect themselves. The goatherd replied
that he had said so, and that if he had not heard him,
that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the goat-
herd rejoined, and the altercation ended in their seizing
390 DON QUIXOTE.
each other by the heard, and exchanging such fisticuffs that
if Don Quixote had not made peace between them, they
would have knocked one another to pieces. 'Leave me
alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance,' said Sancho.
grappling with the goatherd, ' for of this fellow, who is a
clown like myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take
satisfaction for the affront he has offered me, fighting with
him hand to hand like an honest man.'
' That is true,' said Don Quixote, ' but I know that he
is not to blame for what has happened.'
With this he pacified them, and again asked the goat-
herd if it would be possible to find Cardcnio, as he felt the
greatest anxiety to know the end of his story. The goat-
herd told him, as he had told him before, that there was no
knowing of a certainty where his lair was ; but that if he
wandered about much in that neighbourhood he could not
fail to fall in with him either in or out of his senses.
Note A (page I-J8-2).
This indicates that the spot Cervantes had in his eye was somewhere
uliove the ho ad of the Despefiaperros gorge and commanding a view of the
valley of the Guadalquivir ; and the scenery there agrees with his description.
He was, no doubt, familiar with it from having passed through it on his
journeys between Madrid and Seville in the years between 1587 and l.V.is.
The broorn, mentioned farther on, is very abundant in this part of the
Sierra Morena. The name of Cardonio, too, was probably suggested l>y
Venta do Cardenas, a halting place at the mouth of the gorge. (V. map.)
KXI> OF TIM; TIKST
>
7
CM
0)
•P
O
Or1
ttO
«L O
SH §
nj f A
o o
o •
University of Toronto
Library
DO NOT
REMOVE
THE
CARD
FROM
THIS
POCKET
Acme Library Card Pocket
LOWE-MARTIN CO. LIMITED
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11